by Hank Edwards
"I'm going to check it out," Jake said, then pointed at Mark. "Stay here."
Mark looked at the blighted buildings all around them. "Sure. That sounds safe."
Jake said, "I'm just going to check around back. Sit here with the doors locked."
"Of course. It's not like I'm not surrounded by glass."
Jake got out of the car, and Mark opened his door as well.
"Hey, I thought you were going to stay put?" Jake said over the roof of the car.
"I can't reach my phone from the seat," Mark replied. "I need to get it, and then you can leave me here on my own."
Jake rounded the back of the car as Mark crouched down and felt under the seat. His fingers brushed the edge of his phone, and he stretched his arm a bit farther, finally grabbing hold of it.
"Hey! Stop!" Jake suddenly shouted.
Mark stood up and watched Jake duck through a space in the fence.
"What is it?" Mark called.
"Saw someone duck behind the building," Jake replied. "Stay there!"
Jake ran in a crouch across the parking lot, his gun out and held in both hands. He pressed himself against the front wall of the bar at the left corner, looked at Mark, then darted his head into the open to check the side. A moment later, he disappeared from sight around the corner.
Mark stood beside the car, the passenger door standing open and his phone in his hand. His stomach knotted up, and a clammy sweat beaded across his forehead. He let out a long breath and looked around. The tall, skinny woman wearing the shiny green track suit was walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, her gaze fixed on him. She didn't look angry, but she looked determined, and he didn't have the energy or patience for a confrontation at that time. All of his energy was needed to find and, hopefully, rescue Calvin.
"Fuck it," Mark muttered.
He locked and slammed the door, then sent Pearce a quick text.
With Jake at Shades, abandoned bar on Evergreen at Westman. Going inside.
He knew what response he would receive and also that he didn't want to alert anyone to his presence, so he shut his phone off and slid it in the back pocket of his jeans. Without allowing himself time to think and possibly reconsider his actions, Mark ducked through the fence and headed after Jake.
At the rear corner of the bar, he pulled the gun from his jacket pocket and stood with his back against the wall. A few deep breaths helped clear his head, but his heart was pounding. He flicked off the gun's safety, extended his arms and aimed the gun at chest height as he stepped around the corner to the back of the bar. A heavy plywood board covered the rear entrance, and it had been pried open just far enough for someone to slip inside.
Every instinct—every nerve in his body—screamed for him to turn around and run.
He swallowed past a dry lump of fear in his throat and whispered, "For Calvin," before walking quickly to the dark maw of the entrance and slipping inside.
35
Pearce sat in his car in the Bureau parking garage and stared at the concrete column in front of him. He'd needed some space away from the rest of the team to clear his head and try to get his thoughts in order. Every time he found a place on his own in the FBI offices, someone interrupted him or one of the victims' pictures caught his eye and launched his thinking in a completely different direction.
Jake had texted him awhile ago, and even called a couple of times, but Pearce had left each unanswered. He needed this distance, even from Mark, to work through everything that had gone on the last two days.
Calvin was missing.
Calvin and Erik were linked by the Community Center.
Erik was linked to the murders by the note in his hand, even though he didn't match the physical description of the other victims or Jeremy.
The notes were not clues but rather calls to Pearce to get him engaged in the case.
Kent Grady was not working with Robert Morgan, Pearce was almost 100 percent positive of this. Though he might be in trouble for helping his father's friend grow and distribute pot—not to mention have sex with him—the kid didn't qualify as a murder suspect.
Pearce was still suspicious of Jake, however. Izzie had found a possible link between Jake and Morgan, and thin as it might be, Pearce had to seriously consider it.
That brought him back to the picture that had been sent to Mark of Calvin tied up and gagged. The team was still working on sifting through the minute details in the background of the photo, but Pearce could not get Calvin's terrified expression out of his mind.
He needed to get Calvin back alive. Not just for Calvin, nor for Mark, but for himself. This entire game was being played for his benefit, and it all led back to Morgan and their time together so many years ago.
Pearce closed his eyes and thought back to the weeks he'd spent with Morgan, hoping something in their twisted past would provide a clue to the horrific present.
They'd met in a Firearms class, and Pearce had felt an instant attraction. Morgan had caught him staring and looked right back with a knowing, self-assured smirk. His gaze seemed to have captured Pearce and wouldn't let him go. Up to that moment, Pearce had never felt such a powerful and instant attraction.
Morgan had struck up a conversation, and from there, they'd taken to studying together, then meeting for coffee or lunch. One day, Pearce had returned from class to find Morgan waiting for him outside his dorm room. He had appeared distracted and a bit nervous. Pearce thought perhaps he'd received a low test score, but once they'd stepped inside and closed the door, Morgan had pulled Pearce close and, without a word, kissed him. It had been a long, intense kiss, and it had quickly transitioned to a sweat-drenched fuck session that had left Pearce's ass sore but satisfied for two days.
From then on, they'd spent nearly every minute together. Morgan was a commanding lover and liked to push the boundaries between pleasure and pain. Pearce had been with men before but never for longer than a week. And he'd never allowed a man to control and command him like he did with Morgan.
And then it had all turned bad. Morgan had started making more demands of Pearce's time, following him, belittling him in front of others, and humiliating him during sex. The abuse chipped away at Pearce's confidence and self-esteem, and he retreated from interactions with anyone but Morgan. When the mental abuse moved into physical, Pearce knew he had to end things. It was the most difficult thing he'd ever done, and it wrecked him for a long time.
Now Morgan was extracting his revenge and wringing pain out of Pearce by hurting others, saving him for last.
His phone buzzed once on the seat beside him, the signal he'd received a text message. The sound startled him out of his memories, and he blew out a heavy breath, then glanced down at the phone. He expected to see Jake's name and was surprised instead to see it was from Mark. Pearce ran his hands over his face, yawned loudly, then picked up his phone.
Adrenaline exploded within him as he read Mark's text.
With Jake at Shades, abandoned bar on Evergreen at Westman. Going inside.
Mark was with Jake? What the fuck was he thinking? And how had that even happened? And where was this place he mentioned?
Pearce immediately tried to call Mark back, but it went right to voice mail.
"Fuck!" Pearce shouted, and disconnected the call without leaving a message.
He spent a few minutes struggling to find the location of Shades nightclub on his phone's browser, swearing often and trying to get his hand to stop shaking long enough to type the right words. Nothing came up, and he swore some more, then read Mark's text again. This time he searched on the streets Mark listed and got a blue location tag. He dropped the phone in a cupholder and pulled out of the parking space.
Traffic had picked up, and he looked at the clock in the car, surprised to find it was almost four forty-five in the afternoon. The dim light of the overcast day was fading quickly, and it would soon be nighttime. Where had the day gone? Pearce felt like he'd been running on a fucking hamster wheel
all day, expending so much energy and getting absolutely nowhere.
The calm, computerized voice of the GPS directed him along streets to a highway jammed with cars. He swore and slapped the steering wheel as he merged and impatiently changed lanes, waving an apology at the angry horns he left in his wake. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his heart beat hard. What the fuck was Mark thinking? He knew the suspicions Pearce had about Jake. And how in the fuck had they ended up going to this place together? And why hadn't Jake let Pearce know?
His last thought triggered the realization that he himself had not let anyone know where he was headed when he'd retreated to his car. And he'd not called for backup. Fuck it, there wasn't any time now, and he needed his phone free for the directions. If he looked away to fumble with it, he'd rear-end somebody for sure, and he couldn't afford to lose that much time.
A long line of brake lights burned before him as the minutes ticked past. His jaw ached from the pressure of his clenching. This all felt so similar to the panic and inadequacy he'd experienced on Barbados as he'd searched for Mark, it was like he'd stepped back in time. He refused to consider he might be too late this time to keep Mark from being hurt. It wasn't going to happen, not again. They'd both come away from Barbados with a lot of emotional baggage, Mark especially, and a cold, helpless fury flared within him. Mark had made too much progress to be put through this all again.
"Fuck this," Pearce said with a growl.
He flicked on his signal and made his way slowly across lanes to an exit ramp. The GPS instructed him to get back on the highway, but he stayed on the service drive and soon it stated, "Recalculating," twice before giving him new directions.
It took twenty minutes for him to reach the intersection using the surface streets. Jake's car sat at the curb in front of an abandoned bar set far back from the road and surrounded by chain-link fencing. Pearce pulled up behind the car, grabbed his phone to end the GPS, and called Bata.
"Agent Pearce?" Bata answered.
"I'm at a location investigating a lead," Pearce said. "Agent Perrin is inside along with Mark."
"Mark?" Bata sounded alarmed. "Why?"
"That will be just one of the questions I ask when I see them both," Pearce replied. "I'll send you the address from my GPS."
"Do you see Agent Perrin's vehicle?" Bata asked.
"I parked behind it."
"Wait for backup," Bata said.
"Sir, I know this will get me into trouble, but Mark's inside. I can't just sit out here."
"Agent Pearce, this is a direct order."
"I understand that, sir. But I can't wait. Send whoever you can right now, I'm going inside."
"Agent Pearce—"
He disconnected the call and sent the street names to Bata's phone. He got out and checked the doors of Jake's bureau car, finding them both locked. Cupping his hands around his face, he peered inside the car but noticed nothing unusual.
"They went inside."
He whirled, hand dropping to the gun in his hip holster. A tall, thin African-American woman with short gray hair stood a few feet away. She wore a shiny green track suit that looked like it needed a good washing. Her eyes widened as she looked at his expression and the gun visible beneath his untucked shirt.
"You cops?" she asked.
"FBI," Pearce replied. "How long ago did they go inside?"
"Half hour," the woman replied. "Little less maybe."
"Have you heard anything?"
"Don't hear nothing from that place anymore, since all the gays left it be and then the gangs was busted up," she said. "Just see people come and go sometimes."
"People?" Pearce pulled his gun and headed for the fence, pausing to look back at her. "Men?"
"Yup. White men."
"Late at night?" Pearce asked.
"Mostly." She lifted her chin toward the building. "You going inside too?"
"I am."
"I'll wait out here for you."
Pearce couldn't help grinning. "Sounds like a good plan."
He ducked through the fence and ran in a crouch across the weed-covered and litter-strewn parking lot. At the corner of the building, he paused with his back pressed against the cinderblock as he looked toward the street. The woman in the green track suit had been joined by a man wearing a heavy parka and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. Both of them stared back at him.
Putting the two observers out of his mind, Pearce checked around the corner, found it clear, and made his way toward the rear of the building. There he found a heavy plywood board pulled aside far enough for someone to slip through a back entrance.
His heart pounded, and all the spit evaporated from his mouth as he slid into the cold, dark interior of the bar.
36
The dim late afternoon light only allowed Mark to see a few feet beyond the doorway. He was in a narrow hallway, and he paused with his back against the wall to allow his eyes to adjust. His muscles were taut and his breathing rapid and shallow. If he wasn't careful, he would hyperventilate. He leaned against the wall a few moments longer before forcing his feet to move. There wasn't time to coddle himself; he needed to find Calvin. And Jake, no matter whose side he was on.
Now that his eyes had adjusted, Mark could see better, but he wished he had a flashlight as he made his way up the long hallway. He tried to remember the layout of the bar, but all that came to mind was a big, square room with the bar at the far end and a small dance floor in the corner. He passed the two bathrooms, gagging at the rank smell that floated out into the hallway even though both doors were closed. Once past the bathrooms, Mark stopped again and took a few deep breaths in an effort to slow his racing heart. He shook out each hand and flexed the fingers. He was close to the end of the hallway now, and he had to be ready. Once he stepped out of the hall and into the main bar, he would be fully exposed.
With his back against the wall, Mark sidled closer to the corner. He held the gun in both hands with the barrel pointed at the ceiling. A brief hesitation allowed him to summon up the last of his courage. Moving slowly, he eased his head around the corner just far enough to see the room beyond.
A battery-powered lantern sat on the bar, strong enough to throw a wide apron of white light out into the room. Just a few yards in front of the bar Mark saw Calvin. He sat in one of those cheap, uncomfortable chairs they had always complained about, his arms behind him and each ankle bound to a chair leg. His head was down, chin on his chest, and for a moment, a cold certainty went through Mark that he was too late and Calvin was dead. But then Calvin shifted position a bit in the chair, and Mark felt a surge of hope.
But where was Jake? And, better question, where was Robert Morgan?
Mark looked back the way he'd come. The hallway was empty, the gap in the plywood a line of dull gray light in the darkness. He turned back and ran his gaze all around the bar but saw no one else. Could Jake have left? But why would Jake have brought him here only to leave again? It was some kind of trap. Mark knew that much, yet he had no choice but to spring it.
He needed to step out of the hallway and cross the bar to Calvin, but his feet wouldn't move. A sudden wave of terror swamped him, stopping his breath. He pulled back into the hallway and slid down the wall until he sat on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest. Sweat coated his body, and every muscle trembled. His lungs felt restricted and unable to draw enough air. It was a panic attack, and even as he cursed himself for the timing, he knew he had to work his way through it. This situation was different than Barbados. Here in Detroit, he was in charge. He had a weapon and a good portion of the power. He'd let Pearce know his location, and he had faith that Pearce would be along in a short amount of time. He was not going to be kidnapped and drugged and sold into sex slavery. He was going to make his way to Calvin, free him, and get them both out of this horrible place. Jake would have to be dealt with later.
You're safe, you're well, and they cannot harm you.
Well, maybe he should change that mantra to, You're
alive, you're armed, and they're not expecting you.
Deep breaths helped still his trembling muscles and loosen the iron bands around his chest. His breathing slowed and quieted, allowing him to listen for any sounds from the rest of the bar. Nothing moved—no mouse or rats scurrying, no coo of roosting pigeons, no cough from someone in hiding—and Mark slowly, quietly pushed himself up the wall to a standing position.
This was not Barbados. This was Detroit. He was here to save Calvin. To do that, he needed to move.
Without giving himself time to think twice about what he was doing, Mark ducked down and stepped out from around the corner. He hurried across the room in a crouch, moving in front of the bar and staying low beneath the top of it. The gun was heavy and slick in his sweaty grip.
He reached the end of the bar and stopped. Dropping to a crouch, he turned and pressed his back against the lower portion of the bar, facing the heavily shadowed open area. A dozen or more chairs lay toppled over just beyond the reach of the lantern's light, and off in the far corner, tiny bar tables were piled haphazardly atop each other.
Calvin sat tied and gagged in the chair a dozen feet away. Mark watched his chest rise and fall, noticing Calvin's deep, slow breathing and easing his own to match. The focus helped him generate a sense of calm. He passed the gun from hand to hand so he could wipe the greasy sweat off his palms on his jeans. His blood pounded in his ears, and he worried it would prevent him from hearing anyone sneaking up on them.
More deep breaths gave him the courage to cross the remaining space and kneel behind Calvin. He resisted waking him up and instead checked his bindings, dismayed to find his wrists and ankles had been secured with plastic ties. How was he going to free him without a knife or wire cutters? Perhaps there was a bottle or glass behind the bar he could break and use to saw through the ties.
Mark shifted to Calvin's side once again, his back to the shadowed and open space while he faced the bar and the door that led to the tiny kitchen and office. He gave Calvin a few gentle shakes and smiled when his eyes fluttered open, then widened in surprise.
