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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
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Tom awoke from a light doze and he groaned as the weight of Booker's head pressed against his full bladder. He carefully placed his hands under the matted dark hair and shuffling sideways, he lay Booker down so that his head rested on top of several moth eaten hoodies that he had liberated from one of the cardboard boxes. Leaning forward, he checked on his lover’s condition. The young officer remained unresponsive, but his breathing was steady and his pulse strong. Once satisfied that his condition had not deteriorated, Tom stood up and stretched his cramp legs. He was thirsty and hungry but most of all, he needed to urinate. He walked over to the far corner of the basement, unzipped his jeans and sighed contentedly as he emptied his bladder onto the cement floor. Zipping back up, he made another futile search of the room before returning to the bottom of the stairs. He had tried numerous times to break down the door during the nine hours they had spent in the basement, but all his efforts had produced was a sore shoulder. Now, as he looked upwards, he saw that the dim light that had glimmered from beneath the basement door had vanished, signaling nightfall. A cold dampness hung in the air and he shivered. He debated climbing the steps to try once again but he was tired and his shoulder throbbed painfully. It was less than two weeks since his dislocation and he wondered if he had caused himself more damage. But he quickly pushed the thought aside, he had to keep trying otherwise they would die in the bowels of the empty house.
He turned away and sat down on the hard cement floor. His gaze dropped to Booker’s face and he gasped when he saw two confused eyes staring up at him. “Dennis!” he exclaimed softly and reaching out, he caressed his lover’s bloodied face. “Thank God. Are you in pain?”
Booker’s tongue flicked out from between his lips. “Thirsty,” he muttered.
Tom suddenly remembered the water heater and he scrambled to his feet. “Hang on,” he murmured excitedly and hurrying over to the tank, he squatted down and opened up the drain valve. But his excitement was short lived; the tank was dry. “Damn it!” he cried and he slammed his hand against the cistern in frustration.
Standing up, he walked back to Booker and dropping to his knees, he reached out and stroked his face. “I’m sorry Dennis,” he whispered. “There’s no water.”
Dennis’ eyes fluttered closed. “Tired,” he mumbled.
Fear gripped Tom’s heart and laying a hand on Booker’s shoulder, he gave it a gentle shake. “No, no, no, you have to stay awake. Open your eyes Dennis. Come on, open your eyes.” However, no matter how hard he tried to wake him, Booker remained unresponsive. Tears pricked at Tom’s eyes and slowly slid down his face. He was terrified that Dennis was slipping into a coma from the head injury he had received when he fell down the stairs. “Dennis please wake up!” he sobbed as he cradled Booker’s head in his arms. “Please!”
But Booker’s eyes remained closed and as the hours ticked slowly by, Tom eventually fell into an exhausted sleep.
**
Sunday 12.30 p.m.
Doug rapped his knuckles against Tom’s apartment door. “Hanson!” he called out, “I know you’re in there, your car’s parked right outside.” When he received no answer, he tried again. “C’mon Hanson, open up. I’ve got two tickets to the game and it starts in an hour.”
The only reply he received was a deafening silence. Turning away, he started to walk towards the stairs when a door from across the hallway opened and the wrinkled face of an old woman peered out from the narrow crack of the chained door. “Are you looking for that nice young police officer?” she asked hesitantly.
Penhall turned and walked back. “Yes ma’am,” he replied pleasantly and pulling out his badge, he placed it close to the door. “I’m Officer Penhall and I work with Officer Hanson. Have you seen him?”
The woman’s head nodded up and down. “He left with a dark haired man on Friday night. I haven’t seen him since.”
A small frown furrowed Doug’s brow. “This man, was he wearing a black leather jacket.”
Once again, the woman’s head bobbled back and forth. “That’s right and a handsome boy he was too. Just like Officer Hanson.”
“Booker,” Penhall muttered under his breath and after thanking the elderly woman for her help, he hurried from the building.
**
Monday 8 a.m.
“I’m telling you Coach, Booker’s behind this! He’s forced Tom to go with him somewhere and I bet you it’s got something to do with the Robbie Watkins’ case!”
Fuller leaned back in his chair and gave Doug a measured look. “You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions Penhall. The only piece of evidence you have is that Hanson left with someone who looks like Booker and that evidence is hearsay.”
Doug paced back and forth across the small room. “I know it in my gut Coach. We both know Tommy, he does everything by the book. Booker’s a rebel, he bucks the system every chance he gets. He’s behind Hanson’s disappearance, I just know it.”
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Fuller let out a sigh. “They’re only thirty minutes late. Let’s give it another hour before we start to panic.”
Although he knew his captain was right, Penhall could not resist a parting shot before he walked out the door, “You should have transferred that sonofabitch when you had the chance.”
**
Tom’s eyes fluttered open and he let out a moan as he stretched out the crick in his neck. He checked his watch and he was surprised to see that he had slept through the night. His eyes immediately sought out Booker’s face and he was shocked to see how pale it was. Shifting into a kneeling position, he rested Booker’s head on the makeshift pillow and checked his vitals. His breathing was normal but his pulse was rapid. Staggering to his feet, he mounted the broken wooden stairs and stared at the barrier that blocked their escape. His fingers traveled over the rusty hinges of the door and for the hundredth time, he wished for a tool, any tool, so he could at least attempt to remove the hinge pins. However, wishing was pointless and so once again, he became proactive. He began slamming his weight against the heavy door, his shoulder throbbing painfully at every strike, but after ten minutes, he collapsed on the top step, tired and disheartened. He knew he had to accept defeat and that no matter how many times he tried to break it down, the door was impenetrable.
Climbing slowly down the steps, he lay down on the floor and pulling Booker into his arms, he snuggled protectively against him. His empty stomach growled noisily and he licked at his parched lips. Gazing despondently out into the dimness, he ran a gentle hand over Booker’s body. He felt so alone and he was in need of contact, any contact. As his fingers traveled over Booker’s hip, he felt something hard protruding from the pocket of his jeans. His hand paused and sitting up, he slipped his fingers inside and pulled out the mystery object.
“Yes!” he shouted excitedly and he grinned into the darkness like a deranged lunatic. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly ascended the stairs and squatting down on the top step, he held the Swiss Army Knife up to the light that shined through the narrow crack under the door. With trembling fingers, he slowly pulled out each tool and his smile widened when he discovered both a screwdriver and a small pair of pliers along with various sized knives and other utensils. He quickly selected one of the knives and sitting down, he started to scrape away at the rust that had accumulated on the door’s lower hinge. It took him ten minutes before he was satisfied and after blowing away the final remnants of fine dust, he studied the hinge pin. He quickly selected a larger knife and placing the blade underneath the head of the pin, he pressed against it and pushed upwards. At first, nothing happened but as he continued to apply pressure, the pin gradually moved up an eighth of an inch and stopped. It was not much, but it was a start. He quickly repositioned the blade, tried again and this time the pin yielded a quarter of an inch. It was a slow, laborious task, but little by little, he managed to move the pin upwards until he had about a quarter of it exposed. Pressing the blade back into position within the army knife, he pulled out the pliers. He wiped his hands on his jeans before gripping the head of the pin with the small tool. Holding on with both hands, he heaved with all his might and he was rewarded when the pin moved a little further out of the knuckle. Looking up, he sighed when it registered that once he finally got the pin free, he still had two more hinges to tackle. But he was not about to give up, at least now he had a chance of escape and he would persevere until they were free.
**
Monday 1.30 p.m.
Fuller and Penhall stood outside Booker’s apartment and watched as the building superintendent used his key to unlock the door. Once open, the two men thanked him and entered the apartment. Fuller closed the door and flicked the light switch. The apartment was reasonably tidy apart from the breakfast dishes that sat piled in the sink. Doug mentally counted the plates and utensils and a small frown creased his brow. He wondered who had spent the night with Booker. Was he seeing someone? A man? A woman? And if so, where had Tom spent Friday and Saturday night? It was a puzzling mystery and Doug was becoming more and more anxious by the minute.
His commanding officer’s voice pulled him from his thoughts and he turned around. “Sorry Coach?”
Adam Fuller held up an open phone book. “Looks like Booker’s searching for someone,” he repeated.
“Do you think it has to do with the Watkins’ case?” Penhall asked as he crossed the room to stand next to his captain.
“Maybe,” Fuller replied slowly. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll run the names from the open phone book and see if any of them match with potential witnesses. Call Ioki and Hoffs and get them to talk to Booker’s neighbors, maybe somebody knows something.”
As Doug headed for the door, he glanced at his watch. Hanson had not been home for over two days and that now qualified him as a missing person.
**
Monday 1.45 p.m.
With a final grunt, Tom pulled the pin from the second hinge and threw it over the handrail. His stiff fingers ached painfully and a large blister had formed on the ball of his thumb. In need of a rest, he carefully descended the stairs and sat down next to Booker’s prone body. Taking care not to hurt him, he carefully lifted his head and placed it in his lap. “We’re almost there Dennis,” he whispered as his cramped fingers gently stroked his lover’s face. “I just need to rest for a minute.”
Closing his eyes, he relaxed his tense muscles. He was so close to releasing them from their prison but he knew the cramping in his fingers would hinder the job and he needed to be patient. He would rest for a couple of hours and start again and if the final pin did not give him any trouble, they would be out by nightfall.
A state of calmness took over his body and he let out a weary sigh. Once he was free, he would find help for Booker and everything would be all right. Booker was strong, he had survived the shooting and he would survive this. It was just a little bump to the head he told himself and after a night in hospital, he would be fine.
**
Monday 2.30 p.m.
Tom lay slumped against the wall, his mind now in a deep state of NREM sleep. He did not feel the convulsions that shook Booker’s body and when he finally awoke, he was blissfully unaware of the damage that was occurring inside his lover’s brain
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- 17
- 18
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On the Wings of Maybe