A fictional work based on the tv series 'Without a Trace'
Rating: PG-17 (Language, violence)
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the show or characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only, without profit or gain of any kind.
Danny took the door that Jack held and entered the crowded hamburger place. Brightly colored tables were nearly full of hungry patrons. The scent of hamburgers usually tempted him but not today. His tooth hurt and he regretted leaving his pills in the room. Since the episode at lunch where he'd seen Martin through the brutal videotape, his insides were churning. So all he smelled was grease and it sickened him. He followed Jack to the counter; the older man stepped in front of an Asian woman who was ready to order.
"Malone and Taylor, FBI," Jack announced, flashing his badge at the clerk behind the counter. "I'm looking for Mike Reynolds."
"Mister Reynolds is in the back," she answered, turning to the pimply teenager dumping fries from the basket fresh from the deep fryer. "Andy, can you show them where Mike's office is?"
"Sure, he answered, tossing a liberal amount of salt onto the mound of golden potatoes. Then he stepped around and through a doorway, where he met them on the side. "Follow me." He made his way down the corridor past the employees changing area to a white door. He knocked twice.
"Mister Reynolds? There are two F.B.I. agents here to see you."
"Thanks, Andy."
Danny pressed his back to the wall to allow the stench of the grease from the employee pass. The door opened revealing a tall, stocky African American man about fifty or so with graying hair. He looked upset and stepped into the hallway.
"I'm Agent Malone, this is Agent Taylor. We understand you called the hotline about our missing agent, Martin Fitzgerald?" He handed the photo over and saw the worry in the dark eyes increase even more. The manager's head shook and he scrubbed his face with his hand, continuing to stare at the photo.
"I'm so sorry..."
Jack tilted his head, wondering if the upset man was apologizing to him or to Martin's likeness.
"When did you see Agent Fitzgerald?"
"Monday, late in the afternoon," he replied, handing the photo back. "I knew he was lost. I just had a feeling; he seemed out of place compared to most of the homeless men that come through here. He was out here..." He opened the side door in the hallway and stepped into the alley. "He said his name was Danny..."
"He spoke to you?" Jack stared intently at the manager.
"No... he wrote it down. I guess he was confused."
"Something like that," Malone replied, not missing Danny's head drop and the dark brows furrow. "So tell me what happened."
"I approached him, I think I scared him, he backed away, a bit frightened," Mike recalled "I offered him some hot food, but he would only take it for work. He cleaned this alley, I mean he really cleaned it, out front too. He finished up at dinnertime. I found an old backpack and filled it for him, food, coffee, a toothbrush and other stuff, even old Sassy's blanket." He paused when the agents' faces puzzled up. "A cat I used to keep, her blanket was still in my office. Danny... Martin he was so sick, feverish. He kept staggering and holding his head. I wanted to take him to a hospital but when I mentioned it, he freaked out."
"And you haven't seen him since?" Danny inquired.
"No, I told him to come back yesterday, that I'd find more work for him. When he didn't show up I got worried and drove around for hours, I thought I might see him. I hope he's alright..."
"I saw him a few hours ago, not far from here at a cafe," Danny reassured the worried man. He knew the concern in the dark eyes was sincere. "Thank you, Mister Reynolds, we appreciate all you did for him."
"What happened to him? The news report just said he was a missing federal agent. How did that happen?"
"We're not sure of all the pieces yet, but sometime on Friday night he was mugged," Jack answered. "He wandered off in the snowstorm and we theorize he might have been attacked again and suffering from some sort of amnesia."
"Oh God," Mike sighed, rubbed the back of his neck and moved away. "I should have done something... maybe offered to find him a hotel room or something."
"Mister Reynolds?" Danny moved over to where the disheartened man was sitting on a crate. He waited until the soulful brown eyes looked up at him. He offered his hand and gave a solid grip, resting his other hand over the disturbed manager's. "I want to thank you for opening your heart to my partner. You showered him with warmth and care. You gave him shelter in the storm he was lost in. I was homeless when I was a teenager; I know how cold these streets are. With more people like you, it would be a much sunnier place. He was lucky to have met you, I know I am."
Jack smiled when Mike Reynolds rose and embraced Danny. He could see how visibly upset the manager was and Taylor's point was well taken. This man had truly cared for Martin without knowing who he was. The kindness he offered so freely was rare and thanks to that at least for one night, Martin had hot food, enough to drink and a friend. He handed the manager his card and also shook his hand.
"If you see him again, if you can detain him, offer him lunch, anything to get him inside, I'd appreciate it," he paused and saw the worried eyes seeking out passersby on the street, "and thanks, I appreciate all you've done and Martin will too when we find him."
"I get off at six, I'm going to drive around again, maybe I'll get lucky," Mike offered.
"We appreciate the help," Danny replied, turning to follow Jack to the car.
Jack drove slowly up and down the streets in the restaurant's immediate area, his keen eyes scanning each building and alley. If Martin was as sick as all signs indicated, it was likely he wouldn't be too far away. Wherever he was, it was most likely to be somewhere between the cafe where Danny saw him and here. His thoughts turned to Taylor and he cast a glance in the direction of his pensive partner. The eyes were squinted in pain and his hand was pressed to his jaw.
"When's your appointment with the dentist?" Jack inquired.
"Ten a.m. this morning," Danny replied of the missing time slot. His jaw was throbbing and a part of him wished he'd kept the appointment. His tooth would be fixed now.
"Call him and reschedule..."
"Look, Jack, I'm not leaving now in the middle of this," Danny argued but the angry dark eyes that met his stopped him.
"You get the tooth fixed and then you come back. It won't take that long. See if he'll do it tonight or first thing. It's getting worse and affecting you. Call," Jack ordered and saw a reluctant hand go inside the coat. From the half of the conversation he heard, it sounded as if the dentist could see him this evening.
"Seven?" Danny eyed his watch. "I have to catch a train, I might be a little late but I'll be there. Thanks, I really appreciate this, Doc."
"See? Now you won't miss anything. You get the tooth fixed, a good night's sleep and you'll be back here first thing." For a few minutes, they role in silence, but Jack knew Taylor's mind was working in overdrive.
"He's close by," Danny murmured, his eyes scouring every brick and window, hoping for a miracle. He knew all too well what went on behind those walls, in the hidden corners and basements of the empty houses. The dark memories of his own homeless teenage years lingered near him. "Life on the streets is a constant struggle for survival, Jack."
Malone turned briefly and saw the shadows of a not too distant yesterday painted on the forlorn face. He heard the echo of a turbulent time in the raspy voice that was raw and throbbing. Danny seldom spoke of that time in his life. Jack knew parts of the story but not all; most likely there were parts that Danny would never share. It was part of what made him so tough and at the same time so very understanding.
"He survived this long with half his head caved in, he's a fighter," Jack noted with a trace of hope.
"He's gonna need a lot more than that," Danny replied, sighing hard and closing his eyes.
He rested his head back a moment and rubbed his weary eyes. Behind the aching lids were flickering images of a movie from many years ago. Troubling frames of desperate measures taken by equally desperate characters. He shivered and tried to fast forward past the bad part to the end but the hero doesn't always ride off in the sunset.
"You gotta be on top of the game, always wary, guarding your back. You gotta hunt for food and shelter and watch out for the wolves. He's sick, Jack, that means he's gonna be sleeping a lot. Then he'll be skipping meals, too worn out and sick to hunt. He'll be weak and eventually desperate. You ever been starving Jack?" He eyed the driver who gave him a curious look and a shrug. "I don't mean hungry, I mean starving, a few days without food, alone, nowhere to go. They smell it, Jack, the wolves. They smell the fear and desperation. They come and circle, offering food, all you want. You end up... trading anything you have... which isn't much, to get that food." The dark eyes glared at him then and he watched the revulsion emerge on Malone's face. "It's called survival sex and once your dignity is gone the drugs make it easier to cope. We gotta find him Jack."
"We will, Danny, we got leads and more tips might come in. We know the area where he's been seen..." His voice traile d off then and he wondered how much of the story Danny painted was based on his own life. As if sensing the silent query, Taylor turned to him with a sad smile.
"No, I never got that desperate, but I came close..." Danny choked, his eyes burning at the painful recollection. "...too close..." He turned his face to the glass watching through the crowds for those lurking in the shadows. He longed to see that terrified pair of blue eyes again. "Where the hell is he, Jack?"
Malone didn't have an answer and Danny's thoughts had him worried. From what they knew, Martin not only had a head injury but an illness. How long before he fell victim to the evil predators Danny spoke of? Or would he fall asleep for longer periods of time and just not wake up?
They were headed for the train station to drop Taylor off when Danny called Simmons and reported what they had learned. The Hartford agent reported that they had chased down a few tips but none so far were nailed down. Darkness would arrive soon and Danny was worried. What if he'd scared Martin back to his hole? What if the fevered amnesiac fell asleep and hadn't eaten all day? How much longer could he survive alone? They were stopped at a red light that turned green just as he hung up the radio when something caught his eye. It caused his mouth to go dry and his heart began to hammer loud.
"Jack, pull over."
"What?" Jack replied to the quiet request. He thought on the troubling conversation and eyed Taylor's hand now resting on his gut. "You gonna get sick?"
"No, pull over real easy." Danny kept his head turned back, staring out the back window. "Didn't you see him?"
"Who? Martin?"
"No, the son-of-a-bitch wearing his clothes."
"What?" Jack asked, pulling into the curb and parking the car. He craned his neck and tried to follow Taylor's line of vision. He saw a group of raggedy looking men, save one, in the shadows of a sandwich shop near the bus stop. "You sure?"
"There by the green trash can, the guy with the leather jacket... that's him."
"Huh?" Jack eased his frame from the car and slowly joined Danny on the curb. He saw the man in question and he was wearing a brown leather jacket. His age was hard to determine, but Jack estimated it to be about forty. He had greasy graying black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was a few inches less than six foot. "Look Danny, a lot of men have brown leather jackets-"
"It's a throwback jacket, Brooklyn Dodgers he paid a fortune for it, Sam told me." Danny pulled out his binoculars and took a closer look.
"Okay, so it's a jacket that looks like the one Martin was wearing but..." Malone was cut off when the intense eyes turned to scorn him.
"Really? What are the odds that this 'guy' is also wearing a blue cashmere sweater with Harvard's logo on it?" He shot back, tucking the field glasses away. "I sat next to Martin almost the whole damn day. They're his clothes... the pants and the shoes-"
"Hold on," Jack hissed, grabbing his arm that already was housing a fist fixed on revenge. "You keep that hot head of yours under control."
Danny jerked his arm free and kept his fist, "You ever been jumped and had your clothes taken, Jack? It's not a good feeling. As a matter of fact, it sucks. There's nothing much left when you're dignity has been taken. Don't you tell me to calm down! That sick, fuckin' animal beat Martin, stole his clothes and left him lying naked somewhere."
"Alright, alright, but you go charging in there and he spots you, he'll take off. It's his turf, Danny. He'll be history before you get a hand on him," he warned. "Slow and easy."
Danny slipped his sunglasses on and pulled his collar up. He casually sauntered down the street, heading for the door of the sandwich stop. When he was a few feet away, the other man turned and seemed to sense something was wrong. He started to run and Danny drew his gun.
"FREEZE! FBI!"
The chase was short-lived; Danny tackled the fleeing suspect in front of a newspaper vendor. He was glad that the suspect protested. His mind was still reeling from the image of Martin battered and naked, stripped of his dignity. He delivered three solid shots to the culprit's midsection. Then, he hauled him up and shoved him hard against the brick wall. He frisked him and spun him around, holding the gun to his throat.
"Hey! What the hell's wrong with you? You can't kill me, I didn't do nothing!"
"Kill you?" Danny laughed, turning to Jack who was approaching. "Get him, he thinks I'm gonna kill him." He turned back and kept his smile, then moved the gun, shoving it into the suspect's crotch. "How about I blow your balls off?"
"What the hell do you want?"
"I want your clothes!" Danny hissed. "So where are they?"
"Clothes?" The confused man's eyes went from angry dark ones burning a hole in him to the annoyed ones of the other agent. "Hey, you can't hassle me, I got my rights."
Who are you?" Jack asked, his eyes caught something reflecting the sun. It was from a watch that the suspect wore. Not just any watch, one he recognized. "Are you carrying any identification?"
"I don't have to tell you anything!"
"How about you tell me where you got these clothes!" Taylor snarled, shoving the gun again. "Before I lose my patience."
"These are my clothes!" he protested.
"Really?" Jack leaned in, searching both pockets. Then he felt along the inside of the jacket's silk lining and frowned. He pulled out a wad of papers and saw the little color remaining in the suspects face quickly drain. He scanned the papers and handed them to Danny.
Dry cleaning bill, a golf score card and credit card receipt," Taylor held the papers close to the man's face. The beady eyes began to dart around and he was trembling. "So Martin Fitzgerald, just how long have you been a member of this Golf Club in Long Island, New York?"
The watch!" Jack ordered, snapping his fingers. Once the worn leather his his palm he examined it closer. He turned to the back and read the inscription. "Nice watch, where'd you get it?"
"It was a gift," Yankee lied, his lips twitching like a rat in the throes of death.
"I'll bet," Malone growled, "So who is John Thomas Martin?"
Danny's eyes narrowed and he wondered what Jack was up to. His own eyes flicked to the watch, which didn't look to be expensive. It was old, that much he could see and it had an insignia of sorts on the face. Martin. Martin. He thought back but couldn't remember what kind of watch his partner had been wearing.
"John... Thomas......" he murmured, beady eyes darting. "The guy from the Waltons?"
"That's Richard Thomas you dipshit," Malone snarled, grabbing the collar and pressing hard against his throat. With his free hand he held the watch up. "So how it is you're wearing his watch?"
"Oh, that... oh... hey, I forgot... it was a gift... yeah... from a friend ..."
"Oh , from the Long Island Golf Club, right?" Danny interjected, leaning in with such a look of hostility that the suspect began to twitch all over.
"You better quit fuckin' around and tell me who the hell you are!" Jack pressed and an answer came from the newspaper vendor nearby.
"His name's Yankee, don't know the rest."
"Is that right," Jack inquired, dispersing the name from his tongue as if it were a dead bug "'Yankee'?
"Yeah... Mark... Fleming... I uh... worked for the Yankees a few years ago..." He stuttered and saw the menacing eyes grow even darker.
"I... uh... found... this... it... yeah ... I uh..." "Listen you maggot-eatin' hairball!" Jack poked his index finger under the suspect's collarbone hard enough to make him flinch. "I don't have time to waste on your bullshit. The man who clothes you stole is a missing federal agent. Do you know what that means?"
"It means your day job will be chief cook and bottle washer at the house of many doors," Danny replied and found an evil grin. "Your night job will be suckin' dick or maybe gettin' a fist up that tight ass like a good little bitch, Comprende?"
Jack saw the facade cracking and moved in, "Of course first degree murder of a federal agent will probably get you the death penalty..."
"I didn't kill nobody, he was alive when I left him!" He realized his mistake and closed his eyes. "Fuck..."
"Plenty of time for that later when you and your nice orange jumpsuit get a room for the night," Danny sent back, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the bricks. "Now I'm gonna ask you again, fuckface, where did you get those clothes?"
"Alright, alright," he pleaded, "But I didn't kill him."
Yankee finished the last of the cheap whiskey and tossed the bottle away. He shivered in the cold, keeping close to the doorway. The coat he wore was nearly threadbare and didn't keep the wind out. At least the old sweatshirt kept his head covered. The snow was getting heavier and he'd have to head for cover soon. There was a crack house not too far away and he could crash there.
"Come on, Yankee, I'm cold, let's get moving."
"Yeah, okay," he answered of one the three men with him.
They were stupid to a fault, but loyal. They knew he was their bread and butter. He was the one who came up with schemes to get them money for food and booze. The crack house wasn't far and they were eager to get inside. At least the walls and roof would offer protection from the biting wind. Just as they approached the corner, a stranger staggered in front of them from the other side.
Yankee put his arms out on either side, halting his comrades. His weasel eyes lit up when he saw the leather jacket. It was expensive and that meant there might be money inside it. The young man didn't see him; he was not able to walk straight. He was either drunk or high by the slurring sounds he was making.
Martin saw blurry figures and didn't know who they were. But he needed help and he started to ask for assistance. His words sounded funny, garbled and mixed up. He couldn't seem to get them off his tongue. His head hurt so bad he couldn't think straight. A non-stop crushing pain in the back of his skull made him sick. Walking was difficult and getting harder. He was afraid he'd pass out in the storm and freeze to death.
"You need some help, buddy?" Yankee moved in, the other sharks circling in the bloody water. "Here, let me give you a hand."
Martin sighed hard, finally somebody would help him. He felt two pair of arms get him to his feet and he sagged against somebody. He felt movement and managed to get his eyes open. Then he noticed they were going down a dark alley. Something told him this wasn't the way to help. He started to struggle and was thrown face first into a brick wall. As he sagged to his knees, he fought back, hitting out at whatever was nearby. His fingers groped along the wall, but there was nothing to hold onto. A fist drove his face back and flipped him onto his back. Several kicks to his side and already injured back brought a red haze over him. His mouth gaped open and cried out in pain.
"Shut up or I'll finish you off!" Yankee threatened, holding a blade to the exposed throat. "You understand?"
He didn't wait for a reply; he rolled the semiconscious man over and took the jacket off. The pockets were empty and that made him angry. He delivered several kidney punches and relished the cries of pain they brought. A weak struggle ensued as the shoes were taken and the socks.
"I get first cut!" he warned the others, then flipped the body over. He grabbed the belt and a weak fist came up and clipped his jaw. "I warned you, pretty boy!" He got a good grip on the collar, pulled him up and punched his jaw. The blue eyes flittered shut and the body sagged.He took the watch first, then eyed the rest of the clothes.
Martin felt his belt removed and his zipper being pulled down. A warning light inside of him went off and he roused himself and tried to fight back. Rough hands hauled him to his feet; his legs were like rubber bands and wouldn't support him. His pants fell down and the biting night wind and wet snow assaulted him. Then a brutal set of fists hit him hard in the groin and he saw stars. The pain exploded into a brilliant set of colors. Somewhere far away, he felt his underwear removed and his shirt. He didn't feel the cold snow when his body hit the ground. He barely heard the sick laughter when strange hands groped at him. He flinched when a booted foot kicked him again and again. Then the brutality stopped and he curled up, returning to a fetal position that instinct brought on.
"Hey, don't we get nothing?"
"Next time," Yankee promised, dropping the filthy coat and peeling off the urine stained pants that stuck to him thanks to a bout with diarrhea. He threw the filthy, rags on the naked, shivering man and donned the new clothes. They skittered away without looking back.
After swallowing back the revulsion that the disturbed story brought, Jack glanced over at Danny who was strangely silent. That worried Jack more than the explosive temper he'd come to know. The haunted eyes were cold as hell, burning as if Lucifer himself were stoking the fire. But there was no mistaking the lethal tone in the quiet voice that emerged from Taylor's tense lips.
"You left him naked in an alley in the snow?"
"All I did was take his clothes, I needed them. It's not like he couldn't get some more. He had money, the threads were bucks, you know? I wouldn't have taken them but he had no money and I got pissed off. Plus he kept fighting back..."
"Then you strangled him," Jack tried and the other man shook his head.
"I didn't kill him, I never choked him, just a warning with the blade. Hey I left him my old clothes."
"Yeah," Jack scoffed, reading him his rights and turning him towards the street. "You're a real humanitarian. You're gonna show me where you assaulted him. And you better not fuck with me, 'Yankee'!" he warned.
"Hold it." Danny grabbed Jack's arm as he prepared to cuff the suspect. "Take that jacket off and don't piss me off!"
Jack watched as Danny took the jacket. He cuffed the guy and put him in the back of the car. As he shoved his head under the roof, he watched as Taylor reverently folded the jacket inside out to protect the leather and gently place it in the trunk. He didn't miss the pain radiating from Danny's eyes nor the slight tremble of the hand the paused to stroke the silk lining. He saw the Adam's apple bob painfully and turned away, giving the worried agent a moment to compose himself.
Try as he might, Danny couldn't get the image of Martin naked and lying in a heap in an alley being beaten by the animal in the car. Coupled with the encounters by Thomson and Petruzzo, it was clear that his missing partner experienced a living hell on Friday night. What could have possibly happened in the wee hours of the morning that was horrific enough to cause the frightened bearded stranger he'd encountered at the cafe to develop?
"Danny?"
He blinked and looked over the trunk at Jack, not missing the concern in his eyes. He nodded once, reluctantly took his hand from the silk lining and shut the trunk. He caught Jack's eye and nodded to his pocket.
"The watch," Danny guessed, his thoughts lingering on the name. "An uncle?"
"Grandfather," Jack corrected, handing the watch over. "He died when Martin was a kid. They were pretty tight. He was a Navy man, fought in World War II and Korea. Martin wore it the day I interviewed him, I noticed the insignia and asked about it."
"He told you all of that?" Danny felt a bit jealous and had no idea why that bothered him. He gingerly examined the old timepiece and noticed the small gold anchor on the top and the lettering USN. He flipped it over and read the back, his finger tracing the old script.
"We talked about it, I was interested in his background. I think he likes talking about the old man."
"Yeah..." Danny whispered, handing the watch back.
Taylor reluctantly took his hand from the silk lining and shut the trunk. He felt oddly distracted as if his body and mind were in two different places. He felt himself pulling away from the car and traveling through space to another place. A set of fevered blue eyes were beseeching in the dark. He shut his own eyes and saw the storm from his nightmares again, with the single hand disappearing beneath the waves. The undertow was strong and he felt himself drawn to it, unable to stop himself from the dangerous mission he knew was ahead.
It was dark, so dark that for a moment he thought he'd died. But the cold air and his chattering teeth proved to him that he was still living. Martin sat up and coughed so hard and long that he lost his breath. He collapsed back weakly, sucking huge gaps of air in through his mouth. His head was pounding and he ached all over. Fevered eyes roamed around and he had no idea where he was. Why was he so confused? He sat up and gingerly made his way to the window, peering into the night. Nothing looked familiar, not even the man in the glass peering back at him. This wasn't his home, was it? Did he belong here wearing filthy clothes and reeking to high heaven? Was this his life? He shut his eyes and tried hard to remember anything, but the only images that came back were ones of the men with badges.
Martin's growling belly reminded him that he needed to eat. His mouth was on fire as well. He was so hungry, he felt as if a monster was inside him gnawing its way out. He was shaking all over from the hunger and staggered down the alley. He paused long enough to go to the bathroom, washing his hands in the muddy, filthy snow. He eyed a pile of snow by his feet and scooped some up, shoving it in his burning mouth.
He wandered for some time, staggering badly and occasionally falling down. He rested for a moment then forced himself to move on. The injured man came across a pizza box that looked pretty clean and was on the top step on a shabby apartment house. He heard music inside and saw a low light upstairs. Cautiously, Martin crept up the four steps and took the box, moving as quickly as his weakened body would allow. He didn't stop until his air gave out and the wheezing turned into a messy coughing fit. Great wads of thick muck came out of his mouth. The very effort to expel it sent him to the ground. He sat there for sometime, unable to catch his breath. Then he pulled the lid up and smiled. Three pieces of cold pizza! It wasn't much and he ate them so fast he didn't think it even hit his stomach. He was still hungry. Ditching the box, he pulled his aching body up and moved on.
Martin saw a fire in the distance, under the overpass of the highway. He trudged over slowly, wary o f the large group of strange men surrounding the trash can. Flames leapt from it warming their bearded faces and grimy hands. Some had gloves, hats and even scarves. The fevered body shivered in the cold night air and moved closer, seeking warmth. Then the wind kicked up and the scent of hot meat or food hit him hard. His stomach growled loudly and he couldn't stop himself from moving towards it. A harsh set of voices halted him a few feet from the fire. He could see mugs with steam and what looked like small rolls. Something was speared to several sticks and cooking over a second trash can that had flames in it.
"What's ya lookin' at boy?"
Martin tried to focus on the voice closest to him, and saw a blurry face with a scruffy gray beard. He managed to point to the food and to his stomach. He held out his open palms, indicating that he was no threat to them, just hungry. He saw a few of them whispering and one laughed then approached him. Martin backed up a bit, the ugly man was large and heavyset and held a mean glint in this eyes. "Go on... you want soup or not?"
Soup.
His mouth watered and he took the mug, sipping it without thinking and burning his mouth. He spat out a mouthful and they laughed at him, calling him names. Martin huddled on a pile of debris, using the beat up metal mug to warm his hands. He felt their eyes on him and shivered uneasily. It was warm here, and the cover overhead from the highway held out the wet snow. Gingerly, he sipped the liquid and wrinkled his nose. It was awful but it was hot. Chunks of something he couldn't identify as vegetable or meat were floating in a broth of sorts. It wasn't much but he was grateful and when he finished it, he returned the mug. His bright eyes lingered on the rolls and some kind of meat being placed within them. His tongue shot out, slowly licking his lips.
"You still hungry boy?"
Martin nodded eagerly; he was starving, so much so he was shaking. For some reason, no matter what he ate seemed to never hit bottom. He watched the large man speaking to the others; they laughed and slapped his back. Then he turned to Martin and approached.
"I got just what you need over there, come on."
Martin shuffled behind the man, walking for quite awhile. Twice he eyed the fire cans that were now too far away to feel the heat. He turned back and saw the man lift a box and pull out a hamburger wrapped in paper. It was large and had cheese and tomatoes on it. He growling stomach caused the man to laugh. When he went to take it, the large man shook his head and held it away so he couldn't reach it. Frustrated and angry, Martin scowled, trying to jump to get the food. He went off balance and stumbled, falling into a small brick retaining wall. His upper body toppled over it, leaving his backside exposed. He felt the man's hand grab his ass and the large bod y press against him from behind. He tried to get up but a beefy hand pulled his head back, hot disgusting breath caressed his cheek and made him gag. The blubbery lips pressed into his ear and filled it with vile and disgusting images of what the price was for the food.
"You understand me, boy? If you want to eat, I get to fuck that sweet ass of yours first."
No
No
No
No
No
The word kept repeating in his head as the beast's hand snaked down inside the front of his pants. He struggled against the oppressive weight and got bitten on the exposed part of his shoulder for his efforts. The large man then slammed his fist into Martin's face. Martin felt himself on the verge of passing out. Somewhere between the stars beginning to dance in front of his eyes, the loose fitting sweatpants were yanked down. He was shoved with great force over the brick wall and the beefy hands spread his legs from behind.
A red light went off in his head and he sent his elbow hard back into the soft side of the man's belly. The action stopped him long to pull himself off Martin, who lifted his foot and brought it down hard on the man's instep and then turned, jamming his three middle fingers hard into the vulnerable spot of the predator's throat just above his collarbone. An odd gurgling sound accompanied the bear of a man as he fell, clutching his throat. Martin tugged his pants up and took gaping breaths loudly through his mouth. The revulsion of what nearly had been done to him spilled over. He leaned over and lost the soup he'd eaten. His anger at this monster went into overdrive. He spit the residue onto the brute's face and repeatedly kicked him in the balls and in the head.
Dizzy and sick, he grabbed the sandwich and paused long enough to lift the lid off the box. He saw a bag and grabbed it, shoving the sandwich inside. He staggered, stumbled and ran as best as he could into the darkness. He didn't stop until he came to an old abandoned car at the edge of a junkyard. He saw a small opening in the fence and went inside. The door opened without fault and he crept in the back. His heart was hammering so hard he felt his ribs would crack. He closed his eyes and tried to get the sick feeling of nearly being raped from his mind. Bitter bile rose up and he swallowed it then looked in the canvas bag.
He nearly wept in relief. There were cans of fruit, soup and several sandwiches. An orange, two candy bars and a bottle of iced tea. To Martin it was sweeter than Thanksgiving dinner. As hungry as he was, he had to be careful. He didn't know how hard it would be to get another meal. He ate the hamburger slowly, relishing every bite. The orange followed, giving him the liquid he yearned for and then half a candy bar as dessert. Tucking the back next to him, he sighed once and let his heavy eyes fall.
His sleep was not easy, the dreams returned and the stranger with the dark eyes and shadowed beard reappeared. He was angry, his dark eyes full of fire and he was screaming at him, calling him names. Martin thrashed in the backseat of the car, his fevered body emitting terrified moans that no one would hear. Finally it was silent; the moon peeked inside, casting the sweaty body in a near corpselike, grayish light.
"Spade."
"Hey, Sam."
"Jack!"
Jack wasn't sure who was more surprised, Sam or himself. He didn't really expect to find her working that late. He eyed his notebook again and wondered if he'd dialed right. He knew that Chris, like himself and other supervisors, often worked late. He was hoping to catch the blond MP squad leader and update him.
"I'm sorry, Sam, I guess I dialed wrong. I thought I called Chris."
"You did, I'm in his office."
"Really?"
"On business!" Sam huffed, rolling her dark eyes and snapping her fingers. Chris was getting them coffee and looked up from the other side of the glass. She mouthed Jack's name to him and he pointed to the conference phone on the long table a few feet away. Nodding, she turned back to the caller. "Jack? Chris wants me to transfer you to the speaker phone, okay?"
"Sure." A few seconds later the ringing stopped and a male voice called to him.
"Jack, you there?"
"Unfortunately. More importantly, what kind of late night business are you doing with my agent?"
"The undercover kind," Chris teased. "I hope she doesn't bruise easy, rug burns are a bitch."
"Shut up!" Sam chuckled, throwing a pencil at the grinning blond. "We're going over some evidence that turned up on the Waterman case.'
"Waterman?" Jack repeated, frowning. It took a few seconds than the picture of a sixty year old man appeared, "that businessman that disappeared sailing at the shore in August?"
"Yeah," Chris replied. "A couple stores uptown had hits on his credit card tonight. Sam pulled the jacket and asked me to look at it since Vivian had gone already. Anything new on Martin?"
"Well, we got another piece of the puzzle, but it's not pretty."
Jack tugged his tie off and threw it on the bottom of the bed. He was dead on his feet and had come back to the room to catch a few hours rest. He unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt and shifted the phone. He picked up the bottle of diet coke and took a liberal sip. He then spent a few moments updating them on the case. By the time Jack completed the sordid tale, both agents were silent. Chris knew Sam was upset before her arms went across her chest. She looked away, biting her bottom lip. He knew she was unable to get rid of the image of Martin being attacked and stripped bare then left lying like a beaten dog. He turned back to the speaker box, where Jack was updating them on the search that followed.
"So the alley didn't get you anything?"
"No, a trail of old vomit, but there's no proof it's his. Too many druggies, homeless any other assorted vermin use that place. But from my map, he's still going east. From that alley to the parking lot at the store where he ran into the guard is east. So if he continued that pattern, it took him into what Danny called the 'badlands'."
"How much worse could it have been than what he went through?" Sam found her voice. "The key to this is what happened to him after midnight. Somewhere between midnight Friday and dawn on Saturday, somebody tried to kill him. He's scared so bad he won't come to the police for help. For some reason, anyone with a badge frightens him."
"Jack, what do you make of this fear of badges that the witnesses keep repeating?" Boone asked.
"I'm not sure Chris, but I think it started on Thursday night."
"Thursday night?" Sam sat forward, tapping a pencil on the table. "What do you mean?"
"Chris and I were in his office, I left pretty late. I was leaving the parking garage when on the last curve, my headlights hit Martin. He was sitting on a concrete girder staring at his badge. He was looking at it as if it were foreign to him. He was in a lot of pain, not just physical."
"Physical?" Chris cut in, "You mean he was hurt? Had an accident?"
"Hurt, yes, accident, I don't think so. I talked to him, he was upset about Hilliard but something else was bothering him. Something happened between the time I left him and Danny in that conference room until I spotted him at midnight. He gripped my arm so hard when I helped him up it hurt me. He was clearly in pain; he almost passed out trying to open his car."
"Well what was his... uh... explanation, Jack? What did he say happened?" Sam quizzed, her brows drawn together in puzzlement.
"He didn't, he claimed he was tired. But I don't buy it. The next morning he was asking me why I hired him. Somebody got to him on Thursday night. Whatever happened, it rattled him good. It was still in his head when it got caved in on Friday."
"Plus all the shit that happened in the train station on Friday and the arguments with Danny," Chris relayed. "You think they're all connected?"
"I do," Jack answered, pausing to take a bite of the hamburger next to him. He chewed and swallowed, then took a swig of soda. "What I saw in his eyes and heard in his voice in that cold garage on Thursday night was doubt."
"Doubt? Martin?" Sam's voice went up a pitch. "That doesn't sound like him."
"No, it doesn't, Sam, and that worries me. I think whoever planted those seeds in his head did it on Thursday night," Jack noted.
"And they were ripe and ready when his head got caved in," Chris accounted. "Head injuries are rough, concussions are hell. You're confused, disoriented, you don't know up from down. It could just be that he's confusing whatever caused that doubt with the police or badges in general."
"I think that's exactly what happened. He's a mess and he's out there somewhere, hurt, sick and alone. The longer this goes on, the harder it's gonna be to find him."
"Garage?" Chris sat back, his slate eyes narrowing.
"What?" Sam asked, seeing the wheels turning.
"Hey, Jack, what if we go over the video from the garage on Thursday night? Security installed new cameras only a couple weeks ago."
"Yeah, yeah," Jack agreed, "Sam, I want you and Vivian on that first thing in the morning. Check all the tapes from say seven p.m. onward. Start with Level 1 that's where I found him."
"You know what you're saying, Jack?" Chris leaned over towards the speaker phone. "The only personnel who have access to the lot are feds like us."
"Come on, Chris, we both know it happens." Jack's voice was full of disgust. "It wouldn't be the first time some bad apples got out of line. And it's no secret there was a lot of resentment when I chose him. I got more than one angry email voicing their protests on hiring Victor's kid."
"Alright, Jack, we'll get on it first thing," Sam replied. "How's Danny?"
"He looks like a Goddamn ghoul. Circles under his eyes, he won't shave, he didn't even shower or eat today. This thing is eating him alive, he blames himself." He rubbed his weary eyes and thought on the shaken agent. "He's holding on by a thread and it's unraveling fast."
"He sounded awful," Sam recalled of the brief conversation she'd had with him. "I caught him on his cellphone earlier; he was in a cab headed for the dentist. I offered to drive him but he shut me out."
"He's troubled, really troubled," Jack agreed, eyeing his watch. "I hope he uses his head and gets a good night's sleep."
"Speaking of which, you sound like you need some sleep, Jack, we'll call tomorrow," Chris promised and pressed the button.
He got up and walked behind Sam, massaging her downcast shoulders. "Come on, Sam, let it out."
"It sucks, Chris. I hate it. That somebody would beat up Martin in our building? For what?
Because of his name? Who the hell would be that bold? Right in the parking garage?"
"Jack's right, Sunshine, it happens. And it happens because they know it won't get reported. What I can't figure out is what they could have said to make him doubt his abilities. That just doesn't fit somehow"
"Unless, we're missing something else..." Sam yawned, stood up and stretched. "I'm going home and going to bed." She saw a single sandy brow arch up and that wolfish, heartbreaking smile appear on his face. "Alone!"
"Let me check for blood?" He noted, tapping his 'broken' heart. "I'll call security and leave a message. You call Vivian before you head home, that way you can report right to Security in the morning."
"Alright." Sam gathered her notes and folders and headed for the door. His voice caused her to pause and turn.
"Hey," Chris called after her, waiting for the worried dark eyes to meet his. "Don't give up, Sam, he's alive. He's tougher than he looks and Jack's no fool. He went through a few dozen of those applicants before he picked Martin. He's a fighter, a survivor and they'll find him."
"A fighter," Sam repeated, shaking her head. "That doesn't stop a knife or a bullet, Chris... or pneumonia or the flu or that fever. He's running out of time..." She left and made her way back to their office. She stopped at her desk then went to Martin's. As she dialed Vivian, she picked up his coffee mug and ran her fingernail over the gold letters. Would he return to claim his place with their unit? Or were they already too late?
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