Chapter 3 - The Hole.
"You're late, Hobbs," was the first thing he heard as he rounded the bed of his cherry red Dodge Ram truck, heading towards today's job site. "I'm docking your pay for this. You've been warned before."
Fucking A! It was just his luck that the boss had to be here the one morning he'd been late all month. He didn't bother to reply, though, knowing any wisecracks would simply get him in more trouble. His boss already didn't like him much and Hobbs couldn't afford to lose this job - no matter how crappy it was - construction industry jobs were scarce these days.
He did give the asshole the finger though as soon as his back was turned. The guy was a complete asshole and always had been. Hobbs couldn't believe he was reduced to working for Paul Murchison. Paul had been nothing back in high school. Back then he was just one of those nerdy guys always hanging around the fringes of the popular group. Hobbs remembered when Paul used to follow him around, hanging on his every word and always willing to do him favors.
Of course, that was back when Hobbs had been the quarterback of the football team, respected and looked up to by everyone and the leader of the popular clique at school. That was before Taylor came along and Hobbs became the laughingstock of the entire school. As soon as Hobbs fell from grace, Paul, like the lowly sycophant that he was, was one of the first to tease and harass Hobbs. It was Paul who'd made that comment at Prom that had led to Hobbs taking a bat to Taylor's head in the parking garage.
Today, because of Taylor, Hobbs was a nothing. Murchison however was the owner of a profitable and rapidly growing construction firm that had just won a major contract with the City of Pittsburgh to retrofit all of the city's ancient, crumbling sewage lines. Which, unfortunately, explained why Hobbs was working for Murchison and not the other way around.
Knowing that there was nothing he could do to get back at Murchison, Hobbs shuffled despondently over to the trailer that was serving as a mobile office for the construction company at this site. He grabbed a quick cup of weak coffee from the urn inside and then stood with the others to get his job assignment for the day. After directing several of the others to various different jobs and locations, the supervisor finally acknowledged Hobbs' presence, nodding at him with a slight frown.
"Nice of you to join us today, Hobbs. Hope we're not infringing on your beauty sleep by asking you to get here by nine," the manager commented, eliciting several derogatory chuckles from his co-workers. "Since you're late, you get to be in the Hole today. Better grab some boots and hip waders along with your shovel. There was a bit of a leak down there last night."
That comment earned the supervisor another round of guffaws from the employees, all of whom were more than thankful that they hadn't been assigned to the Hole today. Hobbs scowled at the laughing men around him but didn't say anything. He just spun around, exited the office and went to the nearby equipment shed to put on a yellow, rubberized jumpsuit, rubber boots that went clear up his thighs, gloves and a breathing mask. He also grabbed a hand shovel and then put his hard hat on over everything. Once he was fully garbed in protective clothing he trudged outside and climbed down the ladder protruding from a huge crater dug out of the center of the roadway.
Even with the breathing mask, Hobbs was almost overwhelmed by the stench in the Hole. The fucking supervisor wasn't joking about there being a 'little' leak down here. He could easily see where the old concrete sewage pipe had broken wide open. The entire bottom of the pit was filled about a foot deep with raw sewage.
Hobbs just ground his teeth together behind his mask and started shoveling. Talk about crappy jobs.
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Despite his exhaustion, Brian had only managed to get about an hour of sleep. His nightmare about seeing himself in the coffin at Michael's funeral destroyed any further hope he had of resting. He decided it would be better to just power through the fatigue. Instead he would go back to the hospital and check on Mikey and then head into the office.
Before he left the loft, Brian tried to call Justin's cell phone once more. He hoped that the reason he got only voicemail again was because his Sunshine was sleeping. He told himself he'd try again after he finished at the hospital.
When Brian still hadn't heard back from Justin by four in the afternoon, he was getting a little peeved. Was the blond still angry with him? He didn't think so, at least not after their mutual confessions last night while standing in the rain in front of the club. But then, why hadn't Justin called him back?
"Jennifer, it's Brian," he said when he finally broke down and called his erstwhile 'mother-in-law'. "I've been trying to reach your son all day without much success. Have you heard from him?"
"Sorry, Brian. I haven't heard from him today," Jennifer confessed. "I did talk to him last night after he got home from club. He told me that he was going to head back out to the hospital, though. He said he was too worked up to sleep so he was going to go keep Debbie company. Maybe he just got back real late and is still sleeping?"
"He never made it to the hospital. I was there most of the night and then went back again around noon. I never saw him and Deb didn't say anything about Justin being there either." The edge of panic that Brian's voice had whenever he went into 'protective' mode was clear even through the phone lines and it immediately triggered a similar reaction from the concerned mother.
"Do you think . . ." Jennifer didn't get any further with her speculation, though, as Brian cut her off.
"Give me the address of his new apartment. I'm going over there to check on him," Brian demanded. "I'll call you back once I've found him."
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The one good thing about physical labor was that it only occupied your body. Your mind was free to think while your muscles did their thing almost automatically. And after a full day of grubbing around in the hole, Hobbs had had plenty of time to think and plan. He'd mulled over the idea that had first come to him last night as he stood over Taylor's body in that drafty loft, fleshed it out a bit and worked out all the details. He now had a plan as to just exactly how he would get sufficient payback from Taylor and all his insufferable fairy friends.
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He had to admit that he’d been tempted to just strangle the fucking faggot and get it over with. After all, if the bombing had gone the way it was supposed to, that would have been the end result - crispy fried Justin. But, while he was standing in Taylor’s loft apartment last night, looking down on the unconscious but still breathing form and trying to figure out what he was going to do with the body if he did finish off the bugger, he realized that his impromptu actions had the potential to cause him a lot of grief.
Since Hobbs hadn’t planned any of this, he also hadn’t taken any precautions against getting caught. If Taylor’s body was found here, in this apartment, there was potentially a lot of evidence that might lead back to him. He didn’t know shit about cop stuff, except what he’d seen in movies and TV, but he figured that he’d probably left fingerprints all over the place on his way in - he’d handled the outside door and railing, the stairwell railing, Taylor’s door and even some objects inside, plus there was hair and fibers and all that other shit they babbled on about in cop shows. He wasn’t sure, but those two meth-head neighbors of Taylor’s might have caught a glimpse of him. He’d even split a knuckle while they were fighting, which meant that his blood was probably around here somewhere and his DNA was just waiting for the cops to find it. There was no way he’d be able to clean it all up and be one hundred percent certain he wouldn’t get caught. And, while he wanted Taylor dead, Hobbs didn’t want to get caught doing it.
The only solution was to get Taylor out of here and get rid of the body somewhere else. He’d heard somewhere that if there was no body, the cops couldn’t prove there had been a murder. So if he wanted to kill Taylor, he’d have to find a way to hide the body. However, that was almost equally problematic. First of all, he didn’t know how to get the body out of the building and all to way back to his car, which was still parked on Liberty Avenue a few blocks from Bablyon, without being seen. If he left the body here while he went to get the car, he ran the risk of someone finding it before he could get back.
Oh, yeah - there was also the little problem of where to dispose of the body. He could probably come up with someplace with a little time to think it through, but he didn’t have anywhere in mind right off the top of his head. He wasn’t going to just dump the body on the side of the road and lead the cops right back here. He had to play it smart and think about it and plan. And, in the meantime, he couldn’t just leave a rotting corpse sitting around in his apartment.
It was too late to just walk away. If Taylor woke up, he’d just send the police after Hobbs directly and that would be that. He was sure a second assault charge wouldn’t end up with him only getting community service. Which meant that he couldn’t just leave Taylor here, alive, either.
Okay, so he couldn’t kill Taylor right now and he couldn’t leave him here alive. That left only taking Taylor with him - alive for now - and then . . . what? Well, Hobbs didn’t really know what he’d do next, but he figured he’d work that out later. For now, he just had to get Taylor out of here and take him somewhere where Taylor wouldn’t be found and where he couldn’t get away and go to the cops. Luckily, Hobbs had the perfect place in mind where he could stash his little captive for a few days until he figured out what to do next. The Cage would work perfectly. All he had to do was devise a way to get Taylor there.
Hobbs hunkered down next to Taylor and slapped him on the face a couple times. No response. Taylor was still out pretty good. Hopefully, he’d stay asleep long enough for Hobbs to get him to his planned destination.
So, how to move an unconscious body without drawing too much attention to oneself? Obviously, he’d have to carry the guy, which meant hauling his sleeping ass down all those flights of stairs since the big “Out of Order’ sign on the elevator doors was one of the first things he’d seen when he followed Taylor inside earlier. And, while that was doable, it was a long way to carry an unconscious body without being seen. He’d also need to get Taylor to the Cage without going back to his car or the environs of Liberty Avenue, which were likely still crawling with cops.
He started to wander around the apartment, looking around aimlessly for inspiration. In the beat-up metal cabinet against the far wall, Hobbs found a bottle of tequila and another of scotch. He pulled out the scotch and took a swig to help bolster his confidence. A bit of the liquor dribble out the side of his mouth and onto the front of his shirt.
Shit. Now he smelled like he’d been out drinking all night . . . Which wasn’t actually a bad thing, now that he thought about it.
Hobbs got a huge grin on his face as he looked at the bottle again and worked out the brilliant plan that he’d just come up with. He walked over to where Taylor was lying and upended the bottle over the limp form, pouring about a quarter of the bottle on the man’s chest and drenching his shirt. Then he used the liquid and a corner of Taylor’s shirt to wipe off the small trickle of blood that had dried on the injured man’s right temple. Finally, Hobbs grabbed Taylor’s cell phone from where it was still lying on the edge of the trestle table, opened the phone and dialed 411, asking the operator to put him through to Checker’s Cab Company.
Fifteen minutes later, Hobbs was stumbling down the stairs somewhere around the fourth floor level, Taylor’s arm pulled over his shoulder and one arm around the slumping figure’s waist, when he was passed by a group of three young men, also heading down the stairs.
“Hey, dude. What’s with . . . ?” asked the last of the group, a tall, skinny white guy who’s long dirty blond hair was held back in a ponytail with what looked like a twist-tie off a loaf of bread, indicating with his chin the dragging man in my arms.
Speaking loudly and slurring his words slightly for effect, Chris answered, “Hey man, could you give me a hand here? My buddy’s fucking drunk out of his mind, dude. I’m trying to get him down to the cab to get him home, but these fucking stairs are killing me.”
All three of the men stopped and laughed. The skinny blond trotted back up the few stairs to where Hobbs was and put his arm around Taylor’s waist from the other side. “Whew! How much did this guy drink?” asked the guy. “It smells like he spilled more on him than he got inside him.”
“I stopped counting after about the tenth shot,” Hobbs lied. “Sure wish there were fewer stairs in this fucking building though.”
“Goddamned management company is too cheap to fix the damned elevator,” one of the other men complained as Hobbs and his new assistant got Taylor moving down the stairs again. “It’s been broken for three months now. Bet that’s gotta be some kinda fire code violation or something, right dude?”
Hobbs didn’t bother to respond, but he smiled a lopsided smile at the guy and just kept up his act of drunken lout. With the other man helping, Hobbs managed to get Taylor down to the ground floor and out the door in short order. The taxi that he’d ordered was just driving up as they stepped out on the sidewalk. The blond guy helped him maneuver Taylor into the cab and then Hobbs gave the cabbie the address. Taylor was still out, thankfully. Hobbs relaxed back into the torn leather seat of the cab as they drove off, impressed with himself that he’d actually pulled this off.
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“Okay, time to wrap it up, Hobbs,” the site supervisor yelled down to him as Hobbs, still down in the Hole, drove his shovel into another of the willow roots that he’d been grubbing up for the past two hours.
He climbed up the ladder, emerging from the Hole, glad to finally be able to remove the breathing mask he’d been wearing for most of the day. He started stripping off the protective clothing before he even entered the equipment shed. He was anxious to get back to the Cage and start on his plans for Taylor.
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Brian had reached the landing on the top floor of the dilapidated shell that Justin was now calling home. He was panting heavily after the effort but consoled himself that by having to take the stairs he’d saved himself an hour at the gym. Fuck, this place was such a dump, he thought. On top of the non-operational elevator, the stair railings were rickety, the walls and hallways were grubby and the whole place smelled like dead cat. He was appalled that Justin was actually living here and mentally made plans to change that fact as soon as possible.
It didn’t take him long to find the right apartment, and he strode confidently over to the door, rapping loudly on the ugly wood veneer. He waited for a response from within for all of thirty seconds - which was patient by Brian Kinney standards - before grabbing the door handle and twisting it to let himself in. He was pissed off that Justin had left the door unlocked, but that was typical of the stupid little twink. He’d have to remind the boy again later to always keep the door locked when he was home alone.
“Justin? It’s me,” he announced himself as he walked tentatively into the apartment. “Justin?”
There didn’t appear to be anyone home. The ‘apartment’ - if you could call this one-roomed hovel an apartment - was on the largish side, very open and airy with large multi-paned windows on two sides. There was a counter with cupboards below against one wall and a large, paint-splashed sink in the near corner. In the far corner there was a mattress set up on the floor, the sheets rumpled and the duvet spilling onto the wooden floorboards. An old wooden milk crate on its side with a lamp on top served as a bedside table. There were a couple of other cabinets, a dresser and another milk-crate table around the edge of the room - each item of furniture appearing to have been rescued from a dumpster somewhere in the nastier parts of town. Other than that, the only thing to see in the room was the large table set up on trestles in the center of the room - presumably where Justin painted. What Brian didn’t see in the apartment was the blond twink he’d come to find.
Brian walked around the table in the center of the room, looking desultorily around him for any clues about Justin’s likely whereabouts. There really didn’t seem to be anything much here, though. He stopped briefly to admire the canvas that was standing on it’s edge and leaning against the side of the table, thinking that this must have been the painting Justin was working on last night when he’d called and left that message. Brian carefully felt along the top edge of the painting and noted that there were a couple spots that weren’t yet completely dry. He delicately lifted the canvas up, hopefully avoiding getting any paint on his suit, and slid the whole thing back onto the table where it would dry without risk of running or getting damaged. He wondered briefly why Justin had set the canvas on the floor when it was still damp. It wasn’t like Justin to be so careless with his artwork.
Moving around the edge of the table to look at the canvas from another angle, Brian’s foot knocked against a tin can lying on the floor and sent it rolling. As the can rolled, paint dribbled out the top and a large fantail brush flopped out onto the floor. Brian ran after the retreating can, scooping it up as fast as possible before it made an even bigger mess, picking up the brush as well. He noticed that the paint in the can was mostly dried up and that the bristles of the brush were clogged with dried paint. That was extremely odd. Justin was fanatic about taking care of his brushes, always appreciative of how expensive they were to replace. The artist would never leave a brush sitting in a can of drying paint all night.
Something was definitely NOT right here, Brian thought.
He moved around the table again, scanning the floor more carefully this time to see if there was something else that might have gotten knocked to the floor. He didn’t see anything else near the trestle table area, but he kept looking as he moved towards the sink. Still not finding anything Brian went back around the large support beam standing between the table and the door.
That’s when he saw the dark reddish-brown puddle on the floor at the base of the support pillar. He knelt and reached down to dip his index finger in the small pool. It wasn’t more spilled paint. It was blood.
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