Christmas in Dixie

Christmas in Dixie

Part Two



Pastor Patrick O'Connor sighed at the computer as he finished the final touches on the program he was creating for tomorrow night's Christmas Eve service. He decided that the clip-art for Baby Jesus was a little too small and clicked on it to make it active. A quick grab of the corner handle re-sized the image nicely. A graphic artist he'd never be -- a simple church program was about the extent of his talents. He set the copy count to one hundred and hit the printer icon. Wearily he sat at his old, wooden desk and watched as the printer spit out the pages.

Even before his calling, Christmas had always been his favorite time of the year. It was the season when joy abounded, giving became second nature, and carols could be heard on the pop music stations. During this special time, hard hearts softened, old grudges were forgiven, and families, separated by distance or misunderstanding, got back together. It was a magical time -- a time when all things were possible. It was a time when the improbable became probable and the unexpected became routine.

Why, then, was he so sad?

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. He should be filled with anticipation, instead he'd barely been able to get out of bed this morning, so great was his melancholia. He understood the psychological aspects of holiday depression -- he'd studied it as part of his training for the ministry -- but he'd never been a victim of it before. This year was so different from any that had gone before. This year ...

He sighed again as his printer ran out of paper. Leaning over, he had to struggle a bit to lift the heavy ream of paper up with his left hand and put it on the desk. He winced in discomfort as he leaned his right elbow on it and he tore the wrapping paper off. He removed and handful of paper, tapped it neat, and then refilled his printer.

As the inkjet came back to life, he rubbed the stump of his right wrist absently. These days the aches were becoming more and more prevalent. Even after thirty years, he still suffered from phantom pains -- nerve endings continued to report sensations from fingers that no longer existed. He knew that his hand was gone, had known it since he'd shoved it toward the shotgun muzzle in a desperate attempt to save a hooker's life. The intelligent portion of his mind accepted the facts of the matter. He *knew* that what had been blown off him in a spray of lead could never be replaced. Yet, on some deeper, instinctual level, he yearned to be whole -- to be perfect.

Just as these next few days *should* be perfect.

Marlene had been preparing for weeks, cooking, cleaning, decorating, and airing out the long unused bedrooms. All their children would be home, the entire family together for the first time in years. Their house would be bursting with their guests, their grandchildren, their daughter, their sons, and their son's wives ... and one *significant other*.

And with a sob, he came to understand the cause of his deep sadness during this season of joy. Shame forced him to drop his head down and hide his face in his hand.

"Brian," he whispered softly. As his heart broke, he began to pray for salvation, for forgiveness, for a miracle.

~*~

"Brian?" Eddy sneered into his face. "I asked you a question, bitch! Do you think he looks good like that?"

Eddy yanked his hair so hard that Brian worried his skull would crack completely in half and release the mush that his brain had become. Instead of ending his misery, the pain caused his head to clear slightly and his eyes to regain focus. What slowly came into view made Brian long for the ignorance of semi-consciousness.

Dom stood, hunched over and naked. A bar was between his legs, attached to each ankle; it held his legs spread apart. His wrists were bound behind him and attached to a hook that had been placed in the ceiling, forcing his shoulders painfully forward. In his mouth was a gag and in his eyes, as he stared at Eddy, was death.

"Magnificent, isn't he?" Eddy said with awe. Brian turned his head slightly. Eddy was sweating, licking his lips eagerly, and, with his free hand, stroking his engorged cock. "It's been so long," Eddy moaned. "The Feds kept me close. They barely let me ... Whip him," Eddy ordered abruptly.

Two masked men appeared out the shadows of Brian's peripheral vision. They were outfitted in something straight out of a porn master's dungeon -- black boots, leather straps, studs, rings, and ... whips. They took positions slightly behind Dom and on either side of him. First one, then the other lashed the back of his thighs expertly, letting the individual cords wrap around and leave bright, red welts on the front of his thighs.

Dom stood stone-faced through it all, Brian moaned in pain, and Eddy panted like a racehorse rounding the first turn. The masters thrashed him five times each, then, like the precision team they were, they moved back and awaited their next orders.

Eddy released Brian, shoving him away -- forgetting about him -- for the greater joy of torturing Dom. The way he was bound made it impossible for Dom to pull away from Eddy's touch or escape the thick lips that clamped onto his pain-induced erection. Dom was helpless as he was forcibly milked.

Despite the agonized pounding in his head, Brian struggled with his bonds. He managed to roll halfway toward Dom, determined to kill Eddy -- with his teeth if he had to -- before a kick from one of the masters sent him skidding back and shot new bolts of agony through his head.

"The dildo, the big one," Eddy urgently panted. "Give it to me."

The same henchman that had kicked him moved to a large black bag and began to remove items. Feathered clips, metal cuffs, a string of huge beads, and other things that Brian didn't even know the name of emerged from the interior. He rolled his face into the stained carpet and wished he could shut the sounds out as well.

Brian wished he could pretend that this wasn't happening. He wished there were some faint hope of rescue. He wished there was something he could *do*.

"Please," Brian began to pray for the first time in years. "Dear Lord, help us. We need a miracle."

~*~

"You better be praying for a fuckin' miracle, you ass-hole," Special Agent Ormond snarled into the telephone. "Find the sick little fucker before Jones does ... How the fuck should I know? You were the ones who were supposed to babysitting him." He slammed the phone down and then shoved it right off the desk in a fit of disgust.

Bilkins waited until Ormond was under control before he leaned his ponderous weight onto the desk.

"You're gonna break my desk, you fat bastard," Ormond growled, but there was also a note of affection in his voice.

Bilkins just flashed his white teeth and handed Ormond a glazed donut. "We've got to find him," he said seriously. "The trial starts in just two weeks and, after all the evidence has either mysteriously disappeared or been ruled inadmissible, without Preston's testimony the case'll be thrown out." Bilkins ate half his donut and sipped his coffee before continuing. "Why would Eddy deliberately skip out of protective custody -- especially with Devlin Jones out on bail?" Bilkins asked. "Eddy has to know that everyone in the organization will be out looking for him."

"Why? I'll tell you why." Ormond muttered in disgust. "His reason for living. He's found himself a new sadist and he's happily getting fucked and tortured right about now."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Bilkins agreed. "Question is -- who and where?"

Ormond shook his graying head. "We already checked out the club he's been frequenting -- if the taxpayers only new how their money was being spent." Ormond shook his head and took a big gulp of coffee. "The twin doms that run the place are missing, but if he's with them -- why not just stay at the club? All his little toys are -- What?" Ormond demanded abruptly. "Why do you have that look on your face? ... You *know* something, don't you?"

"It's just a hunch," Bilkins said as he leaned down and retrieved the abused telephone. "Natalie, bring me Brian O'Connor's file."

"O'Connor? What's he got to do with this?" Ormond asked, confused.

"You mentioned doms and ... I know it's a long shot, but ..."

"Shit!" Ormond leapt out of the chair in excitement. "You're right. Preston has been fixated on *him* ever since prison. If the sick fuck found out where they were --"

"He'd pack up a couple of his playmates and --"

"Fuck!" Ormond spat out.

"Exactly," Bilkins agreed.

When the secretary showed up with the thick folder they began making calls. The first was to the last official number that O'Connor had supplied them. The number had been disconnected. The second was to the Witness Protection Division. They reached another dead end there -- after supplying Toretto with a new identity nearly a year before, they'd had no further contact with him. The third was to --

~*~

"Pastor O'Connor?"

"Yes, this is he," the Pastor said into the phone. He glanced up at the clock. He hoped whatever this was about that it wouldn't be anything too serious. Marlene was expecting him home for lunch in half an hour.

"This is Special Agent Bilkins of the FBI." The voice on the other end paused and then quickly spit out, "We were wondering if Brian O'Connor, might be there by any chance?"

"Brian?" the Pastor repeated slowly as a chill of unease ran through him. "Bilkins? The agent Brian worked with a couple times?"

"Yes." The man on the other end sounded surprised. "Brian and I did a couple undercover projects together. He told you about them?"

"He told me that the first job went like clockwork, but that you botched up the second one," the Pastor said carefully.

"Then he told you wrong," Bilkins said gruffly. "It was the first one that got screwed --" Bilkins began to chuckle on the other end. "You're good, Pastor O'Connor. I suppose once a cop, always a cop?"

"You have a file on me?" the Pastor asked, but he really wasn't surprised. "Brian has been involved in some serious situations and one can never be too careful," he explained without waiting for an answer from the Fed. "Who was the famous woman who lived in the Hollywood house you used?"

"If I tell you Liz Taylor, will I pass?"

"Yes," the Pastor began to relax a little. "And in answer to your question. No, Brian is not here."

"Damn -- oh, sorry, sir," Bilkins apologized. "We were just hoping --"

"They've been delayed. Apparently the car they're driving --"

"*They?* Did you say, 'They'?" Bilkins asked, his excitement making the Pastor uneasy again. "Dominic Toretto is with him, then?"

"I believe he's going by the name, Domitrie Tanner, but yes, Dom is with him."

"Do you know *exactly* where they are?"

The Pastor felt his unease grow exponentially. "Are they in any sort of trouble?"

"No ... yes ... maybe," Bilkins muttered. "Truth is we don't know for sure, but we think they might be in danger."

The Pastor leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes in guilt, fear, and remorse. He of all people knew that the Lord answered prayers in His own way and in His own time. As a Pastor, he was forever reminding his flock that every prayer was answered -- even if those answers didn't always suit. He'd prayed for a solution to the problem of his gay son, but not like this, not ... like ... this.

"Brian called last night. He said they were going to spend another night in a motel. He muttered something about old cars -- they're driving an orange '69 Dodge Dart that is very special to them."

A few more questions revealed the fact that the boys could be anywhere between Indianapolis and Richmond. No one knew the route they were taking or where they'd spent the night. Bilkins promised to get a description of the car out to all the state patrols. They'd find them, he assured the Pastor.

The Pastor hung the phone up gently and began to pray.

"Please, Dear Lord, let Brian ... and Dom," he added guiltily, "be alright. Keep them safe. Help me to understand and to --"

A familiar noise from below broke his concentration. His small office sat directly above the church's heavy wooden doors. Whenever someone entered the church, the Pastor's whole office echoed with the sound. Again, he glanced up at the clock. He wasn't expecting anyone. Curiously, he rose and headed down the narrow staircase.

~*~

The lash cut into the smooth skin of Dom's belly and a few drops of blood oozed free. Eddy looked at the blood with distaste, as if the sight of it disturbed him. He scowled at the masked man holding the whip then he turned and looked at Brian's slumped form. Dom noticed the corners of Eddy's mouth curve upward in a fiendish smile.

"I have an absolutely wonderful idea, Dominic," Eddy declared joyously. "An idea where you and I can both get exactly what we want."

.