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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
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- 55
Three weeks later
The distinctive crunch of tires on gravel sent a deluge of memories flooding into Booker’s mind. Only two short months before, he had parked his Cadillac outside the same imposing Spanish Mission style house, his cocksure demeanor evident at the time by his arrogant swagger. Back then, it had never occurred to him he wouldn’t be able to intimidate a sixty-year-old man into handing over an incriminating tape. But as time had proven, his overconfidence had ultimately been his undoing. Unwittingly, he had sold his soul to a devil disguised as a man, leaving him forever tortured by the gruesome memories of his mental and physical suffering. The experience had changed him, and he was no longer the upbeat twenty-three-year-old he had once been. Holland had stripped him of his dignity, and he doubted his self-respect would ever completely recover.
“Are you okay?”
The softly spoken words cut through the darkness blanketing Booker’s mind, the flicker of light bringing him back from the gloomy depths of his memories. Turning in his seat, he offered his lover a forced smile. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”
Not one to fall for Booker’s hubristic bravado, Tom laid bare the truth. “Because this is where Holland abused you. You don’t have to pretend with me, Dennis. If you don’t want to go in there, I can—”
“Go in there by yourself?” Booker shot back, his tone derisive. “Great idea, Hanson. Maybe then Holland can get what he really wants from you.”
Tom bristled, the malicious words slashing a gaping hole in his heart. While he only had vague memories of the sexual assault Holland had perpetrated against him, the disjointed images still managed to plague his mind in the early hours of the morning when sleep became elusive. The bleary visions, along with the vivid recollection of his rape, lay buried just beneath the surface of his consciousness, ready to emerge at the slightest provocation. A sound, a smell, even a touch triggered unwanted emotions, each one so potent, they still had the power to bring him to his knees. But at that moment, it was Booker’s words that hurt the most, and shifting his gaze, he stared at the impressive white building looming in front of them. “That's not what I meant,” he muttered, his expression downcast. “I was going to say I could wait for backup and then go in, but I guess now I’m only a signature away from becoming a civilian, you think I’m too stupid to come up with a rational plan.”
Too weary to argue, Booker turned away, his vacant gaze staring out of the windshield. “Holland’s dangerous,” he mumbled by way of explanation. “You don't know him like I do.”
A glimmer of pain flashed in Tom’s eyes, and his head dropped, the slight nod affirming Booker’s statement. “That’s right, I don’t. You let him fuck you, so I guess you know him better than you’ll ever know me.”
Booker’s head snapped to the right, his disbelieving expression quickly manifesting into one of anger. “What? How the fuck can you say that? In case you’ve forgotten, the only reason I slept with him was to help you!”
Shame reddened Tom’s cheeks, but he remained stubbornly combative, his need to retaliate overriding his sensibilities. “But there were times you enjoyed it, you told me as much, so don’t try and deny it. And what about Jorge? You and he—”
“Don’t bring Jorge into this,” Booker warned, not liking where the conversation was heading. “You know there’s nothing between us. And anyway, you should be grateful to him. Without his information, we’d be flying blind. Holland’s an ingenious sonofabitch, he’s not going to have evidence of his crimes just lying around.”
Tom’s lower lip pushed into a sulky pout. He wasn’t sure why he was deliberately provoking his lover, all he did know was he was teetering on a knife’s edge. As the case against the Pi Taus had begun to take shape, he’d grown distant, unwilling to talk openly about his fear and apprehension. Dark thoughts challenged his convictions, the gloomy shadows crawling through his mind, invading his sanity. By agreeing to press charges, he had ripped open the emotional wound that, although not healed, had, over the past few months, become less painful. His life was about to turn upside down, and without Booker’s friendship and support, he doubted he would be able to see it through to its conclusion. Dennis was his world, but his insecurities often made it difficult for him to trust his lover completely. However, he was astute enough to know he had crossed the line and drawing in a deep breath, he attempted to make things right. “Sorry, I guess I’m kinda uptight. I know we couldn’t have done this without Jorge’s help, and it might not seem like it, but I am grateful to him. It’s just... I dunno, sometimes I get so caught up in my own misery, I forget he suffered more than either of us.”
The tenseness in Booker’s muscles subsided and relaxing back against the Cadillac’s bucket seat, he exhaled a heavy sigh. “We’ve all suffered, that’s why it’s so important we work together as a team. I wanna see every one of those sonsofbitches convicted for what they did to you.”
Although he knew he was treading on dangerous ground, Tom sought clarification. “And Holland?” he asked quietly. “Do you want to see him charged too?”
Hurt and angered by the question, Booker slammed the heel of his palm down on the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ, Tom, what the fuck do you think?”
“I think I just pissed you off again,” Tom muttered, his tone petulant. He was tired of arguing, tired of putting on a brave front. The ink on the search warrant wasn’t even dry, and already he and Dennis were at each other’s throats, and for the second time in less than a few minutes, he wondered if the stress of a court case would leave them both bitter, disillusioned, and alone.
So, when cold fingers lightly caressed his cheek, he raised his head in surprise. Booker’s dark eyes met his, and it was then he knew he would find the strength he needed to keep going because to lose the one person in his life who had stood by him was more than his heart could bear.
Reassured, he took Booker’s hand in his and gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. “What are we doing?” he lamented softly. “Why do we keep attacking each other?”
Booker offered his lover a lopsided smile. “Maybe ‘cause we're idiots?”
The dark-haired officer’s wry attempt at humor did little to lighten Tom’s mood and releasing his lover’s hand, he stared out of the windshield. “I think we made a mistake coming here,” he confessed quietly. “Maybe we should just leave it to the uniform boys to issue the warrant and search the premises.”
An incredulous look raised Booker’s eyebrows. “Are you kidding me? No fucking way! After everything that asshole’s done, nothing’s gonna stop me from being there to see the look on his face when he realizes the game’s up. We’ve earned that right, Tommy. Holland and the rest of the Pi Taus almost destroyed us, and I wanna see him squirm.”
There was no faulting the dark-haired officer’s logic, so Tom kept his thoughts to himself. But the truth was, he wasn’t confident the mogul would fold under the pressure. A man of Holland’s means could afford the best attorney money could buy, thereby giving him a degree of superiority. Then there was the problem of evidence. Both Jorge and Dennis had agreed to cohabitate with Holland, and unless they found proof of abuse, it was doubtful they even had enough to lay charges. But Tom was not about to burst Booker’s bubble of optimism. His focus was on McCarter and the other six men who had defiled his body, destroying his innocence, the orgiastic atmosphere of touch and sound forever seared into his consciousness. He wanted them to suffer, just as he had, and if that meant sitting through a lengthy trial complete with humiliating video evidence, then he would somehow find the strength to endure. As Booker had rightly pointed out, they had come too far to give up now. They would see it through, side by side, and whatever the outcome, they would walk away together with their heads held high, knowing they’d done their very best.
“Uniform’s here,” Booker commented, the telltale crunch of tires on gravel alerting him to their presence. “Let’s go.”
The two officers alighted from the Cadillac, the slam of car doors shattering the tranquility, scaring the perching birds into panicked flight. Booker took the lead, his stride confident and purposeful. But beneath his resolute exterior, he was neither cool, calm, nor collected. Dark thoughts gnawed at his mind, his rising anxiety forcing the air from his lungs. He was about to confront his torturer, and he had no idea how he would react.
But before he could ascend the curved granite steps, the wooden door swung open. Holland stood in the entrance, composed, arrogant, the barest hint of a grin creasing the flesh around his eyes. “Dennis, sweetheart,” he crooned before his gaze focused on Tom. “And look who it is, young Officer Hanson. How are you, my darling boy? Keeping well I hope. So, what can I offer you fine gentlemen on this glorious day? A drink? Something to eat? Or are you after something a little more exciting? A threesome, perhaps? Oh, wouldn't that be fun! Or maybe I can tie you up and torture you until our almighty Lord releases you from this mortal coil. Now there’s a thought. What do you say, fellas, do you want to play?”
Sepia-toned memories bombarded Booker’s consciousness, the force of the visions buckling his knees. He stumbled, just barely managing to catch his footing, his vision blurring as instruments of torture flashed through his mind, the imagery still managing to inflict the torment for which they were designed. Psychosomatic pain shot through his body as the memories of his brutal assaults took on new life. His airway closed, the hallucinatory buckle of Holland’s belt pressing against his larynx, choking him until he could no longer breathe. He was trapped within the bubble of his own nightmare, an imaginary noose slowly suffocating him, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.
Alarmed, Tom ran to his partner’s side, his face ashen with fear. “Dennis, what’s wrong?” he asked in a worried voice, his arm wrapping around his lover’s hunched shoulders. “Dennis, talk to me! What’s happening? What’s happening?”
Soft laughter filtered through Booker’s addled brain, Holland’s taunting chuckle breaking the chimerical spell binding him to his hallucination. Immediately, the pressure around his throat lessened, allowing him to draw in a ragged breath, and he sputtered loudly as a rush of much-needed oxygen filled his lungs. The panic attack had caught him off guard, but he wasn’t about to let it stop him. Pulling free from Tom’s embrace, he staggered up the steps, his lip pulled back in a furious snarl. “Yuk it up, asshole,” he sneered at Holland, adrenaline surging through his body, and reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper and waved it in front of the mogul’s face. “We have a warrant, so get out of my fucking way before I knock you down.”
Catching sight of his maid hovering behind him, Holland’s eyes narrowed, and ignoring Booker’s threat, he turned and addressed her. “The kitchen floor isn’t going to mop itself, Lupita.”
Flustered, the young woman turned to leave, but when a hand reached past Holland and grasped her arm, she spun around, her eyes wide with fear. It was a level of panic Booker hadn’t seen since Tom’s rape, and the officer knew if he were to get the information he needed, he first had to gain the frightened maid’s trust. Forcing his lips into a smile, he released her arm from his hold and relaxed his expression. “Do you remember me, Lupita?” he asked, enunciating his words carefully, despite the uneven pant of his breath. He knew the maid’s grasp of English was limited, and he wanted to make sure she understood everything he was saying.
“Sí, señor,” Lupita replied warily. “You are Dennis, amigo de Señor Holland.”
Tom’s face visibly blanched at the term friend, but he was astute enough not to interrupt. While he didn’t always have faith in his lover’s methods, he knew if anyone could win the maid’s confidence, it was Booker.
“That’s right,” Booker smiled. “But I’m not Mister Holland’s amigo, I’m a police officer, un policía, and I was hoping to ask you some questions.”
Lupita’s hands twisted at the material of her apron, her long fingers creasing the fabric into spiraled patterns of agitation. Fear drained the color from her cheeks as her large ebony eyes flitted frantically from Holland to Booker and back again. She had so much to lose; her job, her home, the ability to take care of her family. But long ago, when she was a small child, her mamà had taught her to always stand up for what she believed in, and now was the time she heeded her advice. Holland was pure evil, and if losing everything she had worked so hard to achieve meant he would end up behind bars, in her eyes, the sacrifice was worth it. Her honor was more valuable than money, and she would not taint her soul for a demon dressed as a man, no matter how well he paid.
“This to help Jorge?” she asked, her voice quavering slightly.
Sensing Lupita’s affection for the young Latino, Booker seized his chance. “Yes, for Jorge,” he agreed. With only a basic knowledge of Spanish, he paused for a moment, carefully choosing his next words so the young woman would fully understand what he was asking. “Do you know of any compartimentos secretos en la casa de Holland? If you do, you need to tell me. Comprendes?”
Having heard enough, Holland stepped forward, his manner openly threatening. “I’m warning you, Lupita, if you speak to these officers I will have you deported. Deportado. No more job means no more dinero. Do I make myself clear?”
Unbeknownst to Holland, it was this brazen display of intimidation that made up Lupita’s mind and unknotting her fingers from her crinkled apron, she pulled back her shoulders, her expression bravely defiant. “I see every Señor Holland’s secrets,” she revealed to Booker with a knowing smile, and taking the officer by the hand, she gave an urgent tug. “I show you.”
Booker raised a questioning eyebrow at Holland. “Wanna join us, asshole, or shall we leave you down here cuffed to a chair?”
Rage colored the mogul’s cheeks, his flaring nostrils, and rancorous glare transforming his handsome features into a mask of pure hatred. “You won’t get away with this,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “I know people, important people, and when they hear how you violated my civil rights, you’ll find yourself—”
A fist shot out of nowhere, the bare knuckles connecting with Holland’s jaw with an audible crack. The mogul’s head whipped to the right, a loud oomph sounding from between his lips. He stumbled backward, and using the wall for support, he collapsed onto an antique chair, his startled expression almost comical.
“You sick sonofabitch,” Tom spat, the force of his anger masking the throbbing in his damaged hand. “Nobody cared about my civil rights when I was hanging from a hook with McCarter’s cock up my ass! They fucking raped me, but that wasn’t enough for you, was it? No, you needed a piece of the action yourself so you drugged and abducted me so you could do God knows what, and you still think you’re being treated unfairly? Well, fuck you, Holland! Fuck you! I’m tired of all this bullshit, so how ‘bout we end it here? Huh? Whaddya say? Is today a good day to die?” And without waiting for an answer, the young officer pulled out his gun and pointed it at Holland’s head.
With a squeal, Lupita released Booker’s hand and ran down the hallway to the safety of the kitchen.
Unfazed, Tom kept the frightened tycoon in his sights. “Are you scared?” he taunted, a maniacal gleam brightening his eyes. “Are you about to piss yourself? ‘Cause now you know how I felt. The fear, the helplessness, it’s emasculating, isn’t it? And I bet you’d do just about anything right now to get me to put my gun away. Isn’t that right, asshole? So, what shall I make you do? How can I humiliate you, so you understand the pain I went through?”
“Tommy, put down the gun.”
Surprised by the sound of Booker’s voice, Tom’s deranged gaze cleared, and without lowering his weapon, he turned his head toward his lover. “Why?” he asked, his voice rising with emotion. “He deserves to die. He’s a predator, Dennis, and if they let him go free, he’ll hurt someone else. I can’t live with that, can you?”
With his arm outstretched, Booker moved slowly forward. “I promise you, baby, he won’t go free, none of them will. We have a good case, we just have to trust the jury to do the right thing.”
Tom’s face twisted in agony. “I just want it to end!” he cried, tortured tears streaming down his face. “I just want it all to fucking END!”
Motioning for the uniformed officers to stay back, Booker inched closer toward his lover. “I know, baby, I know,” he consoled softly. “But if you do this, you’ll go to prison, and then we’ll never be together. Is killing Holland worth all that?”
Pain shimmered in Tom’s tearful eyes, and lowering his gun, his shoulders slumped forward. “N-No,” he sobbed. “Oh God, Dennis, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore!”
Moving slowly, Booker took the gun from Tom’s hand and tucked it in his waistband. Oblivious to the curious officers watching on with interest, he wrapped his arms around his lover’s quivering body and pulled him close. “It’s okay, baby, we’ll get through this.”
Tom leaned into the protective warmth of Booker’s chest. “P-Promise?”
It was the second time Tom had sought confirmation by asking the child-like question, and although not as confident with his answer as he had been the first time, Booker gave the response his lover wanted to hear. “I promise.”
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness