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Chapter 44 - PC Missing.

Brian was still grinning from ear to ear as he parked the jeep in the garage back at the loft. He couldn’t believe how great things were going. Only a week since he’d been fired by Gardner Vance and he’d not only started his own agency but now signed on a major national client that would ensure Kinnetik was going to stay a reality. It had always been his dream to own his own agency and now it had finally come true. Not in the way he’d always imagined it would happen, but that didn’t matter. He was officially his own boss and with the money from the signed Eyeconics contract he had in his brief case, he would soon be able to set up the agency the way he wanted it to be. It seemed like everything was going his way at long last.

Brian parked in his spot, gathered his things and got out of the car. He was almost floating on air as he trotted towards the building entrance. He just couldn’t wait to get upstairs and tell Justin the good news.

Justin. The teen was a huge part of why this was happening. Brian knew he owed the boy a lot. If it hadn’t been for Justin and his amazing artistic talents, there was simply no way that Brian would have been able to start Kinnetik. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have been fired if it wasn’t for the hullabaloo with Lapointe, but maybe that was a blessing in disguise, since it seemed to have been the catalyst to get Brian out from under Vance’s thumb and into his own business. Which was a truly good thing, no matter how it had come about.

Overall, Brian was genuinely happy that Justin had come into his life. The scared little PC had certainly made a huge impact on him. And it seemed to all be for the good. Not only was Justin helping him get his business started, but Brian realized he had never felt this happy or content in his entire life. He’d never been this ecstatic to rush home before - probably because he’d never had somebody waiting for him with whom he could share his triumphs. The fact that Justin was just as invested in the success of Kinnetik as he was made it all the sweeter.

Not to mention that Justin’s presence in his home and his life was, in itself, something to celebrate. Brian found himself legitimately looking forward to getting home to the boy every single time he had to leave him. The jaded older man had never in his life experienced that. But it was true. He really enjoyed spending time with the young man. It wasn’t just the sex either - not that he was complaining about the sex, mind you, because it was spectacular. Brian just really enjoyed Justin’s company. Despite the fact that the kid rarely said much, he was a better companion in so many respects than anyone else Brian had ever met. They clicked on so many levels. He loved the kid’s reluctant wit and dry sense of humor. He found the boy’s silence restful instead of awkward. Justin’s mere presence seemed comforting and reassuring in ways Brian couldn’t even explain and had never thought he needed before. Hell, Brian had been so content with his Sunshine that he hadn’t even been out to Woody’s or Babylon for more than a week, and he really didn’t miss it at all.

As Brian stepped into the elevator and pulled the gate closed, all he could think about was getting to Justin and sharing his good news about Eyeconics. And maybe kissing the boy’s delicious pink lips. And touching his perfect skin. And then maybe taking a little celebratory break in the bedroom . . .

The elevator ground to a halt on the top floor of the building and Brian rushed to shove open the gate. As soon as he stepped out on the landing, though, he immediately realized something was wrong. The door to the loft was wide open. Justin NEVER left the door open. He was pretty fanatic about making sure the door was locked as soon as Brian left, too scared of being alone to leave the door unlocked for long, let alone leave the door sitting open like that. This was wrong. Brian felt goosebumps breaking out all over his skin.

“Sunshine? Why’s the door open,” Brian called out as he hurried inside . . . only to find the loft empty and nothing but silence greeting him. “Sunshine? JUSTIN?”

Brian ran to the bedroom and then checked in the bathroom too, but there was no sign of his wayward blond boy. Just to be sure, though, he sprinted around the entire room, looking in corners and behind the furniture. Nothing. Nobody was there. This was NOT good. Not good at all.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Brian hit speed dial for Cynthia, pacing back and forth in front of the still wide open door for the three rings it took the woman to answer.

“Hell . . .”

“Have you heard from Justin this morning, Cyn?” Brian interrupted frantically. “Did he call you or send an email or anything?”

“Justin? No. I haven’t got anything from him all day. Was I supposed to?” Cynthia answered, her confusion evident from her tone.

“He’s not here. I just got back from the meeting with McQuaid and Justin isn’t HERE! The door was open and he’s not here!” Brian panted into the phone.

“Justin would never leave the loft alone,” Cynthia succinctly stated the primary fact that Brian had been thinking all along. “This isn’t right. Hang up and call the police right now, Brian. I’ll be at the loft in ten minutes. Go, now!” Then Cynthia hung up and Brian was left with only the dial tone echoing in his ear.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . .” Brian muttered to himself while he quickly dialled 911 and waited for someone to answer.

“911. What is the nature of your emergency,” the coldly efficient voice answered.

Brian tried to think clearly enough to explain his problem. It wasn’t easy. “It’s my PC . . . I came home and found my door open and my PC is missing. He’s just gone. It’s not right. He wouldn’t leave by himself . . .”

“I understand, Sir. Is there anything else in the house missing?”

“I-I-I don’t know. I haven’t looked. I don’t care about any other stuff. I just want to find Justin,” Brian insisted.

“Okay. I’m sending the police over now, Sir. I’m dispatching a squad car to your location as we speak. While they’re on the way, I suggest you look around and make sure nothing else is missing . . .” Brian listened to the woman’s ongoing instructions, only hearing about half of what she was saying due to his increasing state of panic.

Thankfully, Cynthia arrived before too long and Brian simply shoved the phone into her hands before he started searching the loft to see what, if anything, else was missing. From his cursory initial examination, it seemed like everything was in place. His electronics, TV, Computer were all right where they should be. He went up to the bedroom and found all his jewelry in the box where he kept it right on top of the dresser. Even the wad of emergency cash he kept in the desk drawer was still there. The only thing Brian saw that was out of place was Justin’s sketchpad which he found peeking out from under the couch, several of its pages crinkled and bent and the pencil Justin had presumably been using before he disappeared snapped in half on the carpet nearby.

Right after he found the sketchpad, Brian heard voices on the stairs announcing the arrival of the police. He dragged himself over to stand next to Cynthia, who was already greeting the two cops. Brian let his PA handle the explanations while he stood there, numbly staring at the last drawing that Justin had done.

“Mr. Kinney? Excuse me, Mr. Kinney. What’s that there in your hands?” the petite black female cop asked him in reference to the sketchpad.

“I found this under the couch. It’s . . . this drawing . . . it’s been torn . . . ruined.” Brian held the pad out as evidence.

“I see that, Mr. Kinney. I’m sorry,” the woman responded kindly, then grabbed him by the elbow and started to lead the visibly shaken man over to the dining room table so he could sit down. “Why don’t you have a seat. I need to ask you some questions.”

The police officer had Brian tell his story again about how he’d left Justin alone in the loft while he was at a business meeting, then came home, discovered the door wide open and noticed Justin was gone. She got Brian to give a physical description of the missing boy. Cynthia stepped in and provided copies of the PC’s Registration Certificate and other pertinent papers proving Brian’s ownership. Then came the really tough questions.

“Are you sure that your PC didn’t just leave the premises on his own? Perhaps to run errands or maybe even to just take a walk?” Brian shook his head, about to expound, but the officer continued on with her questions. “Is there any reason why this PC would want to run away, Mr. Kinney? You do know it's fairly common for PCs to attempt to escape when they find themselves in a bad situation - even though it's almost impossible for them to get away with it. Is there any reason you can think of that your PC might WANT to leave?”

“No. You don't understand. Justin wouldn't leave. Not on his own.” Brian noticed the skeptical look that the cop was giving him and frowned. “Justin wasn't unhappy here. There’s no reason for him to try and run. He . . . We . . . We’re . . .” Brian stuttered to a halt, unable to voice the sentiment he wanted to say because of the lump in his throat. “Besides,” Brian hurried on with an easier proof, “he literally couldn't have run away - he's terrified of being outside on his own. He’s scared shitless around most people, can't stand to be touched by anyone other than me, and he gets panic attacks in crowded spaces if I'm not there with him. There's no fucking way in hell Justin would go out by himself. Never.”

The officer gave Brian a doubtful stare but Cynthia rushed in to confirm Brian's statement with her own observations. After listening to them both, the cop seemed, if not convinced, at least willing to give them the benefit of a doubt.

“And even if he had wanted to leave,” Brian added, holding up the sketch pad he still held in his hands, “he wouldn't have left this. Justin lives for his art. He takes his sketchpad everywhere. Seriously. Last week he even talked me into letting him bring it along when we went dancing at Babylon. We had to check the damn thing at the coat check, if you can believe it. There's no fucking way he'd leave it behind, let alone toss it on the floor and crumple any of his drawings.”

“Okay. If that's true, then we have to go on the assumption that somebody took the boy,” the cop proceeded. “Anybody you know who'd want to do that?”

Both Brian and Cynthia answered immediately, “Bellweather!”

The cop looked at them questioningly so Brian explained. “The guy I beat out at the auction to buy Justin. His name is Howard Bellweather. He’s a writer or something and a bit of a local celebrity. And a fucking prick, if you ask me. Anyway, he was totally pissed off that I outbid him at the auction. And the one other time I saw him at a dinner party Justin and I attended, he tried to take Justin away, behind my back, and . . .” Brian faltered as he thought of the implications the memories raised.

“Bellweather tried to take Justin and have sex with him even after Brian said he wouldn’t allow it,” Cynthia continued the explanation when she saw that Brian couldn’t go on. “He’s a nasty piece of work and I wouldn’t put it past him to try something underhanded to get at Justin. He’s also quite wealthy so I don’t doubt that he would have the resources to pull off something like this.”

Just then the other police officer came back into the loft and interrupted the interview. “There’s no sign of forced entry, either downstairs or the door up here,” the tall, dark-haired, slavic-looking man stated. “I canvassed the building and nobody saw the boy leaving or heard anything out of the ordinary. Although nobody’s home on the third floor, and I wouldn’t expect anyone on the lower floors to hear much. The guy down in 2C did say he saw a group of three ‘muscle dudes’ coming into the lobby while he was on his way out at around ten-thirty. He didn’t recognize any of them but he was in too much of a hurry to get a good look.”

“Thanks, Yablonsky. Good job,” a new voice said as another person strode into the loft. “Hey, Robards,” the fiftyish, heavyset newcomer greeted the seated female officer. “Ma’am. Sir. The name’s Detective Carl Horvath.” The man flashed his badge in Brian’s direction. “Looks like I pulled this case. Tell me what you got so far.”

The two uniformed officers spent the next fifteen minutes relating the story yet again while Brian fumed at the ongoing delay. Why the fuck were they wasting so much time, he wondered. In the time the cops had been standing around palavering, whoever took Justin could have driven through at least four states. When the hell was somebody going to DO something?

Right about at the point where Brian was set to explode with impatience, the detective turned to him and asked, “other than this Bellweather character, is there anyone else you know who might want to take the boy? Got any enemies or somebody that might have a grudge against you or maybe against the PC?”

Brian looked at Cynthia, holding a silent conversation with their eyes alone for a good minute, before Brian turned back to the cop. “I'm not sure. Maybe. Can I get back to you on that, detective?”

“Hmmm. If you know something you're not telling me, it’s only going to slow things down,” he warned, looking at Brian as if sizing up the younger man. When Brian and Cynthia both remained silent, Horvath nodded, noted something in the small notebook he was holding and then moved on, but after that he looked at them both a little more warily. “Okay, then, tell us who else has access to your place? Anybody other than you got keys? ‘Cause, assuming this WAS a robbery and the PC didn't leave under his own steam, it's looking like it was an inside job. The locks weren't tampered with, so somebody had to have let the thieves in. And, from the sound of it, your boy probably would have been too timid to open the door for somebody he didn't trust. Which makes me think whoever’s responsible had the key.”

“Cynthia has a set of spare keys for emergencies,” Brian offered, “but she was at work at VanGuard. I called her there as soon as I found Justin was gone. And then there's my best friend, Michael Novotny. But I don't think Mikey would do anything like this. He and Justin seem to get along pretty well. And that's it, I think.”

“What about Lindsey,” Cynthia reminded him. “Didn't she used to have a key? I remember you telling me once, a while back, about how she and Mel walked in on you with some trick when they thought you weren't home . . .”

“You're right, Cyn. I think Lindsey might still have a key. But she wouldn't . . .”

“Considering what a bitch she's been lately and how much she professes to hate PCs, I wouldn't put it past her, Brian,” Cynthia scoffed and then went on to detail for the detective all the happenings of the past few weeks and Brian’s ongoing dispute with the mother of his newborn son. “Shit. Do you think she found out about the custody and visitation suit your attorney is working on, Brian? If so, on top of all the other shit that's gone down, it might be enough to drive her over the edge.”

Horvath asked a lot more questions about Lindsey and took down her contact information, promising that, at the very least, he would check her out. Personally, he didn't think it likely that the woman was their thief. Stealing a PC was a major felony and not something your average housewife and art teacher would attempt. But he'd still make sure to question the lady, if only to rule her out.

With that, Horvath closed up his notebook, apparently ready to leave. “Okay, folks, this is what's gonna happen. I'm going to get a forensics guy down here to see if there's any usable fingerprints and take a couple pictures. Don't touch anything in the meantime. I'll head over to talk to Ms. Peterson. Robards, you call this in to the PCRA and ask that they put a trace on the PC’s chip.”

“I forgot about the fucking tracking chip,” Brian interjected. “It's got GPS and shit, right? That should make this easy. We just have to wait for the Feds to pick up Justin's signal.”

“It should definitely help,” Horvath agreed but with obvious reservations. “But keep in mind that the PCRA moves about as fast as molasses in January. I’ve seen it take those lazy SOBs twenty-four hours or more to process the tracking request before they act. Let's just hope that nothing happens to your boy in the meantime.”

Brian slumped dejectedly back in his chair at that unwelcome information. “Shit, Sunshine. Twenty-four hours . . . What about in the meantime? What do we do? There has to be something else I can DO.”

“You sit tight, son, and let us do our job,” Horvath ordered, squeezing Brian's shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “If you hear anything - or think of something you forgot to tell us - call me at this number.” The detective handed over his card. “I'll let you know as soon as I have anything solid.”

With another curt nod, the detective was gone, leaving Brian and Cynthia sitting at the table staring at each other with no idea what to do next. Brian felt completely wrung out. He couldn't believe this was happening. Wasn't it just an hour or so ago that he was feeling so elated and thinking that everything was going so well? How did it all go to shit so fast? And where the hell was his Sunshine?

“FUCK!” Brian vented his helplessness by yelling at the ceiling before he covered his face with both hands and pressed hard against his eyelids to try and hold back the tears he could feel welling there. The sympathetic hand Cynthia rested on his arm didn't help at all. Brian felt like he was about to fucking explode.

“We’ll find him, Brian. We’ll get him back,” Cyn tried to reassure him, but the effort fell flat when her voice broke and she too fell silent.

After that they both simply sat there - saying nothing because there wasn't anything that could be said that would make this any better - while all the horrible images of what might befall the sweet young PC flittered with nauseating persistence through their overwrought imaginations.

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The boy woke up to the sound of screaming.

It seemed like the space he was in was filled with screams. They were so loud it hurt his ears. And they just went on and on and on without let up until he finally passed out from the exhaustion of listening to them.

The next time the boy awoke, there was still some screaming, but it was more intermittent and not quite as loud. The voice doing the screaming sounded hoarser as if it was running out of screams. In the intervals between bouts of screaming, there was another sound. The sound of a calm, low voice making soothing sounds.

“Shhhh. It’s okay, Little One. I got you. You gonna be okay. Shhhh.”

Out of sheer desperation and fright, the boy started to listen in to the calming voice instead of the screams and slowly the screaming started to ebb.

“That’s right. Calm down. You’re okay, Little One. You’re okay and I’m here and we gonna be just fine. Just shush, okay, before you scare the both of us silly.”

Slowly the screaming died down to only panting sobs. The boy gathered his courage enough to open his eyes and look around him, only to discover that it wasn’t any brighter after he opened his eyes than it had been with his eyes closed. This fact immediately ramped up his fear level again. The surge of panic was immediately followed by a renewed bout of screaming. Which is how the boy discovered that HE was apparently the one doing the screaming. So he stopped. And realized that the sobbing was coming from himself as well.

“Shhhh. Come on, Little One. Don’t worry. I got you. You gonna be alright, Honey. It’s okay. Shhh.”

The boy tried to focus on the voice saying all these nice calming things instead of the overwhelming fear, and slowly even the crying diminished till it was only broken sniffles and gasps of pathetic whimpering.

“That’s right. That’s my boy. Shhh. Just calm down, Little One. I got you. Shhh”

It took a long time, but once the abject panic had receded a little bit, the boy was able to take stock of his surroundings a little better.

He realized that wherever he was it was pitch dark. That’s why he hadn’t been able to see anything even after he opened his eyes. It wasn’t, as he’d thought at the moment, that he’d gone blind. It was only that the space he was in was utterly without any light at all.

Since he couldn’t see, he turned to his other senses. Other than his own gasping breaths and the disembodied but friendly voice, there was only silence. From the way the sounds he and the voice were making bounced around, the boy surmised that they were in a very small, completely contained space. It was a cold space too. He could tell his skin was cool, except where something warm was pressed up against his side and where two bands of relative warmth seemed wrapped around his body.

Oh, that must be where the voice was coming from. From a warm body next to him. And those two bands of warmth must be the body’s arms. Okay. That made sense.

Except for the warm body next to him, everything else around the boy seemed hard and cold. The surface he was sitting on was smooth but rock hard. The surface of whatever he was leaning the side of his body against was hard. The surface behind him was hard. He was literally between a rock and a hard place. If he wasn’t just barely holding on to his sanity, the boy might have laughed at that.

Strangely enough, the place even smelled hard. But it was hardness immersed in damp and seeping wetness that carried the taint of mold. Not a nice smell at all. Luckily the dank wet hardness was mitigated by the additional smell of the clearly male body next to him. That smell - the smell of stale sweat, musk, fear, blood, and just a hint of dried cum - was at least human, even if it wasn’t comforting. It was better than the cold, hard, mold smell by far.

And somehow the humanness of that smell finally managed to sink in enough to finally calm the boy’s panic. He reached out, fumbling in the dark, until he managed to wrap his arms around the body and cling to it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. The arms of the body hugged him back. It was good. It wasn’t much, but it was good enough.

The boy drifted off to sleep in the arms of the unseen body, in the absolute dark of the hard, musty place, and didn’t think any more.