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.
"Jesus!"
Jack barely got the word out of his mouth, ducking as a bullet hit the spot in the doorframe where his head had been. He glared hard at Boone, who was flat on his belly in the doorway. The lean blond moved fast, scrambling for cover. Just as Jack drew his gun, he saw Chris's head rise, as the irate agent's voice was heard.
"What the fuck's wrong with you? You damn near shot me!"
"Huh?" Jack puzzled and cautiously peered around the door.
The large room was definitely out of another time and era. It screamed Victorian, with the furniture, wall coverings and accents all in that theme. There in front of a blazing fire in the hearth was one of his missing agents. The face was flushed, the eyes were heavy and the wheezing chest suggested an illness. The gun was still aimed at them and that was their first task. He put a hand in front of Chris's shoulder to halt him; neither of them moved.
"Danny?" Malone tried and the eyebrows furrowed. The dark eyes were trying to figure out what was going on. "Danny? Taylor!"
"Huh?" Danny managed, as the fog lifted.
He saw Jack standing before him with Chris Boone. The fair-haired man looked like on of the Three Musketeers. He was hallucinating again. He dropped his hand, sat back and shook his head. He'd never find Martin if he continued to waste bullets on imaginary figures.
"Shit... damn concussion..." he mumbled, rubbing his tender scalp.
Relieved, both agents moved into the room. Jack went to Taylor's side while Boone inspected the room. Satisfied that they were alone, Chris moved back to where Malone was kneeling in front of the dazed younger man.
"Danny?" Jack said quietly, taking the gun from the loose fingers. The eyes blinked and the hand moved to get the weapon back. "You with me?"
"Jack?" Danny whispered, touching his boss's hand and feeling flesh not air. "You're here? Jesus... thank God... thank God..."
Chris could feel the relief surging from Taylor and tapped the slumped agent's damp back in a show of support.
"Where's Martin, Danny?" Malone asked.
"Martin?"
Jack frowned at the small sound of Taylor's voice. His cautious gaze moved over the dried blood on the injured agent's scalp. The dark hair around it was matted with blood and it stained his shirt collar as well. He wondered just how serious the head injury was and thought again on the shot that nearly took his head off. His eyes moved and caught Boone's guarded green ones. The other agent was thinking the same thing. Jack shook his head, denying that thought. No way did Taylor injure his own partner.
"Martin, Danny, what happened to Martin?" Jack pressed and felt the body slump as a long breath exhaled.
"I dunno, Jack. I think maybe they got him, he screamed for me but I couldn't find him I tried but his voice was inside the walls and then I found that room with the dead soldiers and..."
"Hold it," Jack tried to halt the long unending stream of words that ran together. It was clear that the young man's nerves were jangled.
"Dead soldiers?" Chris repeated, eyeing the upper floor.
"From the Civil War, little ones," Danny answered Chris and held his fingers several inches apart to illustrate, then kept going. "I was in that room and he was screaming for me, he needs me and I can't find him, he sounds hurt but maybe it's just his back again then the shot came and..."
"Whoa!" Jack forced the rambling to stop by placing both hands on the slim shoulders and shaking them gently. In a stupor, Danny blinked at him just as Boone's hand moved to Taylor's forehead.
"He's burning up," Chris warned. "Between the fever and the head injury..."
"I'm not crazy!" Danny snapped, shoving the hands of assistance off.
"Okay, then slow down and tell us what happened," Jack instructed.
"We found your car; some drunk forced you off the road?" Chris supplied and the dark head bobbed.
"Here," Jack picked up a bottle of water that was lying under the divan and uncapped it, handing it to the shaken man.
"Thanks." Danny took a long draw and caught his breath. "Martin did a hellauva job, it's a miracle we both weren't killed. He twisted the car so he'd get the impact. The tree came through the window."
"How bad is he hurt?" Jack asked.
"His face is a mess, all swollen and stuff. His back, he hurt his back, his legs give out," Danny updated. "I don't know how we got here. I can't remember much, but he carried me inside. When I came to, he was right there." Danny pointed to the floor. "He couldn't move at first. He went upstairs to use the bathroom. I must have passed out, I heard him scream. I went upstairs but he wasn't there."
"What about the shot? And who are 'they'?" Chris asked of the initial report the dazed agent was giving them. "You said 'they' got him. Have you seen anyone else?"
"Yeah... no... maybe... Martin's trapped in the house somewhere, I could hear him calling for me but I couldn't find him." Danny paused and his eyes pleaded with his boss. "I tried Jack I did..."
"I know you did, Danny. So Martin was upstairs, you heard him scream for help but you can't find him now?"
"Yeah... it was like his voice was inside the walls. I heard a shot... and then he... his voice..." Danny shuddered, hunching over slightly. "Something bad happened to him."
"Jack," Chris called from across the room.
"You take it easy, Danny. We'll find him, I promise." Jack gave the trembling young man a tug on the shoulder and moved to the French Doors where Chris Boone was standing. As he approached, the lean body opened the door and moved a few feet onto the chilly porch. "What?" he! asked watching Chris squat over something.
"Blood... not that old." His pale eyes regarded Jack's dark ones and he saw them flash in anger.
"He didn't shoot Martin!"
"I don't want to believe it either, but he damn near shot us. What if Martin came back the same way? What if the shot Danny heard was his own? Martin ran for cover, ducked outside?"
"No... there's another answer." Jack turned back and went inside. He ran smack into Danny Taylor, looking at the blood on the ground. He watched as the blood drained from the stricken man's face. "We'll split up, you stick with me. Chris, you call in every five minutes. I'm going topside, you take this floor."
"Jack, I didn't... I wouldn't..." Danny's voice was unsure now. He vaguely recalled something trying to get at him from that area. "Something tried to get inside„ĻI shot... I... no... Martin?"
"Danny, snap out of it!" Jack drilled, glaring at Boone for suggesting such a thing. "I need your head clear."
"I'm fine," Danny shook it off and concentrated on the task at hand.
"You said his voice was 'in the walls'?" Jack quizzed as they moved to the foyer.
"Yeah... all over... the echoes drove me nuts..." Danny peered upstairs and blessed himself again. He didn't tell them about the phantom up there, they'd really think he was nuts.
"Big house, high ceilings," Chris appraised. "Could be he took a fall, especially if his back's out. Maybe he can't move, it's dark, he's trying to find Danny and his voice is coming through the vents."
"Yeah, could be," Jack answered, his foot on the bottom step. He flashed his light to where Boone was approaching the corridor that led to the back of the house. "Every five minutes!"
"I heard you, 'Mom'," Chris teased and nodded, then saw the guilt on Danny's face. "We'll find him, Danny, okay?"
"Yeah," Danny managed, still wondering if his mind had gotten the best of him. What if Chris was right? What if he had shot Martin on the porch?
Carl moved from his perch when the footsteps and new voices came through the vents. He cocked his head and listened. The others moved over towards him, their frantic grunts answering what he felt.
"Yeah, we got company. I can't leave Clyde, ya'll git up there and take care of whoever that is," he directed to his brothers, nodding to the knives nearby. "Go on now... don't be long."
After the pair left, he moved back to the marble slab where the federal agent was stirring. A slow muffled moan sounded under the gag and he grinned. He leaned on the table, watching as the eyes blinked slowly and opened. Unfortunately, the tubing wasn't working right; the blood was running out slowly. The blue eyes regarded him with great hostility, which surprised him, usually they were afraid. The slim body was shivering terribly and yet he fought, trying still to break free.
"Yer a feisty one, that's good. That fire's jest what Clyde needs." He paused to stroke the tender side of the neck. "Course them tubes ain't workin' right, once the boys git back, I'm gonna hafta open ya up t'speed things along." Carl moved his other beefy paw to the lean abdomen, giving it a loud slap.
That caused Martin's heart to race. He didn't want to know if that meant gutting him or using another line. His foggy brain was trying to put the clues together. The 'boys' weren't here? Why? Where had they gone? Was Danny close by? Is that why the others left? He turned away from the madman's leering eyes and began to pray. That was all he had left now, so he clung to it, his silent cry of hope sailing into the chilling air.
Danny remained in the hallway, just by the door as Jack searched the room where he'd suspected Martin had been. He wouldn't enter; his nervous eyes roamed the halls, flitting to every corner. He couldn't seem to catch his breath and his hacking coughs caused his boss to turn.
"You okay?"
"I will be once we find him," Danny replied quietly.
Jack kept his eyes on the suffering Taylor for a moment, not missing how hard the young man was breathing. This old house and its chilly halls, along with the damp clothes the injured man was wearing didn't help. He turned back to the scattered blankets and pillows lying on the floor. He directed his attention to the bed, moved to the other side and stood facing the mirror. If Fitzgerald had his arms full of the items and had seen someone sneak up behind him, he'd have dropped them. Did they fight? Had his injured agent been overpowered? He inspected the closets again, finding them empty. If Martin was attacked, could the attackers have taken him downstairs, unaware Danny was inside the other room? The grisly remains of the state trooper and the missing clan invaded his thoughts. He moved back towards where Danny was leaning heavily on the doorjamb.
"Could be we have company," he addressed and the dark head rose slowly. "The state troopers found an abandoned unit, the cop was killed. Before he was dismembered, he got a couple shots off. He shot the tires out."
"Dismembered?" Danny shoved off the door and frowned.
"Yeah... he was transporting Clyde Deaver, aka Cleaver Deaver, a whack job from the sixties who's been rotting in prison for almost forty years. He died this week and his clan left their pond scum in Virginia to claim him back."
"Deaver?" Danny thought and a grainy image of a wooded area appeared in his mind's eye. "I read about them once. They live in the hills... long haired freaks..."
"Yeah... we found tracks out back and a broken window."
"That's who I shot!" Danny exclaimed excitedly, causing a severe coughing fit. "I remember now!"
"Great!" Jack muttered, clapping his back. "Don't keel over on me now."
"I... saw... one... porch... monsterish... shot... at..."
"Okay, okay, easy," he coached, leading the wheezing body to the bathroom. "Toss it out, clean up and let's get going." While Danny was in the bathroom, Jack pulled out his radio. "Chris, anything?"
"Negative, Jack," Chris replied. "But I..."
"Chris?" Jack's antenna went up when a strangulated sound, a series of thumps and glass breaking met his ear. Then Chris Boone's voice broke into the tension.
"Jack!"
"Danny! Let's go! We got trouble!" Jack sprung into action when Chris's cry for help came through the line.
Jack was halfway down the stairs by the time Danny exited the bathroom. He took the stairs quickly, absorbing each word Malone called back to him. They ran to the back of the house, opening and closing doors. Then they found a dark, rotted door already open three steps down off the pantry near the kitchen. Hooks from the ceiling told them it had been a room where meat was hung. Danny ran smack into Jack's back; the beam of the flashlight was lingering on a bloody body in the middle of the room.
"Chris!" Jack called, dropping to his friend's side. He slapped at the bloody face, trying to ignore the large amount of blood covering the once pristine white shirt. His fingers moved to the neck, his heart praying. "Be there... be there..." he whispered and then sighed in relief.
"Aw, Jesus," Danny whispered, his eyes frozen on the crimson mass covering Boone's chest.
"Stay put! You'll make it worse," Jack ordered when the green eyes shot open and the bloody man struggled to get up.
"No... s'okay... J...J...ack..." Chris stammered, rubbing the tender area on the back of his head where it hit the floor. "...s'not mine... we fought... I won."
"Who?" Jack asked, eyeing the bloody puddle near Boone's body.
"Jack!" Danny's light moved to the side wall where a body was swaying. A large hook was right through the man's neck.
"What the fuck is that?" Malone winced at the creature before him. It looked like a leftover from a freak show. Every bad 'B' movie from his youth come to life before his eyes. The gaping wound in the neck told him why Boone was covered in so much blood.
"...Deaver..." Chris coughed and tried to sit up. "...two... other one... ran off... into... wall..."
"I should have thought of that," Jack assessed, flashing the light closer.
"That's Martin's..." Danny's voice trailed off when he recognized the shirt the corpse wore. Were they too late? Was his missing partner already dead? The thought of Martin lying hacked to pieces in the cellar below caused his stomach to drop and slide onto the filthy floor. He saw the blond agent wince and clutch his side. Then fresh blood ran through his fingers onto the floor. "Chris, you're bleeding!"
"What?" Boone moved his hand from his side. What he thought had been pain from moving was indeed a wound. "Shit... shit..."
"How bad?" Jack moved next to his friend and pulled the shirt away. A large slashing wound was bleeding freely from the left side of the ribcage. He then noticed fresh blood running from a wound just over the battered man's left ear.
"Shit, that was a new jacket," Boone noted of the expensive leather item now wearing a large wound.
"Saved your life," Jack groused of the thick coat which had lessened the knife's penetration. "It's not deep, but we should bind it. Here," he moved the bloody cloth back in place. "Put pressure on it." He turned and took Fitzgerald's shirt off the corpse and noticed Taylor frozen in place staring at the dead body. He knew what the younger man was thinking and made a quick decision. "Danny... get some water. We can wash it off. Danny!"
'Yeah... going..."
"Go with him... freak could be..." Chris pulled his free hand up and fumbled for his gun. "I'm okay."
But Jack tore the shirt up quickly and Danny returned with a bottle of water. In didn't take but a few moments to bandage the chest and head wound. "I never saw them. One of them swung a hook at me, damn thing ways a ton. The other one jumped me, but I grabbed the hook and speared him. The other one hit me again, my head hit the ground. I guess you two coming in scared him off."
"Secret passages," Jack answered Chris's silent question. "A house this old would be full of them. They were often used in Victorian designs. That's why Danny never saw Martin again. Whatever attacked him upstairs, he was either taken into a passage or he ran into one. He's trapped downstairs somewhere."
"Yeah... the coven..." Danny murmured, watching as Jack got Chris on his feet. The lean man swayed a bit and Jack kept his hand under Boone's elbow.
"Coven?" Chris asked, nodding to Jack that he was now steady.
"This place was used at the turn of the century by a coven. The locals thought that they were sacrificing virgins here."
"Then they won't need Martin," Jack quipped but saw something he didn't like in Taylor's eyes; fear. It was spelled out clearly. "They're long dead, Danny, they can't hurt him."
"Hey... hey..." Chris called out, nodding to the wall behind a row of the rusty hooks. "Look..." He shuffled painfully to the area and pressed his hand along the wall. A tiny piece of cloth was seemingly growing through it. "It's gotta be here somewhere."
"Yeah," Jack noted, joining him. Danny began pulling on the hooks, the light switch, the lamps, anything that would trigger the spring.
Martin groaned and pushed the dark edges of the brutal dream away. He didn't get nightmares much but this one was a doozey. His head was throbbing and he felt very dizzy. Whatever flu gripped him was a bad dose. He felt sick and began to gag, his body convulsing. Something foul was in his mouth. He couldn't breathe. He began to panic and felt a large hand press onto his chest. His eyes wouldn't work; it took forever to open them. Why was he so cold? Lord, it was freezing it here.
In here?
Just where the hell was he? He eyes would only open halfway, but enough to see old concrete walls with bizarre writing on them. Words or letters were written there along with crude drawings. He knew it was Latin but his brain wouldn't tell him what it said. The drawing was clear enough, it depicted human sacrifice. Then a large body appeared in his way, blocking the view. A hand reached out and he twisted away from it. The sick laughter filled the room and his gag was! taken away.
"Ya got any last words, boy?" Carl asked, watching the dazed face.
There would be no bugle call. Danny was not going to save him. He saw the large knife in the madman's hand and he swallowed hard. He was too groggy to realize the gravity of the situation, of his last moments on earth. He was so tired and his eyes were so heavy. The evil laughter rained down on him as the beast used the tip of the knife to make a lazy pattern on his neck, chest and navel. No blood was drawn but the picture the gesture brought up was enough to keep him awake. He hoped that Danny had escaped. He was now worried his partner was lying dead somewhere in the house.
"Okay, sister, git that bucket over here, when I slice 'im, it's gonna fly out."
Carl hit the end of the table, causing the area behind the cop's neck to fall. The head dropped back, the blue eyes shot opened, startled and terrified. He used one hand to move the prisoner's head to one side and held the knife over the ripe vein, dancing for him on the side of the pale neck. Once the bucket was under the cop's neck, Carl gave Clyde a solid wink.
"Get ready to dance again, brother Clyde!"
Strangely enough, Martin's heart wasn't hammering in panic. It was as if everything was working in slow motion. He could hear his heart beating and the sounds of the room died away. He felt hands on his body but he couldn't fight them anymore. This nightmare was real and being played out in living color. With one last burst of energy, he stretched his body to the limit, rattling the chains that bound him. The blade descended then and he parted his lips as Taylor's anxious face appeared in his mind.
DAAANNNNEEEEE!"
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
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