Private Dicks (19 page)

Problems came with gangs like the recent Upper Falls crew, which had actually managed to set up operations outside of the Irish mob's control. The Upper Falls gang was a particularly nasty one—the leader was brutal, and they were actively trying to subvert members of the Irish mob to their gang with the promise of "more action" and rumors that their bosses had gone soft. There were whispers that the gang was being bankrolled by wealthy backers, explaining how they'd so far managed to elude efforts to shut them down. They actively recruited psychics as well, and word on the street said that they'd managed to get an infamous criminal telekinetic to join them. They were also exactly the kind of group that might target a precognitive to give them an extra edge.

All evidence seemed to point to that being the case. "Danny" was just planning to get a read from the local gossips, and make sure he wasn't completely off track.

He walked into a pub that served as a popular local haunt for the folks connected with the criminal underworld. He knew he'd find a decent crowd even in the middle of the day. A chorus of greetings met his arrival.

"Hear from our little troublemaker Riordan lately?" one of the men asked. Riordan had been the friend who introduced and vouched for Danny, and he had an uncle in the 'business', as it were. He was still popular among the regular crowd despite the Bureau of Paranormal Investigations having finally caught up with him for a spree of psychically enhanced museum thefts. Danny hadn't quite forgiven the Bureau for that. They were just doing their jobs of course, but Riordan had been a long-time friend and one of the few people who knew him outside of all the aliases.

Grinning easily at the man who'd asked, Danny replied, "Of course. You didn't think he'd let captivity get the better of him, did you? He sounds near to staying by choice. Claims the food is worth sticking around for."

Danny spent a while making small talk with the familiar faces. Eventually, he casually steered the conversation towards more relevant territory. "Did you hear Johnny T is back in town?" he asked, naming the telekinetic he suspected of being involved.

"Yeah, I hear he's working for that Welshie's crew," one of the men—Billy Mahoney, as Danny recalled—said, thus confirming Danny's suspicions. "Bad business, that," Billy went on as a few of his fellows nodded agreement. "I hear they grabbed one of Mulligan's boys from the pub, the Kelley kid? He was a mighty fine bartender. Hope they don't disappear him permanent."

It was only from years of practice that Danny didn't react out of character, although he did feel a chill at the words. "Think I know him. Why'd they care about someone like that? Squeaky clean, wasn't he?"

"Dunno." Billy shrugged. "Most of the crew don't really know, and the ones what do are keeping their mouths shut tight."

That was actually good to hear. The more the situation could be kept under wraps, the better for everyone. Jason would certainly appreciate his family secret staying secret.

Danny hung around for a while after that, continuing to make idle conversation, but he'd already gotten what he really needed.

*~*~*

The first thing Jason noticed when he woke was that his arms were uncomfortable. He tried to move them, but something held his wrists together. He pulled experimentally, and after a moment he realized why he couldn't move—he was handcuffed. The realization jolted him into full wakefulness, eyes shooting open, his heart pounding with fear. He seemed to be in a poorly lit old-style stone cellar with support beams and pipes at random intervals. He also seemed to be cuffed to a random pipe towards the back. The cellar was empty except for four figures standing near the staircase. With a sudden rush of relief, concern, and anger, he recognized one of them as Liam.

"Ah, awake, are we?" said one of the remaining three, his tone mocking. "My name is Llewellyn Rhyddock. Welcome to my humble home." The man, Llewellyn, had an overall air of smug superiority about him; Jason immediately pegged him as the ringleader. He was dressed in what looked to Jason's admittedly untrained eye like a particularly high-end suit. Everything about him was perfectly styled, from the close-cropped blonde hair down to his shiny, ridiculous-looking leather shoes. Annoyingly enough, even his facial features looked elegant, something about them exuding high class. His gray eyes, however, were hard as stone.

"What the fuck is this?" Jason demanded. All the men were visibly sporting firearms, but Jason felt more frustrated and helpless than actually scared. It helped that he had a pretty strong sense that no one was planning on using said firearms in the immediate future. "Are you okay, Liam?" he asked, focusing on his brother. Liam nodded, but his frightened expression belied the action.

"Oh, we haven't harmed your brother in the slightest," Llewellyn said, smiling condescendingly. "He's far too valuable for that. You, on the other hand …" He trailed off, and a moment later, Jason was suddenly kicked hard in the side. He couldn't disguise a wince of pain, and Liam looked horrified.

"Please, stop! I'll do whatever the hell you want—let him go!" Liam begged, grabbing on to Llewellyn's perfectly tailored jacket sleeve.

Llewellyn shook him off like an annoying insect, wiping his sleeve as though he'd been touched by something filthy. "Oh, my dear boy, of course we can't let him go," he said, his tone soothing but expression contemptuous. "I believe I already explained the general concept. Stay in line, and he won't be harmed."

"What the hell is wrong with you, you sick fuck?" Jason shouted, yanking his wrists forward against the pipe, angry at his own pathetic state. The man behind him hit him in the head with something hard; the sharp, disorienting pain was enough to still him.

"Stop it!" Liam exclaimed.

"He is not to be touched without my order," Llewellyn commanded sharply, dropping the pretense of pleasantry.

"Please, don't. Don't hurt him anymore," Liam said, his voice more than a little unsteady. "I'll … I'll do whatever you want."

"Excellent, my boy. I knew you'd come around to our side of the matter." Llewellyn grinned, but there was no mirth in the expression. The man made Jason think of alligators somehow.

"I—I'll need to be alone," Liam said, looking steadfastly down at the ground. "In a private room. I need to—to be able to concentrate. And, um, I'll need something. Like, some physical version of whatever it is you want me to predict."

Jason just kept his expression neutral—he knew that Liam didn't need any special tools or set up to predict the future. Probably Liam was trying to keep these men ignorant of how his abilities actually worked, which was a smart move.

"Fine. Make it happen." Llewellyn went up the stairs, obviously expecting his lackeys to do all of the actual work.

The man that had been behind Jason followed suit, muttering, "Don't see why he always has to act like such a fucking drama queen."

Liam waited until both had left the basement before he moved. Once the door closed behind the second man, he turned to the remaining two and asked in a plaintive voice, "Can—can I have a minute to talk to my brother?"

The men looked at each other for a moment, but finally one of them shrugged. "Whatever, kid. But only one minute."

Liam rushed over and dropped to his knees next to Jason. He looked miserable. "I'm sorry," he said in a hushed tone.

"For what?" Jason scowled; he kept his own voice lowered as well. "None of this is your fault. It's their damn fault."

"It's my fault that you're here too," Liam replied unhappily. "I knew they were going to bring you here if I didn't cooperate. But I had one of those weird feelings where it felt like it should happen, them taking you here, and I even think I get why it felt like that now. I still didn't want them to hurt you, though, and I'm sorry, and—"

"Whoa, Liam, calm down," Jason interrupted. "I'm not mad at you. I get how that stuff works, remember? And hell, it's just a few bruises. I'll be fine." He frowned then, something occurring to him. "You didn't let them get you in the first place for some stupid, convoluted, future-seeing reason, did you?"

"No." Liam looked annoyed. "They had this whole elaborate plan, like … what's that thing, the big, complicated thing where each part is set off by another part? Rube Goldberg machine?"

"Fuck if I know," Jason replied. He attempted to shrug and was annoyed by the reminder that he couldn't move his arms up by more than an inch.

"Well. It was the future-seeing equivalent of one of those things. There was too much going on; they made their whole stupid plan too complicated. I didn't figure out what was going on until right before it happened, and I would have called you, but …" Liam trailed off, suddenly seeming reluctant to finish his sentence.

"Why the hell didn't you?" Jason asked, both hurt and angry that Liam hadn't. "I could have helped you!"

"You would have gotten hurt," Liam said defensively. "You wouldn't have been able to help, and you'd have been hurt. So no, I didn't call."

"Fine," Jason replied, giving up. "But what I can't figure is how the hell they found out you're a precog."

"Well, I told this girl at school, maybe a week ago." Liam admitted. "There was going to be a really bad accident, and I had to tell her so she'd believe me about the accident. I told her not to tell anyone, but she must not have listened."

"What the
hell,
Liam?" Jason hissed furiously, barely remembering not to raise his voice.

"What, I should have let her die?" Liam returned, glaring at him. "That's fucking stupid."

Jason sighed, a sharp exhalation of breath, and forced himself to relax. "I'm sorry. No, of course you shouldn't have. I just wish you'd … never mind. It's done."

"Don't worry, Jace, we'll be fine," Liam said, looking quite sure of himself despite the current situation.

"Isn't that supposed to be the big brother line?" Jason asked, smiling despite himself.

Liam signed something to him—Jason had taught Liam sign language the same as their father had taught him, primarily as a way to communicate about premonitions without alerting anyone nearby. "Your PI friend is coming, and it will be awesome."

"What?" Jason said out loud, startled.

"Have to go, sorry," Liam said quickly, standing just as one of the men by the stairs barked at them to hurry up. They escorted Liam up the stairs, and Jason was alone.

He tried again to pull loose from the handcuffs but gave it up as a futile waste of energy. Liam had said that Eric would be coming, and Jason trusted him, but sitting around and waiting was intensely frustrating. And boring. He found himself actually counting bricks before he finally fell asleep.

*~*~*

Eric was surprised when his doorbell rang. Not sure what to expect, he went to answer the door. The person glaring at him on the other side was familiar. His name was Ciaran, if Eric recalled correctly. Ciaran, who was half-Tuatha, and currently not wearing contacts. Meaning he could recognize glamour when he saw it.

"Come in," Eric said resignedly.

As soon as they were both indoors, Ciaran rounded on him. "One of my closest friends has apparently disappeared. And according to Bridget? His
fourteen year old
brother is missing too. There is something seriously fucked up going on, and I know for a fact he went to you for help. And that would be fine, whatever, good, but I also know that you—" he jabbed an accusatory finger in Eric's direction—"are wearing a glamour. And given what's going on? I don't like it."

All Tuatha and some part-Tuatha humans had the ability to project something like a localized illusion on themselves, referred to as glamour. Many used it to enhance their looks. Eric used it for most of his aliases. Anyone with Tuatha eyes could recognize glamour, but it rarely caused him issues. It wasn't possible to completely see through glamour, and the specialized contacts most wore disrupted even the ability for recognition.

"At first I figured it was just something cosmetic, like most of us," Ciaran went on, "but Jason is gone now too, and I always thought there was something weird about you. So help me, if you had something to do with this—"

Eric cut him off. "Believe me; I had nothing to do with Jason's disappearance. I'm actually trying to find him. However, you are correct that I'm not just using glamour for cosmetics. If this will help—"

After a moment of concentration, Eric dropped the glamour he'd been using. Once he'd done so, Ciaran stared at him intently, clearly not quite recognizing him. Then it visibly clicked, and Ciaran's eyes widened dramatically. "You're—"

"Yes. I am."

"But why are you
here?
" Ciaran continued incredulously, as if he didn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Eric recalled the glamour—he was familiar enough with this one to recreate it from memory—and replied, "That would be a long story I can't tell you half of. But now do you believe that I
am
going to help Jason?"

"Yes. Uh, I'm gonna go now." Ciaran seemed to regain his wits, and then he added a bit more forcefully, "You fucking
better
find him."

As abruptly as he'd arrived, Ciaran made his exit. Eric leaned against a wall and exhaled. It looked as though his alias as Eric Donahue was thoroughly burned. Hopefully, soon he wouldn't need it anymore.

*~*~*

Something jolted Jason awake, and he took a moment to readjust to his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that his hands were free. The second thing he noticed was that Eric was crouched next to him, holding a pair of empty handcuffs.

"Wha—Eric?" he said fuzzily.

Eric quickly pantomimed that Jason should be quiet. "In the flesh," he whispered, only just barely loud enough for Jason to hear him. "Glad to see you're not too roughed up. Do you have any injuries I should be aware of?"

"Just bruised." Jason tried to match Eric's volume, flexing his sore wrists. "Nothing serious. Assholes used me to try to make Liam do what they wanted."

"I figured," Eric replied, helping Jason to his feet. "Where's your brother?"

"He convinced them to put him in a room by himself, but I'm not sure exactly where."