Rage: The Reckoning Page 9

  Even his parents, his dad in particular, had begun to make comments about his choice of wardrobe and tried too hard to manipulate Paul into joining one of the many sports teams and church groups the town had to offer. He tried to break the news gently, but they hadn't reacted well. His mother had simply gone into a state of perpetual denial, refusing to acknowledge the mere possibility that her only son could be a ‘pillow biter’. His father, on the other hand, had reacted angrily, even violently. While systematically tossing every object in Paul's room from one side of the room to the other, his father screamed at him; "No son of mine is going to be a faggot", and other variations, while Paul's belongings bounced from the walls. All the while, he had stood his ground. When his father changed tactics, placing the burden of continuing the family bloodline on his shoulders, Paul further infuriated him by simply suggesting that ‘Maybe he’d adopt’.

  From that night on, two short years ago, Paul stopped trying to hide it. He flirted openly with other boys and men whom he found attractive. Sadly, none of the other boys from school or from his workplace had joined him in exiting the proverbial closet or showed any interest in him in a romantic way. Paul knew there had to be others, he read an online survey claiming that one in every ten people was gay, if that was true, then nearly 200 of his co-workers were also. If so, where the hell were they?

  Come out, come out, wherever you arrrrrre.

  His online research had also taught him that just about every major town and city in the country, possibly the entire free world, had what were called Cruise spots. To Paul, they sounded like Shangri-La. They were often located in public places like parks, rest stops and washrooms, where like minded individuals could meet up for the purpose of sex. Ratcliff, to Paul's dismay, had no such place. He had once taken a trip to Peterborough hungry for the experience for which he had longed for, but ultimately the experience had left him feeling empty inside. That was when Sir had come into his life.

  Paul met his “Master” or “Sir”, as he preferred to be addressed, on a BDSM website. He’d gone there mainly out of curiosity and found the scene exciting. They chatted on and off for several days before he learned that they lived in the same town and, surprisingly, that they already knew each other. After a few months, they’d built a mutual trust. Paul would have never guessed that the man had a fully outfitted dungeon in his basement complete with custom built stocks, a rack and even an iron maiden, albeit it was modified to prevent any real injury.

  Sir had been patient and kind to him, showing him the ropes (literally) and allowing Paul to set his own boundaries. Things started off slowly, sometimes, he was collared and forced to sit naked on the concrete floor, a long chain bolted to the wall prevented him from leaving (even if he had wanted to) and Sir would often leave him down there in the dark for hours at a time. As things progressed, their encounters grew increasingly physical and severe. Paul was surprised to find that once he learned how to shut off the pain, his mind reached a state of transcendence where he actually felt beautiful and, more importantly, powerful. Not long after they met, Sir had expressed a desire to take care of him financially. At first, he didn’t know what to make of the offer and was hesitant to accept the money. He was more than happy to give it up for free and considered his master’s company as payment enough on it’s own. But Sir didn’t give up easily and eventually, he wore Paul down.

  That was when things started to get weird.

  If Paul failed to please him, as he had tonight, he would be locked in the stocks and flogged with long piece of bamboo, sprayed with cold water, burned with candle wax and, on occasion, whipped. In the past, Paul had occasionally failed to please him on purpose, just to experience the thrill of his punishment, but lately he could sense a change in his master's demeanor. The punishments had become more severe, to the point of bordering on vicious.

  It wasn't just the physical changes either. Sir had been cold to him tonight. He hadn't seemed turned on by Paul for some reason and that had made him very angry. Afterwards, he hadn't even said good-bye or walked him to his car as had been customary. He couldn't understand what he could have done to disappoint him, but Paul was getting a sinking feeling that he had grown tired of him.

  Paul winced again as he reached for his seatbelt. The wounds on the backs of his thighs were open again, wounds that had just recently healed over. Throwing the shifter into drive, Paul drove away from Sir’s house and out onto the deserted highway. His parents would probably be asleep already. They never waited up for him anymore. He suspected that his father held some hope he would run off, maybe die in a car crash, anything to save him the daily embarrassment facing his son's purple hi-lighted hair, long lashes and eyeliner. Just this morning as Paul was leaving for work, his father had called him a queer and asked him why he couldn't be "Normal".

  Paul headed east along highway forty. He was just minutes from making the turn south that would have brought him back into a populated area when he first noticed the strange noise coming from his car. He snapped the radio off, listening carefully. For a moment there was nothing. As he reached for the radio he heard it again.

  WHUMP WHUMP, WHUMP . . . and then silence.

  Paul cranked down his window and tried to lean his head out, but again there was nothing but the sound of his tires riding along the pavement. As he cranked his window up, he felt a brief shimmy in the steering wheel. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but then the steering wheel twitched in his hands as if he were driving over a set of railroad tracks where there were none. He lifted his foot from the accelerator and turned the steering wheel to the right, hoping to pilot the Honda onto the gravel shoulder, when the front end of the car seemed to drop suddenly. The wheel twisted sharply under his hands, pulling hard to the right. Paul slammed both feet onto the brake pedal and braced himself with gritted teeth.

  The wheel jerked violently three more times. He was vaguely aware that through the path of the headlights one of the wheels, presumably the front passenger's side, had bounced through his field of vision hitting the ground twice before changing direction and vanishing in the brush. The Honda reached the shoulder with the steering wheel jammed hard over to the right as gravel from the shoulder began shooting across the hood and up onto the windshield. Paul squeezed his eyes shut as the car shuddered to a halt on the shoulder.

  When he opened his eyes, both of his hands were still locked onto the steering wheel in a death grip. He had never been in an accident before and was thankful for that but he almost felt left out of a sort of club that had only one requirement for membership, one that he lacked. Now, as far as he was concerned, he was a full member.

  Hands shaking, Paul managed to push open the driver's side door. The car's engine had stalled but he left the headlights on so he could inspect the damage. Paul knew nothing about cars (maybe less than nothing) but even he knew in an instant that something serious had happened to his car. The front passenger's side wheel and tire were gone. The parts behind the missing wheel, (he had no idea what they were called) looked mangled as well. A silver disc which Paul thought was part of the brakes was pointing upwards at a strange angle. Whatever had happened, even if he found the missing wheel, he wasn't going to be driving anywhere anytime soon.

  Paul reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone. In the distance, he could see the streetlight, barely a speck, where the highway joined Main Street heading south. A mere few kilometers separated him from civilization. Worst case scenario, he'd simply lock the car and hoof it back to town. Since calling his parents was out of the question and he had no real friends (not the kind that would accept a call from him at this hour), he was left with only one other option; he would have to call Sir.

  Paul flipped open his phone, pressed the number one preset, and watched as his phone called out to the last person he wanted to see again at that moment. He raised the phone to his ear, waiting to hear Sir's voice, sleepy and aggravated. The phone rang for the third time when Paul heard the sounds of a veh
icle coming. He snapped the phone shut, cutting off the call, and stepped out into the middle of the road to get a better look. After what he’d just been put through at Sir’s hands, he’d rather get help from a stranger.

  He could see the headlights about half a kilometer back up the highway from where he had come. The sound of the engine was low but powerful, seeming to double in volume with the slightest twitch of the throttle. Paul had begun to think it was a pickup truck rather than a car, but as it grew closer he thought that the headlights were too close together and too low to the ground to be a truck.

  Paul stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms. The driver of the car appeared to have seen him because the driver suddenly screeched to a halt on the highway. The headlights doubled in brightness as the driver hit the high beams, trying to get a look at him. He stopped waving his arms and pointed to his car broken down on the shoulder, but the strange vehicle didn't move. Paul guessed he couldn't blame whoever was in the car for being cautious. In this day and age only a fool would stop for a stranger or risk getting caught in some kind of scam where they were flagged down by someone, only to find themselves car-jacked, raped or even murdered by the group of men hiding in the bushes nearby.

  Paul held his hands up and tried to signal to him (or her) that it was safe. He had to laugh at himself, how the hell does one communicate with someone 200 yards away? Even if it were possible, he doubted that the people who he had read about wore sandwich board signs that read; Don't stop! I will kill you!

  Paul had begun to fear that the car was going to turn around, and head back in the direction it had come from when it finally began pulling forward. Paul continued to wave, keeping his hands over his head in as a non-threatening fashion as he could manage. The car continued to come towards him slowly, at no more than a walking pace, it's high beams growing brighter and brighter in his eyes as it got closer. Finally the light was too bright for Paul to stand. He held up his arm, trying to bury his eyes in the inside of his elbow, like a TV vampire shielding itself from the sun. The driver must have realized that Paul was alone, and that he (or she) was practically blinding him with their headlights, because they suddenly went out. Paul lost sight of the car altogether as it disappeared into a kaleidoscope of blurred spots in his vision, the sound of the engine grew closer until Paul could see it's outline as it came to a stop about twenty feet away.

  The driver's side door opened with a squeak and a tall silhouette of a figure appeared from inside. Paul walked towards the figure, still trying to shake the persistent flashing going off in his eyes. Paul called out to him, “Hello?"

  "Looks like you had some trouble," a familiar voice replied.

  "Who are you?" Paul said, now only steps from the car. "Do I know you?"

  Paul walked the last ten feet toward the car. He lost sight of the figure in the fireworks that were plaguing his vision and when he reached the car, there was no one there. Just the open car door. He heard the sound of a shoe scuffing the pavement from behind him and, as he spun around, two strong arms gripped him. One arm went across his throat and the other went behind his head, cutting off his breath before he could make a sound. He felt himself being lifted up, his toes just barely reaching the pavement as a cloth-covered hand was clamped over his mouth. A wave of darkness began closing in, as if he were looking at his surroundings through a powerful telescope, from far away.

  Paul couldn't believe this was happening to him. He had an absurd thought that this was all some sort of mistake which he could easily straighten out if he could just force enough sound out of his lungs to explain. He made one last attempt to make some sort of sound in protest but it was not to be. He felt another wave of blackness swoop into his head, washing away all awareness of where he was or what was happening to him. He would not wake up for about an hour. When he did, he no longer wanted to explain the man's obvious mistake.

  Then, he only wanted to die.

  Nine

  John Stevens couldn’t stop pacing. Mark had never failed to come home on time without a note or a phone call . . . not ever. He spent an hour on the phone arguing with the woman who answered the district school board’s emergency-hotline number before she finally caved in and given him the home number of the bus driver. John must have called the number ten times before a groggy male voice answered. The conversation didn’t yield much in the way of information.

  Did he notice a new face on the bus that afternoon?

  Possibly.

  Did he remember that new face getting off at the corner of Main and Elm?

  Possibly.

  Did he get off with anyone else?

  Lots of kids, probably a dozen or more, got off at that stop.

  But, did the new kid seem to be with anyone in particular?

  Possibly, but he couldn’t say for sure.

  Still pacing, stopping only to look out the living room window or to glance down at the screen of his cell phone on the coffee table, he ran through all the possibilities. The bus stop was only a block from the house. Even if Mark had lost his way, he would have called John's cell, or asked someone for directions to the police station. He had been gone long enough to walk the entire circumference or Ratcliff at least twice by now. In all likelihood, Mark was holed up at a friend’s house, albeit someone he could have only met a few hours before, just the same, where else could he be?

  Then, there was a second more plausible option.

  His mother.

  Ever since John had broached the subject of moving to Ratcliff, Mark had been dead set against it. In fact, he’d been quite certain his son would bolt in the days leading up to the move and had even informed him that he’d spoken to his mother and asked to move in with her and her new “boyfriend”. Though John hadn’t been in on the conversation, from the sounds of it Audrey was reluctant. Whether it was her new squeeze not wanting a strange kid living in his house or Audrey herself preferring to leave all traces of her old life behind her, John couldn’t say. Either way, days had turned into weeks after which Mark stopped talking about her or the possibility of living with her.

  It had been a big relief to John. As much as he couldn’t bear the thought of Mark living in his ex-wife’s new lover’s house, if it had been what everyone else wanted he wouldn’t have stood in the way. After all, Audrey had always been closest to Mark. But for whatever reason, she’d chosen to tell her son he’d have to wait, and wait. Maybe she’d changed her mind, convinced her new boyfriend to let Mark live with them. If that was the case, all John could do now was wait for the phone call.

  “Dad, it's me, I'm with mom. It turns out that YOU were the problem all along. Now we can get on with our new lives. My NEW dad has a REAL job and can take us places that you never could.”

  The more John thought about it, the more sense it was making. Where else could he be? John had already talked to the school, the hospital, and even the night patrol to see if anything was going on in town, like a bush party or something (not that Mark would ever be caught dead at such a function), nadda. Audrey must have changed her mind.

  “Hi son, sorry I went bat shit on you. I talked to the douche bag who's been fucking me, and he says you can come live with us as long as I keep giving him head in his Ferrari on a regular basis.”

  John tried to shake the thought out of his head, but he could already feel the idea growing roots. If the idea actually materialized, and he thought it would, he had just lost the last thing in his life that he gave a ‘rat shit or a tiddly fuck’ about. What was worse, John didn't blame him one bit. His son had been uprooted, separated from his home, his family, his friends, dragged (in a sense) against his will to some hick town nobody had ever heard of. In a manner of speaking, one could almost call what John had done abuse. But something just wasn't right. He knew his son had all the time and opportunity in the world to run off before they made the move to Ratcliff. Why then, would his son bother coming all this way under the pretense of going along with the program, just to run off the first chanc
e he got? It didn’t make sense. Besides, John knew all of his son's friends, where they lived and how to contact their parents. There was only one place he could have gone where Mark knew his father couldn't find him, that was with his mother and her lover.

  John reached for his cell phone, not sure of whom he should call first. He knew all of the men who might be working the nightshift at his old precinct but he also knew that none of them could help him without the approval of their captain. Even if they were brave enough (or stupid enough) to wake up their CO for clearance to run a check on a former colleagues soon to be ex-wife, the check itself was worthless unless Audrey had updated the address on her driver's license. He was sure that she knew that. Her departure had been too well planned and executed to make such a mistake. Without an updated address, for all John knew, she could be anywhere.

  Mark could have called a cab from the school, pre-arranged with Audrey to be on the other end to pay the fare. Within four hours at the most, they could have been at Pearson International. From there, they could be anywhere. At this very moment Mark might be enjoying a first class flight over the ocean, destined for Europe or even Tahiti for all John knew.

  “Bullshit,” John said aloud.

  Only after he had accepted the possibility that Mark had run away and dealt with it did he realize that it wasn’t possible. Deep down he knew that Mark would likely end up with his mother at some point (Ratcliff wasn’t big enough for a boy with a heart like Mark’s), but not today. No chance in hell.

  Something had to have happened to him.

  John snapped his keys off of the kitchen table and bolted for the door. His plan, for the moment, was to start at the high school and work his way back into town, checking every street and side road or back alley that Doug Green had shown him that day. He was halfway down the driveway in reverse when he spotted Mark. Smeared with mud and what looked like blood, he was barely recognizable. John could barely contain his anger, mixed with the relief that his son was home safe, yet he was furious with him.