Dark Mysteries

by Jessica Gadziala

  She made a promise to herself that if or when she got out, she would go back. She would run those streets one last time. But not because she needed to. Not because it was her only way to ensure her survival. Just because. Because it was something that helped her through the cold, helped her forget the stabbing in her feet, helped her block out the chattering of her teeth.

  She ran those streets for hours, watching ice cubes sink into the puddle, watching the water rise up toward her ankles. Time was a strange foreign concept with her overhead fluorescent light. The lack of windows. There were no clocks anywhere.

  So she started to count the seconds.

  One. Two. Three.

  Three-thousand six-hundred.

  Three-thousand six-hundred was an hour.

  She got there four times before she felt her eyes getting heavy. Sleep meant she would lose track of minutes, of hours. But she needed the escape. She needed the strength. At least she would still have a roundabout idea of how much of her life was wasting away.

  The door opening woke her up. She sucked in a deep breath, blinking the stubborn sleep out of her eyes and trying to ignore the screaming in her shoulder blades from her unconscious weight pulling against her shackles.

  Nick walked in, red boots splashing, a cup of coffee in his hand. "Oh," he said, managing to look almost sheepish. "I hope you didn't want any," he said, gesturing with his cup.

  She would gnaw off her own leg to get that kind of warmth. But she clenched her jaw, trying to stop the chattering and shook her head. "I hate coffee," she said, the words full of deeper meaning: I hate coffee because of you. I hate coffee because we used to share that. I hate coffee. But not nearly as much as I hate you.

  "Oh, right," Nick said, nodding, unphased. "It's all about the tea now. When you're finally done down here, I'll make sure Bobby pick some up for you."

  So he planned to let her out? One day. One day when she seemed repentant, when she begged for mercy., when she told him she loved him again, that she was wrong for leaving, that she missed him. Then he would bring her back into his life. She would be an ornamental accessory, a body to slam into at night, a face to accept his fist as fitting and deserved punishment.

  She wanted to think she was strong enough to withstand anything. That there was no chance of her breaking. But she knew better. She knew that, given the right kind of persuasion, you would make someone do just about anything. Turn on their families. Throw their lives away.

  There was a chance that she could end up in that life again. She could be a seat filler at events. She would once again become a timid, submissive facsimile of her former self.

  Nothing but a glorified punching bag.

  But she would be fed. And kept warm.

  It could happen. It could happen a lot easier than she would have liked to imagine before. She always thought she could take it: grit her teeth, try to slip away, live, recover, then go through the process again. Until one day he finally went too far and pushed her into a coma. Or killed her.

  But the way out would be easier. Unpleasant in its own way. But easier.

  "Did you know, El, that there are five kinds of pain used as punishment?" he paused. Torture. He meant torture. "There is blunt, sharp, loud, hot, and cold. Yesterday, we obviously tried cold. How did that go for you?"

  "Like a vacation in the alps," Ellie said, her voice weaker than she would like. She was so tired and hungry. The last thing she had eaten was that power bar back at that hotel. That had felt like forever ago. Weeks. Months. But it was probably a day. Maybe a little more.

  Nick gave her a tight-lipped smile. "It would go to follow that we would continue today with heat, but I am going to save that for another few days." When she was already good and dehydrated. So she could sweat into misery. Or maybe he was going to burn her. A part of her thought she might prefer burns to inescapable heat. "I think we should get the most unpleasant out of the way now. What do you say? Sharp?" he reached into his pocket, grabbing a knife and flicking it open. He stood there a moment, admiring the blade, testing the sharpness with his fingertip.

  Ellie tensed. Sharp could be tolerated. Sharp could be quick and shallow. She didn't think he had any intentions of actually stabbing her. His fun would be over with too quickly then.

  He paused, moving to put his coffee cup down by the door. "I really like your skin, Eleanor. It's so pale and soft looking. I'd really hate to mark you up all over. So why don't we agree to choose somewhere that no one will ever really see?" he asked, walking closer. He reached out, grabbing her leg and pulling it outward, running the dull edge of the knife along the sole of her foot.

  So, it was the feet.

  Ellie turned her head away, leaning heavily on her restraints, trying to focus on that pain. The body could only focus on so much pain at once. Whichever one hurt most, she'd be feeling. And she much rather feel pain she inflicted herself.

  She felt him grab her toes, flexing her foot out.

  She bit into her lip to keep her mouth shut, closed her eyes, and thought of Xander.

  She thought about his dark eyes. She thought of his lips that always seemed to quirk up at strange times, finding humor in unusual topics. She thought of is arms and how safe she felt encircled in them.

  The blade made the first cut into her skin, sharp, a twinge that made her leg jerk, then a burning as the blood started to drip out.

  Xander and his soft hair.

  Another cut.

  Xander and his silly, cocky swagger.

  Another cut. Deeper.

  She pressed harder down on her wrists.

  Xander and his scars. Scars that he wasn't ashamed of. Scars that he wore like a badge of honor.

  Another cut. Another direction.

  Xander and his toe-tingling kiss.

  Nick pulled up her other foot.

  Xander inside her. Xander on top of her. Xander beneath her.

  Nick was frustrated. He was cursing and dragging the blade deeper.

  She wasn't going to cry. She let all her weight fall onto one wrist, feeling her shoulder object painfully.

  Xander. Xander. Xander. Xander. Xander. Xander

  And then it was over. Nick slammed the door shut in his frustration and she shifted her weight more comfortably, turning her head and lifting up her feet to inspect. She survived. She got through sharp. Sharp was the worst.

  She sunk her feet into the water, swishing around, cleaning out the cuts. The pool around her feet streaked with red and she kicked until she stopped bleeding, stepping up onto her tiptoes and counting.

  Two-thousand three-hundred fifty three.

  Two-thousand three-hundred fifty four...

  Twenty-one

  Three days. It had been three days. Forty hours in, K and Gabe insisted they check into a motel: get some sleep, eat, shower, recharge, get to a place where they could think through the disappointment and the fear.

  But Xander couldn't sleep. Or eat. He paced the room silently as they dozed restlessly.

  If he lived a thousand years, he could never find the words to describe what he felt when he walked into the door of that house. It felt like all his blood moved downward and drained through his feet. Like every last shard of hope crumbled into dust. Like time was frozen and he was suspended in an awful nothingness.

  They had spent an hour searching that house. They went in and out of every room, feeling around in the walls for hidden doors, searching the grounds like bloodhounds for any scent, any trace of her. In the end, K had slammed his fist into a tree, his knuckles getting bloodied and bruised. Gabe had stood dumbly, raking a hand through his blond hair. And Xander had just... fallen. To the ground, his knees in the moist dirt. Defeated.

  They had stood next to the truck for a long time, no one willing to open a door. No one willing to walk away from their only lead.

  "Are you guys lost?" a man asked, walking his dog around the cul-de-sac.

  "Well, in a manner of speakin
g," Gabe had said, charming, sounding like he absolutely did not have a gun tucked into his pants. "We were told a friend of ours lived here," he explained, waving a hand at the house.

  "Oh," the man said, looking over at the house curiously. "Yeah someone bought it. And the lights go on at night and everything. But no one ever moved in. Weird."

  "That is weird," Gabe agreed, looking confused and it wasn't for show. "Well, thanks, man. I guess we have to give him a call," he said, reaching for the door and giving them all pointed looks.

  They pulled away, Gabe driving aimlessly. "So, are we going to talk about this?" he asked, looking between the two of them worriedly.

  "Should we go back to Three Sixes, drag that bastard out of the fridge, and get a real answer?" K asked, sounding excited at the prospect.

  "He's probably already out," Xander shrugged, "and reported back to Nick that we are looking for her."

  "I'll go talk to my friend here," Gabe said, hoping that it wouldn't be a dead end, but knowing it probably was. Nick had planned on someone looking for him. And he had hidden away somewhere. He was a ghost. And Ellie was probably gone forever. "And while I'm doing that, you two hit the streets. Find the dealers. Find someone who knows something. Bribe them. Beat them. Whatever it takes."

  So that's what they did. For the first thirty hours. Until there were no more leads. Until all the cash they had on hand was gone. Until their hands were destroyed. Until their adrenaline was spent.

  Then there had been conversation, endless ideas, none of which would get them anywhere. But they needed to suggest them. They needed to keep the hope alive.

  Because she was gone.

  –

  His office was in better shape than when he left it. Inside he found only one of the kids he had left in charge. He was sitting behind the desk, reading through a newspaper, looking every bit like he actually belonged there. The glass had all been cleaned up, the remains of all his broken possessions in a trash bin somewhere. He had even taped cardboard wrapped in black bags to the shattered door, keeping the weather and passerbys out.

  The kid's head shot up when he walked in. He was young. Younger than Xander had been when he had been on the streets. Sixteen, maybe? He had a sharp face, a little gaunt-looking from malnutrition, long brown hair that looked clean, pulled into a bun toward the crown of his head. His eyes were light. A hazel shade of brown and keen and intelligent.

  "The lone survivor, huh?" Xander asked, nodding at him.

  "We figured you died or something," he said, smirking.

  "But you're still here..."

  "Hey man," he said, smiling wider. "I can be Xander Rhodes. I can take pictures of cheating husbands, chase down druggies, stay in this nice place..."

  "Nice place, huh?" Xander said, looking around, eyebrow raised, smiling slightly.

  "Alright. This dump," the kid conceded. "A little paint would work wonders."

  "Sounds like you're volunteering," Xander said, emptying his pockets of his weapons.

  "Yeah man, anything you need," the kid said, jumping out of the seat, looking excited and determined.

  He wanted off the streets. Xander remembered that feeling, that knowledge that he would do anything it took to get a warm place to rest his head, food to put in his belly.

  Suddenly, the words from Ellie's letter flashed into his mind.

  Keep protecting the little strays that show up on your doorstep.

  "Alright," Xander said, running a hand down his face, scruffier than usual, almost a beard. "Tell you what... you can take that couch," he said, pointing to the beat up leather sofa under the windows, "as long as you pull your weight around here."

  "Yes, sir," the kid said, smiling, extending his hand.

  "I'm gonna need a name," Xander said, shaking his hand. "And not some bullshit street name."

  "Ryan," he said, shrugging.

  "Alright, Ryan," he said. "You don't fucking touch any weapons. Or any money. Or my files. But you can help yourself to food and toothpaste and whatever else like that." Ryan nodded, looking almost a little embarrassed. "Don't worry," Xander said, offering him a small smile. "It's not charity. You're gonna earn it."

  "Thanks," Ryan said, nodding.

  Sometime after midnight, Xander was pulled out of bed by a slamming sound outside the office door. Ryan was already on his feet, tense, his hands in fists at his side. Xander inclined his head to him before pulling the door open.

  And there was K. He had a suitcase in his hand and a determined set to his brow. Xander nodded at him, moving out of the way so he could pass.

  Then he had two strays. Ryan was in the office.

  K was on the red couch that Ellie had slept on.

  –

  There was an odd sort of comfort to having other people around. By the time he woke up the next morning, K had already sent Ryan out to grab breakfast and the coffee was hot and strong. They sat down to egg sandwiches on bagels, K quietly and calmly filling Ryan in on what was going on. Like he was already a part of the team.

  Xander watched, eating the food that tasted like cardboard, wondering exactly what kind of self-control K had taught himself over the years. How he could go from the mess he had been the day before to the collected, rational person at his dining table. His hands were still wrecked, and he was having trouble bending his knuckles with the scabs. But his face was serene, his tone methodical and rational.

  Meanwhile, he felt like an alien in his own body. He was detached. He went about the tasks he knew he needed to. He attempted sleep. He showered. He shaved. He changed. He drank his coffee. He ate his food. But it was like someone else was doing it. Like his hands didn't belong to him.

  "So, now we are regrouping," he heard K tell Ryan, "and we are going to look into other methods. Things we might have missed. People we haven't contacted."

  And that was exactly what they did. Every day there was a new list of calls to make. There were new people to try to track down. Until there were more questions than answers.

  Gabe went back to work three days after they got back. And Xander couldn't blame him. Bills needed to be paid. Life needed to move on.

  K continued some sort of secret business. He took calls on burner cells. He made trips to the post office every few days. Maybe he had more women like Ellie, women who needed his help. Maybe his self-defense business was just what kept money in his pockets, but his real career was helping people escape their awful situations. It would explain why he was so good at it, why he was so regimented with Ellie.

  "You're going to have to take on cases again," K told him, five days later as they sat over the newspapers.

  Xander looked up, his brow furrowed. "Dude, you're still here," he said, suggesting K was shirking his business back in Seattle as well.

  "I have people who run things when I need to take off. You are all you got. You need to handle business."

  "She needs me," Xander said, looking pained.

  "And you can still devote your time to her. Work cases on the hours you spend staring at the ceiling not sleeping."

  He was right. Xander knew he was right.

  If he wanted to find her, he would need money. And, now, he needed to keep a roof over Ryan's head. He had already painted the awful kitchen cabinets white and the office a less dingy shade of brown. He answered the phone and ran errands.

  "Alright," Xander said, nodding.

  Two days later, he went back to work.

  –

  A month was a long time. It never occurred to him before to notice the passing of the seasons. But winter was taking a turn toward the warm. March came quickly, a taunting, painful reminder that she had been gone for four weeks.

  And he remembered the story about her being chained and tortured for six weeks. How she had almost died. She probably wished by now that she was already dead. But a part of him knew, knew like he knew the Earth would keep spinning that day, that she was still alive. She was waiting. Likely fo
r death, not for him. Because she wouldn't know he even knew. She wouldn't think he would even care if he did.

  But she would be wrong. Because he fucking loved her. He loved her and the only thing that kept him pushing through his days was the idea of finding her and dragging her out of that hell. Then bringing her back and taking care of her.

  Xander sat down at the dining room table, holding one of her books in his hand. Gabe walked in, looking less like himself: more tired, less arrogant. "I'm going to file a report," he said, sounding sad.

  "What?" Xander asked, not sure he had heard him.

  "A missing person's report. It's time," he said, shifting his feet. "We have hit nothing but dead ends. Maybe the cops can find him."

  Xander found himself nodding. "Make sure you tell them he's the one who killed her father. Maybe that will put a fire under their asses."

  Gabe watched Xander for a moment, seeing the defeat, seeing the acceptance of his own incompetence. But what was to be done? They needed whatever help they could get.

  "Wait," Xander yelled, jumping out of his chair, almost knocking it over.

  Gabe walked back in, Ryan and K following behind curiously.

  "Wait," he said, throwing open a cabinet under the sink where he kept an egg crate full of old newspapers. He remembered something. He remembered her. When she first got there. There had been a newspaper on his table and she had picked it up. And all the color had drained from her face. When he had asked her about it, she had said something about the overdose story. The too-strong heroin hitting the city streets.