Strachey Mysteries Fic - Mind Games (2/3)
Title: Mind Games
Author: kaly
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 20,275
Characters/Pairing: Donald/Timothy, Bailey, Kenny, OMC
Category: angst, h/c, movieverse
Warnings: none
Spoilers: very minor for Shock to the System
Summary: A threat to Donald sends everything spinning out of control.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing, no money earned.
Note: Takes place after Shock to the System, before On the Other Hand, Death.
Thank you to geminigrl11 for the beta, and Bronwynferchdai for the spot check.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
When he returned to the police station, having called to ensure Bailey would be waiting for him, Donald was exhausted both mentally and physically. If he were honest, he hadn't slept well since he first started to suspect the calls of being something other than the average pissed off ex.
He carried the sack with the empty water bottle with him, dropping it on Bailey's desk once he had closed the door.
"What's this?"
Untying the sack, Donald carefully flipped it inside out to show the detective the bottle. "Possibly the prints of my stalker." He paused and shrugged. "Or the prints of an overly-nervous man who just hired me to check out his cheating boyfriend. Could go either way."
Bailey blinked, clearly surprised. "Do you normally fingerprint your clients?"
Donald returned the bottle to the sack, retying the handles. "Not typically, no. But something about this guy wasn't quite right." Donald shrugged once more, he couldn't quite put his finger on it, much less explain it. "It might be nothing, but I took the chance when the opportunity presented itself."
"Not a bad idea, if he is our guy." Bailey picked up his phone, pressing a series of numbers. "I need something dusted for prints." He paused. "No, it's not for a case, just do me a favor?" Another pause, and he glanced at Donald, who was shifting in his seat. "Thanks, I owe you one."
"And I owe you one."
Bailey grinned as he hung up the phone. "Damn straight." Within moments, there was a knock on the door and Bailey waved in a tall, thin woman. "Here you go. Run 'em through the system once they're lifted, please."
The woman took the bag, nodding, and had turned to leave when Donald remembered Kenny. "You should find two sets of prints."
"Two?" the others asked, simultaneously.
Donald winced. "Kenny had to hand him the bottle. Wearing gloves might've tipped the guy off, don't you think?" Trying to smile, but only half succeeding, Donald added, "Maybe we'll get lucky and he thought only to touch the cap."
She looked annoyed, but nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. Anything else I should know about?"
"Guy said his name was Jeremy Reynolds." With that, the technician left, closing the door behind her.
Donald watched as Bailey wrote something on a notepad, leaning forward, he was able to make out Jeremy Reynolds' name. "He happen to mention who he wanted you to follow?"
"Said his boyfriend's name was Arnold Chandler."
Bailey wrote the new name beneath Jeremy's. "And that doesn't ring any bells?" Donald just shook his head. He didn't know anyone named that, couldn't remember ever knowing anyone named that. Of course, he had met a lot of people over the years.
Bailey gave Donald a long look before finally speaking once more. "You look like hell, Strachey."
"At least it matches how I feel. Would hate to be accused of false advertising." Donald slumped as far in the chair as possible, and not slide out of it. "Feels like I've been up for a week."
Seriously - in a way Donald trusted only Timothy, or Bailey on a very good day, to be - the detective nodded. "What's happened since you were here?"
"I ran a marathon," Donald replied, letting his arms drop loosely to his sides, exhaustion catching up to him.
"Damn it, Strachey," Bailey began, clearly unimpressed with Donald's apparent kidding.
He only stopped when Donald help up a hand, shaking his head. "I was almost being serious." Taking a deep breath, and holding it several seconds, Donald sat up straighter.
"I went back to the office, to find out what Kenny had learned from our possible client. Apparently he - the client, I mean - had let slip that the 'other man' he's so angry at is named Tim."
"And you think..."
Donald sighed. "It was all I could think, Bub. I tried calling Timothy on every number I could think of, and none of them would pick up. So I bundled up the bottle, jumped the car, and then ran around about half of downtown Albany."
Bailey looked at Donald, concerned. "But you found him, right? I can't imagine you'd be this calm otherwise."
The fading adrenaline rush leaving him spent, Donald stared at his hands for several seconds. "Eventually," he said in a quiet voice. "I found him eventually." Looking at Bailey, Donald was relieved to see compassion reflected back at him. "Apparently some 'idiot', as security put it, pulled a fire alarm that evacuated the building."
Bailey whistled softly. "Convenient."
"It gets better. I had just gotten there, didn't even know about the evacuation yet, when my phone rang." Donald shivered at the memory of the oily voice. "It was him, reminding me that he doesn't like others who take what's his. I can't even begin to tell you how scared I was."
"I can only imagine."
Jumping out of the chair, unable to sit still any longer, Donald paced restlessly before stopping in front of the window. "I've been trying to decide if the voices are the same. Jeremy Reynolds and my mystery caller." Donald shoved his hands in his pockets, resting his forehead against the glass. "The more I think about it, the more I think he's the same person, but they sound... different."
He heard Bailey's chair squeak, and glanced to see the other man facing him. "Different how?"
"I can't quite put my finger on it." Donald sighed and turned, pressing his back to the glass. "But something he said, Jeremy, I mean. I'd bet a month's worth of retainers that he's the one."
"What's that?"
Feeling hollow, Donald stared at the ceiling, wishing he had made the connection when Jeremy had still been in his grasp. Hating himself for the oversight, praying Timothy wouldn't come to harm because of it, Donald shuddered. "He said, 'he's mine'."
Bailey nodded, prompting, "And your mystery caller..."
"Oh, I am certainly his," Donald replied, meeting Bailey's gaze, feeling ill just to say the words. "Or so he would have me believe."
When he looked at Bailey, Donald could tell he believed him. Maybe even pitied him. Donald could cope with the latter, if it helped sort everything out in the end. He was saved saying anything else when Bailey's phone rang.
"Yeah?" Donald watched as the detective listened intently, scribbling down notes on a piece of paper. "Thanks. Hey, do me one more favor?" Bailey cringed, but pressed onward. "Last one for today, I promise. See what you can find on someone named, or aliased as, Jeremy Reynolds." He listened for a moment, groaning. "You're on. Thanks again."
"What was that last part?" Donald asked, unable to help himself.
"I - no, make that you - owe her a steak dinner."
Donald rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll pay you back." More seriously, he said, "The prints can't be back that fast."
"Nope." Bailey held up the paper in front of Donald, but dropped it before he could read the scrawled words. "That was about your phone calls. Turns out they were made from one of those disposable, pay as you go phones. Connie was able to pull up a number and track it, but it was paid for in cash."
Donald's heart sank. "Dead end."
"Dead end."
Before Donald could think of anything to say, exhaustion slowing his thoughts, his phone rang. It could be Tim - unlikely; or Kenny - a little more likely. But the odds were on... He glanced at the screen, and turned to Bailey. "Here we go again."
Bailey picked up his own phone, speaking quickly, and so quietly Donald couldn't even understand him. When he hung up, he motioned for Donald to answer.
"Strachey."
"How is our little cheater, Donald?" The voice - Jeremy a small voice insisted - sounded annoyed.
Unable to bite his tongue, Donald ignored Bailey's frantic slashing motions and demanded, "If you've done anything to Tim..."
The voice huffed. "It's not right to take what's not yours, Donald. And you're mine. He just needs to learn that, don't you think?"
The line went dead, barring Donald from replying, and he slammed it against the wall.
"Don't lose your temper with him!" Bailey roared, the minute the phone was closed. "What do you want to do, provoke him? He really would do something stupid then!"
Close to snapping, Donald got in Bailey's face, gesturing to the room at large. "If it ends this, then yes, maybe I do!"
"No, you don't," Bailey replied, his voice once again calm, reasonable when Donald was anything but. "Because there's just as much chance - more even - that he'd go after Callahan instead of you."
Defeated, Donald dropped into his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, and burying his face in his hands. "I know." Taking a deep breath, trying to calm down and marginally succeeding. "I can't stand it, Bub."
He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, Donald was surprised to see that Bailey had stood and crossed the room without making a sound. "I know, but you can't lose it again. You know that." Donald nodded, sitting back in the chair, and Bailey removed his hand.
"Yeah."
"Okay then," Bailey said, returning to his own seat. "I'll call and check if they were able to get anything from that call." Pausing, he gave Donald a long look. "You might want to catch some shut-eye in the meantime. You really do look like hell."
"I couldn't sleep, even if I wanted to." Absently, he added, "Thanks, though."
The detective shrugged. "Your choice. Just let me make this call, and we'll try to figure out our next move, all right?"
"Sounds like a plan."
He listened to Bailey speaking on the phone, unaware he had dozed off until the sound of a phone ringing nearly sent him crashing to the floor. Blearily, he looked at his watch, only to realize he had lost half an hour.
"Bailey."
And although Donald couldn't hear who was on the other line, he went cold when Bailey looked at him with wide, worried eyes. "You're sure he's okay?" If he had gone cold at Bailey's expression, those words nearly finished sending him to the floor. "Good, thanks."
Throat dry, almost unable to speak, Donald choked out, "Bub?"
"Callahan's okay," Bailey said in a calm, even voice. "That's the most important part. But yeah, that was your secretary. There was an accident."
Donald jumped out of the chair, ignoring its crashing, and turned toward the door. He lashed out with a fist when a hand grabbed his elbow, only stopping when Bailey's voice broke through. "Damn it! I said he's okay!"
Swaying, Donald let himself be led back to the chair before he collapsed. He struggled to breathe, and Bailey pressed on his shoulder until Donald was doubled over.
"That was no accident," Donald insisted, once he could speak, hissing the words. "That bastard went after him."
Kneeling beside him, Bailey nodded. "I believe you."
When rational thought returned, Donald gave Bailey an odd look. "Why did he call you?"
"Said your phone was dead."
"But I just..." Donald pulled the phone out and looked at it, finding the battery had slipped loose, most likely when he had slammed it into the wall. Jamming it back into place, he watched until the screen lit up once more.
Frustrated beyond measure, Donald sighed. "Damn it."
Bailey returned to his desk, more patient that Donald had ever seen, or would have thought him capable of. "He said Tim was fine. He's on his way home."
Donald looked at his watch. It was too early for Timothy to be off work. He hadn't even had a chance to call and offer him a ride - a safe ride - home. "I need to..."
"We need to plan. Then you can go home and check on him."
And although he understood the logic in Bailey's words - was indeed overwhelmingly grateful - the only place Donald wanted to be was at home, with Timothy. Then again, Donald knew it wasn't likely to be the most welcoming of homecomings, given their last conversation.
Forcing himself to focus, Donald nodded. "At least let me call him. Then we can plan." When Bailey merely nodded, Donald dialed Tim's number, holding his breath until his partner answered.
"Donald?"
Closing his eyes, so relieved he began to shake, Donald exhaled. "You're okay?"
"I'm fine. They think a drunk ran the light. Dinged up Mark's car, but we didn't get a scratch."
Fighting off annoyance at hearing Mark mentioned more in a day than he had been in month, Donald rubbed a hand over his eyes. He knew Timothy occasionally got rides home with coworkers when offered. Normally, he didn't mind, but normally, he didn't want to wrap Tim up in cotton wool and bubble wrap.
"Are you coming home soon?"
Focusing on his earlier idea, hating himself more than he would have thought possible, Donald replied in a clipped voice, "Thought we weren't checking in?"
"So you're still in a mood, I see."
Heart heavy, Donald swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I have some more work to do. I'll be home before too late."
Timothy sighed, clearly hating being at odds. "I love you."
"Yeah. Bye." He closed the phone, able to feel Bailey's shocked stare even with his eyes closed. Looking at the detective, Donald saw that he was right. "Let's make this quick."
Bailey blinked, mouth gaping momentarily. "What on earth did you have in mind?"
~<>~<>~
It was over two hours later before Donald and Bailey reached an agreement on what would happen next. Donald hated every moment of delay, but he hated what had to come next even more. Turning off the car, finally home, Donald rested his head against the steering wheel and sighed.
When everything was said and done, he just hoped Timothy could forgive him. He wasn't sure if he would be able to forgive himself, however.
Leaning back, he stared at the house - his home - for several minutes. There was only one light on, in the living room, which meant Timothy had at least waited up for him. After their phone calls, it could have gone either way. While he and Timothy didn't fight often, they did fight, like any other couple.
Donald knew that Timothy waiting up was a good sign - when he needed anything but. He had honestly hoped to find no lights on, a sure sign Tim was angry beyond reasoning for at least a day. His partner wasn't just a pit bull at work, that was for sure.
Resigned to the inevitable, Donald climbed out of the car, closing the door as carefully - and quietly - as he could. He trudged up the walk, stopping in front of the door and taking a deep breath. Donald knew without question he would hate this night for a long time to come.
He unlocked the door, stepping inside and slipping off his coat. Donald rested his chin against his chest, focusing on breathing - and the end goal - before turning the corner into the great room.
Timothy was, as expected, dressed in pajamas and wrapped up in a quilt on the couch. An old black and white movie that Donald didn't recognize, but Tim no doubt did, was playing on the television. However, even at a distance, Donald couldn't tell Timothy wasn't paying it any attention.
"Hey." He stepped forward into the room and winced when Timothy startled, twisting in the covers.
His husband's face was guarded, and Donald carefully schooled his features likewise. "Donald." Tim's voice was cool, his gaze appraising. "So you did decide to come home."
Donald rolled his eyes, flopping onto a chair, boneless. "Of course I came home. I told you I had to work late."
"I just thought you might..." Tim sounded hurt, looking away. "Never mind."
Groaning, Donald stood and walked into the kitchen. "You said you were okay," he said as he passed through the doorway.
"I am okay."
He heard the tell-tale signs of Timothy standing and folding the afghan. When Donald looked out from the refrigerator - where he was ostensibly searching for dinner - he saw Timothy had joined him in the kitchen.
"But I thought you might be a little more worried. Silly of me, I suppose."
Donald hid a wince behind his hand. And Mr. Callahan scored a direct hit. However, all he said was, "You hate it when I coddle you."
Flustered, Tim stammered for a moment. "Yes, well..." He jutted out his chin, and crossed his arms. "Not today, I don't!"
"Uh, huh. Mind making up your mind?" Donald asked around a mouthful of peanut butter. The mere thought of having to swallow it, much less keep it down, made him sick.
Timothy seemed to deflate at that, and leaned against the doorframe. He looked so lost Donald just wanted to hold on tight and not let go.
"What's wrong? Why are we fighting?"
"I'm tired, Timmy." Queasy, Donald screwed the lid back on the peanut butter, shoving it back into the refrigerator.
Anger sparking once more, Timothy glared at him. "So I guess that means we're done discussing it then."
"I don't know. Would you actually let it drop?" Donald snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Would I?" Tim's eyes went wide, his mouth gaping with shock. "I guess you're about to find out." At that he turned and retreated upstairs.
Donald watched him go, his eyes burning. Knowing it was for Tim's own good, wanting his stalker to think Timothy a non-issue without any more attacks, he dredged up annoyance from somewhere. Donald wanted the bastard blind to anything but him.
Moving to the base of the stairs, he pitched his voice so Timothy would hear. "And now you just run away? I thought you wanted to talk?"
Timothy stopped, halfway up, and turned to look at Donald. "Honestly! Make up your mind!"
"What were you thinking, anyway?"
Eyes suddenly hard, Timothy considered this for a moment. "You already asked me that, and I answered you." He thought for a moment, and Donald fought the urge to look away. "Is this about Mark?"
Wanting to bite off his own tongue, Donald asked, "Should it be? Something you're not telling me?"
"How dare you accuse me..." Tim paused, breathing so hard Donald could clearly see his chest moving. "Get out."
"What?" Donald was shocked. It was what he wanted - what he needed - but hearing the words broke his heart. Timothy had never said those words to him before, no matter how badly they had fought. But Donald had never essentially accused him of straying before, either.
Tim pointed toward the front door, a chill filling his voice. "Out."
"I don't have my things." Donald stood his ground, knowing he should count his blessings and run. However, he wanted to make certain Tim wouldn't risk calling in the middle of his plans to roost out the stalker. Taking the low road, Donald declared, "Besides, I'm not the one sneaking around!"
Voice deadly serious, eyes glinting with anger, Timothy replied, "Is that right?" He took a couple of steps forward, fairly vibrating with rage. "Hours of stakeouts, night after night. Meanwhile, I'm home alone. Trusting you. One night I actually spend out - with your blessing, no less! And suddenly you can't trust me when I take a coffee break. But I'm the bad guy here? Who do you think you are?"
Doing his best to act as though he was the injured party, Donald shrugged. "Maybe you should learn to read between the lines better."
"And maybe you should pull your head out of your ass and quit acting like a Neanderthal!" Timothy's voice echoed loudly, ringing in Donald's ears. "What in the hell is wrong with you all of a sudden?"
Donald nearly ducked backwards. He had never seen Timothy so enraged, cursing more in the last few minutes than in the past year. Neither had he ever heard him yell so loudly - certainly not at him. If his heart wasn't in the process of being crushed, Donald might almost feel pride at how well Tim was defending himself.
Unable to decide what he could - should - say next, he could only stare as Timothy turned on his heel and disappeared upstairs. Donald waited a moment, only to be hit in the face by a t-shirt, and then a pair of jeans. When boxers landed at his feet, Timothy reappeared. The anger was missing, and instead there were tears shining in his eyes.
It all made Donald feel about an inch tall.
"You have your things. You obviously don't need me. Now go."
Wavering, Donald took a step forward. "Timmy..."
"Go!"
Determined not to hurt Timothy any more - hadn't he done enough? - Donald stooped forward and retrieved the singular outfit. When he stood back up, Tim was out of sight. A slamming door confirmed he wouldn't be back.
A single tear running down his cheek, Donald turned and moved to dig a satchel out of the hall closet. Clothes inside it, he zipped it shut and grabbed his coat from the rack. With a final, longing look upstairs, he let himself out.
The door closed behind him, and Donald collapsed back against it, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. That was harder than he had imagined, and he had known it would be hell. Composing himself out of sheer will power alone, Donald hurried to his car. A brief glance down the street once he was inside revealed a dark sedan with a dented bumper.
Bingo.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the contacts until he saw Bub's name. "Hey. It's me." Donald looked at the house one last time as he started the car. Forcing back tears that wanted to fall, he said, "It's done. And I have a visitor."
"Good." Bailey paused. "I mean, not good, but..." Growling, he settled on, "You know what I mean."
Backing out of the driveway, Donald sighed. "Yeah. I know." As he drove away, Donald was careful to ensure the sedan followed him rather than staying close to Timothy. Donald wanted little more than to pull the man out of the car and confront him, but it was more important to get him away from Tim.
He was relieved when his hunch was proven right, and the car followed a little too closely to be inconspicuous. Especially on a suburban street after dark. If the bastard hadn't taken the bait, they would have gone to plan B. and while busting the guy's face in would've been satisfying, it wouldn't have played well in court.
"I've called ahead to the motel," Bailey said, breaking Donald from his thoughts. "The desk clerk's waiting for you. He's willing to play along."
Donald nodded, splitting his attention between the street ahead and the tail behind. "I'll call you once I'm there." Glancing in the rearview mirror, seeing headlights but his house out of sight, Donald sighed. "Bub? Take care of Timmy."
"I will."
It wasn't much later that he reached the motel, and went in to claim his room. True to his word, the desk clerk went along as though it was a regular rental. A few minutes later, Donald had just closed the door to his room behind him when his phone rang.
Risking a glance through the blinds, Donald saw the now-familiar car idling in the lot. Knowing without a doubt it was not Tim, Donald growled. "Are you happy?" He paused, praying he was wrong in saying, "He hates me! He's out of my life... forever."
His stalker just laughed, sending a chill up Donald's spine. "I knew you'd come back to me."
"Just leave Tim out of this."
"Donald..." There was a sigh, the man sounded put out. "Don't say his name. He got what he deserved for trying to take you away from me."
Donald thought he might throw up, and was saved from responding when Jeremy hung up and drove away. A second later another car left the lot, following at a distance. Looking skyward, Donald thanked God for Bub Bailey - not something he had ever expected to think. But he was helping keep Timothy safe, and that was all that mattered in Donald's world.
He knew Timothy was upset, his temper burned hot and when provoked he could hold a grudge like no other. But a safe, hurting Timothy was much preferred to a dead one, any day.
When his phone rang once more - a fast turnaround even for his apparent stalker - Donald answered it by demanding, "What?"
"You don't pay me enough to sleep here, you know."
Covering his face with his hand, Donald groaned. "Kenny. I'm sorry, I forgot."
"Forgot?" Kenny replied, his voice pitching high.
"Go on home." He started to end the call, but on second thought continued. "I know tomorrow's Saturday, but keep an eye on things for me, will ya?"
Kenny grunted, clearly unimpressed. "I want a raise."
Donald couldn't even get a word in edgewise before the call was disconnected. Seriously, what was it with people hanging up on him?
Laying on the bed, drained but unable to relax, he called Bailey back. "I'm in. That was you following our friend, I assume?"
"You assume correctly. I'll keep an eye on him, and get back to you."
Donald closed his eyes and tried to relax, but found he couldn't. "Thanks, Bub. I owe you one." Or twenty he thought, but didn't say.
"No joke, Strachey. No joke." Bailey paused for a moment before saying, "But for the time being, get some sleep. I'll call if anything changes before morning."
"You gonna be okay following him all night?"
Bailey sighed. "I’m going to pretend that wasn't an age crack." More seriously he added, "I called in a marker, I've got back up coming on later."
"Who..."
"Don't worry about it." Knowing what this operation meant to Donald, Bailey's voice pitched low. "I trust her." And Donald trusted Bailey.
"Call me in the morning. Or sooner."
"I will. Good night."
"Night."
Hanging up the phone, Donald laced his fingers behind his head and stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. "Good night, Timmy."
Sleep was a very long time in coming.
~<>~<>~
At some point during the night, Donald had finally drifted into a light sleep. He couldn't remember finally succumbing; however, the nightmares that followed were burned into his mind. Grabbing for the phone when it rang, Donald found himself twisted up in the sheets, almost trapped.
Checking the caller ID, he was relieved to see Bub's name on the indicator. "Strachey," he said around a yawn.
"We got a hit on the prints," Bailey said with no preamble. "Meet me at the diner across the street from the motel in fifteen, okay?"
Nervous, Donald glanced through the blinds, checking for any sign of Jeremy's car. "He might see us, can't you tell me on the phone?"
"We'll be fine." Distantly, when Bailey paused, Donald could hear a horn honking. "Managed to get a tracker on his car early this morning. He's still at his own ramshackle motel just outside of town. Not a peep out of him all night."
Donald scratched his stomach. He wasn't remotely hungry, but coffee sounded good. "I can only wonder... Why didn't he stay here?"
"Don't know, don't care." Donald could practically hear Bailey shrug. "I've learned not to try and out guess the 'whys' with these types too much."
Curiosity piqued, Donald's eyebrows rose. "These types?"
"I'll tell you at the diner." With that, Bailey hung up.
Sighing, Donald stepped away from the window and dropped back onto the bed. Belatedly, he glanced at his watch, only to see it was only 6:30 in the morning. No wonder he felt like ten miles of bad road.
Resigning himself to a long, miserable day ahead, Donald forced himself to sit up and grab his bag. He winced at the realization he had neither toothbrush nor razor, but shrugged, deciding Bailey could deal. There was only one person Donald cared to pretty up for on a regular basis, and Timothy wasn't speaking to him at the moment.
In the end, it took less than the allotted fifteen minutes to change clothes and, after locking the door behind him, jog across the street. Pushing the door open, Donald winced at how empty the small diner was. If Jeremy did slip past his cover, they would be completely exposed. Donald didn't even want to imagine what the other man was capable of if he suspected a trap.
He had just claimed a booth, flagging down a waitress to bring coffee, when Bailey walked in, a small bell over the door jingling softly.
"Be right there!" the waitress called, busy filling Donald's order.
Bailey nodded in her direction, distractedly scanning the room until he saw Donald in the back corner. "Hiding?" he asked, sliding into the other side.
Donald shrugged. "I can see the entrance and the street from here. He wouldn't be able to see me, however."
Lips quirking in a half-smile, Bailey nodded. "You sound like a cop."
"Might as well be one at this point." He faked a grin - humor was the last emotion he felt at the moment. "Of course, I think the rules might be a problem."
"Oh, I know they would be," Bailey replied, laughing half-heartedly.
They fell quiet when the waitress approached, putting Donald's coffee and a small bowl of creamer packets onto the table. Next, she pulled a pen and pad out of her apron. "What can I get you boys?"
Bailey glanced at the overhead board. "Special sounds good. And coffee." He looked at Donald, eyes narrowing. "You need more than coffee, Strachey."
"Aww, Bub, I didn't know you cared!" Bailey rolled his eyes, cutting him an unimpressed look. Turning his attention to the waitress, Donald said, "No thanks. Coffee's good."
Once she was out of earshot, Bailey growled. "You're boyfriend's gonna have my hide if you make yourself sick. Don't think I don't know he'll figure out some way to blame me for it, either."
Donald had just taken a drink, and nearly burned himself when he snickered. "Believe me, you'll have to get in line. It'll be me he goes after first." Turning serious, he shook his head and spoke in a quiet voice. "I can't eat right now. Maybe later." He was grateful that - although he didn't look happy about it - Bailey let it drop. "So what's up with the breakfast routine?"
"We got a hit on the prints," Bailey replied quietly, after ensuring no one was too close. "However, he's not Jeremy Reynolds. They matched to one Simon Sanderson."
Surprised, Donald leaned back in the booth. "Not the same guy, then?"
"I didn't say that." Bailey slid a picture across the table, pointing at an obvious mug shot. "That your client?"
Taking a close look, the man was obviously years younger but it was clearly the same man. "That's him. Alias?"
Bailey nodded, returning the picture to his jacket pocket. "Apparently. We didn't find any aliases on record, though."
He paused when the waitress approached, a tray containing a plate of pancakes and eggs in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. She put them on the table in front of Bailey, followed by a bottle of syrup that had been tucked into an apron pocket.
"Anything else?" Donald watched, disinterested, as the detective shook his head. "Let me know if you want a refill," she added with a smile, and retreated.
As soon as she was out of earshot, the conversation picked up where it had left off. "So what was he arrested for?" Donald grabbed a coffee stirrer, and began chewing on it absently as Bailey ate his breakfast. "Wait, let me guess. Stalking." When Bailey nodded, Donald snorted. "Of course."
"And attempted murder."
The straw fell from Donald's lips. "Tim?"
"Is fine," Bailey replied calmly, holding out his hand, the one that wasn't grasping his fork. "We've got eyes on him, remember? Besides, it was his fixation he tried to kill the last time."
Ignoring the last part - as though that made him feel warm and fuzzy - Donald crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Bailey. "But not mine. So it's not the same."
"Yes, well, this was your brilliant idea." Bailey paused to take a drink of his coffee, wincing and dumping several sugar packets into it. "I wanted to hide you both, and roust this guy out the hard way. You're the one who wanted to beat him at his own game."
When Donald started to protest, Bailey once more held out his hand requesting silence, giving Donald an understanding look. "And I get it, I do. It's not the easy way, but we will have a better chance of conviction if we get him."
Unimpressed, Donald jutted his chin out. "When."
Bailey rolled his eyes, draining the last of his coffee. Absently, Donald found himself wondering if everyone brought out that particular trait in Bailey, or if Donald himself was just special.
"When," Bailey repeated before taking the last bite of his eggs and pushing the plate away.
The toll of events making him short, Donald glared at Bailey. "And this creep's not in jail already why, exactly?"
"He was tried, declared mentally unfit, and sent to a psychiatric prison."
"Of course he was." Donald banged his head against the table. "He escaped?" he asked, not lifting his head.
Bailey cleared his throat, and Donald could hear the nervousness in the gesture. Leaning back, he glared. Of all the... "He was paroled?"
"His doctors said his progress was remarkable, so when he came up for parole..." Bailey shrugged, obviously not any happier about it than Donald. "That's how the system works, even if it does occasionally bite us on the ass when one slips through."
"No shit."
Bailey rubbed a hand over his face, sighing, and Donald was reminded that the detective had been up most of the night. "I know it's not your fault, but..."
"But I'm the messenger." He stared at Donald for several seconds. "I get that. I really do. The odd thing about the whole situation is he was paroled two years ago, seemed to fold back into society. He even kept up with his counseling until the requirement was dropped. Then he just dropped off the grid."
Mentally and physically exhausted, Donald couldn't help thinking something was missing and he just couldn't quite put it together. "Then why snap now?"
"Maybe he ran out of his meds. Who knows." Bailey looked as lost in regards to that particular question as Donald felt.
Donald couldn't help looking out the window. He felt exposed and nervous, sitting there, chatting. He began tapping two fingertips on the table, his coffee forgotten. Realizing the problem, Bailey tried to reassure him. "Tracker, remember? We'll know the minute he goes anywhere."
"Pardon me if I'm nervous."
Bailey laughed, catching Donald off guard. "Hell, I'd be more worried if you weren't. I wasn't looking forward to dealing with you hell-bent on a mission."
Unable to help himself, Donald smiled - just barely. "Not quite time for hell-bent yet, but I'll let you know."
Sarcastically, Bailey replied, "You do that."
"Seriously though... Were you able to find out anything else? Might help if he ever actually bothers to show his face."
Bailey nodded and pulled another piece of paper out of his pocket. "I notice you didn't ask why you, just why now. Maybe this will help give us an idea on both, at least the former." After unfolding the shiny paper, Bailey dropped it onto the table beside the creamer. "Recognize this?"
Realization dawning, Donald stared at the article about him from The Advocate. Grabbed the paper, he crumpled it in his fist. "You've got to be kidding me."
"On impulse, I put the names he gave you into a search, along with your own." He gestured toward the paper, and waited until Donald smoothed it back out. "Look who the article is by."
"Chandler Burton." Donald paused, staring off into space. "His cheating boyfriend was Arnold Chandler." Donald slammed the tabletop with his palm, not even looking up when the waitress yelled. "Son of a bitch!"
Bailey nodded, not reacting to Donald's outburst other than to wave the waitress away. "You have to admit, it fits."
Donald scrubbed a hand through his hair, slumping. "I half-regretted the article as soon as it was printed, just because everyone kept giving me a hard time about it. But this..." Donald felt violated, for some reason more so now that he knew the reason behind Reynold's - Sanderson's - obsession.
Resting his face in his palms, Donald sighed. "God, Bub. It was just a stupid article to drum up some business."
Bailey's phone rang before he could reply. "Bailey. Yeah. Okay, thanks."
"He's on his way?"
Bailey stood, pulling out his wallet as he did so. "Roger that." He gestured toward the bar. "I'm going to pay up, and head across the street. You. Eat something."
Donald just stared at the other man. "You want me to just sit here?"
"For at least as long as it takes me to get over to the motel, yes." He was unhappy with this turn of events, and he could tell Bailey knew it. Lowering his voice to a whisper, Bailey leaned over the table toward Donald. "I'll be in the room next to yours, but I don't want to chance him seeing us leave together." He looked at his watch, and Donald felt the impatience. "Which means I need to go. Now."
As an obvious afterthought, Bailey added gruffly, "And no heroics. Stick to the damn plan."
Somewhat embarrassed, but extremely frustrated, Donald focused on the endgame - protecting Timothy from Reynolds (Sanderson, he mentally corrected himself) and nodded. "Go."
Pretending to nurse his coffee, Donald made a point not to watch as Bailey paid his bill and left. And while it looked to any observer as though he was simply staring at his coffee, he tracked the other man's progress out of the corner of his eye.
Mindful of the time, Donald waited only until Bailey was locked away in his room to pay his own bill. He wanted to be in his room before Sanderson showed up looking for him.
And so it was, just a few moments later he was back in the dreary room glancing out the window on a mostly empty parking lot. There was a tapping on the wall behind the television. Recognizing the pattern - Shave and a haircut? Honestly? - Donald knocked back three times.
The wait for endgame had begun.
~<>~<>~
Part Three
Author: kaly
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 20,275
Characters/Pairing: Donald/Timothy, Bailey, Kenny, OMC
Category: angst, h/c, movieverse
Warnings: none
Spoilers: very minor for Shock to the System
Summary: A threat to Donald sends everything spinning out of control.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing, no money earned.
Note: Takes place after Shock to the System, before On the Other Hand, Death.
Thank you to geminigrl11 for the beta, and Bronwynferchdai for the spot check.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
When he returned to the police station, having called to ensure Bailey would be waiting for him, Donald was exhausted both mentally and physically. If he were honest, he hadn't slept well since he first started to suspect the calls of being something other than the average pissed off ex.
He carried the sack with the empty water bottle with him, dropping it on Bailey's desk once he had closed the door.
"What's this?"
Untying the sack, Donald carefully flipped it inside out to show the detective the bottle. "Possibly the prints of my stalker." He paused and shrugged. "Or the prints of an overly-nervous man who just hired me to check out his cheating boyfriend. Could go either way."
Bailey blinked, clearly surprised. "Do you normally fingerprint your clients?"
Donald returned the bottle to the sack, retying the handles. "Not typically, no. But something about this guy wasn't quite right." Donald shrugged once more, he couldn't quite put his finger on it, much less explain it. "It might be nothing, but I took the chance when the opportunity presented itself."
"Not a bad idea, if he is our guy." Bailey picked up his phone, pressing a series of numbers. "I need something dusted for prints." He paused. "No, it's not for a case, just do me a favor?" Another pause, and he glanced at Donald, who was shifting in his seat. "Thanks, I owe you one."
"And I owe you one."
Bailey grinned as he hung up the phone. "Damn straight." Within moments, there was a knock on the door and Bailey waved in a tall, thin woman. "Here you go. Run 'em through the system once they're lifted, please."
The woman took the bag, nodding, and had turned to leave when Donald remembered Kenny. "You should find two sets of prints."
"Two?" the others asked, simultaneously.
Donald winced. "Kenny had to hand him the bottle. Wearing gloves might've tipped the guy off, don't you think?" Trying to smile, but only half succeeding, Donald added, "Maybe we'll get lucky and he thought only to touch the cap."
She looked annoyed, but nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. Anything else I should know about?"
"Guy said his name was Jeremy Reynolds." With that, the technician left, closing the door behind her.
Donald watched as Bailey wrote something on a notepad, leaning forward, he was able to make out Jeremy Reynolds' name. "He happen to mention who he wanted you to follow?"
"Said his boyfriend's name was Arnold Chandler."
Bailey wrote the new name beneath Jeremy's. "And that doesn't ring any bells?" Donald just shook his head. He didn't know anyone named that, couldn't remember ever knowing anyone named that. Of course, he had met a lot of people over the years.
Bailey gave Donald a long look before finally speaking once more. "You look like hell, Strachey."
"At least it matches how I feel. Would hate to be accused of false advertising." Donald slumped as far in the chair as possible, and not slide out of it. "Feels like I've been up for a week."
Seriously - in a way Donald trusted only Timothy, or Bailey on a very good day, to be - the detective nodded. "What's happened since you were here?"
"I ran a marathon," Donald replied, letting his arms drop loosely to his sides, exhaustion catching up to him.
"Damn it, Strachey," Bailey began, clearly unimpressed with Donald's apparent kidding.
He only stopped when Donald help up a hand, shaking his head. "I was almost being serious." Taking a deep breath, and holding it several seconds, Donald sat up straighter.
"I went back to the office, to find out what Kenny had learned from our possible client. Apparently he - the client, I mean - had let slip that the 'other man' he's so angry at is named Tim."
"And you think..."
Donald sighed. "It was all I could think, Bub. I tried calling Timothy on every number I could think of, and none of them would pick up. So I bundled up the bottle, jumped the car, and then ran around about half of downtown Albany."
Bailey looked at Donald, concerned. "But you found him, right? I can't imagine you'd be this calm otherwise."
The fading adrenaline rush leaving him spent, Donald stared at his hands for several seconds. "Eventually," he said in a quiet voice. "I found him eventually." Looking at Bailey, Donald was relieved to see compassion reflected back at him. "Apparently some 'idiot', as security put it, pulled a fire alarm that evacuated the building."
Bailey whistled softly. "Convenient."
"It gets better. I had just gotten there, didn't even know about the evacuation yet, when my phone rang." Donald shivered at the memory of the oily voice. "It was him, reminding me that he doesn't like others who take what's his. I can't even begin to tell you how scared I was."
"I can only imagine."
Jumping out of the chair, unable to sit still any longer, Donald paced restlessly before stopping in front of the window. "I've been trying to decide if the voices are the same. Jeremy Reynolds and my mystery caller." Donald shoved his hands in his pockets, resting his forehead against the glass. "The more I think about it, the more I think he's the same person, but they sound... different."
He heard Bailey's chair squeak, and glanced to see the other man facing him. "Different how?"
"I can't quite put my finger on it." Donald sighed and turned, pressing his back to the glass. "But something he said, Jeremy, I mean. I'd bet a month's worth of retainers that he's the one."
"What's that?"
Feeling hollow, Donald stared at the ceiling, wishing he had made the connection when Jeremy had still been in his grasp. Hating himself for the oversight, praying Timothy wouldn't come to harm because of it, Donald shuddered. "He said, 'he's mine'."
Bailey nodded, prompting, "And your mystery caller..."
"Oh, I am certainly his," Donald replied, meeting Bailey's gaze, feeling ill just to say the words. "Or so he would have me believe."
When he looked at Bailey, Donald could tell he believed him. Maybe even pitied him. Donald could cope with the latter, if it helped sort everything out in the end. He was saved saying anything else when Bailey's phone rang.
"Yeah?" Donald watched as the detective listened intently, scribbling down notes on a piece of paper. "Thanks. Hey, do me one more favor?" Bailey cringed, but pressed onward. "Last one for today, I promise. See what you can find on someone named, or aliased as, Jeremy Reynolds." He listened for a moment, groaning. "You're on. Thanks again."
"What was that last part?" Donald asked, unable to help himself.
"I - no, make that you - owe her a steak dinner."
Donald rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll pay you back." More seriously, he said, "The prints can't be back that fast."
"Nope." Bailey held up the paper in front of Donald, but dropped it before he could read the scrawled words. "That was about your phone calls. Turns out they were made from one of those disposable, pay as you go phones. Connie was able to pull up a number and track it, but it was paid for in cash."
Donald's heart sank. "Dead end."
"Dead end."
Before Donald could think of anything to say, exhaustion slowing his thoughts, his phone rang. It could be Tim - unlikely; or Kenny - a little more likely. But the odds were on... He glanced at the screen, and turned to Bailey. "Here we go again."
Bailey picked up his own phone, speaking quickly, and so quietly Donald couldn't even understand him. When he hung up, he motioned for Donald to answer.
"Strachey."
"How is our little cheater, Donald?" The voice - Jeremy a small voice insisted - sounded annoyed.
Unable to bite his tongue, Donald ignored Bailey's frantic slashing motions and demanded, "If you've done anything to Tim..."
The voice huffed. "It's not right to take what's not yours, Donald. And you're mine. He just needs to learn that, don't you think?"
The line went dead, barring Donald from replying, and he slammed it against the wall.
"Don't lose your temper with him!" Bailey roared, the minute the phone was closed. "What do you want to do, provoke him? He really would do something stupid then!"
Close to snapping, Donald got in Bailey's face, gesturing to the room at large. "If it ends this, then yes, maybe I do!"
"No, you don't," Bailey replied, his voice once again calm, reasonable when Donald was anything but. "Because there's just as much chance - more even - that he'd go after Callahan instead of you."
Defeated, Donald dropped into his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, and burying his face in his hands. "I know." Taking a deep breath, trying to calm down and marginally succeeding. "I can't stand it, Bub."
He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, Donald was surprised to see that Bailey had stood and crossed the room without making a sound. "I know, but you can't lose it again. You know that." Donald nodded, sitting back in the chair, and Bailey removed his hand.
"Yeah."
"Okay then," Bailey said, returning to his own seat. "I'll call and check if they were able to get anything from that call." Pausing, he gave Donald a long look. "You might want to catch some shut-eye in the meantime. You really do look like hell."
"I couldn't sleep, even if I wanted to." Absently, he added, "Thanks, though."
The detective shrugged. "Your choice. Just let me make this call, and we'll try to figure out our next move, all right?"
"Sounds like a plan."
He listened to Bailey speaking on the phone, unaware he had dozed off until the sound of a phone ringing nearly sent him crashing to the floor. Blearily, he looked at his watch, only to realize he had lost half an hour.
"Bailey."
And although Donald couldn't hear who was on the other line, he went cold when Bailey looked at him with wide, worried eyes. "You're sure he's okay?" If he had gone cold at Bailey's expression, those words nearly finished sending him to the floor. "Good, thanks."
Throat dry, almost unable to speak, Donald choked out, "Bub?"
"Callahan's okay," Bailey said in a calm, even voice. "That's the most important part. But yeah, that was your secretary. There was an accident."
Donald jumped out of the chair, ignoring its crashing, and turned toward the door. He lashed out with a fist when a hand grabbed his elbow, only stopping when Bailey's voice broke through. "Damn it! I said he's okay!"
Swaying, Donald let himself be led back to the chair before he collapsed. He struggled to breathe, and Bailey pressed on his shoulder until Donald was doubled over.
"That was no accident," Donald insisted, once he could speak, hissing the words. "That bastard went after him."
Kneeling beside him, Bailey nodded. "I believe you."
When rational thought returned, Donald gave Bailey an odd look. "Why did he call you?"
"Said your phone was dead."
"But I just..." Donald pulled the phone out and looked at it, finding the battery had slipped loose, most likely when he had slammed it into the wall. Jamming it back into place, he watched until the screen lit up once more.
Frustrated beyond measure, Donald sighed. "Damn it."
Bailey returned to his desk, more patient that Donald had ever seen, or would have thought him capable of. "He said Tim was fine. He's on his way home."
Donald looked at his watch. It was too early for Timothy to be off work. He hadn't even had a chance to call and offer him a ride - a safe ride - home. "I need to..."
"We need to plan. Then you can go home and check on him."
And although he understood the logic in Bailey's words - was indeed overwhelmingly grateful - the only place Donald wanted to be was at home, with Timothy. Then again, Donald knew it wasn't likely to be the most welcoming of homecomings, given their last conversation.
Forcing himself to focus, Donald nodded. "At least let me call him. Then we can plan." When Bailey merely nodded, Donald dialed Tim's number, holding his breath until his partner answered.
"Donald?"
Closing his eyes, so relieved he began to shake, Donald exhaled. "You're okay?"
"I'm fine. They think a drunk ran the light. Dinged up Mark's car, but we didn't get a scratch."
Fighting off annoyance at hearing Mark mentioned more in a day than he had been in month, Donald rubbed a hand over his eyes. He knew Timothy occasionally got rides home with coworkers when offered. Normally, he didn't mind, but normally, he didn't want to wrap Tim up in cotton wool and bubble wrap.
"Are you coming home soon?"
Focusing on his earlier idea, hating himself more than he would have thought possible, Donald replied in a clipped voice, "Thought we weren't checking in?"
"So you're still in a mood, I see."
Heart heavy, Donald swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I have some more work to do. I'll be home before too late."
Timothy sighed, clearly hating being at odds. "I love you."
"Yeah. Bye." He closed the phone, able to feel Bailey's shocked stare even with his eyes closed. Looking at the detective, Donald saw that he was right. "Let's make this quick."
Bailey blinked, mouth gaping momentarily. "What on earth did you have in mind?"
~<>~<>~
It was over two hours later before Donald and Bailey reached an agreement on what would happen next. Donald hated every moment of delay, but he hated what had to come next even more. Turning off the car, finally home, Donald rested his head against the steering wheel and sighed.
When everything was said and done, he just hoped Timothy could forgive him. He wasn't sure if he would be able to forgive himself, however.
Leaning back, he stared at the house - his home - for several minutes. There was only one light on, in the living room, which meant Timothy had at least waited up for him. After their phone calls, it could have gone either way. While he and Timothy didn't fight often, they did fight, like any other couple.
Donald knew that Timothy waiting up was a good sign - when he needed anything but. He had honestly hoped to find no lights on, a sure sign Tim was angry beyond reasoning for at least a day. His partner wasn't just a pit bull at work, that was for sure.
Resigned to the inevitable, Donald climbed out of the car, closing the door as carefully - and quietly - as he could. He trudged up the walk, stopping in front of the door and taking a deep breath. Donald knew without question he would hate this night for a long time to come.
He unlocked the door, stepping inside and slipping off his coat. Donald rested his chin against his chest, focusing on breathing - and the end goal - before turning the corner into the great room.
Timothy was, as expected, dressed in pajamas and wrapped up in a quilt on the couch. An old black and white movie that Donald didn't recognize, but Tim no doubt did, was playing on the television. However, even at a distance, Donald couldn't tell Timothy wasn't paying it any attention.
"Hey." He stepped forward into the room and winced when Timothy startled, twisting in the covers.
His husband's face was guarded, and Donald carefully schooled his features likewise. "Donald." Tim's voice was cool, his gaze appraising. "So you did decide to come home."
Donald rolled his eyes, flopping onto a chair, boneless. "Of course I came home. I told you I had to work late."
"I just thought you might..." Tim sounded hurt, looking away. "Never mind."
Groaning, Donald stood and walked into the kitchen. "You said you were okay," he said as he passed through the doorway.
"I am okay."
He heard the tell-tale signs of Timothy standing and folding the afghan. When Donald looked out from the refrigerator - where he was ostensibly searching for dinner - he saw Timothy had joined him in the kitchen.
"But I thought you might be a little more worried. Silly of me, I suppose."
Donald hid a wince behind his hand. And Mr. Callahan scored a direct hit. However, all he said was, "You hate it when I coddle you."
Flustered, Tim stammered for a moment. "Yes, well..." He jutted out his chin, and crossed his arms. "Not today, I don't!"
"Uh, huh. Mind making up your mind?" Donald asked around a mouthful of peanut butter. The mere thought of having to swallow it, much less keep it down, made him sick.
Timothy seemed to deflate at that, and leaned against the doorframe. He looked so lost Donald just wanted to hold on tight and not let go.
"What's wrong? Why are we fighting?"
"I'm tired, Timmy." Queasy, Donald screwed the lid back on the peanut butter, shoving it back into the refrigerator.
Anger sparking once more, Timothy glared at him. "So I guess that means we're done discussing it then."
"I don't know. Would you actually let it drop?" Donald snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Would I?" Tim's eyes went wide, his mouth gaping with shock. "I guess you're about to find out." At that he turned and retreated upstairs.
Donald watched him go, his eyes burning. Knowing it was for Tim's own good, wanting his stalker to think Timothy a non-issue without any more attacks, he dredged up annoyance from somewhere. Donald wanted the bastard blind to anything but him.
Moving to the base of the stairs, he pitched his voice so Timothy would hear. "And now you just run away? I thought you wanted to talk?"
Timothy stopped, halfway up, and turned to look at Donald. "Honestly! Make up your mind!"
"What were you thinking, anyway?"
Eyes suddenly hard, Timothy considered this for a moment. "You already asked me that, and I answered you." He thought for a moment, and Donald fought the urge to look away. "Is this about Mark?"
Wanting to bite off his own tongue, Donald asked, "Should it be? Something you're not telling me?"
"How dare you accuse me..." Tim paused, breathing so hard Donald could clearly see his chest moving. "Get out."
"What?" Donald was shocked. It was what he wanted - what he needed - but hearing the words broke his heart. Timothy had never said those words to him before, no matter how badly they had fought. But Donald had never essentially accused him of straying before, either.
Tim pointed toward the front door, a chill filling his voice. "Out."
"I don't have my things." Donald stood his ground, knowing he should count his blessings and run. However, he wanted to make certain Tim wouldn't risk calling in the middle of his plans to roost out the stalker. Taking the low road, Donald declared, "Besides, I'm not the one sneaking around!"
Voice deadly serious, eyes glinting with anger, Timothy replied, "Is that right?" He took a couple of steps forward, fairly vibrating with rage. "Hours of stakeouts, night after night. Meanwhile, I'm home alone. Trusting you. One night I actually spend out - with your blessing, no less! And suddenly you can't trust me when I take a coffee break. But I'm the bad guy here? Who do you think you are?"
Doing his best to act as though he was the injured party, Donald shrugged. "Maybe you should learn to read between the lines better."
"And maybe you should pull your head out of your ass and quit acting like a Neanderthal!" Timothy's voice echoed loudly, ringing in Donald's ears. "What in the hell is wrong with you all of a sudden?"
Donald nearly ducked backwards. He had never seen Timothy so enraged, cursing more in the last few minutes than in the past year. Neither had he ever heard him yell so loudly - certainly not at him. If his heart wasn't in the process of being crushed, Donald might almost feel pride at how well Tim was defending himself.
Unable to decide what he could - should - say next, he could only stare as Timothy turned on his heel and disappeared upstairs. Donald waited a moment, only to be hit in the face by a t-shirt, and then a pair of jeans. When boxers landed at his feet, Timothy reappeared. The anger was missing, and instead there were tears shining in his eyes.
It all made Donald feel about an inch tall.
"You have your things. You obviously don't need me. Now go."
Wavering, Donald took a step forward. "Timmy..."
"Go!"
Determined not to hurt Timothy any more - hadn't he done enough? - Donald stooped forward and retrieved the singular outfit. When he stood back up, Tim was out of sight. A slamming door confirmed he wouldn't be back.
A single tear running down his cheek, Donald turned and moved to dig a satchel out of the hall closet. Clothes inside it, he zipped it shut and grabbed his coat from the rack. With a final, longing look upstairs, he let himself out.
The door closed behind him, and Donald collapsed back against it, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. That was harder than he had imagined, and he had known it would be hell. Composing himself out of sheer will power alone, Donald hurried to his car. A brief glance down the street once he was inside revealed a dark sedan with a dented bumper.
Bingo.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the contacts until he saw Bub's name. "Hey. It's me." Donald looked at the house one last time as he started the car. Forcing back tears that wanted to fall, he said, "It's done. And I have a visitor."
"Good." Bailey paused. "I mean, not good, but..." Growling, he settled on, "You know what I mean."
Backing out of the driveway, Donald sighed. "Yeah. I know." As he drove away, Donald was careful to ensure the sedan followed him rather than staying close to Timothy. Donald wanted little more than to pull the man out of the car and confront him, but it was more important to get him away from Tim.
He was relieved when his hunch was proven right, and the car followed a little too closely to be inconspicuous. Especially on a suburban street after dark. If the bastard hadn't taken the bait, they would have gone to plan B. and while busting the guy's face in would've been satisfying, it wouldn't have played well in court.
"I've called ahead to the motel," Bailey said, breaking Donald from his thoughts. "The desk clerk's waiting for you. He's willing to play along."
Donald nodded, splitting his attention between the street ahead and the tail behind. "I'll call you once I'm there." Glancing in the rearview mirror, seeing headlights but his house out of sight, Donald sighed. "Bub? Take care of Timmy."
"I will."
It wasn't much later that he reached the motel, and went in to claim his room. True to his word, the desk clerk went along as though it was a regular rental. A few minutes later, Donald had just closed the door to his room behind him when his phone rang.
Risking a glance through the blinds, Donald saw the now-familiar car idling in the lot. Knowing without a doubt it was not Tim, Donald growled. "Are you happy?" He paused, praying he was wrong in saying, "He hates me! He's out of my life... forever."
His stalker just laughed, sending a chill up Donald's spine. "I knew you'd come back to me."
"Just leave Tim out of this."
"Donald..." There was a sigh, the man sounded put out. "Don't say his name. He got what he deserved for trying to take you away from me."
Donald thought he might throw up, and was saved from responding when Jeremy hung up and drove away. A second later another car left the lot, following at a distance. Looking skyward, Donald thanked God for Bub Bailey - not something he had ever expected to think. But he was helping keep Timothy safe, and that was all that mattered in Donald's world.
He knew Timothy was upset, his temper burned hot and when provoked he could hold a grudge like no other. But a safe, hurting Timothy was much preferred to a dead one, any day.
When his phone rang once more - a fast turnaround even for his apparent stalker - Donald answered it by demanding, "What?"
"You don't pay me enough to sleep here, you know."
Covering his face with his hand, Donald groaned. "Kenny. I'm sorry, I forgot."
"Forgot?" Kenny replied, his voice pitching high.
"Go on home." He started to end the call, but on second thought continued. "I know tomorrow's Saturday, but keep an eye on things for me, will ya?"
Kenny grunted, clearly unimpressed. "I want a raise."
Donald couldn't even get a word in edgewise before the call was disconnected. Seriously, what was it with people hanging up on him?
Laying on the bed, drained but unable to relax, he called Bailey back. "I'm in. That was you following our friend, I assume?"
"You assume correctly. I'll keep an eye on him, and get back to you."
Donald closed his eyes and tried to relax, but found he couldn't. "Thanks, Bub. I owe you one." Or twenty he thought, but didn't say.
"No joke, Strachey. No joke." Bailey paused for a moment before saying, "But for the time being, get some sleep. I'll call if anything changes before morning."
"You gonna be okay following him all night?"
Bailey sighed. "I’m going to pretend that wasn't an age crack." More seriously he added, "I called in a marker, I've got back up coming on later."
"Who..."
"Don't worry about it." Knowing what this operation meant to Donald, Bailey's voice pitched low. "I trust her." And Donald trusted Bailey.
"Call me in the morning. Or sooner."
"I will. Good night."
"Night."
Hanging up the phone, Donald laced his fingers behind his head and stared at an unfamiliar ceiling. "Good night, Timmy."
Sleep was a very long time in coming.
~<>~<>~
At some point during the night, Donald had finally drifted into a light sleep. He couldn't remember finally succumbing; however, the nightmares that followed were burned into his mind. Grabbing for the phone when it rang, Donald found himself twisted up in the sheets, almost trapped.
Checking the caller ID, he was relieved to see Bub's name on the indicator. "Strachey," he said around a yawn.
"We got a hit on the prints," Bailey said with no preamble. "Meet me at the diner across the street from the motel in fifteen, okay?"
Nervous, Donald glanced through the blinds, checking for any sign of Jeremy's car. "He might see us, can't you tell me on the phone?"
"We'll be fine." Distantly, when Bailey paused, Donald could hear a horn honking. "Managed to get a tracker on his car early this morning. He's still at his own ramshackle motel just outside of town. Not a peep out of him all night."
Donald scratched his stomach. He wasn't remotely hungry, but coffee sounded good. "I can only wonder... Why didn't he stay here?"
"Don't know, don't care." Donald could practically hear Bailey shrug. "I've learned not to try and out guess the 'whys' with these types too much."
Curiosity piqued, Donald's eyebrows rose. "These types?"
"I'll tell you at the diner." With that, Bailey hung up.
Sighing, Donald stepped away from the window and dropped back onto the bed. Belatedly, he glanced at his watch, only to see it was only 6:30 in the morning. No wonder he felt like ten miles of bad road.
Resigning himself to a long, miserable day ahead, Donald forced himself to sit up and grab his bag. He winced at the realization he had neither toothbrush nor razor, but shrugged, deciding Bailey could deal. There was only one person Donald cared to pretty up for on a regular basis, and Timothy wasn't speaking to him at the moment.
In the end, it took less than the allotted fifteen minutes to change clothes and, after locking the door behind him, jog across the street. Pushing the door open, Donald winced at how empty the small diner was. If Jeremy did slip past his cover, they would be completely exposed. Donald didn't even want to imagine what the other man was capable of if he suspected a trap.
He had just claimed a booth, flagging down a waitress to bring coffee, when Bailey walked in, a small bell over the door jingling softly.
"Be right there!" the waitress called, busy filling Donald's order.
Bailey nodded in her direction, distractedly scanning the room until he saw Donald in the back corner. "Hiding?" he asked, sliding into the other side.
Donald shrugged. "I can see the entrance and the street from here. He wouldn't be able to see me, however."
Lips quirking in a half-smile, Bailey nodded. "You sound like a cop."
"Might as well be one at this point." He faked a grin - humor was the last emotion he felt at the moment. "Of course, I think the rules might be a problem."
"Oh, I know they would be," Bailey replied, laughing half-heartedly.
They fell quiet when the waitress approached, putting Donald's coffee and a small bowl of creamer packets onto the table. Next, she pulled a pen and pad out of her apron. "What can I get you boys?"
Bailey glanced at the overhead board. "Special sounds good. And coffee." He looked at Donald, eyes narrowing. "You need more than coffee, Strachey."
"Aww, Bub, I didn't know you cared!" Bailey rolled his eyes, cutting him an unimpressed look. Turning his attention to the waitress, Donald said, "No thanks. Coffee's good."
Once she was out of earshot, Bailey growled. "You're boyfriend's gonna have my hide if you make yourself sick. Don't think I don't know he'll figure out some way to blame me for it, either."
Donald had just taken a drink, and nearly burned himself when he snickered. "Believe me, you'll have to get in line. It'll be me he goes after first." Turning serious, he shook his head and spoke in a quiet voice. "I can't eat right now. Maybe later." He was grateful that - although he didn't look happy about it - Bailey let it drop. "So what's up with the breakfast routine?"
"We got a hit on the prints," Bailey replied quietly, after ensuring no one was too close. "However, he's not Jeremy Reynolds. They matched to one Simon Sanderson."
Surprised, Donald leaned back in the booth. "Not the same guy, then?"
"I didn't say that." Bailey slid a picture across the table, pointing at an obvious mug shot. "That your client?"
Taking a close look, the man was obviously years younger but it was clearly the same man. "That's him. Alias?"
Bailey nodded, returning the picture to his jacket pocket. "Apparently. We didn't find any aliases on record, though."
He paused when the waitress approached, a tray containing a plate of pancakes and eggs in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. She put them on the table in front of Bailey, followed by a bottle of syrup that had been tucked into an apron pocket.
"Anything else?" Donald watched, disinterested, as the detective shook his head. "Let me know if you want a refill," she added with a smile, and retreated.
As soon as she was out of earshot, the conversation picked up where it had left off. "So what was he arrested for?" Donald grabbed a coffee stirrer, and began chewing on it absently as Bailey ate his breakfast. "Wait, let me guess. Stalking." When Bailey nodded, Donald snorted. "Of course."
"And attempted murder."
The straw fell from Donald's lips. "Tim?"
"Is fine," Bailey replied calmly, holding out his hand, the one that wasn't grasping his fork. "We've got eyes on him, remember? Besides, it was his fixation he tried to kill the last time."
Ignoring the last part - as though that made him feel warm and fuzzy - Donald crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Bailey. "But not mine. So it's not the same."
"Yes, well, this was your brilliant idea." Bailey paused to take a drink of his coffee, wincing and dumping several sugar packets into it. "I wanted to hide you both, and roust this guy out the hard way. You're the one who wanted to beat him at his own game."
When Donald started to protest, Bailey once more held out his hand requesting silence, giving Donald an understanding look. "And I get it, I do. It's not the easy way, but we will have a better chance of conviction if we get him."
Unimpressed, Donald jutted his chin out. "When."
Bailey rolled his eyes, draining the last of his coffee. Absently, Donald found himself wondering if everyone brought out that particular trait in Bailey, or if Donald himself was just special.
"When," Bailey repeated before taking the last bite of his eggs and pushing the plate away.
The toll of events making him short, Donald glared at Bailey. "And this creep's not in jail already why, exactly?"
"He was tried, declared mentally unfit, and sent to a psychiatric prison."
"Of course he was." Donald banged his head against the table. "He escaped?" he asked, not lifting his head.
Bailey cleared his throat, and Donald could hear the nervousness in the gesture. Leaning back, he glared. Of all the... "He was paroled?"
"His doctors said his progress was remarkable, so when he came up for parole..." Bailey shrugged, obviously not any happier about it than Donald. "That's how the system works, even if it does occasionally bite us on the ass when one slips through."
"No shit."
Bailey rubbed a hand over his face, sighing, and Donald was reminded that the detective had been up most of the night. "I know it's not your fault, but..."
"But I'm the messenger." He stared at Donald for several seconds. "I get that. I really do. The odd thing about the whole situation is he was paroled two years ago, seemed to fold back into society. He even kept up with his counseling until the requirement was dropped. Then he just dropped off the grid."
Mentally and physically exhausted, Donald couldn't help thinking something was missing and he just couldn't quite put it together. "Then why snap now?"
"Maybe he ran out of his meds. Who knows." Bailey looked as lost in regards to that particular question as Donald felt.
Donald couldn't help looking out the window. He felt exposed and nervous, sitting there, chatting. He began tapping two fingertips on the table, his coffee forgotten. Realizing the problem, Bailey tried to reassure him. "Tracker, remember? We'll know the minute he goes anywhere."
"Pardon me if I'm nervous."
Bailey laughed, catching Donald off guard. "Hell, I'd be more worried if you weren't. I wasn't looking forward to dealing with you hell-bent on a mission."
Unable to help himself, Donald smiled - just barely. "Not quite time for hell-bent yet, but I'll let you know."
Sarcastically, Bailey replied, "You do that."
"Seriously though... Were you able to find out anything else? Might help if he ever actually bothers to show his face."
Bailey nodded and pulled another piece of paper out of his pocket. "I notice you didn't ask why you, just why now. Maybe this will help give us an idea on both, at least the former." After unfolding the shiny paper, Bailey dropped it onto the table beside the creamer. "Recognize this?"
Realization dawning, Donald stared at the article about him from The Advocate. Grabbed the paper, he crumpled it in his fist. "You've got to be kidding me."
"On impulse, I put the names he gave you into a search, along with your own." He gestured toward the paper, and waited until Donald smoothed it back out. "Look who the article is by."
"Chandler Burton." Donald paused, staring off into space. "His cheating boyfriend was Arnold Chandler." Donald slammed the tabletop with his palm, not even looking up when the waitress yelled. "Son of a bitch!"
Bailey nodded, not reacting to Donald's outburst other than to wave the waitress away. "You have to admit, it fits."
Donald scrubbed a hand through his hair, slumping. "I half-regretted the article as soon as it was printed, just because everyone kept giving me a hard time about it. But this..." Donald felt violated, for some reason more so now that he knew the reason behind Reynold's - Sanderson's - obsession.
Resting his face in his palms, Donald sighed. "God, Bub. It was just a stupid article to drum up some business."
Bailey's phone rang before he could reply. "Bailey. Yeah. Okay, thanks."
"He's on his way?"
Bailey stood, pulling out his wallet as he did so. "Roger that." He gestured toward the bar. "I'm going to pay up, and head across the street. You. Eat something."
Donald just stared at the other man. "You want me to just sit here?"
"For at least as long as it takes me to get over to the motel, yes." He was unhappy with this turn of events, and he could tell Bailey knew it. Lowering his voice to a whisper, Bailey leaned over the table toward Donald. "I'll be in the room next to yours, but I don't want to chance him seeing us leave together." He looked at his watch, and Donald felt the impatience. "Which means I need to go. Now."
As an obvious afterthought, Bailey added gruffly, "And no heroics. Stick to the damn plan."
Somewhat embarrassed, but extremely frustrated, Donald focused on the endgame - protecting Timothy from Reynolds (Sanderson, he mentally corrected himself) and nodded. "Go."
Pretending to nurse his coffee, Donald made a point not to watch as Bailey paid his bill and left. And while it looked to any observer as though he was simply staring at his coffee, he tracked the other man's progress out of the corner of his eye.
Mindful of the time, Donald waited only until Bailey was locked away in his room to pay his own bill. He wanted to be in his room before Sanderson showed up looking for him.
And so it was, just a few moments later he was back in the dreary room glancing out the window on a mostly empty parking lot. There was a tapping on the wall behind the television. Recognizing the pattern - Shave and a haircut? Honestly? - Donald knocked back three times.
The wait for endgame had begun.
~<>~<>~
Part Three