Category: rape/nc, other pairing, DARK fic
Date: September 1993--old fic, can't remember which Zine it posted in,
probably one put out by FeatherPaw, Inc.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A serial killer is torturing, raping and killing gay men. Bodie
and Doyle are assigned to lure him out, only to find that one of their
own--Murphy--has already been taken. Will they be able to rescue him in
time? And even if they do, will he ever be the same again?
May 24, 1983; 4:20 p.m.
It was a typical murder scene in every respect save one -- the scowling, pacing presence of George Cowley.
The head of CI5 stood in the long afternoon shadows beside the seedy ten story tenement and watched his forensics team flow in and out of the alley. Uniformed policemen kept the crowds moving along and the news crews well clear.
"I still don't see why CI5 should be involved in this."
Cowley turned to the ruddy-faced, paunchy man on his right and fought down a frown of irritation. Unused to explaining himself to anyone, especially an average, borderline competent like Detective Inspector Jack Lowe, Cowley kept his dark eyes and expression carefully shielded.
"CI5 is involved, Inspector," the Scotsman said, his voice exceedingly dry, "because of the killer's latest choice of victim."
"Some top wig, eh?" The Inspector nodded, as though he'd known the answer all along. "Some old toff from the 'ouse out for a randy ride, only to get snuffed by his latest cunt, is it? Anybody I know?"
Cowley turned a disgusted eye on the other man. His voice dropped an entire register, his trilled Highland accent noticeably thicker.
"No, Inspector, I would say that was highly unlikely."
"Well, who the bloody 'ell is 'e, then? Prince Eddie 'imself?"
"It's no longer your business to know who the victim is. As of now, this matter belongs to me and my men. I want everything you have on this case, down to the last photograph and file. Every test result, every witness statement, every autopsy report and background check. Have it delivered to CI5 within the hour."
"Now see 'ere, this is my case! You can't just come in 'ere an' take over -- ."
George Cowley pinned the larger man in place with nothing more threatening than an icy glare. "I most certainly can, Inspector Lowe. In point of fact, I just have. Everything you have, all the way back to the day each victim's parents met. This affair is now a CI5 issue. From the looks of things, both are long overdue. Now if you will excuse me, I wish to speak with my lab men."
Cowley moved away before the detective could respond to the curt dismissal. He stepped around the tape boundary stretched across the mouth of the rancid alley and studied the scene with a clinical, distanced eye. Five men and two women divided the site into sections, sifting through mounds of plastic, scrap metal, and rotten food for clues. Two others knelt beside the tarp-covered victim. A final team member kept himself busy snapping roll after roll of film.
Cowley came to stand over the body. "Anything yet?"
Malone, the head of the forensics squad, rose and removed clear surgical gloves from his chemical-stained hands. "Same as the others, according to the initial reports. Male, aged between 23 and 35, dark hair, well-built. Athletic type. Totally nude, with no trace of clothing or identification."
"We're lucky the officer who found the body recognized what was left of the face," Cowley nodded. "I imagine I already know the answer, but the cause of death was...?"
"I can't be certain without a complete autopsy, but I'd say extreme exsanguination due to prolonged beating and assault trauma to his chest, abdomen, kidney, genital, and anal areas."
"Assaulted then? Sexually?"
Malone nodded. "Like the others. From the amount of rectal hemorrhaging, bruising, and other more mundane forms of torture, looks like he took a long time to die."
Cowley stared down at the indistinguishable lump under the plastic tarp, his face expressionless. After a final terse command for Malone to speed up his reports, he turned and left the scene, his R/T in his hand before his car door could close behind him.
May 24; 5:05 p.m.
"Well, well. Will you look at 'im, all topped up to the nines!" Ray Doyle floated down the corridor, eying the taller, broader man from head to toe; he turned to Bodie with wide, inquiring eyes. "I ask you, mate, might our Smurf have plans for the evening he hasn't told us about?"
Bodie nodded. "Looks almost good enough to eat, he does." He toyed with the silver neck chain peeking through Murphy's starched collar. "Might fancy him myself one of these days."
"Try it, Bodie old son," Murphy said, "and I'll find out just how far I can toss you."
Bodie batted thick black lashes, thrust out a hip, and camped, "Oh, Murphy, would you? With leather trousers on?"
"Lay off, sunshine," Doyle laughed, slapping Bodie's outthrust hip with the back of his hand. "Can't you see the lad's late for a very hot date?"
"Anyone we know?" Bodie asked.
"Not likely," Murphy answered with a smug adjustment to his collar. "Has more taste than that."
Bodie laid a melodramatic hand over his heart and sighed, "I'm wounded, mortally done to death by the cruel, uncaring barb of a once-close mate. Oh, the tragedy of it all!"
"4.5, 3.7," Betty's voice broke into the conversation with crisp efficiency. "Mr. Cowley wants to see you both in the number two briefing room right away."
"No rest for the wick -- I mean weary," Bodie mumbled. He waved goodbye to Murphy. "Have fun, you lucky sod. Give her a kiss for me, eh?"
"Can't, sorry. I'll be too busy kissin' for myself."
"You sent for us, sir?" Doyle asked as Bodie closed the door behind them.
George Cowley turned away from the cork display board. A map of greater London occupied half of its surface. The other half held six photographs of varying quality, all of muscular, dark-haired men. Bright red ink spelled "DECEASED" across the bottom of every picture.
"I did. Sit down."
Cowley indicated the two nearest chairs, thrust folders into their hands, and launched into the briefing with his usual lack of wasted breath. He thrust a finger at the pin-studded map.
"In the last two months, six men aged 23 to 35 have been found murdered, all within a two-mile radius. Our killer, whoever he may be, is a sadist, taking pleasure from his victims' pain. According to the autopsy reports on the first five victims, each was subjected to no less than two days of torture."
Seeing the dark scowl on Bodie's face, Cowley nodded.
"Yes, Bodie, especially that. Every one of the deceased have suffered vicious sexual assaults. Evidence indicates the killer uses more than just his own body parts to impale his victims."
"Really likes to stick it to 'em, does he?"
Cowley glowered even harder at Bodie. "This is no time for juvenile, insensitive bursts of humor, 3.7."
Doyle asked, "You said autopsies had only been done on five victims, sir. What about the sixth?"
"Found not four hours ago," he pointed to the lowermost red pin, "here. From what I saw, there shouldn't be too much difference between his ordeal and that of the other five."
Bodie, eying the items in his file, asked, "Excuse me for asking, sir, but why us? I mean, this sort of thing usually falls on the Met homicide boys. What makes it special enough to drag CI5 into it?"
"This." Cowley pointed to the sixth black and white photo pegged on the board. "Wallis Nathrop Townsend, accountant and financial consultant, aged 34, victim number six. Townsend was one of the up-and-comers. His clients numbered amongst the cream of the British financial circle. When news of his murder leaks out, there will be uncomfortable questions raised, for which we had best have some answers."
"Could his death be a copycat killing?" Doyle asked. "With so many high-placed clients and so much money involved, I imagine he had a dirty secret or three that could have been tortured out of him."
"It's possible," Cowley admitted, "but not very likely. No, I believe Wallis Townsend to be victim number six, and the coroner's report should confirm it. The first five victims all carried varying degrees of sedating drugs in their systems. Townsend's autopsy should show whether or not he matches this pattern. It would seem our killer requires his subjects conscious but unable to resist, leaving him free to do whatever he damn well pleases. Between the Yard and ourselves, we've managed to keep the more gruesome details out of the press, but it won't be long before it spills out. I want this case solved before that happens."
"That'll be a job and a half," Doyle sighed.
"We have a possible description on this madman, though it is very vague. Witnesses have seen two of the victims with a man. Tall -- between 5'11" and 6'1". Slender build, pale blond hair, clean faced, and impeccably dressed. No description on a vehicle. They believe he is educated and well heeled as far as money goes."
Cowley thumped every photograph with a stiff index finger. The red ink under Townsend's picture, not yet dry, smeared off the edge of the paper.
"We have only one other lead. Three of the six victims were known homosexuals. The family of the fourth suspected but had no proof. Check your folders for a list of names, establishments that may form a common link. One, a particularly well-placed club catering to the homosexual community, heads that list. I want you two to go there, stake it out. See what you can find then report back to me."
"A queer pub!" Bodie yelled, outraged.
Eyes on the photographs, Doyle's face held only puzzlement. "Sir, there is something else. The victims all fit a general description. Tall, muscular, dark haired, clean-shaven. Handsome, athletic and successful."
"Aye, they do at that," Cowley said. His eyes shifted to Bodie, glittering.
Bodie leaped out of the chair and moved away. "No. No way. No fuckin' way, and I don't care who asks me! I will not be a draw for any friggin' queers!"
"That's enough of that, 3.7." Cowley's voice in no way changed pitch yet conveyed a wealth of displeasure. "You have no choice. If there is any possibility of luring this lunatic into the open, we have to take it. You fit the description perfectly -- handsome of face, fit and tastefully dressed."
Doyle sucked in the sides of his cheeks to control a sudden grin but couldn't dampen the twinkle in his eyes. "Sir, how long's it been since you've had your glass prescription checked?"
"Enough. On your bikes, both of you."
May 24; 5:25 p.m.
It wasn't his usual haunt, which made tonight all the more dangerous.
Colin Murphy surveyed the interior of Cocktales and let the mood wash over him. Mahogany panels glowed in the soft recessed lighting of a dozen etched glass wall sconces. Mixed voices and clinking glass created a comfortable murmur of noise. It seemed harmless enough, perfect for chance meetings of a very furtive kind.
He was taking a very big risk, trying out a new place. It was just that he'd used his usual dens more often than was safe. His last companion, Hiam Leary, had showered Cocktales in glowing praise -- went on and on about the good food, fair prices, and quality clientele who frequented the place. Every word had roused Murphy's curiosity, which explained what he was doing here on his first free evening, dressed to the nines, gun and CI5 ID locked safely in his car, eyes roaming over the men who ranged between bar and tables.
Murphy moved to the bar, answering smiles and accepting the idle glances. Sliding onto a stool on the far end of the room, he ordered a lager and spent the next ten minutes assessing the possibilities.
The men in the pub varied in age, weight, appearance, and style of dress. Many stood in pairs or small clumps, talking. A few were obvious cruisers, out for a quick ride and very few words. Those were not the kind that interested Murphy.
"'ello. This seat taken?"
Murphy looked up at a round face framed with uneven red hair. Though handsome enough and dressed to the limits of middle income means, Murphy caught the hungry, searching expression buried beneath the baby face. He saw the signs of drug use in the first two seconds of contact.
The newcomer slid onto the empty barstool without waiting for a reply, ordering a double whiskey. "Alone, are you? Me, too."
Murphy had no desire whatsoever for any involvement with the man, and gazed around for any way out. Staring over the man's head, Murphy spotted a lone figure seated at a shadowed corner booth.
Murphy offered his neighbor a falsely apologetic smile and said, "Sorry, I just spotted my friend. Thanks just the same."
Murphy took up his drink and worked his way through the crowd. Mindful of how easily a poorly phrased opening line could be misinterpreted, he projected an "it's okay if you're not interested" air even as he favored the booth's occupant with one of his shy killer smiles.
"You wouldn't happen to want to rescue a fella in distress, would you?"
The blond looked up, touching Murphy with bright blue eyes. Seeing he had the man's attention, Murphy put more power behind his smile.
"Bit of unwanted interest around the bar," he said by way of explanation.
"Join me," the man said, indicating the maroon padded seat across from him. As soon as Murphy settled, the stranger held out his hand. "Alex."
Colin Murphy answered the firm handshake with equal strength. "Peter."
Alex grinned, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. "'Peter', is it? Yes, I like it."
"I can't help it. That what my Mum named me."
Ice broken between them, Murphy and Alex spent an enjoyable few minutes chatting about cars, food, the weather, whatever came to mind. The dance of words followed established patterns. A subtle shift against the seat, eyes lingering on certain parts of the other man's body, a casual flick of a tongue-tip across already moist lips made up a second line of conversation.
Murphy studied his companion and liked what he saw. Slender, handsome, and well groomed, the man projected an animal sexuality that lured Murphy along.
He glanced at his watch. "Didn't realize it was that late."
"It is getting on, isn't it?" Alex agreed, his tone just as nonchalant as Murphy's. "Might you be interested in a nightcap at my place?"
"Sounds wonderful."
"I'll have the publican call us a cab," Alex said, stood, and moved to the corner of the bar.
Murphy used the time to plan his campaign. He didn't want to take his car; one never knew when a one-night companion would be curious enough to jot down a registration number. Cowley would do his nut -- and Murphy's -- if a CI5 motorpool vehicle turned up on a known homosexual's wish book.
Alex returned to the table only long enough to throw back the last of his drink and collect Murphy. The two men exited the pub even as the cab pulled up to the curb.
May 24; 7:45 p.m.
"There's gotta be another way to do this."
Doyle turned toward the man walking at his side, and grinned at the dejected slump of his mate's shoulders. "Orders, Bodie."
"Aw, come on, Ray," Bodie pleaded, putting on his best pouty face. "If we put our heads together, I know we can -- ."
"That's just what you're supposed to be doin', innit?" Ray needled him mercilessly. "Putting your head together with another bloke's?"
Bodie answered with an obscene growl.
Having parked their cars a safe distance away, the partners strolled down the night shadowed sidewalk, idly glancing at the sparse traffic. Cocktales stood just ahead, on the corner of the block. Subtle lights brightened the exterior just enough to pinpoint the place.
Held on the far side of the street by a sudden increase in traffic, Bodie glanced at the taxi that pulled to a stop outside the gay pub. Desperate for something, anything, that might delay the inevitable, he glanced at the two men who shifted into the vehicle.
"Ray, that -- that looks like Murphy! What the bloody 'ell would he be doin' in a queer pub?"
Doyle glanced at the taxi but saw only the vague shape of two figures in the back seat. "Gerroff, Bodie. Murph wouldn't be caught dead in a joint like this."
"The guy he was with looks just like our killer." Bodie took on a desperate, playful puppy look. "Maybe we should follow -- ."
Doyle caught Bodie's arm before he could turn back toward their cars. "You're just achin' to find some reason not to go inside. No way, mate. Cowley would have both our hides. Go on, then. Inside."
"But Ray -- ," Bodie wheedled.
Doyle stabbed a finger toward the pub. "Inside."
May 24; 9:10 p.m.
Alex lived in a fine wooded estate ringed by sculpted gardens, tall trees, bright flower beds and a twelve foot high brick wall. Murphy noted it all, studying it in the glow of the security lights and full moon, before he stepped into the brightly lit foyer.
Whatever else Alex was, he was very successful. Fine porcelain, gold and silver decorated both the entry and the study, into which the blond led him. Exquisite persian rugs covered a shining rosewood floor, while Renaissance artwork provided tasteful decoration for the paneled walls. Cut crystal fixtures provided lighting for the room, casting away uncomfortable shadows.
Murphy examined several titles along the nearest shelf of books. Alex's taste in literature closely paralleled his own.
Alex stepped away from an elaborate entertainment system; soft, romantic music drifted into the room. He moved to the wet bar, returning a moment later to offer Murphy a crystal glass half-full of amber liquid.
"Cheers," Murphy toasted and sipped at the expensive Scotch. "Mmmm, delicious. I know someone who would give five years of his life for a bottle of that."
"You're welcome to as much as you like. Take a fifth to your friend."
Murphy considered the offer a moment, then sighed and shook his head. "Thank you, Alex. That's very kind, but I really can't. For one thing, I'd never be able to explain it on my salary. And since the man is my boss..."
Alex laughed, said, "I quite understand," and sat down on the settee quite close to Murphy.
Alex's hand drifted up Murphy's thigh, fingertips skimming the inside seam of his trousers. Murphy's crotch tingled in delightful anticipation. Alex's touch was feathery, almost unfelt, satisfying even as it left Murphy wanting more.
The blond moved closer, shifting to face his companion. Warm breath brushed against Murphy's cheek; a wet, seeking tongue slid along the curve of his ear. Murphy sighed and closed his eyes, his own hand gliding up Alex's arm.
Murphy's head soared, his crotch ached in the constriction of his clothing, his mind too fogged with desire to convey coherent thoughts. He swallowed a moan of disappointment as Alex pulled away, gathered up Murphy's glass, and gave him a refill.
He tasted something strange about the second drink, but Alex's busy hands at his trouser zip drove all suspicions from him mind. Fearful he would spill the expensive liquor, he shot it down his throat and laid the glass aside, more interested in what Alex was doing than in drinking any more.
May 24; 9:30 p.m.
Bodie played with his glass and watched another man ignore him in favor of Ray Doyle.
After two hours in the queer pub, only three men had made moves on Bodie, none of whom came close to matching the killer's description. Doyle, on the other hand, had fielded no less than fifteen direct advances and a dozen indirect pickup attempts. It was enough to give any ego-respecting fella a deflated view of himself.
Bodie snorted at the fickleness of his own thoughts. Here he sat, jealous because Doyle was getting the very come-ons Bodie had dreaded getting himself. They buzzed around Doyle like bees on honey -- or fleas on heat, he thought -- without sparing Bodie more than a passing glance.
The stupid sod's even enjoyin' it, for gahd's sake! Bodie moaned inside his head. Sits there lappin' up all the attention like he was born to it, smiling just enough to keep them coming back without actually promising anything at all. And not one single man matches the killer's description.
By the time the barman called last drinks, Bodie was more than happy to see Doyle suddenly hard-pressed to leave without a harem of interested fellas dogging his heels. He sat back and watched Doyle move from unease to vexation to outright irritation as his every attempt to move toward the door was blocked by interested men.
Bodie at last took pity on his mate. Cutting through the crowd without much effort, he offered his own company "for the evening". They hurried out into the night, leaving a trail of disappointed expressions in their wake.
May 24; 9:30 p.m.
"I think we'll be more comfortable in the bedroom, don't you?"
Murphy pulled himself out of a mental haze long enough to focus on Alex's words. Only then did he notice how dangerously close they were to ending up on the rosewood floor. He nodded agreement and accepted a hand up.
A thick gold shag carpet covered the spiral staircase in the foyer. Alex led Murphy upwards, his hold on Murphy's hand almost painfully tight.
Alex stopped midway up the stairs. His body pressed Murphy's against the wall, sealing him in place. His mouth slammed against Murphy's, devouring his lips, his tongue demanding entrance. He shoved the bulge of his erection against Murphy's poorly covered one, grinding their groins together with uncomfortable roughness.
Murphy wiggled beneath Alex's pressing weight. "Mmm, Alex, stop. Not so hard."
Alex withdrew enough to reassure Murphy, then led him the rest of the way up the corridor. Their bodies tied together by mounting passions, both men's hands roamed each other's bodies, pausing every few feet for Murphy to lean against a wall and regain his senses.
He gasped, quivering, when Alex's hand caught and squeezed the almost painful bulge at his groin. The delight of the touch, rough though it was, weakened his knees.
"Like that, do you, Peter?" Alex purred into his ear. "Just wait until you see what's waiting behind that door. You'll really fly then."
Alex's face nuzzled the crook of Murphy's shoulder and neck. Murphy jerked when teeth sank into the heated skin over his pulsing artery. Alex nibbled his throat, laving away each bite with a wet tongue. Murphy's legs threatened to drop him to the floor.
Alex opened the door and moved back enough for Murphy to see into the room. It was a long moment before the sight registered on his sex-drugged senses.
Face ashen even in the castoff red glow of the room lights, eyes wide with confusion, Murphy took a staggered step back. "What the bloody 'ell--?"
"Like my nursery? My playroom?"
"Alex, what...? Look, mate, this...this really isn't my idea of a fun time, and I...I don't think -- ."
"No one's asking you to think, dear Peter. Just obey."
Murphy saw the blow coming and tried to move aside. His limbs refused to respond. He shifted just enough to take the fist on the point of his shoulder. Murphy stumbled away, his right arm numbed by the impact.
"The scotch. You...you drugged me!"
"Damn right I did," Alex said, advancing. "I like fight in my playmates, but who wants to be hurt, right?"
Murphy tried to resist. The sedative warped his every effort, turning skilled punches into wild, uncoordinated swings. Drugged and reeling from a backhand slap to his left temple, Murphy fell against a carved oak table set against the wall. He didn't even feel the impact.
"That's it," Alex purred, his eyes hot with a feral light. "Fight me. It'll make winning that much sweeter for me."
"No. You...bastard. No." Murphy rallied enough control to regain his feet. "You won't touch me, not like that."
Alex stepped back and waited until the anger-inspired defiance withered under the power of the drug. Murphy made a wobbly run for the stairs. He had to get away.
Alex was on him before he made five feet.
May 25; 8:00 a.m.
Bodie wanted to wipe the smug grin from Ray Doyle's face with a knotted fist.
The partners entered CI5 HQ and presented their ID's to the man on door duty, then climbed the stairs three at a time. Doyle shot up the three flights, whistling a bawdy tune that had been popular jukebox fare in Cocktales. Giving Bodie a vulgar eye on several occasions, the smaller man laughed at his partner's annoyance but made sure to stay a safe three paces ahead, just in case.
"Oi, Doyle, Bodie." Anson's lazy, sardonic voice caught them two steps away from the rest room. "Word of warning. The old man's on the warpath. Real bristles and tusk time. Seems Murphy's gone walkies without his high lord and master's permission, and the master isn't pleased. Unless you two have some divine protection, you'd better steer clear of him."
"Who needs divine protection?" Doyle grinned. "I'll just hide behind Bodie and let him take the heat."
Cowley appeared around the corner. "4.5, 3.7. In my office. Now."
Anson gave each man a sympathetic glance then beat a hasty retreat.
Doyle closed the office door and joined Bodie in a heels-locked stance in front of Cowley's overcrowded desk. One glance at Cowley's snapping eyes was enough to tell them their superior was burning mad.
Cowley wasted no time with niceties. "What happened last night?"
"Nothing, sir," Doyle reported. "Not even so much as a nibble."
"Not for me, at least," Bodie sighed.
"Explain."
Regretting his slack mouth, Bodie looked to Doyle, hoping he would answer. He found a stony face struggling not to break out into another smug grin.
"Seems 4.5 is more the she-man's type than I am. Sir."
"I want you both back there tonight. I'll move other teams into the two other suspect pubs. For this afternoon, however, you have another assignment. 6.2 was due in this morning at seven a.m. He hasn't shown and doesn't answer my calls, either on his R/T or at his flat. Marriott checked it out. There's no indication that he even came home last night, and his car is gone. I've got an alert out for the vehicle, but I want you two on the streets looking. 6.2 had best have a damn good reason for his absence, that's all I'll say on the matter. Well, go on, the pair of you."
Bodie and Doyle beat a hasty retreat, not envying Murphy when the wayward agent once more stood before George Cowley. Once reasonably safe in the corridor, the two men paused to marshal a plan of action.
"Whatever bird Murph's with, I hope she was worth it," Bodie sighed.
"Don't think he'd tell us if she was or not, even if we asked."
"Lucky bugger," Bodie agreed.
May 25; 9:15 a.m.
The cruelly tight metal bands had long since numbed Murphy's feet and hands, even as the leather collar around his throat limited his breath to inadequate gasps. Held on spread-eagled feet by steel chains attached to swivel rings in the ceiling beam, he shivered as the cold breeze from the conditioning system slithered across his naked flesh.
He hurt in so many places. Where he didn't hurt, he felt absolutely nothing at all. One extreme or the other, and none of it pleasant.
How long had it been? A few hours? A day? Two? An absence of timepieces and thick red velvet drapes over the windows removed any concept of time. Not that he truly cared to know. Time was humiliation. Time was pain. Time was Alex in all his twisted glory.
Murphy studied his surroundings as he had so many times before, praying something would appear to erase his shame or give him a means of escape. He saw nothing but sadistic sex toys, cabinets and racks against the wall holding quirts, whips, knives, and clubs, a giant four post bed behind him, and blood on the floor beneath him.
Had the pain been for any reason other than sadistic pleasure, Murphy felt he could have endured it all without more than a few whimpers. Holding secrets against physical pain was far preferable to suffering for just the sake of another man's pleasure.
A key grated in the lock. His head came up, heart pounding in his temples. He heard Alex a moment before he saw him, the buzz of an electric razor as the sadist ran it across his stubbled jaw.
Alex entered the bedroom clad in absolutely nothing, exuding power in every whisper of body language. His blond hair glistened after a recent wetting, as did his milky pale skin; water droplets sparkled on his shoulders. Electric razor in his right hand, his left held the handle of a small metal bucket and two stout yellow kitchen gloves.
"Good morning, lover," Alex greeted Murphy. He turned off the razor and set it on a nearby shelf full of hack-and-slash horror books. "Last night was incredible. It's been ages since anyone's made me come that hard. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did."
"Go fuck yourself, you bastard," Murphy croaked around the choke collar.
Alex tsk-tsked and set the bucket down on the floor next to Murphy's left foot. Glancing down, the agent saw it two-thirds full of clear water.
When Alex came to stand in front of him, Murphy backed as far as his bonds would let him. He shuddered in revulsion at the slide of the sadist's hands around his shoulders.
"You won't be needing this any more," Alex said, and unclasped the white gold necklace from Murphy's throat," and I really think it would look fantastic on me, don't you agree?"
Murphy ground his teeth together but couldn't stop Alex from taking it.
"I enjoyed a long bath this morning," Alex said. "Hot and steamy, just the kind to ease the stiffness and wake me up for more fun. I thought to let you share the experience with me, but you were asleep. So, I thought this might be the next best thing."
Alex opened a nearby cabinet, pulled out a box of salt, and poured half its contents into the bucket. He slipped the gloves on, reached into the bucket, and extracted a large, overfull sponge.
Murphy cursed and fought the chains as the salt-heavy water drenched the raw welts on his back. No sooner did he grow accustomed to the deluge than Alex dipped the sponge again and rubbed it briskly down Murphy's abraded back. Murphy could not repress a moan as the scouring soap ate into his open flesh. He twisted about, desperate to end the pain, yet even more frenzied to stop Alex from applying the sponge to even more tender areas. Alex carried on, unmindful of Murphy's protests.
Feeling the sponge sliding over the small of his back, Murphy tried to clamp his arse cheeks closed. He could not keep his tormentor out. Fighting damning tears of fury, he endured the unwanted attentions in complete silence. Only when Alex awarded the same attention to his bruised groin did Murphy's control slip, and a moan of discomfort escape him.
"Like that, lover? Good."
Pain accumulated quickly, robbing Murphy of alertness. When Alex abandoned the sponge and fed slack into the chains holding his arms, Murphy was in no position to take advantage of anything. He pushed against Alex when the smaller man shoved him backwards but could not stop himself from falling onto the bed.
The sharp agony of stretched wounds kept him from making more than a token struggle when Alex released his ankles and used a winch to draw him further up on the bed. Murphy managed to give his torturer a solid kick on the ribs before his feet were rebound, leaving him spread in an impotent "X" on the blood red silk sheets.
"You really shouldn't have done that, lover," Alex gasped as air moved more freely in his lungs. "It wasn't very nice. I'll have to punish you for that."
Murphy closed his eyes, only to open them a few moments later. Alex had abandoned the bed and moved away. Afraid of what the madman had planned, the agent watched as he moved over to the pile of clothing on a small doorside table and rummaged through it for something in particular. When Alex turned back around, Murphy's own silver neck chain sagged between his hands.
"This is beautiful. You must tell me sometime where you bought it. And so useful. Did you ever imagine all the things you can do with a twenty-inch piece of metal?"
A cry bubbled up into Murphy's throat when the hard, cold silver raked across his abused left nipple. He threw himself away from the pain, drawing his chest down as far as possible. Alex followed him, trailing the silver strand across his helpless body.
"You really shouldn't have kicked me, Peter my love." Alex lifted Murphy's cock and wrapped the silver neck chain around its base. "You really should not have hurt me."
Murphy froze, terrified that any movement would rend his flesh complete off. He shuddered as the chain tightened, biting into the sensitive organ.
"Damn you to hell, Alex," Murphy snarled. "Do it and get it over with, you motherfucking bastard. Go on. Kill me!"
"But I don't want to kill you, lover. I just want to give you as much pleasure as you're giving me. That's fair, isn't it? It's not my fault you did something wrong and have to be punished."
The chain loosened and withdrew. By the time Murphy could again see past the pulses of agony, Alex had rebuckled the chain around his own throat. The white metal glittered a dirty red in the demented lighting.
A flash in Alex's eyes warned Murphy an instant before the blond lowered himself on top of his bound slave. Alex forced his head to one side, teeth latching onto the skin between Murphy's left ear and the choke collar. Murphy felt the skin break and something hot run down his neck. Alex slurped hungrily, enjoying the salty moisture; Murphy fought the urge to vomit.
Alex's attentions moved southward, his hands worming beneath and between Murphy's cheeks even as his mouth closed on chilled flesh. Blind, hot rage roared through the bound man's senses, obliterating reason. Mad strength made him thrash about, bruising and bloodying himself still more in an attack of final desperation.
It couldn't happen, not here, not now, now like this. I won't let it happen!
Alex chuckled around the object in his mouth. He pulled back long enough to say, "Yes, fight me. Be wild. Be mine."
The fury abandoned Murphy as quickly as it had come, leaving him empty and defeated. He hadn't enough strength to care when Alex moved on to other, more demanding things.
Salty tears disappeared into his hairline, changing the red satin sheets to black.
May 25; 10:35 a.m.
"Alpha to 4.5."
Doyle took up the mic and keyed down. "4.5."
"Get over to the 1200 block of Pfeiffer right away. Patrolling uniform spotted 6.2's car ten minutes ago. Report back as soon as you check it out."
"1200 block Pfeiffer. On our way. 4.5 out."
Bodie shifted down to second, steering the silver Capri into a smooth U-turn. Once straightened back into the line, he geared up to fifth, darting in and out of traffic.
"Cowley sounds worried," Doyle commented as Bodie darted under a changing light. "You don't think he's got cause, do you?"
"With Murph? Naw." Bodie rejected the idea just a shade too quickly. "I mean, it's not the first time one of the Squad's got so wrapped up in his bird, he forgot to set the alarm. I mean, it's not even eleven o'clock yet."
"Since when did Murphy ever sleep past eight?"
Bodie puckered his lips. "Yeah, well, I admit he hasn't made a habit of it."
"Never, ever done it, more like. I'm starting to worry, myself."
"Look, Ray." Bodie right-turned onto Pfeiffer with only inches to spare between the Capri's rear fender and the front of a passing Vauxhall. "Murphy's a big lad. He can take care of himself. And even if he has got himself into a situation, we'll get there in time to pull him out. Don't fret about it."
"One of us's got to." Doyle hadn't meant for it to come out so scathing; he regretted both words and tone when he saw Bodie's face close down. "Sorry, mate. It's just that I've got a bad feeling about this. It's just not like Murph to go off without calling in."
"Well, maybe I am, too. Just a little. We will find him, Ray."
Doyle pointed toward the uniformed bobby who waited at the curb. The Capri's tires screeched against the dirty street. Their echo had not faded before Bodie and Doyle leaped clear of the car. They stepped up to the police officer, ID wallets out.
"Bodie, Doyle, CI5," Bodie said. "Where's the car?"
"Mathers, sir," the bobby introduced himself then indicated a green Escort parked down the block. "Found it twenty minutes ago. No sign of damage or trouble. All locked up, windows intact. If there hadn't been alert out for it, I'd never've given it a second glance."
"We'll take it from here, thanks," Doyle dismissed the man and joined Bodie over beside their mate's car.
"It's Murphy's all right. Doesn't look like anything's been touched." Bodie pulled on the handle. "Locked tight."
Doyle looked the car over then cast his partner a questioning look. "Break in or wait for a key?"
Bodie gave the question serious consideration then said, "If I break it, will it come out of Murphy's salary or mine?"
Doyle sighed and shook his head, then hurried back to their own car for a tire iron. Returning, he broke the rear window, reached in, and upped the driver's side door lock.
Careful to avoid the glitter of shattered glass, the two men quickly searched the Escort. Bodie opened the glove box.
"Murphy's gun and I.D." He held up the items.
"We all do that the first time or two we go out with a bird," Doyle said.
"Murph's flat anywhere near here?"
Doyle shook his head no. "Which means either the bird's place or some nightspot."
Bodie studied the area. "Doesn't look like too many habitations nearby. Mostly businesses."
"Nightspot, then." Doyle sighed. "We'd best start door-knocking."
"Ray."
Doyle turned back, caught by the grim depth of Bodie's voice. "What?"
Midnight blue eyes darkened with honest concern. "Cocktales is just around the corner from here."
"So?" The penny dropped; Doyle's face lightened several shades. "The cab last night. The man who looked like Murphy...could've been Murphy. And the man he was with..." Doyle choked.
"...matches our sadist's description. But...Colin Murphy is straight!" Bodie protested. "He dates birds, not fellas! What would he be doing in a place like that?"
"Have we ever actually seen him with a bird?" Doyle countered. "Even once? He's always turned down our offers to make a six-some out of an evening. Sweet Jesus, Bodie. That sadistic bastard has Murphy."
"We don't know that!"
"It all fits! Christ, everything fits! Murphy matches the target description, the man he was with sounds just like the killer. They were at the suspect pub. Murphy'd be more likely to cut off his own hand than he'd be to miss work! An insane pervert has Murphy...and we didn't save him."
"Stop that." Bodie rushed around the green Escort and climbed into Doyle's face. "Neither of us have anything to feel guilty about. Murphy...if that really was him...hid his private life from everyone, even his best mates. It was his choice. If we'd known -- ."
"Everyone knows how you feel about 'queens' and 'fairies', Bodie. Would you tell someone like you if you were one?"
Taken aback, needing a moment to make sense out of the mixed-up sentence, Bodie took Murphy's gun and ID with him when he and Doyle hurried back to the Capri.
"What was the name of the cab service?" Doyle called.
Bodie fought to remember. "Central Express, I think."
Doyle keyed the R/T. Bodie laid a hand on his, stilling the call. Ray followed Bodie's glance to the maroon Austin that slid to stop behind Murphy's Escort.
The two agents joined their Controller beside the car.
"It's Murphy's car all right, sir," Doyle reported. "His gun and ID were in the glove box. Sir..." Doyle squirmed, unable to meet Cowley's eyes. "Cocktales isn't far from here, and...there was a cab outside when we came up last night...and...well, Bodie and I thought we saw someone..."
Cowley cut him off. "Was he with anyone?"
"Yes, sir," Bodie said. "A tall, well-dressed, blond man. Sir, do you know...I mean, would...is Murphy -- ?"
Cowley walked toward the green Escort without answering. Bodie and Doyle shared puzzled glances but didn't follow, sensing Cowley's need to be alone a moment.
The Scotsman laid a hand on the bonnet of the Escort then wheeled back to the two waiting agents.
"Find out what you can from the cab company. I want to know if it was indeed 6.2, and if so, where the cab took him."
"But, Mr. Cowley, Murphy's not...I mean, it couldn't possibly... he isn't...bent." Bodie's eyebrows knotted in embarrassed confusion. "Is he?"
Cowley sighed but again didn't answer.
"You knew," Doyle guessed. His own guilt feelings mutated into burning rage. "You knew Murphy's a homosexual. You knew he fit the target description, was missing, and you didn't tell us? Why didn't you mobilize more of the Squad if you thought he might be victim number seven?" Bodie grabbed his arms to hold him back but could do nothing to still Doyle's furious tongue. "Murph's one of our own, he's going through God knows what kind of hell, and you hold back on us! Damn you to bloody hell, you heartless old bastard!"
"That's enough, 4.5." Cowley's voice was whisper soft yet sharp as glass shards. "I care about Murphy fully as much as you do -- more, as he's under my command -- but I won't be browbeaten by you or anyone. Our time would be better used finding Murphy than in laying blame for his disappearance."
"He's right, Ray," Bodie said. "Come on. Let's contact the cab company."
Doyle pulled free of Bodie's grip and stomped off toward the nearest pay phone. Bodie stood there, undecided, staring from his furious, worried partner to his furious, anxious superior. One needed his support fully as much as the other, yet Cowley's don't-you-dare-ask aura held him back.
Sighing, Bodie stuffed his hands into his jacket pocket, tucked his chin deeper into his polo neck, and followed Ray.
May 25; 11:00 a.m.
Alex left the loo with a wash towel in his hands, wiping his chest free of soap. Pale eyes glassy, face glowing with sated relaxation, he smiled down on his prize.
"That was wonderful, dear Peter. Positively the best I've ever had. And it wasn't so bad for you, either, was it? You rest a bit. I'll get a bite to eat and catch a little rest myself, then we'll find some new games to play."
He bent over the edge of the bed and kissed the swollen, bloodied lips.
"You're tired, aren't you, dear Peter? Must be. You aren't fighting me anymore. Wore yourself out for me. I hope you're not bored. Can't have that, can we? Sleep, lover, then we'll go again."
May 25; 11:50 a.m.
Bodie flew into Cowley's office without knocking, his hands filled with a computer printout. Doyle already waited, anxiously pacing in front of the desk.
"According to the cab company," Bodie reported, "the driver picked up Murphy and another man outside Cocktales and took them to a pay-and-park over on Lawrence. The attendant on duty last night remembered them, especially Murphy. Said they got into a dark green Jaguar. She remembered a partial on the plate, said the tag ended in an 'X'." Bodie handed a single sheet of paper to each man. "Six green Jags were registered between August '81 and July '82."
"Check them out and report back to me."
"Sir," Doyle said, "we could use help on this one. Murphy's in serious trouble. If some of the other lads -- ."
Cowley shook his head. "No, Doyle. Whatever misfortunes befell 6.2, the worst happened last night. He knows the value of security. That's why he took such elaborate measures to hide his sexual interests. If he were here now, I'm sure he'd agree CI5's security comes first."
"To hell with security," Bodie growled, "we're talking about Murphy's life!"
"Which to all intents and purposes would be over, especially in regards to his career, if even a whisper of his leanings leaked out. No, Bodie, just you and Doyle on this one."
"You heartless old bastard," Ray hissed.
"For once, mate," Bodie said as they disappeared through the door, "I agree with you."
Cowley watched the door close behind his best team. Only when it firmly clicked did he allow the slump back into his shoulders. He removed his glasses and laid them on the desk, pinching his nose in a vain attempt to stop a growing headache. He rose to stand before the window and stare out over the London skyline.
"Heartless, aye. Cold and unfeeling. The best way t' be. But if that's so...och, laddie, where are ye? Please be all right."
May 25; 2:55 p.m.
Bodie tooled the Capri up the long, winding, oak-lined drive of the Essex estate. Doyle stared at the printout as if hoping the answer would come leaping out at him.
"What've we got so far?" Bodie asked.
Doyle ticked off the names with the point of his pen. "Number one, Jonathan Wingate, age 41. Single, lives alone, housekeeper says he's been gone to the Continent for the last six months. Number two, Sir Lionel Wiggins, age 59, doesn't fit description and doesn't seem to have any family. Number three, Stephen Quincannon, age 34, fits description but his wife gives him an alibi for four of the deaths. Number four, Monica Fairfax-Taylor, age 21, no husband, brothers or known boyfriends who might have borrowed the car." Doyle pointed toward the elegant house that appeared at the end of the private road. "This is number five. John Cox, age 36, single, no children."
"Let's get on with it then." Bodie suited actions to words and led the way up the drive. As Doyle leaned on the front porch bell, Bodie stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and said, "Face it, mate, our man may not even be on this list."
"No," Doyle cut him off with a touch more force than necessary. He stabbed the button again. "We'll find him. We've got to."
"We have to think about it, Ray. If he's not on the list, we have to track him some other way."
"I know that," Ray snapped. "It's just -- ."
Sounds from inside the house silenced the argument. The heavy, engraved oak door opened a fraction. A tousled blond head came into view. The man wore nothing but a purple terrycloth bath robe and loose house shoes. Something silver glittered at his throat.
"Yes?"
"Excuse me, sir," Doyle launched into the same story they'd used at the previous four addresses, "but we -- that is, I -- parked my car in the Lawrence Street carpark yesterday evening. I accidentally hit a green Jaguar parked in the spot next to mine. I left a note on the screen for the owner to contact me, but the attendant called me this morning and told me she'd found the note. I guess it blew off. I contacted the police, but they hadn't received any accident report. I was wondering if it might have been your car I hit?"
"Uhh, no. No, it wasn't mine, sorry."
"Are you sure, sir? Could anyone else in your family have been driving it? I mean, I really tore up the rear fender. I'd hate to -- ."
"No one drives my Jag but me. It wasn't my car. Thank you just the same."
Cox closed the door in their faces.
Bodie and Doyle moved back to the Escort and paused beside the machine.
"A possible, that one," Bodie said.
"We still haven't checked out the last name."
"Ray, there was something...help me here...something about him wasn't quite right."
"Yeah. Okay, how did he look? Tall, blond, right age."
"The guy's wearing nothin' but a bath robe at three o'clock in the afternoon. Robe, house shoes and -- ."
Bodie's voice froze. Blue eyes met widening green ones.
"The necklace!" both men said together, with Doyle finishing, "Murphy's chain! Christ, Bodie, he's in there!"
Doyle dove for the car and snatched up the mic. "4.5 to Cowley."
"Cowley, go ahead, 4.5."
"Sir, we think we've found him." Doyle explained their suspicions and gave the address.
"Don't move, the pair of you. I'm sending backup."
"But Murphy -- !"
"I said don't move! Cowley out."
Doyle threw the mic down on the seat and climbed back out. He stared at Bodie across the roof, expecting his partner to share his resentment. Instead, Bodie stood absolutely still; only the rise and fall of his chest indicated life.
"Bodie, what are you -- ?"
Bodie turned back, a sly twinkle in his eyes. "He said not to move. He didn't say for how long."
"Oh. Yeah."
The partners stood still for approximately one minute, then moved back up the walk. They circled the Tudor-style estate house twice, checking every door and window.
"Locked up tighter than my granny's corset," Bodie grumbled. "Front door?"
"Front door."
Cox answered on the second ring. He wasn't fast enough to close the door again when the pair of them bullied their way on into the house.
Bodie shoved his ID case into the man's face and said, "CI5, Mr. Cox. Excuse the interruption, but we'd like to search your house."
Cox watched Doyle start toward the staircase but couldn't get around Bodie to stop him. "You can't go up there! This is private property."
"If we're wrong, we'll apologize," Bodie said, "but until then, sit down, Mr. Cox."
"This is an outrage," Cox ranted. "I'll have my lawyer sue you, your department, the government itself for this...this invasion!"
Doyle's anguished cry brought Bodie around. He took one step toward the stairs then remembered Cox. He turned back just in time to see the man vanish through the dining room door.
Racing after him, Bodie followed Cox out the kitchen door, through the garage, and onto the drive. He skidded to a gravelly halt when Cox collided with the front fender of George Cowley's Austin.
Satisfied that Cowley and the two agents with him had hold of Cox, Bodie hurried back into the house. He took the stairs three at a time, and ran down the dimly lit hallway. He saw Ray Doyle bent over in the corridor, holding his mouth as though he might throw up.
Bodie approached the open bedroom door, terrified of what he would find but unable to stop himself. He took one look inside, felt his own gorge rise, and stumbled back into the wall.
George Cowley found them that way, green-faced, appalled, stunned into immobility. He, too, could not keep from looking inside. A soft sob of dismay escaped his throat.
"Bodie, Doyle, get those chains off him then call an ambulance. Move, lads!"
May 25; 7:40 p.m.
George Cowley paced the waiting room, despite the soreness of his leg. Too agitated to relax, he moved from window to vending machine to door to magazine rack, noticing nothing beyond the need to move.
He paused at last beside the window, staring unseeing at the city landscape. Sunset bands of red faded to blue and violet on the horizon. Black night was only minutes away.
Four hours, he thought. They've been in there four hours. How long should this sort of surgery take? Good thing I sent Bodie and Doyle to handle the paperwork. They'd be climbing the walls by now. Can't say I won't be climbing walls myself if the doctors don't tell me something soon.
"George?"
Cowley looked up as the doctor entered the room. He accepted the medico's tired handshake. "Dr. Gilchrist. How is he?"
"You must train your men within a hair of godhood, George. Either that, or this one has an unbelievably stubborn guardian angel," Dr. Gilchrist said. "By all rights, he should be dead. I'm still half-convinced he is, and I just haven't noticed yet."
"What are you saying, Doctor?" Cowley's stomached tightened. "Is he going to die?"
"I should probably say yes, but he came through surgery without any major problems. He's in recovery now. Barring any unforeseen complications, he should make a full recovery, with only a few scars on his back and feet to show for his troubles."
"Physical scars, aye," Cowley sighed. "Those he'll deal with. But the mental scars? Can you treat those as easily?"
Gilchrist shrugged. "All I know is, in his place, I might prefer being a raving lunatic to facing up to the truth. You know most of what was done to him, I imagine. The restraints, beatings, and sexual assault. The whip marks on his back and sides show signs of additional irritation, and we found evidence of iodized salt in the wounds. Same with the anal and genital areas. In addition, we also found grains of chili pepper inside the rectal area; I shudder to think what that must have felt like. Our maniacal sadist may have done him a favor by using the salt, preventing infections, though I don't believe your man will see it in that light."
"Was the damage very severe? Answer me honestly, Doctor. I must know what I'll be dealing with."
"We had to set three broken ribs, one of which perforated a lung, and a broken left wrist. We set a dislocated shoulder and both hips. The bottom of his feet have been lashed, as were the backs of his legs. Both wrists and ankles required stitches, his jaw is fractured in two places, and the muscles of his shoulders and back are stretched and torn. There were internal injuries from the beatings -- kidney and spleen in particular. The rape injuries were by far the worse -- internal hemorrhaging, colon and prostate damage. Considering the location of the injuries and the possibilities of infection...well, I'll be honest, George. Had you gotten him here even thirty minutes later, he would not have survived."
"Has he regained consciousness at all?"
"Not totally. He was...well, delirious. In the Casualty ward, he...I don't think he realized where he was or who we were. He fought us, kept on about killing someone and demanding we...that we kill him and get it over with."
Oh, laddie. "Thank you, Doctor. When can I see him?"
"He'll be in recovery for the next several hours. I don't think he'll wake much before tomorrow afternoon." The doctor shifted a moment, then said, "I'm curious on one point. You don't have to answer, since it's not really health related.... What was your man doing out there anyway? I mean, was this a random attack or...?"
"Or a personal S&M playact that went too far? No, Doctor. There have been a string of homosexual murders. Murphy was the bait for the killer, only the maniac moved in before his backup could arrive." The lie flowed off his tongue with the ease of practice, as much to protect Murphy's reputation as to cover CI5; he must remember to coach Bodie and Doyle.
"Ah, I see."
"I'll be back tomorrow." Cowley took the doctor's hand again. "Thank you, Doctor."
September 25; 10:00 a.m.
The building had once been a warehouse. CI5 had transformed it to a combination torture chamber and victory arena.
George Cowley and Kate Ross stood in the shadow of the old rafters overseeing the dirt floor. Crumbled bits of masonry and fragments of window glass from old skylights peppered the walkway above and the dirt floor below. Shafts of early morning sunlight through the replaced glass overhead touched on the scattered fragments, glittering.
Below, Brian Macklin and Colin Murphy circled one another armed with knives, looking for the first hint of weakness.
"I don't think he's ready for this, sir," Kate Ross said. "It's too soon."
"So you keep saying, Doctor," Cowley said, half an ear on Ross' words, but most of his attention on the refresher training below. "I trust you have evidence to back your theory?"
"Don't fence with me, George Cowley. I am a master of word games. It's my job, remember?" Kate leaned against the metal rail; glass and powdered masonry ground under her heels. "You want reasons? It's been just three months; the physical injuries have healed, yes, but no man can snap back to mental health after this kind of trauma, not even a superhuman CI5 agent."
"Perhaps you underestimate Murphy's resilience."
The two figures below moved in on one another; grunts and heavy breathing ricocheted off the graffiti-covered walls. Macklin tripped Murphy with a leg-sweep, but the younger man managed to stay on his feet.
"He hasn't talked about what happened," Ross said, "not one word. He can't keep it bottled up inside. If he tries, he will eventually explode. I tell you, George, he is a walking time bomb. Sooner or later, he will go off."
Macklin and Murphy broke apart and resumed circling again. Cowley let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding; his fingers gripped the rail uncomfortably tight.
"Use that intelligence you were bragging about, Doctor. Murphy is a man. His masculinity has been violated in the most degrading manner possible."
"What has that to do with anything?"
Cowley stared at her in dismay. She couldn't possibly be that blind! "He's a man, and you're a woman! Ye can't expect him to come flat out and detail what happened to him!"
"Then find someone he will talk to. If you don't, you'll lose him, and maybe several other agents or innocent civilians."
"Perhaps I have more faith in his strengths than you do, Doctor."
"Strengths can be weaknesses, too, Mr. Cowley. The greater the strength, the greater the weakness. I will not -- ."
A flurry of movement down on ground level cut her off. Murphy roared and leaped, closing with Macklin. The two grappled across half the floor length, Murphy's greater weight and strength at last overpowering Macklin's greater experience. A cross-swing of his left arm deflected and numbed Macklin's knife arm; his knife landed in a puff of dust ten feet away. Macklin called surrender.
"My God," Kate gasped as Murphy aimed a cut at Macklin's ribs that missed only because the trainer folded himself around the strike. "I told you, George. He's not stopping!"
"I can see that, woman! Why?"
"The reports...Cox and Macklin fit the same general description. Tall, slender, blond-haired, blue-eyed. The association -- it's triggered a berserker rage! We've got to stop him before he kills Brian!"
"Macklin can take care of himself, Doctor." God, please let that be so.
Even so, Cowley and Ross hurried down off the catwalk. The building echoed with grunts, curses, and the rattle of disturbed objects. They arrived on ground level and turned onto the edge of the practice floor in time to see Macklin go down under Murphy's greater weight.
"Murphy!" Cowley yelled and leaped forward.
Murphy had at some point lost the knife; the fight had been hand-to-hand. Blood streamed from both noses, and Macklin sported a cut lip. Murphy's left ear was red and puffy; a dense streak of dirt on his cheek marked the path of Macklin's shoe heel. The older man lay curled on the ground nursing his genitals -- wheezing, winded and momentarily helpless.
Cowley caught Murphy's arm as it came around for another swing, hanging on for Macklin's life. The glimpse he caught of Murphy's face before awareness dawned made the Controller shudder. It had very little sanity in it.
"Control yourself, 6.2! Maintain! Dr. Ross, help Brian."
"I'm...okay," Macklin panted as Ross helped him up onto shaky legs.
"Not leaning at that angle, you're not," she said.
Macklin stood hip-shot, favoring his left ankle. He leaned forward at a steep angle, torn between holding his manparts and supporting a bruised rib cage.
"Get yourself seen to, Brian," Cowley said. "That's an order."
"Sir." Macklin didn't move; his attention still focused on Murphy.
Cowley followed his gaze. Murphy stood off to one side, holding his own side. His breath shuddered in his chest. He recovered enough to look up.
"Murphy?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Don't know what came over me." He turned agonized eyes on Macklin. "I'm sorry."
Macklin waved it off with a pained grunt. "I'm just glad to see you can still defend yourself. You did good, Murphy."
"Don't encourage this kind of behavior, Brian," Ross said.
"You leave disciplinary comments like that to me, Doctor," Cowley said. He tapped Murphy's shoulder. "Get yourself cleaned up, son. Report to my office in an hour."
Murphy straightened. For the briefest of moments, Cowley caught an expression on his face -- a light in his eyes that chilled him, for its own sake, and for the sake of an old, sad memory.
God help me, I've seen that look before, Cowley thought. Tommy...
Murphy excused himself. Cowley never had a chance to say a word.
October 12; 4:05 p.m.
Bodie, Doyle and Murphy crouched outside the brown-brick row of rotting tenements and waited for the white slavers to come gather their "stock", not knowing CI5 had already found and liberated the dozen terrorized young men and women.
Bodie eyed Murphy where he crouched down behind a crumbling brick fence. Beside him, Doyle did the same.
"I'm worried about him," Doyle said. "Ever since he got back, he's been so...empty."
"I liked the way Cowley covered for him, saying he was the one undercover in Cocktales, not me. Saved Murphy's job and pride, that did."
Doyle nodded but grimaced. "Didn't appreciate the part about us bein' late to back him up, though."
"You hear what he did to Macklin? Broke his nose and a rib, and gave him a right good one in the goolies. Damn near killed the man, not to mention crimping his love life for a few weeks."
"You know who he's acting like, don't you?"
Bodie nodded. "Tommy McKay."
Doyle indicated the shotgun in Murphy's hands. "Even took up the same weapon. We've got to help him, Bodie. I don't want him ending up like Tommy."
"I've tried, several times. So have you. He won't even admit the rape even happened -- swears that bastard Cox only beat and whipped him. He listens, he answers, and he goes right on being a cold, unemotional bastard." Bodie shrugged. "Maybe he just needs time."
"Too much time could see him dead," Ray sighed.
"If you two are finished talking about me behind my back," Murphy called from his place of concealment ten feet away, "our friends are coming in now."
A brown Cortina Estate pulled bearing three men pulled to a stop outside the deserted tenement. A large tan panel van pulled up next, setting its side doors up close to the entry of the building.
The instant the four slavers disappeared into the building, Bodie, Doyle, and Murphy abandoned their hiding places and raced toward their prearranged attack points. Bodie took the right, Doyle the left, and Murphy the front. The building, flush against a canal, had no rear entrance.
Bodie crouched behind a half-demolished wall, eying the corridor up which the slavers would come when they realized their captives were gone. Doyle shifted to a niche similar to Bodie's on the other side. Murphy stood in plain sight in the front entry.
"Murphy, you moron," Bodie hissed, "get back."
Murphy ignored him. Feet rattled on the warped boards overhead, the thunder accompanied by male voices raised in anger.
Murphy fired the first shot. The shotgun pellets made a nasty map of holes in the lead slaver, as well as portions of the wall behind him. The second in line caught Murphy's second shot in the knee. Clenching at his ruptured leg, the man tumbled down the steps to land at Murphy's feet.
Instead of concentrating on the unwounded, more dangerous survivors, Murphy aimed his third shot at the helpless man on the floor. Only Bodie and Doyle's frantic cover fire spoiled the remaining slavers' aim.
"Get the bloody hell down, you nutter!" Doyle yelled.
Murphy answered by starting a slow, purposeful stalk toward the staircase. Bodie, in the process of reloading, saw a gun appear around the edge of the banister rail, its deadly barrel aimed at Murphy's unprotected chest.
Unable to reload in time, he knew Doyle crouched at the wrong angle to take out the gunman. Bodie leaped up, caught Murphy's arm, and yanked him behind cover. The gunman fired. Bodie cried out and fell to the corridor floor, blood staining his shirt collar.
"Bodie!"
Doyle leaped from behind his own cover. He poured round after round up the stairwell even as he tried to drag Bodie back to safety. Terrified for Bodie's sake, scared for his own safety, Doyle's heart beat at the back of his ribs, his lungs refusing to work. He had all he could do to save Bodie, let alone stop Murphy from resuming his insane stalk.
The shotgun boomed twice. A man's voice sailed up in an agonized scream. A second blast, then silence.
A single glance showed Bodie's wound wasn't serious, nothing more than a gouge of skin from his upper shoulder near the neck joint. Bodie had already finished reloading his weapon.
Together, they followed Murphy up the stairs.
Bodie managed to take the last man alive, accepting his surrender.
"Damn you, Murphy!" Doyle's temper exploded. "You're a nutter. You're stark starin' mad! You almost got Bodie killed!"
"Got the job done, dinni?" Murphy angled the shotgun toward the handcuffed prisoner, his knuckles whitening on the trigger.
"Don't do it, Murphy." Doyle stood between Murphy and the terrified suspect. "He's not worth it."
"You know what slavers do, don't you, Doyle?" Murphy's voice, a monotone without inflection or feeling, carried to every ear. "Do you know what he planned to sell those girls...and boys...into?"
"I know we stopped them already. Cowley'll have your nuts if you shoot him now."
"You could cover for me."
Bodie stepped in front of the shotgun. "Go to hell."
Murphy sighed and raised the weapon. "Pity. Would've made a nice spatter mark on the wall."
He disappeared down the stairs before the two stunned agents could recover.
October 12; 8:15 p.m.
Doyle leaned on the bell to the third story flat, Bodie at his side, until Murphy finally answered. They weren't too surprised when he opened the door with the shotgun in his hands.
"We've got to talk, mate," Doyle wasted no time, charging in before the door could be closed in his face. "You almost got Bodie killed today, and yourself, and I want to know why."
Bodie cut in before Murphy could answer. "You've had a rough go these last five months, getting over what that mad bastard did to you. But shutting yourself off from your mates isn't going to make it go away."
"I'm not shutting myself off," Murphy set the pump-action weapon down on the dining table and fetched a beer from the refrigerator. "I'm fine."
"'Fine' isn't taking a suicide stroll down a corridor filled with shooters!"
Murphy stared at Doyle, eyes blank and empty. He didn't even object when Bodie laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, mate. Talk to us. We know how you feel."
Murphy slapped the comforting hand away hard enough to knock Bodie halfway off his feet. The flame in the Irishman's eyes held precious little sanity.
"How the hell could you?" Murphy's voice purred with fury. "You can't even admit to the feelings you have for one another. You're too afraid of being called queers, bum boys! Don't you tell me you know how I feel."
The buzzer sounded. Murphy hit the button and yelled, "What!"
"I wish to speak with you, 6.2. Kindly open the door."
Murphy closed his eyes, waited a moment, then pressed the release button. By the time he admitted Cowley into the flat, he was in full control again.
When Cowley saw Bodie and Doyle, he dismissed them, saying, "I wish to speak with Murphy alone. I'll see you two in the office first thing tomorrow morning."
"Sir," both men mumbled and retreated out the door.
"Sit down, 6.2." Though Murphy would much rather have stood, he set the beer down and joined Cowley on the settee. Once comfortable on his side, the Controller of CI5 said, "6.2, you have to talk to someone about what happened. Denying it, holding it inside, will only feed on you until it kills you."
"I'm not denying anything. What happened, happened. Period. End of discussion."
Cowley laid his hand on Murphy's shoulder. The young man jerked away from the concerned touch. Cowley occupied himself pouring and delivering a glass of scotch from the wet bar beside the window. He held out the tumbler until Murphy took it between trembling hands, then set himself down again.
"When you endanger your friends' lives, you just can't say 'end of discussion'."
"Bodie's always been your 'blue-eyed boy'. Could get away with anything. Well, how do you think he'd take this if it happened to him? Oh, but it never would've, 'cause Bodie's not a queer. He would never've cruised himself straight into a madman's torture chamber. Well, I hate to bust his macho image, but he'd be Doyle's bum boy in a minute if Ray'd let him. You know what they say -- takes one to know one -- and I see it every time they're together."
"We're not talking about 3.7 and 4.5 here, Murphy. We're talking about you."
"There's no fucking thing to talk about!"
Murphy smashed the glass tumbler on the floor. Shards of shattered glass and amber liquid sprayed across his feet and up his trouser legs.
Cowley silently watched as Murphy proceed to smash things around the room, knocking items off shelves and tables, ripping pages from books, throwing pictures off the walls. The younger man continued to yell that he had nothing to talk about. Nothing to discuss.
Murphy at last collapsed onto the settee again and buried his face in his hands.
"Damn. Dammit, no. I can't cry. He made me cry."
Cowley moved closer to the seated man. "Can't you see what this is doing to you, laddie? You're following Tommy McKay's path. It leads to the grave. I willna let you kill yourself, Murphy. You're too fine a man for that. Let me call Dr. Ross. She -- ."
"No! Please, sir, not Ross. If...if I have to talk to anyone, I'd prefer it be you. No one else, please."
"Alright, laddie."
Murphy suffered through a five minute silence filled with memories, a new glass of pure malt whiskey in his hands. Cowley gave him that time, only his eyes begging to hear the story as it really happened.
"I think...the part about what happened that bothered me most was...he had me spread-eagled on the bed, face up. Telling me how much pleasure he was going to give me. All the while he was pulling on the ropes that held my feet until he lifted my hips up off the bed."
Murphy took a large gulp of scotch. "He slammed into my bum hole with nothing but spit for lube, all the time smiling and asking me if I liked it. I tried to look away from his face but there were mirrors all around, so I closed my eyes. 'Open your damn eyes, bitch, and watch me make love to you,' he demanded. When I didn't, he twisted my cock until I thought he'd pull it off. Maybe I wished he would and it'd be over. He kept pulling and squeezing until..."
Murphy stopped, swallowing several times before he could continue.
"I tried to stop it. Tried to hold it back, but I couldn't. He made me come. That made him furious. He started slugging me in the face and anywhere else he could reach without pulling out of me. He fucked me even harder and...he made me shoot again."
Murphy stood up and moved to the other side of the room, unable to face the gentle horror on his boss's face.
"All my training, all my discipline...and I couldn't stop him. 'ell, I couldn't even control my own body! He took away my control, made me his...his plaything, and I -- couldn't -- stop him!"
Cowley stepped over to Murphy and took him by the shoulders. Murphy tried to pull away, but Cowley refused to let him go. He pulled the man into a shaking embrace, allowing some of the pain and outrage to seep away in the clutching contact. When Murphy was at last calm enough, Cowley took him to his bedroom, helped him undress, and put him in bed.
"Do you want me to leave the light on?"
"No."
The Scotsman stared down on the traumatized man. Under the heavy comforter, Murphy lay on the far side of the bed, his back to Cowley, legs drawn up into a fetal position. He wanted to say so much, to come out with magical wisdom that would take away Murphy's suffering.
No words came. Sighing, he moved toward the door and switched off the light.
"Sir?"
Cowley stopped, silhouetted in the doorway, haloed by light from the corridor. "Aye, laddie?"
"Would you please hold me again?"
George Cowley hung his jacket on the back of the desk chair, kicked off his shoes, and lay down on top of the duvet. He draped his body down the taller man's length, his arm over Murphy.
Tremors shook the bed. Murphy lay shuddering and stiff for long minutes. At last, exhausted, he relaxed against the smaller man.
Minutes dragged by, then Murphy turned over to look at Cowley's face, his own eyes damp with tears.
"Let me hold you."
Surprised, Cowley hesitated. Murphy, mistaking the hesitation for rejection, turned away and curled back into his fetal ball.
"Och, laddie," Cowley sighed, and lifted the covers.
Crawling under the coverlet, he slowly stroked Murphy's shoulders and arms until the younger man relaxed again. Murphy rolled over and wrapped himself around Cowley, resting his head on the older man's chest.
Cowley continued to stroke away the trembling. In minutes, Murphy was asleep.
Cowley gently kissed the top of the sleeping agent's head and softly whispered, "I'm here for ye, laddie, whenever ye need me."