He glared at me. Johnston had already scrambled to get going on the research, and I was alone with the captain's wrath. "You want to read the file? Here. Maybe you should know, since you're working with him."
He rooted around in a desk drawer and yanked out a file. Scowling his worst scowl — the one reserved for when he felt helpless — he waited for me to look, his gaze trained on me something fierce. I didn't want to know now. It felt invasive and wrong.
But with every passing minute, I was more convinced that Skyler Zane was in deep trouble. And the captain was right. I'd never pried into the ex-boyfriend stuff, but if it had been bad enough to put Sky in the hospital three times, there was definitely a possibility that the man could want revenge — revenge of the killing kind.
I flipped through the pages, heart in my throat. Quick glimpses of stark photographs, the medical report in cold, professional words detailing a man who'd been systematically hurt: cuts, burns, beatings and rough anal sex. Signs of force, trauma, and pain inflicted far too often. The last beating had come close to killing him.
And there was the mug shot of the ex-boyfriend, holding his card. He had an unmarked, arrogantly handsome face. Roger Gruver, security expert. The lines behind his head marked him as over six foot — and he was built along much sturdier lines than Skyler.
To me, he looked like a trust fund boy, a big blond man who'd grown up assuming he'd get his own way no matter what. And who usually did. He appeared unfazed by the mug shot, as if he would tolerate it but just this once. However, the file said he'd been sentenced to a year in jail for the brutal violence.
I closed the file abruptly, feeling like I was going to lose whatever was left of that donut.
The captain was watching me. He'd seen these, had to know about them. And Skyler had to live with the memories every day. Why hadn't he run from Gruver sooner? He must've felt so hopeless and afraid, to stay with that man. He had always doubted himself; getting out of the mental hospital hadn't changed the fact that no one had believed in him for far too long.
Without resources or any confidence in himself, he'd fallen for this bastard, either the safety and security he seemed to represent, or had actually fallen in love with him. Maybe both. And if the guy apologized, and meant it — at the time — then Sky would've believed it, despite his misgivings. Despite how much he'd been hurt. Till the third time, when he'd reached his breaking point.
My poor little empath.
The captain's eyes were old and hard. "If you've let him get snatched…"
It wasn't fair that I be the whipping boy, but I didn't care about fair all that much right now anyway. I wanted Sky back as much as the captain did. Maybe more.
"We'll find him, sir. We have to." I stood up. "If Gruver is in the area and snatched him, it was a bold move. He'd have to have somewhere to take him. A safe spot. Maybe somebody saw something. We can check at motels and rental places with his photograph."
"That's the next step," he agreed.
Johnston returned, her face gray and serious. "Sir, the footage reveals a perp." Soon all three of us saw the grainy footage, and replayed it again and again.
Even from this angle, it was obviously Gruver.
His hair was shorter. He was a lot bigger and more muscular than Sky, with the hard body mass of someone who could've played a lot of football — or perhaps had done a lot of working out in prison.
The snatch was quick and to the point, a gun shoved against Sky's neck, and an arm yanking him towards a car. All while Sky was waiting for me to finish up in the bathroom and drive him home.
I saw the startled way he flinched, even on the poor quality video. I saw the way he didn't dare resist.
I had to look away on the third re-watch. They were pulling up the plate numbers from Gruver's car — probably a rental — and the captain was sending out some patrols.
"You too, Hunter," snapped the captain, looking up at me, his permanent scowl etched deeper than ever. "Get a printout of Zane, one of Gruver, and hit the street. Any hits, you call it in. We're all hands on deck till we find him — one way or another."
"Sir." I snapped a salute and got out of there.
#
An hour later, in my car and cruising the streets, fatigue kept trying to slip back into me. I felt gray and heavy, even with the adrenaline pounding through my system. I was keeping a close eye on the streets as well as the radio.
Nobody'd gotten a hit on the pictures so far, but it was early yet. It was also late for Sky. If the guy wanted to kill him, he could've already done it. Every minute longer it took to track him down meant a greater chance we wouldn't find him alive.
Damn it, Sky, why didn't you feel him coming for you?
Well, I knew why. Sky was tired, at the end of a long day, and not on high alert. He'd been casually smoking a cigarette in the video and leaning wearily against my car. Probably thinking about supper and getting some rest.
The work always wore him ragged, even when it wasn't a particularly rough day. He seemed to take in too much of the negative emotions swirling around, and they tore at him and wore him down. He was never at top form at the end of the day. He wouldn't have been "listening" for anything, and probably hadn't noticed till it was too late and there was a gun pressed to his neck, the angry hiss of violent words sounding behind him.
The captain was justifiably angry with me, I decided. I should've had Sky wait inside if I needed to go to the bathroom. I shouldn't have left him alone for a second. But I hadn't known.
I was his protector. That must be why Gruver had gotten desperate enough to snatch him from so close to the police station. Perhaps he'd been following us for days waiting for a chance and had to take the first one he saw, even if it was in a less-than-ideal location.
How desperate and crazed did the guy have to be to snatch his ex from a police parking lot when he'd already ended up in jail over hurting him? Then again, how crazy did he have to be to have put him in the hospital three times?
Probably would've been more, if Sky hadn't sought help when he did. If he'd been able to get away sooner, maybe it wouldn't have happened at all.
I felt sick at the thought, the whole thing. The thought of what terror Sky must be going through during this ordeal was like a constant scream in the back of my head. He got jumpy and frightened at the least little thing. A slammed chair made him flinch, a scowl or angry voices could make him shrink into himself. He never seemed anything but shy and nervous, even around me, even on his best days. This bastard had really done a number on him. Even if we found him alive, it would probably have undone all the hard work and how far he'd come in the last few months, working with us and having some stability and safety in his life.
Shit, if we just found him alive…
Just then my cell phone rang. I answered quickly, still scanning the streets as I drove slowly. I didn't know what the fuck I was supposed to be doing except keeping my eyes open, wracking my brain, and trying to think of something that would help. Maybe this was further instruction, although one would think that would come over the radio…
"Hunter," I answered.
"Mister Hunt?" asked the voice of an older lady with a strong Chinese accent. "You Mister Hunt?"
I almost choked. "Uh … that's me. What is it?" My heart pounded.
"Boy asked me to call you. He hurt. Say only to trust you, call you. Give you my address quick. He take off. Say someone want to hurt him. He running last I saw."
"Uh … give me your address."
She reeled it off quickly. "Just few minute ago," she added. "You hurry. That boy in trouble." And she hung up without even leaving her name.
Holy shit. He was on his feet, alive, and running — and had taken enough time to ask someone to call me. Why not call me himself and hide out at the Chinese restaurant, I wondered briefly. Well, he'd have his reasons. Maybe, if I hurried, I'd find out what they were.
I called it in while I double-timed it to the restaurant. I got there before anyone else, and hopped ou
t, leaving the engine running.
"Hello?" I called to the woman as I ran inside. "I'm Hunt — Officer Hunter." I held up my ID to show her.
She peered at it carefully, then gave a short nod. "He go out back. Say a man chasing him. I didn't see. Hurry."
Her eyes were frightened, and I could see she was almost as scared for Sky as I was — and she didn't even know him. What a good-hearted person she must be, to take this risk and get involved just to try to help him.
I ran out back, calling it in again. There was no time to lose. Should I have gone back for my car? But…
"Hunt," came a small voice, and I almost fell over my feet at the breathy, vulnerable, yet familiar sound of it.
I whirled, and there he was — crouched down, half-hidden behind the dumpster, holding a hand to his side. He was pale and bloody, his outer shirt pulled off and jammed against his side.
"Hunt," he said again, his lips red with blood, and his eyes pleading and relieved and terrified. "Please."
"I'm right here. Shh." I ran to him, crouched by his side, and put a hand on top of his weak ones to hold against the wound. I called for an ambulance, one-handed.
"I couldn't go further," he said apologetically, his voice weak. He seemed close to losing consciousness, his eyelids drooping. He was probably only running on adrenaline, and running out of even that.
"It's okay. It's okay."
Sirens, coming closer. Well, shit. He wasn't that heavy. I could carry him out. But no, was I losing my mind? You don't move a stabbing victim. You might make them bleed out.
Instead, I edged around so I could hold him close to me and keep pressure on his wound, at the same time keeping a hand free for my gun and an eye on the surrounding landscape in case Gruver approached.
I saw nobody.
"I knew you'd come," said Sky faintly. One hand closed lightly over my wrist. I looked down at him, at me — our bloody selves, messy with his blood.
For the first time, I saw his bare arms were sheathed in tattoo sleeves, heavy with ink in colorful patterns and dark swirls, from just above his wrists to just below his elbows, heavy on the insides of the wrists but not the outsides. He had fine dark hair there and very pale skin. His grip loosened, and he fell limp.
"I'm right here," I said quietly. There was actually no use in trying to keep a bleeding wound victim from losing consciousness. Even though it was probably shock rather than blood loss that was affecting him the most. I hoped — although that was dangerous, too. All the same, I talked to him and held him close, trying to keep him warm.
I was shaking too by the time the ambulance arrived. Swift efficiency and a remarkable work ethic came with them, as always — but I couldn't pull myself together, even as they stabilized him and got him into the back of the ambulance.
The world around me had become a strange, carnival-colored fog, swirling and moving, jerking along at an odd, stop-and-start speed.
Another officer, Carl Frasier, looked into my face worriedly, gripping my arm. "You injured?" Frasier asked gruffly.
I shook my head. "We … we need to find Gruver."
"We got a bulletin out, and officers are combing the streets. Come on. Let's get you home. Clean yourself up and get some rest. You did your part."
I hoped he was right.
Sky had looked so still.
#
Frasier made sure I turned off my car, sat down, and had some of the Chinese restaurant's strongest tea (they didn't have coffee on hand) before driving back to the station to give my statement.
I was a little shaken up, but I didn't need medical attention, just a shower, something to eat, and a good night's sleep. After I gave my statement, I got all of those things. It was going to take some work to get Sky's blood out of my uniform, though.
I was officially out of the manhunt to find Gruver, and basically ordered to get some rest. They did give me the consideration of letting me know Sky's condition was stable. He had a knife wound, and had lost some blood and gone into shock, but was expected to make a full recovery.
After that I was able to sleep.
In the morning, I drove down to see him, grabbing some breakfast sandwiches on the way, just in case he hated hospital food as much as I did.
There was an officer watching his room, which I was glad to see. It was a private room, and the officer was armed. I was on his approved list, though, and allowed in.
At the sight of Sky there, with his soft curly hair and his pale cheeks and his big, sweet eyes, I honestly wanted to grab his face and plant one on his kisser. The intense feeling surprised me, and I blinked. Then he smiled up at me tentatively, and I smiled back, probably the same way.
"Hey, buddy. How ya doing?" I asked, moving forward.
"Is that breakfast?" he asked, sniffing the air. He was wearing a hospital gown and looked washed out and rag-dollish in the hospital bed, but his eyes were warm and grateful. They held more than his words. He also held his wrists down, like he was self-conscious about the tattoos.
"Yeah," I said, which was all I could manage. I sat on the chair near his bed, and we ate. He couldn't finish a whole sandwich. He was still pale, and he tried to keep his wrists down against the sheet.
"What's the problem?" I asked, taking one gingerly and trying to turn it over gently. "They look great. Wouldn't have pegged you for a tat fan, but the ink looks great on you."
He tugged his wrist away and rubbed it against the sheet, looking miserably self-conscious. "Don't."
I let go like he was a burning brick and backed off, blinking. "What? You hurt there?"
"I'm sorry," he said in a broken voice. "I'm really glad you came to get me. Thank you for that."
"Yeah," I said, backing off the tattoo subject. Maybe they held bad memories. Could he have gotten them to please his ex? It was kind of weird that I'd never seen his arms before yesterday, but I hadn't thought about it. He just always wore long-sleeved shirts. I'd never really given it a second thought. I decided I wouldn't now, either, or he'd get shy again.
"About that," I added, smiling at him scoldingly as I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees. "You know you should've called 9-1-1, right?"
"Um, yeah, but all I could think of was that you'd come and get me. And you did. If it had been 9-1-1, they'd have wanted to keep me on the line, get all the details, but you — you knew. You came to get me." His eyes held such warmth at the words, and such unshakeable faith in me.
I was blown away. I leaned back, away from the intensity of that look.
He turned it away from me instantly, biting his lip, as if he was ashamed of himself. "They didn't say they'd caught him. Did they?" he asked, almost like he was afraid to know.
"I haven't heard yet, bud," I said gently, my voice soft and tender with him, wanting to reassure him but not sure how. I took hold of his wrist between my thumb and forefinger and stroked gently. I didn't realize I was doing it, and he didn't pull away this time. Then I did realize, but didn't stop.
I felt it now, the reason for the tattoos. He had scars. Lots of scars, from where someone had tried to cut his wrists. They crisscrossed, as if he'd cut across first, and then had learned from his mistakes and tried to cut from wrist to elbow.
But he'd survived.
He'd survived, and healed enough that he was eventually well enough to want to cover the scars with tattoos. And he had. I was proud of him. Even though I hated to think of the pain he must've been in to attempt it, I thought I understood.
Because he felt everything. Everything people around him projected with such violence and pain into the world. Locked away, into a mental hospital, he'd have felt some terrible things. And no one had believed him. They'd drugged him and locked him up, but nobody had helped or offered him a way out.
It must've been hell.
I rubbed gently, and he didn't pull away. He kept his face turned away from me, his breath jagged, sniffing, and hiccupping once. He reached up to wipe at his face quickly with his free hand.
I didn't feel the need to say anything; he knew how I felt. He didn't speak, either.
There was a knock at the door. I looked up, but he kept his head turned away. There stood the captain, looking grouchy, uncomfortable, and out of place. Captain Quill was a big man with a heavy build, a broad belly and a stern moustache. He also had small, shrewd eyes.
I realized I was still holding on to Sky's wrist. I let him go.
Quill cleared his throat as he stepped into the room. "How ya doing, kid?" he asked gruffly, looking at Skyler. "Okay?"
Sky nodded, but kept his face down. He tried to look anywhere but at the captain.
"Well, uh, we've got a good lead on Gruver."
Sky flinched slightly at the name.
Quill cleared his throat again. "Should have him in custody by the end of the day," he added with fake cheer. "So, uh, you get well quick. We've got lots of work to do."
He left as soon as he could.
I wasn't sure if I believed him about the lead.
A nurse came in, took one look at Sky, and ordered me out. "He needs rest." She looked at me sternly. "But there are visiting hours later."
Her look demanded that I make use of them, but in reasonable, bite-sized visits. I didn't know how a look could convey that much. Maybe nurses have lots of practice.
#
When he was able, Sky gave his statement. Despite his gift, he hadn't noticed the approach of his ex-boyfriend until the man had a gun pressed to his neck. After a long day, Sky wasn't at his best as an empath. He certainly wasn't prepared for that.
In the next few minutes, a lot of things happened. Gruver guided him into a car and began to drive away. By now scared out of his wits, Sky was using as much of his empathic skill as he could muster.
The moment Gruver's attention wavered from him, he threw his door open and tumbled out. The fall caused many of his bruises and contusions. He was up and running as fast as he could. But not fast enough.
Gruver parked his car rapidly. He didn't fire the gun. He took off after Sky, who confirmed Gruver had always been a speedy runner. Time and prison had not diminished that so far. Sky felt him gaining, put on more speed.
SAFE (Men of the ESRB Book 1) Page 4
