Title: High Society

Chapter 34: Found

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Larry accepted a glass of milk from Alan and fidgeted in his chair at the dining room table.

Alan lowered himself into his own chair, trying not to stare at the empty one so often occupied by Charlie. He forced himself to smile at his guest. "Larry, thank-you for coming. I'm not sure what you can do that's not already being done – but I appreciate having you here nonetheless." His eyes watered threateningly and he blinked. "It's a comfort, not to be…alone. Don and his team are understandably busy on the case – 24 hours a day, it seems. Robin stops by in the evenings, or gives me a call." His wobbly smile dropped into a frown. "Haven't seen much of Amita the last few days – she was pretty upset when she learned that Don broke Charlie's nose."

Larry sputtered in his milk and set the glass down hard on the table. "I beg your pardon?" he gasped, reaching for a napkin.

Alan sighed. "It's…complicated. Happened when both she and I were out of town, and it had something to do with…with what's happened to Charlie…"

Larry tried to make his smile genuine, his voice reassuring. "The undercover mission you mentioned on the phone," he guessed. Alan nodded silently and Larry continued. "Alan, if my presence here is a comfort to you, then I'm glad I came," he said sincerely. "Perhaps when Don returns your call and finds out that I'm here, there will be something I can do to help establish a search grid."

Alan started a little, and placed his palms on the table top, preparing to push himself to a standing position. "I should probably call Amita, too," he mused as he stood. He tilted his head a little and regarded Larry. "Unless you stopped at CalSci on the way here?"

Larry felt heat rise to his face and picked up his glass of milk again. "I…was not able to notify Amita of my arrival," he hedged before bringing the glass to his mouth and draining half the milk in one swallow.

Alan actually chuckled, and shook his head. "I heard that with the economy the way it is, airlines don't offer free snacks anymore. Looks like that flight really parched you!" He started for the swinging door that separated the dining room from the kitchen. "I'll bring the carton out; I left my cell on the counter and I need to get that."

Larry nodded silently, still buried in the glass, and found himself hoping that Amita would not answer Alan's call. At least not until he had figured out what the hell was going on.

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No performer had tried to escape in the history of Fantasy. They were kept manageable -- docile, even -- through pharmaceutical intervention, as well as with some select 'fantasies' that Markus carefully weaved around them. 'Graduation', for instance, had proven to be a stroke of pure genius. Should a performer be erroneously under-medicated, he or she was still compliant, believing that the promise of a new life loomed in the future. Therefore, there had never been a reason to arm the guards. The men were all brutes; just regularly enough, they would dispense some physical punishment – the more public, the better. It didn't matter if the punishment was warranted or not -- the point was to periodically remind the performers who was in charge.

Weapons were checked out of a small armory -- like a book from a library -- when they were needed. Markus would arm a few guards during each performance, although there had not as yet been any call to use the guns. Various guards rotated into the 'Graduation Squad'; obviously a gun was needed when a performer had outlived his usefulness. In general, however, the ranch was ruled through intimidation and inebriation.

When the guard who was overseeing afternoon exercise on the court found his attention suddenly drawn to the cloud of dust rising along the gravel road that led to the ranch, he squinted and observed a long string of approaching vehicles. Alarmed, he swiveled his head toward the desert. More dust widened his eyes -- vehicles were traversing over the bumpy sand, where there was no road. Automatically he reached for the gun he was not carrying and began to back off the court, toward the armory. "Trenton!" he yelled at the other guard on the court -- a younger man who was too busy flirting with Star to lift his head and notice anything. "Get them inside! Something's up. Move!"

Trenton jerked his head up in surprise. "Scott?" he asked, but the first guard was already sprinting toward the small outbuilding that housed the weapons.

He was almost all the way there before he remembered that it was locked, and veered toward the main house. Arms waving, shouting, Scott was still virtually ignored in the sudden thunder of no less than four helicopters. Coming from the North, South, East and West, the ranch was covered from all angles. The performers on the exercise court lifted drugged eyes to the skies for a brief moment, then continued their established pace; their worlds consisted of doing what they were told and taking their vitamins – anything else was none of their business.

Trenton and other Fantasy personnel, on the other hand, looked frantically from the noisy beasts in the sky to the ground transportation, which was now close enough for them to clearly distinguish the flashing lights. Now separated by nearly fifty feet, Trenton and Scott nonetheless had the same reaction, as choreographed as the flight pattern of the choppers. "Oh, shit," each man moaned, and with minds free of drugs they each made the rational decision. Neither, it seemed, was prepared to die in order to protect the mysterious Mr. and Mrs. X.

They hit the dirt on their knees, raising hands of supplication in the air, screaming "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" at the top of their lungs.

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J.T. drew his foot back again, and froze, nearly losing his balance when the familiar pht pht pht of helicopter blades wormed into his conscious. Once he had identified that sound, Morrison could hear several others; doors slamming, running feet, the occasional shout of someone down the hall. He stood uncertainly perched on one foot, suddenly wishing Charlie had been placed in a room with a window, when the door burst open and one of the guards he had tipped so well on previous occasions began yelling at him, without so much as a glance at the pathetic creature on the floor.

"It's a raid!" the behemoth announced, fear evident upon his face. "Come on, Mr. M – some of us are going to four-wheel the ATVs across the desert and get out!!"

Morrison balanced himself and turned toward the door. "What?" he asked; too surprised to follow his potential savior.

His newfound friend nodded impatiently. "There are only four of them in the rear garage; we have to hurry, before they're all gone!"

J.T. switched his allegiance without a backwards glance at the man whose life he had decimated. Eppes was worthless to him now anyway, broken; the fun was all-but-gone. Now his own life and career flashed before him in a kaleidoscope of terrifying images. He could lose everything. Everything, for a mere dalliance?

He scurried toward the door. "Get me out of here," he urged the guard waiting for him. "There's a big tip in it for you if you do."

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It was late afternoon, but Alan was still surprised to see Robin and Amita standing on the front porch when he responded to the doorbell. He smiled and opened the door wide. "Ladies!" he admonished. "It's always lovely to see you…but shouldn't you both be working? Come in, come in!"

Amita stepped in first, avoiding Alan's eyes but stopping to embrace the man briefly. "I got a T.A. to cover my last class," she murmured as she stepped past Alan, allowing Robin to enter. The living room became visible then and her face broke into a genuine, if strained, smile. "Larry! I had no idea you were even coming! How long have you been here?"

Amita moved into the house to talk to Larry, and Robin took her turn with Alan. Her sympathetic eyes held his for a moment and then she hugged him long and hard – the way Margaret used to, when he was upset about something. The sudden memory filled his eyes with tears, and he turned his head away from her to hide his face.

Larry had greeted Amita rather perfunctorily, she thought, and took a wide berth around her to cross the living room, enter the vestibule and shut the door behind Robin. He smiled when she and Alan finally broke apart. "It's good to see you again, Counselor!"

Robin chuckled and paused to embrace him quickly as Alan herded them all toward the living room. "And you," she assured the Professor.

Alan led the way to the center of the room before he turned and tried to include both women in his gaze. "Is there something?"

Robin nodded briskly, all business now. "I think so. We have a police scanner in the office. LAPD is coordinating with the F.B.I. and the DEA on a raid. Dozens of units are being dispatched – even helicopters."

Alan raised a hand to his mouth while he hugged his midriff with the other. "They found Charlie?" he asked through his fingers, his voice tinged with hope.

Robin shrugged. "I didn't hear his name. But I don't know what else it could be. I tried to call Don, and the call went to his voice mail, the way it always does when he's in the field. Same thing with Colby and David." She waited for Alan and Larry to absorb the information; then continued carefully. "I thought Amita and I should be here, when they bring him home." Unspoken was her basest fear. Robin knew there was little chance that someone missing through foul play for almost a week would be found alive; she wanted to be available to both Alan and Don when her lover came to deliver that news to his father – as he most certainly would. Don would never allow anyone else to say those words to Alan.

They stood in silence for a few seconds, everyone letting his or her own fears do battle with denial and hope, before Larry spoke. "Please, everyone, sit," he commanded gently, turning towards the kitchen. "I'll start a pot of coffee; perhaps put on some water for tea." He spoke wistfully. "Charles loves a good cup of tea."

Alan claimed his recliner as Robin sank onto one end of the couch, but Amita mumbled something about helping and hurried after Larry. She waited until they were alone in the kitchen before she confronted him in a worried whisper. "Larry? Is something wrong?"

He continued on to the range, lifted the tea kettle from its surface and turned to face her, keeping the pot between them. He allowed his disappointment and confusion to show on his face. "I'm not sure," he responded. "I suppose it depends in no small part on why you were kissing another man while your fiancé could be struggling for his life."

Amita paled and she staggered back as if hit. "Oh my God," she breathed. "Dane. You saw me with Dane." Larry just looked at her sadly and she blinked back her own tears. "I've…we've…never done that before, I swear."

Larry sighed, and moved to fill the kettle with water at the sink. "Well, you've done it now, haven't you?"

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The LAPD jeep had been making good time across the desert – until it seemed to sink into a hole. Sand ascended into the engine and stopped the jeep on a dime, nearly throwing the five men out. The driver, Sgt. Wayne Harris, waved the other jeeps and vehicles past him, and assessed his passengers. "Everybody ok?" he queried. Harris swiveled his head on a sore neck to check out the officers. "We've got to dig this baby out."

The guys were fumbling with their seat belts and mumbling assurances, so the Sergeant turned back around to unfasten his own belt. As he did, he noticed the expression of shock on the face of the other officer in the front of the jeep, and he frowned. "Miller? You ok?"

Miller, still a rookie, raised a trembling hand and pointed to the east of the vehicle, near the edge of the sinkhole. "What the hell is that?" he asked in a shaky voice.

Harris's eyes followed the trajectory of Miller's pointing finger until he saw it as well – a human hand, reaching up through the sand as if it had been buried alive. "Oh, God," he moaned, reaching for his walkie-talkie. "This ain't no sinkhole in the middle of the fucking desert. It's a damn grave."

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"Clear!"

Don swore under his breath as he heard Colby's shout. The ranch was massive, and even though at least fifty law enforcement personnel were on site now, they had their hands full containing the various Fantasy employees and searching all of the outbuildings. The young 'performers' were heartbreaking, even to a hardened agent searching for his missing brother. They were obviously drugged; most of them had track marks, so it was no doubt a normal state of being for them. They were docile, uncomprehending, wounded.

David was with another search party, in one of the outbuildings that served as a dormitory for the performers. Walker and a team were going through the main house. Don, Colby and Leach had already worked their way through one building, finding only terrified employees in a sort of mess hall.

Don had been on the verge of implosion for days, and he felt no relief now at having taken down the Fantasy operation. What would it matter, if Charlie was not found? He cautiously approached a corner, and led with his Sig. He sensed someone behind him as Colby appeared to provide back-up. He crouched as he rounded the corner. No-one. "Clear," he mumbled, disheartened.

"Wait."

Don looked up at Colby. From his standing position at the edge of the corner, the younger agent could see farther down the dark hallway, and he waited for him to say more. "Door," Granger whispered. He squinted a little. "I'm pretty sure. Looks like there's some kind of recess on the far side of the corridor, right at the end."

The hallway was short – only about 15 feet – but it was in the rear, windowless wing of a low building set behind the performer dormitories, which blocked most of the natural light from the large common rooms near the front. Leach appeared behind Granger and Don nodded, silently gesturing that they should move as a unit toward the door Colby thought he saw.

As they drew closer, it was apparent he was correct. It was the only room off this hallway, and the agents carefully positioned themselves to the sides of the doorway, so that if someone inside tried to take them out with a shotgun blast, they would be out of the line of fire. Don leaned against the wall, closest to the door, his hands raised in a 'V' before him as he held his Sig at the ready. "F.B.I.," he called, his voice a booming echo in the hall. "Come out with your hands held high."

Nothing happened, and the agents were silent, listening for any sound emanating from the room. Finally, Don dropped one hand to the doorknob. Unlocked, it twisted easily in his grasp. He lifted his eyes to nod at Colby, on the other side of the door; then pushed the door open and drew his hand back quickly. He and Colby swung from their opposite sides to cover the room, which appeared empty – save for a body on the floor. Naked, restrained, most likely a dead performer. The agents inched inside.

It was interesting that Leach, bringing up the rear, was the first to recognize Charlie – but the room had been cleared by the time he entered, and he was able to come through the door in a full, standing position. His eyes fell immediately to the body on the floor. In milliseconds, he registered the evidence of at least one beating, the leather restraints, the curly dark hair plastered with sweat to the professor's head – and the shallow movement of his ribcage. "Oh, God," Leach cried, catapulting forward. "It's Dr. Eppes. And he's alive!"

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End Chapter 34