Chapter Twenty-Two
Douglas tried not to hyperventilate, driving with the doors locked, peering at the road behind him. Blind panic had seized him as soon as he recognized Trask, and with Emesh’s urging in his head, Douglas had turned and fled. He’d waited the two minutes Emesh prescribed before thrusting the truck into gear and booting it out of Leverett.
Several miles down the Mass Pike, with his adrenaline on simmer, he became horrified he’d left Emesh behind. What kind of man was he? Apparently, not much of a man at all. And hadn’t Emesh told him how he’d spent his whole life looking for someone stronger than him…someone he could look up to? Douglas had disproved that theory, blown it all to hell. If the poor guy came out of this in one piece, he wouldn’t blame Emesh for never speaking to him again, let alone looking up to him. He swore in anguished frustration. He wanted Emesh’s regard. Honestly, he’d begun to crave it.
He drove on automatic, his brain churning. What should he do now? He had tried, several times, to reach Emesh by head, but that hadn’t worked. He could go back to the cabin, but that might mean being caught in a trap himself, and he wouldn’t be any use to Emesh if he got captured by those assholes, too. Then they’d both be screwed.
Should he call the cops? Douglas laughed disdainfully. Taking the word of an ex-mental institution patient or that of a licensed doctor, without a doubt, the physician’s testimonial would win out. Hell, the authorities would probably help Trask tranque him and load his inert body for transport. Douglas couldn’t risk that.
He looked up and got a quick jolt at his whereabouts. Huh. Without consciously meaning to, he’d headed toward Boston. Douglas gave a relieved snort. At least he’d done something right. He put the pedal down. He knew where he had to go. If anyone would believe him, it would be Emesh’s friends in the Blue Hills. What had Emesh said? How many guys were at his compound, all super government special operations types? A lot and they wouldn’t let Trask get away with his shit. Douglas needed help getting Emesh’s ass out of trouble, and those would be the guys.
The problem was that Emesh hadn’t said exactly where he lived. But how difficult could it be to look up and find this compound? Even if unlisted in the white pages of the phone book, all he had to do was drive to the approximate location, bring up internet maps and locate the biggest fucking compound he could find on satellite imaging. From what he remembered, Emesh had mentioned one enormous house and two cottages. It shouldn’t be tough.
Douglas glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. He looked at his GPS. The indication read, Blue Hills, seventy-five minutes. Fuck that. He’d make it in one hour.
Thank goodness, traffic remained light, and no state cops patrolled. Not that he’d get anything other than a ticket―Douglas had a clean driving record―but he’d never be able to pretend politeness to an attending cop who wasted precious time. He’d be jumpy, and that would make him look suspicious which would prolong the stop, and he certainly couldn’t excuse his rudeness by mentioning a male lover, a sexual predator, and a possible kidnapping. That would fuck up his fast-track east. He eased his speed down to under eighty. Nope. No ticket for him.
The exit signs zipped by but not fast enough. Douglas grew a little blurry around the edges. He’d been driving a long time―if you counted all night and all day―and he didn’t have much left in the tank.
After an interminable amount of time on the Pike, Douglas left the west-east expanse and turned onto Rt. 128. Ah. Here driving became a different story This—Boston’s unheralded, long-standing racetrack, spiked—Douglas’ energy. No wimps drove on 128. He put his foot down and melded easily with the eighty-five mile an hour and up traffic. Way more like it.
When the signs came up for his Milton exit, Douglas found himself on edge again. He couldn’t stop his brain from producing some hellish pictures. He pounded the wheel in frustration. It had been nearly two hours since he’d abandoned Emesh to Trask, and God knows what could have happened in that time. He rubbed the headache that raged between his eyebrows. Imagination made him crazy, it ran riot with possibilities, and he felt homicidal on Emesh’s behalf. His would-be lover remained such an innocent. And to be taken for the first time by that debauched prick of a doctor…Douglas saw red. If Trask so much as laid a perverted finger on his man, he would kill him.
Douglas’ heart clenched as he realized what he’d admitted. He turned off the highway and onto Route 28 North. His man. Douglas shook his head once, then smiled bleakly. Hell, yeah. That felt right in his previously stone-cold chest. Emesh was his man. He’d been trying to get the idea out of his head since that first fucking kiss, but he could deny it no longer.
Way more than sex attracted him to Emesh. And hell, they hadn’t even done that yet…all the way. He’d wanted everything to be perfect for the guy’s first time. He’d been, uncharacteristically, treating Emesh with kid gloves, easing him into what it would be like to be full-fledged lovers, in a situation foreign to him that suddenly meant everything.
Emesh had become Douglas’ number one priority. In the world. The fucking guy trusted him so much. Douglas wanted to cry. He’d never cared before, never gave a shit how it went for any of his one-night stands. He’d get off, they’d get off. And without exchanging names, they’d both be on their way.
Not so with Emesh. But now Douglas’ reticence to claim his lover became a problem for a completely different reason. His reluctance to take Emesh quickly and show him how it could be between two males ate away at him. The fucking guy remained a virgin, for God’s sake. What if Trask forced himself on Emesh and became his partner’s first experience, or even worse, if he fucked him, then set his two big goons loose to do their damnedest? It had been one of Trask’s favorite scenarios and even after years of having it played out on him, not an easy thing to take. Emesh. Why had he left him there instead of fighting?
How would it be if they ruined Emesh for good? Would the sweet, naive male lose his ability to trust and love so openly? Douglas would be devastated to have that unique sparkle, that blinding light of goodness that shone from Emesh doused. He groaned. It couldn’t happen. Fuck that. He wouldn’t let it. He had to find Emesh’s government friends and make them come back to save their man.
Douglas took a right onto Chickatawbut Road, picking the direction by remembering what Emesh had said about living in Quincy. He pulled over at the first opportunity and booted up his laptop. The satellite showed acres and acres of trees. Six-thousand acres to be exact. Douglas had no idea the Reservation was so enormous. He scrolled quickly through the few roads, finding nothing remotely resembling the compound Emesh described. Now what?
He thrust the truck back in gear and followed the road into a deeply wooded area before he veered over again. His frustration mounted. Nothing here but god-damned trees. Time ticked, and he didn’t have a fucking clue where to go. Angry and discouraged, he wanted to yell at the top of his lungs, but instead rose up blindly and let his grievances fly with a long, mournful blast of his air horn. Eighty decibels of sound poured from chrome flutes. He rarely used them, but in this instance, they gave voice to his feeling of hopeless defeat. A desolate sound, a bereft wail across the vast expanse of forest.
Who the fuck knew? Maybe these government guys monitored the woods for interlopers. Maybe they’d hear him and come investigate. He yanked the chord again, diverting air from his brakes to his horns, spilling sound into the night. Come and get me the blasts screamed…but echoed for his head, alone.
Douglas slumped, defeated. He finally put his face down on the wheel and wept. It had been a long time since tears drenched his cheeks. He remembered the day. His mother had admitted her failure at removing him from Trask’s hands, and told him, as gently as possible, he wouldn’t be getting out of the hellhole where he’d been thrown. Douglas had waited until she’d gone and cried from the depths of his soul.
But from that moment on, he’d never shown another bit of weakness, no matter what Trask did. He’d yelled, roared, and screamed out in pain and fear, but he’d refused to weep.
All his bravado was now stripped away, and the tears came unhindered. But they weren’t for himself, they were for Emesh and the innocence his lover would lose.
Emesh, where are you? Douglas asked in his head. Why don’t you answer me? We’re connected somehow, you and me. I can’t let you go.
Tears of pain and frustration continued on their path, splashing off his arms, but a tinge of hope entered his brain. Something had resonated when he’d tried to contact Emesh, some prospect of a solution tickled under his skin. Could Emesh hear him? No. But…he had something to try. If Emesh did the head communication thing with his friends, perhaps Douglas… No. He grasped at straws. The possibility seemed too bizarre. Could he really try to talk to people he didn’t know by connecting to their brains?
Douglas laughed, near hysteria. Not good. If he lost it, he’d have no chance of helping Emesh. He took a deep breath and centered himself. He needed to try this, to see if it would work. Douglas concentrated with all his might. Calling the government agents in the Blue Hills, he sent out. That sounded ridiculous. He needed to try again. Are any of Emesh’s friends out there? That sounded better. He waited for several minutes. No response.
What a fucking piece of shit he’d proved to be. If he didn’t succeed at this, Emesh would suffer. Douglas closed his eyes and concentrated. He pictured the brother, Enten’s face. Somebody, come help me, he cried. I’m on Chickatawbut Road, and Emesh needs you.
Had Douglas heard something? Was it his imagination? Had someone said… What? He needed to try again. This time he screwed his eyes shut, opened his windows wide to the night, and filtered out all the forest sounds that blanketed the thick air.
Enten. Is that you? This is Douglas. I’m in the Blue Hills. Please. I need your help.
He put his head down and chanted the same thing, over and over again until his heart neared breaking. What a fucking waste of time. He’d traveled two useless hours away from Emesh. For what? If he had a real pair of balls, he’d be back at his house in Trask’s face with a shotgun, filling him and his evil helpers full of holes.
Douglas took in a deep, shaky breath. You know what? That’s exactly what he would do. There were only a couple of places Trask could be. Douglas would find him, kill him, and bring Emesh home. The damage might have already been done, but Douglas would help Emesh get over it. He had been there. He knew how to smooth things out.
Mind made up, he raised his head, and the cracking of a stick by the passenger side door had him instantly on full alert. Shit. He wasn’t alone.
“Enten?” he called, hopefully.
If Emesh’s brother approached, he’d fucking kiss the guy. If he came across a mugger, the asshole better watch out because Douglas was not in the mood. He wrenched open his door and leaped down onto the road, heart hopeful. He stumbled a little in the dead-dark, going around the front of his tractor, but his pulse beat rapidly, anticipating. He really did hear footsteps.
“Enten? Is that you?” he called out. As he rounded the cab, his voice caught in his throat. Hell, yes. There he stood. Emesh’s brother. Sliding smoothly out of the shadows, surrounded by a vast group of the most enormous fucking men Douglas had ever seen. He should have been scared off his ass, but instead, his relief nearly overwhelmed him.
“Enten,” he got out, in an anguished voice. “It’s Emesh. He’s in trouble.” His legs buckled and his mind caved.
He’d been awake for thirty-nine hours, driven for seventeen, been confronted by evil incarnate, and driven to Boston on pure adrenaline. Douglas tried to stay upright, he tried to right his mind, but he lost the battle. Enten caught him on the way down, and it was the last thing Douglas knew.