by Hank Edwards
He grinned and sent back a long line of eggplants, then followed that up with: Good idea about Calvin, thanks. Just gave me permission to go to the Bone Yard on Friday.
Behave. And be careful.
Always.
Mark didn't respond, and Pearce finished his burger, then sat picking at his fries as he scrolled through a news app. He looked over at the three men on occasion, and caught the eye of the man with his back to the bar—the one he had pegged as Moonif—as he looked nervously toward the door. Dammit, where was Jake?
The men pushed back their chairs and got to their feet. Pearce's heart pounded as the man he'd guessed to be Moonif picked up the motorcycle helmet. Pearce signaled his waitress for the check, trying to act casual about the timing. Fucking Jake was probably still at home putting gel in his hair or something.
He looked at the total on the check and tossed cash into the bill folder as two of the men walked past his table, heading for the front door. The man carrying the helmet walked off in the opposite direction down the long hallway toward the back of the restaurant. Pearce hesitated a moment. He really needed backup for this, since Moonif had run from them once already today. But if he waited, their suspect could get away and they might never find him.
Pearce sent a mental curse to Jake and got up to walk after the man with the helmet. The hallway was empty, so he paused to ease the bathroom door open before stepping inside. It was empty as well, and it really needed to be cleaned.
"Shit," he whispered, and hurried out of the restroom toward the back exit.
The door opened into an alley. Dumpsters crouched in clouds of sewer steam, and Pearce paused to let his eyes adjust. He loosened the strap of his holster and looked left and right before heading toward the nearest corner of the alley.
An engine revved into life ahead of him, and before Pearce could pull his gun, the motorcycle shot out from behind a Dumpster and sped toward him.
He jumped out of the bike's path and, extending the gun with both hands, shouted, "FBI! Stop!"
Before the man could reach the corner of the alley, a car jumped the curb onto the sidewalk and screeched to a stop, blocking any exit. Jake popped out of the driver's door, gun out and trained on the motorcyclist.
"FBI, stop where you are!" Jake's deep voice echoed to Pearce down the alley.
The driver skidded to a stop, looked back toward Pearce, then slumped his shoulders and put up his hands.
Pearce approached as Jake cuffed the man. Pearce loosed the helmet's strap and removed it, and they both stood looking at him.
"Dude, all you had to do was answer the door today," Jake said as the man glared at him.
"Moonif Ali Kassab?" Pearce asked.
The man was silent, eyes shifted to stare at the brick wall ahead of him.
"Friendly," Jake said, then loaded him in the back of the car and turned to Pearce. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just missed running me down," Pearce said, glaring through the back window at the man's profile. He moved the motorcycle away from the mouth of the alley and took the ignition key. "Hopefully it won't be gone by the time he's released."
"I'm sure his friends will come around to collect it," Jake said, then folded his arms. "I take it this means I don't get a burger?"
"You take it correctly." Pearce rounded the front of the car. "But I can attest to how good the burgers are here."
"I'll make a note of it." Jake got behind the wheel.
Pearce got in the car. "How'd you know to check the alley?"
"Because I told you not to do anything," Jake replied. He started the car and backed up. “I checked the alley as I was looking for a place to park and saw the bike. I was making another trip around the block when I heard the engine."
"Nice work, Agent," Pearce said.
"Thanks, Agent," Jake replied, and shot him a grin before driving off.
15
By midmorning, Mark had completed his routine of yoga stretches followed by the workout DVD. Afterward, he was coated in a sheen of sweat and felt stronger and calmer than he had in a long time. He wasn't exactly back to his old self, but he was at least feeling significantly better than he could remember since Barbados. He'd take it.
He poured a glass of orange juice and sat at the dining room table with his laptop to check his email. Nothing of note waited for him so he clicked over to a national news site to read the headlines. As he scrolled down the page, he came across a section titled Local News where a headline caught his attention and soured the good mood he'd been enjoying. Since he'd moved to Washington, DC, he'd kept his old zip code in the Local News section of the website to keep up with happenings back in Detroit, and now a headline proclaimed "Serial Killer Stalks Gay Men in Detroit."
"Oh fucking shit," Mark said, and leaned forward as he clicked the link.
It was a long article and contained the names and some background on each of the victims. Mark's stomach tightened, and a chill crept over him as he read the article. At the bottom was a link to view video of a local TV news reporter at one of the scenes of a body discovery. Mark clicked the link and turned up the volume. A morning anchor introduced the story and turned it over to a woman field reporter. The video appeared to have been shot sometime during the night or very early morning, and behind the reporter Mark could see an abandoned small business with a litter-strewn lot illuminated by the glow of crime-scene lights. Yellow police tape had been stretched between a few small trees and flapped in the breeze. The reporter restated many of the details Mark had already read in the online article, and then announced she stood outside what could possibly be the grisly scene of yet another victim.
"Oh no," Mark whispered. "Not another one."
On the heels of that came the question as to why Pearce hadn't told him there'd been another murder. Certainly in his text messages last night he would have said something about the discovery of another body. But all he'd stated was that he was surveying a potential informant. Why would Pearce keep something like that from him?
"Because he's protecting you," Mark said to himself, and got to his feet to pace as the video continued to play. "Like he's protected you this entire time. Protecting me has become his way of life."
The reporter was still talking: "With the city police department strapped for resources, it has handed over the investigation of these cases to the FBI, and we managed to get some footage earlier of the two agents assigned to these cases as they left the crime scene."
Mark hurried back to the laptop. His breath caught in his throat as he watched footage of Pearce and another man—most likely SAC Jake Perrin—leaving the crime scene. Pearce looked wiped out, the skin beneath his eyes bruised from lack of sleep and his gaze haunted. Mark paused the video and used the track pad to back it up until he found a moment when Pearce looked toward the camera.
Mark's heart pounded, and his stomach dropped as he stared at Aaron's handsome, grief-stricken face. How could he have let Pearce go back to Detroit on his own, knowing that Morgan was baiting him, and most likely laying some kind of trap? Even with his struggles to get beyond the events in Barbados, Mark could have provided some kind of stabilizing presence. Or would being there have just distracted Pearce from the investigation because he'd be too worried about his condition?
"Fucking immature, whiny little bitch," Mark said, and a blaze of self-loathing lit up within him. "Look what you've turned into, some kind of sniveling codependent slacker who can't get his shit together. No wonder Pearce headed off to Detroit without you. He needed a break."
He resumed pacing, hands fisted as his panting breath rasped in his throat. The freeze-framed image of Pearce glared out at him from the laptop, adding even more fuel to the disappointment he had in himself. He was better than this, for fuck's sake. Where did he get off thinking he got a free pass on being a responsible adult like everyone else? Just because he experienced trauma in Barbados? Well, who the fuck hasn't experienced trauma? Other people managed to get on with their lives. It was time for M
ark to step up and do the same thing.
The apartment felt way too small and confining. He needed to get out, and not just for the day. Mark knew now what he needed to do, even though Pearce might not agree. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, as the saying went.
Mark slammed the laptop shut and carried it into the bedroom where he tossed it on the bed. He stripped off his sweaty workout clothes and stuffed them in the hamper, then set a small carry-on bag on the bed beside the laptop. After moving around the bedroom naked, packing several pairs of underwear, socks, shirts, and three pairs of jeans, Mark stopped and looked around the room. His stomach felt small and clenched, in direct opposition to the sudden loosening of the tight knot of anxiety he'd been feeling in his chest since Barbados. He was scared and more than a little unsure of his rash decision, but it felt like the right move. It felt like the move he needed to make to get past this last stubborn obstacle in his recovery.
After a moment's hesitation, he opened the nightstand drawer on his side of the bed and retrieved Pearce's jockstrap. He'd yet to wash it, and knew it was stupid and gross to have kept it for this long. Well, he wasn't going to take it with him—that would be really weird—but before he dropped it in the hamper, he lay across the bed and gripped his cock through the jock. He stroked himself with the jock and thought about Aaron until the friction of the cotton pouch became too painful and he switched it to his other hand and used it to cradle his balls. Memories of being with Aaron flashed through his mind, and it didn't take long before he grunted and came.
When he had caught his breath, Mark used Pearce's jockstrap to wipe up some of his cum, then got up and deposited it in the hamper. He took a quick shower and brushed his teeth, then packed up his toiletries. A check of the weather app on his phone showed that it was cooler in Detroit, so he pulled a long-sleeve Henley on over his T-shirt before stepping into his favorite jeans. His laptop slid easily into a zippered compartment of his carry-on bag, and he stood with his hands on his hips and looked around the room. The closet doors were still open, and his gaze fell on the small gun safe in the bottom corner of Pearce's side behind his dress shoes. Mark didn't have a license to carry concealed, but it would make him feel a hell of a lot better to have the gun with him. Pearce had shown it to him right after he'd moved in and explained that it was a "burner" gun, one he had acquired off the street with the serial number filed off. There had been several shooting range sessions over the last few months, but it had been a while since Mark had practiced. If he was caught with it, there was no way to legally trace it back to Pearce, so it would be Mark's ass on the line and not Pearce's.
He retrieved the key from its hiding place beneath the nightstand on Pearce's side of the bed and opened the safe. The gun felt heavier than usual for some reason, and he paused, wondering if he might be making a mistake. A gun on Barbados would have gone a long way toward saving him sooner, and that helped him decide. He checked to make sure it wasn't loaded, flicked the safety off, then back on again, grabbed the three clips of ammunition from the safe, and hid it all beneath his clothes in the carry-on.
With a final look around the bedroom, Mark grabbed the bag and pulled it to the front door. He took Aaron's itinerary off the front of the refrigerator to take with him, then checked the contents of the vegetable drawers and cursed. The fresh fruit and veggies he'd bought would be spoiled by the time they got back. A few would travel in the car and be good as a snack while he drove. He filled a zip-top plastic bag with ice, set it in the bottom of a reusable cooler grocery bag, and then added a couple of cucumbers, some cut carrots and celery, and a few apples on top. The rest of the vegetables he put in a plastic bag and set by his things at the door. He made a round of the apartment, adjusting the heat lower, pulling the blinds, and watering the two plants they'd managed to keep alive so far.
Mark checked his wallet and decided on a quick stop at the ATM on his way out of town. He selected two coats of varying weights because he was headed to Michigan and it was October and the weather could change in a minute. Picking up his keys, he allowed himself a final look at the apartment, took a deep breath, and stepped out the door, locking it behind him. Halfway down the hall, he stopped and knocked on a door behind which he could hear a daytime game show. He stood patiently and waited until an elderly man finally pulled open the door with the security chain in place and peered out.
"Oh, Mark, just a moment." The door closed, and Mark listened to the scratch of the chain being removed before it opened wide and the man beamed at him. "How are you?"
Mark smiled as naturally as he could, though his heart pounded and his blood was whooshing in his ears. "I'm well, Mr. Hanover. You doing all right?"
"Right as rain," Mr. Hanover replied. He noticed the carry-on bag and asked, "You going on a trip?"
"Yeah, Aaron and I will both be gone a few days at least, possibly longer. Would you mind picking up our mail?"
"Not at all, not at all. Going anywhere exciting?"
Mark hid his involuntary wince by looking down at his key ring and removing the key for the mailbox. "Just a trip back to Detroit where I used to live."
"Ah, the Motor City. How are things back there? They cleaning the place up?" Mr. Hanover accepted the key and closed his wrinkled fingers around it.
"They're working on it," Mark replied. "Oh, here are some items that would probably spoil if we left them in the fridge. I thought you might enjoy them." He handed over the plastic grocery bag of fruits and vegetables.
"Why thank you." Mr. Hanover smiled as he peered into the bag. "Peaches? I haven't had a peach in ages."
"Well, enjoy them. I'll see you when I get back. Thanks for picking up the mail."
"You're welcome. Go and enjoy."
Mark turned away and set his mouth in a grim line of determination. It wasn't going to be enjoyable, he knew that much, but it was something he knew he needed to do. He thought about the gun resting beneath his clothes in the carry-on bag and felt a little more secure about his decision. He wasn't going to tell Aaron what he was doing, not yet. Maybe when he got closer to the city, but for now, he was going to just strike out on his own. It was time to take his life back, and it was time to take the fight back to Detroit and Robert Morgan.
16
Pearce sat heavily at the small table in the office he and Jake shared. He put his face in his hands and blew out a breath. It was almost lunchtime, and he'd yet to get any sleep. He'd been up for over twenty-eight hours now, and his eyes were burning and his head throbbing. The multiple cups of bad coffee had given him terrible indigestion, and he wanted to do nothing more than to go back to his hotel and crash.
Jake shuffled into the office and sat heavily across the table from him. "He's a stubborn fuck, isn't he?"
"I don't think he's seen Morgan for at least a year," Pearce grumbled with his face still in his hands.
"Too bad he ran from us," Jake said. "He could have avoided some jail time and an INS investigation if he'd just answered the door."
Pearce dropped his hands to the table and stared blearily at Jake. "You're going to keep him?"
"Yeah, for a few days at least," Jake replied. "Just because he hasn't been in touch with Morgan doesn't mean he hasn't been meeting up with other members of the Kings of Rebellion, maybe planning something else."
"All right, you have fun with that." Pearce pushed to his feet. "I'm worn out. I'm going back to the hotel and sleep."
"How are you getting there?"
Pearce looked at him and struggled to think of a response. "Taxi?"
Jake smirked and shook his head. "Come on, old man. I'll assign the paperwork to a junior agent and drop you off on my way home."
"You're okay to drive?"
"I only had a couple hundred cups of coffee," Jake replied. "Just because my eyes are vibrating so much I see two of you doesn't mean I'm not okay to drive."
"Great, I feel much better."
Pearce followed Jake down to the garage and slumped in the pa
ssenger seat with his eyes shut. Jake made the trip in no time, and soon Pearce was stepping out of the car onto the sidewalk in front of his hotel. He leaned on the doorframe of the open passenger door and looked in at Jake.
"What are your plans tonight?"
Jake shook his head. "Not a damn thing. I'm not working, I'm not hitting the bars to ask questions, and you shouldn't either. We've both put in enough overtime."
"Yeah," Pearce grumbled.
Jake looked at him. "You going to hit the bars again?"
Pearce nodded. "I want to. We should question the staff at Danglers as soon as possible, get to them while their memories are fresh. Maybe they saw Tristan talking to someone that night."
"We've both been up all night, and it's just after twelve noon," Jake said. "We'll talk to the staff at the bar later tonight."
Pearce smirked. "You don't like saying it, do you?"
"What?"
"Danglers."
Jake made a face. "It's a creepy name."
"It's a perfect name."
Jake shook his head. "Whatever. So you're not going down there right now?"
"I dunno. What day is this?"
"Wednesday, Einstein."
"Don't be a dick."
"I must have caught it from you."
"Whatever. Look, if I decide to go, I'll send you a text and keep you posted, sound good?"
Jake nodded. "That'll work. Hey, Pearce?"
"Yeah?" Pearce tried not to grimace. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.
"Tristan is not your fault."
"Good night, Agent Perrin."