DAVE

The detective went through the case files with tired eyes. He'd been awake for over a day now but he didn't feel that he could rest right now, like there was a clue hidden in everything he'd been given that would jump at him when he least expected it.

That's the way it usually was. Almost always intuitive leaps that came just when he felt he was at the end of it.

Lucy May Parks had been missing for sixteen days when her parents had come to Grayson Investigations to offer the job of finding her.

The initial meeting was always the most valuable to him. It was when he got a sense for what kind of person he was looking for. Generally, people went missing for one of two reasons; they're either taken, or they've run away.

Lucy's parents had been worried, as anyone would be. But Dave could feel the worry like it was his own. He could also feel their guilt like it was his own. When he was first starting up that would have made him think that they'd had a part in her disappearance. But he'd since learned that there were different forms of guilt. Sometimes it came with regret and realisation of a wrong. Sometimes it was buried deep beneath resentment and unrecognisable as such.

Theirs was the guilt of not doing enough, of having failed their child.

He was certain that Lucy had been taken. Now he needed to find out by whom.

Lucy hadn't been a loner in any sense, and she had many friends that were worried about her as well. Most of them from her university. That seemed like a good place to start. Friends were generally more involved than parents were, meaning more information, meaning more leads to go by.

He caught himself nodding off and leaned back in his chair, running his hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the blond knots. I need a haircut, he thinks. And sleep.

But he could do more before he absolutely had to. He glanced at the clock on the wall across from him and it takes him a while to read the hands telling him it's far past ten in the night.

Starting up as a detective had not been easy—not that he'd expected it to be. But it was far different than being an apprentice. He'd been solo for almost a year now and he could count the office calls he'd gotten on his hands. Most of them were from people like the Parks, who the police didn't feel they could spare the resources for, and the other more established dicks couldn't associate with for the sake of maintaining their reputation.

He was pretty much collecting the run-off. Not that he minded—he liked being able to help whoever he could. But all he could show for it was a crammed apartment, the partitioned living room serving as his office, a bedroom with just enough room to fit a bed and walk around, and an even more claustrophobic bathroom.

He stifled a yawn as he got up to get a cup of coffee from the station in the office, a cup already filled up under the machine. He read through the case notes as he drank.

Something started to stand out to him when his head exploded with pain.

He gripped his head between his hands, his mug shattering on the linoleum floor, the notes soaking with coffee. It felt like his skull was shrinking around his brain and he couldn't hear anything past the high whining that filled his ears. His eyes clamped shut and his teeth ground together. Agony sounded like a good feeling.

After what felt like ages he opened his eyes, gasping on the floor. He lay down to catch his breath, not minding the wetness soaking his clothes.

Headaches were a fact of life for him at this point. Not a day went by when he didn't feel at least a pinprick in his brain. He was pretty much used to them at this point. But they were never this intense. Not since--

He sat bolt straight. "Shit."

He got up and headed right for the door, wet clothes be damned, stopping only to get his coat and hat. He barely remembered to lock his door.

He hurried down the stairs of his apartment building and was on the street faster than he'd ever cared to before. He couldn't stand waiting for a taxi so he was already setting off down the street.

One was coming down his way and he hailed it. Empty of passengers as it was, the cabby drove past him. Dave cursed after him and kept his stride steady.

Another came behind him and dropped someone off. He held his hand up for it but the driver wouldn't look at him. Before he could get far past him, Dave reached out with his mind for the driver's and gave the simple command, Stop.

The taxi screeched to a halt, a car behind it swerving to avoid a collision.

He hurried into the back of the taxi and with his mind still over that of the cabby's, gave him an image of where he needed to be. The vehicle started and went as fast as the speed limit allowed.

Normally, he was opposed to exerting his will over another's, uncomfortable as he already was picking up on the mental noise people couldn't stop putting out. But these were not normal circumstances. The last time he'd had that bad of a jack-hammer headache family had died. He'd be damned if he let that happen again.

It was just past eleven when they arrived. He paid the cabby and sent him off, letting him go until he was out of range. He'd have a bit of a headache but he'd get over it.

Dave started up the stairs to the institution, taking them two at a time.

There was only one guard at the entrance, already reaching for his baton as Dave showed no sign of slowing down. Irritated and impatient, he was not in the proper head-space to make himself less conspicuous. But he had a workaround for that.

"Sir," the guard said, "the Institute is closed. Please return--"

When Dave was close enough, he flung his hand out at the guard, throwing a wave of force that sent his head snapping back into the glass door with a dull thump.

Dave winced as the guard slid to the floor. He hadn't expected it to be that hard, but there was no blood so he couldn't worry too much. He had enough on his mind already. He pushed through the doors and into the building.

It was just as impressive on the inside as out. The floor was an intricate pattern set in tile and buttresses held up the ceiling in the circle of the main hall. He paid none of it any mind as he headed where he remembered his brother's office to be.

The door was locked. Not one to be deterred, he pushed at the lock with his mind, and completely shattering it. The door swung open with the force. He had to get that under control.

The office was empty.

This was wrong.

On a normal day his brother would still be nose deep in his work.

Not a good sign.

He closed the door, propped a chair under the handle and proceeded to canvass the room.

The desk was clear, only a few pens and loose sheets of paper strewn across it. There was also a pearly hominid skull lying on its side close to the edge. Just at the table's foot there was a freshly cracked stone plaque.

The desk had not been clear since his brother had started working here two years ago.

He picked up on a scent and sniffed the air. Coffee. He went around the desk and there was a stain soaked through the red-and-gold pattern in the carpet. His brother was not clumsy and would never have left a stain, expensive carpet or not. The chair hadn't been pushed in, either. His brother was the most anal-retentive person he knew.

A tall oak shelf covered the wall, displaying relics from around the world. On the top deck there was a trophy cut from crystal, a prestigious award he'd achieved not too long ago. For the life of him, Dave couldn't remember what for.

He walked to a steel filing cabinet, popping the lock open with a thought. He sifted through the manilla files. They were all dated to over a month ago, none present for the past few weeks. His brother always had copies of his work, and he was always working.

It must be work related. Dave runs his hands through his hair and down his face. What the hell were you working on that's so important?

He was a glorified librarian, as far as Dave could tell. Sure, senior researcher was a fancy job title, but Dave had no idea what he could be working on that would warrant an abduction.

No, no. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Information could be just as valuable as anything else, sometimes even more. His brother had it coming out the wazoo. Douglas Grayson was pretty much plagued with a wealth of knowledge.

Dave sat on the desk's edge, holding his face in his hands. What have you gotten yourself into?

He closed his eyes, his ears, stopped feeling the desk under him. The noise was always there whether he listened for t or not. Sometimes he felt it was driving him crazy. But it was easier to make sense of the noise when he knew what to listen for. Now he needed an echo.

That's what he called them at least. More often than not the noise lingered for some time after it was made. It was harder to pick up in places frequently visited, even more than just the noise being made in that moment. But Dave was sure that this office was one of the least public places, even in this building. So he wasn't surprised that the only other person to frequently the office was the janitor.

He could feel Doug's mild amusement as he worked on a particularly interesting thesis. Dave would have huffed his derision if he wasn't completely absorbed in Doug's experience. He felt just as invested as Doug had been. It was a problem he faced often on the job—not knowing where his feelings stopped and someone else's started. It was particularly disconcerting when he felt just as obsessed as his brother had been.

Everything he found made him even more invested, every word a step further into the tunnel. Every thought was about it, every dream on it. He was a man possessed and on a mission to get to the end of it. They were even more similar in that regard, like dogs with bones.

The echoes got louder, more recent. He could still feel the mania, the drive, until it was replaced by mild surprise, then confusion, then alarm. Just as soon as it had started it cut out.

Dave came back to himself, his heart racing in his chest. He jumped when someone slammed on the door.

"Police. Open this door immediately!"

Shit. There was still so much to go through. He went behind the desk and opened the drawers, pushing through odd and ends. Doug was a planner. While he was obnoxious enough to offend someone without knowing it, if he had any legitimate enemies he would have known it. If he could protect himself from them he would, and he was always prepared.

"Ten."

He abandoned the desk for the cabinet. He'd probably missed something.

"Seven."

But Doug was far too smug to ask come out and ask for help outright.

"Four."

And that was why a file for April had been placed between entries for July.

"Two."

Dave tucked the file into the back of his trousers and spun around.

The door was smashed in and a guard had a pistol levelled on him.

"Put your hands up and--" he stopped, recognition softening his features. In a second they hardened again. "Grayson," he sneered.

"Donny." Dave smiled as he put his hands up. "Do me a favour and give me a lift to the Mystic Pass Precinct? And please put the gun down."