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On the Wings of Maybe	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 1468 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
Sunday morning found Booker and Hanson back on the streets in search of Jarrod Pilkington. An hour in and they had already visited three houses, the first two, no one acknowledged their incessant knocking and the third tenant advised them that they had the wrong house. Walking up the overgrown driveway of the fourth house, Tom saw the curtain twitch and he nudged Booker. “Someone’s home,” he muttered in a low voice.
Dennis limped up the steps of the front porch and rang the bell. A jarring musical rendition of Joy to the World pierced the still morning air. Booker and Hanson raised their eyebrows in unison and exchanged a look. It was mid January, Christmas was a distant memory and they both wondered if the Pilkingtons of 1832 Sparrow Road kept the tune all year round. Maybe they needed a little joy in their world.
Tapping his foot impatiently, Booker pressed the doorbell for a second time but no one answered. Opening up the battered screen, he rapped his knuckles on the wooden door. “Police! Open up!”
Tom glanced over at his lover. “Jesus Booker,” he muttered. “I thought we agreed to be calm and nonthreatening.
When footsteps sounded from inside the house, Booker grinned at Tom. “Sometimes you’ve got to trust your instincts.”
The door opened a crack and Jarrod Pilkington’s scared face peeked out. “What do you want?”
Afraid that Booker might frighten the boy further by being too pushy, Tom stepped purposely in front of him and held out his badge. “Do you remember us Jarrod?” he asked pleasantly.
The boy peered at the badge, his expression sullen. “You’re those two undercover cops that got shot,” he muttered.
Dennis could not stay silent any longer. Pushing past Hanson, he managed to force a smile. “That’s right and we want to talk to you about that.”
Pilkington junior appeared to think long and hard about the request before answering. “Okay,” he whispered. “But not here. Too many eyes and ears if you know what I mean.”
“Okay,” Booker replied calmly. “If not here then where?”
Jarrod chewed at his thumbnail. “Abandoned house on Elm. You can’t miss it, it’s yellow and there’s graffiti all over it. Meet me in the kitchen in an hour.”
“Whoa, hold on a minute,” Tom replied. “If we’re going to meet up we do it—”
“We’ll be there,” Booker interjected and grabbing hold of Tom’s arm, he pulled him down the steps and across the parched lawn.
When they reached the car, Hanson pulled away from Booker’s grasp and gave him an angry look. “Are you fucking crazy? In what part of basic training did they tell you to follow someone into an obvious trap?”
Booker scowled back at Tom. “We don’t know that it’s a trap. The kid’s scared, maybe he really does just want to talk somewhere private.”
“Or maybe he’s on the phone to Watkins’ family and they’re setting up an ambush,” Tom shot back angrily.
Booker’s impulsive nature clouded his judgment. He did not want to pass up the opportunity to convince Jarrod to do the right thing and testify about Watkins’ character. They needed the judge to see the kind of person Robbie really was and that his decision to pull out a gun that day was premeditated. This might be their only chance to talk to Jarrod and he was damned if he would pass up the opportunity on the off chance that Pilkington was really in cahoots with Watkins.
Hobbling over to the driver’s door, he gave Hanson a scornful look. “If you don’t want to come, fine. Go home, I’ll do this on my own.”
Tom felt caught between a rock and a hard place. Every fiber of his being screamed that it was a trap but his conscience would not allow him to send Booker off alone. They were partners, in every sense of the word and they needed to stick together.
Pulling open the passenger door, he let out a sigh. “Okay, I’ll come, but we treat the situation like it is a trap. We go in with our guns drawn, deal?”
Booker grinned. “Deal.”
**
An hour later, Booker’s Cadillac pulled up outside the rundown house that Jarrod had described. He switched off the ignition and turned to face Tom. “Look, I know you think this is a stupid idea but it’s the only chance we’ve got.”
Tom unbuckled his seat belt and removed his gun from its holster. “I do think it’s stupid. Stupid and reckless but I can’t let you go in there alone so I guess I have no choice.”
In an attempt to lighten the mood, Booker ruffled Tom’s hair. “Relax Tommy, we’re trained professionals. We can spot an ambush a mile away. We’ll be fine.”
Tom opened his door and climbed out. “Famous last fucking words,” he muttered under his breath before slamming the door closed.
They approach the house warily, their guns held low so that they were not obvious to any onlookers. The street was deserted and most of the houses appeared uninhabited, their once shiny windows now boarded up. Tom nodded for Booker to cover him and lifting his gun, he carefully pushed open the front door.
The house was dark, damp and smelled of mold. Faded wallpaper hung in strips from the walls, the once vibrant colors now a distant memory. He motioned for Booker to enter and together they crept down the long passageway, the threadbare blue carpet muffling their footsteps. At the end of the hallway, he could see the peeling linoleum floor of the kitchen and signaling Booker with a raised hand, he stopped several feet from the open door. “Jarrod!” he called out.
“In here,” Jarrod replied.
“We’re coming in,” Tom responded in a loud voice, “and I'm warning you, we’re armed.”
Motioning for Booker to follow him, together they entered the large kitchen. His head immediately snapped left and right, checking for hiding places. He could see an open door at the far end of the room that he assumed led down into the basement. Jarrod sat on the counter top wearing a large smile. Hopping down from the ledge, he shook his head back and forth. “Geez, I never thought you’d be this dumb,” he mocked.
Tom’s heart leaped into his throat and he tightened the grip on his gun. “We’re armed,” he replied in a steady voice. “What do you think you can do?”
Before Jarrod could answer, Tom heard a yell from behind and spinning around he saw a large man with his arm around Booker’s neck, gripping him in a chokehold. Booker’s eyes bulged and his face was turning purple. His gun now lay useless on the floor and both his hands frantically attempted to alleviate the tension around his neck as he made distressed gurgling noises in an attempt to breathe.
“STOP!” Tom yelled and training his gun on the two struggling men, he pulled out his badge. “Police! Let the officer go.”
The man grinned manically, revealing several missing teeth and lifting his free hand, he placed the barrel of a gun against Booker’s head. “Or what?” he taunted in a slow drawl. “You think you can shoot me without hurting your friend?”
Hanson felt himself starting to panic and his gun trembled in his hand. “You’re killing him!” he cried out. “Let him go, you’re killing him!”
“Give your gun to the boy and I’ll let your friend go,” the man instructed slowly. “You have three seconds… one… two... thr—”
Tom dropped his gun to the floor and Jarrod leaped nimbly forward and picked it up. He pointed it at Hanson and smiled. “You really are dumb.”
Ignoring the comment, Hanson focused his attention on Booker. The man had loosened his hold but Dennis was still struggling to catch his breath and his face was beet red. “Please!” he implored. “Help him!”
The man hesitated for a moment before releasing his hold. Booker fell to the floor, clutching at his throat as he struggled to draw breath. Tom hurried forward so he could help his lover but cold metal pressed against the back of his head and he immediately stopped in his tracks.
“Nuh uh,” Jarrod crooned softly and moving forward, he pressed the gun against Hanson’s temple. “Stay right where you are.”
Fear gripped Tom’s heart and he instinctively screwed his eyes closed as he waited to die. He could still hear Booker’s strangled cries and he silently prayed to a God that he had not prayed to for years, begging with the unseen entity to spare his lover’s life. Seconds ticked by and he heard an amused laugh. “Don’t worry pretty boy, you’re not gonna die… yet.”
Tom opened his eyes and saw that his lover was now able to breathe but he looked weak and disorientated. The man stepped forward and raising his gun, he pointed it at Booker’s head before addressing Hanson. “You’re gonna walk nice and slowly down into the basement,” he instructed, “and if you do anything stupid, your friend’s brains are gonna be decorating the walls. Capiche?”
As he could see no way out of their situation, Tom nodded. He turned and slowly walked towards the open doorway. In front of him, the basement loomed black and he could not see the bottom of the stairs. He paused at the top and turned back around. “What about my friend?” he asked quietly.
The man grinned his toothless grin. “Don’t worry, he’ll be joining you very soon.”
With a heavy heart, Tom descended the rickety wooden steps. He stumbled several times but managed to stop himself from pitching head first into the inky darkness. When he reached the bottom, he yelled out in a strained voice. “Now send my friend down!”
A loud laugh echoed from above. “As you wish,” the man snorted. “Catch!” and to Tom’s dismay, he pushed Booker down the stairs.
“NOOO!” Hanson cried and he watched in horror as Booker’s body crashed down towards him before coming to rest at the bottom of the steps. Rushing forward, he fell to his knees beside his friend and even in the darkness, he could see that he was unconscious. “YOU BASTARD!” he screamed. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?”
In the pale light above, the man smirked. “Because I could. Nighty night,” and the door slammed closed, plunging the basement into blackness.
“FUCK!” Tom yelled in frustration. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” The basement mocked him with its silence. Sitting down on the floor, he carefully explored Dennis’ head and his fingers came away sticky with blood. Leaning forward, he checked that his lover was still breathing and he sighed in relief when he felt warm breath against his face. He had no idea if Dennis had suffered any broken bones but he made the decision not to move him, just in case. He waited several minutes until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness before standing up and carefully stumbling around the room with his hands held out in front of him. The basement was large, approximately 1600 square feet and the air smelled damp. During his exploration, he discovered a water heater and furnace but little else except for a few soggy cardboard boxes that appeared to contain articles of clothing. Once he had traversed the room and found nothing that could aid them in their escape, he checked on Booker but found his condition unchanged. Looking up at the chink of light that shone from beneath the basement door, he carefully ascended the stairs. Several steps were now completely missing, dislodged by the weight of Dennis’ body hurtling down them. He missed his footing several times and his heart leaped into his throat as he clutched frantically at the unstable handrail to stop himself from falling. When he reached the top, he optimistically turned the doorknob but the door did not budge. He threw his shoulder against it several times but it remained stubbornly closed, barely moving under the impact of his meager weight.
Sighing resignedly, he carefully descended the stairs and sitting on the cold cement floor, he gently cradled Booker’s head in his lap. His cold fingers tenderly caressed his lover’s bloody face as he stared despondently out into the darkness. “We’re screwed Dennis,” he muttered into the deafening silence. “This time we’re really screwed.”
- 15
- 16
- 17
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On the Wings of Maybe