TWENTY-ONE
Three days. It had been three days. Forty hours in, K and Gabe insisted they check into a motel: get some sleep, eat, shower, recharge, get to a place where they could think through the disappointment and the fear.
But Xander couldn't sleep. Or eat. He paced the room silently as they dozed restlessly.
If he lived a thousand years, he could never find the words to describe what he felt when he walked into the door of that house. It felt like all his blood moved downward and drained through his feet. Like every last shard of hope crumbled into dust. Like time was frozen and he was suspended in an awful nothingness.
They had spent an hour searching that house. They went in and out of every room, feeling around in the walls for hidden doors, searching the grounds like bloodhounds for any scent, any trace of her. In the end, K had slammed his fist into a tree, his knuckles getting bloodied and bruised. Gabe had stood dumbly, raking a hand through his blond hair. And Xander had just... fallen. To the ground, his knees in the moist dirt. Defeated.
They had stood next to the truck for a long time, no one willing to open a door. No one willing to walk away from their only lead.
"Are you guys lost?" a man asked, walking his dog around the cul-de-sac.
"Well, in a manner of speaking," Gabe had said, charming, sounding like he absolutely did not have a gun tucked into his pants. "We were told a friend of ours lived here," he explained, waving a hand at the house.
"Oh," the man said, looking over at the house curiously. "Yeah someone bought it. And the lights go on at night and everything. But no one ever moved in. Weird."
"That is weird," Gabe agreed, looking confused and it wasn't for show. "Well, thanks, man. I guess we have to give him a call," he said, reaching for the door and giving them all pointed looks.
They pulled away, Gabe driving aimlessly. "So, are we going to talk about this?" he asked, looking between the two of them worriedly.
"Should we go back to Three Sixes, drag that bastard out of the fridge, and get a real answer?" K asked, sounding excited at the prospect.
"He's probably already out," Xander shrugged, "and reported back to Nick that we are looking for her."
"I'll go talk to my friend here," Gabe said, hoping that it wouldn't be a dead end, but knowing it probably was. Nick had planned on someone looking for him. And he had hidden away somewhere. He was a ghost. And Ellie was probably gone forever. "And while I'm doing that, you two hit the streets. Find the dealers. Find someone who knows something. Bribe them. Beat them. Whatever it takes."
So that's what they did. For the first thirty hours. Until there were no more leads. Until all the cash they had on hand was gone. Until their hands were destroyed. Until their adrenaline was spent.
Then there had been conversation, endless ideas, none of which would get them anywhere. But they needed to suggest them. They needed to keep the hope alive.
Because she was gone.
–
His office was in better shape than when he left it. Inside he found only one of the kids he had left in charge. He was sitting behind the desk, reading through a newspaper, looking every bit like he actually belonged there. The glass had all been cleaned up, the remains of all his broken possessions in a trash bin somewhere. He had even taped cardboard wrapped in black bags to the shattered door, keeping the weather and passerbys out.
The kid's head shot up when he walked in. He was young. Younger than Xander had been when he had been on the streets. Sixteen, maybe? He had a sharp face, a little gaunt-looking from malnutrition, long brown hair that looked clean, pulled into a bun toward the crown of his head. His eyes were light. A hazel shade of brown and keen and intelligent.
"The lone survivor, huh?" Xander asked, nodding at him.
"We figured you died or something," he said, smirking.
"But you're still here..."
"Hey man," he said, smiling wider. "I can be Xander Rhodes. I can take pictures of cheating husbands, chase down druggies, stay in this nice place..."
"Nice place, huh?" Xander said, looking around, eyebrow raised, smiling slightly.
"Alright. This dump," the kid conceded. "A little paint would work wonders."
"Sounds like you're volunteering," Xander said, emptying his pockets of his weapons.
"Yeah man, anything you need," the kid said, jumping out of the seat, looking excited and determined.
He wanted off the streets. Xander remembered that feeling, that knowledge that he would do anything it took to get a warm place to rest his head, food to put in his belly.
Suddenly, the words from Ellie's letter flashed into his mind.
Keep protecting the little strays that show up on your doorstep.
"Alright," Xander said, running a hand down his face, scruffier than usual, almost a beard. "Tell you what... you can take that couch," he said, pointing to the beat up leather sofa under the windows, "as long as you pull your weight around here."
"Yes, sir," the kid said, smiling, extending his hand.
"I'm gonna need a name," Xander said, shaking his hand. "And not some bullshit street name."
"Ryan," he said, shrugging.
"Alright, Ryan," he said. "You don't fucking touch any weapons. Or any money. Or my files. But you can help yourself to food and toothpaste and whatever else like that." Ryan nodded, looking almost a little embarrassed. "Don't worry," Xander said, offering him a small smile. "It's not charity. You're gonna earn it."
"Thanks," Ryan said, nodding.
Sometime after midnight, Xander was pulled out of bed by a slamming sound outside the office door. Ryan was already on his feet, tense, his hands in fists at his side. Xander inclined his head to him before pulling the door open.
And there was K. He had a suitcase in his hand and a determined set to his brow. Xander nodded at him, moving out of the way so he could pass.
Then he had two strays. Ryan was in the office.
K was on the red couch that Ellie had slept on.
–
There was an odd sort of comfort to having other people around. By the time he woke up the next morning, K had already sent Ryan out to grab breakfast and the coffee was hot and strong. They sat down to egg sandwiches on bagels, K quietly and calmly filling Ryan in on what was going on. Like he was already a part of the team.
Xander watched, eating the food that tasted like cardboard, wondering exactly what kind of self-control K had taught himself over the years. How he could go from the mess he had been the day before to the collected, rational person at his dining table. His hands were still wrecked, and he was having trouble bending his knuckles with the scabs. But his face was serene, his tone methodical and rational.
Meanwhile, he felt like an alien in his own body. He was detached. He went about the tasks he knew he needed to. He attempted sleep. He showered. He shaved. He changed. He drank his coffee. He ate his food. But it was like someone else was doing it. Like his hands didn't belong to him.
"So, now we are regrouping," he heard K tell Ryan, "and we are going to look into other methods. Things we might have missed. People we haven't contacted."
And that was exactly what they did. Every day there was a new list of calls to make. There were new people to try to track down. Until there were more questions than answers.
Gabe went back to work three days after they got back. And Xander couldn't blame him. Bills needed to be paid. Life needed to move on.
K continued some sort of secret business. He took calls on burner cells. He made trips to the post office every few days. Maybe he had more women like Ellie, women who needed his help. Maybe his self-defense business was just what kept money in his pockets, but his real career was helping people escape their awful situations. It would explain why he was so good at it, why he was so regimented with Ellie.
"You're going to have to take on cases again," K told him, five days later as they sat over the newspapers.
Xander looked up, his brow furrowed. "Dude, you're still here," he said, suggesting K was shirking his business back in Seattle as well.
"I have people who run things when I need to take off. You are all you got. You need to handle business."
"She needs me," Xander said, looking pained.
"And you can still devote your time to her. Work cases on the hours you spend staring at the ceiling not sleeping."
He was right. Xander knew he was right.
If he wanted to find her, he would need money. And, now, he needed to keep a roof over Ryan's head. He had already painted the awful kitchen cabinets white and the office a less dingy shade of brown. He answered the phone and ran errands.
"Alright," Xander said, nodding.
Two days later, he went back to work.
–
A month was a long time. It never occurred to him before to notice the passing of the seasons. But winter was taking a turn toward the warm. March came quickly, a taunting, painful reminder that she had been gone for four weeks.
And he remembered the story about her being chained and tortured for six weeks. How she had almost died. She probably wished by now that she was already dead. But a part of him knew, knew like he knew the Earth would keep spinning that day, that she was still alive. She was waiting. Likely for death, not for him. Because she wouldn't know he even knew. She wouldn't think he would even care if he did.
But she would be wrong. Because he fucking loved her. He loved her and the only thing that kept him pushing through his days was the idea of finding her and dragging her out of that hell. Then bringing her back and taking care of her.
Xander sat down at the dining room table, holding one of her books in his hand. Gabe walked in, looking less like himself: more tired, less arrogant. "I'm going to file a report," he said, sounding sad.
"What?" Xander asked, not sure he had heard him.
"A missing person's report. It's time," he said, shifting his feet. "We have hit nothing but dead ends. Maybe the cops can find him."
Xander found himself nodding. "Make sure you tell them he's the one who killed her father. Maybe that will put a fire under their asses."
Gabe watched Xander for a moment, seeing the defeat, seeing the acceptance of his own incompetence. But what was to be done? They needed whatever help they could get.
"Wait," Xander yelled, jumping out of his chair, almost knocking it over.
Gabe walked back in, Ryan and K following behind curiously.
"Wait," he said, throwing open a cabinet under the sink where he kept an egg crate full of old newspapers. He remembered something. He remembered her. When she first got there. There had been a newspaper on his table and she had picked it up. And all the color had drained from her face. When he had asked her about it, she had said something about the overdose story. The too-strong heroin hitting the city streets.
There had been a picture. It was a picture of Nick.
There was something about it. He couldn't place it, but there was something about that picture. He needed to find it.
"Dude, you're acting a little bit crazy," Gabe said, watching as Xander sat down on the kitchen floor, pulling out newspapers, scanning them, then throwing them across the apartment. Gabe looked at K and Ryan, both of their faces a matching mask of concern. Maybe this was it. Maybe Xander had finally pushed into the deep end. He had been teetering on the edge of sanity for weeks. He never slept. He barely ate. He spent every spare minute searching, calling, hitting dead end after dead end.
"Xander, man," K cut in, his deep voice soft, but with an edge to it. "Yo, snap out of it. What is going on?"
But Xander wasn't listening. He needed to find the paper. As the stack got smaller and smaller, he felt his heart slamming in his chest. It had to be there somewhere. He didn't remember being diligent enough to actually put the papers out for recycling. He was too busy obsessing, trying to find her.
All the while, the secret might have been buried under his sink the whole time.
It was the second to last paper at the bottom, the headline catching his eye, making his breath catch in his throat. He dragged the paper out, unfolding it to the image. And there was Nicola Russo, walking out of a building. A man was right at his side. But there, standing behind him, almost completely cut out of the picture, was someone else. Someone very familiar.
Xander jumped to his feet, barreling into the office, banging into Gabe's shoulder as he passed. They followed behind him, watching him like some kind of wild animal escaped from his cage as he threw himself down in his computer chair, typing madly on the new computer he had no idea where it came from. He hadn't even thought to ask. One day it was just there.
"Xander..." Gabe started, sounding almost skittish, "you gonna tell us what is going on here, man?"
But he wasn't listening. He was breaking into city records and trying to find the plans. The right ones. The ones that would confirm his suspicions. And then there they were. The building. It looked normal. There was nothing interesting, no secret hideouts. Except. Oh, except... the prohibition era bunker in the basement. Thought to be long filled in.
But... it wasn't.
"Got you, fucker," he said, standing up, his eyes wide, bright.
"Xander..." K started.
He threw the paper across the desk at them. "Look at that picture," he said, begging them to see what he saw, see who he saw.
"Is that...?" K started, looking up at him with slow recognition.
"Yeah it is," he said, then turned the computer screen to face them, "and look at this."
"Son of a bitch," K said, putting the same pieces together.
"What?" Gabe asked, looking confused.
"Three Sixes," Xander told him. "That guy who ran it. The one who seemed so innocent. That we considered collateral damage. That fucker was in this picture with Nick, looking like they were good buddies. And there's a bunker in his basement."