by silverluna
Chapter Four
~*~
March 5, 1908
Dear Diary,
All alone. Alone-ness. Not even sure if it is a word. It has been—Oh God, since I—
Tears spilled onto the already yellowing paper. Fraily, she composed what was left of herself. Over these past seven years, she had become wispy, flitty. Her chocolate hair in wild fluff was reduced to a limp, billowy death. Her faded eyes stared at the white walls. She felt so lost.....hopeless....
I still cannot utter the words. I wonder still why I cannot turn around and have him standing there, open arms....
She dropped her head, openly sobbing.
A large, stoic woman in a white dress-like uniform appeared in the crooked doorway. She scowled at the scene before her. "Tsk, tsk," she said, annoyed.
She looked up from her diary, her eyes stinging. The White Ghost was before her. She never called The White Ghost by name. The White Ghost only came for one thing only. Panic seized her.
The woman in the uniform crossed her arms. "You are tragically pathetic, my dear." She didn't pretend to be kind. "It has been seven years. The curse of the broken looking glass is at its end."
It will never end, she thought miserably. She cried out, her eyes straying to The White Ghost's pasty hand.
A syringe was curled in her fat fingers. "Something for the pain," The White Ghost said.
She screamed wildly. An oncoming panic attack. "You do not understand! He is dead! I saw—" She leapt up, her bottom lip trembling. She was instantly dizzy from the sudden movement. Her head reeled into distortion. "But I saw!"
"Orderly!" the woman in the uniform called over her shoulder.
Madness spread out before her like a fog. Her diary slipped from her fingers.
~*~
It was like trying to be born. To emerge from a darkened tunnel into blinding light. And there was haze. Fog. And many shards of ghosts yanking at him. His hair, clothing....sanity.... His eyes strayed open, then closed, then he opened one eye. Light burst into a thousand prisms. He was rushed against the world. He hit hard. He smashed his mouth against pavement.
A few feet from him, another was struggling to come back into the world of the living. There had been a train wreck in his head. And he had been tied to the tracks....
Two more were struggling, trying to face nightmares and demons. Clenched fists. Unclenched fists. Slack lips. One of them groaned, a pounding sensation rushing in his ears. A groggy, weak feeling was washing over him.
One of them spoke. Softly. "Help."
He was trying to discern the voice. Define it. Where was it coming from? Exhustion was pushing down on him, whispering like a lover in his ear: Come here. Stay with me.
The one who had spoken turned his neck to the side. It cracked. He moaned, finding his hands. He pushed himself half up. He blinked. Slowly.
One of them rolled to one side, scrunching up and puking. He'd taken an extra dose.
The figure spoke again. "Chris? Are you okay?"
Chris continued to puke. After his stomach was empty, he switched sides. His lips were trembling. He brought his eyes up to Justin's.
Justin appeared confused and perplexed.
"Oh my God," one of them whispered. A single tear unconsciously escaped his eye.
Joey's eyes reopened, staring up into the white sky. Still on his back, he brought a shaking arm to his eyes to look at his watch. 6:58 am.
"Oh my God," JC whispered again. He wrangled himself half way into a sitting position. He regretted it, a wave of naseusea teasing him. He fought it off, turning his head.
The alleyway was emerging in light now—they could see all the way to the end, but there were still day shadows.
"Lance," JC whispered, a veil of disillusion falling before his eyes. He didn't see Lance anywhere. "Guys," he began, his voice betraying him.
Justin looked too, frantic in the haze. He saw nothing.
The memory came back to Chris strongly; he began to puke again.
Joey crawled to his side. He gripped Chris' jacket, hauling him up. "Chris," he muttered softly.
"Oh my God," Justin snapped, horrified. He was remembering too. "There was a van," he began, as if it were some story and not his own life. "And people. They wanted to hurt us." He paused, shuddering.
They did, Joey thought, fighting the urge to vomit.
JC's heart fluttered rapidly. It began furiously echoing in his brain. "They drugged us," he hissed.
Chris sat up finally, not bothering to wipe his mouth. He stared off into space.
Joey looked to that place too. "Those bastards took Lance," he stated, tears choking up his voice.
Justin, JC and Chris were also affected by this statement. There was a trickle of guilt, followed by a feeling which resembled being hollowed out from the inside, killed brutally while they were still alive. Joey felt his tongue go numb.
Justin twisted in horror and realization. Anxiety and sickness prickled him. "Why did they ki—" He choked on the word kidnap because saying it would make it too real. He started again. "Why did they want Lance? Are they going to...hurt him?" Tears punuacted the end of the sentence.
Joey swung at him sarcastically. "Are you completely daft? Lance has been kidnapped" —he said it, though it felt as if he was being run over by a truck— "by God knows who, and now we're all alone."
"In the voodoo district, no less," Chris quipped.
"Stop it!" JC ordered. Justin looked as if he'd been slapped. "Bickering isn't going to get us anywhere. Joey, that was uncalled for."
Joey looked down. "I know." He hesitated. "I'm just—worried, you know."
"So am I!" Justin snapped, tearing in his voice. He felt inwardly responsible.
"Hey!" JC warned. He didn't feel like playing the bad guy right now. He didn't want to be strong either. He wanted to fall apart. But his inner seams bound his emotions too tightly. He felt as if he could barely breathe.
Chris turned inwards to face them. He was still bitter with vomit. "C's right. We're in a lot of trouble, and so's Lance." His heart was grim. "We gotta get help."
A shadowy figured turned the corner.
Chris caught it out of the corner of his eye. He flinched. JC and Justin recoiled in fear. Joey just sat there, choking on noises that would have been screams.
The figure got closer. The shadows fell off of it.
Chris shook with with relief and fear. It was Dre.
Dre's face resembled a mask of anger, relief, and perplexity at only counting four of them. "Jesus," he muttered at the sight of them. They looked like shit. He approached, gun drawn.
"They've gone," JC informed sadly.
"They freaking abducted Lance, Dre," Justin interjected. He made himself say the words. It was true.
"What?! Christ." He radioed the other bodyguards. "Yeah, I found 'em. Some of 'em, anyway." Dre pulled the radio away from his ear as Lonnie swore into it. "Lon, they look like they've been attacked." He waited for a response. "We're on a side street of Chartres Street. Hurry up. They look like they've been through the war. Bring meds."
He hooked the radio onto his belt. He fought to control his temper. "Why the hell didn't you wait for me last night?"
"We thought you were right behind us," Justin began. "We were gonna go back to the bus, but I guess we made a wrong turn." He choked on those words, realizing how ironic the statement was. He put his head in his hands.
Kneeling down, Dre lifted JC's eyelids. JC pulled away, but Dre held him. "No, we didn't sleep," JC snapped. He didn't like feeling helpless and trapped.
Or caught up in madness.
"C, calm down. We're safe," Joey attempted.
"Safe?!" JC cried, tears littering his cheeks. " Lance is not safe! Those people stole him!" Why couldn't I protect him?
Unbeknownst to JC, the thought echoed in everyone else's mind as well.
Dre's arm tightened around JC's shoulders. "Shh," he whispered in JC's ear. "Joshua Scott Chasez," he continued in a firm tone when JC twisted. "What the hell happened?" he demanded. He looked from Justin to Joey to Chris. The front of Chris' shirt was crusty with vomit. Dre felt his stomach turn.
"We stepped into this alleyway," Chris replied in a dull tone. The shine had gone from his eyes. "And we thought we saw a dark van or something parked there." He paused. "We—we tried to turn back but before we could these people grabbed us."
Dre listened. JC was shaking, reliving it with the other three of them.
"They drugged us with chloroform," Joey went on. His brow furrowed, still trying to make sense of it. "All of us but Lance. I saw them gag Lance with duct tape, and they handcuffed him, and forced him into the van."
Dre raised his eyebrows. "Why kidnap just Lance and not the rest of you? It's not like Lance is richer than any of you."
No one had any answers.
"Can you describe these people? What about the van?"
"It was a black van," JC offered. He eyed Justin, Chris, and Joey, whom all just shrugged. "The people weren't wearing masks, but it was really dark and I couldn't make out any of their faces."
Joey nodded. "It just all blurs together."
"I remember there was a woman with them. They were all wearing black," JC continued.
Justin bit his lip. "She seemed like she was the leader. She looked at us and said 'That one,' and then we got attacked."
"We tried to yell for help," Chris said, "but they put the cloths over our mouths."
Dre nodded. He looked up as Lonnie and the others arrived.
"Shit," Lonnie muttered, surveying the scene. Justin, JC, Joey, and Chris looked disheveled and hollowed. He looked at Dre. "Where in the freaking hell is Lance?"
Dre got to his feet. "The guys say that they were attacked and their attackers kidnapped Lance." As the bodyguards exchanged words, medical technicians took care of JC, Justin, Joey, and Chris. They got them to their feet. "I'll call personnel," Dre volunteered.
~*~
They hadn't gone to a hospital. Too much publicity. Instead, they got the bus and called a hotel. Once there, they called a doctor who would see each of them privately in the comfort of the hotel suite.
They were all still violently shaken. Chris still had vomit crusted on his shirt. The doctor gripped Chris' arm as he shone the light into Chris' eyes. Chris blinked rapidly and continued to shake. "Young man," the doctor soothed.
"I can't. Help. It," Chris extracted through trembling lips.
The doctor motioned one of their manager, Johnny Wright, to help Chris up. "I'm going to prescribe a sedative for you, Mr. Kirkpatrick, after I see your friends."
"I don't want to go to sleep," Chris mumbled. He wanted to substitute his first name and brothers for friends, but he if found it too hard to jest. "He has bad breath," he muttered to Justin.
Justin eyed his vomit stained shirt. "You should talk," Justin whispered back.
Chris peered down at his shirt. He gave it a little tug. "Yeah. Well." Even though it was slight, he had a fragmented notion that if he kept it on, Lance would be found safe. He felt sick again. Now he wished to rip the shirt from his body. He knew that he could never go back. Never....
The puke came up with violence. Johnny caught him as he stumbled to his knees.
Joey and JC stood motionless, watching. Justin heard it happening, but was having a light shone in his pupils at the time.
Chris was in a kneeling position, staring at the mess on the floor. He felt tears of agony slipping down his cheeks. His insides were twisted. He figured if he threw up anymore, his organs would start coming up.
Johnny noticed the tears. "Chris, can you stand?" Chris nodded. "Come on," Johnny continued, helping the shaking man to his feet.
"Is he going to stop throwing up?" Justin asked after Chris had gone into one of the rooms.
"He's just having a reaction to the chloroform, Mr. Timberlake," the doctor told him. "It's best if he gets if out of his system."
After the doctor finished examining JC and Joey, Chris came out of the room, wearing a new shirt. His lips were still crusty with vomit, but he didn't appear to care. "I think you need a sedative, Mr. Kirkpatrick."
"Yeah?" Chris said, his voice hollow. JC eyed him. "Wasn't the chloroform enough?"
"Something to relax you," the doctor attempted.
Chris' eyes widened as he crossed his arms. "What if I don't want to be relaxed? What if I want to be sick and puke my organs out? One of my brothers is missing, for God's sake! What gives me the right to relax when he's in trouble?"
After his outburst, an awkward silence filled up the room. Chris looked down, but not in apology. Joey, Justin, and JC went to him. They began to speak amongst themselves quietly.
The doctor pulled Johnny Wright aside. "Mr. Wright, I know this isn't my place to say, but this is really a matter for the police." He'd been sworn to secrecy. Johnny had paid him extra not to go to the media.
Johnny sighed. Internally, he was shaking and losing control. "I can't. Not yet."
The doctor bit his criticizing words back. "The effect of the chloroform will wear off within 5-8 hours."
"And Chris?"
The doctor eyed Chris. "Try to keep him calm. He really doesn't have anything left to vomit up." He handed Johnny some prescriptions he had written up. "You have my number. Call if you need anything." Johnny nodded, and the doctor left.
Johnny gathered the remaining members to talk to them.
"I can't believe this is happening," Joey commented with a low whistle. "I don't understand why."
That was in mutual agreement.
"The strange thing is that they had all of us in their grasp. We were completely helpless," Chris began, though he didn't want to admit it. He accepted some tissues to wipe his mouth. "They could have abducted all of us, but they only took Lance. Why?"
Johnny joined his fingers, placing them against his mouth—his thinking gesture.
"It can't be a kidnapping for ransom. Chris is right—they would have gotten a lot more if they took all of us," Justin pointed out.
"Unless they were hoping we'd all pay money to get Lance back," JC considered.
Johnny shook his head, trying to clear it. The wild thoughts were bearing down on him.
"I don't think so, JC. This seems....I dunno. Deeper, or something, than that," Joey said.
"But why would someone want to take Lance if it wasn't for money? I mean, I don't think this woman was some, you know, obsessive fan," Chris pondered.
"There's something we aren't seeing," JC thought aloud. "Something we don't understand."
Justin bit his lip to keep from saying "duh" out loud.
"Unless we can figure it out, we aren't going to be able to find Lance," JC continued, his thoughts going to secret places. They were all different. A window was opening in his mind.
Everyone stared at him. He shrugged. "It's just a...." What? How to put it? "...A feeling that I have."
"Okay, let's run through it again," Johnny urged. "You tell me what you know, and I'll tell you what I've found out."
~*~
It was dark. So ebony that all colors died here and went to hell. The rocking motion had ceased. There was no pulsating movement beneath him. His heart was still beating in his ears, though. His arms felt cramped and partially numb. He was cold. It was silent. They had left him alone. His breath was coming out in short huffs through his nose. Fear was sharded around him like broken pieces of glass. He was confused and frightened. He didn't know why he'd been kidnapped. He hope his brothers were alright. He hoped they were safe. His thoughts maundered his fate.
The back doors of the van creaked opened. Lance felt his senses invaded by atonal darkness. He tried looking at who was standing there, but he was blinded by light and dark. Both worlds were making him feel disoriented...and almost disembodied. Hands reached in, hauling him into the night air. Lance's knees buckled; they had been in awkward position in the van. He hit the ground, the handcuffs tinkling like bells. He groaned through his gag. He felt himself being yanked to his feet.
"Should we carry 'im?" a masked man asked the other with an accent Lance couldn't place.
"Nah. He's gonna half to 'earn how to stand on 'is own, now."
Lance's green eyes shone with panic and horror.
The men forcibly dragged Lance towards the entrance of a stark, unfeeling building. Lance wished he could speak. He wanted to ask a question. Or fifty. The first one would be why....Lance was forced into the doors and down a few hallways. They made so many turns, he became dizzy. He didn't want to go where they were taking him. Not just because he'd been kidnapped. It was something else...
The men shoved him into a room. He stumbled, but the men held tight. "Special Deliv'ry," one of the men said sarcastically.
Lance shuddered. I'm not a thing. You people can't just take me....But they had. His heart continued to beat itself from his chest. He gazed about the room. It was an office, but sparsely decorated. It was only a skeleton of a thing without feeling. There was a man in a dark suit seated at a desk. He was facing Lance head on, yet was ignoring him—he was looking through papers. The man appeared to be in his late twenties. Lance eyed him suspiciously. The man's hair was clean cut, jet black. His eyes were an unusual color. They appeared to be a rabid shade of blue. Absentmindedly, he sipped from a cup.
"Hmm," the man at the desk said. "That's odd." His voice was smooth and cold like ice.
Beyond him there was a screen, lit up a muted yellow from within. There was a shadowy figure in silhouette behind.
Lance's chest heaved. Just where the hell was he, and what was going on?
The man at the desk finally looked up into Lance's eyes. He was completely emotionless. "Yes. Thank you, gentleman."
The men released Lance's arms, and began to walk towards the door.
"By the by, have you the key?" the man slide out his slippery lips.
"She's got it, sir," one of the men told him.
He sighed. "Of course. You are free to go."
They did, locking the door on the way out.
The man stood up, walking calmly over to Lance. Lance stood still, frightened of what was going to happen, of what could happen.
"Well," the man said, looking Lance over. "Well. Welcome to your new home, LancÆlot."