The Element Case

by Edward Kendrick

  "Gotta give you points for trying."

  Quint groaned as he turned enough to see Matty seated on the sofa, his gun held loosely in his lap. "More like points for stupidity," Quint managed to get out. His mouth hurt. His gut hurt. His sleeve was wet with blood, although at this point the damage to his arm was the least painful of his injuries.

  "How did you get the drop on me?" Quint asked.

  "Easy. I was waiting on the stairs to the roof. As soon as I heard you come in here, I came down and waited. I figured at some point you'd go into the bedroom to check and I was right." Matty chuckled as he got up. Coming over, he grabbed Quint's good arm, hauling him to his feet. "You and I are going for a little ride. Your friend is waiting for you at the other end."

  "Alive?" Quint spat out, dreading the reply.

  "For now," was Matty's terse reply.

  At least that's something.

  * * * *

  Clay looked toward the stairs when he heard footsteps on them. Moments later Quint came into view with Matty right behind him.

  "Where's Travis?" Matty asked as he walked Quint to the second chair and ordered him to sit.

  "He ran out for pizza," Clay replied acerbically, watching Quint slide his bound arms over the back of the chair before sitting. That comment earned Clay a swift backhand to the side of his head, before Matty got some rope to lash Quint to the chair.

  When he was finished, Matty stepped back, looking at the prisoners. "I'll be back as soon as I find my brother. Until then"—he smirked—"enjoy your last few minutes together before we deal with both of you." With that said, he left the basement and Clay heard the door at the top of the stairs slam shut and lock.

  "How are you doing?" Quint asked quietly, his gaze raking over Clay.

  "I've been better," Clay replied dryly. "You, on the other hand, look like hell."

  Quint barely smiled through bruised lips. "Appearances can be deceiving."

  "Tell me that means you have a few tricks, or a gun, up your sleeve."

  "Afraid not. Not that a gun would do me much good at the moment. I do have a scarab cutter though, if I can get to the damned thing," Quint muttered, barely above a whisper.

  "Not asking," Clay replied just as quietly, as he watched Quint try to wrestle his hands through the crossbar on the back of the chair to reach his pocket. Just give us time for him to get to them he prayed silently.

  "Success," Quint whispered, what seemed to Clay to be hours later, although he knew it had only been minutes. Quint had something black in his hand that he twisted and turned, obviously trying to get it into the right position on the plastic restraints. Then there was a snapping sound and Quint's hands were free. "Never leave home without it." Quint's lips turned up in the barest of grins.

  "Now what?" Clay asked.

  "Now I get the hell out of the rope, free you, then we take care of Travis and Matty. Luckily the idiot was stupid enough to tie it where I can get to the knot."

  "Hurry," Clay whispered when he heard footsteps pacing back and forth above them.

  "Trying," Quint replied tightly. "Fucking rope's too thick, fucking knot's…" He let out a whoosh of relieved breath and Clay saw the rope fall away. Quint was on his feet seconds later.

  When Quint turned to come over to him, Clay saw his sleeve was soaked with blood. "He shot you?"

  "Yeah. Nothing major." Quint cut the plastic cuffs on Clay's wrists then untied the knot on the rope, saying as he did, "Hold these." He put the ends of the rope in Clay's hands. "The only way we'll get the drop on them is if they think we're still restrained. If we try to get out of here, they'll hear when we kick the door open." He shoved the cut cuffs into his pocket, went back to his chair and sat, pulling the rope around so that he appeared to still be tied up. Giving Clay a steely look, he said, "You don't make a move until I tell you to. Understand? I don't want you shot." He grimaced. "Or me either, when it comes down to it."

  Clay nodded, gripping the rope so tightly his fingers ached. He heard one of their captors unlocking the door at the top of the stairs then Travis and Matty came down to the basement.

  * * * *

  "Now don't the two of you look comfortable," Travis said as he approached Clay. "Did you have a long farewell talk? I hope so, since this will be goodbye for both of you."

  Standing in front of Clay, Travis twined his fingers into Clay's hair, forcing him to look up. Then he bent and kissed him.

  It was all Quint could do not to leap to his feet and coldcock the bastard. He might have if Matty wasn't—by that time—standing next to him, the gun he was holding pressed to Quint's temple.

  "Don't they make a sweet pair?" Matty's voice was gloating as he continued. "Perhaps my brother should take him upstairs and play a bit before we kill him. It would remind Clay of the good times they had together before he callously threw Travis away."

  "The best thing Clay ever did," Quint spat out. Taking a chance, praying it would be worth it, he said softly, "And soon, once you kill us, you can have Travis all to yourself. That's why you're helping him live out his sick fantasy, isn't it? So you can live out your fantasy as his lover."

  That earned Quint a blow across the side of his head with the barrel of Matty's pistol. It hurt like hell, but it did accomplish one thing. The gun was no longer pointed at Quint. Pulling his hands from behind him, he twisted as he grabbed Matty's arm, bringing Matty's gun hand down hard across the back of the metal chair.

  "Travis, help!" Matty screamed, even as his brother turned to see what was happening.

  Clay didn't give Travis a chance to. Using the rope he was holding, he swung it up and over Travis. When it came down to Travis's waist, Clay pulled viciously. Travis stumbled, making a grab for Clay's shoulder. As he did, Clay let go of the rope and brought one fist up, catching Travis dead in his mouth. The man's head snapped back and Clay slashed the edge of his hand across his kidnapper's throat.

  Meanwhile, seeing Clay was doing okay, Quint went on dealing out damage to his own foe. Matty struggled to get free of Quint's grip while trying to reach for the gun that lay on the floor inches away. Quint came to his feet, kicking the gun out of reach. With one swift movement, he brought his knee up into Matty's groin. The resulting howl echoed through the basement as Matty doubled over. Quint's well-placed knee to Matty's chin had the man flying back until he was sprawled on the floor, moaning in pain.

  Quint quickly retrieved the fallen gun and turned to see how Clay was faring. "Not bad," he said when he saw Clay standing over his ex, one foot planted squarely in the center of Travis's chest. Not that Clay needed to do that. It was obvious to Quint that Travis was down for the count.

  "Now we need to call the cops," Clay said shakily. "And maybe tie them up?"

  "Tie up the cops?" Quint asked, chuckling.

  "No, you ass. Tie them up." Clay pointed to Travis and Matty.

  "Will do. You, sit."

  "Stop ordering me around," Clay retorted angrily, even as he sank down onto one of the chairs.

  Quint didn't bother to reply as he was on his phone, thankful Matty had been too lamebrained to take it—or the scarab cutter, when it came down to it. He paused for a moment while telling his lieutenant what had gone down, to ask Clay, "Do you have a clue where we are?"

  "Probably no more than you do. That's what the GPS thing on your phone is for."

  Quint shook his head, muttering "Duh". Then he put the lieutenant on hold, checked, and gave him the address. As soon as he was finished, Quint got the ropes and hogtied Travis and Matty. Afterward, he pulled the other chair close enough to Clay that, when he sat, he could put his arm around his lover.

  "It's over, isn't it?" Clay murmured.

  "All but the shouting, and the trials and the appeals and—"

  Clay put his hand over Quint's mouth. "I did not need to hear that," he grumbled.

  "Then hear this," Quint said after pulling Clay's hand away. "You are a stubborn, cantankerous, reclusive man, and despite all of that, I do not intend
to let you walk out of my life now that this is over. Got it?"

  "Got it," Clay whispered, his expression alight with amazement and disbelief.

  "Good." With that said, Quint kissed him—a tender kiss that quickly escalated to fierce and consuming, as all the fear he'd felt for Clay's safety became a tangible expression of thanks that Clay was here and alive.

  A loud throat-clearing ended the kiss. For a moment Quint went into fight mode, his fists coming up. Then he vaguely remembered hearing sirens moments earlier. He looked over to the foot of the stairs where two patrol officers stood, knowing smiles on their faces.

  "Sorry to intrude," one of them said, "but we got a call that we were supposed to pick up some garbage and take it down to the station for booking."

  "Right over there," Quint replied, pointing to Travis and Matty.

  While the officers escorted Matty from the basement and came back to get Travis, who was still unconscious, Clay stood, rubbing his wrists, and headed up the stairs with Quint right behind him. When they got into the kitchen he stopped, asking Quint, "Why did you have that scarab thing?"

  "I carry plastic cuffs in my car and the cutter with me, so I can un-cuff a prisoner once I get him to the station house." He took out his keyring to show Clay.

  Clay eyed it longingly. "I could use one of those to get rid of the bands they insist on wrapping around the boxes of supplies I get mail-ordered from my supplier."

  Quint shook his head, amused at his comment. "Only you. We were kidnapped, fought our way to freedom—well, more or less—and all you can think about is an easier way to open a box of brushes or whatever."

  "Better than thinking of what could have happened if you hadn't had that thing."

  "We'd have made it out somehow," Quint said firmly, giving Clay a quick hug. "Like I said, I want you in my life, so we had to come out on top."

  "Detective Hawk, do you two need a ride back to the precinct?" one of the officers asked, coming into the kitchen.

  "Thanks, but no," Quint replied going into cop mode. "I have to get the CSI team out here and I'll do a walk-through while we're waiting. I need to know if the Nelsons were actually living here or if they just took advantage of the place if it's vacant at the moment." He turned to Clay. "I'll need to get a full statement from you. We can do it now or they can take you back with them and I'll do it when I get there."

  "Now is fine. Then I can call a cab and go home, but not before you get someone to look at your arm."

  Quint glanced at it, momentarily surprised to see the blood on his sleeve. With everything that had happened since Matty had shot him, he'd totally forgotten about it. "I will," he promised. "As soon as I'm finished here."

  "Better," Clay muttered. "So, grill me, copper."

  With a laugh, Quint did.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Clay's ride home in the cab was an exercise in trying to ignore all his aches and pains. As soon as he was in the loft with the door locked and bolted and the security system armed, he headed into the bedroom where he stripped off the clothes he'd been wearing. He debated trashing them, as they might remind him of everything that had happened. Deciding that was foolish, he dumped them in the hamper in the bathroom then took a shower. As the hot water soothed him, his mind went from what had happened to what Quint had said.

  Does he really mean it? Does he really want me in his life? Do I want him in mine? Am I willing to take a chance again? So far I've been batting zero for two in my choice of men. If I blow this one, it'll be strike three and out.

  But if I let him walk away… If I go back to my near-monastic existence… Will I spend the rest of my life regretting that I didn't take one more chance? A chance with a man who will make my life exciting, I suspect—something it never has been. It's not as if he'll be here twenty-four seven. Hell, talk about making plans that neither of us have even broached. He might not want to live with me. He might just want to be with me when we both have the time. When he's not working and I'm willing to give stop painting for a few hours. He's not Travis. He won't hover or get pissed if I tell him I have to finish a commission or a canvas for the gallery.

  The water was turning cold by then and, shivering, Clay shut it off, toweled dry, and went back to the bedroom. He got out a pair of old sweatpants, put them on then padded barefoot to the kitchen to make something to eat. He wondered how he could be hungry until he looked at the time.

  "How the hell did it get to be seven fifteen? Last I remember checking it was only noon. How time flies when you're being kidnapped and threatened with death, or worse."

  "What's worse than death?" Quint asked from the doorway to the loft.

  "God damn it," Clay said, spinning around. "You scared the hell out of me. How did you get in?"

  Quint dangled the keys from one finger. "You gave these to me…and the security code. Remember?"

  "Oh. Yeah. I guess I did."

  "Fixing dinner?" Quint asked, coming into the kitchen.

  Instead of replying immediately, Clay looked him over. Quint was now wearing a T-shirt so the bandage on his arm stood out in stark contrast to his tanned skin. There was another bandage on the side of his head where Matty had hit him with his gun. Clay suspected there was more damage he wasn't seeing.

  "Clay? Dinner?"

  "Dinner. Yeah. I haven't decided what yet."

  "Then how about we order in? It's been a hell of a day and we both need to decompress."

  "I… Sure. From where?"

  Quint took out his phone, scrolled through the possibilities and said, "How do you feel about Indian, or…" He looked thoughtfully at Clay then said, "Nope. Go get dressed. There's a place not too far from here you haven't tried."

  "I doubt there's any restaurant in the neighborhood I haven't been to."

  With a knowing smile, Quint told him, "Just get dressed. Something casual."

  "Considering what you have on, I'd say that was a given." Clay went to change, coming back wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals. After turning off the lights and locking up, he and Quint headed out.

  Ten minutes later Clay said, "Are you sure there's a restaurant around here? As far as I recall, it's all homes and apartment buildings this close to Cheesman Park."

  Quint just grinned before taking a right turn. Halfway down the block he pulled into a parking space in front of small brick house. "We have arrived."

  It only took a second for Clay to figure out the house had to be Quint's. "So we're trading my cooking for yours?" he asked dryly as they got out of the car.

  "Yep, because I wanted you to see where I live."

  The first thing Clay noticed when they walked inside, was the aroma of barbeque sauce. He rounded on Quint, saying, "You had this planned even before you came over to my place. Why didn't you just say so?"

  Quint shrugged, although his worried expression belied the casual gesture. "I was afraid if I did, you might say no," he admitted.

  "So you had to play games. I should be pissed you thought that was necessary."

  "And I should apologize for doing it. I'm usually more direct when I want something."

  "That you are," Clay agreed drolly. "You have the whole 'bossy' thing down pat. I suppose it comes with being a cop. So, are you going to show me around or do I just get to stand here salivating over the…barbequed beef, I presume."

  "Pulled pork actually. And yeah, I'll give you the guided tour. It's nothing fancy, just the living room"—Quint waved his arm around before crossing to the arch at the far end—"the dining room," he said when Clay joined him, "and the kitchen." He pointed.

  The furnishings were older, Clay noted, so he asked, "Did some of these belong to your family?"

  "Yeah, the dining room set did. The things in the living room are just pieces I've accumulated over the years. The same with what's upstairs."

  "Which you're going to show me as well?"

  "Sure. Come on."

  There were stairs in a hallway off to the left of the dining room. When they got to t
he top, Clay saw three doors. They opened onto a well-appointed bathroom, a small room that was Quint's office, and a fairly large bedroom they entered last.

  "Not bad," Clay commented, looking around. There was a queen-sized bed, a maple dresser and matching nightstand, and a small table under the window. A book sat open, facedown, on the nightstand. Curious, Clay checked it out. "Not quite my idea of bedtime reading," he said with a laugh, since the title was Techniques of Crime Scene Investigation.

  With a grin, Quint replied, "I outgrew The Hardy Boys years ago."

  "Smart ass," Clay muttered before asking, "Is dinner ready? I'm about to faint from hunger." Not that he really was, but standing in Quint's bedroom next to the very sexy detective was beginning to give him ideas that had nothing to do with barbeque pork.

  "Should be."

  "What if I'd said no to our eating out and insisted that I cook dinner?" Clay wanted to know as they went downstairs. "You'd have come home to a charred mess."

  "You have heard of crockpots, right?"

  "Okay, point made."

  While he finished getting everything ready, Quint asked Clay to set the dining room table. Soon they were digging into what Clay told Quint was probably the best food he'd had in ages. The meal ended with slices of pecan pie that Quint readily admitted he hadn't made. "Baking is not my forte."

  After doing the dishes, they took their coffees out to the backyard, which contained a small patio and a miniscule vegetable garden.

  "Very peaceful," Clay said with a contented sigh, leaning back in one of the wicker lounge chairs.

  "It helps keep me sane when things get too stressful."

  "I suspect that happens a lot with your job."

  Quint nodded. "Sometimes I wonder why I do it. Then I meet someone like you and I know why." Clay wasn't quite certain how to take that. It must have shown in his expression because Quint quickly added, "I mean someone who's being preyed on through no fault of their own." He reached over to take Clay's hand. "Trust me. I do not fall into bed with every person whose case I work on. If I did, I'd have no time for a real life."