********

Chapter 32 - Investigations and Manipulations.

“Good Morning, Cynthia!” Brian chirped as he approached his assistant’s desk. When he didn’t receive any response at all, he stopped and looked at the woman who was regarding him with a frown. “What?” he asked.

“Why are you so fucking cheerful?” Cynthia questioned suspiciously. “It’s Monday morning. You’re not allowed to be this insanely cheerful on Monday morning. I don’t care if you DO have a beautiful blond at home. It’s just wrong.”

Brian laughed out loud at the grumpy woman, which only earned him another disapproving glare. “Fine. How’s this . . . ‘Shut the fuck up and get me a latte already’,” he growled at her in a belligerent voice while trying to hold back a playful smile.

“That’s better,” Cynthia finally broke a smile.

“Good.” Brian turned and started to head for his office, but then paused and hollered over his shoulder. “By the way, I was serious about the latte.”

“I’ll get right on that, Boss,” Cynthia intoned and chuckled at the man’s back.

Ten minutes later a slightly less grumpy assistant entered Brian’s office laden down with a Starbucks cup, a stack of pink phone messages, her tablet computer and an armload of files. “Your coffee, oh Cheerful One.” She handed off the first item and then turned to address the rest. “Nothing really important here,” she commented as she went through the phone messages. “Mostly just follow ups on existing accounts. The only fun one is from the CEO of Bronian Motors. The initial numbers are already coming in on their new campaign and it’s over the top good. Way to go, Boss.”

“Way to go, Justin. He’s the one that picked that font color - that’s what really makes the ad pop,” Brian gloated as he accepted the stack of message slips, flipped through them briefly and then tossed the entire pile except for the Bronian one into the trash.

“Speaking of Justin . . .” Cynthia stepped backward and, with her one now-free hand, closed the office door. “I’ve got something for you on our mysterious Mr. Hutcherson.” Brian leaned forward eagerly to listen to whatever his able assistant had uncovered. “We both suspected this Ron Hutcherson must have some connection to Hobbs, right? Well I kept digging all weekend but was constantly knocking my head against a wall using all the usual search pathways. So, just for kicks, I decided to try something crazy and went onto one of those free online sites that promise to check your ancestry . . . and I put in James Stockwell’s name.” Cynthia looked so pleased with herself that Brian knew what was coming next would be good. “It really is amazing all the data out there on everyone. You can see every single marriage for all your ancestors back for generations. Or, in this case, the marriages of whomever else you’re researching.”

“Stop teasing me, Cyn. What the fuck did you find?” Brian pressed her for more.

“Well, it doesn’t show up in any ‘official’ records on our good Senator Stockwell but, on this website I checked, it shows that Anne Stockwell had been married once before.” Cynthia grinned and pulled a printout from one of the files she was holding on her lap. “And her previous husband’s name just happens to be . . . Randall Hutcherson.” She laid the printout on Brian’s desk and pointed to the highlighted entry.

“Shit! You did it, Cynthia,” Brian looked at the listing and then up at his friend.

“Yep. And, when I searched Randall’s ancestry, it turns out that he has an uncle named Ronald. Big surprise, huh?” She smiled gloatingly at Brian. “So, just to make sure that the info was reliable, as soon as I got in this morning, I called the residential care home where Hutcherson lives. I pretended to be calling from a doctor’s office - made up this bogus story about Dr. Vance needing to get ahold of Hutcherson’s guardian in order to get some paperwork signed for a new drug trial and asked for the contact number for Anne Stockwell. As expected, they refused to give me any contact info, but the VERY helpful woman I talked with did tell me one truly surprising thing . . .” Brian gestured with a ‘gimme’ motion to get Cynthia to continue. “She remarked that Anne wasn’t Hutcherson’s legal guardian anyway and that I’d need to talk to Anne’s husband, James.”

“Wow! You fucking did it, Cynthia. You found the fucking connection,” Brian rocked back in his chair, his hands raking through his hair agitatedly. “No wonder Hutcherson didn’t have a problem with any of the regs about new PC owners. Stockwell, as his legal guardian, could just sign all the paperwork and press through anything that was a problem using his senate contacts. It shouldn’t be hard to prove that Hutcherson wasn’t competent to contract for Justin on his own and get the PCRA records filed for him. That should be more than enough proof of Stockwell’s role in Justin’s case.”

“You’d think,” Cynthia replied but didn’t look nearly as relieved as Brian. “The only problem is, who do we take our suspicions and all this evidence to?”

“Good question,” Brian answered. “Anybody local is out. We already know for a fact that the DA had to have been in on this and probably the judge too. That means we can’t trust anyone in Pittsburgh. And, with Stockwell’s contacts throughout the rest of the state, it’s doubtful whether we can trust anyone at that level either.”

“Maybe the FBI?” Cynthia suggested.

“Maybe. But I’d feel better if we had the name of a specific agent that we could be reasonably sure was reliable, rather than just taking this shit to the bureau and dumping it on some random nobody,” Brian suggested. “Would your APC contacts have any ideas who we can trust?”

“I don’t know. I can ask. But it may take me a few days. I’ll have to be circumspect about the way I ask. I don’t want to tip anyone off about what we have too soon. You never know if something might get back to Stockwell or Craig Taylor.” Cynthia began to gather up her materials. “In the meantime, I’m going to make several copies of this file. We should both have complete copies of everything and also give a couple out to some other people we can trust, just for safe keeping.”

“I think you’ve been watching too many conspiracy television shows, Cyn,” Brian commented, although he didn’t try to dissuade her from her task.

“Maybe. But it can’t hurt.”

********

The perfect blackness of the isolation box cracked open suddenly, blinding Rex with the influx of light. He’d been locked up in the tiny, lightless space ever since they’d returned from the disastrous luncheon on Friday afternoon. Well, except for the hour or so they’d spent beating him right after they got back to Bellweather’s mansion. But Rex mostly tried to forget that time.

He didn’t know how long he’d been in the box. There was no time inside that blackness. It might have been only hours or it might have been weeks. He had no way of telling. But judging by the cramping in his legs and the kinks in his back caused by spending too many hours in a space too small for him to stretch out all the way, it had been long enough.

While he was still lying there, blinking as he adjusted to the light, someone grabbed one of his ankles and yanked until his body slid out of the solitary box into the room beyond. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to. Every single part of him hurt so bad that he didn’t think he could move on his own.

“Hose him down. He reeks.”

The words were harsh and cold but not as cold as the water that blasted into him a second later. The water did sluice away all the filth that had coated him though. And it felt rather good as it cooled the raw strips on his back where the lash he’d been beaten with had cut a little too deeply. He was mildly grateful for that small benefit. It didn’t matter that he was shaking from the chill afterwards. It was good to be clean and to have his injuries numbed.

“Get him up on his knees.”

Rex felt rough hands grab his arms and hoist him into a more or less upright position. He was still too unstable to maintain the stance on his own, so the men on either side of him had to stand there and hold him up. The shivering from the cold bath didn’t help matters much, but he tried his best to quell the shaking, instinctively knowing that any weakness he showed would be used against him.

“Oh, Rex. Look at you.” The voice was disappointed and dismissive. “Have you learned your lesson, Rex?”

“Y-y-y-yes, M-M-M-Mas-ter.” Rex hated that he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering long enough to get his words out.

“Good boy, Rex. I’m sorry that I had to punish you, but if I hadn’t you would never learn your lessons. Would you?”

“N-n-n-no, M-M-Master.”

“Very well. But, in the future, make sure you’re less klutzy. Especially when I’m out in public. I refuse to have you make me look like a fool ever again. Do you hear me?”

“Y-y-yes, Master.”

“Fine. I’m just glad this is all over,” Bellweather stated, moving close enough so that his crotch was only a few inches in front of the shivering PC’s face. “You can make it up to me by blowing me. Get to it.”

Rex slowly lifted up his arms, struggling to get them to move and trying to ignore the pain even that tiny movement caused to his battered back. He didn’t dare refuse or even voice any of his pain. That would only result in more punishment. It was difficult, but he did manage it, eventually lifting his limbs high enough so that he could reach the Master’s belt buckle. But then he fumbled with the metal hasp, his fingers too stiff and cold to work the buckle.

*Grrrr* Bellweather growled at the slow pace, batted Rex’s hands away and undid his pants by himself before shoving his hips forward so that his dick was right in the boy’s face. “Go on. I don’t have all fucking day!”

Rex hated Bellweather’s ugly little dick. It was truly one of the saddest, least attractive dicks he’d ever seen. It was, at most, five inches even when it was fully erect. It was also an ugly, splotchy purple color. The shaft had a weird curve to it so that it always bent a little to the right. And to make matters even worse, the Master was uncut, and not very diligent with his personal hygiene at the best of times, so there was always a distasteful build up of smegma under the foreskin. Usually Rex would try and wipe the worst of it away surreptitiously whenever he was ordered to suck the man off. But today, with his hands barely functioning, he didn’t think he could manage that. He would just have to swallow the fucking dick, crust and all, and bear it the same way he bore the unpleasant odor. Luckily he’d long ago mastered his gag reflex, but today’s experience was a challenge even for him.

Rex opened his mouth, closed his eyes and just blanked out all his thoughts while Bellweather shoved the disgusting little cock into his mouth. After that he just did his thing on autopilot. He didn’t have to think about it. He just let the routine take over and in his mind he went off to some other place.

Unfortunately, the Master wasn’t all that aroused this afternoon. He wasn’t even fully hard when the blow job started, and Rex realized that this might take a while. Oh well. It’s not like he had anywhere else to be, he thought with an internalized laugh.

“Master . . .” Another voice interrupted the quiet in the training room and caused Bellweather to pause for a moment in his thrusting. Rex didn’t bother to move or even open his eyes. He’d be told if the Master was done with him. “You have a phone call, Master. I thought you would want to take it right away. It’s Senator Stockwell.”

“Of course. Bring me the phone, Spot.”

The new arrival dropped to his knees right next to Rex, offering up the telephone to Bellweather.

“Put the call on speaker, Spot. I’m not going to hold it while I talk. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Yes, Master,” Spot replied and immediately hit the correct button to make the call go to speaker.

“Jimmy. How are you? I thought you were off stumping for votes this week,” Bellweather exclaimed jovially while he shoved his cock extra deep into Rex’s throat.

“I AM out on the campaign trail, Howie. I’m calling from Harrisburg, actually,” Stockwell’s voice sounded tinny and distorted coming out of the phone’s speaker. “But I had a few minutes between meetings and I just wanted to check in to make sure you were doing okay. You left in such a hurry after our lunch the other day. Everything good now?”

“Yes. Yes. I’m fine, Jimmy. I’m sorry about that horrible luncheon. Rex was such an embarrassment.” Bellweather grabbed Rex’s ear with his right hand and yanked his head higher in a moment of renewed pique at the unpleasant memory, but didn’t otherwise deviate from his rhythm. “The boy has been assiduously punished - I can promise you that - and I’m hoping he’s going to be on his best behavior from here on out.”

“That’s good to hear. So, did you follow through on that other thing we discussed yet? The plan to get the little blond back?” Rex almost gagged hearing those words. He’d hoped that Bellweather had been too distracted with his own punishment to remember the sweet little blond boy. He hadn’t counted on Stockwell calling and reminding the Master, though. “You know I’m eagerly waiting for my invitation to that initiation party you were talking about. That one . . . well, let’s just say, J327 holds a certain pull on me. If you do get him back, Howie, I want to be the first one you call.”

“I hadn’t forgotten, James. I just got too busy to follow through,” Bellweather laughed deprecatingly. “But you’re right, I really SHOULD deal with that situation. I feel just as enamoured as you with that particular boy. Thanks for calling to remind me.”

“Glad to help, Howie. Glad to help. Make sure you get on it as soon as I hang up, though, or you’ll find something else to distract you,” Stockwell’s smarmy chuckle echoed out of the phone.

“Don’t worry, Jimmy. I won’t get distracted. I’m excellent at multi-tasking. Aren’t I, Rex, dear,” Bellweather commented as he shoved his ugly dick once more down the boy’s gullet, held it there for ten seconds and then finally shot his sticky load. “I promise to call Lapointe and Kinney’s boss - Gardner What’s-his-name - as soon as my Manager and I are done here with Rex.” Bellweather nodded to one of the men standing next to Rex, who promptly hauled the boy to his feet. “I’ll let you know how it goes the next time we get together.”

“Sounds good. Talk to you later, Howie.”

“Bye, Jim.” Bellweather flicked his hand dismissively at the PC holding the phone and ‘Spot’ - so called because of the birthmark the man had on his cheek - terminated the call and immediately retreated to the far side of the room.

“Now, Rex,” Bellweather pulled his pants up and tucked himself away as he turned his full attention to the PC. “That wasn’t exactly your best effort, was it? I could get a better blow job from a vacuum cleaner hose. What do you have to say for yourself, Rex?”

“I . . . I’m sorry, M-M-Master,” Rex pleaded, his shaking getting worse again, although this time it wasn’t completely because of the cold. “I’m so . . . so cold and thirsty . . . I can’t . . . can’t . . .”

“I HATE that word, Rex. ‘Can’t’ is ALWAYS the wrong answer in my opinion,” Bellweather glared at his terrified PC. “Why do you make things so difficult for me, Rex? Why do you make me have to punish you?” Rex knew not to bother responding - anything he said would only make things worse. “Well, you’re lucky I’m in such a good mood today. I’m not going to throw you back in the box. I think . . . ten more lashes, maybe, and then we’ll just call it done. Just make sure you do a better job next time.”

Bellweather waved to his Manager who started dragging Rex over to the wall where the shackles were waiting for him. Meanwhile the Master called Spot back over with the phone. “Get me Walter Lapointe from PC Clearinghouse on the phone immediately . . .”

After that, Rex didn’t hear much of the conversation. His own cries of pain drowned everything else out. But still, in a remote corner of his brain that was still capable of functioning, he harbored the hope that he might still be able to do something to help the poor blond boy that was about to be dragged unwittingly into hell alongside the rest of them.

********

Stockwell terminated the call with Bellweather and placed the phone back in it’s charging cradle. He was pleased with the way that call had gone. Hopefully Bellweather would follow through this time and not let himself get too distracted with his harem of PC boys. If not, Stockwell would have to take other, more risky, actions.

He pressed the intercom button to summon his assistant. “Keith, can you come in here and bring the checkbook for the Hutcherson account?”

A minute later the aide popped into Stockwell’s office with a large green corporate-style checkbook in hand.

“Thanks, Keith,” James responded as he accepted the book. He opened the cover, scribbled out a check for $500, signed it and then handed the whole thing back to his aide. “Send that, along with a short thank you note, to the head nurse at Anne’s uncle’s nursing home, please. I don’t recall the woman’s name, but we’ve sent her money before - it should be in the records somewhere. She’s been very helpful over the years.”

“Of course, Senator,” Keith answered. “What would you like the note to say?”

“Oh, just something along the lines of ‘Thanks for looking out for my uncle and keeping me advised of all the goings on at the center . . .’ She called this morning with some really important information and I want her to know how much I appreciate her attentive care for Uncle Ron.”

“I’ll get right on that, Senator,” the staffer promised as he backed out the door.

Stockwell sat at his desk for several more minutes after Keith left, his pencil tapping on the blotter and his mind spinning as he thought through his plans. He was getting worried. That damned Kinney was sniffing around in things that were none of his fucking business. Thankfully, the nurse he had spying on things for him at Hutcherson’s nursing home had alerted him right away when that call from VanGuard came in earlier. Which was what had prompted the reminder call to Bellweather. Stockwell just hoped that losing his job - and by extension his troublemaker of a PC - would keep Kinney too busy to fuck up his plans completely.