It was time for a gentle hand now. Time to reassure, for the moment, that all would be well, that the patient was in good hands, caring hands, concerned hands. Time to see if this would get the reaction needed. Time for a change in tactics. Time to move to the next level.
"It is a fact, you know, most changes we humans encounter in our bodies after a certain age...oh, let's say, after age thirty or thirty-five...is merely considered an unwanted side-effect of normal aging. We experience a wide variety of changes. There's a lessening of bone strength and density, we lose elasticity of skin and connective tissue, our rate of healing decreases, and our overall mental and physical energy, stamina, and resilience fades. I suspect you may have been noticing a few minor changes yourself, yes? Maybe it takes you a bit longer to climb those steps you used to bound up just five years ago or...perhaps you've noticed a lessening of your libido or in your sexual performance, hhmm? Is that so?"
Dark, beady eyes searched the face of the young man 'resting' in the special, padded chair placed to one side of the clinically equiped room and leaned closer, foul breath bathing moistly over the naked flesh, watching as he was pointedly ignored by the restless test subject, the pale, fair skin dotting with a fine sheen of perspiration and the observant green eyes clouding with a haze of fatigue. Emilio Martinez produced a small, indulgent, snake-like grin and patted the closest, cool arm in an almost-kind, gentle manner, feeling a shudder of revulsion run through the tired, reclining body. The grin spread a bit wider, exposing more teeth, as he continued to converse quietly with his 'patient'.
"Normal aging can effect the human body in so many unexpected and unwanted ways. I realize you haven't, as of yet, observed what most older individuals have begun to experience but, I can most certainly guarantee, if you were permitted to continue as you had been, one day you would not have liked the end results. No, not at all. The body begins to fail you and you become trapped inside a vessel so foreign, so unlike what you remember, you can hardly recognize it at times. You gain weight easier, your blood vessels narrow and there's increased risk of cardiovascular disease, you tire more readily, and the susceptibility to infection and cancers soar. All and all, not a very attractive forecast, no? Not the type of existence a strong, young man like you would be confortable with, I'm sure."
Martinez absently placed one latex-gloved hand on the sweating forehead and almost tenderly smoothed the wayward strands of lank, unruly hair back, making a soft sound of admonishment as the patient turned his head slowly away in an ineffective attempt to escape the suddenly too-intense attention being lavished upon him. The Brazilian chuckled softly and reached to capture the quivering chin, bring the bleak face back.
"No, no, no...do not turn away. All will be well, you will see. I have to look at you, there is no helping that. As a scientist, I must observe and study and be able to accurately record my findings. I know you do not understand what is happening here, inside this small room, and in here," his touch on the chin tighted briefly, "within your own body. I know you think the worse of me, think I use you for some terrible biological experiment but look," he gestured toward his own face, "I have no mask on, no protective gear except my gloves, and I have even removed the lab coat you like to decorate so much!" He smiled indulgently, shaking a finger as if he was correcting a wayward child and not a grown man. "Shame on you for that. But we are past that now, yes? I can assure you, if you had been infected with one of my other serums, you would be dead already. But that is not the case, no? I have shifted my focus and have, for years, studied and researched the human body for humanitarian reasons. I do not work to bring death and destruction to the world any longer, I do not seek to destroy mankind. On the contrary, I have refocused on making life more tolerable and satisfying to us as we grow older. Is that not commendable? Does that sound like something a madman would do? Hhmmm? No, of course not."
Martinez released his hold on the trembling chin and was gratified to see the glazed eyes remain focused on his face, the undeniable glint of interest now sparking behind the exhausted gaze. It wasn't much but it was something and Martinez locked onto it quickly. The test subject licked at his dry, cracked lips and tried to respond but all that emerged was a low, pitiful rasp of sound.
Grunting in understanding and turning swiftly away, Martinez reached for the glass resting atop the small, nearby bed stand and carefully retreived the container, slowly bringing it back toward the young man, bending the flexible straw it held until it was just at the right angle for comfortable sipping. Nudging the slender tube at the unresponsive mouth, he frowned when it was immediately rejected.
"Now, now...you must drink if you are to get stronger," he chided patiently and tried again. Still, he was met with a waning resistence. Sighing dramatically, he shook his head and indulgently stared down st the continuing defiance. "We must move past this nonsense, yes? It is just as easy for me to keep you hydrated through intravenous methods," a hand gestured idly toward the bags of clear fluid attached to the IV pole at one side, "if that is your wish. Is that what you truly want? Hhhmmm? I cannot see why you would turn this offer down. The water is cool and sweet and would ease the terrible thirst I know you must have at this point. And, I can promise, if you can keep this liquid down, I may even be able to locate a bit of broth for you later. How does that sound? Good?"
Martinez watched tolerantly as his proposition was carefully weighed and digested. There was a battle taking place inside the test subject's confused, tired mind but the Brazilian thought he could see the resolve waver a bit more. The green eyes clearly reflected a yearning for a taste of the offered water. He knew the young man was hungry and very, very thirsty but needed to have this persistent streak of rebellion broken and eliminated. He eased the container close again, held his breath, and waited to see what would happen. Slowly, hesitantly, the straw was accepted by slightly trembling lips and a small amount of water was drawn up and sipped. The green eyes closed in blissful relief as the first splash of cool water covered the thick tongue and was savored inside the parched mouth before being swallowed greedily.
"Easy, easy," Martinez soothed, holding the glass steady with one hand while placing the other on the man, rubbing small, calming circles on a bared shoulder. "Do not drink so quickly this first time or you will, most certainly, be ill. There will be more, I promise you. We will wait a brief period and, if you are successful in retaining it, we will try again, yes?"
As the lids fluttered back open and the bloodshot gaze returned and fixed on his face, Martinez could see the last of the patient's resistence beginning to crumble and fade away. Good, very good. He smiled benevolently and stroked a palm against the smooth, unblemished skin of one cheek, feeling a tiny, minute flinch at the contact. Yes, much better. Tears began to gather in the despondent eyes, building slowly, until they filled and broke free, spilling over spiked lashes and running down the sides of the face, traveling wetly from both cheeks to soak into the hairline by the ears. Martinez's smile widened...and the glint of something preditory shifted and emerged.
"Ah, this is good," he whispered, quickly shifting the water glass to the small side table and returning immediately back to the weak, despondent, young man, gloved hands greedily smoothing over more of the exposed skin and pushing away the lightweight, cotton gown where it got in his way. He touched the long column of the tight neck, traced across the strong, solid chest, watching the pliant, youthful skin pebble under his fingertips, and grinned again, his little teeth making him resemble a slimy, dangerous barracuda. "Be quiet now and do as I ask. Emilio will take care of you. Oh, yes, Emilio will take such good care of you now."
In the glass observation booth, behind the low cabinet holding a bank of computer monitors and processors compiling the data on Martinez's research and study, technician Andy Bowman covered his mouth with one hand and cringed at the sight before him. He didn't want to be a part of this any more...not now...not after he finally could see what these tests were doing to that poor sonofabitch's body. And now...this. Closing his eyes and unable to watch the unfolding scene any longer, he turned away from the glass divider and sent a bleak look toward his companion.
"This is getting sick, man. I didn't sign on for anything like this."
"You can say that again," Robertson readily agreed, although he didn't look away from the activity in the lab. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his folded arms on the surface of the desk he was occupying, head tilting to one side, and continued to watch, eyes narrowing as he squinted to clearly see across the distance. "That crazy fucker knows we're here, Andy, and he knows we'll see anything and everything he does."
Bowman nodded at the statement and grunted, shifting nervously in his chair. He cast a worried glance at his companion and frowned as Robertson continued to watch.
"How can you watch that? You know what he's going to do, right?" Bowman shook his head and turned further away. "I guess he doesn't care whether we're here to see or not because he knows we couldn't do anything about it. Right? Who's going to stop him? You?"
"Are you kidding?" Robertson propped his chin on one hand but still continued to watch. "I worked for a guy like this once before but, I imagine, they're all probably the same. They think they can do anything and not answer to anyone. They toy with the test subject, get them to trust, act all friendly, you know?" He shook his head and shrugged. "I've never seen one get so touchy-feely with a subject before though. At least, not like this. You think Martinez is queer or what?"
Bowman didn't respond, didn't even want to think about the possibility. A soft moan of protest from within the lab drew his unwanted attention back toward the unfolding scene and what he saw made him cringe. He quickly swallowed a surge of bile that rose unexpectedly from his stomach and was only remotely aware of Robertson's soft curse of disgust.
"Fuck, he's got his hand on the guy's dick now...and it doesn't look like it has anything to do with checking the catheter."
Bowman *really* didn't want to look but the compulsion was akin to one of those, sick disturbing forces, like rubber-necking at a gruesome accident scene somewhere on an interstate, hoping not to see any blood but looking for it just the same, and he just couldn't force himself to look away. And, Christ, Robertson was right...Martinez's hand was...was...Shit. Not only did Martinez have his hand on the guy's dick but it appeared he'd already removed the slender tubing used for urine outflow and was actually *stroking* the flaccid penis, manipulating it in a way that left no doubt he was trying to produce an erection.
"Oh, shit..." he mumbled, watching the test subject try to arch away from the obviously unwanted touches, straining against the soft bounds holding him captive in the exam chair, and softly whispering hasty, broken words in some language that probably was the Brazilian's native tongue. Bowman shuddered in revulsion and knew, from the desperate, urgent delivery the young man did *not* like nor want this type of attention. Unfortunately, Martinez didn't seemed inclined to respond to the distressed pleas and continued his assualt, both hands busying themselves on the restless, writhing body.
"...no...don't..." he could hear the young man panting, pleading, switching back to English when the Portuguese failed to get the desired reaction. "...don't..."
Bowman didn't know why Martinez would want to do something like this, not now, not after weeks spent treating the patient as nothing but the lowest form of a lab specimen, of keeping all direct communication with him to a bare minimun, and of isolating the young man from any compassionate demonstration of human contact. If this was a method of control, of dominance, it was effective. Effective but just...twisted.
The doctor removed one hand from the agitated body and reached, again, toward the nearby table, lifting a few small items and bringing them swiftly back, quickly smearing some viscous gel substance over his gloved fingers, and returning them rapidly to his subject's genitals. Bowman could see one of Martinez's hands drop away from the penis and begin probing behind the scrotum, pressing a finger into the tight opening just below. The patient arched up hard, grunting at the unexpected intrusion, and renewed his struggles, thrashing for all his worth in the constrictive confines of the chair, and using up his small reserve of strength almost instantly. Bowman wanted nothing more than to avert his eyes, to look away from the assault, but found himself virtually hypnotized by this surprising sexual attack.
"Holy shit," Robertson's voice was thick and low, "he's trying to make the poor bastard come."
Bowman wasn't watching the probing finger sliding repeatedly into the almost slack body or the hand that moved continually over the awakening length of the semi-aroused flesh. He found he couldn't, for whatever reason, tear his eyes away from the test subject's alarmed face. The green eyes were wide in silent terror and awash again in shocked tears, fixed on some point in the room that could have been a million miles away or just focused on a speck on the wall past Martinez's bowed head. His breathing was ragged and uneven and it caught repeatedly in a hurtful-sounding hitch when choking sobs or harsh grunts were forced from his throat and mouth. Bowman could see he was still trying to fight the inevitable, trying to retain this small part of himself, but knew it was a lost cause. Martinez was too unrelenting. But, above all else, Bowman could see the stark awareness of betrayal now etched into the sweating young face and knew, without a doubt, there was no way this guy would ever trust any of them again...even for something as simple as a cool sip of water.
This was going to have disastrous consequences, he could feel it.
"...God...s-s-stop..." the broken plea was whispered and, again, ignored. "...please..."
"You will give me a sample," Martinez's voice was now void of the earlier warmth and concern, his hands continuing their efforts, watching the body respond against the continued wishes of the tired mind. The probbing finger pushed deeper, searching, questing for the small gland that would bring the desired results and, when it was located, a feral grin appeared on the Brazilian's face. "Ah, there. Now, we can begin in earnest, yes?"
Bowman saw the test subject's body tighten, stomach muscles rippling and convulsing, and the watery eyes close slowly, head rolling to one side as the long neck arched with tension. He watched as Martinez redouble his efforts, hands moving, rubbing, sliding, touching, working to bring a swift conclusion to this obscene activity, only barely conscious as the machinery banked against one wall registering the patient's vitals beginning to beep a bit erratically and out of norm.
"That's right," Martinez prompted, seeing the pearl of pre-ejactuate form on the moist tip of the penis and watching as the testicles began to slowly draw upwards. He gripped the solid flesh tighter and continued stroking, catching the small bit of extra skin under the sensitive glans between two of his fingers and stimulating further with each pass of his hand. "It is good, yes?"
Bowman could see the repeated, direct stimulation was having the desired effect, could see it in the taut line of the body within the seat, could hear it in the harsh, ragged breathing, and could detect it in the bleak, pale face. It was almost over, the activity reaching its conclusion.
Somewhere to his left, a noise, a sound began to distract, to interfere. Bowman tilted his head unconsciously, knowing it needed to be addressed, but couldn't stop watching the scene within the exam room as it neared completion. Pushing a fist against his closed mouth in an attempt at keep his own sounds contained, Bowman concentrated on the test subject and silently willed him to just let go.
'Come on, buddy,' he prayed, 'just get it over with.'
Suddenly, the patient arched once, hard, flexing his hips in counterpoint to Martinez's hand, and was ejactulating, the erupting fluid being quickly captured into a small recepticle held at the tip of his pulsing flesh with one hand while the other continued, unmercifully, to stroke.
"All," Martinez was demanding, fingers never ceasing their movements. "I must have it all."
And the bank of medical machinery against the wall began to scream, shocking Bowman into action.
"Shit!" Robertson yelled, pushing back in his seat, and rising quickly, glancing once into Bowman's horrified face. "He's going into cardiac arrest!"
______________________
"So," Gibbs dropped his covered cup of coffee to the surface of the large, rectangle table and took a moment to ease out of his jacket, casting his sharp eyes around those clustered nearby, "what do we know?"
"Well," Abby immediately jumped in, dark lips forming a black pout, "not as much as we'd like. We know the helicopter service used," she glanced down at the sheaf of lavender paper under her fingers and pointed an equally dark nail at a line, "a private service called High Five Flight, to fly Tony from Bethesda to Philadelphia on the night of the sixteenth, dropped him and the supervising doctor off, refueled, and returned to Maryland immediately. What we also know is that the pilot, one Stephen Warford, who was also the sole owner of High Five Flight, was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver the following morning."
Ducky entered the conversation. "I spoke with the coroner and she verifies Mr. Warford did, indeed, die of injuries sustained from the accident. He died almost immediately, neck..."
"Is this vital to finding DiNozzo, Duck?" Gibbs interrupted. "'Because, if it's not, I don't want to hear it." His gaze held the medical examiner's eyes for only a moment before shifting to all the others gathered around. "And that goes for everyone else. We've lost too much time already and I don't want to waste any more with useless information. Understand?"
The nods that greeted his directive were immediate. Even Doctor Mallard indicated his agreement.
"You're quite right, Jethro," he spoke softly. "It won't happen again."
Gibbs read the sincerity in the blue eyes and dipped his chin in graditude, knowing the older man understood the pressing need. "Okay, what else?"
"The supervising doctor who accompanied DiNozzo has not been located," Officer David supplied. "McGee and I have not been able to find anyone who had any contact with the doctor himself, only those who were directed to take a tissue sample from the body and prepare it for immediate shipment to the CDC, and those who disposed of the body."
"Tissue samples," Tim McGee quickly spoke, eyes glimmering hard in his young face, "that the CDC has confirmed did *not* belong to Tony. The samples belonged to a patient at Albert Einsein Medical Center who had died that same day of ovarian cancer..."
"Definately not our Anthony," Ducky piped in.
"...and who's body the hospital seems to have misplaced. It looks like that was the body that got cremated instead of Tony's."
"Well, isn't that a strange coinicidence?" Gibbs mumbled ironically and shook his head. "What about this doctor that no one seems to be able to find? He got on at Bethesda, right? Someone there has to know something. There's accurate records to keep for those flights, both for the helicopter company and the hospitals. What about those? McGee?"
The young agent sat up and looked straight at Gibbs. "I can't find a thing, Boss. It's almost as if someone's destroyed all the evidence."
"I spoke to Roberta Wainwright at Bethesda, Jethro," Ducky was speaking again, "and even she's perplexed by all this. To make matters worse, all of Anthony's charts and records were removed and taken with him on the helicopter. All we have left are Roberta's personal notes."
"You have them in your possession, Duck?" Gibbs asked quickly.
"Well, no, but..."
"Get them. Now," he directed sharply, "before they disappear, too."
Ducky was up and moving away from the group at the table, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and making the call. Everyone could see the worry clouding his lined face as he stopped by a window overlooking the parking area, his cultured voice soft in the distance.
"The helicopter, itself, contained numerous prints..." David was adding.
"...and we're running them all right now," Abby broke in, "but, Gibbs, we're talking about hundreds of prints. The list is going to be long..."
"We'll do what we have to do, Abby," Gibbs said solemnly.
The door to the conference room opened and Tobias Fornell stepped in, eyes quickly sweeping over those seated at the table and the figure speaking on a phone by the window, and moved directly to Gibbs' side. He pulled out a chair and sunk down, exhaustion fairly pouring off his body. They were all tired.
"Seems our helicopter made an unscheduled stop, Gibbs," the sharp eyes saw the immediate interest. "A patrolman just outside Philly reported seeing a chopper land in a field near the town little of Embreeville. He said it didn't stay on the ground long but he was able to see the ID number," Fornell's mouth tipped up in a bleak grin. "He said he remembered the number because it was his son's birthdate...21501."
Gibbs looked quickly toward McGee for confirmation and saw the nod. It was the same resistration number as High Five Flight's helicopter.
"The hell you say," Gibbs grunted, interest piqued. "What else?"
"And," Fornell continued, "seems there was another chopper waiting a short distance away. The patrolman," Fornell couldn't contain the real grin from emerging now, "remembered that number, too."
"Oh," Abby breathed in awe, "I *so* have to meet this guy."
McGee shot a quick look her way and arched an eyebrow, frowning at her open admiration. Almost immediately, Ducky's troubled voice had them all shifting their focus his way.
"They're gone, too!" The medical examiner was well and truly outraged by this turn of events, his smaller frame fairly vibrating in its barely constrained fury. He returned quickly to the conference table and stepped close to Gibbs, allowing the offered hand to settle on his arm in comfort. "All of Roberta's journals and personal notes have been stolen. *All* of them, Jethro, not just those focusing on Anthony but all of them!"
"It's okay, Duck," Gibbs soothed and forced the older man to sit, letting his hand linger on the closest trembling shoulder. "We may have another angle here to focus on." He looked back to Fornell. "Go on, Tobias, you've got center stage now."
Fornell nodded once. "The other helicopter belongs to billionaire recluse Franklin Wilson-Halley, who lives in a secure compound just outside of Twin Falls."
"Idaho?" McGee asked with confusion, eyes filled with disbelief. "Why would a billionaire want to live in Idaho?"
"The bigger question, I should think," David looked pointedly at Gibbs, "is why would Franlin Wilson-Halley be interested in DiNozzo...if that's who's behind this elaborate deception."
"Actually," Ducky shifted and rubbed a nervous hand across his face, "I think I may know the answer to that."
Gibbs turned his attention, as they all did, to the medical examiner and watched as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. He cleared his throat and sighed.
"When we were first looking for Anthony, right after his disappearance from Bethesda, young Timothy and I did some internet searches. He, of course, was focused on a totally different direction than mine and, I must admit, I was quite fascinated with..."
"Duck."
Gibbs' tone immediately transmitted his waning patience.
Ducky nodded and swallowed. "Mr. Wilson-Halley has been a financial supporter of many causes but, within the last several years, pooled his money in a different arena, with others searching for the same thing he was."
"Duck," Gibbs' voice had a hard edge now. "Who?"
"Emilio Martinez."
TBC
Author's Chapter Notes:
DiNozzo's still in Idaho...where the hell is Gibbs?
Chapter End Notes:
More warnings for this part: Language, non-con, DiNozzo whumping, mild violence.