L.A. Heat

by P. A. Brown

  He was down for two days with that. Then, two days later, Daniel was on his way back to that place he hung out at and he vanished. Trevor was so upset over that, I think he half blamed himself.”

  David and Martinez traded glances. This was not looking good.

  “Do you know where your nephew is right now, Mrs. Anstrom?”

  “Why yes,” she said. “He’s in New York. He told me he had a job lined up there. He lost his job here, you know. Somebody he knew in New York thought he might have something for him. So he flew out on Tuesday.”

  “New York,” David said woodenly.

  “He’ll be gone at least another week, then if he gets the job, he may have to move out there for a while at least. Is something wrong, officer?”

  “No ma’am,” Martinez said. “Do you have a number where your nephew can be reached?”

  “Of course.” Edith Anstrom leafed through some papers and stacked magazines neatly on a pristine antique end table, until she came up with her address book. Then she read off a New York exchange and a number.

  David wrote it down. “We’d like to thank you for your time, Mrs. Anstrom.”

  Even before he reached the door David had his cell out and was dialing the number. It rang several times and he was about to hang up when a sleepy voice mumbled something unintelligible into the phone.

  “Trevor Watson?”

  The voice mumbled something else that might have been a question, or it might have been a curse.

  “Is this Trevor Watson I’m speaking to?”

  “Who wants to know?” The voice still sounded blurry from sleep, but David was beginning to get a horrible feeling about this whole thing.

  “It’s Los Angeles calling. Is this Watson?”

  “Didn’t know a city could make a phone call. Who is this, really?”

  “It’s the LAPD I’m calling from your aunt’s house. Is this Trevor Watson?”

  “You’re at Aunt Edith’s place?” The voice sounded more alert now. And getting pissed. “What are you doing there?”

  “Trying to find you. One more time, sir,” David said. “Are you Trevor Watson?”

  “Yeah, I’m Trevor. So what’s the big deal? Why are you looking for me?”

  Sunday, 10:15 pm, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains Chris woke once to find himself on the floor of a vehicle bouncing and jolting down what could only be unpaved road. Which meant they were outside the city. His cheek was pressing into a rough mat, the stench of hot oil, gas and human sweat filled his nostrils.

  He could hear the clatter and crunch of dirt and gravel on the undercarriage. How much time had passed? Chris groggily tried to roll over, but his movements were slow and uncoordinated. Barely conscious, he tried to brace himself against the vehicle’s wall.

  They hit a muffler-eating bump and Chris’s head slammed back into the steel wall, ending all thought of sitting up. He passed out again.

  Sunday, 11:20 pm, Margate Street, North Hollywood, Los Angeles David hung up on the irate Trevor. Trevor’s voice wasn’t the same as the voice on the phone whose owner had said that Chris belonged to him.

  David stared helplessly at Martinez.

  “We’ve been chasing the wrong guy.” He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I want to make a couple of phone calls. Why don’t you start with the airlines, see if you can nail down when Watson really took his New York flight.”

  Martinez immediately pulled out his phone and started dialing. David took advantage of his inattention to slip back to his car. He quickly dialed Chris’s cell. Chris would be happy to know that it looked like his friend was no longer implicated in any of this.

  Besides, David wanted to hear his lover’s voice again.

  “Uh, h-hello?” The tentative, soft female voice was definitely not Chris.

  David took a shallow breath and let it out. “Who is this?”

  “Ah, Loretta. Who’s this?”

  “Where’s Chris?”

  “You mean the guy who left this thing behind? He’s gone. Some buddy of his helped him out a couple of hours ago. I didn’t even notice this was here until it started ringing.

  Who are you?”

  A cold, gut-wrenching weight settled into David’s stomach. He almost dropped the phone, then grabbed it and managed to say,

  “Where are you?”

  “The Encounter. It’s a bar at the airport—”

  “I know what it is. This is Detective David Eric Laine, LAPD.” David’s mind raced.

  God, no, it couldn’t be. Don’t let it be. Not Chris. No. “Where was the guy with the phone sitting? The bar? A table?”

  “A table—”

  “I need you to stay at that table until we get there. Don’t let anyone near it. Can you do that for me, Loretta?”

  “Who are you again?”

  David told her.

  “Yeah, sure, I guess...”

  David bolted across the lawn to where Martinez was trying to browbeat someone on the other end of the phone into giving him information. David grabbed his arm.

  Martinez jerked away, his eyes narrowing when he saw David’s face.

  “He’s got Chris.”

  They leaped into their cars and took off with a spray of gravel. The siren screaming, they raced south to the Hollywood Freeway, then followed I-405 south at breakneck speed.

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  CHAPTER 24

  Sunday, 11:25 pm, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains CHRIS WOKE AGAIN. He was no longer moving and he felt plush carpet under his bare knees. He was kneeling, his arms held behind his back. Something dug into his throat. He opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was.

  At some point Tom had tied him with a single piece of strong, thin rope. It held his hands together behind his back and passed around his neck. Any movement on his part only served to tighten the bindings, choking him. His shoulders burned with an icy fire that spread slowly down his upper torso.

  He was naked.

  He tried to look around. He was in a large finished basement. Dark wood paneling lined the walls. He could just make out the thick, carved leg of what looked like a pool table out of the corner of his eye. High above his head was the black rectangle of a window. It was still night. How much time had passed?

  Diffuse golden light filled the otherwise shadowed room.

  An Italian side-table held a Tiffany lamp that wasn’t turned on and a webcam with its unblinking red eye trained on him. Then he saw what lay beside the web cam and fear pulsed through him.

  It was a long, wicked-looking blade.

  He licked his lips. His tongue felt dry and his lips stung. He swayed dizzily, trying hard not to move, knowing that any movement would only start him choking again. The muscles of his legs vibrated dully and cramps built up in his feet and calves.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and before he could think he reacted.

  He jerked around, but his arms weren’t there to balance him. He slammed sideways into the floor, tasting blood and carpet fiber as his mouth scraped the rug.

  Two perfectly creased pant legs appeared in his field of vision. Rough hands grabbed the rope that held his wrists bound and hauled him upright. His shoulders felt as though they were being wrenched from their sockets. He couldn’t help it, he screamed.

  Tom’s face was inches from his and Chris could see the dark desire dancing in the cold depths of his glacier blue eyes. Through the fog of pain Chris struggled to bite his tongue. Pain only excited this guy. Screaming roused no sympathy in him, only a gleeful need to cause more. Chris glared at him through tear-filled eyes.

  “Hey, Bellamere.” Chris saw the blade in Tom’s hand and his terror returned. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

  Chris spat out a bright red globule of blood and tried to still the erratic beating of his heart. His mouth tasted of copper. “Can’t say I have.”

  “Cool little bitch, aren’t you?” Tom lifted Chris’s chin. “You really think you’ll stay cool once I s
tart? Don’t you think the others tried to show me how butch they were, too?”

  Chris was forced to pull his arms up to avoid choking. He grimaced and tried to squirm away.

  Tom laid the narrow blade alongside Chris’s face.

  “If I cut you up and let you go, do you really think that pig would look at you twice afterward? Really, I thought you had better taste.” The blade burned a solitary path down Chris’s right cheek. Hot blood welled out. “Fucking a pig. When you could have had anyone.”

  The knife traced a second path beside the first down his cheek. “So pretty. But it’s all so shallow. There’s nothing underneath. Just blood. Blood and pain. That’s all any of you are good for.”

  Tom grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. With his finger, he traced a bloody path through the free-flowing blood on Chris’s face and smeared it over Chris’s lips, jerking his head toward the camera. “Add a touch of color. Smile, Chris. Smile for David.”

  The pain was assaultive, overwhelming his senses and drowning out everything else.

  Chris ground his teeth to keep from crying out, but even so a soft whimper emerged.

  “You killed them all, didn’t you?”

  Tom smiled. He circled Chris, who had to twist his head around to follow him. Tom hovered behind him, and Chris tensed, half expecting to feel the sting of the knife again.

  Not knowing where or when the cut would come was worse than the actual physical violence.

  “Why?” Chris whispered.

  Tom touched him again and Chris jumped, belatedly realizing it was just a finger. He cursed himself for giving Tom the reaction he wanted. But then, if he didn’t maybe Tom would just go ahead and use the knife until Chris showed his fear. Chris was under no illusions that he could hold out for long. If Tom wanted him to scream, he’d scream. The knowledge was demoralizing.

  Tom laughed softly. His hand touched him again, gliding over Chris’s shrinking skin.

  “Very dumb. Pretty, but dumb.” He ruffled Chris’s hair. “I guess dumb blonds come in both flavors.” He grabbed hair and tilted Chris’s head back. “I killed them because they fucked you. They had no right to do that. You belong to me.”

  Chris’s terrified mind grabbed a memory. “But who was Daniel Anstrom? I never even met anyone by that name.”

  “Hey, everybody can screw up. I meant to get that asshole uncle of his.”

  “Trevor?”

  “Guess your friend got luckier than you did, eh?”

  Chris’s bound hands were slick with sweat and blood. He could feel the rope’s knot when he twisted his fingers around. When Tom moved around in front of him again he jiggled his fingers against it, testing the bindings. Something moved under his fingers.

  Could he keep Tom distracted while he tried to wriggle free?

  “Coward,” he said. “Does your uncle know what a piece of shit you are? Do you think he would have bought you that job if he knew?”

  Tom slid the flat of the knife alongside Chris’s jaw, forcing his head up.

  “My uncle doesn’t care what I am, as long as I’m not a pansy.” He suddenly looked quizzical. “Are you trying to make me mad? Now why would you do that? To make me slip up? I won’t, you know. Failure isn’t part of my plans for you. That’s another thing my uncle could never abide. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does.”

  “You fucked up big time with Des. He got away from you. I saw him just yesterday and he’s getting better every day. Soon he’ll be able to tell the police everything they need to know about you. He’ll tell your uncle, too.” Chris didn’t know if any of that was true. Even when Des did wake up, with his head injuries as serious as they were, what were the odds he would remember anything?

  “Perhaps,” Tom said softly, but Chris saw the rage flare in his blue eyes. “But it won’t be soon enough to save you.”

  “You can’t even admit you fucked up, can you? Useless queer faggot—”

  Tom backhanded him. Chris never saw it coming and couldn’t have braced for it anyway. He sprawled backwards, managing to roll sideways to take the worst of the damage on his side when he slammed into the floor. His arms jerked up and Chris was sure he had dislocated his shoulders. His scream was cut off as the rope around his throat tightened, his arms pinned beneath him. Gagging and coughing, he managed to roll onto his side and relieved some of the pressure on his neck. At least he could breathe again.

  With his hands pressed into the carpeted floor he gained some leverage. Frantically he worked his nearly paralyzed fingers over the knot. Was it getting looser? Yes, it was. But not enough.

  He needed more time.

  Tom stood less than a foot away. Under the neatly pressed pants Chris was all too aware of Tom’s erection. How long before he was raped?

  He thought of David then, and how, despite his size, he was a gentle, considerate lover. Even at the height of passion, pain was anathema to David. Chris should have seen what was there all the time. The love David offered him, even when he was telling him it wouldn’t work. So obvious now.

  Chris squeezed his eyes shut at the tears. He had never told David he loved him.

  Never hinted that he even cared. Now he might never have the chance. Instead, the last thing David would see was a video image of his body being brutalized.

  Tom nudged him with the toe of his dress shoe. Abruptly he grabbed Chris’s left arm under the armpit and hauled him back to his knees. Chris ground his teeth to stop from crying out at the new wave of pain.

  He spit out blood mixed with thick globs of saliva. His throat was raw and swollen; he could barely swallow. More blood came up. Tom shoved him back onto his knees.

  This time he caressed Chris’s bare chest with the blade.

  The knife blade turned in and circled his right nipple, drawing a line of fire across his pecs. Chris swallowed past the ground glass in his throat and groaned.

  “Is that the best you can do? The camera is waiting.” Tom leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with feral delight. “David is waiting. He’ll be watching so avidly. Agonizing over every little scratch. Every little bloody stroke.”

  He grazed Chris with the knife again. More blood flowed down his straining chest muscles. With his free hand Tom slid the zipper of his dress pants open; Chris closed his eyes.

  “I used to tell them that if they were really good I’d let them go.”

  Tom giggled, an obscenely incongruous sound. “Stupid faggots always believed me.

  Come on now, open up, Chrissy. Eat me.”

  The knife slid across his throat. He did as he was ordered.

  “Your boyfriend Bobby was especially slow-witted. He actually told me we could sell the video, make money. Stupid faggot.”

  Chris gagged. Tears mingled with his blood as he struggled to keep his balance and not choke. Behind his back the bonds loosened, slipped away from his bloody wrists. One hand came free.

  “Bite me and I’ll cut you twenty ways from Sunday. Your faggot boyfriend will need dental records to ID you.”

  He knew he’d only get one shot at this. If he screwed up he was dead.

  Chris whimpered, knowing the sound would excite Tom even more. The knife blade slipped away from his neck, Tom’s hands moved toward the top of Chris’s head, urging him on, burying himself deep in Chris’s throat.

  “Oh, yeah, cocksucker—”

  Chris reared back. At the same time he swung his freed hand up to smash his fist into Tom’s balls, hard enough to hear the solid thunk of soft flesh giving way under the hard bones of his hand. The impetus of the blow sent him rolling backwards.

  Tom screamed and fell. Chris continued the roll, frantically scrambling with numb fingers at the remains of the bindings. The tension in his throat slackened for a second, then the other arm swung loose.

  His muscles were so weak that both arms flopped around as though they were attached to lifeless rag dolls. When the feeling started coming back it was even worse.

  Pain flared along overstimulated n
erve endings. He hunched forward on the carpet, burning his knees on the stiff fiber as he dragged himself further away from where Tom still lay writhing on the floor, clutching himself.

  Chris looked for the knife but didn’t see it anywhere. He spat out the foul taste of Tom and stumbled to his feet. The bloody rope pooled at his feet. The muscles in his legs quivered and threatened to dump him back on the ground. He grabbed the pool table, leaning over it. Heavy green felt grazed his bare skin. He left a trail of gore along the clean surface.

  On the wall hung a rack of pool cues. He shambled toward it, pins and needles now playing along the nerves of his feet. His muscles twitched, cramps stabbed. He locked his arms on the pool table and forced his legs straight. Pain flared anew.

  He managed to pull a wooden cue out of the rack. It took both hands to hold it steady.

  He looked back. Tom struggled to his feet, one hand still cupping his bruised cock and balls. On his face a look of pure murder. In his hand the knife. Chris backed away from the wavering blade.

  “You’ll pay for that, faggot,” Tom whispered.

  “Not this time,” Chris said.

  He swung the pool cue and Tom skipped away. Chris hated the weakness that made chasing the other man foolhardy. But if he couldn’t fight he could run. He snatched up the Tiffany lamp and stabbed at Tom with the cue again, keeping him at bay.

  He raised the lamp and flung it at Tom as hard as he could, and followed it with the web cam. Tom ducked both. Chris spun around and ran, plunging headlong up the stairs into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

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  CHAPTER 25

  Sunday, 11:55 pm, Sepulveda Boulevard, Los Angeles DAVID GRIPPED THE steering wheel tightly enough to leave marks. His foot pressed down like a bar of lead, urging the already straining vehicle to move faster. The bubble light he had attached to the car’s dash shot beams of red light down the windshield and car hood. The siren wailed its warning to traffic ahead of him in his unmarked and Martinez, behind him in the Crown Victoria.

  “Airport security’s been alerted,” Martinez said over the two-way. “A couple of shops have been dispatched, too. They ought to be rolling in about now.”