Rick's Next Move

Nick knows he's going to hear more about Rick sooner or later. When Anne told him to get out, he knew there would be trouble sooner or later, but he's not sure he wants to wait until the other shoe drops. He sits there on the couch, running various scenarios, trying to determine what his next best course of action is; all the options that come to mind involve a shallow grave. It's been long enough he's sure Rick has taken another chunk or two out of Annie; maybe she's come around by now. Curious, he picks up the phone and dials Kate's number.

She picks up after a few rings, sounding out of breath and distracted. "Unless it's an emergency, now's not a good time, Nick," Kate barks. "We're literally neck-deep in crisis. I've got a room with dry rot, two waiters who have suddenly revealed they faked up their resumes, and a clogged set of deck drains in the Grotto disassembled in two-inch bits while Graham, Elizabeth, and two plumbers all scratch their heads and use the word rip-out too many times."

Nick restrains a laugh. "I'm really sorry. I was just wondering if you'd heard anything from Annie recently."

Kate pauses. When she answers, her voice is concerned. "I hadn't really thought about it. Last time I talked to her was after she threw you out of her house."

"She told you about that?"

Kates snorts. "Darling, I had to listen to two hours of panic and accusations about my friend the hitman."

"Okay. My fault."

"We can share that one," Kate says. "I know you're not always good with people." She sighs, and he can hear someone in the background calling for her. "I'm going to have to go soon. What did you need with her?"

"It's been too long without Rick throwing another wrench in. I'm getting concerned."

"Call Lazlo," Kate suggests. "I'll text you his number. If Rick's out there pissing in the pool, I guarantee he'll be pissing on Lazlo, too."

"Thanks, hon," he says. "Good luck."

"I don't need luck, I need six more weeks," Kate says, blowing him a kiss over the line before she hangs up.

When he gets the text, he wastes no time making the call. To his surprise, Lazlo picks up at the second ring. "Hello, Mr. Aden," says the dom's deep baritone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Sorry to bother you, but I'm just checking back up to see if our old friend Rick has been seen lately."

Lazlo grunts. "Strange you should call about that now. Just last week, he showed up in my office drunk and throwing around nasty comments. Two of the governor's security team threw him out and warned him not to come back."

"Why didn't you call me and let me know?"

There's a moment, then Lazlo sighs. "We've met once, I don't have your number, and, despite the fact you seem like a man who can get things done, I'm not entirely sure adding you to the problem would really help."

The words sting, because they're absolutely true. "You're right," he says quietly. "I'm over-reaching."

"Listen," Lazlo says, "if you really want to know what he's up to, check with Anne. I'll keep you in mind if I need help, though. Anything else?"

Nick assures him that's good enough, and rings off. He sits there, the monster buzzing in his ears. The more he thinks about it, the worse he feels. Fuck this, he decides, and dials Annie's number. It rings and rings, no answering machine, no voice mail. After ten rings, he hangs it up. Writing a quick note to Tommy to let her know he's gone out, he picks up his backpack from the hall closet. Something tells him to check his weapon, and he slides the pistol into the back of his belt on the way out the door. A taxi ride later, he's back at Annie's place; leaving the cab, he inspects the front of the building. All the curtains are closed, but her car is parked in the driveway, and there's wet leaves and pine needles all over it; it hasn't been driven for at least a few days. The monster is screaming at him, his hand going to the pistol as he walks up the steps to her front door. He rings the bell, then knocks, waiting with rising tension. Finally, he tries the handle, going into full battle mode when he finds it's not locked. Pushing it open, he sees the inner door jamb is broken around the dead bolt; realizing someone has jimmied the door, he draws his pistol, off safe, up on point. He goes in at a crouch, ducked low and quiet. He nudges the door closed behind him, hearing flies buzzing, smelling the nasty sweat bread smell of rotting meat. Aden's angry and guilty, sweeping the front rooms, then moving into the kitchen.

Part of him is slightly relieved to see the rotting meat smell is groceries spilled on the floor and counters. The bags look like they were dropped, splatters of blood mixed in with the supplies. There's been a severe struggle, a pair of glasses broken. Rotten food, two to three days maybe, he thinks, scanning, moving left back to the back office and den. Both clean, no signs of ****. She was in the kitchen putting groceries away when they broke in, he knows. He can see the scene in his head. He should back out and call the police; the bad guys will be long gone, and he's going to fuck up their crime scene if he interferes. But he still doesn't know what Annie's status is. Moving to the base of the stairs, he sees more blood spatter along the stairwell, getting worse as he moves up toward the bedrooms. Swinging left and right at the top to check for any movement, he sees the home phone has been torn out of the wall plug and is laying broken and twisted at the door to the guest bathroom. A bloody steak knife and a torn shirt are on the bathroom floor; the door has been kicked open. In his mind's eye, he plays it. They break in, she grabs a knife, maybe wounds one of them as she's trying to flee up the stairs, locks herself in the bathroom to try and call the cops. They break it down, there's another struggle, and they get her out. She's in the bedroom, he knows, cold. The monster is keening for ****, for ****, for blood to wipe out the fact he wasn't able to save her. Even though he knows she's dead, he has to see, has to know for sure what they did. When he opens the bedroom door, he almost wishes he hadn't.

It's a frame from a war zone. Half the furniture is knocked over, broken glass from destroyed picture frames littering the ground. A smear of blood starts by the side of the bed; they hurt her bad there, pinned her for a while. Torn pants and a bloody bra by the foot of the bed. Most of the bedsheets pulled off and disarranged, blooody again. He smells sweat bread **** scent, the smell of rotting flesh again. Stepping around the foot of the bed, his movements robotic, he sees her. She crawled back into the space between the bed and the wall, probably to try to save herself from any more injury. Her whole body is a mass of black and purple bruises, her upper thigh bone erupted through her skin, flies feasting on the dead flesh and sticky puddled blood. The fact her panties are intact, showing she died without being ****, is no consolation; the last hour of her life must have been a horror. Dead inside, he sits on the bed, looking down at her face, battered, her hair in disarray, bloody, stuck to her cheek. Almost as if to confirm this is real, Aden reaches down to brush the hair away, knowing he is going to hunt whoever did this down and make sure they die badly.

She takes a long ragged shuddering breath.