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.
Don't go around tonight
Well it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise."
For a few moments he remained very still, his weary brain was not able to put all the right pieces in place. Dark eyes moved cautiously around the large room, investigating the high ceilings with ornate designs. The furniture and other items in the room were antiques. He was lying on a soft piece of furniture, like a sofa without arms. He felt warmth to his left and turned to see a fire burning in a large hearth. He immediately regretted the move as his head threatened to explode. Moaning softly, he brought his hand over his eyes and tried to quell the waves of nausea rising steadily. This was not just the cold and sore throat he'd had this morning.
The questions arrived again, rudely interrupting his attempt to return to the blackness without pain. Where was he? How did he get here? What happened? The last thing he remembered was leaving a courthouse. Why did his head feel like a house fell on him? He regarded his shoes, glad to see that they were intact and not encrusted with rubies.
"Toto, we ain't in Kansas anymore," Danny rasped and closed his eyes, hoping that would help.
He took several slow breaths, trying hard not to vomit. His hand dropped off the edge of the silky fabric and hit something soft and warm, hair and flesh met his touch. A face emerged in his mind's eye, classically handsome with blue eyes.
"Martin?"
He gingerly moved his head a tiny bit and peered down, enough to see his partner was lying on the floor on his stomach, arms strewn out. It was an unnatural position, which told the foggy-brained detective that Martin had either fallen or been hit by something. His fingers moved down until they found the unmoving man's neck and a solid pulse. He grabbed hold of the neck and shook it.
"Hey, man, you okay? Wake up," he croaked, lying back and gagging twice. His body moved on instinct, turning and leaning down so as not to choke. He began to cough then and his eyes teared up from the effort.
"Whoa!" Martin blinked and saw the eruption about to occur. He tried to move but the stabbing pain in his back prevented it. "No... I can't move... go the other way..."
Why couldn't Martin move? Danny eased his body back onto the couch and wondered why the room was spinning. His hand moved to his head and he felt a sticky gash and cried out when his fingers hit the tender spot.
"...the hell happened...." he demanded, frowning as the sound of his own voice came back to pierce his skull.
"Storm... car ran off the road... you got hit by a tree..." Martin managed, worried about the fact he couldn't move.
A tree? Danny thought hard and continued taking slow breaths, grateful that the threat of throwing up had left. Flashes appeared, coming quickly and leaving too fast to allow recollection of details. Like annoying insects in the summer that buzz in your ear, by the time you swat, they're gone. He tried to grab onto some of them, a diner, a car trip, a dark road, and then nothing. He opened his eyes and realized that Martin was still on the floor.
"Harvard? You still with me?"
"I'm sorry..." Martin replied, frustrated that he couldn't move. His ragged breaths came with his fisted hands as he once again tried to rise. "Ahhhh... God...." he cried out as a paralyzing pain prevented movement.
"What the hell's wrong?" Danny sat up and grabbed onto the edges of the chair, taking slow breaths and waiting for the room to level out. He recalled Martin mentioning an 'accident' and a 'tree' hitting him. "The tree hit you too?"
"No... yes... no... shit..." Martin pounded the floor.
"Calm down," Danny ordered, seeing half of Martin's face and the severe bruising. It was swollen and discolored, the only eye he could see was nearly shut. "The tree hit your face?"
"Yeah, through a window," Martin sighed in frustration. "The car went off the road, it hit a tree, my back got twisted up in the wreck, my face hit the trunk. We walked here and lightning hit the tree outside, the limb caught your head." He let out a long breath, totally spent by the effort. The silence that followed told him his partner was trying to remember. "Nothing?"
"No, just a diner and a dark road, that's it." Danny stood up and sneezed twice, sending his body into motion.
"Sit down!" Martin said, unable to see much but Taylor swaying. "You're swooning..."
"The hell I am!" Danny replied testily, "I look like a girl to you?"
"You have a concussion... I can't... we can't afford to have you pass out. I can't move. Sit down..."
"Okay," Danny agreed, eyeing the room again. "Where are we?"
"Connecticut, the Heatherstone mansion." Martin squinted at his watch. "Shit! I lost an hour."
"You call it in?" Danny asked, reaching for his cellphone. "Where's my phone?"
"...car... I dunno..." Martin replied." You called Jack awhile ago; he knows we were headed home."
Danny was looking at Martin's body on the floor and the face creased in pain. "Okay, bend your knees and tried to slowly move into a kneeling position.
Martin was panting heavily from the sheer will of the motion, causing his face to bead up with sweat. But it worked, he felt Danny latch onto his arm and haul him upright. Now he was kneeling forward, leaning on the settee.
"Sorry, wee Martin, the confessional is closed," Danny teased of the kneeling body next to him. Martin rolled his eyes and flattened both palms on the seat. "Okay, now slow... just try to move a little, maybe you can get your butt over and sit."
He watched the fine features crease in concentration and the bottom lip disappear under the front teeth. Martin's muscles were straining and a fine sheen of sweat covered his face. Danny felt his face flush with guilt when he realized that Martin must have carried him inside. His back was injured in the wreck and hauling him in here had to have done some additional damage. For several moments, the only thing that moved was the blue eyes creasing in pain. Twice they looked over at him, as if inspecting him.
"I'm fine!" Danny replied to the silent inquiry, "sort of..."
"You got a fever..." Martin rasped, "You need water... maybe there's stuff in the kitchen. Just give me a minute."
"What? You gonna send the mice out for takeout?" Taylor returned, easing his body upright. "I'll be okay... if the room would just stay still."
"Hey, it's working," Martin managed through gritted teeth. He shoved off and stood testing his arms and then gingerly lifting his legs. It was painful and they felt numb to him, but he could move. He pointed to the sofa and the woozy man complied, sitting down hard, and then falling back into a lying position. "Better?"
"Yeah," Danny grumbled, watching the tiny steps his injured partner was taking. "As long as you're up, see if you can find a diet ice tea, peach or raspberry, lots of ice." He saw the body pause and a single digit reply appear. "That's my boy," he chuckled.
Jack leaned forward and once again tried to find an update on the radio of the road conditions. The storm had moved on, but the fierce wind and icy roads made it a tough ride. He was glad they had good traction. Although Chris was making great time on the road, with every passing hour his concern rose. Fitzgerald's empty car was nagging at him. How long could his missing men survive in this weather? He paused as a news reporter's voice filled the car, giving sports scores.
"Leave it there," Chris suggested, "that's bound to have a traffic or weather update."
"Yeah," Jack replied, fishing his phone out of his pocket. "I thought that state trooper would call back by now. Shit!"
"What?"
"The battery died," Jack replied, snaking his hand into Chris's leather jacket which was tossed behind him on the seat. He dialed the number and waited, before a voice answered on the third ring. "This is Special Agent Jack Malone, FBI, New York. Who am I speaking with?"
"Hello Agent Malone, uh... hold on..." Buck Thomson put the caller on hold and signaled wildly across the room to his partner. "Eddie... Eddie, it's Malone."
"Yeah..." Davis hit the blinking digit on the phone. "This is Ed Davis, Agent Malone, I spoke with you earlier."
"Anything yet?" Jack hoped but the silence that met his question caused his heart to sink a bit.
"Sorry, we've got men looking, but the roads are bad. It's dark and some of the woods aren't accessible."
"Well then you better try harder, Barney Fife!" Jack roared. "I got two men missing, maybe injured in those damn woods. I don't care if you have to get out a fuckin' team of sled dogs, you get your ass in gear and have a team combing that entire area."
"There's another problem..." Davis hedged, rubbing his temple where the headache he'd been nursing was going into overdrive.
"Great," Jack muttered, shaking his head. "What kind of problem?"
"Cleaver Deaver is missing and ..."
"Cleaver Deaver?" Jack repeated and saw Chris's head tilt.
"That nut who carved up girls years ago, remember?" Boone quizzed. "His family were long-haired freaks who lived in the hills. He died last week; I heard it on the news."
"Whaddya mean 'missing', he died right?" Jack asked.
"His body was being transported and well... we found the car and a dead trooper, his hands, feet and eyes were missing."
"Christ!" Jack sat back, his mind flashing on Danny and Martin in pieces in the woods.
"Where?"
"Not far from where we found Fitzgerald's car," Davis updated and paused, holding the phone away from his ear when the curses sailed through. "It was a van, the tires were shot out, they're on foot."
"They?" Jack pronounced slowly.
"Some of Deaver's family... looks like they took him back. But, without wheels, they would have to head for shelter. We're checking all the homes in the area, there's a lot of ground to cover."
"Give me the exact location!" Jack ordered, pulling the map from the visor and putting it on his lap. He juggled the phone on his shoulder and marked off the coordinates. "We're not far, we should be there in less than an hour." Jack turned the phone off and cursed again.
"What?" Chris demanded and then his concern rose as Jack updated him. "That band of freaks is no match for Taylor and Fitzgerald. They're smart Jack, they'll be okay. They probably found shelter."
Jack didn't reply, he moved his gaze to the black road ahead. Danny and Martin could take care of themselves, he had full faith in them. He'd seen them in action and he knew that they had an uncanny ability to sense each other's movements. But what if they'd been injured and coupled with the severe weather, were set upon by a band of bloodthirsty killers? His fears grew with every passing mile.
Martin regretted having to move but Danny was shivering. The fever had given him chills and the congested agent was having a tough time. He'd been coughing a lot and dozing off. Martin didn't want him to sleep, not with a head injury. Although the room was warm, his partner needed a blanket. The fevered man had ingested two bottles of water and that was good; he didn't want him to dehydrate. Martin eyed the sleeping man and stood up, walking past him across the room to the French doors. The freezing rain had stopped but the winds had kicked up. The gusting force seemed to scream at him, causing the trees to dance in protest. He turned back and headed for the doorway, eyeing the rooms in the hall above. He hoped there was a bathroom up there, the rumbling in his gut had turned to a burning pain, prompting him to move. He wondered if it was really 'beef' stew he had eaten.
"Danny!" he called out, watching for signs of life. The body didn't move and Martin didn't like the flushed face. "Danny!"
"Huh?"
"Take it easy," Fitzgerald ordered of the flailing limbs trying to right themselves. "Over here." he paused while the fuzzy eyes focused on him. I'm heading upstairs to use the bathroom. Stay awake!"
"I am was awake," Danny mumbled in a very annoyed tone.
"Am was?" Martin shook his head, patting his confused partner on the chest. "Real Rhodes scholar."
The trip up the stairs shouldn't have taken quite so long, but halfway up his legs began to give way. He paused for a moment, leaning heavily on the thick banister for support. There wasn't anything quite like the fear of diarrhea to make you move. Once at the top he eyed a dark hallway. He saw a switch on the wall and flipped it, causing the gas lights in the long passage to come on. He tried several doors before the right one opened. The copy of Sports Illustrated had been left behind by one of the television crew. That brought a sigh of relief as it told him that the toilet was working.
He completed his task and eyed his face in the mirror. The left side was swollen and blue, his fingers probed the tender area. He was washing his hands and face, when footsteps in the hall caused him to finish up. He turned the water off and cocked his head, again hearing the tread of someone walking right outside. Then a loud rapping on the door startled him. Cautiously, he approached the door. What was Danny doing up here?
"Danny?"
Martin's eyes roamed the long hallway as he waited outside the door of the Victorian water closet. There was no one in the hall. His hair stood on end and tingles of apprehension raked over his aching body. A long mirror stood at the end of the hall. Its gilded edges seemed to glow and he thought he saw a bluish, misted figure reflected there standing behind him. He swallowed hard, narrowed his eyes in the dim light and looked closer, seeing his own image the lone one in the glass. He glanced at it briefly before turning back to the door. It was the third room on the floor and he hoped it would net some much needed blankets and pillows. He had to keep Danny warm; the fever already consuming his ailing partner didn't need any help. He turned the knob and entered the room, which was a large bedroom.
The walls were in a dusty rose with pale white flowers. He moved to the bed and quickly folded up the thick quilt and blanket, tucking it under one arm. With the other, he scooped up the pillows. He froze in place when the air changed. The temperature dropped so suddenly and severely, he sucked in his breath and his teeth chattered. Martin felt like he was standing in a freezer. He felt a chill and his heart began to beat a little faster. Then his throat went dry and seemed to constrict when his wide eyes caught the mirror over the vanity in the room. A scarlet robed figure was standing right behind him. The hooded apparition bore no features. He wanted to tear his gaze from the dust-covered mirror, but could not. His limbs were frozen in place as if bolted to the floor. The figure moved silently, coming closer and the right arm rose up. He felt cold fingers on his neck and felt icy breath as it caressed his cheek. He felt the fingers wrap around his neck and sudde! nly he couldn't breathe.
Martin shot forward, stumbling over a bench at the foot of the bed. That caused him to go off balance and he stumbled. He tried to correct his errant steps and ended up grasping at air to break his fall. His hand hit the candelabra on the wall and moved in his hand. He fell down hard with his back to the wall, his heart hammering. The robed figure was floating several inches off the floor, its thick folds swaying in the cold air. As his back met the wall, it gave way and he tumbled into darkness, his loud cry was the only thing that remained in the eerie room.
"DANNEEEE!"
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
Return to Deirdre's Fic Archive
