Codename: Lancælot
by silverluna
Chapter Fourteen
~*~
After they heard the scream, all their fears came to term. It was one, loud cry of undulated terror. *A cry for help.*
Later, several guests on that floor would report to the manager that they had, yes, heard a scream, a male voice yelling in fear. Some would say that it scared them, because it took them so off guard. Some would suggest that it be reported to the police. There was only one scream, one sound. No witnesses to his disappearance otherwise. His scream was the last before he vanished completely into thin air. The manager would later call the police, even before Nsync's security team got the chance. The police interviewed the guests who heard JC's scream, and after that, Justin and Chris.
Both had frozen at that moment. *Help.* Just one word. But they knew his voice, they heard the recent panic and hysteria in that one word. They had no idea what direction it had come from; it seemed to be at all sides at the same times.
Justin became instantly lightheaded while Chris' chest tightened with anxiety. "He needs us and we're not there," Justin gasped. They had tried though, to find him.
When the police came to interview them, all of their eyes were red rimmed, both with shed and unshed tears. The three felt empty, defeated, angry. He was supposed to be safe here, they all were. The police interviewed them one by one. They talked about JC's strange behavior that day, but not about JC's attempted kidnapping. Instead, they shared the burden three ways. Joey felt as if it would crush him.
The officers finally gathered everyone together— the guys, Johnny, and the security team. "We need all of your to hear this as one unit," an officer said, his face stone. "As of this moment, Mr. Chasez is being considered a missing person. However, our current leads suggest a kidnapping." There they were, those words. *Missing.*
*Missing. He's not with us, Lance isn't with us . . . they're . . . missing. . . .* Justin's thoughts trailed off as he clenched his fists. He felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.
*Kidnapping.* The bottom dropped out. They were falling into the unforgiving darkness below. Would they ever get out, would they ever see Lance and JC again . . . alive?
Chris dropped his face into his hands. *Oh, my God. Oh, my God. They've got JC. Oh, my God.* He loathed himself for not being able to protect JC, especially after knowing JC was a target. *Duh, idiot. He was almost kidnapped once. How could I let it happen now?* He had to hold his hand over his own mouth to keep from blurting out the transgression of the kidnapping attempt.
The police asked the usual questions: do you have any enemies? Have you been threatened recently? "We think the abduction of Mr. Bass and the disappearance of Mr. Chasez are related, but since our investigation has only begun, no details are as of yet available."
*Then why bother telling us, you creep?* Joey huffed internally. *You probably didn't even start Lance's case yet.* He stared daggers at the cops. *You are completely useless.*
Justin fought his own battle with anger. It took the shape of denial. "But are you really sure JC was—" He avoided loaded words. "I mean, maybe he just got lost—" His voice squeaked. "Maybe he just passed out. He could still be here—" The silence was uncomfortable. Joey and Chris watched Justin fall apart.
Johnny squeezed Justin's shoulder. "It's okay, just keep it together, Justin." Tears fell. To the one of the cops, he asked if this too, would be able to be kept away from the media's eyes.
Chris bit his lip. The scream he'd heard had been JC's, he knew that for certain.
"Now," another officer stated, "from what the three of you"— he gestured to Joey, Chris, and Justin— "have told us, Mr. Chasez wandered out of the hotel room in a disoriented state. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Joey affirmed, though he hadn't seen JC go.
"We believe that the people responsible for Mr. Chasez's disappearance may have been stalking him. Though it is a slim possibility, those same people may still be here, watching you."
"Are you saying they could be in danger as well?" Lonnie questioned.
Joey, Justin, and Chris exchanged glances.
"Because of the recent set of events," the second officer continued, raising an eyebrow at Lonnie's comment, "we are lead to believe that Mr. Kirkpatrick, Mr. Timberlake, and Mr. Fatone are in more danger than before."
The room and its inhabitants all fell away, leaving the three remaining pop stars surrounded by darkness. The drone of a slow, deep voice that didn't at all resemble Lance's emerged from the dark. "Along with your security team, we will be appointing officers to wherever you choose to stay. We will be with you at all times. . . ."
~*~
After they had been lectured, soothed, angered, upset, and scared further, Joey, Chris, and Justin sat in their suite, discussing what had recently transpassed. Johnny was next door, and in the hallway, three bodyguards and two uniformed police officers stood.
"They didn't do a good enough job," Justin protested. "C coulda still been around here, but those dumb cops didn't move fast enough."
"How can he just be gone without a trace?" Chris wondered aloud. "Just, remember, *we* looked too, before the police got here."
Justin clenched his jaw. He remembered.
"So, they *were* after *him* after all," Joey mused quietly. "What the hell was I thinking? I wished I'd reacted better to JC's freaking out."
Chris patted Joey's arm. "I know, Joe. I wanted to protect him too."
"First Lance, now JC—" Justin began. "Do you think what the cops said is true, that we're all targets?" His eyes shone with unspoken tears.
"I don't know, J," Joey replied, his voice still soft. "I mean, why just take Lance that night? They chloroformed all of us—"
"Except Lance," Chris interjected.
Joey nodded, his brow kneading up. "Yeah, that's right. But we all passed out. If they wanted to, they could have taken all of us— but they just left us there. Why?"
"They didn't want us," Justin stated.
"Then why go after C all of a sudden? It's been almost two weeks since Lance was abducted. Then like three or four days ago, we get baited with some ridiculous story that some stranger has info about Lance."
"And we went out there alone, like freaking idiots—" Justin added with a touch of sadness.
"Shut it, Curly," Chris said, turning his dark brown eyes to Justin's face. "Even *JC* said we should go. We didn't know that we'd be in danger."
"No, that *he'd* be in danger," Justin corrected gently.
"I think that's the point, guys. These people— it's like they're playing some game with us. They don't want a ransom; it would be real easy for them to ask for one. But there's been no contact."
"What— what do they want?"
"You don't think this is a twisted revenge thing? For how popular we are, we have a lot of haters too."
Joey shook his head, taking a deep breath. "I don't think that's it. I mean, someone like that would thrive on media attention. They'd want us to 'know' every step in their plan, and what they'd already done, etc., etc."
Justin sighed. "So that would probably rule out stalkers too."
Joey raised an eyebrow in thought. "Well, the cops think somebody's been watching us pretty closely. I'm afraid we have to pay attention to that. But it can't be an ordinary stalker type."
"How the hell are we going to find anything out?" Justin said, exasperated. "We're basically under 'house arrest' here."
Chris dropped his head. "I want to get them back, and then I want to get out of here." Joey and Justin nodded in agreement. "We gotta get them back, guys," Chris' voice rasped. He wiped his eyes with his fist.
The three sat in silence for a short time, each letting his own thoughts drift, trying to make sense of what had become, trying not to think the absolute worst, trying to find a doable solution.
*I don't know what's worse,* Justin thought, not wanting to say it aloud, *actually witnessing Lance get taken right in front of us, or only hearing JC yell for help and not seeing him vanish.*
*Fuck it, I hate feeling so powerless,* a voice inside said to Chris. *Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.* He let the tears out.
*How did this happen? We were fine, just the other day, it seems. Now look at us. It's pathetic.* Joey frowned. He decided to break the silence. "Guys, we gotta face the facts. It's the three of us, for now. Since we can't leave and the cops won't give us the full story, we have to work it out here."
"Like, try to do what we were doing before JC— disappeared?"
"Yeah, but we have to amp it up. Since we couldn't understand JC's behavior then, we should try to now. I think he was trying to tell us something earlier, but we ignored him."
Justin idly fingered the material on the chair he sat in. He needed to be near something physical— something being held down by gravity. He felt he wasn't . . . until it hit him. He sprang to his feet. "JC's notebook. Omigod!"
Chris and Joey eyed him with skepticism.
"Remember how JC had that dream and he wrote it down in the notebook and then showed it to us?"
Joey nodded, tapping his foot against the floor with impatience.
"And that he didn't know that he'd 'drawn' a face with the words?"
Chris frowned. "J, where are you going with this?"
Justin ignored their blankness. "Well, maybe he wrote some of those other dreams down. Maybe we can decipher them. Maybe they would tell us something."
Chris gasped with realization. "The kid is brilliant," he stated with a small grin. Joey added a tiny smile of encouragement.
What JC had left behind— his words— were all they had to go on now. Those words were the closest things to reality and yet the also the farthest things away from it. JC cried out for help, first on those pages, and then with his voice, one strained word linking him to the present and leaving him in the past.
~*~
The garden again. Lucious greenery, sensual blossoms, roses in every color. The South always flushed its flourishful colors in the spring. And like any other part of the country, love came. Love came in many flavors— sweet, tart, tangy, passionate, bitter, airy, deep, precious, true— and false. Such false angels disguised themselves as love— lust, greed, jealousy, betrayal, pride, revenge— they all wore masks but were not truly love in any form.
She emerged from the emerald leaf strung door, winding under the weeping willow, the scent of magnolia saturating the air. His bare hand enclosed her white gloved one— her chocolate curls bound yet overflowing. In her hair he could smell magnolia, roses. Her aura spilled out like liquid and upon taste he knew it was love— true love— on his tongue— a real, live angel love— a real live love. Her dark eyes peered out of the hot grey shadows, checking the grounds for intruders, for spies. Against the steady trunk of the weeping willow, she leaned her parasol, an intimate guardian to her garden intrigue.
How sweet it is was— how sweet, how fragranced. And what tale would she relay to the servants who would surely want to know how she had stained her white dress in that manor? It didn't matter. When the time came, love would answer for her.
He gripped her hand and brushed his lips against her neck. She giggled in a refined, Victorian-Southern manner. It was all very charming— and more than just an intrigue to him. The way it had begun, he had thought it would remain a potent memory— a loving fling for both of them— something special for her to think of when she was forced to be a wife to— to— that terrible, older man— the one would loomed over her like a nightmare— the one who disguised lust for love so that her father would agree to his marriage proposal.
But things had changed now— he was— he was in love with her. He was certainly not as wealthy as the man who loomed over his desire like a wild, rabid animal, yet his fortune was growing.
"We— we mustn't—"
She turned at the sound of his deep voice, caught sight of the serious passion in his eyes as he pulled her close to his broad chest.
"We mustn't keep sneaking around like this, Ms. Scott. To be frank, I am in love with you. We must— see your father— tell him." She began trembling against him, her voice shaking as she tried to reply. His strong arms held her tighter. "Now, you mustn't fear," he soothed.
"But, I do," she whispered. "For I share the love that you have. Yet, my future— it is already been planned. My father would never— he would never—"
"Ms. Scott, I am not a pauper. Your father must know that when I call upon you."
She turned to face him— the beautiful now face to face. Her eyes fell into his eyes— the charming vibrancy which had first intrigued her to his side. She remained buried in the thrushes of his eyes as she spoke his name in love— a breathy murmur that the gentle breeze took with a hum. "I— my father— he will never—" As she said "never," her heart broke into 100 pieces— a beautiful death that would never be reconciled. Never . . . never . . .
"No tears, my love," he lilted in her ear.
"But he is— Father sent for him—" She pulled from her lover with fear. "He will arrive today, love." The last word, like his name, was whispered. "That dreadful man is to meet with my father— to discuss our marriage—" She could not help the stray tears that poured out of her. She was in love— love, that thing she read about in fairy stories, in literature. It was straight off the pages— real, in her heart.
And she was to lose it, give it up for a wicked man nearly three times her age whom she did not love nor did he love her. She had seen his lust— had shrunk away from that disturbing gaze— had excused herself in a "vapor." Retiring to her fainting couch, she'd closed her eyes, trying to remove the way he had violated her with his lust. For the first time in her young life, she had indulged in a vision of suicide— an escape from the vile man with his wandering hands. That vision had come before she had loved— before she had fallen in love with another man.
"Perhaps," she whispered, a fervent blush in her cheeks, "we should run away—"
He let his lips droop into a disapproving frown. "We have nothing to be ashamed of, Ms. Scott. Such an idea is unrespectable. Our love should no longer need to be a secret." He tensed suddenly, sensing another living being near to them. How much had been spilled? He hoped it was merely a rabbit or a bird— a creature that spoke and understood a different language so both young lovers remained out of danger. Though he spoke with confidence, he was frightened of being torn apart from her. Banished— exploited— such a tryst would destroy his social relationship— yet he shook that thought away. He did not car about social climbing anymore. He would give it all up— move to the country, build there a modest home— just so long as his love was by his side. Though the thought of being chased away made his stomach turn.
She sensed the change in his mood. "What is it?" His hands had slipped from her waist, so she turned. A pair of blue eyes were visible through the shadows.
~*~
Terrified, Lance tried to will his eyes to transform on their own. This, he shouldn't— it shouldn't be— he shouldn't be seeing that. Those eyes, they were too blue— too familiar. It couldn't possibly be— it couldn't possibly be.
Little Flower caught him between the realm of semi consciousness. Her fist sent him reeling back, and then another hit with the syringe made him choke. He was drowning in his own vomit. *Wake up, wake up,* he urged. In the darkness of his own mind, he recognized two eyes. Panicking, he tried to get out. *No, no,* he screamed, yet his lips were numb and his mouth, vomit filled so he let his eyes go. It was all he could do to keep from dying. His eyes wide open; they recorded something his other self— the self he knew well— feared, yet couldn't believe should possibly be true.
~*~
Her hand flew to her mouth. She recognized those eyes. "Thomas," she whispered. She clenched his wrist, urging him to join the two in the semi-light shadow way.
"Kikiriki," he responded, looking her over, then scanning the man she had been in the garden with.
"Thomas," the young man breathed in relief. "You— has she— told you of our love?"
Thomas drew a breath, his heart cut by the word "love." He knew this would be all the more difficult now to break it off.
"Please, Thomas," the young woman pleaded. "You must help us. You can convince father. Go to him on our behalf. Tell him that that awful man changed his mind— that my love is here—" She gestured.
*Look at their eyes,* Thomas gulped. *They look so hopeful—* But he forced his voice to remain stern. "Kikiriki, he has arrived. Father wishes you to be present—"
"No!" Her cry was full of anguish— a heart breaking into 100 pieces. "I cannot marry such a man! I do not love him! I cannot! I will only love once!" She broke away from the two men, rushing into the light and disappearing into the hedge maze.
Her love stepped forward, gripping Thomas' shoulder. "Please, Thomas. We are friends. Please, you must help us. This is not a tryst, a fling. I love her. I desire her hand in marriage. You— you can help influence your stepfather's decision."
Those blue eyes— now sapphire in the semi-light shadows— went unchanged. Still, the answer came from his heart. "I will see what I can do."
~*~
*I didn't hear you leave; I wonder how am I still here. And I don't want to move a thing— it might change my memory. I am what I am, I'll do what I want, but I can't hid. And I won't go, I won't sleep. I can't breathe . . . until you're resting here with me. . . .*
The words were scrawled into JC's notebook with arrows both connecting and pointing away from them. One arrow pointed to the word "her," which in turn had another arrow reaching back towards the "I" in the song lyrics. "I won't go" and "I can't breathe" were double underlined and "until you're resting here with me" was circled. A line slashed back through song, linking "her" with the song's last line. It was so muddled that Justin wondered if he was even understanding it right— or if it could be understood at all. Another arrow from "her" pointed to the letter "R" with a question mark after it.
The more Justin read JC's scrawls, the more unsettled he became. He recognized the lyrics— they were a from a song by Dido, "Here with Me." He'd gone to Lance's laptop and pulled the full song and lyrics up. Listening to the song while he looked over JC's first passage disturbed Justin as if a dark thing were passing through him, that it had already passed JC and had taken him— a talon enclosing its helpless prey.
*R? Who or what is R?* A memory hit Justin. It was the nigh of Lance's abduction, though beforehand when on the bus. JC's voice had taken on a husky tone momentarily and he'd uttered a name. He'd said something about a rose. Rose? Was that what "R?" referred to? Justin got a pen, circled the "R?" and drew a line from it. Under the line he wrote "Rose?" and then several question marks following it. From those he scrawled "who?", "what?", and "where?" After a moment he added "when?"
Joey signed from intense frustration. He'd been trying to piece together the events before JC's disappearance, but he wasn't getting anywhere.
Chris studied the face JC had made out of words. He had written the words exactly as JC had on another piece of paper, but the "face" had not "appeared" or at least, was not as apparent. Still, Chris traced the words from the original to give shape to the face hidden. "That's weird," he remarked quietly at not being able to exactly capture it the way JC had. The back of his neck prickled. On his copy, he wrote "Hotel" underneath the crude imitation of the woman's face. "Hotel" was in the lyric.
*Lyric?* "Wow," he breathed, realizing.
"Met him in a hotel beneath ground. Tell me that he's missing. Tell me this is one for Lollipop Gestapo," he wrote quickly, underlining the words "him," "missing," and "Lollipop Gestapo." He put several question marks after "Lollipop Gestapo."
"Justin?"
"Yeah?" The young man looked up slowly.
"Lemme borrow the laptop," Chris replied somewhat excitedly. Justin stared at him tiredly but handed it over. Chris took it and brought up a search page. He typed in the lyrics and was rewarded with several hits. He clicked on one. "Tori Amos, Hotel," he muttered, jotting the answer down. Then he read the rest of the song's lyrics. He asked Joey and Jusin for their pieces of the notebook.
"Chris, what?" Joey grumbled.
"Come on, I think this could be important," Chris stated. He went through all of JC's dreams and all had some kind of song lyric in them. A modern, real song. "Why these songs?" Chris muttered.
"What is it?" Justin asked.
"Look." Chris gestured to the screen. Joey and Justin looked in wearily. Chris tapped the notebook with the back of his hand. "Everything JC wrote, all his dreams— they are connected to these songs. He woke up with lyrics of other people's songs in his head. My question is, why these songs? Are they connected somehow?" His dark his shone. "Are they the key to finding JC and Lance?"
Joey sighed. "Chris, it could just be coincidence."
Chris frowned. "Joey, think about it. *Seriously.*"
Joey swallowed back a chuckle because Chris had said "seriously" with a serious face. He sighed again. "I guess— it's all we have to go on."
"Yeah," Justin agreed. "And— they're counting on us. Only we can help them now." Both of them stared at Justin. "We gotta figure out this mystery, guys. It's gone unsolved for too long. If we don't figure it out—" He was shaken by his own thoughts of never seeing JC or Lance again.
Joey pulled Justin into a hug. "We're gonna get them back, Just."
Chris nodded. "Yeah. Like you said, we just have to."
~*~
He was no longer bound, but the fact hadn't struck him when he woke up. The room was dark, and different than where he had been before. It was some kind of oversized storage closet— empty, save for him.
Anyone who saw him now who knew him wouldn't recognize him. The peaceful spirit he once had had been twisted. He was afraid to sleep and more afraid to stay awake. He wanted to fall into an assuming sleep, one that lasted for days. He wanted to feel nothing, think of nothing. Lance barely knew his own mind anymore. Every piece that had fit was jumbled now. What was the right order? He didn't have the time to care.
Mind games, drugs, reverse psychology, physical as well as psychological control. The hallucinations. He was sick of it. Time, he felt, had either stopped or had left him behind.
Lance heard the door being unlocked. The back of his of neck tingled, his mouth went dry. He didn't move. It didn't matter; they were going to get what they wanted. Whatever that was.
The door opened, letting in a little fresh air. A light flicked on, and his tired eyes watched as three figures dressed head to toe in black enter. Under the brightness, Lance adjusted his eyes. They did not speak to him, and he wondered what they wanted when he saw one of them holding something over his shoulder. Then, a knot in his throat. It was . . . a person. The person was unconscious and tied up. Gently, they lowered the person to the floor and turned to leave. They were out the door with no instructions for Lance. The door relocked but the light stayed on.
Slowly, Lance moved towards the person. He thought, at first, that his eyes— were they really his?— were playing tricks on him. Back, when or whenever that last mind warp occurred, when he'd seen—
It was a man, young, like himself, lying on his side. Lance touched the man's shoulder. Real. He was real.
"No, no," Lance muttered, scooting back to the wall. "It's another deception. It's not— it's someone else."
He moved. Lance watched him for a short time, but the man's face didn't change into someone else. He tried to open his eyes. Lance knelt over him. "JC?" he whispered. "JC?"