"Right now I wish I was, so no one else will be hurt," Clay said morosely.
"No you don't," Quint replied softly, pulling Clay into his arms. "You're afraid, which isn't surprising, angry at the bastard, tense"—Quint kissed Clay's temple—"but you don't want to die, not really. Curl up in a dark corner and hide? Yeah, that idea probably crossed your mind a time or two. But that's not really you. You only hide away from personal involvement, not trouble."
Clay looked up at him, managing a smile. "Not doing too well in avoiding involvement right now."
* * * *
"Me neither." Quint cupped Clay's jaw with one hand and kissed him. Then, before Clay could return the kiss, Quint released his hold on him and stood. He grinned when Clay looked up at him in dismay. Holding out his hand, Quint said, "Come with me." Clay took it, Quint pulled him to his feet and led his not-at-all-unwilling lover to the bedroom.
"Right now I want to be totally involved with you on a physical level," Quint said with a wicked grin. "Lift your arms." When Clay did, Quint grabbed the hem of Clay's T-shirt and with one swift move pulled it off him to reveal the artist's well-defined torso. Before tossing the shirt aside, Quint tweaked each of Clay's nipples, eliciting a needy moan as he did. Then he flicked open the waistband of Clay's jeans and pulled down the zipper before easing them over Clay's narrow hips until they slid to the floor. Clay's briefs were the last barrier to Quint's destination. Kneeling, Quint got them out of the way as well. Then he slowly licked from the bottom of Clay's rapidly hardening cock to the tip, laving it with his tongue around the base of the pulsing head. He repeated the torturous licks while blindly digging through the nightstand drawer until he found what he wanted.
In no time at all, Quint had Clay's cock sheathed. Looking up at him, Quint grinned wickedly. "I am going to drive you to distraction, but"—he wrapped his fingers around the base of Clay's cock—"I'm not going to let you come."
Clay groaned, muttering, "Evil man."
"Yep," Quint agreed before starting to work. Clay's grip on Quint's shoulders tightened almost painfully as Quint proceeded to torment Clay—and himself, since what he was doing to Clay inflamed his own desires. Realizing that if he deep-throated Clay one more time it would put an end to his plans to fuck his lover, Quint moved away, slowly easing his grip on Clay's cock as well.
Standing again, Quint kissed Clay, delving into his mouth when Clay opened to him. Wrapping his arms around Clay, Quint tumbled them onto the bed without breaking the kiss. Long moments later, he sat back on his heels, looking down at Clay with a lascivious grin. "What to do, what to do, now that I have you in my thrall."
Instead of replying, Clay sat up, put his hands on Quint's shoulders to push him onto his back then proceeded to torment Quint's cock with licks and sucks once he'd sheathed it.
"Fuck, Clay," Quint managed to get out between deep moans.
Clay stopped long enough to say succinctly, "That's the plan." Then he returned to what he was doing and Quint wondered distractedly whether he'd last long enough to actually be able to fuck him.
As suddenly as he'd turned the tables on Quint, Clay stopped. Pressing his hands on the bed on either side of Quint's head, Clay kissed him hungrily. Quint returned it, pulling Clay down on top of him then rolling them over. Ending the kiss, Quint sat up, saying, "Lift your legs. Please."
Clay did, giving Quint access to his entrance. Quint circled it with one finger, snagging the lube with his free hand to put some on two fingers before easing them into Clay, He found Clay's gland and stroked it until Clay was writhing with pleasure, groaning, "Quint, I need you. All of you."
"As much as I need you," Quint murmured in reply, removing his fingers. When his cock was well-lubed, he slowly pushed into Clay, savoring the tightness and the heat. He locked gazes with Clay, watching for any sign he was hurting him too much. He paused when Clay grimaced, gave him time to adjust, then continued until he was totally embedded. After wrapping one hand around Clay's rampant member, Quint began his rapidly escalating penetrations, pumping Clay's cock as he did. Too soon, in his opinion, he felt Clay tighten around him then his lover exploded with a shout, his body shaking from his release. Quint tried to maintain control of his own need to come. His body conspired against him as his orgasm washed over him with almost unbearable intensity.
Several minutes later, they had both regained their composure and Quint was resting on one elbow beside Clay. He laughed when Clay looked at him, one eyebrow arched, and said, "When you get involved, you do it very thoroughly."
"I do try to. I'm not into performing things half-assed." Quint winked, patting Clay's hip. "It's the whole ass or nothing at all."
Clay groaned. "God, Quint, that was bad."
"I know." Quint leaned in to kiss him. "But it made you smile."
"That it did," Clay agreed before kissing him back. "Now we get some sleep?"
"We do. Morning comes too soon and I have work to do when it does."
"We both do," Clay replied, sobering.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."
"It's reality, so even if you hadn't, we were both thinking it."
"True." Quint kissed him again. "For now though, we sleep and dream of—"
"Elysian Fields. No, not them." Clay shivered. "Summer fields full of beautiful flowers in all the hues of the rainbow."
"Ever the artist," Quint replied, lying back and pulling Clay to him. "Fields, soft grass and the two of us—sunbathing in the raw. Whatever happens after that—"
"Will make for one hell of a sexy dream," Clay said, yawning as he completed Quint's thought.
"Indeed, indeed," Quint replied, also yawning. "Now, we sleep and see if we're right."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The morning started well as far as Clay was concerned. He and Quint showered together, taking advantage of that to have some down-and-dirty sex in the process. Or as Quint had laughingly called it, "Down-and-clean sex, all things considered."
Afterward they ate breakfast then, with his usual admonition that Clay was not to let anyone into the loft with the exclusion of himself or Amanda, the detective left for the station house.
With Quint gone, Clay went into the studio and got back to work on the portrait. It was closing in on noon when he heard the buzzer. After putting down his brush, he hurried to the door to answer it.
"Mr Richardson? It's Mike, the mailman. I have a package for you that needs to be signed for."
"I'll be right down."
Wondering what it was, since he didn't remember ordering anything, Clay slipped into his sandals and left the loft, locking the door behind him but not setting the alarm as he'd be right back.
When he got down to the lobby he saw the back of a man, wearing a postal service uniform, outside the front entrance. Clay opened the door and the man turned, holding a gun in one hand that he pointed at Clay's chest. To Clay, fear coursing through him, it looked huge. He stared at it in horror before lifting his gaze to the man's face only to discover he was wearing a ski mask.
"Do not move even one finger," the man ordered. "Now turn, slowly, and put your hands behind your back."
Inanely, Clay thought of saying, how can I turn if you don't want me to move? He bit back on his words, doing as he was told. He felt the gun pressed against his back while the man used his free hand to slip something over one of Clay's wrists then the other. With a sharp pull, the man tightened the restraints painfully.
"We're going to walk down to the brown car. I'll open the door. You'll get in. If you try anything stupid, I'll shoot to wound but not to kill. Understand?"
"Yes." Clay managed to whisper, his voice hoarse with fear. Clay looked around desperately as he unwillingly walked to the car, hoping someone—anyone—would see what was happening. The only person in view was a woman across the street pushing a stroller.
"Don't," the man said as if reading Clay's mind. "You don't want her death on your conscience as well."
There was something about th
e man's voice that niggled at Clay, but he couldn't put a finger on why. When they got to the car, the man opened the door, grabbed Clay's shoulder, and forced him inside. "Don't try anything," he ordered. "She could still die if you do." He slammed the door, went around to the driver's side, and got in. Once he had the car running and out on the street, the gun tucked between his legs within easy reach, he pulled off the mask and smiled at Clay, saying with a hint of mischief, "Surprised?"
* * * *
The phone on Quint's desk rang. Answering it, he said, "Detective Hawk here."
"Detective, this is Captain Palmer from St Helens, Oregon. I just received the report from the forensic anthropologist. Do you want me to fax it to you?"
"Yes, please, and give me the gist of what it says now."
"It's pretty basic, and probably not what you want to hear. According to her, the bones belong to a male, approximately seventeen to eighteen years of age."
"What? Not possible. Nelson was at least ten years older than that when he was murdered."
"Which says the bones don't belong to him, even if the ID did—or rather it belonged to Gerald Franks, aka Travis Nelson."
"But that means…"
"Someone else was killed and buried there, with Nelson's, or Franks', ID."
"Damn it all to hell," Quint exclaimed, slamming his hand down on his desk. "Thank you for calling."
"You bet. I won't keep you. The full report should reach you in a few minutes." With that said, Palmer hung up.
Quint was on his feet seconds later, striding to the lieutenant's door. When he knocked, Harber called out for him to enter. As soon as he did, Quint said, "Travis Nelson is still alive." Without sitting, he quickly told Harber what Palmer had told him.
"I suggest you get in touch with Mr Richardson immediately to warn him," Harber said when Quint was finished.
With a nod, Quint took out his phone to call Clay. When he got no answer, he tried Clay's landline, knowing Clay might have, out of habit, turned off his cell while he was working, despite Quint's telling him not to. Again there was no answer.
"I'm going over there," he told the lieutenant.
Harber nodded. "He might just have stepped out for a moment."
"No. He knows better."
"Do you want backup?"
"No. If I need it, I'll call. So help me God, if he's just ignoring the phones…"
Harber eyed him. "This is personal for you, isn't it?"
Quint gave a sharp nod before he ran from the office to the elevators. When one didn't appear immediately, he raced down the stairs to the parking garage. Moments later he was on his way to Clay's loft after slapping the emergency beacon on the roof of his car.
* * * *
"I thought… You're supposed to be dead," Clay said, once the shock had worn off.
"Really? I don't feel dead," Travis replied with a smirk. "As a matter of fact, I feel more alive than I have in years."
Clay almost replied before realizing that's exactly what Travis wanted. Anything he said, Travis would use to torment him.
"Cat got your tongue?" Travis reached across the console, resting his hand on Clay's thigh then sliding it higher. "What? Doesn't this excite you?" Travis asked, forcing his hand between Clay's tightly clenched legs. "It used to. As I recall, you'd harden instantly."
Still, Clay remained silent.
"Talk to me, you bastard," Travis snarled, glancing quickly at Clay before returning his gaze to the road ahead of them.
"What's there to talk about?"
"You're impending death."
Clay shivered, replying, "You'll be caught."
"By your handsome cop?" Travis sneered in reply. "No. You'll get to watch him die first then…"
Clay swallowed hard. "You're insane."
Travis shrugged. "If I am, it's because of you. Kicking me out. Making me feel like the lowest of the low. Not worth your time. Always working. Always ignoring me. I told you you'd pay for that. What you sow, so shall you reap. Isn't that what the Bible says?"
"Then you'll reap an eternity in Hell," Clay spat out, anger replacing fear.
"It'll be worth it," Travis retorted. He stopped talking then, his concentration focused on the street ahead of them.
"Whose body was in what supposedly was your grave?" Clay said hesitantly.
Travis grinned. "Some kid who was hitchhiking. When he told us he was traveling the country, trying to find himself, we knew he was the perfect victim."
Travis hit the brake suddenly and made a sudden turn. It threw Clay sideways and, unable to stop himself with his hands restrained behind him, his shoulder hit the door hard enough that he gasped with pain.
"Aww, did you hurt yourself?" Travis asked, snickering. "I guess you should have put on your seatbelt. Oh, right, you couldn't. Ah well, such is life."
Travis continued driving for another three blocks, finally taking a left into the driveway of a small house tucked away behind a tall cedar fence. Using the remote, he opened the door of the attached garage, drove in, and closed it again. Then Travis got out of the car, came around to the passenger side, and dragged Clay out, pressing the gun to his back.
"Forward march," Travis ordered, shoving Clay toward the door to the house. When they got to it, Travis reached around Clay to open it and for a split second Clay tensed, thinking he might have a chance to do… What? I can't use my hands. If I try to run, there's no way I can get out of here.
Travis giggled. "I'll shoot you if you try escaping. Not fatally. Not yet. But it will be painful. Now get your butt inside, go through the doorway to your right and down the stairs."
Taking a deep breath, Clay did as he was ordered, not that he had a choice with Travis's gun prodding him from behind. They ended up in an unfinished basement. A furnace stood along one wall, a battered washer and dryer against another with a dilapidated workbench next to them. In the center of the room were two heavy metal chairs facing the stairs, about a foot from each other. Travis prodded him to one and told him to sit. Having no recourse, Clay did, sliding his bound hands over the back so he wouldn't be sitting on them.
"Smart man," Travis said, disappearing from sight for a moment. He came back with a length of rope he wrapped around Clay's chest, interweaving the remainder between the crosspieces of the chair-back. Then he came around, squatting in front of Clay. "Now you wait for Vince to bring your cop while I get some things from upstairs. Then the fun begins."
It took Clay a second to remember that Vince was the man he knew as Matty.
* * * *
Quint slammed his foot on the brake as he swerved his car into a vacant parking spot in front of Clay's building. Seconds later he was out of the car, racing up the steps to the building's front door, the keys Clay had given him in one hand. He cursed as the first one he tried didn't work. The second one did and he was inside, crossing swiftly to the elevator. It seemed to him to take forever for the elevator to arrive then he was on his way up to the fifth floor. Stepping out of the elevator, he took his gun from its holster, holding it tightly in one hand as he strode down the hall to Clay's loft.
"If you're in there, I'm going to kill you," he muttered. But deep down he somehow knew that Clay wasn't there.
He unlocked the door and slammed it open, quickly sidestepping into the loft and dropping to one knee, his gun sweeping the loft right to left and back again as he looked for any indication Clay, or anyone else, was inside. Silence greeted him. Total silence. It took him a moment to realize that the security system wasn't beeping its warning to disarm it. Not good. Damn it, Clay…
Standing, Quint moved through the open loft space, from the studio to the kitchen, until he was in front of the closed door to the bedroom. He was certain Clay wasn't in there—at least not alive. That thought had his gut tightening with dread.
He kicked the door open, again dropping to one knee, his gun at the ready. The room was empty. He was about to stand and check the closet when he heard a whisper of movement. Then something c
old and hard pressed against the back of his head.
"Do not move, except to toss your gun on the bed," a man's voice said from behind him.
Fuck. How stupid was I? Where did I miss looking?
Quint did as he'd been ordered, then very slowly started to reach for his throwaway in the ankle holster. He let out a cry of pain when the man slammed the barrel of his gun against his temple.
"Stupid move," the man told him. "Take it out, carefully, and toss it on the bed too."
Sighing, Quint did.
"Now, stand."
Quint stood, feeling like ten kinds of idiot for letting himself be caught like a rank amateur. Shouldn't have told Clay I can take care of myself because obviously I can't. He turned to see who had gotten the drop on him. "Vince Nelson, I presume," Quint said dryly when he saw the man Clay had pointed out to him at Toppers. "Or is it Matty now?"
"Either one works," Matty said, stepping back a few steps, his gun trained on Quint's chest. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a double-cuff plastic restraint, tossing it to Quint. "Put one on your right wrist, then turn around."
Quint caught it, knowing if he did as Matty said he would be at his mercy since it was obvious the man intended to cuff his hands behind him. Not that I'm not at his mercy now. He slipped one loop over his wrist, keeping his gaze locked on Matty, looking for any chance to disarm him.
"Turn," Matty ordered, "and put the other loop over your left wrist."
Quint started to, then whirled, one leg extended. His foot glanced off Matty's hip as the man stepped backward.
"Dumb move," Matty said angrily, firing once.
The bullet pierced the flesh on Quint's bicep. Nothing drastic but painful enough to take his concentration off Matty momentarily. Matty hit him hard in the mouth with his fist, quickly followed by a second blow to his gut. Not my day for doing things right. That was his last thought before the barrel of Matty's gun smacked his temple.
When Quint came to, he didn't know how much later, he was facedown on the floor, his arms restrained behind his back.
The Element Case Page 9