Chapter Seven

The following morning, suffering from a lack of sleep, Frank intended to slide the Denali next to the curb in front of his office. Instead, he slammed into a piece of hard cement with his front tire. Jolted into complete awareness, he backed up, and on the second attempt accomplished the simple act of parking a vehicle.

He slipped from behind the wheel and bounded up the steps of the brownstone. Hanging on the door to his office was a note from Grace. Came in and then went home sick. Will call you later.

He realized at that inconvenient moment how much he relied on Grace to keep him on track, keep him organized and prepared. Frank glanced skyward. "Fucking fantastic, Grace, a killer’s on the loose, ready to strike again and you have the sniffles.”

He shuffled past her office, entered his, and settled into the swivel chair behind the desk. His thoughts drifted to last night and the memories of Rand’s naked flesh under his hands. He relived every second, every minute of his quivering skin and needy whimpers. The thoughts made him hard again. He poured a cup of coffee from the carafe Grace apparently filled before she left and added a packet of cream. Before he took his first sip, someone knocked on the office door.

Without bothering to look up, he growled. "Enter at your own risk."

Jeffords sauntered in with a large envelope tucked under his armpit. "You holding down the Alamo by yourself today, McGuire?"

"It would seem so. My assistant went home ill." Frank grimaced and felt no need to hide his annoyance. "What do you have for me there?”

Jeffords grabbed the envelope from under his arm and slid it onto the desk. “I brought the pictures as promised."

Frank picked up the packet and opened it. "Let’s take a look." One-by-one, he laid out the images on the top of his desk. Although he’d seen countless dead bodies during his time on the force, the images of the girls both sickened and saddened him. "Good God." He pushed a breath of air out between clenched teeth. "Tell me something, Jeffords, what’s the one glaring distinction they all have in common?"

"Duh, I wonder, McGuire." Jeffords plopped into the chair on the other side of Frank’s desk. "My mother could answer that and she has dementia. They’re Gothic, love to paint themselves up like ghouls on Halloween."

"Bingo! So what has the Department done to find out where they hang out, who their friends are?" Frank drew his eyes away from the pictures for a moment and looked out the window. "Did they know one another? Did any of your astute officers talk with their friends?"

Jeffords stammered. “They’re not my astute officers, and I can’t answer your questions because I haven’t asked the Lieutenant. I’m going to assume they have made attempts to find a common thread.”

“Don’t ever assume, Jeffords. People make fatal mistakes assuming.”

“All I know is the force is stumped. That’s why I came to you because . . . because you can talk to the dead. Isn’t there a way you can ask them . . . the dead girls?”

“Very funny. If my head wasn’t pounding from lack of sleep and my stomach wasn’t growling from lack of food, I’d force a laugh.” Frank rose, poured himself another cup of coffee and topped it off with whiskey from his desk drawer. "This maniac targets Goth girls. If I were you, I’d head back to the Department, grab the Lieutenant by his shirt collar and ask him why he hasn’t brought the Goth-dressed street urchins in for a little chat.”

Jeffords shifted in the chair while a red flush crept up his neck. "We have brought some in, that much I know. Either they don’t know anything or they don’t want to divulge anything.” His body taking a defensive posture, Jeffords continued, “They’re weirdoes, march to their own drum." Jeffords bent over the desk, looked at the photos, and frowned. "Look at those winged drawings around their eyes, the neon pink eye shadow and black lipstick. They all wear it and look worse than ten-day-old corpses.”

"They’re kids, Jeffords, innocent young women hand-picked by The Black Rail because he has a penchant for females dressed in fishnet stockings, dark clothing, and flamboyant makeup."

"You think he wears the same type of clothing and paints his face?" Jeffords narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Hey, maybe the killer is a high priest in a satanic cult!"

Frank slid into his chair again and swiveled the drink around in his hand. "I have no idea what or who he is, or why he covets goth girls. But leave the pictures with me for a day or two."

"Keep ’em, I had copies made just for you." Jeffords unfurled his tall frame from the chair. "They’re numbered and you were right . . . the last victim was Giselle. You said her name started with a G.”

“So I did.”

“You’re not going to tell me how you knew that, are you?”

“Already did. They transmit messages to me, if, and that’s a big if, I can hold them long enough to get information.”

Jeffords looked at him as if he’d grown horns. “Strange phenomena. Well, I better get going. Anything comes up, please―"

"─call you? Oh, yeah, you bet. Like I said, I have you on speed dial."

“Look, I get the feeling you think I’m a clone of Barney Fife, but I’m not. While I am in charge of this case, I still have to walk on eggshells. If I don’t coddle those namby-pambies, I get nothing from the Lieutenant or the officers.” Jeffords shook a finger at him. “There are those at the Department that think what you do is hooey, all right? But some don’t, and they convinced me to come to you for help.”

“Ah, they must be really desperate ‘bout now.”

“Yes, I told you, the heat is on, major heat, to solve this damn case.”

Frank focused on Jeffords’ sad Basset Hound face. “I don’t think you’re like Barney Fife, and I realize your hands are somewhat tied. I’ll take a look at the dead girls and if I reach any of them, I’ll call first thing.”

Jeffords walked toward the door, pivoted around and nodded. “All right, then. Thanks.”

* * *

When Jeffords closed the door behind him, Frank picked up the last picture on his desk. Beneath all the garish makeup, Giselle’s natural beauty shone through. Her features were fine and delicate, her long hair streaked with neon shades of yellow, pink, blue and green. Sapphire eyes stared back at him. He had to try to channel her, pray she’d be able to offer him one tiny snippet of information that would lead him to The Black Rail.

Frank pushed from the chair, walked across the room and lowered the blinds. After dimming the lights, he settled into a leather chair with a foot rest in the corner of his office. Concentrating on Giselle’s picture, he willed his mind to slide into a deep state of meditation. When he first started meditating, it took hours to slip into a semi-conscious state. Now, after hours of practice, the other realm all but called to him.

A dark screen appeared behind his eyelids and tiny pinpricks of color danced before him in a pattern of a thousand twinkling stars. He found the brightest and fixed his thoughts on that silver celestial beauty. The channel to his inner spirit opened. Come on, Giselle, walk forth, step into the light.

His heart thudded when her gaunt, tormented face appeared. She surveyed her surroundings as if wondering what she had walked into now. Eventually, she looked forward and with the sight of an eagle, centered on him.

She struggled to draw out the words. Long agonizing minutes later, an audible sound spewed forth. Frank called on his inner eye, allowing him to see whatever she wanted to convey. She held up two fingers and stared through the darkness, fixing her stare on his.

"Peace. You make the sign of peace?"

She shook her head.

"No, it’s not the sign of peace. Help me, Giselle, help me understand."

Even in his meditative state, Frank sensed danger around him, and not coming from the girl. His heart tripped, his pulse quickened. The faint fall of footsteps echoed in his ears. Damn, had Jeffords forgotten something and returned? Jolted from his vision trance, he returned to the present and squinted against the gray shadows shifting in every corner of the room. While in his meditative state, someone had entered the office.

"Jeffords, is that you?"

The outline of a body appeared under the doorway, the voice, calm and icy. "I’ll ask the questions this time. Don’t move a muscle, don’t even flinch. I might blow your head off by mistake."

His name fell from Frank’s lips on a whisper. "Rand."

"Hello, Frank McGuire. Didn’t take me long to figure it out. Then it all came back, the eyes, the voice." Rand walked forward and put the gun to Frank’s head. "In case you’re wondering, it’s loaded, and I confess, I’ve never shot a gun before. If I were you, I wouldn’t as much as twitch."

Tension snapped the very air Frank breathed. Rand’s hand trembled like a fish trapped between shore and a lagoon. The deadly combination stopped Frank cold─the kid’s inexperience and the shivering hand. "Put the gun down and we’ll talk."

"Go to Hell. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. I want only one thing, the box."

"Rand, you’re in over your head. You have no idea what’s in that box, do you?"

"No, and I don’t give a shit. But I know this: If I don’t return it, I’m a dead man. Now where is it?"

At Frank’s hesitation, Rand said, "Okay, if that’s how you want to play it, fine." He took a length of rope from his pocket, tied Frank’s hands behind his back, looped it through a brace of metal on the back of the chair and tied a strong knot. Next, he pulled a bandana from his shirt pocket, secured it over Frank’s eyes tied it at the back of his head. "Remember what I said, I ask the questions now. You even breathe wrong and there’s no telling what might happen to my itchy finger."

Frank’s heart raced and waves of lust washed over him. What the hell . . . he couldn’t see a speck of light, felt a cold piece a metal nudging his temple and desire for Rand hit him like a cyclonic wind. Night and day, he’d thought about fucking him, ever since the incident in his apartment. Shameless images of his smooth, taut skin, his long-muscled legs, narrow waist and ripped abs rose behind the blindfold. In his dreams and throughout the day, he’d hear his whimpers and moans echoing through his ears until he thought he’d go mad.

Frank had to admit, something about being tied up and at the mercy of another man was the wildest turn-on he’d ever experienced. Shivers raced down his spine, not entirely of fear, and hot blood rushed to his cock. Rand hadn’t moved, continued to stand behind him after tying the bandana. Frank had to guess what the crazy kid was about. "So now what?"

Feet shuffled and Frank sensed Rand had skirted around him. A hand connected with his cheek. The kid had a wallop. "You weren’t listening very good. Don’t speak unless I say so, got it?”

Frank nodded. And he had guts, no doubt about it. He was indeed his father’s son, but Quinn knew what he was doing at all times when he handled his firearm. His son was engaged in a dangerous game. Frank would play along to a point, but he’d tolerate only so much before he put an end to this fucking foolishness.

Frank expected another whack for speaking out without permission, but he had to goad him into taking some kind of action. "Can I speak now?”

His warm, minty breath wafted over his face. "Permission granted."

"I can see you’re pissed off. Which did you object to more, the spanking or the fact that I didn’t fuck you?”

Rand grabbed a lock of his hair and yanked. Frank wondered if he’d pulled a handful from his scalp. "Fuck you, McGuire."

"Ah, so that is it . . . I didn’t fuck you.”

Silence loomed and a rush of trepidation sped through him. And, a smidgen of fear now. No telling what a man would do with his back to the wall. He wanted the box and now the tide had turned on Rand. He realized at that moment that this scenario had been one of his deepest fantasies, being bound and blindfolded while another man had his way with him. He’d always been the dominant one, but always wondered what would happen if he just sat back and played the sub. Guess he would soon find out.

"Oh, wait. I’m gonna put the gun on the desk, but you should know, it’s within arm’s reach. Damn, I forgot something. It’s your turn to whimper and beg but I don’t want you to be too loud.”

Frank coughed and gagged when Rand shoved a piece of fabric into his mouth, probably another bandana. Again, he walked behind him, pulled it tight and tied a knot.

"Don’t you look silly? Kind of like a turkey all trussed up for the spit.” Rand barked a laugh. “The big, tough Frank McGuire bound, gagged and at my mercy. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging to tell me where that box is."

Fingers grasped the zipper of his pants. With nimble dexterity Rand pulled the zipper down and freed his cock. Damn, if Frank wasn’t harder than an Ironwood tree.

“What’s this?” A sardonic hoot fell from Rand’s mouth. A brief moment of silence reigned before he stroked Frank’s cock. His deft fingers lingered at the head for a whisper of a breath and then he scraped his nails over the sensitive tip. “I bet you been dreamin’ about burying that big boy inside me, huh, McGuire? Keep dreaming about it because I guarantee you, you’ll never have me.” Rand leaned down and whispered in his ear. “Never, ever know the delirious feeling of being inside me. Keep thinking about what might have been but will never be.”

Spasms erupted deep in Frank’s belly and spread outward as he thought about burying his dick in Rand’s ass. Rand kept stroking and his cock leaked and then jerked beneath his masterful strokes.

He felt more than heard Rand drop to his knees before him. His tongue made contact with his weeping shaft and he licked and sucked bottom to top. . . up and down again and again. Frank tried to bury the moan surging up his throat, tried desperately to keep his hips immobile. He failed at both. Rand stretched his mouth over his cock and sucked, nearly bringing Frank out of the chair. He nibbled, sucked and pulled, wringing a series of moans from Frank’s lips behind the gag.

"Ah, that trips your trigger, doesn’t it, Frank? You’re not so tough now, are you? Before long, you’ll be spurting in my hand faster than a pubescent schoolboy jacking off in bed. Want me to suck you some more or maybe I should shove my mini-flashlight up your ass. You remember the Numchukkas you brought to my place, don’t ya? You laid ‘em on the bed in front of me hoping to scare the shit out of me, huh?”

Son of a bitch, I’m going to kill the little bastard the first chance I get.

Frank’s hips rocked upward of their own volition, his cock responding to the expert ministrations. His mind returned to his cop training days at the Department. Police Manual 101. How to untie a knot. Twist the end of the knot so it constricts, then push it through the rest of the knot. It should slide right through. If it’s a particularly stubborn knot, you might have to repeat the process several times. Frank was in luck. Rand hadn’t done his homework when securing his hands to the chair. Little by little, Frank followed the instructions from the manual. He twisted the ends with his fingers and then attempted to push it through the rest of the knot. After several attempts, he realized the knot had loosened, not only from his finger manipulations but from his hips thrusting up and down.

Rand took his mouth from his cock, his voice triumphant. "Oh, you’re not gonna come already, Frank? I feel the blood rushing to the top and something else. If you come now, we’ll have to start all over. Let me see if I can make you explode all over yourself." Rand swallowed the full length again, removed his mouth and then seized the throbbing shaft with both hands, working it with his fingers as if mesmerized by the engorged cock.

Behind the blindfold, Frank closed his eyes against the exquisite pleasure between his legs and concentrated on the knot that bound his hands. If Rand didn’t stop soon, he’d burst like the top of a champagne bottle.

At last, his hands broke free.

Now the little prick would pay. He’d find out what it meant to fuck with Frank McGuire. The unsuspecting kid gasped when Frank grabbed a clump of his hair and, seized by a rush of adrenaline, yanked him upward. Frank pulled the gag from his mouth and next, the blindfold and then stared into shocked green eyes. Secured in Frank’s lap by a powerful grip, Rand struggled for freedom. The color drained from his face.

“Time to pay, you fucking little bastard.”