A fictional work based on the tv series 'Without a Trace'
Rating: PG-17 (Language, violence)
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the show or characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only, without profit or gain of any kind.
Note: This is not really a fanfic, it doesn't have all the necessary ingredients (but one of those is in the works). However, I love Halloween so I couldn't resists a ficlet of what happens when our two favorite F.B.I agents are coming home on a dark road during a storm on Halloween night — screeching brakes, a little blood, a steep hill, and refuge during a wicked storm in an old house- that just happens to be haunted.
Stumbling and supporting each other, the wet and battered agents navigated the icy terrain with great difficulty. Fate had truly been kind; they'd escaped the wreck with minor cuts and bruises, save Martin's back. Although he'd not admitted to it, Danny knew by the way he found Martin twisted in the seat that his back was injured in the accident. The air bags saved them, of that he was sure. But the car was totaled and neither cell phone was working. It was freezing and the sooner they found help and shelter, the better.
"Sit," Danny ordered, lowering Martin onto a large rock in the road.
The death grip which held onto his arm as the lean man settled down told him how bad the pain was. The right side of Martin's face was swelling up from where it impacted with part of the tree through a broken window. Martin had been unconscious for almost ten minutes and Danny suspected a slight concussion. He'd thrown up as soon as he regained consciousness and once a few moments ago. Danny's own lip was split and what he'd assumed was a cold, had turned into a bad sore throat as well. How could it get any worse?
"Let's go," Martin announced and gingerly rose. They couldn't afford to stop. He was getting stiffer by the minute and his face was throbbing. He'd thrown up twice already and wished like hell they'd stayed over in the motel. He slipped on the icy road and grabbed onto Danny, but the pain that shot through his back caused him to yelp.
"Lean on me," Danny ordered, taking Martin's arm over his shoulder. "You're a mess, Harvard. What am I gonna do with you? Puking all over, face lookin' like a hamburger, bad back..."
"Trade me... in... for... a ... newer model..." Fitzgerald suggested with a half-grin.
"Nah," Danny denied and held on tighter. "Besides, it couldn't 'blush and Ma'am' me into the good tables at overbooked restaurants." He teased of the blue-eyed man's ability to create 'openings' where none existed. The laugh that he got in return gave him a lift.
Martin peered into the fierce wind and turned his face to protect it from the icy rain that was just beginning to pelt him, stinging his face like tiny needles. Then the whole sky lit up when a jagged and almost unnatural bolt of lightning turned the darkness into a momentary noonday light.
"Look!" he yelled, pointing to the huge Gothic house ahead of them on the path. Illuminated by the lightning, it seemed to appear as if out of the mists of time. "I guess that's the old Heatherstone mansion."
He brushed past Taylor and moved through the gate and up the curving drive. He paused several yards from the massive, cathedral-like stone structure. The four-story house had a steeply pitched roof, arched, pointed windows and decorative tracery. Grouped chimneys and pinnacles scored the edifice; battlements and parapets gave it the appearance of a medieval castle. Leaded, stain glass cathedral style windows and smaller clover shaped windows met his eye. Spires rose up to the sky from the peaked roof. A hideous pair of gargoyles squatted on the corners of the roof over the verandah. They rose on their haunches and roared, baring their teeth and talons, when the startled agent looked at them.
"No fuckin' way!" Danny denied, blessing himself and turning back towards where the car had run off the road.
They'd gone down, skirting their way to the bottom of the hill rather than navigate up a very steep, very high and very icy hill to where they'd left the road. The path led through a wooded area and then opened up into a large driveway of sorts. He knew about the house, he'd not only read about in the local papers that morning but he'd seen it featured on the television news the night before. They were featuring all the 'haunted' houses in the area. The house was over a hundred and fifty years old and rumored to have been the sight of human sacrifice and other blood taking rituals at the turn of the century.
"What?" Martin turned and grinned, seeing the fear displayed in the otherwise brave eyes. "You're scared!"
"And you're out of what little's left of your mind!" Danny shot back, shaking his head." A haunted house on Halloween? I look crazy to you?" His arm was gripped and he was forced unwillingly back up the uneven cobblestone path.
"It's not haunted," Martin argued and dragged a very unwilling, dark-haired man up the path, each needing the other for balance as the strong wind nearly bowed them down. They stumbled onto the porch and Martin peered into the window. "That's just gossip and rumors. It's old and full of creaks and groans, all old houses are."
"And the undead," Danny shouted over the wind and backed up, heading down the path from which they'd came. "No thanks."
"Come on Danny, it's just a deserted, old house," Martin insisted and jumped a bit when a huge roar of thunder shook the ground under their feet. "Look, this storm is getting worse, in a few moments all hell's gonna break loose. We got no wheels and this is the only shelter for about thirty or forty miles." He waited but Taylor wouldn't budge, he remained a few feet away seemingly not noticing that the freezing rain was now coming down in torrents.
Martin was annoyed. He was cold, his headache was brutal and his back hurt. To top it all off, now he was getting soaked. "Okay, Einstein, what's your idea?" he quizzed and then peered closer. He stifled a chuckle then as he saw the dark-eyed man's lips moving. "Are you praying?"
"Damn straight," Taylor announced and pulled out his cross, hanging on a thin gold chain on his neck. Tia Isabella gave me this," he noted of his aunt. "It was blessed by the Pope. You're lucky I'm not so pissed off at you that I'm not praying for your ungrateful soul too."
"Danny, we have no choice," Martin yelled over the wind, flinching as the icy needles of rain hit his eyes and stung them. He grabbed at Taylor's arm and tried to pull him onto the porch. But his partner shoved back, sending him to the ground.
"Get offa me!" Danny hollered over the wind and turned away, he'd take his chances in the car. He heard a loud crack and turned too late.
"Danny!" Martin screamed, rose quickly and dove towards Taylor.
A huge tree limb sent them both to the ground. For a few moments neither man moved. Then Martin rolled away, wincing as the pain in his injured back flared. Gasping and numb from the cold, he drew in several ragged breaths and tried to move. For a few seconds, he panicked, fearing that he couldn't move at all. Then he turned and saw that Danny was lying motionless a few feet away.
"DANNY!"
Martin moved then, ignoring the pain in his lower back. He wiggled free and crawled over to where the dark-haired man remained trapped and unmoving. A jagged burst of lightning scored above them which showed a crimson flow covering the handsome agent's features. His wet fingers slid below the tangled branch and hit Taylor's neck. He sighed in relief at the strong pulse that met his touch. It took him several moments, groans of pain and a few choice curses to get the large limb off the unmoving agent.
"Sorry, partner, you lose." He knelt, secured his unconscious friend in a fireman's hold over his shoulders and staggered back towards the house, his back screaming in a fiery protest.
Martin was surprised when the door opened as soon as he leaned against it and tugged on the gargoyle knocker. He stumbled inside and staggered badly, rain dripping from every inch of him. He blinked and tried to adjust his eyes to the darkness, desperate to find someplace to lay his injured partner down before his legs gave out. His eyes shifted around the large foyer to several doors. The closest one was to his left and he proceeded slowly, careful of his cargo. He turned the knob and the door opened, revealing a large library of sorts. Sheets covered the furniture and Martin wasted no time in stumbling towards what appeared to be a large divan. He backed up and eased his burden down, turning and laying his unmoving friend out flat.
"Danny?" he rasped, gripping the edge of a table to brace himself against the pain in his back. "Hey, man, you okay?" He tapped the wet, bloody face and got no reply.
He pulled a wad of napkins from his inner pocket and wiped the side of Taylor's face. At the hairline, a jagged cut appeared and he applied pressure until it stopped bleeding. Shivering badly, he eyed the fireplace and the switch by the mantle. Flames sprung to life when he flipped it on. He recalled reading about a Ghost Hunter's group that had held a gathering of sorts in the place last weekend. The Gas Company must not have turned the gas back off. Warmth flooded the immediate area, although the large room was very drafty. He cast his eyes around and spotted a lightswitch on the far wall. Gingerly, he walked over and flicked it on, illuminating the room. He took his sodden jacket off and rolled his sleeves up, warming his face and arms. He then moved Danny closer, shoving the whole divan to the edge of the hearth.
"...shit... aw... shit..." he dropped down, clutching the area over his right kidney.
He'd pushed his injured back too far and the pain caused his legs to buckle. The migraine was in overdrive, creating a wall of throbbing agony in his skull. The room seemed to spin and his stomach lurched. He was blinking hard trying to fight off the dizziness when something caught his eye in the large mirror over the fireplace. Had something moved in the foyer reflected there? What he saw made him wonder about the severity of his head injury. He closed his eyes for a moment and then glanced again. Had he imagined it? He turned to see but was halted by what felt like a hot knife lancing his lower back. He cried out once before his eyes rolled up and he fell forward, landing next to his injured partner.
Neither man saw the twisted creatures that were watching and waiting, nor did they hear the macabre laughter that filled the room.
The party was over and only a handful of guests remained in the small bar in the lobby. Sam had departed already, heading with friends to their Long Island home. Twice, Chris Boone eyed the doorway to the outer area, where the bathrooms and coat room were located. The fact that Jack Malone hadn't returned didn't have him worried as much as curious. Then when Malone finally did return, the look on his face caused the blond man's stomach to drop. His gut instincts had him alerted. Something was wrong, of that he was sure.
"Jack?" Chris asked, spotting the phone still in Malone's hand. Fearful of the accidents that occur at times on Halloween from sick bastards who poison candy and worse, the thought of Hannah and Kate struck him. "Your kids okay?" "Huh?" Jack looked up, very distracted. "Oh, fine."
"Problem?" Chris pressed.
"I hope not." Jack sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I called the office to check my messages. Kate and Hannah left one, they had a great Halloween."
"Danny and Martin?" Chris asked and saw a strange pall appear on his friend's face.
"I thought maybe they'd checked in, when I talked to Danny, I was still working. I thought maybe he'd called there. But there was two messages waiting, both from the Connecticut State Troopers."
"Shit," Chris hissed, knowing that Fitzgerald and Taylor were late checking in. They were supposed to call midway on the journey and gain when they arrived in New York. "Danny and Martin haven't checked in?"
"No and they won't be," Malone replied, sliding the phone in his pocket, "seems like some freak ice storm hit the area, accidents all over, roads closed."
"And?" Boone was worried and didn't hide his concern.
"The first message said they found the car empty a couple hours ago." "Empty?" he asked and saw the dark head nodding.
"At the bottom of a hill, twisted around a tree..."
"Jesus! Empty? That's good, they got out."
"The cops found a truck in the middle of a road with front end damage. The driver was drunk, couldn't tell them anything. But they traced his path and saw Martin's car. Stupid jerk was driving the wrong way, forced them off."
"But they got out, Jack, they're okay."
"Are they?" Jack worried. "It's near freezing up there; they're on foot and might even be hurt. The troopers didn't find any tracks or the snow covered them. They didn't get far, a large tree came down, a lot of the roads up there are closed. The wind is too strong, no choppers until morning. But they got an alert out, they'll keep trying."
"The storm's moving in the other direction, our roads should be clear," Chris offered. "Where'd they break down?"
"Near as I can tell about three hours north, near Torrington, in the mountains. "
"Let's go, my Land Cruiser can get through anything."
"Chris, you don't have to do this..."
"What, and let you have all the fun?" the blond agent teased lightly. "Just let me update the girls and get them a cab." He spoke of Lola and Gabrielle, who were both waiting for him in the bar.
"You're going dressed like that?" Jack's voice rose a full pitch as his eyes skimmed over the tight black pants with a white shirt tucked into a scarlet, sash waistband. The full sleeves and deep v-neck on the shirt transformed the handsome agent into a dashing figure of another century. The mask and cape had been left in the bar.
"Unless you want me to drive commando," Chris replied with a hint of a challenge.
"You better hope to hell we don't get pulled over," Malone warned, "I'm not explaining why I'm driving around with you in that candy-assed outfit."
"It's not due back until Monday," Boone retorted with a bold wink and clapped his friend's back. "Might as well get my money's worth, eh Jack?"
"Money?" Jack frowned. "Why keep it all weekend?" he asked and saw a naughty grin appear on his friend's face. "Oh, why did I ask."
"Did you call Sam?" he asked.
"No, not yet. No sense worrying her until I know more. Besides, she's over an hour away by now and too far to come back in time. I'll update her when we get closer and we know more."
"Here." Chris tossed Jack his keys. "I'll meet you out front." He heard the deep sigh and turned back, seeing a worried face. He rested his hand lightly on the slumped shoulders. "Hey, no news is good news, Jack. They're not dead, we'll find them."
"I got a bad feeling..." Jack replied and headed for the parking area. He hoped his instincts were wrong this time, that he'd get a call from Danny saying they were safe. But the dark clouds that covered the moon seemed to be an ominous sign of what was to come.
The ice storm was making driving more difficult by the hour. The troopers patrolling the road wondered how much longer they could manage without turning into another statistic. Ed Davis was just about to tell his partner to take the next turn, he thought it best to get back to base, but what the headlights caught in the road ahead gave both men a chill.
"Shit..." Buck Thomson swore at the sight of the state vehicle turned on its side. As he pulled closer and carefully brought the car to a stop, a severed hand and boot was seen in the road.
"Christ... what the hell happened?" Davis asked, getting out of the car. He peered in the back of the wagon, while his partner radioed the vehicle identification and plate to the base. He moved to the other side and found the first body, both hands were missing. The dead man's throat was slit and his eyes were missing. "Shit! Buck get over here!" "What?" Thomson paused, standing next to the driver's seat. The sight of his veteran partner throwing up caused him to move. There wasn't much that would cause Davis to lose it. His own stomach nearly turned over when he saw the body. "Eddie, you okay?"
"Yeah...." he replied, swallowing a mouthful of wet snow and then spitting it out. He swiped his chin and walked gingerly around the bodies, peering into the front seat. "Look at the trip sheet," he handed over the clipboard, "he was transporting the fuckin' maniac from the psycho ward."
"Deaver?" Thomson paused, adding up the clues on the ground around them and the news he'd heard only a few days ago. "Cleaver Deaver?" he noted of the mad killer whose trademark had been his weapon of choice, used to cut off body parts.
"Freddie Kruger come to life." Davis replied.
"He died a few days ago; I heard it on the news."
"Looks like his kin came up from West Virginia." Davis flashed a light onto the plate on the car that was a few yards ahead.
"I heard about them, freaks that lived in the hills, a real bunch of lunatics. They intermarried or something. I read somewhere that they suspect half of the missing people over the years in the area might be buried on Deaver's ground." "Old Clyde and Carl were the exception," Davis recalled of the man from his younger days. "Hell, it's more than forty years ago, but I remember seeing the trial coverage on television when I was a kid. The others were deformed, long haired freaks, some couldn't talk, just made guttural sounds, some kind of genetic thing. Lived like a pack of animals in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, totally cut off. Twins, they were, real normal looking, they were the ones who came down from the hills to town to get supplies and stuff. Locals thought they were born from one of the missing women.""
"Ran off with some girls, right?" Thomson remembered reading about him.
"Yeah, they were from this area, a bunch of hippies. They moved into that old mansion, the Heatherstone place. Shacked up for awhile but something happened over the winter. Come spring some body parts showed up in the river, they tracked it back to that old place. Turns out those animals tortured them girls in the cellar, cut 'em up and ate parts of 'em. Carl got away somehow, they never did find him. But Clyde got caught on the scene and held for trial. He's been locked up in the nut house since '65. He died last week and they were taking his body to the crematory. I guess some of the clan got word somehow. Shit... this is fuckin' mess. We don't know how many of them sick bastards were in that truck." Davis flashed a light into the back of a beat-up, very old white pickup truck. "Tires shot out, looks like he got a couple rounds off before he was killed. Whoever it is, they're on foot. Hell they can't be far, not in this mess. Let's call it in. I want help up here ! and in those woods. "
"I hope to hell those Feds from New York aren't in the woods," Thomson said, heading back to his car to call the base. "Them Deavers hate the law, no telling what they'll do if they run into them."
"I hear that," Davis replied, picking up his radio. "I don't want to have to be the one to tell that Malone guy that his missing men are strewn in parts all over the woods."
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
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