A short 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: First, thanks to all of you who've read both of my earlier Without a Trace pieces, Nothing Gold Can Stay from last year and more recently, In Extremis: Epilogue. I truly appreciate your kind and generous support, it really does make a difference hearing from you, it helps me write better.
A big huge Debt of gratitude to my friend and advise giver and most excellent editor, Christy. Thanks Pard, without you, this story wouldn't be here.
Warning, this story might be long, (those of you who've read my Magnificent Seven Fic's know how hard it is for me to write short stories. Stop laughing Laramee, I can hear you!)
Without Further interruption, let the tale begin.
There was no time to think, both agents reacted instantly, as they'd been trained to do. Two guns whipped out and took aim, as voices went airborne.
"FBI! FBI!!
Bubba Soames hit the brakes and swore a blue streak when bullets shattered his driver's side mirror.
"What the hell is goin' on?" he demanded as harsh voices assaulted him.
"FBI! Turn the engine off and get out of the vehicle."
"I didn't do..."
"Oout now!"
"Yeah... okay... damn..." he mumbled, sliding his two hundred and fifty pound frame from the driver's seat. His heavy-lidded dark eyes regarded the slim blonde female sporting a badge with skepticism. "What'd I do?"
"Agent Spade," Samantha identified, "Can I see some identification?"
"Yeah, it's in the..." he moved his head and saw another agent squatting behind his truck, "My load's legit. What's goin' on?"
Sam's face gave the irate driver no choice. Her stance sent him back into the cab of the truck to retrieve his identification and paperwork. While he was inside, she flicked a gaze at Danny, who'd disappeared under the bottom overhang of the truck.
"Martin? Hey man, can you hear me?" Danny eyed the narrow confines and crawled over to the fallen figure, lying face down. He slid his hand down the sweaty neck and frowned at rapid pulse. "I need some room... move it up!"
"Okay," Sam agreed, motioning for the driver to obey. The truck lurched forward several feet, until both male agents were once again in the sunlight. "Hold it, that's good," she directed the driver, then turned her eyes to the pair behind the truck. Danny's face was etched in concern as his hand tapped Martin's cheek. Fitzgerald looked awful. "Danny?"
"He's not doing good!" Taylor reported, whipping his phone out. He dialed 911 first, then dialed his boss. "Jack, we found him. Out back by Dewey's," he noted of the dive masquerading as a coffee shop.
"How is he?" Malone inquired, sprinting the two flights to the lobby.
"Alive," Danny sighed, his hand fingering the pulse, "He's out cold." The side of the face that was showing was bruised and cut. Traces of vomit lingered on his mouth and shirt. "From what me and Sam found in the alley, looks like he got sick. Someone saw him hit the dirt and mugged him. We found his wallet... empty. His gun's gone."
"Shit!" Jack ran through the lobby towards the back exit behind the security office. "You call it in?"
"Yeah, I hear the sirens," Danny noted, as a wailing sound got closer.
"I didn't see him, honest to God," Bubba pleaded, eyeing the unconscious man on the ground.
"What the hell were you looking at?" Danny vented, leaving Martin long enough to eyeball the driver closely. "You see that?" he pointed to the spot where his fallen partner lie, "You damn near killed a federal agent."
"Danny," Samantha warned, showing her partner the paperwork, "He's clean. He was inside, his check is clocked just a few minutes ago."
"Bubba, huh?" Danny spat out, hitting the massive chest with his index finger, "Where'd you learn to drive? Stevie Wonder Driving School? You didn't check. Maybe you helped yourself to his money."
"Danny!" the blonde wormed her body in between them, physically restraining him, "Stay with Martin. I got it!"
"NYPD! What's going on?"
Samantha shoved the smoldering-eyed agent back towards where one officer was kneeling by Martin. She turned to the other.
"F.B.I." She flipped her badge. "If you step back this way, I'll bring you up to date."
"He get hit?" Officer Alvarez asked the hot-eyed man approaching. He saw the badge clipped to the pocket and recognized the federal insignia.
"No. It looks like he got sick, ducked into the alley. Some prick saw him go down and mugged him." Danny's voice was hostile.
"Okay, anybody see it?"
"I don't know. Probably not."
"Once we get a description, if he saw the perp, we'll scout the area. We've had quite a few in the last week."
"You better find that bastard before I do!" Taylor warned, then his voice softened when half of a blue eye opened, "Hey partner! You look like shit!"
Martin tried to concentrate. He heard the yelling and followed it. He knew that voice. He knew he had to find it. It was hard but he pushed and pushed and forced his eye open. He furrowed his brow and fought. It was hard to talk.
"...nneeee... you?"
"Right here, Harvard." He bent lower so the unfocused eye could find him. He saw Fitzgerald's left hand flopping against the asphalt and grabbed it, then smiled at the heavy sigh of relief that came from the gasping lips. "You just take it easy, now. The wagon will take you to the hospital. You'll have some hot nurse giving you sponge baths."
Martin tried to concentrate on what Danny Taylor was saying. There was so much noise punching holes in his head. Horns blaring, sirens wailing, voices shouting. Every sound felt like a wayward jackhammer going wild in his skull
"...hurts..."
"I know it hurts," Danny spoke louder, as the pain-clouded blue eye fluttered and shut.
"Sir, can you move?"
"Huh?" Danny saw the medical gear and moved his body over. He reluctantly gave up his grip. He nodded to Jack, who was speaking to the truck driver and Samantha. He watched as the two EMT's quickly got their patient situated. He took Martin's jacket from them and watched the IV line go in. Oxygen was applied and vital signs were taken.
Through the flurry of activity, the injured man tried to focus. All the voices shouting sounded like bees buzzing in his head. He thought on that and another picture came. A man in a dark jumpsuit. A man hitting him.
"Dan...neeee... Dan...."
"Sir, you need to keep still," Warren Lubbock warned when the feverish man tried to move. "Does your back or neck hurt?"
"No... leg... leg... head... fa..face... side..." he managed, trying to focus on the dark-skinned face near, "..c...c..old..."
"How's he doing?" Jack inquired, joining the group.
"Could be the flu," Shelly Trainer, the other EMT replied. "He's got a nasty bruise on his side, looks like he got hit with something. Minor facial contusions..." she paused. "His fever is over 102, his pulse is rapid and his BP is elevated." She cut both pants legs to the knees and then took off a crude bandage. "You know about this?"
"Yeah, he fell in a cave," Danny updated as the blue eyes moved again, trying to find him.
"...dan... neee...."
"Martin?" Danny tapped the dazed, wet face and saw two eyes struggle. The hand on the gurney flopped weakly tapping at his leg. He smiled and took it. "You see who did this to you?"
"B...b...ug... bu...g..."
"Bug?" Danny puzzled, "Your car was bugged?"
"Car?" Martin flashed to a parking lot. "...keys... move car..."
"I'll take care of it," the dark-eyed agent promised, tapping Martin's jacket until he found the keys.
"Martin, who hit you?" Jack asked.
"...bug... bug..." the dazed man continued, wheezing heavily. "...bug... in..."
"Your house?" Taylor guessed and saw the angry eyes flash weakly.
"...there... nee..."
"Right here, man, focus!" Danny barked and saw the eyes snap back, "Were you following somebody in the alley?"
Following? Martin's mind was full of mush. He saw the uniform and the bug. Did he follow this person? He moaned as a wave of pain rolled through him.
"Bug... in... in..." he tried to convey. It was hard to talk and even harder to keep his eyes open. He wanted to tell them but his tongue seemed too thick for his mouth. Nothing was working right.
"He's out of it," Jack cut through the mumbled words, "He's all mixed up. He heard her say he's got a flu bug."
"Yeah, you got a bug inside you, man, a good one," Danny reassured.
"No... no..."
Martin began to thrash on the gurney. One medic grabbed the IV line before it got pulled out. The other gripped the patient's shoulders and spoke to the two agents next to him, "That's it, we gotta roll. You get the rest at the hospital later." He stood and eyed the two male agents and the female one who'd remained by the truck. "Has he been out of town recently? To the Orient or Toronto, maybe in Chinatown?"
"The Orient?" Jack frowned, "No, he's been stateside. Why?"
"He went hiking a couple days ago, he was gone all day in the mountains," Danny reported, not liking the looks the two paramedics exchanged.
"It could be the flu," the senior EMT noted as his partner redressed the leg wound, "Or it could be SARS."
"Aw, fuck," Jack sighed, recalling the headlines of the worldwide respiratory epidemic, "I never thought of that. Christ, he's been all over a nursing home..."
"Hold on," the EMT put a hand up, "I said it 'might' be. A test can rule it out. I'll need you three with me, if you had contact with him."
"Yeah, okay," Jack sighed, moving as the gurney was raised. "Danny, call Vivian and..."
"I'm riding with him... Sam can call her."
Before Jack could address that look in the driven agent's eyes, a weak voice called out to him. He squatted down and saw two worried blue eyes. He caught the roving pair and waiting until they blinked rapidly, trying to find him.
"Jack... Jack..." Martin saw the fuzzy features of his boss and reached a hand out.
"You're goin' for a ride, Junior. You keep that colorful tongue of your tame, okay?" he tossed of Fitzgerald's legendary short temper.
"...late... tried... tell... Crad...d...ock..." he panted heavily, he couldn't seem to find any air, "...fire... ass..."
"What?" Jack teased, catching the confused blues. "And lose my star rookie? No way! You passed with flying colors. That's what he was going to tell you. You made the team, Martin."
"...joke..."
"No, it's not a joke. Do I look like I'm in a joking mood?" Malone vented angrily and saw the pale lips turn up a bit.
"Hah," Danny grinned, winking at the patient and climbing in the back. He made eye contact with his boss and smirked, "Even with a fever he can play you."
Jack rolled his eyes and shook his head as the medics packed their gear. His eyes remained on the flashing lights until the van pulled away. Then he turned back to the NYPD officers and Samantha.
"You two scour that alley. Somebody fucked with the wrong fed," he ordered, watching Vivian approach, "You find anything, you let me know. Come on, let's take a ride."
Samantha filled Vivian in as the two following the long strides of Jack Malone.
Samantha sipped a bottle of water and sighed, shaking her head as Danny Taylor began to pace again. Jack was on the phone, speaking to Mrs. Fitzgerald, and Vivian was on her phone, waiting for Captain Falcone of the ACPD to pick up. They were due in Atlantic City this morning to follow up on the missing man they'd been investigating.
"What the hell is taking them so long?" Danny vented, "It's been an hour."
"Maybe I should douse you with this and cool you down," Spade suggested, rising from the plastic chair and crossing the room. She paused by Danny and studied every feature on his handsome face. "The little blue-eyed rat got to you, huh?"
"I shouldn't have left him. He was stumbling all over the place. What if they'd used that gun on him?"
"I've been thinking about that." She puzzled, "I mean until they pulled his wallet, he looked like any other businessman. Nice clothes, expensive haircut... an easy mark. But once they saw that id..."
"So, they don't pop him. They don't want that kind of heat," Danny answered, his hot eyes flicking again to the door. They were confined to a room, pending the outcome of the SARS test.
"No, that's just it," the blonde pressed, "If Martin did get sick, he'd have dropped down right inside the alley. So if someone saw him, they'd have roughed him and taken the wallet right there. Why force him to the other end? Why risk being seen?"
"So, what, you think it wasn't a mugging? That someone was tailing Martin? They wanted... had help waiting?" Danny shook his head. "I don't think so. I mean, you saw the back of that alley. Too many delivery trucks. No way a car would be able to get out."
"I don't know," she disagreed, "It doesn't make sense..."
"Good Morning."
All three heads turned when the door opened and a slightly overweight, graying doctor with wire-rimmed glasses stepped inside.
"Hold on, Jean," Jack updated Martin's mother, "The doctor's here."
"I'll call back," Vivian ended her call and stood up.
"How's he doing? What's wrong with him?" Danny walked over, hands riding his slim hips impatiently.
"It's not SARS." The doctor waited for the four agents to recover from the collective sigh of relief. "I'm Doctor Mark Hemple and I can partially answer your questions, young man. He's holding his own, his fever is 103 and climbing, his BP is elevated and he is experiencing difficulty with his breathing. Generalized muscle pain, headache, high fever, nausea, vomiting and diarrhea could suggest a respiratory infection or the flu."
"But that's not what it is," Sam finished the lingering thought.
"No, he has rash on his chest and his white blood cell count is elevated." He paused, scratching his chin. "He was awake briefly and complained that his lower leg hurt. There is a weeping gash there..."
"He fell in a cave, he scrapped it good," Danny recounted.
"Had it not been for that wound, we'd have found it a bit sooner."
"Found what?" Jack frowned.
"A lesion. A raised red bump with a dark center like a bull's-eye."
"Something bit him?" Vivian guessed.
"Yes, a spider, and the venom released into his bloodstream is wreaking havoc. His symptoms are Grade three in severity. Some people can have mild reactions to a bite like this; others, like Mister Fitzgerald, sustain a severe allergic reaction. Unfortunately, it would appear this young man was hit with a double whammy. He was sensitive to the venom and a large amount of venom was released."
"So you can fix that, right?" Danny pressed, "Give him antibiotics or something?"
"Yes, we've started him on antibiotics, orally and intravenously. He'll be in ICU on a cold blanket until he stabilizes. Also, we're giving him prednisone. We'll start him on dapsone to prevent tissue damage to the wound. Also, Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy."
"Hyper what?" Vivian asked, not familiar with that term.
"It's relatively new for situations like this. Normally it's used to aggressively treat diabetic wounds and severe burns. It's a method of breathing 100% Oxygen under pressure, which forces oxygen to reach the affected area quicker. This will both aid greatly in reducing his pain and prevent more tissue damage. He'll go in the HBOT chamber later today. He'll have a 60-minute session today and tomorrow. Then we'll see how the wound is faring. But if we knew exactly what type of spider bit him, it would help him enormously."
"He was hiking a few days ago, upstate," Danny offered.
"That would tie to the timeframe of the symptoms developing. Do you know where?" he directed to the intense dark eyed man.
"No, but I can find out," Danny offered, "You got a beeper or something, I can call you?"
"Here," he jotted the number down and gave it over.
"Hey, he's going to be okay, right?"
Doctor Hemple eyed the three other concerned faces, before directing his gaze on the worried young man.
"Given the right treatment, lots of rest and some downtime to recover, he'll be fine. He's very sick right now and will be weak for awhile. He'll need a lot of rest." He gave the slumping shoulder a pat and turned to the other dark-haired man. "I was told by the nurse you have the number of Mister Fitzgerald's family. I'd like to speak with them."
"Here," Jack handed the phone over, "It's Jean Fitzgerald, Martin's mother." He then turned to the two female agents. "You two head to Atlantic City and find out why our man 'Mustang' is back in town. Three years ago he got away clean. Why would he risk bringing that little girl back here and getting caught? Check in!"
"Okay," Vivian turned, "Keep us posted."
"Will do!" Jack sent back.
"Where are you going?" Sam asked.
"Back to Our Lady of Grace. I'm meeting the catering crew there. Something that nun saw caused a shock. Also, I want to hit town and talk to the people at the library. I got a hunch she was doing more than research there."
"You think she was meeting somebody?" Sam asked.
"I do. Get moving!" he directed, taking the unused water from her hand gratefully and killing the bottle.
Danny paused in the quiet entry to Martin's neat apartment. It was strange to be investigating his own partner. He moved through the living room area, looking for the bag Martin usually toted his hiking gear in. He ducked into the kitchen briefly and then moved to the bedroom. He shook his head and chuffed his breath at the pristine condition of the bed.
"Who the hell makes their bed when they're sick?" he quizzed, then spotted a pair of hiking boots by the closet door.
He lifted the boots up carefully, taking them to the nightstand and flipping the light on. He loosened the laces and pulled the tongue down. His dark eyes narrowed and then he saw it.
"Bingo!"
Leaving the dead arachnid long enough to retrieve a pair of tweezers from Martin's medicine cabinet, he pulled out a plastic specimen bag from his pocket and deposited the remains. He turned the bag over carefully, eyeing the long-legged creature. Then he dialed the number, punched in Martin's phone number and waited. He walked around the bedroom, then spotted a chrome device in the closet that held ties.
Striped ties.
He laughed at that, rubbing the back of his tense neck. He fingered a particularly offensive red and black striped tie.
"You and me are gonna have a talk about your fashion sense, Harvard." He paused, his fingers still holding the silk material. "Damn blue eyes are gonna kill me..." The ringing phone interrupted his mental image of that lost soul in the cave. He strode to the phone and picked it up.
"Hello?" He paused, listening to a chime-like sound. "Anybody there?" Still all he heard was odd faint tinkling, formed into a child's tune. "Wrong number." He hung up, just as the phone rang again. "Hello!"
"This is Doctor Hemple."
"Sorry, it's Agent Taylor. I got your spider. It was in the bottom of Martin's boot. It's brown and has a funny mark on its belly, like an upside-down violin."
"Brown recluse," he nodded. "I suspected as much. Can you drop it off?"
"Sure. Is he any better?"
"No, but he will be. As sick as he is now, and trust me, he's pretty sick, in a few days he'll be on his feet. It will take a good ten days of rest and treatment, that lesion on his leg needs attention, but he'll recover fully."
"Thanks Doc!" Danny hung the phone up and sighed, saying a quick prayer. Then he turned the light off and headed outside.
'Ad Hominem'
That is, the appealing to the feelings rather than the intellect. It would appear Mister Taylor's Achilles' heel has two blue eyes. This will serve the cause well. That fire in his eyes will be a valuable weapon in my battle for justice. So too, he will feel the pain. He will watch as the blue-eyed pretender suffers and falls.
Phase two is now underway. The victim, fevered and writhing in pain, is being readied for the next round. The timing is crucial and, given the degree of his delicate condition, perfect! His foolish partner, with those hot eyes and that big heart, will be the key in his decline. I watch him now, pacing in the lair of the offender, those dark eyes full of compassion. Why him, Agent Taylor? He doesn't deserve such a flow of emotion. How can you be that blind? That loyalty you wear so well will be tarnished. It will be stained with his blood. Then I'll watch those dark eyes full of anguish and my own heart will soar.
He's leaving now for the hospital and I have work to do. Preparations must be made, for the time is drawing near. Soon, soon the battle will begin and the pretender will be made to pay for his sin.
He closed the journal then and shut the lid of the music box, letting the dying notes of 'Little Boy Blue' fade away. His lips curled into a cruel grin, as in his mind Martin Fitzgerald's final theme song began to play. With 'Taps' echoing, he left the room to prepare.
Everyone who passed through the food line at Good Shepard had to smile. There was something magnetic about the handsome young man with wavy sandy hair and sky blue eyes. His fine features seemed to have been chiseled by Michelangelo. Add a heartbreaking smile and manners right out of Mayberry and the six foot four Syracuse senior melted the coldest of hearts.
"I was hoping you'd be here today," Nellie Parker stopped, reached a wrinkled hand up and cupped his chin. "Like an angel..."
"Thanks, Mrs. Parker, but I don't have wings!" the star quarterback for Syracuse University oozed. "You look real nice today. You changed your hair," he buttered up the already swooning octogenarian.
"Oh, Peter, honestly!" she blushed, slipping a ten dollar bill into his hand.
"No, ma'am, I can't take that," he protested mildly.
"Nonsense!" She cast her old eyes at the handsome young man. "I know you boys don't have much. What with the cost of school and all. Besides, I can't take it with me."
"Okay, but how about I buy you lunch at Peppi's?" he suggested, referring to the pizza parlor down the street.
"Why don't you ask Theresa? Lord knows that child needs someone to talk to besides the priests and nuns. Go on - she's a nice girl."
"Maybe." He slipped the ten spot into his jeans. "Thanks, Mrs. Parker."
He watched the elderly woman go back to the table by the door where she greeted the homeless. They came from all over, some young with children, some stoned and others just old and poor. Good Shepard served up a hot meal and one p.m and offered showers, clothes and counseling. He hated slapping the mashed potatoes and congealed salisbury steaks on the plates, but he needed the credits.
As he wrinkled his nose shoveling food onto the plate of a urine-drenched drug addict, his eyes traveled to the far end of the room. He felt his desire growing, watching the very shapely Theresa DiSipio bending over a table to clean it off. The white blouse clung to every curve, showing off her very ample breasts. The tanned thighs strained as she leaned over, allowing him a glimpse of where they disappeared into no man's land. He sighed hard, shifting as his jeans became too tight.
"Damn nun-wannabee," he mumbled, incredibly turned on by the pious virgin. So far, she had spurned his every advance. But he was wearing her down. Moreover, what Peter Anthony Gilbert wanted, Peter Anthony Gilbert got. From the college scholarship, to his predicted first round draft pick in the upcoming NFL draft, he never lost. What he wanted now was to taste those cherry lips and caress every inch of that body, before breaking her virtue.
"Hey! Hey man," Lamont Turner waved his hand in front of the gaping quarterback. "Earth to Pete." He moved his dark eyes and saw what was causing the lust-filled glare. "Forget it, she's not havin' any of your meat, no way no how. Them church girls are all alike. Besides, you're crazy messing up the sure thing."
"Yeah," Gilbert tossed back, eyeing his close friend and the star receiver on the team. "Some sure thing," he noted of his fiancˇe, Elizabeth Marshal, the only child of Kenneth Marshall, a senator from upstate New York.
Born wealthy, thanks to his father's worldwide chain of men's stores, Kenneth Marshall had turned his sights on politics. He'd married late and his wife had produced one child, his prized possession. The very beautiful twenty-year-old blonde was spoiled rotten. Like everything else he set his sights on, Pete had seen her on television two years ago when she was her father's escort at a white house dinner. He read everything he could on her and her sixty-five-year-old widowed father. He'd haunted the New York art galleries and even put up with Opera, because Marshall was a fan. He'd shelled out money he didn't have to attend fundraisers for the charity of the month and joined the same country club. He'd ignored her, concentrating on winning the approval of the silver-haired millionaire. It hadn't taken long before Pete was eating lunch with Marshall at the club. He'd charmed the older man and soon was invited to the family mansion for weekends.
Lizzie, a tall cool blonde with a face that made every man who gazed on it weak in the knees, always got what she pouted for. At first, she'd ignored him, which suited him fine. He'd played it cool, spurning her advances and snippy remarks. But soon he saw her facade cracking. She wasn't used to be told 'no'. For six long months he'd played the game, flattering and kissing the old man's ass. Then Marshall had asked him to escort his daughter to the black tie fundraiser for the President in Washington. The rest was history, and the 'golden couple' was born. He put up with her whining, her pout and her temper tantrums. He tuned her out and concentrated on all that money, real estate and other pieces of heaven.
"What?" the black athlete teased, "Your pony ain't been out of the barn since the Ice Queen left for Europe?"
"Hell, Lamont," Pete grunted, lifting a tray of macaroni and cheese from the oven, "even when my 'pony' is out of the barn it's like fuckin' a block of ice. She just lays there like a corpse." He paused, lifting the heavy silver container onto the container. "She's got no tits and no ass."
"She's got bread, Lover, lots of it. Hey, Man, once you get her up that aisle and produce a kid, you can get all the booty you want on the side. Just don't fuck it up before you get married."
"Look at that," Pete nodded to the dark-haired girl lifting a baby in the air. Again those magnificent breasts strained against the fabric. A trickle of sweat slowly ran down her chest, right into the valley of desire. "What a waste. A body like that and she's hiding behind a cross."
"Keep dreamin'." Lamont tied an apron on, clapping his friend on the back.
"Twenty bucks says I do her before the end of the month," Pete predicted, eyes following the shapely girl as she moved closer.
"You're on!" Lamont agreed, slapping palms and shaking his dark head. "You're crazy."
"Theresa," Pete unleashed a killer smile, "I was wondering if you could show me how to use that mixer again."
"That's lame," Lamont whispered, getting an elbow.
"Sure, Pete."
Theresa's heart jackhammered as she walked into the deserted kitchen. She wiped her sweaty hands on the wool skirt and licked her dry lips. He noticed her! The best looking guy in America actually smiled at her. She fumbled badly, nearly dropping the large bowl. She put it under the large mixer and waited.
"I put all the stuff in," he noted of the mixture of ingredients for bread, "but I can't get the hook to work." He stood next to her and moved aside, letting her in front.
"Watch now," she croaked, snapping the hooks in and stirring the ingredients.
"Let me try," he whispered, pressing against her from behind and moving his arms over hers. He laid a hand on hers, stirring with her. "That's nice," he said softly, inhaling her scent and lightly grinding against her from behind. God she felt good.
"Uh... uh..." Theresa choked, all her air taken away. Every fiber in her was on fire. She felt her face coloring and a flood of moisture rushing through her loins. She wanted to move away, crawl into the freezer and cool off, but she couldn't move.
"The red button?" he guessed, already well versed in how the machine worked. He moved his arm sideways, toward the button and brushed against those wonderful swells of flesh. He smiled behind her back, hearing the sharp intake of air.
"Hey, how about that?" he noted as the machine went into motion. Like a deer caught in the crosshairs, she jerked and spun around, dark eyes darting, seeking escape. He leaned in closer, pinning her legs back to the table, his face just inches from hers. He felt the heat rising from her and smiled again, kissing her forehead very lightly. "Thanks, you're a real angel, you know? I was thinking, how about I buy you some dinner at Peppi's? You like pizza, right?"
"Piz... za..." she croaked, head spinning wildly.
"Yeah, you know," his hot breath danced over her wide-eyed face, "soft dough... milky mozzerella," his hands moved gently dancing on her back, "and rich sauce from ripe tomatoes." His gaze lingered on those heaving swells of flesh as the dark-haired girl's puppet-like head nodded.
Lamont turned his head as the whistling quarterback returned, bearing a stack of plates and a shit-eating grin. His wink and tongue clicking gave the dark-skinned man a good laugh.
Vivian turned her back against the wind blowing off the ocean and watched Samantha and Captain Falcone of the ACPD. Just behind the two law officers was a tall, thin, Hispanic woman with bright red lips and spiky hair, tipped with gold. The mini skirt barely covered her ass and the cheap leather jacket was half unzipped, revealing a tigerskinned danskin.
"So you'd be Marita Martinez?" Samantha inquired, peering through expensive sunglasses at the hooker.
"No, Mother Theresa," the young girl shot back, rolling her dark eyes.
"Nice, bet your mother's proud," Vivian drolled.
"She's on her back earnin' a livin'."
"Nice to see some family business surviving the corporate monsters," Spade returned, "So what can you tell us about Jimmy Ray Hollis?"
"He was my old man. We did alright." She snapped a pink bubble.
"You don't seem very broken up over his death," Vivian noted, appraising the young girl.
"Hey, life's a bitch ya know?" she shrugged.
"When did you last see him?" Captain Falcone asked.
"Breakfast a couple days back... Sunday morning. We got Egg McMuffins and coffee. Right over there," she jerked her head towards the boardwalk.
"Then what?" Vivian pressed.
"I had two customers waitin' on me. I bring them breakfast... we uh... eat in bed." She eyed the cold features of the blond woman.
"Spare me the details," Sam waved her hand, "So did Jimmy have plans?"
"Yeah, he got a phone call from some dude. It shook him up some. It takes a lot to scare Jimmy."
"He say who it was?" the policeman inquired.
"No, it was on his voicemail. It was a meeting ... for later."
"Did you ever see Jimmy talking to this man?" Falcone showed a blown up image taken from security cameras of the suspect.
"No. He's a good lookin' dude, I'd have remembered that. Shit, I'd have had to have me a piece of him."
"He didn't mention a name or what the meeting was about?" the blonde asked.
"No, all he said was 'fuckin' bastard, I told him I ain't into that shit. I'm not doin' it no more'." She paused, snapping her gum. "We were supposed to meet that night at Resorts for some grub," she noted, referring to the casino, "He never showed."
"We heard his voicemail message," Vivian relayed. "It was from a man named 'Mustang'. He was meeting Jimmy at sunset at the 'corral'. Does that mean anything?"
"No." She shook her dark head.
"Who else knows Jimmy? Who else would know where the 'corral' is?" Sam pressed.
"Hell, I don't know. Even if I did, why should I tell you? So I end up fish food like Jimmy?" She eyed the cold blonde. "No thanks, Barbie!"
"This is a Federal Investigation," Vivian moved closer, "You understand that? We're looking for a missing child. If she ends up dead and you are withholding knowledge, you can be charged as an accessory. Got that?"
"Look, I don't know nothin' about no kid," Martina protested, "Jimmy, he hangs out at a place off Atlantic Avenue called Wet Willie's, a strip joint. His homeboys are there. Spike, Frankie and Leo mostly. The guy who runs the place, Sal Cannelli, sometimes Jimmy does work for him on the side, collecting."
"Thanks, you've been a big help," Vivian managed, "If you remember anything or if anybody asks about Jimmy, or you see a stranger sniffing around, you call, understand?" Samantha shoved her card at the young streetwalker.
"Jack, I wasn't expecting you. I was waiting for those two young men."
"You saying I'm old, Sister Catherine?" Malone teased the nun.
"You still have miles to go before you catch me," she tossed back, eyeing the empty space in the hall behind him, "You came alone?"
"Martin was taken ill suddenly and Danny had some work to do downtown. So the boss gets to hit in clean up."
"Ill? I hope it's not serious?"
"He got bit by a spider and turns out he's very allergic. He's in the hospital."
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry to hear that."
"Not to worry, Sister, he'll be fine in a few days. Did you call that catering crew?"
"Yes, the two young men working that day are waiting in the very room where Sister encountered them."
"Thanks, Sister, that'll be all for now." He followed her lead and entered the room. Two kids about twenty or so stood up. "Jack Malone, F.B.I," he flipped his badge.
"Michael Upton, D'Agastino's Catering. This is Tony Forelli. Sister Catherine said you wanted to see us."
"Either of you know Sister Michael?" He showed the picture and both shrugged.
"Hey, all these nuns look alike to me," Tony handed the photo back. "We do gigs in nursing homes and hospitals a lot."
"We have witnesses who saw her looking at you two and then becoming shocked. She gasped and almost passed out. Seems odd for someone whom she'd never met."
"Oh, wait a minute," Upton's blue eyes narrowed and he frowned, searching his mind, "Can I see that picture again?"
"Sure," Malone handed it back, studying the youth's body language carefully.
"Yeah, I remember her now. She was freaky."
"Freaky" Jack spat back, "That's a helluva thing to say about a nun."
"No, I mean like, we were on duty for that party. Putting food out, checking on stuff. I kept catching her looking at me, like staring me down. I asked if I could help her but she just backed off, scared."
"And you've never met her?"
"No, sir. Sorry."
"Okay, thanks, you remember anything else, you call. " He handed them each a card and departed for town.
He wrote some notes on the small pad, before heading back to town. He'd come up dry in the library, stopping on the way to Our Lady of Grace. The two librarians and a clerk hadn't recognized the nun's photo. Granted, there was a chance that they weren't working the dates in question when the nun would disappear for several hours. But given the size of the small town, it was unlikely that none of them knew her. The two remaining employees were on vacation, but the one librarian scanned the photo into the computer, promising to email them and let him know. He'd made his way around town, hitting the drug store, two coffeeshops and a few other stores.
Nothing.
"What are you hiding?" he asked the dark-eyed nun in the photo, before scanning the few stores left he'd not visited.
His growling stomach reminded him that he'd not eaten since breakfast. He eyed a hotdog cart in the small park in the center of town and walked over. He got two dogs with chili and a root beer. He found a sunny spot with a bench and sat down, putting the small cardboard box that held his food next to him. He was halfway done with the second dog when he noticed an older man with a broom eyeing him.
"Something I can do for you, pal?" he muffled, shoving the last bite in and taking a long gulp of soda. He wiped his mouth and eyed the black man, who came over, his dark eyes curious.
"You a cop?"
"Why? Do I look like one?" Jack sent back, bringing an even set of white teeth to appear.
"The Mob dresses better. We don't get many strangers here."
"Thanks," Jack eyed his rumpled overcoat and worn shirt and tie peeking through. He stood tossed the box and can away and eyed the whistling worker. He drew the picture out and approached.
"Malone, F.B.I." He flipped his badge and paused, "You work here everyday?"
"Monday to Friday, I clean up the park and the streets around town. Why?"
"You seen her here? Sister Michael from Our Lady of Grace. She's missing."
"Yeah, that's her," he nodded, "I knew there was something wrong with them."
"Them?" Jack pulled his pad out, "You'd be..."
"Oh, Harley Deever." He handed his wallet over, bearing his driver's license. "I was the foreman at a car plant upstate till them layoffs came. My sister lives here, nice town, quiet. I've been here about six years, I guess."
"The nun?" Jack prodded, writing down the man's information and handing the wallet back.
"I'd see her a couple times a week, down that path. I'll show you." He left his broom and walked towards a narrow path edged in flowers. He pointed to a small gazebo, nearly hidden by overgrown foliage. "There. She'd get here first, early afternoon. He'd come later. They'd visit for a spell, then he left. She'd be saying them prayer beads for awhile, then she'd leave. Real odd. Didn't add up to me."
"Just one man? The same man?"
"Yeah, never got a good look, he was always in a hooded sweatshirt. Dark blue or black. Big guy, tall and well built. First time I saw him headed up there I followed, cause I saw her go up there. I thought maybe he was gonna hurt her. But she seemed to know him, they hugged. Then he gave her papers... white papers. I started to walk over and she got nervous, waved me off saying she was fine and he was an old friend."
"You said you saw him leave," Jack pressed, "Did he walk? Drive?"
"I don't know... he'd have to drive. Not many strangers in these parts. I know most of the folks here. Could be he walked to the park, maybe the car was up the road somewhere. You might check with Carla and Bill, they have a small hotel about, oh... three miles south of here. Only one hereabouts. If he was a stranger, could be he stayed there."
"You said he was big? You mean tall or heavyset?"
"No, tall. He had to duck to get inside the gazebo. Not heavy, I think, but the sweatshirt was so bulky it was hard to tell."
"Black guy? White guy?"
"White. I saw his hand when he gave her those papers. Same thing every time, he'd show her papers. Sometimes he took them back after she looked at them. I asked her more than once that I was close by. She'd smile and thank me, but said she was fine, that he was a friend. I wish I could tell you more." He paused, thinking on the small nun. "I'm sorry to hear she's missing. She seemed like a nice lady."
"Yeah," Jack nodded, "Thanks, Mister Deever, you've been a big help. I'll be in touch."
Danny moved from the bathroom just as the phone next to Martin's bed rang. He dried his hands, threw the towel away, and headed for the table. He saw the patient's brows furrow at the odd sound, but he remained asleep. He looked awful. He was curled up on his side, occasionally moaning in his sleep.
"Hello?"
"You didn't answer at the office, so I figured you'd be here." Jack eyed the long line of traffic. "How's he doing?"
"About the same. His fever's down a little and he's not as restless. I got here about a half hour ago. The nurse said he threw up a lot and was in a lot of pain. They gave him something, so he's quieter now."
"How'd you make out with the State Department?"
"I talked to Helen Bacon, like you suggested," Danny noted, eyeing Martin's damp features before sitting down. He took a sip of the large soda he'd brought with him. "She's trying to nail down somebody in that area. But it's really in the middle of the jungle. The priest travels in the mountains apparently and he's hard to reach. She's got a call into the embassy down there; she's gonna leave her number, yours and mine."
"Anything on Upton or Forelli?" he asked of the catering help.
"Nah, they're clean. It must have been a flashback or something. That one kid's got dark hair and eyes, maybe he looked like a kid from Costa Rica she knew."
"Yeah, maybe, but she wasn't reading books at that library. I'm trying to find more witnesses that can give us a description of our mystery man. I'm gonna check in with Vivian and Sam. We'll check back later."
"Hey!" Danny hung the phone up and saw two blue slits appear in the grayish-green face. "Man, I've seen corpses with more life. Nice face."
Martin didn't understand the words and didn't care. All he knew was that he felt miserable. His head hurt and his leg hurt; for that matter, every inch of him throbbed. Then there was the overwhelming urge to vomit. He wondered for a moment whether or not he was on a boat. Everything seemed to be moving a little, which made his tender stomach rebel. But the worst feeling was that hot, dry desert that invaded his lips. The whole inside of his mouth was on fire. Swimming in his watery line of vision was a mustard colored plastic pitcher. It was wet on the outside just like him. A word appeared in his mind's eye and caused him to moan.
Water.
He opened his parched lips and waited.
"What?" Danny saw the lips part and frowned. He followed the watery gaze towards the pitcher. "Shit." He glanced around the cubicle at the open door. Then he leaned over, trying to make the sad soul understand. "You can't have anything, you threw up all over the bed and..." The new moan nearly took his knees out. "Okay, but if old iron girdle catches me, she'll castrate me. Hold on."
He slipped to the door, then peered carefully outside and up and down the hallway. He saw the gray-haired, hefty nurse and cringed. She gave a whole new meaning to the words 'Grim Reaper'. She was on the phone and facing the other way. Satisfied, he headed back to the bedside and winced. The poor devil still had his mouth open, waiting and completely trusting. "Okay, hold on. " He lifted the lid off and picked up a plastic spoon from the plastic tray that was partially sealed with plastic. He scooped up some ice and gently tipped it onto the waiting tongue.
Heaven
If he could have cried he would have. Nothing ever felt so good as the wet cold ice that was deposited in his mouth. Greedily, he chewed on it, ignoring the warning voice from somewhere above. His face broke into a puzzle; he knew that voice. Smooth and reassuring, it took the edge off his rising fear. He wasn't sure what had happened or where he was, but he knew the voice made him safe.
Danny watched for a moment and sat back down, eager to resume his work. He downloaded another site, which covered the area of the jungle where the missing nun was from. He was hoping recent headlines might clue him in to why she'd fled that country. Or perhaps from whom. While the dark-haired agent scanned the headlines of the newspaper article, his fallen partner was on a mission.
More.
He need more. That brief oasis in his desert trek was nirvana. The tiny offering barely repaired the hot inferno inside his mouth. So he parted his lips, opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out He waited, confident the voice would bring more ice.
Danny hit back-arrow and scanned the other headlines, just as his side vision caught movement. He turned his face and sighed hard. The pale lips were opened under scarlet-slashed, fevered cheeks. Although he couldn't remember being as sick as his friend was, he could imagine how awful hot and sour his mouth was. He eyed the doorway again and stood up, picking up the spoon. As he scooped up more ice he warned the fevered man.
"Okay, but this is it, comprende? I get caught and I'll be in the next bed with my balls in a sling. Here." He carefully nudged the waiting tongue and - like a lizard - the tongue flipped back, taking the ice with it. "SLOW!" Danny hissed, "You're supposed to suck on it, not gulp it!" He waited until the jaws slowed down and the sick body began to pant. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" He trotted to the bathroom, taking one of three cotton clothes he had floating in water and wringing it out. When he got back to the bed, the mouth was open again and the tongue out. He frowned, wiping the fevered face and chastising the scowl that appeared. "No, no more. I'm on her shit list already. You're gonna upchuck just to spite me." He moved the cloth over the fevered face and neck, before losing it. "No, that's not ice, let go!" he whispered, tugging gently on the end of cloth being sucked on. As he jerked the cloth free, the mouth came open, complete with waiting tongue. "You're worse than a wet dog," he warned, shoveling more ice onto the waiting tongue, "That's it, Fitz, I'm not kidding. You're a greedy little bastard, you know that?"
When he finally got the cloth back and dropped it into the water, he felt the liquid carefully. Frowning, he poured it out and put fresh cold water in. Swirling the washcloths in the filling sink, he waited until he was satisfied and stopped the faucet.
The smooth as silk voice sliced through the hot mud that was oozing in Martin's brain. A name formed, bringing a mental image of two fired-up brown eyes flashing in a tanned face. A face he knew and trusted. God, his mouth was dry. He needed more ice. He opened his mouth and waited, confident that Danny would come through.
Nothing happened.
Frowning, he forced his throbbing eyes open. He choked down a rising wave of nausea and eyed pale walls through what seemed to be a waterfall. There was no brown blurry figure beside the bed. There was no voice in the storm. Where was he? What was wrong? Panic rose up as flashes of an alley and a sinister body appeared. His chest began to heave as his breathing became more labored. His mouth was on fire and he needed those flames extinguished. He saw something darker than the swimming pale walls moving. He was desperate now, in dire need of more cold ice.
"Aw, hell," Danny hissed, as now he not only had the pink tongue facing him but two sad blue eyes as well. They darted around, in a frenzied state. "What's wrong?" He saw the heaving chest under the oversized hospital gown and the panic flitting into the lost fevered gaze. "Hey, calm down!" He grabbed the flopping hand and held on, leaning closer. "You're in the hospital. You're pretty sick now, but you'll get better." He paused, watching some of the fear die down and the breathing start to regulate. Thinking of the panic attack coupled with the fever, he found a half smile, "Hey, partner, I'm right here. I got your back, okay?"
Danny was here. He wasn't alone. The bad man fled his tortured brain and his heart stopped jackhammering. His fried nerves tried to settle down and he relaxed a bit. He felt that hand take hold and felt that power. For several moments he floated, then the need returned.
Just as Danny slipped his hand free and turned to sit down, the mouth opened again and the tongue came out.
"No," he whispered, eye on the door, "That's it, you're flagged. This is gonna be the straw the breaks the camel's back, I know it."
He went back to his work, forcing himself not to look. It almost worked, until one sad, croaking collection of letters invaded him like a poisoned arrow.
"...pl...e...e..e...z...e...."
"Shit." He wrinkled his face, stood up and grabbed the spoon. "Okay, but this is it, I mean it."
The moans of pleasure at the fires being doused were short lived. Something was wrong. Someone was shoving sharp knives into his stomach. His body began to jerk and his eyes shot open, just before his stomach did an Olympic flip and fire exploded in his bowels.
"Shit!" Danny grabbed the kidney dish with his left hand, using his right to lift Martin's wet head as the watery residue reappeared. His nose told him that his ailing friend also had diarrhea. "I knew it. Goddammit, Martin... "
He waited until the episode was done and put the dish down. He grabbed some tissues and wiped the panting mouth, just as those sad blue eyes came up.
"...s...s...or...ry... Dan...neee..."
"I'm gonna charge you for overtime," he teased, then tugged on the gown that had slipped past the hot shoulder. "You're a mess, Harvard, you know that? Your ass is hanging out..."
Before the miserable pile of bones in the bed could muster a reply, he slipped away again, letting the black sea envelop him, just as a voice boomed from the doorway.
"You again!"
Danny winced and felt the beady, rat-like eyes bearing down on him. He eyed his hands on Martin's neck and side and thought quickly.
"He was having a nightmare, I didn't want his IV to get screwed up..."
"Nightmare!" she warned, eyeing the telltale evidence in the kidney dish. "Ice? You gave him ice after I told you he wasn't to have anything?"
"Look, I can explain..."
"Save it for the judge. Take your things and go. Your visit's done. He needs a bath and his sheets are soiled. Didn't I instruct you to leave at three?" She eyed the clock. "Twenty minutes ago. ICU visiting hours are very strict. You can return at five; I'm on until midnight," she ordered, pulling the curtains on the glass windows. She pulled his top sheet down and headed for the bathroom.
"How lucky can I get?" he mumbled, packing up his laptop. He winced visibly as she began to run water in the bathroom. The thought of those beefy, meat-cleaver-like hands on his body gave him a chill. He eyed his partner, half-naked and blissfully unaware in the bed. He said a quick prayer, hoping the injured agent remained asleep. He tapped the damp cheek, bending low. "Good thing you're unconscious, partner."
"What was that?" she snapped, putting the soapy water down.
"I said it's a good thing you're conscientious," Danny covered.
"Out!" she thundered, pointing to the door.
Danny's brisk strides took him very quickly out of the room and to the elevators, right past the silent observer. The eyes remained on the annoyed dark-haired agent until he disappeared into the elevator. Then the body, hidden in a long white lab coat, shuffled down the hall. Pausing by the door, the hand opened it a crack, just enough to see the pretender. A brief rush of euphoria rose at the sight of the helpless, naked, young man. Future plans mentally unfolded, giving the visitor another rush.
"Patience..."
The word slipped out as the disguised body moved down the hall to the empty room near the laundry cart. The waiting began. It didn't take long until the large, irritated nurse appeared, shoving the soiled sheets and gown into the bin. Then she headed for the phone and the body moved.
It would be so easy, with the pretender so helpless and weak. He was on his side, the fine features slightly rosy from fever. He smelled of soap and his wet hair shot up in spiked points. Curious, the fingers pinched the nostrils, watching the body struggle. The rush came again to have the power to make Martin Fitzgerald suffer. The weak body moved and twitched and the jaw gaped, seeking air. The hand retracted and moved lower, cupping the square jaw.
"Soon... my blue-eyed fly... very soon..."
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