Broken Arrow, Oklahoma,
in the Tulsa suburbs
I should feel something more, Mike thought, as he squeezed one eye closed and pressed the other against the scope. Some twinge of reluctance, or regret. A tightening in my gut, a chill at the base of my spine. A tingling beneath the short hairs on the back of my neck. But…
All he felt was the strong and unmitigated desire to complete his mission, to do what he had come to do.
If the man would just come a little closer to the window, I could blow his head off, he mused. And would. With pleasure.
Major Mike Morelli of the Tulsa PD Homicide Division pulled his eye away from the reticle and wiped his brow. The world was a different place, viewed through a sniperscope. After three hours of micro-scrutinizing the apartment walls, the windows, the shadowy figures that passed just out of range, he saw everything from a new perspective. It was all deceptively larger, closer, and, as a result, it conveyed an urgency that Mike was having difficulty subduing. He wanted those bastards so badly. If he could rip out their jugulars with his teeth, he would.
The cloud cover barely allowed the sun passage. Here on the street, behind the barricade, there was a distinct coolness in the air, one Mike felt in the marrow of his bones. He had not expected this sort of weather and had not dressed for it. Even his trademark trench coat, a carryover from his younger days when he thought it gave him the stature and credibility his youthful face did not, was insufficient to warm him. It was a gloomy Oklahoma day, the perfect mirror for what he was feeling inside.
With something between a grunt and a sigh, Mike returned his eye to the scope and prayed for a clear shot. C’mon, Mr. Kidnapper, give me a chance. Come to the window for a breath of fresh air, just a tiny bit closer. I’ll give you a view you’ll never forget.
“Move back!” a man shouted from the darkness of the apartment, his electronically amplified voice sounding more desperate with each word. “Move back or I kill the kid!”
He’d been shouting like that off and on since the siege began, always frenzied, always violent, and always just out of range.
“I mean it! If you’re not on the other side of the street in one minute, I’ll ventilate him!”
Mike heard the personal radios surrounding him crackle to life, and a few moments later they were all moving back. Again. Hour twelve of the Sequoyah Heights siege. Progress made: zero.
Mike’s finger rested ever so gingerly on the trigger guard, never past the safety. But if he thought he had a shot, he’d pull that trigger so fast the SOT team and their professional sharpshooters wouldn’t know what happened. He knew he could do it. He could sense the electricity surging through the stock into his shoulder. He could feel the cold steel and smell the leather strap. He had the power of life and death in his hands. But the only part that interested him at the moment was death. He wanted to pull that trigger so badly. Just give me half a chance, he murmured to himself. Just half a chance.
“Are you checked out for that weapon, Major?”
Mike eased away from the rifle, laying it on its side. Party’s over.
“Yes, Special Agent Swift, I am. As a matter of fact, I’m checked out for about every kind of weapon there is. But I was only using the scope to surveil the apartment.” And if you believe that…
“Just making sure. Don’t want any screwups on my watch.”
Her watch? When the hell did this become her watch? That was the problem with Feebies-one of several. They couldn’t cross the street without trying to take charge.
“Our first priority is getting that little boy out alive,” Mike reminded her.
“I’m well aware of that,” Agent Swift replied. She was a petite but strong woman, Mike observed, not for the first time. Dark hair, an almost perfect match to her turtleneck. Gun holstered by shoulder strap, visible when her jacket pulled back. She managed to bring off that no-nonsense, don’t-mess-with-me look without suggesting that she had an ax to grind. “But if one of my men gets a shot at one of the kidnappers, I can damn well guarantee we’re going to take it.”
“Good to know. Of course I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”
She gave him a long look. “I’ve always prided myself on my ability to work cooperatively with local law enforcement.” Mike had to grin, both because he knew that was a crock, and because for a moment he was certain she was going to say, “I’ve always depended upon the kindness of strangers.” Swift had come from the Chicago office of the Bureau, but she was originally from the Deep South-an Alabama girl, if he recalled correctly. Mike loved the accent-a pleasant change from the unenunciated drawl you got in Oklahoma the closer you moved to the Texas border. “That’s why you’re here. I wanted to keep the locals involved, but I can’t have you endangering the success of my operation with any hotdog stunts.”
Mike peered at her credulously. “Where would you ever get the idea I might try some hotdog stunts?”
“From everyone who knows you. Including Chief of Police Blackwell.”
Damn him, anyway. Whose side was he on?
“I also know you’re not so crazy about working with FBI agents. I heard what happened during the Lombardi case, so I guess you’ve got your reasons, but I still-”
“You still won’t let me endanger the success of your operation. I got that, Special Agent. I’ll keep my nose clean.”
“Until we catch the kidnappers. Afterward…” She cocked her head to one side. “You can try anything you want.”
Now what was that supposed to mean? he wondered, as he watched her move down the line and start in on one of the snipers. Was this FBI agent flirting with him? That would be a gross impropriety. And darned flattering.
He stood and buttoned his rumpled coat around his forty-four-inch chest. All of a sudden he was glad he’d dropped that postsmoking weight. Those trips to the gym might’ve been worth it, too.
But he didn’t need any distractions at the moment, or anything confusing his feelings. Eyes on the prize, he told himself. First we take down the pond scum in that apartment. He surveyed the phalanx of men surrounding him on the street, as well as the similar lineup on the rooftop of the office building just behind. Even if he didn’t particularly care to acknowledge it, Swift had done a first-rate job organizing this detail. She had everyone in place and ready to roll. There was no way those child-abusing monsters were going to escape this net. It was just a matter of time, a thought which filled him with a strange warmth. If only there was some way to accelerate the process.
Off to the left, he spotted two familiar faces moving in his direction.
“Stand at attention, Special Agent,” he said, raising his voice so she could hear. “The parents.”
Two well-dressed adults arrived at about the same time she did. The man was wearing a tailored suit and a starched white shirt. The woman wore a dark dress and clutched a DK handbag. At first blush, Mike read the man as angry, which meant guilt-ridden, and read the woman as angry, which meant terrified. But he supposed he could be wrong. He had been wrong before. Once.
“I’m Harrison Metzger. Which one of you is in charge?”
“I am,” they both answered, Swift, because she was, and Mike, because he had the irresistible urge to give her ego a tweak. They exchanged a pointed look.
“I’m a homicide detective for Tulsa PD,” Mike explained. “I’m in charge of the homicide case. This is Special Agent Swift with the FBI’s Child Abduction Task Force. She’s in charge of the kidnapping case.”
Metzger turned to Agent Swift. They always went to the Fed, Mike noted. The Oklahoma inferiority complex. Anyone from out of town had to be smarter than a local. “I want to know what’s being done to save my son. Looks to me like you’re all just sitting around on your asses.”
To her credit, Swift remained unruffled but not unsympathetic. “Mr. Metzger-”
“Dr. Metzger.”
“Doctor,” she corrected. “I’ve had my public relations liaison brief you every hour. I think you know everything we do. We’re waiting for an opportunity-”
“Who are these people, anyway?”
“The kidnappers? We don’t know their names. We believe there are four of them, working together. The one who keeps speaking into the bullhorn is obviously male. The others, we’re not sure.”
“I don’t understand why this is taking so long. You know where my boy is. Go in and get him!”
“Sir, I can assure you that-”
“Before, your excuse was that you didn’t know where they were. Now you’ve got them surrounded, and you’re still not doing anything!”
Mrs. Metzger stayed a safe distance behind her husband. Mike had the sense that she was embarrassed by her husband’s tirade, but she knew better than to interfere.
“We don’t think it would be prudent to storm the apartment. We know they’re armed-”
“Aren’t your people armed?”
“Of course.”
“So what’s the problem? Show some balls, girl.”
Agent Swift paused barely a beat before responding. “Sir, I can assure you that when the time is right for action, we will take it. But at the moment, our top priority is getting your son out safely, which means avoiding, if possible, an exchange of fire that might endanger-”
“This is what happens when you put a woman in charge.” He shifted his gaze to Mike. “Is there something you can do, Major?”
“I’m just here to support Agent Swift, sir. Whether you realize it or not, she’s playing this by the book. And doing a first-rate job of it.”
“Do you people know how long my son has been their captive?” His confrontational mask cracked a fraction. “There’s no telling what… what they might have done to him!”
“I understand your concern, Mr. Metzger-”
“Dr. Metzger.”
Mike drew in his breath. The man was a Ph.D., which, to his mind, barely counted and certainly didn’t justify constant correction. But this was not the time to digress. “Dr. Metzger, from the start, we have moved as quickly as possible. And that hasn’t changed. But what’s most important is that we get Tommy out alive. Remember, the ransom demand came in almost immediately, and you paid it according to their directions. We have no reason to believe the boy has been molested.”
That, of course, was a lie, statistically speaking, anyway. As Mike knew all too well, more than 90 percent of all noncustody-related child kidnappings involved some form of molestation. But in most cases the child turned up again relatively soon, after the kidnapper had taken what he wanted. When the child was held for longer than twenty-four hours, the statistics became far more grim. Less than 50 percent of those kids ever made it home again.
Tommy Metzger had been gone for eight days.
“What about poison gas?” Metzger continued. “What about a flamethrower? I want those men laid low! I want them to pay for what they’ve done to my family!”
On the other side of the street, Mike saw that a minicam reporter had spotted them and was recording the whole scene. Probably had one of those ultrapowerful spy mikes that can pick up conversations from miles away. Odds were this argument would be rehashed on the six o’clock news.
This case had been big news from the outset, from the moment one of the kidnappers grabbed eight-year-old Tommy Metzger outside his Tulsa private school. Mike had worked many a big case since he’d started with the force, but this one was something else again. The combination of the father’s prominence and wealth-in addition to teaching, he had penned a series of best-selling books- the cruelty of the snatch, captured on video by a parent coming out of a dance recital, and the photogenic qualities of the abductee, made this case an instant media sensation. All the national news agencies were carrying it; posters featuring Tommy’s face had blanketed the country. Every night, the evening newscasters updated the case-and if there was nothing to update, they reviewed what had gone before, usually rescreening the amateur video footage that had propelled the crime to the forefront. The initial snatch had been botched and the kidnappers had ended up killing the kid’s nanny, thus turning it into a homicide and bringing it into Mike’s bailiwick. It was the ransom-1.5 million in cold, hard cash-that had allowed the Feds to trace the kidnappers. A homing device sewn into the bag had led them to this apartment in the Tulsa suburbs. Their first approach had been subtle. Two agents disguised as UPS men knocked on the front door. Somehow, though, the kidnappers made them and started firing. Swift then moved in the troops, and ten minutes later the siege had begun. Everyone’s worst fear was that if the situation escalated, the kidnappers would become desperate and kill the kid.
If they hadn’t already.
Metzger’s anger was reaching a bitter crescendo. “Lady, you may not understand how influential I am in this community. I know people. Lots of powerful people. And if you don’t do something fast to save my boy, you’re gonna end up with your tit in a wringer!”
To Mike’s amazement, Special Agent Swift smiled. “Sir, I know you’re concerned about your son. I don’t blame you. But if you don’t stop interfering with my operation, I will be forced to have you removed from the premises. For your son’s safety. And yours.”
Mike almost whistled in admiration as the father stomped away, mother clinging close behind.
“Man,” Mike said, “you handled that brilliantly.”
Swift shrugged. “If handling kidnappers was as easy as handling parents, this would’ve been over a long time ago.”
“I would’ve been tempted to escort Metzger to the floor. With my fist.”
“Oh, he wasn’t really angry. He was riddled with guilt, venting on me as an avoidance mechanism. He and his wife are separated, you know. He’s moved in with some hot young number in Glenpool. Future trophy wife. Metzger hasn’t seen the kid in weeks.”
“Really?” In fact, Mike hadn’t known that.
“The mother is only marginally more attentive. My investigators tell me the one the kid was close to was the nanny.”
“And now she’s gone.”
“Yeah.” There was a slow release of air from between her lips. “And Tommy knows it, too, since he saw a bullet enter her neck.”
Mike winced.
“Metzger’s concerns about Tommy’s well-being are utterly reasonable, all things considered. The kidnappers intentionally chose the son-not the wife, not the girlfriend. They wanted the boy. And they’ve had him for more than a week.” Her voice faded. “And now they must be realizing they’re going to get caught-possibly killed-no matter what they do…”
Mike swore silently. His eyes returned to the fifth-story window and the dark shadows that flickered elusively across it. “Special Agent Swift, much as I hate to agree with Metzger, we’ve got to get that kid out of there. Soon.”
“I also agree, Major,” she said, following his gaze, “but I won’t do something stupid just to be doing something.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Same as before. We watch and wait. Until our opportunity comes. Then we take it.”
Mike had almost given up hope that the situation could be resolved tonight. Darkness had fallen with no improvement, not in the hostage situation, and not in Mike’s soul. Just as the gloom of the day had mirrored his inner state before, so the darkness that now enveloped them seemed altogether appropriate. Swift had ordered all illumination kept to a bare minimum; the less reflective light bouncing around, the better the chance that one of her snipers might eventually get a clear shot. The kidnappers weren’t talking and weren’t budging. In short, the siege was going nowhere. Mike had even reluctantly called his friend Ben Kincaid with the unhappy news that he’d have to watch tonight’s Xena rerun alone. This standoff showed no signs of resolving itself anytime soon.
Until Agent Swift’s cell phone started playing the theme from Dragnet.
“So what’s the story?” Mike asked, after she clamped her Nokia shut.
“They’re offering to release the kid.”
Mike’s eyebrow rose. He did not smile.
“They want safe passage. An armored truck to get them to the airport, then a flight to New York that can refuel and continue on to the Netherlands.”
“The Netherlands,” Mike repeated. “Child porn capital of the universe.”
“They say they’ll leave Tommy somewhere safe and give us his location as soon as they’re out of the country.”
Neither of them spoke for a long while.
“You think they’ve already killed him?” Mike asked, finally.
“Not yet. I talked to him, just for a moment. But it’s obvious they plan to. They can’t let him identify them, especially now that it’s a murder case. They’ll take him in the truck, slash his throat, and dump him somewhere he won’t be discovered until they’re safely in Amsterdam.”
“What’d’you tell them?”
“That we’d do it, of course. Assistant Director Blanchard was hovering over my shoulder the whole time. My orders are to comply with their demands in every respect. To take no aggressive action.”
“Which means…”
“Yeah. But the Bureau won’t be to blame. If we marched in all Waco-style and it went bad, the press would crucify us.”
Mike let everything she was saying-and everything she was not saying-sink in. “So we’ve got?…”
She was staring at her watch. “Twenty-eight minutes.”
“Are you going to move in?”
“Blanchard says no.”
“If we let that kid get in the truck, he’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“Any chance your superiors would authorize a small incursion? Like maybe two people?”
“None.”
They looked at each other.
“You got a plan?” he said finally.
“Damn straight.”
Mike checked the magazine in his gun. Fully loaded. “Let’s go.”
Using the darkness to their advantage, Mike and Agent Swift crouched and ran to the apartment building, weaving a serpentine trail through the back alleys. They avoided the street lamps and stayed out of the view of the kidnappers’ sole window. Through the sniperscope, Mike had noticed there was a fire escape ladder that hung down the north wall of the complex. It was the only feasible approach. The kidnappers had decommissioned the elevators and were watching the stairs.
“I don’t know how we get into the room without being seen,” Swift whispered, as she followed him up the ladder.
“I was thinking we’d use you as a decoy. You are wearing Kevlar, right?”
“But seriously.”
Above them, Mike heard glass being shattered.
“Duck!”
All around them, shards of glass from a windowpane descended in a dangerous crystalline rainfall. But that was not the worst of their problems. A moment later, the glass was supplanted by bullets.
Mike leapt off the ladder onto the fourth-story landing and pressed up against the wall.
“Over here!” he shouted.
Another flurry of gunfire rang out. Swift rolled to the edge of the landing and took cover under the eaves. They stood shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks to see where the shots were coming from. A few moments later, the section of the fire escape stretching from the fourth to the fifth floor descended with an ear-shattering clang.
“Damnation,” Mike swore. “They removed the bolts.”
“So quickly?”
“Must’ve known we were coming. But how? It’s dark. We were quiet.”
“They might have night-vision specs. Maybe there are more of them than we realized.” She examined the ladder, now barely stretching beyond the ceiling level of the fourth floor. “Think you can reattach it?”
“From up there? Sure. From down here? No way.” Mike raised his hand and pointed. “See that window?”
She followed his finger to a point about five feet above them and to the left. “Looks like a hallway.”
“Whatever. It can’t be far from their room. We can crawl through the window, knock down the door, and find our kidnappers. And the boy.”
“How do we get the window open?”
“Since they’re onto us, I see no reason to be subtle.” He whipped out his trusty Sig Sauer and fired three rounds. The window shattered. “We’ve got to hurry.”
Swift was peering overhead. “That must be five feet, up to that window landing.”
Mike nodded. “I can make it.”
“And about thirty feet down.”
“And your point is?”
“Don’t miss.”
“Thanks, I won’t.” He sidestepped to the edge of the landing.
She grabbed his arm. “What about the gunfire?”
“I think I should try to avoid it.”
She tugged at his shirt. “No, I’ll go.”
“This was my crazy idea.”
“I’m lighter. I’m much more likely to make it.”
“There’s no way I’m letting-”
“Back off, Morelli. I’m in charge here.” She crouched down, ready to spring. “Give me a boost.”
“But I-”
“That’s an order, Major!”
There was no time to argue. Mike cupped his hands together. Swift inserted her right boot, grabbed the wall, and let him lift her up. She stepped onto his shoulders and jumped.
Mike grimaced as he saw her hands slap down on the jagged edge of the window. That had to hurt, but to her credit, she wasn’t complaining. She pulled herself through, then reemerged headfirst.
“No sign of them. Push up the ladder.”
Mike did as instructed. Swift hooked the edges over the top rail, and a moment later, they were both on the fifth floor. Mike raced down the hallway and kicked in the front door. “Police! Freeze!”
He crouched and swung into the room, gun extended, and did a quick sweep. He went off to the right toward the bedroom, while Swift moved into the kitchenette.
No one was there.
“All clear.”
“What about in the back?”
Together, they ran through the main living room and found another door in the rear. They could hear voices.
“FBI!” Swift barked. “Hands up! Nobody move!”
She kicked in the door and led the way. She took high left; he took low right.
The voices they had heard were coming from the television. Cartoon Network, if Mike wasn’t mistaken. There was no one there.
No one except Tommy Metzger.
Agent Swift ran to the boy’s side. “Don’t worry, son. We’re the police. We’re here to take you home.”
For the first time, the boy looked away from the television. He was holding a soda and a half-eaten Twinkie. “Go away!”
Swift blinked. “Don’t be afraid, Tommy. You’re safe now. Where did the bad men go?”
“They’re my friends! Leave them alone!”
Mike sighed heavily. He was disappointed, but not surprised. It had been eight days. Stockholm Syndrome was a foreseeable consequence. “I’ll finish securing the apartment.” It didn’t take long, given the size of the place. There were lots of traces of people-empty pizza boxes, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, even a toothbrush. But no people.
When he returned to the living room, Mike saw that Agent Swift had turned off the television, sending the boy into a rage. “You can’t tell me what to do! Where are my friends?”
The worst of it was Mike knew the boy’s reaction increased the likelihood that he had been molested. Unlike rapists, who committed sexual crimes out of anger or sadism, pedophiles typically had genuine feelings for their victims. Rather than forcing themselves, they tried to seduce their victims with presents and favors and promises of love. A boy like Tommy, who probably felt neglected by his own parents, was an easy mark. The pedophile had easily won his love and devotion, probably awakening erotic feelings in the boy for the first time. Tommy would be in therapy for a good long stretch, sorting out his confusion and guilt.
“Please don’t make me go home! Please!”
“I covered the apartment,” Mike said. “No sign of the kidnappers.”
Swift pulled out her walkie-talkie. “Sierra One. Do you have the perps in sight?”
“Negative. We have nothing.”
She tried all the other sniper stations. No one had seen anything.
“How can that be?” She gave the order to move in. Less than fifteen minutes later the FBI team had covered the entire building, most of which had already been evacuated. There were no traces of the criminals-or the ransom money. It was almost an hour before they located the inside door in the basement laundry room, which led to a subterranean passage from that basement to an adjacent one in the apartment complex on the opposite side of the block.
“Damn!” Swift said, banging her fist against the wall. “I can’t believe I let them get away!”
“It’s not your fault,” Mike said.
“The worst of it is, my perimeter snipers might’ve seen them leave an hour ago. But before we made our move, I pulled everyone in tight so they’d be sure to be caught after we flushed them out.”
“You did the best you could,” Mike said, trying to console her, when in truth he was just as disappointed as she was, if not more. He didn’t like to see anyone escape-but child snatchers? It made him sick to his stomach.
The parents had rushed to their boy, but Tommy didn’t want to be with them, and the Feds insisted on immediately beginning the painful process of debriefing him, trying to find out what little he remembered about his abductors and learning all the grisly details about his week in captivity. So far, Tommy was saying no physical abuse had occurred, but Mike knew the kid could just be keeping it all locked up inside. It might take several days, even weeks, before they learned the truth.
“Thanks for your help, Morelli,” Swift said, as she started toward her car. “Sorry it didn’t work out better.”
“It isn’t over yet,” he replied, and he meant it. He was not going to let these people roam free. Not in his town-not anywhere. He would not stop searching. He would hunt them relentlessly. He would follow every lead, every possibility. He would catch those miserable perverts no matter what it took.
Evanston, Illinois,
near the Phillips College campus
Fourteen miles north of Chicago
“Which one do you think is the cop?” Shelly asked.
Tony surveyed the entire bar-stools, tables, dance floor, TV monitors, pool tables. “Hard to say. What do you think?”
Shelly tilted her head. “See the guy at Table Two? I think it’s him.”
“Why him? I see several new faces in the bar tonight. The woman with the black leather fixation. The two nerds dancing the Batusi.”
She shook her head. “Nope. Table Two.”
“Because he’s wearing a tie?”
“Because he has food stains on his tie. Also, check out the socks. They don’t match.”
“And that makes him a cop?”
“Who else would have such poor personal habits?”
“Oh, anyone single. Which would be everyone in this bar.”
“People coming to a singles bar hoping to hook up with someone are going to doll themselves up. Including guys. Only someone working undercover would wear those socks. I mean, one of them is argyle, for God’s sake. The other is a sweat sock. They’re not even close.”
Tony relented. Shelly was an astute judge of humanity; that was why he put her behind the bar. “Maybe you’re right. But I’ve got my eyes on one of the guys next to the dance floor. Table Ten.”
“Which one?”
“The blonde.”
“You’re saying he’s the cop? Or you’re just saying you have your eye on him?”
Tony smiled. “How well you know me.”
Shelly was, as Tony’s mother was fond of saying, cute as a bug. Barely five feet tall-she had to stand on a box to reach the glasses hanging over the bar. She had a pert, trim figure, and an effervescent personality that patrons loved. It was more than just her personal adorableness-even Tony loved to watched her work as she darted from one station to the next, working three mixed drinks simultaneously and getting them all exactly right. He loved it when she pumped the Bass Ale spigot; it made a pneumatic hissing noise that reminded him of the elevator brakes in the Sears Tower. Shelly was good, and he wasn’t the only one who knew it. Some of the regulars dropped by Remote Control just to see her. One of his very first actions when he became manager was making her head bartender for the after-work shift. Drink sales rose dramatically.
Decisions like that were what put Tony where he was today. Not that managing a near-campus singles bar was going to rival Supreme Court justice as one of the country’s most desirable jobs. But given where he had come from, what he’d had to overcome to get to this point, he felt pretty good about it. The bar was thriving, and he liked to think he’d played some small part in that success, since the whole place was his idea.
He’d spent the whole evening trying to keep a smile on his face, but the truth was all these rumors about undercover narcs were worrying him. Even if there was nothing to it, the gossip alone could put a serious dent in their business. And that caused him considerable concern.
He tried to shrug it off, but there was a heaviness settling in, fogging his brain, that he couldn’t quite shake loose. It was nothing tangible or rational-but it was there, just the same. Like a shadow hovering over his shoulder. A pervasive uneasiness he couldn’t talk himself out of, since he didn’t know what was causing it. He’d had black patches before; they were always there, always lurking, the enemy within. He had tried to conquer them, without success. He thought he’d mastered the situation, but even that seemed in doubt, what with everything going on at the bar, at school. With Roger.
He knew it was foolish to take everything that happened here so personally. Mario owned the place, not him. But he was its creator. He couldn’t help having some paternal feelings, weird as that was. To him, this job was one long party. And he needed that party. Needed it to remind himself that he was happy. No matter what happened. Happy, happy, happy.
Remote Control was particularly crowded tonight. All the bar stools were filled and there was a half-hour wait for a table. All for the good. The bar was more fun when it was packed, more alive. The rich dark oak fixtures gave the place an Old World feel-in direct conflict with the ambience suggested by all the high-tech gadgetry. The decor was full of contradictions, and Tony embraced them all. He loved it here.
“I’ve got two Coronas headed to your blond boytoy’s table,” Shelly said, sliding the tray toward him. “I know you executive types don’t normally perform manual labor, but-”
“I’ll take it.”
Tony checked himself in the mirror behind the bar. Sandy blond locks, bangs dangling over one eye the way he liked them. Could you tell he’d been working out? I mean, he could tell, but could anyone else? Like the blond guy at Table Ten?
“Two Coronas for the gentlemen,” Tony announced as he lowered the tray. “As ordered.”
The two men, one fair, the other darker in complexion, sat at opposite ends of the table. They were both young-probably college students. Not Phillips, though-more likely Northwestern. Perhaps even University of Chicago. They were doing their best to act earthy, but it wasn’t convincing. Like Bertie and Jeeves trying to do American Pie. Their perfectly creased chinos and perfectly unscuffed Doc Martens told the true tale. It was part of the John D. Rockfeller legacy to the University of Chicago -in addition to the pseudo-Oxfordian architecture that never quite worked. Phillips students were just townies by comparison.
“Somethin’ goin’ on tonight?” the darker of the two asked.
Tony flashed his brightest smile. “There’s always something going on in Evanston, gentlemen. Beaches, boutiques, art galleries-just depends on what you’re looking for.”
The blond guy smiled. “Ain’t that the truth.” What teeth. What a smile. What a way with words. Tony’s heart did flip-flops just looking at him.
“Thought I saw you lookin’ around,” his companion said. “You and the chick behind the bar.”
“There’s a rumor goin’ around that an undercover cop is haunting some of the local bars. Probably a crock, but we were trying to guess who the cop might be.”
“So that’s all it was?”
“Yeah. Why?”
His blond friend grinned. “Brett thought you was givin’ him the eye.”
They both looked at him. All at once, Tony felt like an amoeba in a science experiment. Were these guys gay, too? Was that why they were asking, because they were interested? Or just the opposite? He knew better than to assume gayness just because two guys hung out together. Especially when the frats were on the prowl. But it was so hard to know, even now when he was well out of the closet. Some of his gay buddies said they could always tell if another guy was gay, like they had some kind of biological radar. Tony didn’t believe it. In any case, even if that did exist somewhere, the radar fairy hadn’t brought him any. He never knew, and had learned to play it cool until he was certain.
“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Just trying to spot the cop.”
The blond man laughed. “Well, that’s good. Brett here thought maybe you were a faggot.”
Tony felt his blood turn to ice. “Here’s the tab. If you need anything more, just wave at one of the waitresses.”
The darker man was still staring at him. Even as Tony turned and walked away, he could feel those eyes bearing down on him. He positioned himself behind the bar, not so much to help Shelly as for the sense of security it offered. Putting a big block of oak between himself and Table Ten.
“Problem?” Shelly asked.
“No. Nothing.” He was suddenly aware that his hands were shaking. What a fool he was. “I’ll be in my office. Tell Mario if he comes back.”
“All right. I’m almost through. Phoebe’s taking over.” Shelly’s large round eyes brightened. “Got me a date tonight.”
“Have a good evening. Don’t get too crazy.”
“I’ll try to keep my panties on.”
“And Shelly?”
“Yeah?”
He winked. “You were right. Definitely the guy with the socks.”
I can’t begin to know what the future holds for me. But I do know that…
When he was finished, Tony shook his wrists, working out a cramp. He caught a glimpse of the clock over the door.
Good grief! He’d been writing in his journal for more than two hours. Mario wouldn’t be happy about that-if he found out. He’d only intended to sit down for a minute or two, but once he started writing, the words just flew. Something inside him was desperate to get out, he supposed. Two hours! That was a novel, not a diary entry. And he hadn’t even mentioned his latest problem, the one that was weighing heaviest on his mind. And his conscience.
He pushed out of his chair and stretched. He’d never figured himself for the diary type. Had tried to keep one once before-and rarely wrote more than a line or two before bed. He gave it up after a month. But since he’d started keeping a journal on his laptop, all that had changed. Somehow it was easier with a keyboard. Must have something to do with the male infatuation with gadgetry. Whatever the cause, he’d managed to keep the journal going for more than two years now, since his eighteenth birthday, and that was in addition to managing this bar full-time and taking classes at Phillips part-time.
“Tony?”
He looked up. It was Phoebe, the on-duty bartender. “Phone call for you on Line One.”
“Why don’t you take a message and I’ll-”
“It’s Shelly.”
He nodded, finished what he was writing, then reached for the phone. He adored Shelly, but he was aware she’d been having some… problems of late. He’d have to be blind not to have noticed. What he didn’t know was what it was all about. She hadn’t confided in him, at least not yet, but he had a strong feeling that she wanted to. Perhaps this was the time…
“Hello?”
At first, he thought she was laughing at him, but it didn’t take long to realize how wrong he was. That wasn’t laughter. Just the opposite. She was trying to speak, but her words were broken and convulsed by tears.
Less than five minutes later, Tony was outside the bar. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself. It was still cold and wet, typical Illinois spring. Not bad, but just chilly enough to require a coat. Just enough wet that he had to watch for puddles as he crossed the dark asphalt parking lot. He spotted his Volkswagen bug and began fumbling in his satchel for his keys.
“Lookit that purse. I told you he was a queer.”
Tony froze.
“Nice purse, faggot. Got a lipstick in there?”
Tony tried to keep his voice even. “It’s a satchel. Like a backpack. I carry my schoolbooks-”
“Check out the limp wrist.” The two men from Table Ten emerged from the shadows of the parking lot. “Disgusting. Faggot car, too.”
Tony tore through his bag, desperately searching for those keys. “Look, boys, I don’t want any trouble.”
The dark man came closer. “I saw the way you were looking at me. I know what you were thinking, too. Sick’ning, that’s what it was. Flaming queen, coming on to me in public, in front of my friends.”
“I didn’t mean anything.” Tony’s heart was racing. Was anyone else in the parking lot? If he shouted, would they hear it inside the bar?
The dark man kept coming. “I know what you wanted, you butt-fucking pervert. Well, I’m gonna give you something a little different.”
Tony threw back his shoulders. “Look, asshole, if you have some idea that because I’m gay, I’ll be your punching bag, you got it wrong. I’ve studied Tae Kwon Do and I am one mean mofo, so the smartest thing you could do is just leave me alone.”
The dark man laughed. “Listen to him, Johnny. The little cocksucker thinks he’s tough. Gonna use his sissy boy kung fu on us.” He laughed again, slow and ugly. “I’m quaking in my boots.”
“We have security here,” Tony lied. “All I have to do is yell.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure you don’t.”
The dark man pulled a Taser out from inside his coat and shoved it into Tony’s gut. In one explosive burst, Tony felt the electric pulse ripple through his body, ripping it apart. His legs dissolved; a second later he hit the asphalt. The man applied the Taser again and again, torturing him, never letting him rest. Tony twitched and spasmed like a half-crushed bug. Even when the Taser was finally removed, he couldn’t stop writhing. He was like a marionette on a madman’s string, jerking one way then the next, his entire body convulsing.
While he was unable to resist, they dragged him into the back of their van. They Tasered him a few more times during the drive, just to keep him hurting and helpless, until they arrived at a dark, secluded vacant lot. No one could see what they did here. No one could hear, no matter how loudly Tony screamed.
They hauled him out of the van and threw him down on the concrete in front of a chain-link fence. When the spasming began to subside, they hauled him upright by his hair. A moment later, Tony felt the dark man’s fist in his chest. The pain was searing, like a branding iron piercing his already weakened body. His attacker had hit him in the solar plexus, knocked the wind out of him. Maybe broken something. Tony couldn’t breathe. He wanted to cry out, wanted to attract some help, but he could barely muster a whimper.
“Let me help,” the blond kid said. He lunged forward with a roll of duct tape and gagged Tony, then taped his wrists to two fence posts. He was immobile, pinned like a human sacrifice, arms splayed as if he were about to be crucified.
The first blow dislocated his jaw. The second cracked a rib. Tony was on fire; every nerve of his body had been electrified. The blows rained down on him, one after another, so many and so of-ten and so hard that Tony could no longer distinguish where they landed or what part of his body had been broken. The dark man worked him over with a leather sap, pummeling his head and face and hands. Tony felt two of his fingers snap. And the blows just kept coming.
Consciousness began to fade. His vision blurred. He prayed for unconsciousness; nothing else could make the pain go away. Surely they would stop. Surely then they would stop.
The dark man saw him go limp and sneered. “If you think we’re gonna quit just ’cause you don’t like it, you got another think comin’, faggot. We’re barely gettin’ started.” He ripped the duct tape off Tony’s face. “What d’you say to that, queer boy?”
Tony’s eyes were so swollen he couldn’t see. His lips were cracked and bleeding. But somehow he managed to muster the power to whisper: “Please don’t kill me. Please.”
“Beg me, you fairy. Beg!”
“I… am begging you. Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything.”
“Like what? Like maybe you’ll suck my dick, is that what you’re thinking? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He shoved his fist deep into Tony’s gut.
Tony was finished, he realized. There was nothing he could do; he had no way to protect himself. He was entirely at their mercy. And they had none.
“Cut him down,” he heard the dark man say.
His heart twitched. Was it possible-was this insane torture over? Were they finally done with him? The blond man whipped out a switchblade and cut the duct tape binding his hands-and cut his wrists in the process.
“Whoops. Guess my hand slipped.”
“Never you mind, Johnny. I think he likes it. Give him another poke or two.”
The blond man did. All over Tony’s body. Treated him like a human pincushion. Tony felt blood gushing out of his body like water from a fountain, from his face, his abdomen-even his feet. Then he noticed the dark man was holding something-a five-pound iron maul hammer.
The two men continued their work for more than half an hour. And no one came to help Tony. His cries were heard by no one, no one except the person who had left the bar shortly after the assailants and witnessed the entire assault. And did nothing. But watched. And waited.