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.
The twisting branches reached out to wrap around his throat. The heat was so thick in the dense woods it smothered him. He couldn't breathe, sweat drenched his entire body and his legs were like rubber. But he ran onward... pushing himself far beyond the limits of endurance. He didn't know where he was or where he was going. What he did know was that he had to run. He had to push himself ahead. Somewhere up there... was... was...
The voice came then, so soft and light it caressed his ears, curling inside and stroking his brain.
"Martin... Martin... where are you..."
"DANNY!" he choked with what little air he had left.
Close. He was close by. Something very primal inside Martin Fitzgerald was urging him to a specific spot in this mass of trees and brush. Every turn seemed for a specific purpose. With every staggered step his heart clenched and the sweat running like a river got colder. Then it appeared, right where he knew it would. He shook his head in denial just as his legs gave out. He collapsed on the shallow grave, punching the new earth with his hands.
Then he began to dig.
Growling and grunting, every demon inside came out as he clawed frantically, throwing the dirt in record time. Then his fingers hit cloth and his arm became paralyzed. He shook his head, there was no air to issue as much as a tiny gasp. The icy realization turned into horror and he withdrew his hand.
But not quick enough; a hand jerked up and snagged his wrist. Horrified, his face screwed up in fear and he tried to pull back. The body came up with him, a bloody shirt riddled with bullets under a maimed face and two empty sockets where those brown eyes should be. He mouth formed the name silently, every letter forced through his shallow air. The bloodied lips of the corpse opened and the voice from the grave chilled him to the core.
"Where were you... I needed you... my back's full of bullet holes... where were you... you failed... failed me... your fault..."
"Nooooooo!"
Reality hit about the same time as the wall connecting with the back of his head. Rubbing the sore spot, Martin's confused gaze roamed around the immediate area. There were no trees or haunting woods. He was on the floor beside the bed. He moved his hand over the carpet. .
"Jesus..." he gasped, raking a shaky hand through his damp hair. He examined his hands then, ensuring that the trembling digits weren't covered in dirt or blood. He dropped his head and shook it as if to clear it.
It was so real, so vivid. He didn't move for several minutes, unable to calm his jittery nerves. Sweat dripped off his chin and he fought to regain normal breathing. His gaze saw movement and he zoned in on the digital clock. It was almost five o'clockin the morning. His hand groped above on the nightstand until he found the phone. He pulled the receiver down and hit the numbers. His heart didn't begin to sink until several words into the message.
"You have reached the office of Doctor Peter Gibson. I will be out of the office indefinitely due to an unexpected family emergency."
"What?" Martin choked, eyes frantic. "No... shit...you can't be gone."
"...a message after the beep. I'll call you back when..."
"You have to call back... " Martin pleaded when the name of an associate came on the line. He wouldn't trust anyone else with this, he had to keep it quiet. If this went public, given Danny's disappearance and his involvement, he could lose his job. The beep finally sounded. "Doc... it's Martin Fitzgerald. Call me... right away, no matter what time you get this. It's urgent. You have all my numbers." He paused to catch what was left of his fleeting breath. Desperation remained,
"Please Doc..."
Danny Taylor watched his opponent move and began to smile. He bent slightly forward, moving his arms while laughing. The nimble body in front of him returned his grin, deftly faked a move and swept by. The basketball went through the hoop and the blue-eyed opponent tossed it back to him. The swagger in his voice and the bold body posture made it hard for him not to grin back.
"Is that the best you got? Man, let's make that twenty bucks," Danny suggested, tilting his head back.
"Sure you can afford it? What with your harem and the overhead costs and all..." Martin teased.
"Hey, I can't help it women are drawn to me," Taylor began to dribble the ball and decide on his next move.
"Women?" Martin sent back, moving to block the swift body as he approached. "The ones that are in nursing homes and prison don't count."
"Yuck it up slide rule boy," Danny barrelled into Martin and leaped, slamdunking the ball. "Ha! Get your ass out of the Ivy, this is street ball," he announced then saw the blue sparks of fire coming out of the other man's eyes. He laughed and sent the ball back. "You need a Band Aid?"
"You'll need more than that by the time we're done," Martin predicted, swiping blood from his knee. He dribbled the ball and let a slow smile form. "And that's Mister Slide Rule Boy to you..."
The loud sound of his own laughter filled his head. Danny shook his head to clear it. The voices weren't inside of him, this was no dream. He blinked and his fingers felt the cotton sheet and the wall. He rolled on his back and saw movement from his side vision. The dream was being played out or rather a past moment revisited. He sat up and got off the bed, watching the video on the large screen.
Two partners, two friends, two active young men working off nerves after a difficult case. There was nobody in the playground, not at three a.m.Just a couple of overhead lights and a ratty basketball hoop. Martin wasn't a bad player, more guts than talent. But it wasn't about the game. It had nothing to do with scoring points.
Danny reflected on that night when he lost a kid during a chase through a warehouse. The sixteen year old felon fired three times, nearly hitting him. He kept pursuing the kid, shouting at him to stop. He was a suspect in the disappearance of another kid from his high school. But the kid didn't stop, he ran out of the warehouse and right into the path of a truck. It was an accident, it wasn't his fault. But after all the paperwork was done, the kid was still dead and he was still puking his guts up. Martin was sitting quietly by his car when he got down to the garage. Hours had gone by; he thought his partner had gone home. No words were spoken Martin simply tossed a basketball at him.
Two soldiers fighting on an asphalt jungle for a crown neither could see or touch. But it was real and he felt it. Both pushing their bodies far beyond the exhaustion point, sending elbows into face and body. Then one dropped, too weary to rise. The victor considered the laurel wreath for a moment, before placing it on the other man's wet brown locks. Two blue eyes peered up at him and he nodded once, ruffling that sweaty hair.
"Harvard...." he whispered painfully, the sweetness of that moment tainted by the twisted mind of his captor.
"Good Morning Agent Taylor or should I say Good Afternoon perhaps even Good Evening."
Pete's voice slithered through the room. He ate a hearty breakfast, enjoying the anger and frustration on his prisoner's face. He thought he'd prepared himself for the pleasure this would bring. But it went far beyond his wildest hopes. He could get high on this very easily. Taylor had no idea what time of day it was or even how much time had elapsed.
"You sick bastard!" Danny screamed, feeling utterly violated. "You had no right!"
"Such a tender moment between you and the pretender. The gilded prince offering his pathetic heart to you in your time of need. A shame poor Carlos couldn't be there to play too. But what was left of him was in the morgue..."
"Shut up!" Danny snarled, clenching his fists. "Shut the fuck up. You don't know shit!"
Pete laughed then, watching the guilt rising in Taylor's eyes. He punched a few keys on the computer and drew up another moment. As long as the younger man was harboring doubt, he might as well add some fuel to that fire.
The screen went black and Danny headed for the bathroom. As he washed, he thought on the clues he had so far. He knew who Gibson was, but what was his goal? He scrubbed his teeth and welcomed the sting of the peppermint. All star quarterback in college, five good years in the NFL with a Superbowl ring, three years with the New York Police Department before passing the detective's test. Then he rose quickly, everything turning to gold like always. He'd retired a couple of years back to pursue a career within the New York law enforcement arena as a psychologist and profiler. Once again, he hit gold and his talents were constantly called upon.
He mixed some water and instant coffee then put the mug in the microwave. He pulled out cereal, milk and an orange. Before he began his meager meal, his name was called. The voice wasn't cocky this time, it was shaken. It echoed of need and want.
"Shit..." he hissed dropping the spoon.
"Danny..."
He watched the screen, swiping milk from his chin. His face remained impassive but his insides were boiling in rage. He wouldn't give the freak a show, fill his sick need. He kept his eyes cold and distant, as Martin Fitzgerald went to pieces all over again in that cave the first time. He remained stock still, not so much as a muscle twitched when the image changed again. He had to work hard to control his breathing, gripping both fists in silent rage. There was his friend drugged and completely at the monster's mercy on the bed in his apartment. He watched as Gibson toyed with Martin then put the spider on his wounded leg.
"Sick... fuckin'..." he whispered, watching the needle come out. No wonder Martin had gotten so sick. That's why the doctor's were puzzled at the severity.
The pictures continued to play and Danny watched in horror. He controlled his anger until the picture of a trusting Martin lying on the sick bastard's couch in his office appeared. He heard every painful word Martin spoke about his trauma. Then he watched the strings being played and the sick game being put into place. He saw the terror in those blue eyes and cringed and at the soothing words that Gibson planted. Then with his partner completely under the other man's spell and totally unaware, Gisbon's hand entered the picture, stroking Martin's cheek. Danny lost it then, hurling the chair at the wall and unfurling a sound only half human.
He paced the confines of the room before sitting on the floor. He shoved his legs under the bed and began to do situps. He needed something to take the edge off. What was Gibson's motive? He thought back on all he knew, adding up the clues. Gibson wanted to make Martin fall apart, totally lose it. But why? He knew Martin wasn't the intended victim.
Victor Fitzgerald?
Perhaps. He thought on the words Gibson used to talk about Martin, 'imposter' and 'pretender'. So Gibson felt Martin didn't deserve his badge. Was there a case he'd worked with Victor that went wrong? Or did Victor Fitzgerald get the promotions and brass ring that eluded Gibson. Was his intent to get revenge on the elder Fitzgerald by pushing his son over the edge? Danny continued to put his clues into little piles of information as he put his body through a hard workout. He tried to drown out Martin's voice.
It almost worked.
Jack yawned and watched the numbers rising on the elevator panel. It seemed he'd just left. He might as well have stayed for all the sleep he'd gotten. He'd already made several phone calls to the county police and to the F.B.I. as well. He'd just exited the elevator when his phone rang.
"Malone," he grunted, pausing in the hallway.
"I didn't want you walking into the fire," Vivian warned, casting her dark eyes towards the inner office. "You have company."
"Shit," he hissed and sighed hard. "Victor?"
"In the flesh and he's not in a good mood."
"How long?"
"I got here about a half hour ago and he was sitting at Martin's desk. I'm in the conference room." When you're done with the Deputy Director, Sam and I need to talk to you about the Harrisoncase. Anything new on Danny?"
"No, Sam here?"
"On her way in, she's stopping at Martin's."
"Good... that's good. He was pretty rattled last night. Victor skewered him to the wall. You need a licence to drive a car and they let any idiot raise a child."
Vivian frowned and wondered about that uncharacteristic parental tone in Jack's voice. That wasn't like him. Whatever went on between the three men last night must have been brutal. She eyed the two open folders in front of her and the legal pad with notes written on it.
"I'll be here when you're ready. Oh and Van Doren called."
"Yeah..." Jack nodded, "Thanks, Viv."
Victor studied the collection of photos and other personal items on his son's desk. A pang of something green inside ate at him. Among the photos on his desk were those of friends from school, one of his mother and one of the four agents working under Jack Malone at what appeared to be a holiday party. There were a few citations from his Quantico days and notes on pending cases. But nowhere was there anything that tied his missing son to him. He again thought on how highly his son held Jack Malone. His anger grew again, just as the SAC's voice sounded.
"Nice to see you again, Victor."
Jack Malone didn't hide his sarcasm and Victor swallowed the sharp rebuttal. He stood up and followed Malone. Jack got a quick cup of coffee, didn't offer him any and went into his office. Victor remained by the large desk, not missing the folders, reports and photos in order all over the desk.
"I wanted to discuss a few things," Victor began. "First of all, Agent Taylor's disappearance is being handled by another team." He gloated but the glow didn't last. His face fell a bit when his ace was trumped.
"Yeah, I know, I spoke to Boone," Jack replied nonchalantly, but ate up the look of dismay and annoyance Victor now wore. Chris Boone headed one of the best units in the Bureau and was a good friend as well. "He's got a good team, I'm sure they'll find Danny. Look Victor I got two hot cases I'm working. So..."
"I don't want you interfering between me and my son. You were out of line last night."
"I was out of line!" Jack shouted, then got his anger under control. "Martin's tough but he's not made of steel. He's currently on suspension and I can't stop you from calling him. But take a minute to think before you cut his heart out again."
"How dare you!"
"You can't be that blind," Jack tossed back. "Look Victor, I don't have time for this. You have issues to settle between you and your son, that's fine. But his job here, what he does, how he thinks and reacts, that's my territory. Don't get in my way."
Any further jousting was interrupted by the phone ringing.
"Malone," he sighed, nodding his head. "Yeah... I know Vivian said you called." He glanced at his watch. "Okay, I'll be right over. No, I didn't talk to Vivian yet about Abby Harrison. I will... yes... okay..."
Victor saw the numbers on the panel on Jack's phone and recognized that it was Director Van Doren. He didn't want to impede any of the open cases, but he wanted his point made. He hadn't anticipated Jack already knowing Taylor's case was in another office, that stung a bit. He rose and waited for Malone to look up.
"I'll be in touch, you keep you head on straight and don't let anything else go wrong."
Jack bit off the reply and just glowered at the other man as he left. He shook his head wondering and marvelling at the fact Martin had survived and come through the iron fist successfully.
He took his coffee and headed for Van Doren's office, pausing long enough to tell Vivian where he was going. After his morning meetings, he was going to pick Martin up and take him back up to Our Lady of Grace. One of Chris Boone's agents was meeting them there. They were hoping that by revisiting the scene, Fitzgerald would remember something. He sure hoped so.
"So how did round two go?" Van Doren asked as Malone took the seat across from her.
"You heard?"
"Guess who was my wake up call at five a.m?" She sat back in her chair. "It wasn't Denzel..."
"No..." Jack sighed, "Victor was here last night when I got back. He's a real..."
"Don't go there!" She held her hand up. "He's not in a popularity contest. I don't have to tell you just how much clout he has in Washington. Tread carefully, okay? Martin's on thin ice now. You push Victor too hard and his son will be the one caught in the fallout."
"Give me something easy to do," he commiserated, then consented. "Okay."
"Good, let's talk about your pending cases and about your theory on Taylor."
The two senior Bureau agents conducted their meeting, unaware they were being observed. Concealed in the toolbox marked 'maintenance department' in yellow letters was a listening device. The wig itched and the bulky coveralls were hot but it was a necessary part of the plan. When Malone rose, the cart moved, far down the hall and out of sight. But not before capturing very valuable information; information that would become the first strands of the noose that would bear Malone's name.
Agent Samantha Spade shifted her sunglasses and rang the buzzer again. She was about to pull her phone out when a sandpaperish voice came through the intercom.
"Yeah..."
"It's Sam."
The buzzer sounded and she entered the outer door. She took the elevator up and made her way down the hall until she came to Martin's door. She knocked and a voice called out.
"It's open..."
"Martin?"
Sam entered the almost pristine home and chuckled. Martin's place was a reflection of the same tight inner box where he kept his feelings. His desk at work was the same way, save a few photos. He liked to maintain control at all times, nothing out of place. The apartment was very nice, done in colors of navy and burgundy with silver trim on all the picture frames and accents. She eyed the empty living area and could see over the stools at the bar in the kitchen that he wasn't there either.
"Martin?" She repeated, pausing at his hallway leading to the bedroom.
"...in the shower..."
"Want some company?" She heard a short laugh and grinned, then made her way back to the kitchen. She put the two bags down and headed for the counter. She put coffee on, one eyebrow rising at the very expensive import from Kona. She flipped the television on and was watching Kate Couric interviewing the Secretary of Defense. Katie paused just as a damp body came past the television clad only in sweatshorts. A white towel was slung around his neck.
"Nice ass."
"You can't afford me." Martin paused briefly by the kitchen.
"No I guess not, I can't even afford your coffee," she nodded to the tin. "I don't cook, but I make great takeout." She nodded over to the bags. "Bagels, sandwiches, chocolate chip pastries and some danish. Can I get you something?"
"Yeah, you can get Danny," Martin shot back with vinegar. "I lost him."
"There are federal and local agents all over the state looking for him. You blaming yourself won't solve a thing."
"There isn't anyone else to blame," Martin sent back, "He needed me and I failed him."
"You don't know that, Martin. We don't know what happened out there." She slid off the stool and moved closer. "Danny's been chasing creeps and lowlifes and locking them up for a lot of years. He's made a lot of enemies, Martin. Anyone could have followed you two up there."
"Why can't I remember, Sam?"
She winced at the unusual sound of defeat in his voice. They had their differences in style, technique and methods. They often clashed on procedure and he was still a rookie. But she didn't like this wavering stance. She preferred the cocky Martin, flaws and all. The defeat in the blue eyes was disturbing.
"Look, it was your first day back," she said quietly, moving closer. He was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, head down. "You've been through a lot. Maybe you didn't do anything wrong. Maybe you passed out and Danny went to get help and then somebody grabbed him. It might not concern you at all."
"Yeah... maybe..." he spoke but knew the words weren't true.
"Come on." She picked the towel up and ruffled his damp hair. "I busted my ass to make you a buffet breakfast."
"Buffet huh?" Martin rose and eyed the pretty blonde. "Guess I could eat, seein' as how you stayed up all night baking."
"Now you're talking." She snapped the towel, hitting his butt. The bloodshot eyes and circles under them told her he hadn't gotten much sleep. He caught her staring and frowned, dropping into a chair. "Sorry... did you get any sleep?"
"A few minutes between nightmares." He eyed a bagel with a wrapper marked 'cheese and bacon' and put it on his plate.
"Wanna talk about it?" She poured two mugs of coffee and sat down across from him. She slid one over and saw him pause while cutting his sandwich. "Might help..."
"I'm running through the woods... near the cave." His eyes moved back and forth as the dream came to life again. "Heart's racing, legs are like rubber, can't breathe..."
"Terrified."
"Yeah." He nodded and shook his head. "There's a grave... fresh. I... dig.." he examined his hands, sure there would be dirt. "He's... Danny... his body..."
"Oh, Martin..." She winced, having suffered more than a few realistic nightmares herself.
"His hand... grabbed... " he shoved his arms onto the table curled his hands into fists. "...me... he sat up... he had no eyes... he blamed me..."
"It was just a dream... with all you've been through..."
"Was it?" He shook his head. "What if he is lying in a shallow grave somewhere?"
"I don't think so," she replied, selecting a cheese danish. "If somebody wanted him dead, why go to all the bother of the cave and the unused tunnel?"
"You know about that?" He was surprised and his wide eyes reflected that.
"Vivian and I spoke with the sheriff's department last night after we got back from Maine. Chris Boone's team is on it."
"He's good."
"Next to Jack, nobody better," she hoped that brief flicker of hope she'd heard remained. "Eat!"
"So how was Maine? You get anything new?" Martin took a bite from the hot sandwich as she spoke.
As she updated him on their trip, she saw he was eating something. That was good, it wouldn't do him any good not to eat. He finished two cups of coffee and the bagel. She wrapped the others up and put them in his refrigerator. She was going to have another cup of coffee and saw the time.
"It's almost eight, you better get moving." Martin followed her gaze at the clock and pushed his plate away. "Where you headed today?"
"Not sure, Atlantic City maybe. We have to go over everything with Jack."
"You need anything, calls made... followups... I got nothing but time."
"Take advantage of that time." She paused, eyeing the injured ankle. "Get some sleep and don't forget your pills."
Martin nodded absentmindedly and paused by the door. She put her glasses on and rummaged around until she found her car keys. Finally she walked towards him. He realized just how much better she made things. Just a simple gesture of stopping to check on him... something he didn't have on his other job. He didn't have a team or many close friends.
"Hey, Sam..."
"Yeah?" She turned and watched him struggling. She got a brief flush of guilty pleasure. He wasn't used to this and it showed.
"Listen... thanks for coming over. Don't listen to those critics, you make great breakfasts. Could be a future for you there."
"Yeah, right," she laughed, shaking her blonde head. "You want to clear a room fast? Put me near a stove." He was facing away away and his profile melted into a 'little boy lost' look. She moved closer. "Hey..." He turned then and she hugged him, "Don't shut us out, okay? Your shoulders aren't that broad. "
"Yeah..." He pulled back and shuffled uncomfortably.
"You play your cards right," she tapped his cheek and winked. "I'll make you dinner."
"Might have to wait, I need batteries in my smoke alarm."
"Wiseass!" She smacked his arm and left.
"Sam." He leaned out into the hall, suddenly feeling very vulnerable "Thanks... really."
"You're welcome," she smiled and headed for the stairs.
Jack stood on the edge of the damp cavern, watching Martin carefully. Fitzgerald was the only witness they had to whatever happened to Danny Taylor. He thought by bringing him to the last place they were both seen together, something might trigger his lack of memory. He watched as the frustrated witness squatted down by the abandoned tunnel.
"Nothing?"
"No, sorry Jack."
Martin shook his head and gazed hard into the tunnel. The security guards said he'd gone through this semi-boarded up old exit. Now it was off limits, much too unstable. Part of the ceiling collapsed on the first deputies who'd gone through the day Danny disappeared. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He pushed his brain hard. There had to be something in there. He was here with Danny and found in the woods alone. Something happened... and it happened here, he was sure of it.
"Come on... dammit..."
"Don't force it..." Jack suggested. He'd seen the frustration building over the last forty minutes since they'd arrived.
"It's no use..." Martin snapped, kicking the board and sending dust and debris raining down.
"HEY!" Jack hollered. "Burying us alive won't help."
"It was here... I can feel it..." Martin kept glancing down the tunnel. "Why can't I remember?"
"Maybe you were out of it... passed out. Could be you got sick or something and Danny went to get help."
"No, he wouldn't have left me... he'd use the phone."
"Okay, could be somebody was tailing you and decked you. You woke up half out of it... ran the wrong way, got lost in the woods."
"Yeah... no... hell what's the use!" Martin strode away, taking the safe exit towards the river.
"Gonna be another ball buster," Malone noted of the day only half done.
For two hours they combed the woods, stopping frequently by trees and rocks. Jack watched as Martin knelt down, feeling the earth, branches, needing to touch. Brendan Garvin, the likeable young man from Chris Boone's team met them at the river and was accompanying them. Jack let Brendan stay close to Martin, since he was the investigative officer. His phone rang and he waved for the other two to continue
"I'll catch up," he called out, flipping his phone open. "Malone."
"We're at the Tropicana waiting for Claire Thomas. She works in Human Resources and is going through the archives here for old personal records. Hopefully, we'll find some retiree who remembers him."
"Okay, keep me posted."
As he spoke, he watched Martin punching the cellphone again for what he calculated was about he fifth time. He counted the extra numbers and theorized that either Fitzgerald was dialing long distance or accessing his voice mail
Martin sagged in defeat when the message he was waiting for didn't arrive. He'd called the doctor again, stressing the urgency. He'd checked his voicemail five times... but there was nothing. Of course he didn't know where the doctor had gone. What if the emergency was overseas? He was sitting on a rock, waiting for Brendan to finish. The other agent was updating his boss. He saw Jack approaching and averted his gaze. He felt like a failure.
"Looks like rain's comin'," Jack eyed the dark clouds rolling in and felt the wind kicking up. "Go home, get some sleep. You look like a damned racoon." The brown head bobbed once and he watched the slim fingers trembling slightly as the phone was put back inside the jacket. "You expectin' a call?"
"Yeah," Martin replied, not hiding his displeasure. "Where the hell is he?"
"Who?"
"That damn doctor." Martin muttered, leaving as the first light whispers of rain fell.
Jack wondered which doctor Martin meant. The doctor who had taken care of him during his illness or the one from the hospital nearby. He shrugged it off, the young man had gone through a rough few weeks, maybe his nerves were bad. Could be he needed more medicine. He kept pace with Brendan, going over the theories they had so far. Martin was way ahead. By the time Jack caught up with him, they were in the parking lot.
"Look, I want you to call Lisa Harris," Jack noted of the Bureau's therapist. "You can't go on like this."
Martin looked up in surprise and tried to hide his panic. If he went to her and she found out, she'd be obliged to report her findings to both Malone and Van Doren. Of course, his father would find out. His rookie status was still pending. He couldn't afford that risk, not yet anyhow. Unless he was a very good actor and didn't reveal it.
"Martin? Did you hear me?"
"Huh?" He blinked and saw Jack looking at him oddly. "Yeah... sure... got it Jack."
"Okay, I'll talk to you later."
Martin went over his options on the drive home. He couldn't avoid Jack forever. He could buy a few days until the new week started. He'd say he was exhausted and got ill. But Jack would keep after him, he'd have to call her eventually. But maybe by then Danny would be found alive. He pulled into his parking space and turned the ignition off. He was tired and his leg was bothering him a bit. It might not be a bad idea to take the pain killers that the doctor left.
Martin tossed his keys on the table by the door and headed for the phone. His eyes widened when they hit the answering machine. The red light was blinking. He almost knocked the lamp over pushing the 'play' button. There were three messages. Hope hovered with him over the machine.
"Come on... come on... be there..." he coached.
"Martin? I stopped by... call me. We have to talk."
"Right after hell freezes over." He kicked the table let upon hearing his father's voice.
"Are your windows letting out valuable heat?"
"Shit," he hissed at the annoyed telemarketer and punched the delete button.
"Martin? It's been all damn morning, where are you? You call me!"
"Go to Hell," Martin answered his father's voice. He dialed the doctor again and waited patiently for the voicemail. "Doc, it's Martin Fitzgerald again. Look I know you're tied up with an emergency but I got a big one here too. I need to talk you it's very important. CALL ME!" he urged, then rubbed his throbbing eyes. "Please..."
He tossed the pills into his mouth and chased them down with a coke. He pulled his shoes off and stretched out on the sofa. He fell into a dreamless sleep and woke up several hours later. He sat up, blinked and eyed the darkness outside. His growling stomach took him to the kitchen.
He heated up a can of soup and made some toast. He finished that and ate a danish leftover from breakfast and drank some coffee. He got to thinking about the doctor's office. Maybe someone in the other offices knew where he went? What could he lose? He grabbed his jacket, his car keys and went over. The other offices were closed and he got the dark glass walls at the end of the hallway His fingers slid over the gold and black lettering bearing Peter Gibson's name. He flattened his palms on the glass and pressed his face there. It was cold, nearly the same icy degree as his insides were. He turned and rested his back on the wall, then slid down until he was sitting on the floor.
The hallway was nearly black and the eerie silence enveloped him. Cold fingers encircled his throat and he felt despair choking him. He brought his knees up, resting his face on his arms. He never felt so alone or so defeated.
Prelude | Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3 | Page 4 | Page 5 | Page 6 | Page 7 | Page 8 | Page 9 | Page 10 | Page 11 | Page 12 | Page 13 | Page 14 | Page 15 | Page 16 | Page 17 | Page 18 | Page 19 | Page 20 | Page 21 | Page 22 | Page 23 | Page 24 | Page 25 | Page 26 | Page 27 | Page 28 | Page 29 | Page 30 | Page 31
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