Joel’s Vow IV
Rating and Warnings: No one under 17 for language, violence, hints of D & S relationship, and explicit m/m slash. If any of this offends you, PLEASE do not read.
Inspired by Badboy’s Forsaken’ and ‘Forlorn
El Paso, Texas, July 24, 2001
Getting his first glimpse at the man in the hospital bed, Special Agent Michael Rizarrdo couldn’t help the wince and the grimace. The only feature that was recognizable of Joel Campbell was the straw colored hair.
“Jesus Christ!” Rizarrdo swore, as he looked away, stomach turning. “What the fuck was done to him?”
“Read it and weep.” Another FBI agent, John Kendall thrust a clipboard in his hand. It was Campbell’s medical report.
Skimming the page, Rizarrdo felt sicker to his stomach. Campbell had been physically beaten and sexually abused and tortured. Besides the bruises and contusions that covered his body, he had cuts and cigarette burns on his chest, nipples, and genitalia. There was evidence of obvious sodomy, as his rectal area was damaged, so damaged that the doctors had been concerned about Peritonitis. Something sharp had been shoved in him.
“Griffin?” He asked, his first thought, that it was the serial killer, who was responsible for Campbell’s current condition.
Kendall shrugged. “Maybe, but the nurse’s description of the man, who brought Campbell in was a dead ringer for Griffin. Does that make any sense, he tortures Campbell and then brings him to the hospital?”
“Not really his m.o,” Rizarrdo agreed, sighing. It would be so simple to pin this crime on David Griffin.
“He’s. . . .” Kendall gestured at the motionless figure of Campbell. “Under our surveillance 24/7. It appears that Griffin was here once and with any luck, he’ll make a second appearance.”
“He’s smarter than that,” Rizarrdo said.
“But we know he’s got some kind of weird fascination with Campbell. He might not be able to stay away.”
**
August 21, 2001
Sighing in frustration, Rizarrdo paced the hospital corridor, wishing he could have a cigarette. Four weeks had gone by, and they were no closer to catching Griffin or finding out the person or persons responsible for the physical and mental assault on Joel Campbell.
“So what’s your theory?” Kendall asked, as he threw the magazine he had been paging through down on the chair next to him. “Why is Campbell protecting Griffin? Stockholm Syndrome, fear, brainwashing, or has he just cracked up?” He looked meaningfully at the nameplate on the door Rizarrdo was pacing in front of. Dr. David Levy, MD, PsyD.
“We don’t know for sure that it was Griffin, who’s responsible for what happened to Joel.”
“Right.” Kendall rolled his eyes, as he reached for his cold cup of coffee. “Who else could it possibly be? Griffin had this in mind all along, played cat and mouse with Joel for this last year. It’s what he did with his other victims.”
“So why bring him to the hospital?” Rizarrdo asked. Kendall’s theory was the most plausible, but somehow now, after time had passed, it just didn’t feel right.
“If he was the one, who brought Campbell here. But there are explanations.” Kendall shrugged. “A bit of remorse. It’s obvious he had friends, who were in on tearing up Campbell. Perhaps it got out of hand even for Griffin.”
“I just wish Campbell would tell us what happened.” Rizarrdo sighed. “Think he’s telling him anything.” He motioned to the psychiatrist’s office.
“I’m thinking, no.“ Kendall stood up, stretching his back. “Campbell too closed mouthed about everything. Says he doesn’t remember, but he remembers, just doesn’t want to rat out,” he paused, casting a sidewise glance at Rizarrdo. “His treacherous former lover.”
“You sound like you’re quoting Shakespeare,” Rizarrdo scoffed. Richard Armstrong had certainly made sure that everyone in the FBI knew all about the type of relationship Campbell had with Griffin. “And what’s taking so long today?” He checked his wristwatch. “It’s going on two hours.”
“Even two hours isn’t enough for the likes of Campbell,” Kendall said with a derisive smirk.
Stopping his pacing, Rizarrdo stared at Kendall, wondering how harsh of a reprimand he would get if he decked his colleague.
“You’re still here?” The door of Dr. Levy opened, and the unassuming man stepped out.
“We’re waiting for Campbell,” Rizarrdo stated, his expression turning thunderous. His law enforcement instinct kicked in. He already knew what the doctor was going to say.
“Campbell? I finished my session with him forty five minutes ago.”
**
Los Angeles, CA, August 22, 2001
Jingling the apartment key, Joel made his way from the manager’s office to the efficiency he had rented with Griffin a couple of months ago. Fortunately the rent had been paid through August, so he still had place to stay without having to come up with any more money. The last of his cash had gone to buying an old junker to transport himself to LA. He had paid hard currency to a semi-shady dealer; it would give the FBI more of a challenge in finding him, but even so, he knew that it was only a matter of time before they tracked him to California. But hopefully, by the time they did, he’d be long gone.
Opening the door, the apartment was hot and stale. Flipping on the air conditioning, Joel flopped on the bed. He was dead tired but fortunately a bottle of painkillers and sleeping pills he had hidden from David was still stashed under a floorboard. The familiar feelings of wooziness swept through him. Sighing with contentment, he hoped that the pills would knock him out, giving him a few hours of relief from the dark memories that constantly invaded his head.
**
August 23, 2001
With maps of the United States and Canada spread out on the coffee table, and a small suitcase sitting in the middle of the floor, Joel was planning his escape. He’d go north to Seattle and from there cross the border into Canada. Once there he would decide where he would settle, mostly likely in a big city, Montreal, Quebec, or even one as far north as Goose Bay. The further east the better, putting more miles between himself and Mexico. The one weakness in his plan was the clunker car he had bought in Texas. Hopefully it would make it to Seattle. There he could junk it.
Two men crashing through the apartment door caught him by surprise, but still, FBI training had him diving for his gun, which was lying in the suitcase on top of a pile of clothing. Tumbling to the floor, he grabbed the handgun and raised it to find himself looking up into the barrels of two 10 mm Uzis.
“You’re outnumbered and out gunned.” A third man entered the apartment. Tall and striking looking, his voice was low and pleasant. “So what’s a trained FBI agent to do?” He mocked.
“Former FBI agent,” Joel said as his hand shook ever so slightly. “Malik Fikes.” He recognized the man immediately. “You keep popping into my life at the most unexpected times.”
Fikes smiled, flashing very white, even teeth. “And I thought you were safety hidden away in Mexico. He knelt down to look Joel straight in the face. “So what are you doing back here in LA?”
“I just got in last night. How’d you know. . . ?”
“This is my city, white man.” The words were harsh but non-threatening. Malik held no malice against Joel Campbell. “There isn’t anything that goes down here that I’m not aware of. So where’s Griffin?”
“I don’t know,” Joel answered, brain feverishly sizing up his situation.
“Wrong answer!” A slight change in intonation conveyed Fikes’ displeasure. His fingers barely moved, and his two gunmen inched closer to Joel.
Steadying his hand, Joel kept his gun raised. “It’s the truth. Griffin left me at a ranch in Mexico more than six weeks ago. The owner of the ranch,” he paused, making a quick, painful decision to tell Fikes a little of what happened at the hands of Randis. “Decided to have some fun with me.” Using his left hand, he swiftly unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Pushing it aside, red, ugly scars crisscrossed and circled his nipple. “I haven’t seen Griffin since.”
Standing up, Fikes motioned his gunmen to lower their guns. His face remained impassive. “Was the owner of the ranch a man named Randis, James Randis?”
“Yes.” Joel lowered his own gun and cautiously sat up.
“And how is it that you’re here in LA?” Fikes asked, his eyes narrowing. “A pretty, white boy like you would fetch Randis top dollar.”
“What?” Joel awkwardly climbed to his feet.
“The man deals in illegal slavery. Girls, boys, men, women. Any race, any color.”
Joel could only shrug his shoulders. “After. . .I passed out, and when I woke up, I was in a bed at the IHS Hospital in El Paso.”
“And no one knows how you got there?”
“An unknown man brought me in. He didn’t stick around long enough for anyone to get any information from him.” Joel deliberately left out that the nurse’s vague description of the man fit Griffin.
“Really?” Fikes raised an eyebrow. “Well, Agent Campbell, I believe I need to find a safe place for you here in LA. Have you considered that Randis is probably searching for you? You‘re a potential witness against him, and what I know of the man, he doesn‘t like any loose ends.”
“If Randis wanted me, he could have found me in El Paso.”
“True enough.” Fikes agreed with a puzzled expression. He stared at Joel, considering a moment. “But even so, I think I’m going to stash you somewhere safe for a few days.”
“Really?” Joel raised his gun again. “And what if I don’t want to go anywhere with you?”
Fikes put his hands up in a placatory motion. “Let’s try and avoid bloodshed here, Mr. Former FBI agent.” He eyed the maps on the coffee table. “Just give me a few days to check out your story. If it’s true that Griffin abandoned you, then I’ll see to it that you’re supplied with new I.D and enough green, so you can disappear for good.”
“And why would you do that?” Joel asked suspiciously. Never trust anything that was too good to be true.
“Because I owe Griffin, and you were his,” Fikes paused, searching for the right word. “Concern at one time. I just want to assure myself that that isn’t the case anymore.”
**
August 25, 2001
It was the movement of air close to his face that woke Joel from his afternoon nap. Adrenaline kicked in, overcoming the painkillers and sleeping pills in his system; someone had just walked past him. Opening his eyes, he was awake in an instant.
“You sure sleep a lot.” Malik Fikes flung his long body into a chair across from Joel. “My men tell me that you’ve been asking for certain drugs.”
“Well.” Joel peered over at his host, as he slowly sat up. “I am here in one of your drug houses, and you had said that I was to tell your men if I needed anything.”
“Here.” Fikes threw a paper bag at Joel, looking none too happy about it. “Vicodin and sleeping pills. They should pretty much. . .help you forget.”
Opening the bag, Joel peeked in and was pleased to see two unlabeled bottles of pills. “They don’t make me forget; they just make it so I don’t care for a while. But don’t worry, you’re not making an addict out of me, I’ve been addicted for a couple of years now, and its beginning has nothing to do with you, or even,” he paused, as the name stuck in his throat for a moment. “Randis.”
“But it does have something to do with Griffin?” Fikes guessed.
“Partly.” Joel stared at the pill bottle in his hand. “But I think, it was just everything accumulating. . .one on top of the other.” H said this softly, more commenting to himself than Fikes.
“Yeah.” Fikes nodded his head. He understood all about the demons that could haunt a man. “You know. . . .” He stood up to leave. “Once you’re settled again, you might want to try talking to someone.”
Looking up, Joel gave a short laugh. “I already went down that road, and Griffin found out about her,my therapist. He used her as a hostage to get to me, even threatened to kill her. I wouldn’t want to put anyone in that position again.”
Fikes shrugged, as he turned toward the door. “Perhaps then, you need someone like. . . .” His lips curled ever so slightly. “Hannibal Lecter.”
**
August 26, 2001
“Your apartment was broken into.” Fikes strolled just as Joel was sitting down for dinner. “And my contacts tell me that some of Randis’ men were seen in the area.”
“Okay.” Joel set his fork down, while Fikes stared intently at him. “And. . .?” When Malik didn’t answer, he lifted an eyebrow. “So, what? I should be thanking you from the bottom of my heart because you harbored me in this. . . .” He waved a hand around, surveying the small apartment. Despite being located in the heart of the inner city, dump was not an appropriate word to describe it. It was actually nicer than the efficiency he and Griffin had been living in.
“A little gratitude would be nice, white man.” Fikes turned slightly at the loud rap on the door.
“Boss?” A head tentatively poked itself in.
“Let him in.” Fikes ordered, as his eyes returned to Joel. “I’ll leave you to your visitor.”
Joel’s frown of puzzlement was momentary, as a familiar figure walked through the apartment door. David Griffin.
Nodding his head at Griffin, Fikes silently exited, taking his man with him.
“Hey, buddy,” Griffin greeted Joel in his usual manner, but this time there was no easy going grin. He awkwardly sat himself down in a chair furthest away from Joel.
Heart beating so hard, Joel could feel it thumping in his ears. Opening his mouth, nothing came out, as waves of conflicting emotions welled up in him.
“I wanted to kill him, you know.” Griffin beat him to the punch. “He swore to me that you would be safe there. . .with him.”
“But you didn’t kill him.” Joel finally found his voice. “Too sca. . . .”
“With all of his bodyguards, I would have been dead before I even got a chance to move. But I did get you out of there. Remember the hospital in Cuidad Juarez?” Griffin asked, his dark eyes watching Joel closely.
“I. . . .” Joel hadn’t remembered anything about a Mexican hospital, but David’s words brought back flashes of buried memories. “I. . .a little. But when I fully regained consciousness it was in the IHS Hospital in El Paso.”
“I wanted you in a hospital in the US, so as soon as you could be moved, I. . . .” Griffin crossed one leg over the other. “moved you. Told the nurse you were a FBI agent injured in the line of duty. I figured that would get your pals there quick enough. Wanted them there to keep an eye on you.”
“Alright.” Joel pushed away from the table, appetite gone. “So now, you, like Fikes want my eternal gratitude for. . . .”
“No, Joel!” Griffin interrupted. “I don’t want your gratitude. I want your anger, your rage. And when you’re done ranting and raging, then I want you to be vengeful.” Standing up, he threw Joel a cell phone. “That’s Randis’. I stole it from him. It’s been disconnected, but still, certain phone numbers should be stored in the memory, phone numbers of business associates, contacts, friends. He’s into a lot of illegal shit. Some of the information on that phone has to be incriminating.”
“Perhaps.” Joel stared at the cell phone in his hand. “And just what am I supposed to do with this information?”
“What do you think?” Griffin narrowed his eyes at Joel. “Give it to your pals in the FBI.”
**
August 28, 2001
“So the cell phone really is an incriminating piece of evidence against James Randis,” Joel affirmed as he stared out the window, his back to FBI agents Rizarrdo and Kendall.
“It is,” Rizarrdo answered. “But we want more facts before we actually begin the process of bringing Randis in. He’s rich, powerful, and right now making his home in Mexico, so we’ve got extradition to think about. We want strong, overwhelming proof before any action is taken.”
“So get it.” Joel turned from the view. “It shouldn’t be hard. You’ve got your lead.”
“That’s right. We do. Thanks to you.” Kendall spoke up, voice filled with cynicism and suspicion. “And enlighten us. How exactly were you able to get a hold of Randis’ cell phone?”
No one spoke for a moment, as Joel contemplated walking out.
“Joel,” Rizarrdo spoke softly. “You know how it is. We need to know. . . .”
“I was raped and tortured at Randis’ ranch,” Joel stated flatly. It killed him that he had to make that admission to the two federal agents “That’s how I got it.”
“What?” Rizarrdo exclaimed, as Kendall too, stared in shock. They had suspected David Griffin, or perhaps Malik Fikes, a known associate of Griffin’s, but had no inkling James Randis, the billionaire was involved.
Head pounding, Joel had enough. He had done his duty; he just wanted to leave. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said impersonally, as he started for the door.
“Joel, wait!” Rizarrdo stood up. “You can testify. With you as a witness and. . . .”
“I’m not going to testify! I just want to put this whole mess behind me, and. . . .”
“Like you put the murder of your ex-lover, the married Lisa Anton behind you.” Kendall, too had stood up, so the three men made a semi-circle, glowering at each other.
“Kendall, that’s enough,” Rizarrdo warned his colleague.
“You can go after Randis or not,” Joel injected indifference in his demeanor. “Do what you want.”
“And you, Joel,” Rizarrdo called out, stopping Joel just before he opened the door to leave. “By now Randis knows you’re former FBI and stole his cell phone. He’ll be looking for you, and I don’t need to tell you that people, who oppose James Randis usually disappear mysteriously. We can put you under our protection.”
Hand on the doorknob, Joel turned back to the agents. “As you know, I have friends in low places.” He managed a small smile for Rizarrdo‘s sake. “I’d rather be in their protection.”
**
“So you gave them the cell phone and then?” Sitting in Fikes’ drug house apartment, David Griffin was trying to coax the story out of Joel, who was claiming a migraine and being stubbornly closed mouthed about his appointment with the FBI.
“And then nothing,” Joel snapped back, as he held an ice pack to his head. Its pounding and the bad taste in his mouth left by his meeting with Rizarrdo and Kendall was making him short tempered. “They want more evidence against Randis. Because of his money and connections, they believe it will be a tough job to bring him down. One cell phone won‘t be enough.”
“Right,” David grunted, as he slouched back down in his chair with a sigh. “But they also have you, a star witness, who can. . . .”
“I told them that I won’t testify.”
“For Christ’s sake, Joel,” David spat out with frustration. “You’ve seen first hand what kind of sick fuck, Randis is, and you don’t want to help put him away?”
Moving the ice pack, Joel looked over at Griffin. “Guess it takes one sick fuck to recognize another.”
David had to grin. “Yeah, I may be a sick fuck, but Randis out does me by miles. And the bastard is wealthy, so the sky’s the limit for his sick, perverted games. And you’re just going to let him walk?”
“I. Just. Want,” Joel spoke slowly through gritted teeth. “To put the whole situation with Randis behind me.”
“Right, Joel.” David snorted with disbelief. “Because you’re so good at putting things behind you.”
Wincing behind the ice pack, Joel could only whisper, “touche.”
“So what now?” David finally asked, after a lengthy silence.
“I was planning to disappear into Canada. Fikes was going to supply me with new ID and money.”
“Do you honestly think that you’ll be safe from Randis in Canada?” David frowned, wondering if the drugs and migraines were eating Joel’s brains.
Not answering, Joel pondered his situation. Since David had reappeared in his life, there had been no intimacy between them, in fact, his once lover had not tired to touch him at all. At first he felt it to be a relief, but now he wasn’t so sure. “I think I could be safe,” he said slowly. “if I’m with you.”
**
Epilogue
Montreal Canada, September 5, 2001
Panting and wincing, Joel grabbed the headboard and hung on tight, as David, close to the end, was pounding into him. Pushing back with his arms, he tried to lower his legs, but they were being held in a ironclad grip.
Since their reunion David had tried to be a more considerate lover, stemming mostly from his guilt, but passion always got the better of him. He liked to fuck fast and hard. With Joel’s legs pushed up over his head, David was slamming in as far as he could, his public bone hitting the sensitive area behind Joel’s testicles.
“David, let go of my,” Joel started to stammer out, but one final hard thrust and then all movement stopped. Relieved, he felt the penis in him throb and then the warm wetness spreading inside him.
“Fuck!” David regained his senses, and rolled off of Joel. “I got a little too rough there at the end again, didn’t I?”
“S’ok,” Joel panted out. “I’m used to it.” He pulled the bed sheet quickly up over him, as the bedroom light was switched on.
“You sure?” Leaning over, David caressed a bare shoulder and then reached for a wet hand towel. Cleaning himself, he then motioned for Joel to uncover himself.
“I’ll do it.” Joel grabbed the towel and discreetly wiped the sticky semen that dripped from inside him down his thighs.
“I have seen you naked before.” David threw Joel a worried look. This new modesty was just one of many new traits that Joel was exhibiting since his torture at the hands of Randis.
Joel only grunted in reply. He didn’t want to talk about it. Wrapping the bed sheet around him carefully, he made his way into the bathroom and closed and locked the door.
Shaking his head, David searched for his clothes, which were scattered around the room. Since the death of Lisa Anton, Joel had been a beaten down man, but now he was totally broken. “And it’s Randis’ fault!” Griffin mumbled angrily to himself, conveniently forgetting that he had played a part in Joel’s downward spiral. Zipping up his pants, he grabbed his shirt, yelling out, “I’m going out for some smokes. Do you need anything?”
Buttoning his shirt, David heard a no come through the closed bathroom door. “Be back in a few,” he shouted a good-bye, grabbing the car keys.
Driving slowly, he meandered through the city, getting to know his new surroundings. Some time later, he finally stopped at a small convenience store with a payphone outside. Exiting the store with a pack of cigarettes and a handful of change, it was time to make the call. After punching in a dozen or so numbers, there eventually was the satisfactory click and the sound of ringing. After a few rings, the phone was answered.
“Agent Rizarrdo speaking.”
“Special Agent Rizarrdo,” David greeted the man cheerfully, checking his watch. “Did you get my message?”
“Yeah.” Rizarrdo immediately became more alert, trying to remember if the voice was familiar to him in anyway. The voice message he had received before the holiday was that Joel Campbell was going to call him the Wednesday after Labor Day. “Is Campbell there?”
“Not right here, Agent Rizarrdo, but he’s safe in my care.”
“Griffin.” The name came out as a whisper. Rizarrdo put two and two together quickly.
“Correct!” David said, as if he was awarding a prize to a child for a right answer. “Now, I don’t plan to stay on the line for too much longer, so let me get right to the point. What are you FBI people doing about James Randis?”
****
Finis