The Bureau, page 16
“Boise,” Hughes said carefully.
“You and Krane spent some time there.”
“Yes.”
“Quite a coincidence.”
Hughes licked his lips nervously. “You think he left some boxes there and those assholes got hold of them.”
“Seems likely.”
“Shit.” Hughes let out a noisy sigh. “Well, I’m already here. If you’re not going to execute me, I don’t know what else you could do to me.”
Kurt narrowed his eyes. “You think your existence is miserable now, but it could be worse. You could never be allowed outdoors again. We could permanently take away your TV and books. There’s a whole world of worse we could inflict on you.”
“Please.” Hughes eyes had grown large and his breaths ragged. He tugged at his wrist cuffs. “Please don’t. They’re all I— I’d rather be dead.”
And now it was time to ease back. “I didn’t come here because we want to punish you. I came for information.”
“What? I don’t know anything!” Hughes’s pupils were wide with panic, and his chair creaked as he tried to lean away. He was a trapped animal.
This wasn’t Kurt’s first visit to the prison. He’d come here twice before when he was new to the Bureau and was one of several agents escorting a newly captured inmate. Perhaps both of those prisoners were still here. In fact, they likely were—nobody got released from this place except by death. After the second time, Kurt had confronted Townsend.
“What the hell’s the point?” he had demanded. That was back when his edges were still raw, when he either grabbed things with desperation or rejected them with force. He hadn’t settled into complacency yet.
“The point of what?” Townsend had asked with a jocular smile. They’d been seated in his office with his yellowing newspaper articles and the haze of cigarette smoke.
“Locking them up like that. Kill ’em if they’re dangerous. Ignore them if they’re not. Isn’t that easier?”
“Perhaps. But there are gradations of danger, and not every hazardous creature—or hazardous person—deserves death.”
“But what are their lives worth, locked up in cages? No future. No hope.” In retrospect, it was Kurt’s newfound hope that had probably fueled this discussion to begin with. That hadn’t occurred to him then, however.
Townsend had hauled himself out of his chair and crossed to the window. HQ was still downtown then, and he had a view of the skyscrapers under construction on Bunker Hill. He spoke with his back to Kurt. “It’s not our place to judge the worth of someone else’s existence, boy. Every person must decide for himself whether his life has value, and if not, what he intends to do about it.” He’d turned to pin Kurt in place with his sharp gaze. “Isn’t this so?”
Now in the prison again, this time to interrogate rather than transport, Kurt wondered about Hughes’s life. Books. A little bit of television. A few minutes outside under the stars. Apparently those things were sufficient for Hughes to want to continue. By comparison, Kurt possessed so much.
Hughes was still frantic, so Kurt pitched his voice low and slow. “We believe we’ve found and destroyed all the boxes you left in Idaho.”
“All the boxes Krane left.” Hughes calmed a bit as he uttered his denial, but his cheeks remained flushed.
“We believe now that Boise wasn’t the only place he stashed those boxes. If more of them remain, they pose a risk. We need to nullify that risk. So you need to tell me where the other boxes are.”
Hughes went very still. The color drained from his face, leaving him so shockingly white that Kurt was afraid he might pass out. “Oh God. There’s more?”
Either Hughes was an excellent actor, which Kurt doubted, or he had no idea Krane had left more boxes. Shit. That meant the Bureau was screwed. If nobody else on the planet knew where the fucking things might be, anyone could stumble onto them. They were potentially dangerous even for the innocent—and catastrophic for those with a little understanding and evil intentions.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” Hughes whispered. His eyes had gone flat and lifeless.
But Kurt wasn’t willing to waste this trip out into the godforsaken desert. He clicked his pen a few times as he thought. “Let’s try this. Around the time Krane was creating the boxes, the two of you were moving around a lot, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine. Then give me a list of everywhere you lived between ’74 and when you were caught in ’76. Be as specific as possible.”
As it turned out, Hughes was able to list thirteen towns and cities. He was fairly certain he’d remembered them all, but he could recall only a couple of addresses. For the remaining places, he gave vague descriptions of hotels, apartments, and houses. Probably not enough to do the Bureau any good, but that wasn’t Kurt’s problem. He’d fulfilled today’s mission.
As Kurt tucked away his notebook and pen and then stood and stretched, Hughes drooped in his seat, his hair obscuring his face. Kurt couldn’t tell whether he was exhausted or despairing. Maybe both. Kurt strode to the door but paused before knocking to be released. “Thank you for the information.”
Hughes lifted his head. “I haven’t told you where the boxes are.”
“No. But I think you’ve told me everything you know.”
“You’re not going to take away my books? And the other things?”
“No. You’ve cooperated today.” And… shit. Unwelcome pity filled Kurt’s heart, because Hughes had done some ugly fucking things, but he’d been paying for those things. And he’d continue paying for the rest of his life. “Actually, I’m going to talk to the chief. See if we can get you a little more to read.” The files had said Hughes was allowed five books at once and received replacements only monthly. That didn’t seem like much for a guy who had few other ways to occupy his time.
Hughes blinked at him. “You’d do that?”
“I can try. Can’t promise you anything.”
“Thank you, Agent Powell.”
They looked at each other for just a moment. Then Kurt pounded on the door.
Chapter Seven
It could have been a lie. Des thought about that while the guards unfastened him from the table and led him down the long corridors, and even as they performed a humiliating body cavity search at the entrance to his cell—as if they honestly believed a Bureau agent had smuggled contraband in for him. Des continued thinking about it as he stood in front of his concrete shelf and stroked the well-worn spines of his current books.
It was unlikely that Powell would ask about getting him more books. Why would he? And in the event that he did ask, the request would certainly be denied.
But even if Powell had lied, Des decided, it was done without any intent to harm. It was arguably even a kindness, giving him something to look forward to without guaranteeing the promise would come through. And Jesus, there had been so few kindnesses in Des’s life.
Abandoning his pitiful library, Des sat on his mattress, the blanket draped over his shoulders. Judging from the angry state of his stomach, he’d missed lunch. He hoped dinner wasn’t too far off.
He considered taking a nap. It would allow him to forget about his hunger for a time. And besides, the interview had exhausted him. It had been his first real conversation with anyone other than the prison doctor in…. Shit. In seventeen years. And it had been an emotional whirlwind, hadn’t it?
He generally tried very hard not to think about Larry and the boxes and the things they’d done with them. Even when he tried to avoid the memories, they clawed at him like rats in the darkness, and now Powell had brought those nightmares into the full light of day and given them fresh strength. The screams. And, God, the smell.
Des was suddenly thankful his stomach was empty.
When he was reasonably sure he wasn’t going to puke, Des pulled the blanket more tightly around himself. Once Larry had been killed and Des taken into custody—another memory he tried to repress—he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the possibility that more boxes might exist. Bureau agents had interrogated him for days but only about what had already happened. They hadn’t asked whether Larry left more boxes behind, and if they had asked, Des would have told them he didn’t know. Because he didn’t. Larry had been sparing with the information he shared, and Des, God help him, had never pushed to get more.
Because you knew in your heart that what he was doing was wrong.
Funny. The disapproving voice in Des’s head was always his mam’s, even though he hadn’t heard her speak since a telephone conversation in 1965. His twelfth birthday—two years after he’d been sent to America—and his foster parents had allowed him to call all the way to Ireland. She’d told him she loved him and she hoped to see him soon, but it had been a short talk. Long distance was expensive.
Since then a great many people had told him what a bag of shite he was, yet somehow Mam’s voice was the one that remained to scold him.
Larry hadn’t mentioned the location of any boxes, so Des hadn’t had any reason to wonder whether they existed. Now it turned out they did exist and, as a result, more innocent people had almost died. And others remained at risk if boxes remained stashed elsewhere, waiting to be discovered by fools or villains.
That’s not your problem, baby. Larry’s voice this time. He’d used pet names like that for Des—baby, kiddo, darling, sweetheart, honey—and Des, who’d never been addressed by endearments before, had taken them as signs of love. Let those Bureau assholes find the boxes if they can. That’s their job, isn’t it? What do you care what happens outside the shithole they’ve sealed you up in?
Right. What did Des care?
He curled up on the mattress and tried to nap, but the room’s bright lights made that impossible even with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He made a final effort to push Larry and his cursed boxes out of his head. That was only partially successful because Agent Powell slipped in to take their place.
Even though Powell hadn’t been loud or overtly intimidating, he had a certain presence. He was intelligent, that much was obvious, and Des suspected those sharp eyes had seen a great deal over the years. He’d been persistent and had let Des know he meant business, but he hadn’t really been cruel. Yes, his talk about taking away Des’s few pleasures had been terrifying as hell. But Powell hadn’t lingered on the threat and he’d backed away from it as soon as Des did his best to cooperate.
Another thing: Powell hadn’t said a single harsh word about Des being gay. The agents who’d taken him into custody had called him all kinds of names. It was almost as if they were more offended that he was sleeping with a man than that he was sleeping with a murderer. But Powell didn’t seem to care that Des used to fuck men. Maybe times had changed since Des was sent to prison; his television shows were too few to give him sufficient perspective on the outer world. Or maybe Powell wasn’t the sort to judge someone over the gender of his lover.
Powell was likely a good man. Des wondered what it felt like to know you were on the right side of moral battles and were helping people instead of simply helping yourself.
But even as Des considered that, he was helping himself—in a very specific way. He’d unfastened most of the buttons on his jumpsuit and worked his hand inside, where it now stroked his stiffening cock.
After he’d gotten over the shock of watching Larry die and being sent to a cage for the rest of his own life, Des had wanked often. He was a healthy young man, and there was little else to occupy his time since he hadn’t yet discovered the temporary escape of books. Sometimes he’d get off three or four times a day. He had no privacy, of course, with cameras watching him even then, and a few of the guards had mocked him over it. But at least he hadn’t been forbidden his hand jobs, so he’d continued the practice with enthusiasm. For a while.
As he grew older, he indulged less often, tired of his own touch, his unwashed body, and his faded fantasies. Nowadays almost the only time he touched his dick was when he pissed or showered.
Turned out his dick had missed him.
He fondled himself under the harsh lights in his spare, cold cell, and he thought about good men—but not too good, of course. Men with age and experience in their heads and on their bodies, who wouldn’t hesitate to tumble into bed with him, and who’d whisper filthy words in his ear while they used him a bit roughly. Men who cared about others and not just their own wealth and power. Who helped their lovers discover the best in themselves instead of the worst.
Those types of men.
If a young Des had met one of those men instead of Larry, maybe his life would have taken a better path. Des might have resumed the schooling he’d run away from at fourteen and found a job that made him feel proud. He might have taken long walks in sparkling sunshine or amidst warm rain, with grass under his bare feet and tree branches waving overhead. He might have showered every night before climbing between soft sheets on a thick mattress. He and that good man could have made love. And they could have fallen asleep pressed close, listening to the lullaby of each other’s heartbeats.
Des came soundlessly, his spend almost scorching against his palm and belly.
Then he got up and washed himself at the sink over the toilet. He buttoned his jumpsuit back up. And he reached for the book about the woman who carried the devil’s son.
Chapter Eight
The Bureau had authorized Kurt to spend another night in the motel near the prison, but the motel was a rathole and the only place to eat was a combination gas station/convenience store/burger place. Kurt was already tired of the desert. He drove straight back to LA instead, arriving home late and exhausted. He’d stopped for fast food along the way, so as soon as he was inside his house, he stripped, washed up, and sat on the edge of the bed.
His eyes were gritty, as if the desert had lodged in his body and was now creeping out. When he was a kid, his family had gone on a road trip through the West, ignoring hostile stares and muttered comments about race mixing. They’d gone to beaches, mountains, and forests, and they’d stopped at every stupid roadside attraction his father could find. One of those places had been a cobweb-festooned metal building filled with objects the outdoor sign proclaimed to be Curiosities And Oddities From Around The Globe. Kurt didn’t remember the location of that building or most of what it contained, but he did remember a glass case displaying a mummy. But not the Egyptian kind. The poor wretch had been drained by a vampire in the late nineteenth century, his body left to desiccate in the far reaches of a cattle ranch.
Although Kurt was grateful he’d never (yet) been unlucky enough to get chomped by a vamp, he felt as if he were turning into that mummy. He was drying up and hollowing out, his body stiffening. Maybe age had something to do with it—but that wasn’t all.
He rubbed his face and yawned. He needed to get some sleep and stop wallowing. Really, he had it damned good. Even though he’d once fucked things up, he’d been granted a second chance. Because of that, he had a son he was incredibly proud of and who didn’t hate him, and an ex-wife who’d forgiven him. His home was safe and comfortable, his job was interesting, and Vaughn was always up for a quick fuck when Kurt was in the mood.
And Jesus, at least he wasn’t like that bastard Hughes, locked away in a tomb with no chance of ever getting out. Hughes would probably have been better off if the Bureau had killed him when they exterminated his lover, but now he was stuck. And he didn’t even seem like a truly bad monster. He’d been a selfish young man who made really bad choices. Kurt understood how easily that could happen.
Well, no point thinking about him tonight. Tomorrow morning Kurt would have to debrief Townsend on the entire visit and let him know that he’d largely drawn a blank on the location of those fucking boxes. Shit.
* * *
“Those are all the specifics he could give?”
Townsend sat behind his desk, unlit cigarette in hand. He looked slightly worried, which terrified Kurt. The chief never looked worried, even when it seemed as if an apocalypse was due.
“That’s all I could get from him,” Kurt replied.
“Do you think he was telling the truth about not knowing where they are?”
Kurt didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I do. I get the sense Krane didn’t necessarily keep Hughes fully in the loop.”
Townsend nodded. “He used Hughes primarily as muscle. He needed someone who was big, strong, and loyal, without many outside ties. Krane wasn’t the type to consult with anyone about his plans.”
That made sense. With no real family or future, and with tendencies for nomadism and minor run-ins with the law, Hughes had been the perfect choice for Krane. In fact, Krane had probably groomed him carefully, leading him into a trap Hughes could never escape. Poor son of a bitch.
Townsend turned to face the window, where the early sunshine was turning the sky pale orange. He’d told Kurt once that he missed the old HQ downtown, with its vast marble entry and its long echoing corridors. His favorite lunchtime haunts were a longer drive now, but mostly, he said, he preferred being closer to the beating heart of the city. From another man, Kurt would have assumed this was a metaphor. From Townsend he wasn’t so sure.
“Go ahead and write up your report,” Townsend said as he turned back toward Kurt.
“Do you want me to look in some of the places Hughes described?” Not that Kurt had a chance in hell of finding anything, given the vagueness of the information. But he could try.
“No. Don’t want to waste you on that. When you get the report in, I’ll have a fresh assignment for you. How’d you like to spend some time in a haunted mental hospital in Stockton?” Townsend smiled widely, looking for all the world like a grandfather bestowing a gift on a favorite child.
Ghosts. Kurt didn’t mind them. “Sure, Chief. I’ll have the report to you by Thursday.” He stood and walked toward the door but paused before opening it. “Sir? Can I ask you a favor?”
“What’s that, boy?”
