Noone Special

Home

Chapters 6-7

Chapter Six

Granted, he had no evidence aside from his gut that the pimp was involved. Aside from the photo of the boy, which was hidden behind an expired and overdrawn credit card, the only evidence that there had been a child in the motel room was that the TV had been tuned to a cartoon channel, if you could call that evidence. There was probably hair or DNA or some other forensics, but he couldn't seriously expect the techies to find anything; not in that cesspool. If he hadn't recognized the woman, nobody would have even realized that the little boy was missing. The lump in his throat from that moment hadn't gone away, and for the first time he thought that maybe he kind of understood why the DA sometimes offered perverts and killers deals for revealing where bodies were. Not knowing was the horrible.

His target pulled into a Macdonald's, and Richard circled around the block to avoid suspicion. He was just rounding a corner when the phone rang. He froze for a second when he saw the name, almost driving into a parked car. Righting his course and grabbing the phone, he put it to his ear with such enthusiasm he almost hurt himself.

"Bobby, please tell me…"

He cut off to listen, and for the first time his face showed an echo of hope.

"I'll be there in ten minutes, we can head there to look for him together – Yes tonight, you fat fuck – I don't care, they can go fuck themselves. I'm serious Bobby, I need your help – Thanks, I owe you man."

He tossed the phone aside and sped off, leaving the Cadillac to drive up to the second window in peace.

Curled up on his side, Mal hummed to himself stared helplessly at the small gap between the garage door and the cement. He was confused and frightened and thirsty and hungry. He didn't understand what had happened, what had changed. He'd been good; he'd done exactly as Slick had asked of him. He'd obeyed Jerod completely, he'd obeyed Russell completely, he'd even obeyed Jeffery completely. But despite that, he lie helpless on the painfully uneven cement of the storage locker, his arms bound together with duct tape running from his wrists to his elbows and his ankles in much the same situation. In response to protests of this unfair treatment, Slick had shoved something in his mouth and taped it shut as well before throwing him to the floor and locking him in.

His fragile body was aching and covered in sweat from the day's heat and scrapes from having spent two days in his cruel confinement. He'd been able to lower his shorts out of the way before his bodily functions had finally burst the day before, but not his underwear, which remained stained with the evidence. The heat had dried the liquid, but the stench remained.

He tried humming to feel better, and it had helped a bit. He'd long since lost count of how many times he'd gone through his endless refrain, and aside from being his second day in confinement, he had no idea how long he'd been alone. Slick had assured him that he'd be back 'when it was safe.' He'd heard of people starving to death or dying of thirst, and he was afraid. He'd gone hungry before, but this was his first encounter with dehydration. The thing in his mouth did little to ease it, it seemed to suck up all his spit and make it even worse. Not that he was making any spit any more.

He could tell it was night time. The light from under the door had turned orange and then faded to almost nothing. He was afraid and dozing when something started happening outside.

The door slid up to the ceiling, and the Cadillac's lights rendered the boy blind. He curled tighter and looked away when the tall black man lifted him to his feet by the scruff of his neck.

"Sorry it took so long, kid," Slick grunted, his nostrils flaring. He looked at the soiled fabric covering the boy's modesty and his face twisted in disgust. Mal wanted to cry, but his eyes were already so scratchy he didn't find it too surprising that his tear ducts didn't work. The man pulled at the offending garment until it ripped straight off his body, then did the same to the boy's shirt. And then he dropped the exposed, sobbing boy back to the cement and stepped out.

Mal tried to call after him. He rolled around helplessly, trying to regain his feet so that he could somehow give chase. His attempts proved unnecessary and only served to allow the small, sharp rises on the floor to poke at his sensitive skin and cause him even more undeserved misery.

Slick returned a few moments later, brandishing a hose with a spray nozzle. Without warning, the freezing cold torrent drenched the helpless boy, washing away much of the grimy evidence of his incarceration. When the stream finally ceased, Mal lay quivering in a cold, wet puddle of misery until Slick slipped a hand into his pocket, drawing out and flipping open a knife. The boy's eyes went wide, and the pool of water beneath him was contaminated as he attempted to scurry away.

"Settle down, boy," Slick grunted, grabbing the boy's wrist and slicing away the bonds. Once he'd sliced the length of the cast of duct tape, he grabbed the exposed edge and yanked. The boy's arms were released, but not without a loud, muffled scream. The used bindings were thrown aside before the man did the same to the fastening on the child's legs.

Mal grimaced with the soreness brought on by the shift from his long immobility to sudden freedom as he scurried away from the man responsible, pressing himself against the cement wall. The cold water had turned much of his body bright crimson, and the tape left an itchy, sticky residue where it had been. Mal fumbled, pulling on the edge of the tape that covered his mouth, frightened of the inevitable as he continued to slowly back away from his self-appointed guardian.

"I really am sorry I had you locked up so long." Slick had an uncharacteristic smile on his face, and he spoke in neutral, friendly tones. "There were some people looking to get us into trouble. If I hadn't hidden you, they would have taken you and locked you up with all the other little orphans."

Mal made misty eye contact with the black man, squinting in discomfort caused by the bright light of the headlights. He was still tugging at the tape that silenced him, hoping that pulling it off slowly would reduce the pain.

"That's what you are now, you know that right?" Mal began to cry, but Slick kept after him in the same, friendly voice. "With your mom dead, there's nobody to look after you anymore, so if the police ever found out, they'd lock you up. They used to call them Orphanages, but they call them Homes now. More politically correct or something. I don't get the difference myself; don't think there is one. They still squeeze too many kids into too small of a place. The bigger kids still pick on the little ones. The people who run them still beat the kids and do nasty things to them. They say that nasty stuff doesn't happen at Homes like they used to at Orphanages, but they still do. Everyone knows it, but nobody cares, because nobody cares about the filthy little orphans living there."

Mal slowly slid down the wall, ignoring the harsh texture that scraped his skin. He was sobbing freely but quietly, his recently released hands holding onto his temples. His wrists were shaking, as though the muscles in his arms were fighting to get him to cover his ears as the man purposefully exaggerated the failings of society. A cruel smirk formed on the man's mouth, but Slick managed to hide it from his voice as he moved into the coup de grace.

"Did you know, Mal, that 'Sir' runs the biggest Home in the city?"

The boy looked up in horror.

"That home is quite famous for the discipline. It's where they send all the naughty little boys, the ones who cause trouble and do bad things, so Sir gets to punish them all day long. Nobody cares what the boys who live there say, since they're all liars anyway. Well, most of them are. A lot of homes had to close lately, so they've been sending some good little boys there too."

Mal was absolutely quaking in fear.

"I wonder if they would have sent you there if they'd have caught you," Slick mused, walking back towards his car. "Probably would have. I know if Sir heard that you needed some place to stay, he certainly would have offered to put you up for free, and those social workers do love to save money."

Opening his door, Slick turned back to the boy, who remained frozen in place. The man did his best to seem confused. "Is something wrong, kid? Come on, take off that tape already, unless you want me to do it for you."

Squeezing his eyes shut in dreadful anticipation, Mal grabbed the exposed corner of the duct tape and pulled. It let out a loud 'rip' as it pealed from his skin. The water on the tape and the boy's hand caused him to lose his grip when he'd gotten it about halfway off. He spit the thing in his mouth out and pulled the tape the rest of the way off.

"You didn't have to tape me up like that!" He shouted, his voice scratchy and pained from disuse and thirst. The man recoiled in shock that wasn't entirely feigned; he didn't think the kid had that much backbone left in him. His hand reached for his cane, but he stopped himself; to punish the kid would be to undo the emotional manipulation he'd spent much of the last few days planning.

"You wouldn't settle down. If anyone would have heard you, they would have taken you to a home. Is that what you want? If it is, I could call Sir right now and see if he…"

"No!" Mal's voice lost a good deal of its anger and conviction and picked up the tone of desperation. "But… but you…"

"I told you to settle down plenty when I let you out of the trunk," Slick reminded. "You kept kicking and screaming, I just did what I had to do. I didn't mean to leave you for so long, but this fucking cop was on my ass, and if I would have come here sooner he would have found you."

Mal quieted as he seemed to contemplate the man's excuses and justifications. Slick leaned against his car, watching the parade of emotions on the small boy's face.

"You know, your momma asked me to take care of you, if anything ever happened to her," Slick lied, mostly just out of a dull curiosity to see how the boy would react. He had a fresh roll of duct tape under the seat, and he was more than ready to reach for it if he messed up his endgame. "That's why I let you stay at my place when she died."

The man allowed the boy to process what he'd just heard for a few minutes, waiting to pin the king down. And then he moved in for checkmate. "Of course, if you're going to be such an ungrateful little shit, perhaps I should have just left you there."

Slamming the door shut, Slick shifted into reverse. He hadn't gotten two feet before the boy rushed forward, a high-pitched, desperate "No!" echoing in the small confines. The man smirked and hit the brake, his lips mouthing the words "Hook, line, and sinker."

Rolling down the window and sticking his head out, Slick put on his best scowl. "What do you want now you little fucker?"

The majority of the boy's courage was crushed by the venom in the man's voice. Freezing in place, the naked boy looked at his feet in shame. "Please, can I come back and be with you and Jerod?"

Scowling but trying to appear thoughtful, the man finally relented. "If you promise that from now on, when I say something, you fucking do it."

Mal nodded with such ferocity Slick wondered if the boy's head would unhinge.

"Get in."

The boy rushed to the passenger side door, struggling a bit to get it open until Slick reached over and did it for him. Once situated, the boy looked up at Slick, his eyes more than slightly apprehensive. Frustrated though he was that the boy was getting his seats wet, the man gave a little smile and decided to put the child's mind at ease. He flipped the glove box open to reveal a greasy, paper-wrapped hamburger before handing the child a tall plastic container filled with a bubbly liquid before getting back out of the car to tidy up the rental space.

"Where are we going?" Mal asked, rubbing his eyes with hand not clutching Jerod's wrist like a vice.

"We're heading to my gram's for a few days," the teen answered distractedly, leading the boy through the bus station. The shoes on the Mal's feet flashed with each step. His charge was dressed in new light-blue wind-suit. Well, a never-before-worn wind-suit at least. He'd found it in the back of his closet while the boy had been locked in the storage space; it was a gift from his grandparents from his ninth-birthday. It had been too small, not to mention his peers would have ridiculed him if he'd ever worn it, but Mal was thrilled to have it. The boy had even begged for and received an old baseball hat he'd seen sitting next to it, although where the request came from Jerod had no idea.

"Can't we go in the morning? I'm sleepy…" the last vowel began as a whine and stretched until it grew into a yawn. Jerod saw the vehicle they were meant to take and pulled the boy after him, stifling a yawn of his own. Pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the time, the teen grunted.

"Technically, kid, it is morning, but I know what you mean. We can sleep on the bus though. It may not be as comfortable as a bed, but it beats…" Jerod slammed his jaw shut as he helped the sleepy boy up the bus's steps. He'd intended to say 'sleeping on the ground,' but then he remembered how the child had spent the previous two nights. The wind suit masked the marks and scrapes from unsuspecting eyes, but the entire chronicle of the boy's trials could be seen in his eyes. He'd mentioned it to Slick before they'd set out, but the man had just smirked.

'That's the other reason you're leaving now.' he'd replied. 'If anyone notices something's up with the kid, you can just tell them it's 'cause he's tired from having to stay up to wait for the bus.' And he was right. The driver took their tickets and smiled at them, assuring them that the seats of this particular bus were very comfortable indeed.

Looking down at the boy as he led him to the back of the bus, Jerod felt a familiar twinge of guilt. He'd offered to check on the boy during the boy's interment, but Slick had insisted there be no contact. Jerod understood why the kid had to lie low, but the means which his father used to achieve that end shocked him. He'd known for years how his father made his living, but he'd never seen this ruthless, relentless side of the man before. A very small voice in his head asked exactly how far the man would go to prevent the exposure of his crimes. He prayed that they'd never need to find out.

The boy fell asleep almost as soon as he was seated; wresting his head against Jerod. Shifting around to get comfortable, Jerod relaxed with his arm around the boy's shoulders and was amazed how the boy seemed to curl into his touch.

The bus was almost deserted. There was an old man up at the front, a young couple sitting a few seats behind, an ugly hag behind them, and a pregnant woman devouring a bag of chips so intently that Jerod made a mental note to be sure to keep an eye on his fingers the next time he passed by her. Reaching into his pocket for his phone again, Jerod took care not to rouse his charge as he checked the time. He groaned and slunk his head back against the seat, waiting impatiently for departure or oblivion.

The hard plastic of the dashboard cracked, and a small droplet of blood smeared into the newly formed crevice. Richard pulled his fist back and slammed the defenseless plastic again, thankful to have the inanimate victim to suffer his anger.

"You said… you said they had him." The man was breathing heavily, his words a frighteningly forced calm. "You said that they found him sleeping in a jungle-gym, that…"

"I don't know what to tell you, Dick," Bobby whimpered apologetically. "My source was sure it was him."

"Just like you were sure there was nobody else in the room?"

The fat man's face paled a bit. "Dick, what are you…"

"You're fucking up, Robert, that's what I'm fucking saying. And I'm fucking sick of it. We're done. When we get back, I'm putting in a request, and you can go fuck up on someone else."

The tension in the car was palpable, and Bobby didn't dare say another word for the remainder of the trip. When they arrived back at the station, Richard cut off the engine, snatched the keys and slammed the door behind him, storming into the building and leaving his overweight partner behind once again.

Bobby watched the man leave and reached into his pocket. He held a disposable cell to his ear and dialed a number from memory, twiddling his thumbs in fear and anticipation while he waited for an answer. At last, the other end picked up.

"Slick, it's Bobby. I got him away tonight like you asked, but we have a problem…"

Jerod awoke slowly, a few details entering his consciousness at a time. He had to pee. He was on a bus. There was music. His phone let out a beep to show it was low on battery. Something was rubbing against his crotch.

If the last detail hadn't caught his attention, the bump the bus passed over seconds later certainly did. Looking down, he saw the boy nuzzling against into his groin, quite oblivious to his actions and the world at large. A smirk crossed the dark-skinned lad's face. After he scanned his few companion travelers and the driver, Jerod reached under the boy and slowly undid his zipper. The angle was wrong for the driver to see anything more than his chest and shoulders, and the other passengers were sleeping restfully.

After some innocuous tugging and fishing, the teen's turgid member popped out and rubbed against the soft skin of the boy's cheek. Doing his best not to wake the boy, Jerod aimed and readjusted and tugged and lifted until he got the angle right, his mushroomed head pressing against the boy's lips, slightly parted in his restful slumber. With gentle insistence, the lips parted wider, allowing the teen admission.

Using all the care of a horny teenager, Jerod slowly slid his length in and out of the unconscious boy's mouth. The sheer depravity of the situation and of his actions clouded his judgment and doubled his excitement, but as he approached his peak reality nosed it's unwelcome way into his head. He doubted Mal would remain asleep much longer, and he couldn't think of a way he could explain a seven year old boy jerking awake with his mouth and face filled with ejaculate. He was about to throw in the towel and stuff himself back into his jeans when the boy unwittingly provided him with the solution.

Unlike Jerod, Mal awoke almost instantly. Confused by the situation he found himself in, Mal was briefly calm before letting out a muffled scream. His legs flailed in the aisle and he tried to push Jerod away, catching the attention of the driver.

"Settle the fuck down, kid, it's me!" he scolded in a harsh whisper, and to his amazement the boy promptly did exactly as instructed. Confused and nervous, but undeniably relieved, Mal looked up at his teenage guardian without removing his lips as Jerod looked up at the suspicious driver.

"Just a nightmare," Jerod assured, stroking the boy's hair and encouraging him to go back to work. "Probably from sleeping in such an unfamiliar place."

The driver nodded, returning his primary attention to the road as Mal turned his attention to the task he had been inadvertently been awoken to. Jerod took great care to control his facial expression as Mal lazily displayed his skill. The driver occasionally snuck peaks through the mirror, which only added to the teen's arousal.

"I'm getting close," Jerod warned in a raspy whisper. "Make sure to swallow it all."

The boy didn't acknowledge the warning, but Jerod was too concerned with keeping up appearances to try to confirm the warning. Biting his tongue and tightening his grip on the boy's head seemed to help, and he hoped that even if someone did realize something was going on, they wouldn't recognize the warning signs of his impending orgasm. Fortunately, his concern was short lived.

The boy swallowed faithfully and easily, remaining attached to his protector at the groin until the teen finally pulled the boy away. A small dab had leaked out of the corner of the boy's mouth. Jerod wiped it over the boy's lips with his thumb, and it shined like a perverse lip gloss. Jerod rewarded the boy with a smile for all the hard work, and Mal's face lit up with pride. The teen fumbled around to redo his zipper without injuring himself and Mal returned to using the teen's lap as a pillow.

Stroking the boy's hair reassuringly, Jerod chanced a look back up at the driver and froze. The old man was leering at him with a wicked and knowing grin on his face.

"We really have to get going soon," Jerod reminded, staring at the locked bathroom door and fighting the urge to pace nervously. The muffled duet coming from the furthest stalls did little to ease his concern. The boy was whimpering and cooing and the man was moaning the familiar chorus of copulation.

"Almost… Done…" the driver panted, and the tempo to the song seemed to speed a bit. Jerod took a step closer and leaned his head against the divide.

"You okay in there, Kid?" he asked, actual concern in his voice. "He's not being too rough or anything, is he?"

"I'm okay," the boy gasped weakly between the lyrics, the words barely affecting his crescendo.

"Of course he is," the man rasped. Mal let out a little yelp, and Jerod imagined that the bus driver had just pulled or twisted on one of the boy's knobs or dials. "He's a good little slut, isn't he?"

The boy let out a series of short, whimpering protests, his soprano a sharp contrast to the man's husky baritone. And then the heavy grunts signaled the man's conclusion. Mal's voice echoed in the cramped confines for a little longer before fading to silence. A few seconds filled with fumbling and the sound of a zipper later, the door opened and the driver walked out. The reality of what he'd just done seemed a burden on his face, and he said nothing as he slipped Jerod a few folded up bills and rushed out of the bathroom.

Walking by the closed doors of the empty stalls, Jerod poked his head in to check on his charge. The boy's face was a little flushed and his eyes were misty. The boy was struggling to cover himself with unfamiliar fabric of his trousers, which were tangled and caught on his shoes. Jerod stepped forward, correcting the situation with surprisingly adept fingers. He couldn't help but note the child's erection before he covered it, the fabric of the child's Spiderman underwear rendering it invisible.

"You sure you're okay Mal? Not too sore or anything?" the teen asked, grabbing a wad of toilet paper to wipe the boy's face with all the care but none of the skill of a doting mother.

"I'm okay," the boy whispered again.

Jerod tossed the faintly damp toilet paper in the commode behind them, regarding his child companion carefully. "Mal, do you… do you like doing these things?"

The boy's face clouded over, and Jerod was about to tell the boy to forget he'd asked when the boy muttered something. "What was that?"

"If they're nice," the boy repeated obediently, his eyes downcast and his face taking on a shade not unlike that of a stop sign. "like James, or Russell, or-or like you."

"Even when you get fucked?" the teen was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice or off his face when the boy nodded. His face furrowed in contemplation, but he pushed it aside when he saw a bit of nervousness in his charge. "Anyway, we should get out of here."

The boy kept his eyes on the ground as they walked out of the bathroom, and then out of the bus station and into the street.

Chapter Seven

Mal was sucking his thumb absently in his sleep, curled up on his side. He looked peaceful, but every now and then, when Jerod repositioned himself or thought of leaving the room, the boy let out a faint whimper and twitched in his sleep. The conversation they'd had in the bus station bathroom echoed in his mind like the refrain to a song he'd just as soon never hear again.

There was no question what the boy would do if Jerod would return to the room with a boner and a tub of Vaseline. A gentle shake on the shoulder, a kind whisper in the ear would be all it would take. Or, if he wanted to, he could just pin the boy down. He could forget the Vaseline, forget the boy's comfort and just take him – rape him – and the boy would still follow him around like a lost puppy. He knew these things, and he was tempted to act on them, but each time he worked up the courage he remembered his grandmother humming to herself and waiting patiently downstairs while they took their midmorning nap. Finally, swallowing in determination and ignoring the boy's unconscious protest at being left alone, Jerod left the ancient bedroom, closing the door gently and using all his stealth on the stairs.

"He's too old and white to be yours," The old woman's voice called from the couch. "When you called and said you were bringing a kid, I thought I might have a grandbaby."

"None that I know of," the teen blushed. Despite his efforts and the woman's age, she'd known he was coming down the stairs without even turning from the laundry piled on the table in front of her.

"Mind telling your old gran why you haven't said a word to her since you told her you was dropping out of school, and why you'd show up at her doorstep with a stranger's kid?" The tone was icy and familiar. He'd first heard it when he'd lied about breaking a vase, and he couldn't hear it without remembering the punishment that had followed.

"Dad's in some trouble. The kid and his mom were on the street, and…"

"Remember the last time you lied to me, Jerod?"

The teen almost cursed under his breath, but tried to stick to the story. It was, after all, mostly true, and he thought it would be believable. "His momma overdosed and dad's scared someone might blame him for lacing the drugs she did it with. He says the drugs were clean…"

"The last thing drugs ever are is clean," the old woman cut in with venom on her tongue. Jerod winced but continued.

"But that they'd been trying to make a case against him for years. He was scared the kid might've remembered him giving her the drugs, so he wanted him out of the way for a while…"

"He may be my son-in-law, but I've no intentions of hiding his sins. You tell Alfred that." The tone in her voice chilled Jerod's blood. He'd only heard his father's given name three times in his life.

"It wasn't his idea to come here, Gran, it was mine. The kid's had a real hard time, I thought maybe a few days at your place would help. I mean…"

"I should call the cops, let them decide what would help."

Jerod did his best to conceal a smirk of victory. The conversation had turned a corner, and it was heading in the direction he wanted. "The kid would run away. I offered to do just that on the way up here and he just about passed out from fear. I think a cop hurt him while he was on the street, or at least scared the crap out of him…" Jerod winced when he felt the woman's burning glare at using a marginally offensive curse word, but he could tell that its intensity was sapped by sympathy.

"And what'chu going to do when the cops stop conspiring and go back to their donuts? Send that kid back into the streets with a few home-cooked meals and a 'sorry your momma's dead but don't ever come back?'"

He hadn't thought that far head, and the old woman knew it. He half expected her to accuse him of the truth, to have somehow deciphered the crimes that had been acted on the sleeping boy upstairs from the child's face. But instead, the woman softened.

"He can stay for a few days," the woman conceded, and Jerod now saw that she'd never intended to send Mal away. A few days could translate into next winter, if he did nothing to interfere. The teen was just about to release a sigh of relief when the woman cut it off with a glare. A glare that told him she didn't believe a word she'd just been fed, that she would keep digging at his story until she found the truth. Jerod knew it was only a matter of time before she would succeed.

"Thanks, gran…"

"Get out of here," the woman cut him off with a sternness that surprised and confused the teen. He was about to ask what he'd done to deserve such language when she looked over her shoulder. "Go call your daddy and tell him the old woman bought the farm, bullshit and all. Just know that this ain't over. I'm gunna find out what's goin' on, and the boy ain't leaving here until I do."

Jerod nodded and swallowed nervously as he headed towards the door, reaching into his pocket for the phone that had gotten him into this situation to begin with. He'd forgotten how perceptive the old woman was, or he'd never have suggested hiding the boy here. But he thought of the boy sleeping restfully on a mattress that had been occupied by generations of happy children and being fed meals that were likely well beyond anything the boy had tasted. Then he thought of the boy bound in duct tape and lying in his own filth in the concrete prison. No, he'd made the right decision.

It was the aroma that awoke the boy late that afternoon, the smell of a chicken basting, of a bread slowly turning brown in the oven, of a magnificent casserole the likes of which he'd never even conceived. The only aroma the boy could even compare it to was from the food court, where underpaid teens dished out endless quantities of artery clogging cardboard. The closest the boy had ever come to a home cooked meal was mac 'n' cheese and watching Thanksgiving Day specials. The breakfast he'd been given hours ago was beyond anything the boy's palate had even thought possible, and Mal's mouth was watering before he was even conscious.

Mal sat up in bed, ignoring completely the tender soreness from his backside and all the little scrapes and dings he'd picked up during his incarceration. He was still dressed in the windbreaker his teenage guardian had given him, but he was barefoot, and he could feel a faint dampness in the seat of his underpants.

Opening the door, Mal slowly advanced down the stairs, dreaming what kind of food could possibly give off such a wonderful scent. He followed his nose, finally standing in the kitchen doorway and watching the kind old woman who had already given him the best meal of his life working to outdo herself.

"You'll have to forgive me, child," the woman chuckled as she went about her business, lifting the lid of a slow-cooker and smelling the contents, "but I've forgotten your name. It's an unusual one, right? Starts with an 'M'?"

"Mal," the boy answered, in awe of the coming feast he saw before him. "Short for Malcolm."

"Well, Mal, short for Malcolm, you'll have to forgive me, but since I don't have eight arms, I haven't gotten around to getting the cookies done, or I'd offer you one."

"That's okay," Mal answered with a hint of disappointment and awe in his voice.

"The things are all on the table, if you'd like to roll up your sleeves and help an old woman. Of course, you'll have to wash your hands first."

The boy silently trotted to the sink and turned on the water. As he soaped the hand with an awkwardness that implied inexperience, the old woman noticed the small markings and sticky remnants were the duct tape had been less than twelve hours before. Saying nothing, she handed the boy a towel and ushered him to the seat he'd occupied that morning and saw a bowl with carefully measured amounts of various powders in side. To one side was a bag of chocolate chips, to the other a large measuring cup filled with eggs and milk and all the other liquid ingredients her recipe required.

"Just pour everything together and start mixing with that big ole wooden spoon," the woman instructed, her face focused on the food in front of her to hide her grin. Not having time to finish mixing the dough was an utter lie, one that she knew had paid off as she snuck glances over her shoulder to watch the child happily stir the thickening batter with all his might. She could have finished the dough in five minutes and had a fresh sheet of warm, gooey cookies waiting for him when he woke up, but she'd waited, but it was better this way.

The boy stirred furiously, humming the song of his own as he watched the ingredients come together so fantastically as the result of his effort. He'd only seen such a feat on cooking shows. Even the raw dough gave off a pleasant scent, and, after sneaking a glance at the old woman to make sure she wouldn't object, he dipped his finger into the batter and tasted it. The old woman's heart warmed to see the boy smile so fully at having contributed to something so delicious.

"No, Dad, she doesn't know anything," Jerod whispered into the phone quietly, sneaking into the alley behind a gas station. "She's just suspicious, and she never likes hearing your name mentioned…"

Slumping against the brick wall, the boy closed his eyes. "Dad, that won't work. You know how she is, she won't let him out of her sight until – Yes, I realize that – Well that's too fucking bad, Dad. Not tonight, and not tomorrow either. The kid needs a break. For fuck's sake, his mom died last week."

Flipping the phone shut, Jerod squeezed his eyes shut and slid down the jagged wall, searching his memory for the last time he'd spoken with such disrespect to his father.. The phone rang again, and the teen answered.

"Tell them they have to wait a few days before they can get their money's worth, Dad. I'm serious. He's staying with grams until I say otherwise."

"Jerod told you he's my grandson, didn't he?" the woman asked, disguising her interrogation with kindness. The boy nodded, plopping another dab of the dough onto the metal sheet as he'd been shown. "He used to make cookies with me just like you are when he was little. He was such a good boy when he was little, but then his father got to him. He started running drugs and he got kicked out of school. Such a shame, he was smart, could have done something with himself."

The boy didn't say anything, just plopped another circular conglomeration of dough on the cookie pan.

"The first batch should be done," the woman informed, hiding her own excitement at seeing the little boy's face light up. The boy dashed over to the oven and pulled the door open, staring at the finished products he'd worked so hard on, unsure of how to retrieve them. The woman grabbed the sheet with a gloved hand, setting it just out of reach. "They'll have to cool for a spell, unless you'd like to burn your tongue off."

"They smell good," Mal commented, fighting the urge to singe his hands and mouth despite the woman's warning. "Better than the ones at the mall."

"You never had home-made cookies?" the woman asked, as though such a treat should be his birthright. Mal shook his head, his eyes never leaving the gooey prize. "You're going to like these then. Best in the world. Learned them from my own Gran, although we used to have to cut up chocolate bars instead of using them little chips. Still do, now and then; it's better that way, but the chips do the job good enough."

The boy single-minded focus on the forbidden treats and his impatient smile had the woman's heart beating in fond memory of all the times she'd prepared this recipe before, but she frowned. Now that she had the child endeared to her, it hurt her to continue with her plan. "Mal, Jerod told me about your momma."

The boy froze, and his face clouded over. He turned to the woman, the recent pain of loss fresh in his mind and on his face.

"Did Jerod tell you why he brought you here?"

The little boy shook his head.

"Did Jerod's dad tell him to watch you?"

The boy nodded.

"Do you like Jerod?"

Mal nodded again, a little smile crossing his face. Gran tried not to look sad.

"How about Jerod's Dad? Do you like Slick?"

The smile vanished, but the boy nodded, his reluctance to do so the true answer. Gran frowned, picking up one of the perfectly formed cookies and handing it to the boy.

"Mal, how did you meet Slick? Did your mom…"

The front door opened, and Mal turned to see Jerod enter, bringing with him the flurry of activity that only teenagers are capable of. Mal grabbed another cookie and rushed over to the teen's side, handing the little treat to his idol with his face beaming with pride. Gran frowned at the interruption and shuffled the rest of the cookies onto a paper towel to dry.

Richard sighed, pulling into the parking lot and running the card through his fingers with well-practiced ease. He hated reporters. It came with the job, they got in the way and did their damnedest to cast everything in the worst possible light, but he didn't know what else to do. Checking the writing on the back of the card, which he'd fished off of the floor an hour before, he compared the time and the name of the establishment to what was listed there and trudged out of the car.

The old diner was deserted, with only a young waitress behind the counter. He took a seat in a booth some distance in. The waitress frowned at his arrival and wandered over to him.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but the cook went home five minutes ago, and I was just closing…"

"Just coffee would be fine, I'm expecting someone." Richard smiled, his considerable charm and the twenty he slid onto the cold and sticky table-top doing much to calm the woman's nerves. He also made sure she saw the badge in his wallet when he slipped the bill out, hoping that her sense of civic duty would overcome her inconvenience. "It's very important, and I promise I'll be out of your way before you lock the doors."

The woman sighed, slipping the bribe into a fold in her apron and fetching the cooled coffee pitcher, setting it next to the man and walking off. Richard sighed and checked his watch again, impatiently waiting while the woman continued washing the table-tops, occasionally gracing him with an apprehensive stare.

Fortunately, his guest was not long behind him. Myles Roush's car pulled up next to him, and the wiry man slipped out, jogging inside with an excitement that seemed to simply be a part of him. The man burst through the doors and trotted over to Richard's booth, barely acknowledging the waitress at all.

"So you thought about my offer…" the young man began, but Richard cut him off with a glare.

"Let me be clear. I'm only here, talking to you because I have no other choice. I'm working on a case right now, and I seem to be the only one who's even concerned about it. If you print anything I tell you without my permission, I will personally shove my gun up your ass and pull the trigger."

"The one from the hotel room, right?" despite the threat on his life, the weasel-like man had a grin that seemed to twist his face into a sneer. "I was right, wasn't I? Slick was paying people off to keep his whore's death quiet and…"

"She had a kid, and we can't find him."

Myles' smile vanished as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"I don't give a shit about the mom. She made her bed. The doc said that she did the injection herself. The drugs weren't laced, and the dose was only barely lethal, probably wouldn't have been if she hadn't doubled up. If it had been a hot-shot, they would have used a lot more, to make sure it took."

"I-I don't know anything about the kid, honest. I was just going off a source. She overheard Slick on the phone talking to a cop. I thought…"

"You thought it would make for a good corruption scandal, I know. Nobody knows about the kid, and that's the fucking problem." Richard looked up at the shocked reporter. "They can't find anything on him. He was enrolled in school at west-central, but his mom pulled him out just before it ended for the summer. After that, there's nothing on paper for either of them."

"They were on the streets," the reporter stated evenly, still unsure how this unexpected conversation would end.

"None of her 'associates' remember anything about the kid. Everybody else working the case thinks that he's run away, part of some street-family or gang by now, or that he'll turn up on his own eventually. I don't." Richard drank the remainder of his half-empty coffee and refilled the cup. "We got a report last night that he was found sleeping in a park out in the suburbs, but that never happened."

The reporter leaned forward, his eyes wide and his voice filled with awe. His mind was reeling with the spin he could put on this. "What do you think… what do you think happened to him."

"I'm afraid to think about that." Putting the cup down, he leveled his eyes at the small man in front of him. Myles almost recoiled at their intensity. "Look, everything I've told you so far is on the record, you could probably ask any of the guys in my department and get the same answers. If you print anything after this without my okay, I'll murder you, and don't think for a second that I can't get away with it. Understand?"

Myles balked at the calmness with which the man threatened his life, but swallowed and nodded none the less.

"I think Slick, the pimp, has the kid. I was following him until we received the tip last night, but he knew I was on to him. Other than generally being a sleazebag, he didn't do anything suspicious. The others at the station insist there's no evidence of foul play, and they're right. The only thing I have against Slick is my gut."

The reporter nodded, leaning forward. "Do you think that someone is protecting him?"

Richard sighed, pulling out a photo and tossing it to his guest. Myles grabbed it by the corner and studied it in confusion. "That's a rental garage that Slick took out the day after the kid's mom OD'd. I found it today and flashed my badge at the owner, convinced him to let me have a look inside. Someone had just taken a pressure-washer to it." He paused rubbing his temples in frustration. "Last night, my partner called me away to check out the report at the jungle gym while I was following Slick. We were three blocks away."

"Holy shit," Myles breathed, staring at the spic 'n' span cement enclosure. "You think…"

"I have no evidence," Richard repeated, "and now I have no idea where the kid might be."

The waitress walked over and informed the gentlemen of her desire to close the diner, but Richard slipped her another twenty and she walked away. At the same time, he slid a copy of Mal's school portrait to the intrepid Myles. The young man stared at it blankly as the waitress walked away, and finally he looked up at the detective, his face twisted in uncharacteristic determination. "How can I help?"

Mal bit his lip, doing his best to follow Jerod's instructions and remain silent as the teen's hips pumped into his. His teeth were clenched tightly and his eyes squinted, and despite his best efforts an occasional "oo" and "uhn" escaped.

"You okay, Mal?" the teen asked in a whisper, his lips close to the boy's ear. Mal nodded faintly, his response slightly obscured by the rhythmic bouncing his body was perpetually engaged in. Indeed, Jerod was gifted, but had not yet reached the adult size of his father and lacked the unforgiving girth of the toy's Russell had used. Considering the teen's careful preparation and gentle entry, the boy had been through much worse.

"Gotta keep quiet," Jerod reminded. "Gran took some sleeping pills, but she still always seems to know when something's happening in her house."

Mal didn't respond. He made fists on the sheet as Jerod moved around above him, adjusting the angle of entry. The teen braced most of his weight on a single hand near the boy's armpit, and Mal was a bit surprised when the other hand began groping around beneath him. It traced over his distended belly – filled to the limit with a delicious home cooked meal – and then down to his crotch.

The teen's hips pressing against his and the constant motion of their coupling had had the boy's groin rubbing against the soft cotton beneath him. The motion had been pleasant, and Mal was quite disappointed when Jerod used his free hand to lift the boy's hips into the air, although he was pleased that the same hand continued to do the job that the sheets had been performing.

"You really do like this, don't you, Mal?" the teen asked, having been genuinely surprised to find the boy erect. Mal didn't respond except to pull harder on the sheets and push his hips back a bit. With the new position, Jerod was able to go faster than before, and he eagerly did so. He remembered watching his father drilling this same child with a professional passion and tried to reach that same level of practiced abandon. The boy started to whimper quietly but said nothing as Jerod displayed his very apparent skills as a lover.

The bed was creaking beneath them, and Jerod had to put his hand on the boy's shoulder to prevent him from toppling over. They both lost themselves in the act, only shocked back into reality when Mal's young body shuddered and a stifled moan escaped his lips. Jerod paused, allowed a moment for the boy to recover his breath, and then started again with renewed vigor. He brought the child to a second orgasm before he finally finished.

He collapsed on the child, who collapsed as well under the weight. Mal struggled a little beneath the adolescent body, but not too much. Jerod gave him a peck on the temple. "That was great, kid. Thanks a lot."

Mal blushed and nodded. The teens arms wrapped around him, and Mal immediately stopped his half-hearted attempts to escape. Feeling safe and secure, the boy began to drift off to sleep.

"Dad wants you to see some people up here," Jerod whispered. If the boy heard him, he didn't respond. "I don't think I'm going to let them."

Pulling the sheets over both of their naked bodies, Jerod snuggled with the boy, blissfully unaware of the old woman staring at them through the slightly cracked door. Turning the knob and careful not to make a sound, Gran pulled the door shut and walked away, her face twisted in sadness and indecision.

Myles Roush typed the last line of the short story, swallowing nervously. It was a risk, putting the picture in the paper. If they were right, and if Slick got nervous, there's no telling what might happen. He'd mentioned it to Richard, and the man had nodded.

"I want him to make a mistake," the seasoned detective had said evenly. "I want him to act suspiciously, to do something stupid; we just have to pray it doesn't push him too far."

Which, ironically, was why Myles had been contacted in the first place. Richard had been around for years, he could have gotten the story of innocent young Mal onto the news, hell, onto CNN if he'd been so inclined. He didn't want that. The story Myles was emailing his editor wouldn't make it onto the front page, probably not even close. There was no scandal, no corruption, no conspiracy mentioned. Just the tragic story of a lost little boy whose mother had foolishly thrown her life away, a picture, and a phone number to call.

Chapter Eight

Sipping at the steaming liquid, the man scanned through the calendar on his desk and browsed through the stack of papers in his inbox. Satisfied that his drink would burn his throat, he downed half of it before setting it aside and picking up the paper. He browsed through it with apparent disinterest. The few times he read past the headlines, he stopped after the first two paragraphs. He had just turned the page when he saw the picture.

Had he not been sitting, he probably would have collapsed. His face went white, and his stomach was suddenly plagued by cramps. He tore at the paper, throwing the uninvolved pages away and holding the one with the story so tightly it crumpled and ripped a bit in his grasp. He reread the story five times before the words seemed to register.

Throwing the paper aside, he searched through his drawers furiously, ignoring the mess he made as he searched for his goals. A little black book, crinkled and weathered and small enough to fit in his palm, and a small locked tin. Opening the tin with a set of keys hidden under his desk drawer, the man grabbed a surprisingly large stack of bills and a small pad of checks within before sliding everything into his pockets and storming out.

"Anita, cancel everything for today, something's come up," he barked at the old woman, who barely looked up to acknowledge him before he stormed out the door.

"Yes James," came the dispassionate answer.

The boy held his hand and trotted alongside him faithfully. Jerod looked down twice and tried to smile at the youngster, but his stomach was churning and his brain wasn't working right. He'd awoken that morning to his phone ringing and a series of threats, and they'd snuck out of the house while Gran was making breakfast. Mal's tummy rumbled twice as they trotted down the sidewalk, but the boy didn't complain.

They passed a police station on their way. For a moment, he remembered what Slick had said the night the boy's mom had died, about pinning a note to the boy's shirt and bidding him farewell. He searched his pockets and, finding nothing, continued passed the quiet building. The streets were quiet with all the usual symptoms of suburbia. They passed a handful of families departing for a day of work and sports and whatever else. Nobody gave them a second look.

Following the street signs, Jerod finally saw their destination. Walking over the uncut, dew laden grass, the teen led his young charge to the run-down home. It was small, compared to the other houses in the area, with chipped white paint covering the decaying siding. Two of the numbers beside the door had fallen off, leaving a sun-faded outline of where they'd been. There were three cars parked in the gravel driveway and three more on the street.

"Can't I stay at Gran's?" the boy finally asked, his first words since they'd left that morning. "Please?"

Jerod stopped and looked down at the boy, putting on a fake smile. He wanted to let the boy do just that, but his father's last phone call had been very explicit; if Mal didn't make this appointment, Jerod would take his place. "Sorry, kiddo, but dad said they paid a lot of money to get you to visit them today, but it will only be for a few hours. When you're done, we'll go back to Gran's and ask her to fix up something special, okay?"

The boy frowned, and Jerod knocked on the door. It was answered almost immediately by a handsome man with white hair, who immediately smiled reassuringly at Mal and almost ignored Jerod completely. "Hello there, young man. I'm glad to see you decided to grace us with your presence after all."

"I'll be back in the afternoon," Jerod informed, gently urging Mal forward and trying to avoid eye contact with both the boy and the boy's latest client. "Slick told you about the rules, right? No hurting him as long as he's cooperative."

"Yes yes, of course," the man nodded, brushing off the teen without much interest as he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and guided him in. "Don't worry, we'll take good care of him."

The door shut, and Jerod was starting to walk off when the implication of the man's choice in pronouns struck him. He looked around the run-down yard again and swallowed, praying that the cars had arrived with only one passenger.

Jeffery yawned and stretched, earning the ire of his two teammates sitting on either side of him. The van was cramped, and his pits were ripe with his recently acquired B.O., so exposing them naturally earned him a pair of groans and playful punches. The adults in the front scolded the trio and threatened some manner of punishment, more because it was expected of them than anything else. The driver turned her attention immediately back to the road, and the passenger, Jeffery's coach, turned a page in the newspaper. It was only by chance that Jeffery caught a glimpse of the picture.

Despite the temperature, Jeffery felt his blood run cold. He'd only just been able to get the boy out of his head with the post-victory celebration the night before. His father hadn't answered a single question about the boy's origin, and a terrible thought crept into his mind. Could the boy be dead? Could his dad have kidnapped the boy? No, his dad couldn't have, but maybe that black kid? Was that why he was in the paper?

He was afraid to ask for the newspaper. He knew his team would rip into him about something so scholarly as reading a newspaper during the summer, but more than that, he was afraid what the answer might be. Could the boy actually…

"You feeling alright, Jeffery?" the driver, the mother of the boy sitting to his left, asked tenderly, interrupting his thoughts. "You look like you might be coming down with something."

Jeffery frowned and mumbled something along the lines of "maybe." The other six boys crammed into the van cried and mourned. Not because they really cared about his health. They did, to the extent capable of twelve-year-olds, but much more pressing was the implication that if he was sick, he'd be unable to play once they reached their destination, and they'd have to find another pitcher.

The toilet flushed, and Mal fixed his eyes at the corner of the bathroom, purposefully avoiding looking at the man or the strange hose the man was cleaning and returning to its storage place. Mal was naked and wet and flushed; whether the latter was from the steam in the room, or pure embarrassment was anyone's guess.

"Sorry about taking so long to clean you up so much," the white haired man apologized casually, "but for what we've got planned, it's easy to make a mess if we don't make sure you're spotless inside and out."

The man's choice in pronouns continued to worry the boy, and he could hold his apprehension no longer. "We?"

The man smirked, giving up on his task and taking the boy by the hand. They left the tiny bathroom and passed through a narrow hallway and down cement stairway. The floor was uneven and cut into the boy's tender feet, but Mal kept his complaints to himself until they reached the basement. The boy's jaw dropped when he saw what was waiting for him. Recovering from his shock after only a few seconds, he tried to escape, but the white haired man squeezed his hand so tightly it hurt. The men in the basement laughed.

"He's a cute little shit," one of them said.

"I bet his ass is still tight as hell," said another.

"Or at least it will be until we get done with him," said a third, and the entire group had a chuckle

Mal was crying now, babbling incoherent pleas to the white haired man as tried to escape. Finally, the white haired man got tired of fighting the reluctant boy and slapped him, the sting shocking him into complacency. He stared up blankly at the adult, shivering and whimpering in fear.

"This your first time with so many men?" the man asked kindly, and Mal nodded, holding the cheek with the handprint.

"Please, I can't… I-I'm…" tears welled up in the boy's eyes, and he looked ready to collapse to the ground and curl into a ball.

"Just get him on the bed and let's get started," one of the voices called out. A few others cheered in agreement, but the white hared man silenced them with a single glare. He wrapped his arms around the boy comfortingly.

"Don't worry, Mal, it's not going to be as bad as you might think. We'll all be really nice and gentle…" the white haired man shot his compatriots a wicked grin and a wink as he said this, "and if you need a break, all you have to do is ask."

There was a whisper from the group of something along the lines of "although it might be a bit hard to ask with your mouth full of cock," but neither Mal nor the white haired man heard it, only the faint chuckles that followed.

Mal looked up at his white-haired seducer, who wiped away the boy's tears and smiled kindly. "Please, I don't want to."

The white-haired man's face was beginning to lose its patience. "You don't have a choice, Mal. We paid a lot of money to fuck you, and Slick told us that if you weren't cooperative, we should…"

"No!" the boy whispered, knowing full well what Slick would have told them. The men all chuckled, and the white haired man smiled reassuringly.

"So then you'll be a good little boy and do what we say?"

Mal nodded, and his sobbing subsided to a sniffling. The boy looked up at the white haired man again with eyes far more trusting than they ought to have been. "You promise you'll stop if I ask?"

"I promise," the man assured, and the group called out things like "Oh yeah," and "of course, kid."

Mal looked back at the ground, and finally whispered an incredibly faint "okay."

The men burst into cheers, some of reassurance, but more informing the boy that he was a good little whore. Two pairs of strong, calloused hands grabbed the boy by his arms and another grabbed his hips, lifting him into the air as though he weighed nothing more than a feather, and Mal's resolve quickly wavered. He started struggling, but his childish strength and struggles were completely insignificant to his captors and served only to make them laugh and further arouse them. The boy opened his mouth to protest his treatment, but a thick shaft was lodged in the opening instead, the wide glans banging against his tonsils and trying to enter further. Mal felt something pressing against his other opening and he whimpered a bit in protest.

"Wait a fucking second," the white haired man scolded, his voice so much colder than when he'd been reassuring the boy only a moment ago. "I get his ass first, that's the deal."

There was a brief protest, but the man behind Mal reluctantly relinquished his position. Mal squeezed his eyes tightly shut and wished for something to hold onto as the man positioned himself. The presence was there again, and then it entered. The boy's scream was strangled and faint and quickly died off. With a cock thrust as far as possible down his throat, he was struggling to breath and to keep whatever food was left in his stomach from making the return trip.

James paced nervously in the dingy, dusty waiting room. His face was pale, and he seemed completely unaware of the secretary, who, having nothing to do but stare at him, seemed quite annoyed by his refusal to make googely eyes. He'd been waiting less than fifteen minutes when he finally returned his attention back to her.

"Are you sure Mr. Hartley is occupied? I really must see him, this is an urgent matter!"

The secretary sighed. It always was. She was about to inform him that Mr. Hartley was a very busy man and that he was very lucky such a busy man could fit him in on such short notice when the office door opened and Bruno Hartley appeared. He was massive, his head barely clearing the door frame, but he greeted his latest visitor and prospective client with a smile and a handshake before leading him inside.

Taking a seat in a chair that seemed cry out in protest, the amiable Mr. Hartley kicked his feet onto his desk and smiled. "So then, Mister…"

"Just call me James,"

It was a pseudonym, and Hartley could tell. It was not surprising. "What brings you here."

James shifted uncomfortably. "I came here because I heard you were particularly discrete in your business, and that you are equally open-minded about your cliental."

Bruno frowned and sighed, waving the man on. "Yeah yeah, I don't say nothin' to nobody 'bout anything you say or anything I do for you. I'm pretty good at 'forgettin' confessions."

James frowned and hesitated, and for a moment Bruno thought he was about to puke. "Have you read the paper today?"

Bruno nodded, grabbing the mentioned article out of the garbage bin. "What about it?"

"You remember the little boy the cops are looking for?"

A moment passed, and both men tensed. Bruno did indeed recall the article, and his mind ran through a list of scenarios of how it and the fancy business man could be related.

"I have an interest in seeing that he's found, safe and sound, but I… I can't be directly involved."

"You're a pervert, ain't you?" James looked up, frightened, but there wasn't anger or accusation in the man's voice. "Ain't matter none to me, like I said, I don't say nothing, as long as I get paid."

Swallowing and barely believing what he was about to confess, James nodded. "I-I know who has the boy, but if I finger him, he'll finger me, and…"

"And they ain't nice to perverts in prison," Bruno finished. "So you want to pay me to get the kid, but keep you out of it, right?"

James nodded, his face showing a bit of relief when the man hadn't immediately shot him or dialed 911. "I'll pay five grand up front, and another ten after the kid is…"

"Ten now, and fifteen after," Bruno cut in sharply. "Prices go up when I work for sickos."

"I-I don't have that much. I mean, I do, but it will take me…"

"Then five now, another five when you get it together, and fifteen after I get the kid."

James nodded and breathed a sigh of relief.

"And just so we're clear," Bruno stated evenly, "When I find the kid, I'm turning him over to the cops, not you, got it?"

"I… of course. Like I said, I just want him to be safe. And-and there's one other thing." James swallowed and Bruno cocked his head in interest. "The man who has the boy, he's a pimp who goes by the name 'Slick.' I'll pay double if you – if you take care of him."

Bruno smiled. Twenty-five for the kid's safety and twenty-five for a hit. Quite a lucrative proposition, and he even got to play the good guy. Rescue a little kid and put a dirt bag in the ground – yeah, he could live with that. He grabbed a pen and a pad of legal paper. "Now then, tell me everything you know."

"The little shit fucking bit me!" one of the men exclaimed, pulling his length out of Mal's mouth and slapping the boy with all his might. The sound was a sickening, like clapping with hands covered in uncooked eggs. The boy let out something that resembled a cry. He struggled meekly for a few seconds, but quickly resigned himself again. He wasn't sure how many arms were holding him in place – suspending him in the air – but he knew he couldn't escape, and struggling only made them tighten their grip until it became painful.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed weakly, his head hanging limp now that nobody was holding it up. His throat was sore; it had turned his voice hoarse and almost inaudible. He was dizzy from the impact, but didn't remember biting the man, and he certainly hadn't meant to. But the man had been much more aggressive than he could handle, and it was certainly plausible to his young mind that his jaw had tried to close on its own while he'd been choking and gagging and struggling for air. It didn't occur to him that the man had simply wanted an excuse to hit him.

"If he's going to be biting, I say we plug that hole up," the man continued. "Everyone got their first turn already, right?"

Someone mumbled that they hadn't gone yet, but that he were content to wait for the man who was currently sodomizing the child to finish. The three men who had come by their own hands while waiting remained sheepishly silent.

"Please, please can I have a break?" Mal whimpered, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of skin slapping and men panting. He'd been trying to ask for almost an hour, but had never gotten the chance. "Please? Just for a while?"

The man who had hit him laughed. Someone handed the man something, and he grabbed the boy's hair. Pulling the child's head back up, he stared into the child's pained, pleading eyes and smiled as he shoved the ball gag into place. With one fist in the boy's hair and the other stroking his length, the man rubbed himself over the boy's face. He came a few minutes later, grunting as he shot his load point blank.

The man behind the boy finished a short while after and pulled out as well. The man who had called next asked the others to let him go, and they did, dropping his frail body to the floor. Mal tried to curl into a ball, but his next tormenter lifted him and carried him to the bed. Sitting on the edge and adjusting the boy like a rag-doll, he pulled Mal down on his erection in a single, easy movement. Mal didn't make a sound, or at least one that registered with any of the men.

As Mal was lifted up and down on the man's lap, he shut his eyes tight and tried to ignore the men staring at him. He didn't like the thing in his mouth; it held his jaw open so wide it hurt, but at least he could breathe now. And the man he was riding was being pretty nice, and hadn't they said they were almost done? He had thought so, but in his near-delirium he couldn't remember.

Because his eyes were shut, he didn't see the man who had hit him slip away and come back, and he was surprised when something slipped around his neck. He jerked and started to struggle, giving a little cry as whatever it was tightened and he felt two prongs jab into the side of his neck. The man behind him held him firmly as the man who hit him finished adjusting the collar and stepped back.

"Just something for a little game we're going to play," the man who hit him whispered, and the man behind him picked up the pace. Mal whimpered as the man grunted his climax. The man's grunts reminded him of Jerod, of the night before, when he'd thought that maybe Jerod really did love him. He wished Jerod were there. Jerod would stop the men and make it all better.

"Hurry up," the man who hit him called. "I've been looking forward to this part all week."

"Just a second," the man behind him panted, hugging the sobbing Mal as they both recovered.

A jolt of pain shot through Mal's body, and both he and the man behind him let out a cry. He slumped forward, falling out of the man's lap and onto the ground.

"God-fucking-damnit! I said just a fucking second!" the man screamed as Mal curled into a ball. The men were all laughing, and they barely noticed as Mal's body contorted on its own the second time. It was the collar, Mal realized.

The men settled down, and the man who hit him squatted next to him. "Get up, kid."

Another shock jerked through Mal's young body when he didn't immediately respond.

"Now!"

Trembling and weak, Mal did as ordered, pulling himself up with the support of the bed. He swayed weakly and looked up at his tormenters, most of which were now sitting in several folding chairs he hadn't seen before.

"You and me are going to play a little game while the guys and I recuperate and get ready for round two," the man who hit him informed, his voice even and pleasant and tinted with amusement.

Mal started crying louder. He had thought – had hoped and prayed – that he was done.

"Stop that." His despair amused the man who hit him, but the man's voice was impatient and almost angry. When Mal didn't immediately fall silent, another jolt of electricity jerked through his little body and he fell to the ground again.

"Get your ass up and stop that fucking crying, or I'll just keep fucking shocking you," the man who hit him threatened, and Mal struggled to comply.

"Go easy on him," the white haired man called out from the background. The man who hit him responded with something along the lines of "Shut the fuck up." With his feet once more unsteadily beneath him, Mal leaned against the bed to remain upright.

"Now then, as I was saying, we're going to play a little game," the man who hit him repeated. "You've played Simon Says before, right?"

Mal nodded apprehensively.

"Well, we're going to play that, except when you mess up, I'm going to shock you. Nod your head if you understand."

Sniffling weakly, the boy nodded. A second later, another jolt – stronger than its predecessors, although the boy somehow kept his feet – jerked through his body. He looked up with pained confusion and terror at the man who hit him, who had a delighted smirk on his face. "I didn't say Simon Says."

Another god damn fucking psychic. Richard punched the wall furiously, re-bloodying his knuckles. His fist hurt, but it helped. It woke him up; the sleepless week was starting to get to him, and it was starting to take more than caffeine to keep him focused. Even the pills – the ones he probably shouldn't be taking and the ones he probably shouldn't even own – were starting to lose their edge. But still, he couldn't sleep, not for more than a couple hours at a time with the feeling that he should be doing something other than sitting in his apartment waiting for the phone to ring.

After examining his hand and assuring himself that no, the bones were not broken, Richard looked back at the phone. That last psychic was the third one so far. This one claimed that she'd seen the kid in a dream. She said the boy was scared and in a dark place, and she even had the balls to ask about a reward. He'd called her a bitch and hung up on her.

It had been a bad idea – a damn stupid one – to put that article in the paper, and he regretted it immensely, especially listing one of his own cell-phones, a disposable one he'd purchased for this exact purpose. He could have – should have – used an extension at the station and let the desk-jockeys deal with the gold-digging trash. He should be out following Slick, he should be looking for the kid instead of stuck in his apartment listening to crazies and morons. And he would have, except that he didn't trust the station or anyone in it.

The realization that Bobby was probably dirty had struck him hard, and harder still when he started questioning who he could trust. He'd asked Garry, a detective in vice he'd known for ten years, to keep Slick occupied today. He wanted to trust his friend, but a little voice kept whispering at him.

The phone was ringing again. Massaging his knuckles one more time, he grabbed the fragile device and answered with a very gruff "hello", unable to keep the impatience and frustration out of his voice.

"Uh…" it was a kid. Great.

The line was silent. For a second Richard thought he'd been scared off, but then he realized he could hear the kid breathing. Doing his best to imitate a kindly secretary and failing miserably, the detective asked "Who's calling?"

"Jeffery," was the hesitant answer. Yeah, no doubt about it, a kid, one not too much older than Mal, by the sound of it. Probably a wrong number; since when do kids read the newspaper anyway? Richard was just about to hang up when the boy spoke again, his voice urgent and concerned. "Is Mal okay?"

His heart stopped, and then shot into overdrive. The article had never referred to the boy as Mal. Richard had been very specific in ordering Roush to only refer to the boy by his full name. He swallowed and tried to keep the emotion out of his voice. "How do you know to call him that?"

"I… uh…" The kid's voice was nervous, and for a second Richard thought he was going to hang up. "He said it was his name."

"When did you meet him?"

"A-a few days ago, three or four, I think…"

Richard gasped as he fought to keep his emotions in check. The last thing he wanted to do, the last thing he could afford to do, was scare off this kid before he got the full story. "May I ask where…"

"Is he okay?" the boy cut in, and Richard frowned.

"I don't know, kid. God, I hope so. You're the last person I know of who's seen him." Richard allowed the boy to process this. His heart was beating so hard he thought he would stroke out, and he was barely able to keep himself coherent. "Look kid, I really need to find him. His mom made a lot of mistakes, and I think that he might be in trouble because of them. If you know anything about where he might be, please tell me."

There was a long silence. Richard held his breath, his lips reciting a memorized prayer. At last, the boy spoke again. "My-my dad said he was staying with a friend of his."

Richard realized his mouth was dry. "Do you know who this friend was?"

"N-no, but when Mal left, he went with an older black kid. I think he was fifteen or sixteen." Richard's stomach lurched. He had almost forgotten that Slick had a son; it had never even occurred to him that Jerod might be involved.

"Thank you, Jeffery. You've been very helpful. Is there anything else you could tell me that might help?"

The boy hesitated. Richard realized that he'd been tapping the table with speed and vigor that almost caused him pain for some time now. "Perhaps what he and the black kid were wearing? Did they mention anything about what they had planned? Anything like that?"

Jeffery listed off the ensemble Mal had been wearing, right down to the shoes that lit up whenever he took a step. Richard asked a few more prying questions, and he sensed the kid getting more and more nervous. When he finally ventured to ask "What was Mal doing when you saw him?", the boy hung up.

His mind reeling, Richard stared blankly at the phone. The caller ID had the boy's number stored in its memory, and Richard was torn. Adrenaline was pumping through his weary body, and he thought of the pill bottle in the kitchen; he'd need a few more of those once he got the chance. After a week of chasing shadows, he finally had a lead. Two of them, actually. He needed to find Jeffery as well, but Jerod – the pimp's fucking son – was by far the more pressing concern.

Fighting to his feet, Richard stumbled through his apartment, a small glimmer of hope finally daring its way into his heart.

Mal's legs screamed, and then the shock came again. He collapsed to the floor. His face was streaked and stained with multiple kinds of bodily fluid. The thing in his mouth still held his jaw open to its limit, and the thing they'd put in his bottom did the same to his anus. His cheek – the one where the man had hit him – was puffing up and starting to change color. The eye above it was swollen shut.

"Simon says get up," the voice called. Patient. Distant. Almost disinterested. Mal tried to obey, his limbs flopping about as he fought to get his feet under him. He was so exhausted. They'd had him dancing and jumping and running for a very long time now. When they'd gotten tired of him simply picking himself back up off the ground after his mistakes, they'd tied one of his arms behind his back to make it more difficult. Worse, they tied it so that whenever he moved it, it pulled at the thing they'd put inside him. The shock came again. Not fast enough, they said.

"Simon says get up." Mal tried to obey. He tried as he'd been trying for what seemed like forever. He got his free hand under him, and he tried to push himself up, onto his knees, but his arm had no strength. Nor did his legs. Not even the muscles in his torso seemed to be capable of movement. And finally, he gave up. The last shred of hope he'd clung onto flickered and died.

Jerod wasn't coming this time.

His body went limp. Let them shock him. Let them fuck him. He didn't care anymore. He closed his eyes and waited. The shock came again. He didn't move.

"Simon says get up!" The voice was more insistent. Mal didn't budge. Couldn't have if he wanted to. There was a sigh of disappointment from his audience, their little puppet had broken. The strings they'd been pulling and twisting and jerking at had finally snapped. It was over.

"Get the fuck up!" the man who hit him screamed, hitting the button on his little remote again, and kicking the child's prone body when that had no effect.

"It's over," the man with white hair called, and the rest of the men mumbled in agreement. "Let the boy get some rest, god knows he needs it."

Mal's eyes drifted open for a second, and he looked up to see the audience still staring at him. At the start of their game, they'd cheered him on, laughing and barking orders happily. It had been fun – amusing – for them as he'd danced around. They rattled them off so quickly he'd had trouble keeping up, and he'd quickly learned that being slow was the same as messing up. They didn't allow him time to process the orders and they cheered at every mistake.

"Simon says play with your dick. Simon says show us your asshole. Put your finger in. OH! Simon didn't say!"

But things had changed. As their game proceeded, Mal's desperation and exhaustion mounted, and slowly the men's attitudes changed. Most of them had stopped cheering. Two men had gotten up and walked out. One had run to the bathroom. He was back now, watching with the same sick fascination. A few of the men were playing with themselves absentmindedly. Only the man who had hit him was smiling until the end. Had it not been for him, the game would have ended long ago.

"Fine then, game over. Let's fuck him again."

The man who hit him picked the boy up by the arm tied in place, ignoring the muffled screams as he pulled out the thing that was in him with a sick "pop!" and threw his little body on the bed. The rope came loose, and on the mattress the boy curled into a ball. He heard the man who hit him approach, but he didn't move. He didn't care anymore.