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Beneath a Heart of Darkness	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 4657 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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
- 26
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- 28
Three days later
After carefully considering Fuller’s advice, Tom had formally taken a leave of absence for the remainder of the week. As Booker had been due back at work the day he had started his so-called vacation, Tom had spent each day waiting expectantly for the young officer to make contact. But after enduring an agonizing seventy-two hours pining for the man who now occupied his every thought, he had come to the unwelcome conclusion that Booker had decided to end their budding friendship. Whether he liked it or not, he now had to deal with the emotional impact of his rape on his own, leaving him feeling isolated and depressed. While he missed Booker’s friendship, the dark-haired officer was also the only person he could talk to about his rape, and he needed to talk because a terrifying assortment of fears and concerns were now occupying his daily thoughts. The hospital had run blood work for all the known sexually transmitted diseases, but it was still too early to know the results of his HIV test. Therefore, without anyone to reassure him everything would be okay, he spent his days drowning his sorrows in an orgy of whiskey and fast food, before crashing into oblivion, only to start the cycle again when he woke up. But now, the bilious aftereffects of a three-day binge had taken their toll, and he lay on the sofa, the sour aftertaste of Jack Daniel’s finest violating his taste buds, leaving him queasy, irritable, and wishing he had never opened his heart to an insensitive scoundrel like Dennis Booker.
However, despite his animosity, when a knock on the door signaled the arrival of a visitor, his breath caught in his throat, and his heart thudded once, before settling back to its natural rhythm. Not wanting to appear too eager, he rose unsteadily from the couch, and running his fingers through his unwashed hair, he counted to three and walked over to the door. When a second knock rattled the frame, he rubbed his sweaty palms over his stained flannel shirt, and drawing his lips back into a strained smile, he drew back the chain and opened the door.
Penhall’s cheerful expression slowly vanished as his eyes took in Tom’s disheveled appearance. He immediately detected the strong odor of alcohol and sweat wafting off his friend’s person, and wrinkling his nose, he took a step back, his hand waving theatrically in front of his face. “Phew-ee, Hanson,” he spluttered. “You stink!”
The disappointment Tom felt at not finding Booker on his doorstep quickly manifested into annoyance, and a heavy scowl twisted his features. “Nice to see you too, pal,” he replied stiffly, a contemptuous flicker briefly animating his bloodshot eyes. “What do you want?”
It did not take a genius to read the volatility of Tom’s mood; Penhall knew his friend well enough to know he suffered debilitating hangovers when he hit the bottle, and judging by his appearance, he had really tied one on. However, that did not give him permission to behave like an asshole, and mirroring the young officer’s heavy scowl, Penhall rudely pushed his way into the apartment and closed the door. “We need to talk.”
Tom would have liked nothing more than to throw Penhall out on his ass, but he was too tired and weak from his days of relentless drinking to attempt such a radical move. Instead, he accepted his fate, and heaving a long, capitulating sigh, he stared at the older officer with deadpan eyes. “About?”
Without waiting for an invitation, Penhall perched on the edge of the couch. When Tom remained standing, he leaned forward, and resting his elbows on his knees, he laced his fingers together and pressing them to his lips, he studied his friend’s pale face. The seconds ticked slowly by before he finally spoke; his voice low and tinged with concern. “What’s going on, Tom, man? You’ve been acting weird ever since the hazing case. And now Booker’s missing, and—”
“Booker’s missing?” Tom interrupted, his mask of animosity slipping to reveal a look of genuine distress, and suddenly, a thousand scenarios rushed through his mind; McCarter raping Booker… McCarter beating Booker… McCarter killing Booker.... His senses overloaded, and rushing forward, he grabbed Penhall by the shoulders, and screamed into the officer’s face, his hysteria mounting with each sharply delivered word. “HOW CAN HE BE MISSING? I THOUGHT HE WAS TAKING CARE OF HIS MOM, AND NOW YOU’RE TELLING ME HE’S DISAPPEARED? IS FULLER LOOKING FOR HIM? IS HE? ANSWER ME, GODDAMMIT! ANSWER ME!”
Shocked by Tom’s mordacious rhetoric, Penhall jumped to his feet, and grasping hold of the younger officer’s wrists, he forced his arms down by his sides. “Calm down!” he commanded. “Just calm down and listen!”
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Tom yelled, and pulling his hands free, he grabbed the front of Penhall’s black tee shirt and gripped it in his fist. “DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! HE COULD BE IN DANGER! HE COULD BE IN REAL FUCKING DANGER!”
Confusion clouded Penhall’s eyes, but his primary concern was pacifying his friend, and grabbing Tom by the tops of his arms, he shook him violently. “I said, CALM DOWN!”
Tears of agitation coupled with frustration glistened in Tom’s tortured eyes, and wrenching free from Penhall’s hold, he raked his fingers frantically through his tousled hair. Without warning, flashbacks of his rape flooded through his mind in one, huge, crashing wave of emotion; the sensation of rough hands gripping his naked flesh… the pungent fragrance of testosterone… the grunting… the laughing… the look of sheer helplessness shining from Booker’s dark, anguished eyes… The memory was a disjointed collage of crippling pain, bound together with feelings of inadequacy and guilt. If Booker was at risk, the blame lay firmly on his shoulders, and he was not sure he could live knowing he was ultimately responsible for another man’s suffering.
The depth of his despair suddenly consumed him, and overwrought with emotion, his face twisted into an expression of pure agony. Seconds later, his legs gave way, and dropping into a chair, he covered his face with his hands and sobbed out his pain.
Disturbed by the emotional display, Penhall stood paralyzed for several seconds before dropping to his knees next to Tom’s chair and placing a comforting arm around his quivering shoulders. “Talk to me, Tommy,” he murmured into his friend’s dirty hair. “If you think Booker’s in danger, you need to tell me what’s going on.”
Soft hiccups impeded Tom’s speech, so he shook his head in answer. But Penhall was not easily discouraged, and shifting into a cross-legged position, he placed his hands on Tom’s knees. “Did something happen at the fraternity?” he asked softly.
Tom’s body visibly stiffened. But as much as he wanted to pour his heart out to his best friend, he was too ashamed. He knew if he divulged his secret, their relationship would never be the same. Not that it would be Penhall’s fault; he was a kind and compassionate man who would lay down his life for his friends. But Tom was astute enough to understand Doug would never be able to look at him in the same way if he knew seven men had brutally sexually assaulted him. It would forever be the elephant in the room; the unspoken, yet inescapable fact that would eventually drive a wedge between them. However, despite his apprehension, there was now the matter of Booker’s disappearance to take into consideration. If his friend was in danger, holding back vital information about the Pi Taus could prove costly. But even though he had a complexity of feelings for Dennis that had him questioning the very foundation of his sexuality, he could not find the inner courage to speak to Penhall about his rape. Instead, he made the decision to investigate Booker’s sudden disappearance himself, and he knew exactly where to start.
After taking a minute to pull himself together, he lifted his head, and wiping a hand over his tear-stained face, he stared intensely into Penhall’s worried eyes. “Tell me everything you know about Booker’s disappearance.”
**
Having grilled Penhall about Booker’s phone call to Fuller, Tom had courteously but forcefully escorted his friend to the door with promises of spending a night bowling in the not too distant future. He then set about ridding himself of his hangover so he would have a clear mind the following day. Although his appetite was nonexistent, he cooked himself a fry-up of bacon and eggs, which he consumed without his usual gusto. After clearing the clothing and dirty plates that lay littered around his apartment, he washed the dishes before heading to the bathroom. Stripping off his clothes, he turned on the shower and stepped under the warm flow of water. He stood for a moment and allowed the therapeutic spray to work its magic over his tired, aching muscles before picking up the soap and lathering his body, all the while thinking about the best way to launch his plan of attack.
**
The following day
Unlike the frantic weekday schedule of lectures, study, and assignments, college life on a weekend was a laid-back haven of social interaction, sport, and the obligatory all-night kegger. Tom stood on the edge of the paved quadrangle outside Stevenson Hall, eagerly watching the comings and goings of its inhabitants, and a wry smile played over his lips. A lot had happened since his carefree college days; he’d dealt with the death of the second most influential man in his life, been rescued from a mental institution, beaten up, shot, and raped, all of which had slowly chipped away at his trusting, carefree nature. After three years, he had seen too much, and he was no longer the same man he had been when he joined the force as a bright-eyed, enthusiastic twenty-one-year-old. Time and personal experience had wearied him, and he doubted he would ever revitalize the optimistic spark that now lay dormant, buried beneath his pain in the very depths of his soul.
It did not take long for him to spy his quarry, and walking out of the shadows, he fell into step beside the young freshman. “Hey, Harold.”
For the second time in less than two weeks, the cold hand of panic gripped at Horshack’s heart, and stopping dead in his tracks, he spun around and stared at Tom in disbelief. His expression was one of fear tinged with happiness, and when he finally found his voice, he spluttered out his greeting. “H-Harris! It’s so good to see you! What are you doing here?”
The lines around Tom’s eyes softened, and placing a hand on the freshman’s shoulder, he gave it a friendly squeeze. “It’s good to see you too, Harold. But it’s Hanson, not Harris, remember?”
A sad smile passed over Horshack’s face, darkening his eyes. “Yeah, I remember,” he replied softly.
The two young men stood in silence for several seconds, the memory of the final Pi Tau ritual an unspoken trauma they both wished they could forget. But it had been a defining moment in each man’s life. Both had undergone a life changing metamorphosis deep within the bowels of the Pi Tau fraternity; one had found his courage, the other had lost what remained of his innocence, and the antithesis between the two men was striking. They were night and day, darkness and light, death and life, yin and yang, and therefore, they remained irrevocably entwined. Together, they formed the circle of life, but their togetherness also heightened their pain, making their reunion awkward and tense.
Embarrassed by the compassion shining from Harold’s eyes, Tom dropped his hand and shoved it in his pocket. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
With an understanding nod, Harold motioned toward a bench sheltered beneath the canopy of a large birch tree. Once seated, he gave Tom a nervous smile. “Okay, before you say anything, if you’ve come to ask me about Dennis, I can’t help you.”
Astonishment widened Tom’s eyes. “You’ve spoken to Booker? When?”
Harold paused for a moment before divulging the information. “About a week ago,” he replied.
“A week!” Tom exclaimed, and grabbing Horshack by the shoulders, he stared intently into his eyes. “This is serious, Harold. Booker’s missing, so I need you to tell me everything you know.”
Harold’s new found confidence was still a work in progress, and he faltered for a fraction of a second before shaking his head, a look of dogged determination shining from behind his thick lenses. “I can’t.”
Stunned by the freshman’s audacious refusal to answer his questions, Tom put on his best I’m a cop, don’t fuck with me face, and glared through narrowed eyes. “You’d better tell me, Horshack, otherwise, you’re gonna find yourself in a world of trouble.”
Although intimidated by Tom’s authoritative tone, Harold stuck by his guns. Standing up, he drew himself up to his full height—which amounted to an unthreatening five foot four inches—and puffed out his chest in a show of resistance. “I’m sorry, Hanson, but I made a promise to Dennis. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a study date.”
In the hopes of scaring Harold into talking, Tom briefly considered taking him into custody for questioning. But if he did, he would have no choice but to reveal to Fuller every sordid detail of what had occurred in the basement of the Pi Tau frat house, and he was not prepared to walk down that emotional path… at least not yet.
“Fine,” he spat, and getting to his feet, he glowered back at the defiant freshman. “But if anything happens to him, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
A look of uncertainty flashed in Harold’s eyes, but it was fleeting, and picking up his backpack, he threw it over his shoulder. As he started to walk away, he suddenly paused mid-step, and turning back around, he addressed Tom in a soft voice. “Are you okay, Tom? I mean, are you okay after…”
Unable to articulate the horror the young officer had experienced at the hands of the Pi Taus, Horshack left his sentence hanging. When Tom did not answer, his lips twitched into a sad smile. “I wish I could help you, but I made a promise. Surely you understand?”
“No,” Tom replied in a cold voice. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it. But for your sake, I hope you know what you’re doing.” And without further comment, he turned and walked away.
From behind the camouflage of a broad oak tree, Michael McCarter watched the exchange with interest. As luck would have it, he had been visiting a friend at Stevenson Hall when he caught sight of the two men talking. Although too far away to hear the conversation, their body language disclosed what their words did not. There was an obvious friction between them, and a worried frown creased his brow. Something had Tom in a state of agitation, and McCarter knew whatever it was, it was worth a phone call to Ingram Holland.
**
Thirty minutes later
Booker heard the thud of heavy footsteps long before Holland arrived at the tiny lean-to where he spent his time when he wasn’t performing sexual favors for the mogul and his friends. Having wasted the last hour staring blankly at the same page of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet, he almost welcomed the interruption, and turning in his chair, he watched as Holland stormed into the room.
“We have a problem,” the tycoon growled, the heavy scowl darkening his features easily communicating his displeasure.
“We do?” Booker asked innocently.
A well-aimed smack to the back of his head soon had the young officer rethinking the wisdom of his impertinence, and he immediately lowered his eyes in a gesture of submissive obedience. “Sorry,” he mumbled by way of apology.
Holland grunted in reply before pulling up a chair and sitting down. “I just had an interesting phone call,” he divulged. “Apparently, your beloved Tom has been talking to that pathetic specimen, Harold Horshack.”
The mention of Tom’s name immediately had Booker paying attention, but he took care not to appear too interested. Holland was fiercely jealous, and the young officer did not fancy spending another night alone in the oubliette because he had stepped over the imaginary line of lustful indecency. Not that he really cared about Tom, he didn’t. As far as he was concerned, that ship had sailed, and the rousing, physical ache he had once felt for the beautiful officer was now nothing more than a faint memory. In its place was seething resentment, coupled with the knowledge Tom had duped him into retrieving the tapes, thereby putting his morality at risk. No matter how he looked at it, Tom was the root of all his problems, and he’d be damned if he would pine for a man who had destroyed the very fabric of his being, whether intentionally or not. Of course, the thought of leaving had crossed his mind many times, and he longed to tell Holland to ram his contract where the sun don’t shine because he no longer cared about Tom’s state of mind. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, partly because he no longer had the confidence to stand up for himself, and partly because he knew Jorge would ultimately bear the brunt of Holland’s fury. Therefore, he remained silent, and all he could do was endure the humiliation until he was free to leave.
When Holland cleared his throat impatiently, Booker lifted his gaze and giving the tycoon his full attention, he replied in what he hoped was a casual manner. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Holland replied impatiently. “Unfortunately, McCarter couldn’t get close enough to hear the conversation. But you can bet your bottom dollar they were talking about you.”
Booker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Me?” he asked cautiously. “Why would they be talking about me?”
“Because you didn’t return to work, you dolt!” Holland barked. “Damn it! I knew I should have let you call your captain again. Now that pesky Hanson’s going to start searching for you, and I’m not ready to let you go, boy. I haven’t finished playing with you, not by a long shot.”
Although Holland’s derogatory proclamation would have riled the Booker of old, the downtrodden, dejected Booker did not bat an eye. Instead, he offered the tycoon a suggestion. “Let me call him. Once I tell him I’m okay, he won’t bother looking for me, I’m sure of it.”
The furious glint in Holland’s eyes faded, and reaching out a hand, he tenderly caressed Booker’s hair. “Well, well, how the tides have changed. A few days ago, you would have jumped at the thought of your precious Tom rescuing you. I guess you really do enjoy it when I fuck you.”
Booker smiled respectfully, but behind his tender expression lay a secret. Holland wasn’t the reason he was willing to give up his freedom to stay trapped in a living nightmare… Jorge was.
**
One hour later
At the precise moment Tom turned the key in the door of his apartment, a loud ringing sounded from inside. Adrenaline immediately started pumping through his veins, and shoving open the door, he ran inside and snatched up the telephone’s receiver. “Hanson!”
A flat, affectless voice sounded in his ear. “It’s Booker.”
Relief loosened Tom's tense muscles, and he collapsed into a nearby chair. “Jesus, Dennis, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
His declaration was met with a stony silence, and worried he'd lost the connection, Tom’s fingers tightened around the handset. “Dennis?” he queried in a worried voice. “Are you still there.”
“I’m here,” Booker replied stiffly.
Tom raked the fingers of his free hand through his hair, his initial sense of relief slowly manifesting into one of concern. “Are you okay? Is your mom okay? You sound kinda strange.”
“I’m fine,” Booker replied, his tone evasive. “I’ll be back at work in a week.”
“A week?” Tom exclaimed. “Dennis, you may not have a job in a week! Fuller already thinks you’re unreliable, and he’s talking about disciplinary action. Why don’t you tell me where you are, then I can—”
“Look, Tom, just back off, okay?” Booker snapped. “None of this is any of your business. Just tell Fuller what I said.”
“But, Dennis!” Tom implored.
“Goodbye, Hanson,” Booker muttered, and seconds later, the line went dead.
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness