Skeletons part 2

By Guardian

"It was one Christmas," Amanda recalled, prompted by the genuine concern that had been evident in Mark's voice. "You probably remember it. It was when you smuggled Claude Campbell away from that awful sheriff who insisted on trying to extradite him even after you'd proved his innocence."
Mark nodded, remembering that Christmas with crystal clarity. Steve had flown to Missouri in order to prove that Claude hadn't murdered his wife and then Amanda and Jesse had both helped in the conspiracy to get Claude to Mexico so that he could live his last few months in freedom and not back in jail awaiting a retrial. But his reminiscent smile was tinged with sadness. Claude had since died from the inoperable pancreatic cancer that he'd been diagnosed with at the time.
"In the middle of all that, Jesse's car got broken into and all the gifts that he'd brought for his family were stolen," the young pathologist went on. "Well, you know Jesse. He seemed to get over it and bounced right back, but he was really upset."
Again, Mark chose not to verbalise his response. Jesse's idea of bouncing back had been to offer the use of Barbeque Bob's to lay on the Christmas Eve meal for the homeless. It was indicative of his friend's big heart and generous nature - and the memory only served to drive Mark even harder to help him now, when he needed it so badly.
"So, a couple of days later, I invited him round for a drink and for the most part he was okay. He didn't talk much about his family, or about past Christmases and I didn't push him. Then I caught him watching Dion." A fond smile touched her lips as she thought of her adopted son, but then her eyes clouded over. "Jesse looked so sad and I couldn't even guess what might have been wrong. Dion was all excited, yammering away about what a great time he'd had. It was his first Christmas with us, so it had been a totally new experience for him." She didn't need to explain any further. Mark knew that Dion, too, came from an abusive background. "Anyway, I went up to put the boys to bed and when I came back down, I could have sworn that Jesse had been crying."
Mark had a good idea of what Amanda was leading up to, but he let her tell it in her own words.
"I asked him if he was okay and he started to make excuses about having to go. So, I…" She looked away, almost shamefacedly. "I, um… I encouraged him to have another beer and…"
"You got him drunk?" Mark asked in astonishment.
"No!" Amanda protested. Then at his disbelieving look she added: "Well, maybe a little bit. I just wanted to get him to relax. Anyway, I started talking about Dion and about how excited he'd been on Christmas morning. Then I said that he'd also been scared that he'd made too much noise and it was so hard to explain that he could make as much noise as he wanted. It was Christmas. And Jesse…" She sighed, sadly. "Jesse's eyes grew all distant, like he was remembering something and he said… He said 'nobody should be scared at Christmas'. He looked so desperately sad…" Amanda shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mark. I shouldn't be telling you this."
"Amanda." Mark caught her hand, stopping her as she began to rise from her seat. "I know that what you shared with Jesse was a very private thing. I've just had a very similar conversation with him myself. But, can you just answer me one question: did he tell you about the man who moved in after his father left?"
"Yes," the young woman answered, after the briefest hesitation. "Yes, he did, although not a great deal. That's what I meant by 'what he didn't say'. It was just obvious that it was that man who'd made him scared at Christmas."
"Not only at Christmas," Mark murmured.
"Mark, what's going on? That was years ago, when Jesse was just a little boy. Why is it all being dragged up now?"
Mark stroked his moustache, not hearing her question. He was processing what she had just told him and fitting it in with everything else that had happened.
"Amanda, you said that Jesse's eyes grew distant," he said, eventually and addressing the issue that was causing him the most immediate concern. "But what about his voice? Do you remember how he sounded?"
"How he sounded..?" Amanda frowned, striving to remember and knowing that Mark would not have asked if it hadn't been important. "He sounded… not frightened exactly…"
"Young?" Mark suggested, not wanting to put words into her mouth but needing to voice his own fears.
"Yes, that's exactly it," the young woman responded, as the memory fell into place. "He sounded just like a little boy, almost as though he'd gone back in time to that horrible Christmas. Mark, how could you know that? What's going on?"
She knew enough, Mark decided. She knew about Wayne Burton and she knew at least something about the abuse. He wouldn't be betraying Jesse in any way by bringing her up to date with more recent events. Jesse had confided in her once; maybe she was what he needed in order for him to open his heart again.

*****

Jesse drove home much more slowly than he ordinarily would. It was so difficult for him to concentrate, not only because of his utter exhaustion, but his mind kept trying to convince him that he was twelve years old again.
"Jesse, honey, I have to call the police now." His mom had taken him back to the house and they sat on the couch together.
"The… the police?" His eyes were wide and frightened and kept drifting towards the window, in the direction of where he knew the corpse lay.
"They're going to ask some questions, Jesse. I'm going to tell them that you weren't there, that you don't know anything, but they might still want to talk to you."
"Mom?" His voice was shrill with panic and his breath began to come in sharp gasps. The prospect of the police interrogating him was utterly terrifying to his young mind.
"It's alright, sweetheart." His mom enveloped him in another hug. "It's going to be okay. You just need to know what to say if they do ask you anything."
"But… but…"
"Jesse, listen to me." A hint of sternness entered her voice and silenced his stuttering protests, her familiar authority having a strangely calming effect. "I'm going to tell you what happened and then you'll know what to say if anyone does talk to you. Okay?"
"O… Okay." He wasn't convinced and he wasn't even sure that he wanted to know the events of that afternoon.
Jess pulled the car to the side of the road and swiped an angry hand over his tear filled eyes. Seventeen years had passed, wasn't it time that he started behaving like the grown man that he was? Why did his own mind insist on torturing him so much?
"There were three men, Jesse. Three men. They were trespassers, can you remember that? Uncle Wayne was killed when he got into a fight with the men. Alright? That's exactly what happened."
His mom had continued talking to him in a soft, almost hypnotic, voice. She repeated herself over and over again, drilling certain words into his impressionable mind, making him say them back to her and then still repeating them again.
Then she had told him to go and wait in his room. The police had never talked to him and the words that she had taught him had never been spoken aloud - until Mark had caught him with his defences in tatters and had awoken that terrified child.

*****

Jesse lowered his head and rested it against the steering wheel, reluctantly conceding that his memories weren't simply going to leave him alone. Bill Burton had made sure of that, so had Mark and Steve when they'd learnt of what had happened. There wasn't a chance that his friends were going to leave things well alone and - while a part of him was warmed by the care that this demonstrated - he inwardly dreaded the prospect of having to face even more questions.
That left him with the impossible task of finding something to tell them. The truth was not an option. But nor could he lie to them. His open, expressive face could conceal nothing from those he held closer than even his blood relatives.
Sighing bitterly, he reflected on the conversation that he'd had with Mark before he'd left the hospital.
"The men… the men, they came and they killed him. It was the men…"
It was all that he'd been able to say; all that his memory would allow him to say. But he knew that it would not be enough to satisfy his mentor's insatiable curiosity. He was, he knew, a lot like Mark and he could almost imagine what would be going through the older doctor's mind on hearing those words. He would have been itching to ask further questions, to probe ever so gently more deeply until he found the root of the problem.
Grateful for the respite from his painful memories, Jesse allowed his mind to drift. He let Mark's caring tones fill his mind and, for the first time in seventeen years, he asked himself the questions that everyone was so eager to know the answers to.

*****

Mark had eventually gone home that evening still desperately concerned about Jesse. Amanda had pledged to do whatever was necessary in order to help, but there was nothing that anybody could do that day and she too had gone home, eager to be reunited with her own family.
As Mark closed the door behind him, he saw Steve again sitting on the couch. The files from Elgin were still on the coffee table, but now they were stacked neatly to one side. However, Mark could see that his son was still brooding. He had his notebook open in his hand and was frowning over the contents.
"Steve?" he queried, feeling a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. The last time he had seen that expression on the detective's face it had preceded the devastation of Jesse's world.
"Bill Burton was at the hospital again today." Steve's tone was coloured by his obvious dislike of the man. "I tried to convince him to stay away from Jesse, but I get the feeling that he isn't simply going to go away. So I did a few checks." He flipped a page of the notebook. "William Burton is originally from Missouri, where his father runs a very successful construction company. He's forty-five years old, that's three years younger than Wayne would have been - had he lived."
"Did you find out why he's chosen now to start digging into his brother's death?" Mark asked.
"The only thing that I can think of is that his mother died last month. With Wayne already dead, that leaves him as the sole surviving heir to a rather tasty fortune."
"But that doesn't make sense," Mark mused. "I mean, Bill Burton knows that his brother is dead. There would have been a death certificate even with the murder case still officially open. It's just not logical."
"Logic kinda goes out of the window when there's several million dollars involved," Steve retorted, wryly.
"Several million?"
"Yeah. I talked to a few people and Arthur Burton's a ruthless businessman. He won't tolerate failure and, by all accounts, he brought his sons up the same way." He looked up at his dad, knowing that his next words might prove painful for the older man. "But apparently, Wayne had a serious argument with his father, not long before he moved to Elgin. It caused a serious rift and nobody in the family has ever spoken to him since."
Mark's eyes clouded over as he was reminded of the rift that had separated him from his daughter - and the subsequent events that had resulted in her death. It was very small comfort that they had managed to reconcile before her murder, but a comfort that the Burton family hadn't shared.
"I'm sorry, dad." Steve was genuinely regretful that he had awoken such painful memories. "But I didn't know if it might be important. Bill mentioned that it was his dad who wanted answers, he didn't seem to care overly much himself."
"It's certainly strange." Mark snapped himself out of his melancholy and turned his thoughts back to where they might do some good. "Although, I suppose that with his wife dying, it might have woken up some old regrets. Maybe she even wished for it before she died. Maybe that's what prompted him to try and find out exactly what had happened to his firstborn son. And he's charged Bill with finding out."
"From what I saw, there might be more riding on this than a simple need for answers," the detective muttered. "Something was certainly motivating Bill and it wasn't a quest for justice."
"You think this might have something to do with the inheritance?"
"I'm only guessing but, if I'm right, then that could make him dangerous."

*****

Bill Burton was also brooding. After his latest abortive attempt to speak to Jesse, he had phoned his father and the conversation had not gone well. Having been blocked so effectively by Steve in his effort to find out the truth, he had tried to fob his dad off with the story about the anonymous trespassers. It hadn't worked. Bill was a hopeless liar as far as the old man was concerned. Even speaking over the telephone, it seemed that his father could read him like a book and his scorn at the attempted explanation had left him cringing. He hadn't risked trying any more lies.
Just remembering that conversation was enough to send a shiver running down Bill's spine. His father's voice was almost as terrifying as his fists - and he had also left him in no doubt that he would not receive a single penny until he got the answers that were demanded of him.
There was no doubt in Bill's mind that his dad would indeed give everything that he owned to charity and, while there was a chance that he might fight such a thing through the courts, that would prove to be both costly and time-consuming. It would be so much easier if he could merely uncover the truth.
He tried to think like his father. What would Arthur Burton do in a situation such as this? The answer was simple. He would use whatever means necessary to get results. That was how he had earned his fearsome reputation.
Steve's enquiries had barely scratched the surface of the formidable character of the man. He was a ruthless, domineering bully who ruled his household with an iron fist - a fist that he was not afraid to raise in his endless pursuit of discipline. That was why he had not been surprised to learn that Wayne had followed so closely in his footsteps.
Bitterness surged through his soul as he wondered if - had the situation been reversed - his father would have been so driven about learning his fate. Wayne had always been the favourite. He was the eldest after all, the natural heir.
As brothers they had not been close, even before the split - and he was determined that he was not going to let his sibling ruin his life by denying him what was rightfully his.
Jesse Travis had the answers, he was certain of it. He just had to find some way to make him talk - and he had to do it quickly. His father was not renowned for his patience.

*****

"What happened, Jesse? What happened all those years ago that can leave you so scared now?"
It was Mark's voice that spoke in his mind, Mark's gently commanding tones that he could never deny, never ignore and never lie to. But nor could he answer that question. He hadn't been there. He had been in his room.
"But your mom was there, wasn't she? You said she tried to stop you from seeing the body. Was she there, next to Wayne, when you found him?"
Jesse frowned to himself. No, that wasn't what had happened. His mom had called him downstairs and told him that there had been an accident, that Wayne was dead. Then he had been running; running as fast as he ever had in his life before, not knowing how he chose the right direction, but needing to see that it was true. He had stumbled across the corpse in a matter of minutes.
"Was there anyone else there, Jesse? Did you see the trespassers, the men who were supposed to have killed him?"
Mark's voice was more insistent, more urgent and - alone in his car - Jesse shook his head in response. No, it had been just him - just him for the few scant seconds it had taken for his mom to catch up with him. Then he had been smothered by her embrace as she'd sobbed her apologies and told him that everything would be okay when, in truth, nothing could ever be okay again.
"Her apologies?"
Jesse's eyes suddenly opened and Mark's voice was abruptly silenced as he asked the question that Jesse had spent the last seventeen years trying not to think about. He could ignore it no longer. Even though he wasn't there, his mentor had made sure of that.
Why had his mom apologised so profusely? She claimed not to have known what Wayne was doing to him but, if that was the truth, then why did she feel the need to apologise?

*****

"You know, it would make life a whole lot simpler if I knew the answers to the questions that Burton's been asking," Steve griped, pausing in the pacing that he had recently begun. After he had voiced his suspicion that Burton might be dangerous, he had made some more enquiries and was anxiously waiting for his colleagues to get back to him.
"If that's your way of asking if Jesse told me anything, then I'm afraid that the answer's no." Mark's voice was calmer, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air, mostly down to the fact that they had absolutely no idea of Burton's whereabouts. "And, after talking to him today, I'm not convinced that he has those answers."
"Dad, the guy was murdered. It's not the sort of thing you just forget about."
"That's not what I'm saying." Mark sought to soothe his son's growing agitation. "I think that Jesse can't remember what happened because his own mind is protecting him from the truth. Whenever he tries to talk about the day that Burton was killed, it's like he retreats back into himself, back to when he was that child. It's his way of shielding himself from what really happened."
"But why would he do that?" Steve demanded, even more put out by what he saw as his father's descent into psycho-babble.
"Maybe because the truth is too awful for him to accept." At the sceptical look that was aimed in his direction, he added: "Those barriers are in place for a reason, Steve and we're going to have to be very careful about breaking them down." He paused, making the decision that had been nagging at him ever since he'd witnessed Jesse's earlier regression. "I'm going to suggest that he gets professional help."
"You want him to see a shrink?" The detective's tone eloquently portrayed what he thought of that idea.
"Not a shrink," Mark protested. "Just somebody more qualified to help him than I am."
"Good luck," Steve muttered, sardonically. Then he turned his baleful glare back to the phone, which steadfastly refused to ring, no matter how hard he willed it to. "Dammit!" he snapped. "How long can it take them to figure out where this guy is staying?" His most recent call had been to try and track down Burton's LA accommodation. "With his kind of money, it's hardly likely that he's checked into some sleazy, no-questions-asked motel."
"That would depend entirely on his motive for being here." Mark wasn't deliberately trying to add to his son's agitation, but he needed to voice his fears. "And how far he's prepared to go to get those answers."
"That's it. I'm calling Jesse." He snatched at the phone, but Mark's hand covered his before he could lift the receiver.
"Steve, it's after midnight - and Jesse was at the hospital before six o'clock this morning. You can't disturb him now."
"You're right," Steve reluctantly conceded, forcing his taut muscles to relax. "But I'd feel a whole lot better if I knew where Burton was and I could have somebody keeping an eye on him."
"So would I, son," Mark murmured in response. "So would I."

*****

Jesse would never know how he made it back to his apartment that night. After he had asked himself that one question about his mom, everything else had ceased to exist. She had sworn to him that she knew nothing about the abuse that he had endured and he had believed her - until now.
He couldn't even describe the emotion that held him as he burst through his front door and grabbed for the phone. He wasn't thinking at all rationally. The question burned into his mind, making everything else irrelevant. He just wanted to talk to his mom. He only wanted to know one thing: why was she sorry?
He didn't pause to wonder what time it might be in Illinois; didn't give a moment's thought as to what he intended to say. It hurt him enough that he had to look her number up before dialling.
With a sinking heart, Jesse was eventually forced to concede that she wasn't going to answer. He'd let the phone ring for well over a dozen times, gripping the receiver so hard that it bit into his palm. Unbidden tears welled in his eyes before, belatedly, he recalled the words that Bill Burton had said to him on their first, fateful encounter.
His mom was in Europe and it only served to stab at his already wounded soul that a stranger would know of her vacation when her own son did not. How could he not know where she was? How could he have no idea how to contact her? What if there had been an emergency?
Jesse shook his head and wandered into his bedroom. Bad things had happened in the past, but she was still his mom. Kicking off his shoes, he sat down on the bed, wondering if there was any point in him even getting undressed. Sleep, he knew, would be more elusive than ever.
Old and new regrets clouded his mind and at the back of everything, even overshadowing the questions that still burned, there were always the nightmares waiting to pounce the moment that he dared to close his eyes.

*****

"Dad, I've got to go. There's finally been a break on the Sorenson killing." Steve ended the call on his cellphone and grabbed at his jacket. "The DNA testing looks like it might have paid off. Don't wait up."
"Be careful." Mark's response was automatic, as was the sudden fear that churned in his gut. He had never allowed himself to become complacent about his son's choice of career and was only too aware of the dangers that he faced on any assignment. The fear, he knew, would stay with him until Steve returned home again.
"I will." He opened the front door. "And dad? If you see Jesse tomorrow, can you at least warn him?"
The detective didn't even wait for a response. The Sorenson case had dragged on for three weeks and had resulted in wide-range DNA testing on thousands of local men. Now that it seemed to have given them a break, he wanted to be there when any arrest was made.
Mark stared at the door long after his son had disappeared through it, thinking over his last words. Yes, Jesse needed to be warned, but that was easier said than done. His friend was already in a world of hurt. How could he give him one more thing to worry about when it was obvious that he already couldn't sleep at night?
Closing his eyes, he thought back to the conversation that he'd had with Amanda earlier that day. She had said that Wayne had been around at Christmas, but he hadn't been killed until the summer. That meant that he had been living in Jesse's home - and abusing him - for at least six months. It almost defied belief.
Unaware that his young friend was asking himself the very same questions, Mark wondered how anybody could be blind to their own child being mistreated for such a long time.
And it wasn't just Jesse's mom who was giving him cause for concern. What about his dad? Surely he must have known something.
The more that Mark thought about it, the more he was prepared to believe that Dane knew nothing about the abuse that his son had suffered - he would never have let such a thing continue and he most certainly had the means and the methods to do something about it. But how could he not know that a man had been murdered at the place that had so recently been his home?
He must have had some contact with his family. There was the alimony to pay and visits to be arranged - even if those visits didn't always actually take place. And he would have had friends back in his home town. Not to mention that, by the very nature of his work, he would have access to all kinds of information.
It was simply inconceivable that he couldn't know about Wayne Burton. It just didn't add up and, in Mark's vast experience, when something didn't add up it normally meant that he'd got a calculation wrong.

*****

Jesse was sleeping. Exhaustion had won out and he had swapped his work clothes for the sweatpants and tee shirt that were his habitual nightwear and had crawled into bed, utterly convinced that it was futile; that sleep would remain as elusive as ever. His eyes had closed almost immediately.
He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and a low moan escaped his lips. It was the nightmare again; the nightmare that had plagued him every night since he'd looked down upon Wayne's lifeless body. And even though he knew that he was dreaming, he could do nothing to stop what was bound to follow.
Wayne's eyes were open and one was caked with blood where it had run down from the gaping wound in his head. Those eyes stared blankly upwards and his bluing lips were drawn back in a frozen scream that could only hint at the terror and the agony that he had endured.
"It was the men, Jesse…"
The boy whimpered softly. The men. The trespassers. The nameless, faceless killers who had invaded his home.
What if they came back?
Jesse gasped in a frightened breath and tore his gaze away from the corpse. In his nightmare, he was alone. There was no sign of his mom and, deep inside, he harboured the secret terror that the men had killed her too. And he was going to be next.
A noise from his left caused his head to whip around in that direction. There was some undergrowth, the fence and then the road. He could see nothing else, but he knew that the men were there.
"Oh, God…"
Another louder noise from behind him and he took to his heels, running in the direction of the house.
"Please, God. Please, God. Please…" An endless litany spilled from his lips, even though he expected no response. He had offered desperate prayers before.
He burst through the front door and raced up the stairs, taking them three at a time, trying to ignore the way his lungs felt ready to burst and seeking the sanctuary of his room. He reached that haven and slammed the door behind him - too late realising that it had no lock.
Jesse stood in the centre of his room, his eyes darting wildly around as he sought some place to hide. He heard the door creak open behind him and knew that it was too late.
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder…
And his eyes shot open, a scream of terror dying on his lips before it could emerge. Jesse lay in the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for the residual images of his nightmare to flee.
Then he blinked, a frown settling on his brow. Everything looked wrong. He wasn't in his room and fresh terror swelled in his chest. He rolled over, trying to make some sense of what was happening - and then reality kicked in.
The strange shapes that had so frightened and confused him began to take on a more familiar form and he let out a slow, shaky breath.
No, he wasn't in his room. At least not his bedroom back in Elgin. He was in his apartment and he was twenty-nine years old. And he had just suffered a nightmare that had plagued him for months following Wayne's death - and that he had not suffered for over a decade since.
But something was still not right. Something was out of place and it was that something that had awoken him.
Jesse barely had the time to register the presence of somebody else in the room. There was a sudden rush of movement, a dark shape descending towards him and then pain exploded in his head.
Darkness swiftly followed.

*****

When Jesse returned to consciousness, the first thing he became aware of was the pain in his head. Next, he gradually realised that he was moving and the combination of the two prompted a sudden surge of nausea. Bile rose up in his throat and he heaved helplessly, his stomach cramping in sympathy. Suddenly he was choking, trying to swallow and unable to breathe. Panic set his heart racing as he realised that there was a gag across his mouth.
He convulsed as the bile clogged in his throat, cutting off his airway and he began to struggle, wanting to tear the obstruction free - wanting to breathe. Sudden, sharp pain in his wrists and the inability to move his arms told him that his hands had been tied behind his back and his struggles increased, his legs kicking weakly in the enclosed space that he was trapped in.
Swallow, he commanded himself, even as he gagged again on the bitter tasting bile. Swallow it and then breathe.
The voice in his head was strangely calm and he followed the instructions that it gave him. Breathing in through his nose, he filled his lungs and willed himself not to heave again. He was silently thankful that he hadn't taken the time to eat anything substantial that day, or he would surely have choked to death.
His panic subsiding only marginally, Jesse took a moment to try and work out what had happened. Somebody had hit him, but he had no idea as to who it might have been, or why they had taken him.
And he couldn't see. He moved his head, felt it brush against rubber that had grown clammy with his sweat. He didn't seem to be blindfolded, but he lay in utter darkness.
He shifted again and soft material brushed against his face. He was stiflingly hot, there was a weight upon him that didn't belong there and he felt suddenly claustrophobic.
Don't panic. The calm voice returned to him. They've covered you with a blanket. They're keeping you hidden, that's all. Don't panic.
Forcing his breathing to slow, negating the risk of choking again, he returned to trying to take stock of his situation. The noises he could hear and the gentle motion that he felt told him that he was in a car. The cramped position that he lay in and the discomfort of a ridge against his hip suggested that he was lying on the floor in the foot well of the rear of the vehicle.
Sound was the only of his senses that was any good to him and he strained his ears, in a futile attempt to gain further clues as to who might have kidnapped him.
The motion of the car changed and Jesse was rocked gently in the confined space in which he lay. Muffled, indecipherable sounds filtered though the blanket and then both the movement and the engine noise ceased. The car rocked again and there was the unmistakable sound of a door slamming. Jesse's heart quickened in his chest and his panic threatened to overwhelm him.
Suddenly he was blinking rapidly as the blanket was pulled from him and harsh white light assaulted his eyes. Rough hands grabbed him by the upper arms and dragged him backwards out of the car, before dumping him unceremoniously onto the ground. He lay sprawled on his back, with his arms trapped beneath him and stared up at fluorescent strip lighting.
It was a garage, he gradually realised. He wanted to raise his head, wanted to try and catch a glimpse of his captor, but the lights and the movement had redoubled the throbbing in his head and he was again fighting his nausea, which had returned with a vengeance.
Then he heard footsteps - slow, deliberate footsteps that were gradually drawing closer. His mouth went dry with fear and his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. A shadow loomed over him.
"So, you're finally awake." Bill Burton glowered down at him. "I was starting to think that I'd hit you too hard."

*****

The beach house was in darkness when Steve eventually arrived back home, exhausted but satisfied with his night's work. He let himself in quietly, anxious not to disturb his dad. Neither of them had been getting very much sleep lately.
Though the Sorenson case had kept his mind occupied throughout the night, he hadn't forgotten about Jesse and he glanced towards the phone, wondering if his colleagues had succeeded in tracking down Bill Burton.
It fleetingly crossed his mind to call in and check and he even went so far as picking up the receiver, but he stopped short of actually dialling. If there had been any news then his dad would have taken a message. Mark, being known by so many cops, might even have advised them about the situation. It wouldn't do to keep on at them for something that was, in all probability, already in hand.
Besides, the threat to Jesse was little more than a bad feeling in his gut - a cop's instinct. It hardly constituted an emergency.

*****

Jesse could only stare up at the man who towered over him. Terror held him completely paralysed. The calm voice of reasoning that had helped him survive in the car had deserted him and panic held him in a merciless grip.
Uncle Wayne!
It was impossible, it was totally irrational and yet… A whimper escaped from behind the gag and he was powerless to prevent it. He had thought that Bill looked familiar when he'd first seen him and now he knew why. Take twenty years off him and he was Wayne.
Burton bent closer and Jesse cringed, fearing a blow - but none was forthcoming. Instead, his captor grabbed hold of the neck of his tee shirt and hauled him upwards.
"On your feet," he snarled, using brute force to ensure compliance. "I'm damned if I'm carrying you another step."
Jesse struggled to get his feet under him. The rough concrete of the floor beneath his soles reminded him that he was barefoot. He had been hauled from his bed and still wore only his nightclothes. That thought only served to make him feel even more young and vulnerable.
Oblivious to his captive's deteriorating emotional state, Burton dragged Jesse though a door and into the kitchen, snapping on the light as he passed it. Once in there, he paused. His plan had involved getting the doctor somewhere private - somewhere that they wouldn't be disturbed - so that he could demand the truth, without having to worry about Steve Sloan's interference. Beyond that, he had very little idea as to how he was going to go about getting that truth. He just wanted to scare Travis enough to be sure that he wasn't lying to him.
The question was: how to do that. He didn't have the stomach for torture, though he wasn't averse to a little intimidation and the occasional use of his fists.
He glanced towards Jesse, thinking that he wouldn't take much intimidating - and then frowned at what he saw. The young doctor was trembling violently and a thin sheen of sweat coated his brow. His eyes were wide and frightened, but he wasn't looking at the man who held him. Instead, he was staring intently at a point opposite where they stood.
Following that frightened gaze, Burton saw the cellar door, which stood open - the steps just visible as they led down into the darkness. A nasty smile touched his lips.
So, Wayne really had taken after the old man. Even though he was in his forties, the cellar at his father's house still had the ability to inspire terror in him. Many of his misdemeanours - real or imagined - had resulted in him spending hours locked in that cold, dark place. It seemed that Wayne had used a similar line of punishment. Burton saw the opportunity and took it. Gripping Jesse more firmly by the arm, he dragged him towards the open door.

*****

Jesse saw Burton's intention immediately and he began to struggle, trying to dig in his heels, trying to do anything to stop their inexorable progress across the cold, tiled floor. His breathing became laboured, hampered as it was by the gag and his terror had increased until it was all encompassing. Childhood nightmares were thrust rudely to the front of his mind.
"Your mom works hard to get you nice things," Wayne snapped, hauling Jesse across the lounge by one arm. "Is it too much to ask for you to keep them nice?"
Jesse couldn't find his voice to protest. He was too scared, anticipating another beating. Wayne had caught him watching TV, with his feet up on the couch. His mom had never complained about him sitting like that, provided that he'd taken off his shoes, but to Wayne it was another sin - another excuse for him to exert his power over the boy.
"You want to see what it's like not to have nice things?" He marched them through the kitchen and towards the cellar. "I'll show you what it's like and then maybe you'll appreciate what you have got."
Wayne switched on the cellar light, but the weak bulb did little to illuminate the room below. There were still too many dark corners, too many deep shadows. Jesse balked at the top of the stairs, real fear making his heart pound and his hands grow clammy.
"I… I'm sorry…" he stammered, knowing that it was futile, but needing to try. "Please don't… Please…"
"You scared, boy?" Wayne sneered. "You should be. You wouldn't believe the sort of thing that can live down there." He still had hold of Jesse's arm, but their progress had halted. "There's spiders down there as big as your fist. They've got webs that could trap a cat. And there's rats, too. Big, ugly rats with teeth like razors. And bugs - lots and lots of bugs."
"Please… Uncle Wayne…"
"Get down there!" He shoved at the boy, causing him to stumble down the first few steps. "Get down there before I throw you down."
Too terrified to disobey and knowing that the man was fully capable of carrying out his threat, Jesse hesitantly descended the steps, all the while looking around fearfully. The floor of the cellar was cluttered with junk and a thick layer of dust coated everything. It looked like nobody had been there in years.
"And don't forget the dead bodies." Wayne's mocking voice floated down to him. "Don't you know that people always bury dead bodies in the cellar?" He laughed maliciously. "I'll let you out when I think you've learned your lesson."
The room was suddenly plunged into pitch darkness and a frightened cry escaped Jesse's lips. A moment later the door was slammed and he clearly heard the sound of the key being turned in the lock.

*****

Burton tightened his grip as Jesse's frantic, futile struggles persisted. The doctor was wild-eyed with fear and small sounds of distress could be heard even through the gag.
"You don't wanna go down there, huh?" Even the voice could have been Wayne's. It was older and deeper, but still filled with the same malicious spite.
Jesse could only shake his head, helplessly. Wayne had left him locked in the dark all night.
"Then I'll make it easy for you." Burton grabbed hold of Jesse's chin, forcing his eyes away from the door that they had been riveted on. "You tell me exactly what I want to know and you can walk out of here. And I don't think I need to warn you not to go to the cops because, if you do, I will find you and I'll bring you back here and I'll leave you down there until you starve to death. You got that?" He didn't wait for any response, but ripped the tape that was gagging Jesse from his mouth. "What happened to my brother?"
Jesse sucked in a desperate lungful of air. As it had become harder and harder to breathe, the very real fear of suffocating had only added to his panic. His tongue flicked out to lick at his too dry lips.
"Who killed my brother?" Bill grasped the doctor by the shoulders and shook him as he repeated his demand. Blue eyes hesitantly met his, but they contained only fear and confusion.
"Please…" Jesse whispered, barely able to comprehend what was happening. A part of him was still lost in the nightmares of the past. The rest of him was consumed by utter terror.
The Burton family weren't renowned for the hold they had on their tempers and Bill was no exception. When only silence greeted him, he backhanded Jesse across the mouth.
"Answer me, dammit!"
Jesse cringed, his head swimming with pain and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. His eyes were distant and unfocussed - lost somewhere long ago, where Wayne Burton wasn't dead and the cycle of abuse was never-ending.
"Fine." Burton's temper transformed into a cold rage. "Have it your way." He reached back up to affix the tape to Jesse's mouth, easily stilling his attempts to squirm free. "Let's see if you feel more talkative when you've had a couple of hours to think about it."
Again, Jesse tried to struggle as they resumed their slow progress across the kitchen, but he was no match for Burton. Another sharp blow to his head caused him to stagger and a hard shove to his back propelled him the rest of the way towards their uncommon goal.

*****

Mark was in the kitchen making coffee when the door to the downstairs apartment opened and Steve emerged. He fetched another mug, filled it and handed it to his son.
"What time did you get home last night?" he asked. By unspoken agreement, they both went out onto the deck. It was a beautiful morning.
"Late," Steve answered and then frowned. "Or early, depending on how you look at it."
Mark chuckled softly. He, too, had had a late night. Or an early morning.
"But it was worth it." The detective massaged the back of his neck with one hand, his spine stiffening in a half stretch. "We arrested Ed Lindsay and, faced with the DNA evidence, he eventually confessed. How was your night?"
"Difficult," the older man confessed after a momentary pause. "I was trying to get in touch with Dane Travis."
"Dane?" Steve frowned, wondering what had prompted such an action. "Why Dane?"
"I can't believe that he wouldn't know anything about Wayne Burton. The man was killed in his family home. And I thought it would be a lot easier for everyone involved if we didn't have to keep pestering Jesse for answers."
"What did you find out?"
"Nothing." Mark answered, on a dispirited sigh. "I never even spoke to him. He's a difficult man to track down."
"I'll bet he is." Steve shook his head, silently thankful for his close relationship with his own father. "Didn't he give Jesse a number for use in emergencies?"
"I tried that, but I just kept getting redirected." Unknowingly, his train of thought followed his son's exactly and he flashed him a fond glance. "I've left messages for him, but there's no telling when - or if - he'll get them."
Steve caught the look and returned it. They didn't need to vocalise how they both were feeling at that moment; it was apparent in the warmth that they shared.
"Was there any news on Bill Burton's whereabouts?" he asked, remembering the conversation they'd had before he'd been called into work. After that, the arrest and subsequent interrogation had kept him incommunicado for most of the night.
"Oh, Steve, I'm sorry." Guilt flashed across the older man's features. "I was so busy trying to contact Dane, I must have kept the phone line tied up for hours. If your colleagues were trying to reach you, they wouldn't have got through."
"That's okay, dad. I'm heading into work soon. I'll get someone to chase it up then."

*****

Jesse sat with his back against a wall, still bound and gagged but no longer even registering that discomfort. He didn't even register the cold that his scant attire offered little protection from. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks.
Burton had dragged him down the stairs and dumped him there. Then he had turned the light off and locked the door.
There was no comfort for him, no place to hide. The entire episode was too reminiscent of what Wayne had done to him - of the terror that he had instilled in him. And he was forced to relive every agonising moment.
The darkness was impenetrable. Jesse couldn't even see a chink of light to hint at where the door might be. The lightswitch was at the top of the stairs, but he didn't dare try to reach it, didn't dare risk disturbing what might be lurking in the darkness.
"Spiders as big as your fist…"
He turned slowly, completely disorientated. He had no idea in which direction the staircase even lay. His foot brushed against something and he flinched away, crying out in fear as he imagined it was one such spider - or a giant rat with teeth like razors.
The dust that he'd disturbed settled against his skin and he flinched again, more violently, feeling thousands of tiny feet crawling over him, from thousands of tiny bugs. Unbalanced, he stumbled and tripped over one of the countless pieces of junk that littered the floor. Instinct caused him to throw his arms out, to try and prevent himself falling. When his hand came into contact with something soft and yielding, his imagination immediately conjured up the picture of a rotting corpse.
Jesse screamed, jerking his hand free and staggering blindly backwards.
"Shut up, kid." Wayne's voice sounded through the door. "Or I'll come down there and shut you up."
Jesse rammed his fist into his mouth, biting on the knuckle and forcibly stopping his sobs from escaping. He backed up until he felt a wall behind him and then slid into a crouch. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he hugged them close to him.
He stayed like that all night.

*****

Mark walked in to the hospital later that morning and was directed almost instantly to the ER.
"It's chaos down there," the receptionist told him, somewhat breathlessly.
Mark frowned to himself as he hurried towards his destination. He knew that Jesse was on duty that morning and it was totally unlike his friend not to be able to cope with an emergency. Though, given the young doctor's current circumstances, he supposed he could hardly blame him. The reawakening of such deeply buried memories - the ghosts that he was being forced to confront - were bound to have an adverse effect on anyone. But still, it was unlike Jesse not to act at the height of professionalism, no matter what personal issues he had to contend with.
He soon arrived at the ER and saw, with a sinking heart, that the receptionist had not been exaggerating. Gurneys lined the corridors, all of them filled with people suffering injuries of varying severity. At least it seemed like there was some form of triage in effect, but it wasn't the sort of efficiency that he would normally expect from his former protégé.
Gradually, the details of what had happened emerged to him. There had been a pile-up on the freeway, in the middle of the early morning rush hour. The screaming of sirens drawing inexorably nearer told him that they had still not yet received all of the casualties.
Grabbing a pair of surgical gloves, he headed straight for the heart of the action.
"Who's in charge here?" His calm authority had an immediate effect, as every eye turned towards him and there was a discernible reduction in the air of barely repressed panic that he had sensed on his arrival.
"Doctor Sloan, thank God."
Mark turned, frowning in confusion as he recognised the voice that had responded to his query and Sara Chaney emerged from the throng. She was a second year resident and, though competent, did not have the experience for the situation that she'd found herself in.
"Sara, where's Doctor Travis?" he demanded, having no time to spare for small talk.
"I don't know, sir," she answered, her relief at having someone there to take over evident in her voice. "Nobody's seen him."
"And Doctor Sharman?" he added, after pausing long enough to remember the duty roster for that week.
"He's already in the OR. Doctor Sloan, we're being overrun. I've got more people needing surgery than we can handle - and we're running out of beds."
"It's okay, Sara." After the fire the previous day, another large scale emergency was always going to stretch their resources. It was no reflection on her ability that she had been unable to cope. Both he and Jesse would have struggled under such extreme pressure.
As Sara explained the measures that she had already put in place, he nodded in silent approval. She had done as well as anyone could have expected. Not having the time to offer more than a brief word of praise, he caught hold of a passing orderly: "Get on to the front desk," he told him. "Have them call up every doctor that we have on staff and get as many of them in here as possible. And keep trying to get hold of Doctor Travis."
He didn't have time to worry about his young friend, didn't have time to wonder over his inexplicable absence. He could only hope that the explanation was something simple. Maybe Jesse's exhaustion had finally caught up with him and he had merely overslept; maybe the smash on the freeway had left him caught in traffic. He had to forcibly ignore the trepidation that churned in his gut - the instinct that told him all was not well. There were too many patients who needed him.

*****

Bill snapped on the cellar light, all the while keeping his eyes glued to his captive and revelling in the way that the man flinched and tried to protect his eyes from the sudden illumination.
Descending the stairs, he dropped into a crouch in front of Jesse. The bound man was paralysed by terror and - so far - he'd hardly had to lay a hand on him. This was going even better than he'd dared hope and he could almost smell the money that would be headed his way.
"Have you learned your lesson yet, boy?" he demanded, pulling the gag free again. Though he hadn't done it intentionally, he had echoed the exact words that Wayne had used when he'd finally seen fit to release the child Jesse from his confinement - the same words that their father had used when inflicting his punishment.
Jesse nodded minutely and cast his eyes downwards. Sometimes he had found that contrition was the safest course of action. Of course, that wasn't always the case. Sometimes whatever he chose to do was wrong. This was one such occasion.
Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and jerked him forwards away from the meagre security of the wall against his back.
"Look at me dammit!" Burton's fingers tightened cruelly and he gave the bound man a shake. The blonde head lifted, but unfocussed and glassy eyes stared straight through him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
When Jesse remained unresponsive, Burton's short temper snapped again. A violent slap to his cheek rocked his captive's head back, but still his eyes stayed eerily distant. He shook him again - harder - and followed it up with another brutal slap.
"Dammit, you will answer me, you little shit." Burton surged upwards, dragging Jesse with him. He bunched the fabric of the tee shirt in his fist, almost lifting the smaller man off his feet. "What happened to my brother?"
Jesse was physically incapable of answering him. He hadn't heard a single word that Burton had said and even the renewed pain barely penetrated the shock that had taken hold of him.
Burton didn't know any of this - he couldn't recognise the symptoms. With an angry snarl, he shoved Jesse back against the wall, the force of impact driving all the breath from his body. He followed up with a roundhouse punch to his stomach that ensured it almost impossible for him to catch it back again. Instinct caused his victim to try and double over, but Burton didn't let him. Grabbing him by the throat, he pinned him to the wall.
"I'm going to count to three," he muttered, his face very close to Jesse's. "And if you don't tell me exactly what I want to know, then I'm going to stop playing games here." He paused for effect. "One… Two… Three…"

*****

The ringing of his cellphone was a distraction that Mark didn't need, but nor was it one that he could ignore. He dragged it out of his pocket even as he directed another laden gurney towards a vacant trauma room.
"Mark Sloan," he answered, curtly. Though other doctors had arrived, the crisis was far from over and his eyes moved constantly, ensuring that his orders were being carried out.
"Dad, it's me."
"Steve?" Mark stopped dead in his tracks, focussing more intently on the call. There was an undercurrent of tension in his son's voice that demanded his full attention. "What's wrong?"
"Dad, is Jesse there with you? Is he there, at the hospital?"
"No…" His tension suddenly increased a thousandfold and he felt his stomach clench with dread. "No, he should be, but nobody's seen him. Steve, what's wrong? What's happened?"
"Uniform were called out to a routine break-in this morning, reported by a neighbour." Mark frowned to himself at the seeming inanity of the response, but didn't interrupt. "Somebody mentioned it to me because they recognised the address as being Jesse's."
"Is he alright?"
"I don't know, dad. I'm at his place now and there's no sign of him. That's why I was hoping he was with you."
"He isn't, Steve. He hasn't been seen all morning." His dread was growing by the second. "Steve, I'd come over there, but we're completely snowed under." Mark let his frustration filter into his voice. He wanted to find Jesse; to help him, because now he knew without a doubt that he needed help, but there were so many others who needed him at the hospital and he couldn't simply walk away from his obligations - no matter how much he wanted to.
"It's okay, dad." Steve's assertive voice absolved him of the responsibility. "We'll find him."

*****

Steve shoved his cellphone back into his pocket and looked slowly around the apartment. It looked the same as it always had - filled with Jesse's familiar clutter that almost bordered on untidiness. It certainly didn't look like the scene of a break-in.
There was nothing out of place in the lounge and, tellingly, Jesse's wallet, keys and cellphone all sat on the table next to the door. There were fifty-eight dollars in the wallet - not a great deal of cash, but certainly too tempting to be passed up by any casual thief.
In fact, there had been nothing out of place in the entire apartment and, if it weren't for the fact that the lock had been jimmied and the door left ajar, then there would have been no evidence whatsoever of the break-in.
Steve wandered into the bedroom and allowed his eyes to drift to the unmade bed and then to the clothes laid neatly over the back of a chair, as if they had been laid out ready for wearing the next day.
Idly he wondered why he'd even bothered phoning his father. It had been more than a long shot. It had been an impossible shot. Jesse wouldn't have left without getting dressed, without his keys or his wallet, not unless he had added sleepwalking to his repertoire.
Sleepwalking… Steve shook his head, dismissing the idea as quickly as it had arisen. He knew the sort of trouble that somnambulists could get into - his own Uncle Stacy had been testament to that fact - but, although Jesse had been under a tremendous amount of stress, it wouldn't explain the broken lock.
"Let's get an APB out on him," he said to the uniformed cops who were awaiting his instructions. "And get onto dispatch. Tell whoever's chasing up that search on Bill Burton to put a shake on it. I've got a feeling that where we'll find one, we'll find the other."

*****

Jesse lay on his side on the cellar floor and tried to curl into a ball, to protect himself from the blows that rained down on him. The movement hurt his stomach.
Burton had flown into a rage when his threats had not produced the results he desired and, unable to believe that the diminutive doctor could hold out against him, had laid into him with his fists. The questions continued, even though Burton never gave him time to answer.
He turned his face into the concrete floor - stained by his own blood - and tried to find the words that would make the beating stop.
"I'm sorry…" His voice was small and pitiful and Burton didn't even hear him.
The enraged man hauled Jesse up by the scruff of his neck and slammed him back against the wall.
"I know that you know," he snarled, breathless from the exertion he'd undergone. "And you are going to tell me, no matter how long it takes."
He flung Jesse away from him across the cellar, watching with sadistic delight as he stepped on a broken bottle on the floor. The bare foot split open and Jesse's legs gave way as agony raced through him. He fell heavily, landing awkwardly on one side and was unable to stifle his cry of pain. Then he could only lie trembling, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
Confusion clouded his mind as the same question was thrown at him for what seemed the thousandth time. There had never been questions before. There had been threats and profanities and dire warnings as to what else might be done to him. But there had never been these repetitive, never-ending demands.
As Burton strode towards him again, Jesse cowered away and a new instinct came to the fore - this one born of the need to survive.
"It was the men," he cried, without conscious thought. "The men, they killed him. It was the men…"

*****

Having finally got things under control in the ER, Mark had headed to the doctors' lounge, needing a break and seeking solitude in order to think.
It was there that Amanda found him later that morning. The hospital grapevine had been working to full effect and the news of Jesse's disappearance had reached her, even in the pathology lab. As soon as she had heard, she'd gone in search of Mark. Then, seeing the worry deeply etched into the lines of his face, she knew that the gossip had been as accurate as ever.
"Mark, any news?" she asked, sliding into the seat next to him.
"Steve hasn't called back, he must still be investigating." Mark sighed and looked down at his hands. "Bill Burton's got him - I'm sure of it."
"Mark?" Amanda prompted, uneasily. There had been something in his voice that wasn't right, something more than simple worry. It had sounded like guilt.
"I think Steve guessed that something like this might happen." The older man looked at her with anguished eyes. "He got on to his colleagues to try and track Burton down, but then he got called away. I knew that he was expecting them to call back, but I kept the phone tied up all night. What if they had something and were trying to get through? We could have prevented this."
"You don't know that, Mark." Amanda covered one of his hands with her own. "You don't even know if they were trying to get through, if they even succeeded in tracking Burton down."
"They didn't." Steve strode into the lounge, just in time to hear Amanda's words. "There's no record of Burton on any scheduled flights and he hasn't hired a car. He hasn't even checked into a hotel - at least, not under his own name."
"Then how are we going to find him?"
"I don't know, Amanda." With a frustrated sigh, he ran one hand through his hair. "I've got an APB out on both him and Jesse but, other than that, I don't even know where to start looking."
"Perhaps I can help you with that, Lieutenant," a new voice said into the silence that had followed Steve's words.
"Dane!" Mark was on his feet in an instant as Jesse's father stepped through the door. "What are you doing here?"
The newcomer smiled humourlessly: "So far this morning, I have received fourteen messages that you were trying to contact me. I got the impression that it was urgent."
"It is." The doctor gestured for him to sit down, waiting for him to comply before continuing. "I'm afraid that Jesse's missing." When Dane merely raised an eyebrow in response to that statement, he pressed on: "There was a break-in at his apartment this morning and… well… he hasn't been seen since."
"Do you have any idea as to whom? Or why?" Dane was as composed as ever and he directed his questions towards Steve.
"We think it's a guy called Bill Burton. He's been hanging around…"
"Burton, you say?" The mention of that name at last provoked a reaction, a tightening of his jaw and a sudden hardness to his eyes.
"Yeah, do you know him?"
"I know of him," Dane answered, guardedly. "And, if he's been hanging around here, then I suppose you all know why."
"His brother," Mark put in, wanting to say so much more; wanting answers to the questions that had been nagging at him for days. But he knew that they didn't have the luxury of time for such things. "He wants to know the truth."
"And he thinks Jesse knows it." Dane paused thoughtfully for a long moment. "But you've no idea where he might be, or where he's taken my son?"
"We don't even know for sure that it was him," Steve retorted, feeling personally responsible for having failed his friend.
"I think you do - and I also think that you're right. But Jesse has suffered enough because of that family. You have to find him."
"That's what I've been trying to do!" the detective snapped, allowing his frustration to surface. Dane was making him feel even guiltier than he had before. "If you have any suggestions, then I'd be happy to hear them."
The CIA agent got to his feet and glanced at his watch.
"Where are you going?" Mark asked, unable to believe that he was simply going to walk out of there when Jesse was still in such danger.
"The Agency has access to all sorts of… information and technology. And we know how to track people down." Another brief smile touched his lips. "Keep your phone switched on, Lieutenant. I'll be in touch."

*****

Burton had stopped in his tracks when he'd heard Jesse's feeble cry, but the strange choice of words didn't penetrate the overwhelming greed that was dictating his actions. He only saw it as progress. But it was minimal progress; the men that he'd so piteously referred to obviously meant the trespassers and he already knew that story to be a lie. However, he had finally received an answer. Now all he had to do was turn that answer into the truth.
"Oh no you don't," he murmured, taking another step forwards. The bound man whimpered softly and tried to curl into a foetal position, but pain flashed across his features and the movement quickly stopped. Burton glared down at him. "Your buddy's already tried to spin me that line."
He hooked his toes under Jesse's ribs and rolled him onto his back. Then he planted one foot squarely in the centre of his chest.
"The truth now, kid," he snarled, slowly applying more pressure. "You don't wanna see me really lose my temper."
Jesse tried to move, but his arms were trapped agonisingly beneath him and the increasing pain in his chest was making it difficult for him to breathe. Two tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, in spite his best efforts to stop them. Wayne had seen tears as a sign of weakness and they inevitably led to further punishment.
"I'm sorry…" he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent further tears from escaping. "I didn't mean to… I'm sorry…"
"Godammit!" Burton lifted his foot from the prone man's chest and used it to kick him swiftly, brutally, in the side.
Jesse cried out again, his back arching at the sudden fire that raced through him. Then Burton kicked out again and he heard something crack.
As the booted foot connected for a third time, he gratefully gave in to the darkness that beckoned.

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