He dialed Ian's phone. It went straight to voice mail. Ian often turned it off when he was shopping. He said he couldn't concentrate if he was talking.
“Ahoy-hoy, my dear,” Teague decided to leave the message in his best British accent. “I hope you're on your way home. Mrs. Hudson is getting into quite the tizzy with all the preparation.”
He left the guest bedroom and went to the front room. Ian would need the refreshment tables set up and covered and the bar filled with ice. He could do that, even if he couldn't manage the whole spread.
Five o'clock came and went. He called Ian again, got dumped into voice mail again and started to pace. The party was in less than three hours. He considered calling the grocery store manager, but doubted Ms. Tanner would give him the time of day, let alone page Ian for him.
He called the grocery's deli instead and placed a rush order for three of their Halloween party trays, to be picked up at seven. He winced at the extra charge for the rush.
A slow burn started behind his eyes. Maybe Ian had left. That voice that told him to fly, his own fear of the holiday, maybe they had gotten the better of him and made him run. Why hadn't Ian told him any of this?
Teague headed for the kitchen. He wrestled the mini coffin into place across the saw-horses that Ian had left for it. The skeleton was washed and sterilized and sealed in a bag, so he added it to the coffin and began pouring bags of blue tortilla chips around it.
The emergency room. Ian had recovered from a Halloween in the emergency room because of an irresponsible top. Teague wanted to hunt this Mark down, and teach him a thing or three about being a good top, a good dom and a decent sadist.
He set the bowl of salsa in the skeleton's belly and went to get the plates of cookies Ian had baked. The bats and pumpkins and cats lay meticulously decorated and arranged. He set them out, hoping Ian would come home.
Ungrateful little bitch. Why had he taken Ian in, when he knew the kid was a grifter? Used and left, like the others. Betcha he gave you the starving puppy routine, Derek's voice mocked in his head.
He left the brain-shaped crab-dip mold in the refrigerator, but laid out the pumpkin pasties. The clock chimed the half hour and he realized it was six-thirty and quite dark. He had enough time to change and mix the punch.
Ian, Ian, please come home, he begged silently, hoping the universe or telepathy or something would carry his thoughts out. He called again. Instant voice mail again. Something was wrong.
He got the costume on and tied his necktie. Giving in to temptation, he called the grocery store. The female clerk identified herself.
“This is Teague Albright. I need you to page Ian McLean. He went shopping around three-thirty and hasn't come home. Tell him to call home. He's been gone too long.”
“Hold on, sir.” She put the page out. He heard the faintly tinny sound of the clerk paging Ian to call home at once. “Hope he calls you.”
“So do I.” Teague hung up and waited. He took a few minutes to just breathe. He unmolded the brain and set it out, then began mixing the punch. He would get the dry ice when he picked up the party trays.
He made the grocery run, looking for Ian all along the route, paying no mind to the trick-or-treaters who flocked on the sidewalks. Ian was nowhere to be seen. Why would he leave? He told the diary he loved me. Those were the only thoughts in Teague's head. He didn't even notice the clerks staring at his costume.
At seven thirty, food laid out and lights dimmed, he lit the jack-o-lanterns and set them out on the porch railing. Then he sank into a comfortable chair and brooded, finally giving in to panic. He called the police.
“No, I'm sorry. We can't do anything until he's been missing for forty-eight hours,” they said. Teague snapped the phone shut and turned it off.
The first knock came. He turned on the stereo, already set up with a supply of spooky music, from “Monster Mash” to “Music of the Night,” and answered the door, putting on the most cheerful face he could.
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