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.
She looked a lot younger and much smaller in the bed, but hospitals had a way of doing that to a person. He eyed her pale face and recalled the first time he'd kissed her and the rush of heat that had filled him. The affair had been a torrid one, with extended one night stands in cheap motels. Hot sex had come fast and furiously, leaving both feeling spent and more than a little guilty. It was wrong, they both knew it and risked ended their careers. It was wrong, they both knew it and had carried on the affair at the risk of ending their careers.
Love. No it hadn't been that, neither of them was emotionally stable enough to appreciate the full significance of what that meant. She wouldn't leave the team, she had insisted on that and was content to share him with the wee hours between dusk and dawn. She wasn't interested in marriage or anything permanent. A part of her would never heal from the rough first marriage she'd undertaken way too young. Being married made him a safe option to her, as she could never truly have him. He wasn't a great lover, but she hadn't been looking for that. What it had come down to was two very lonely and empty people clinging to each other in the dark, hoping the light wouldn't come. It had ended at the right time, before they'd been caught and fired.
He frowned and cast an eye on his watch. It was just after one a.m. and in a few moments he'd have to leave anyway. He needed to get some sleep before six a.m. rolled around and he had to face the fire. He shut the beeper off and rose, bending to kiss her forehead.
"I gotta go, Sam, I'll be back tomorrow." He paused and gently put her hand under the blanket."It'd be nice if you were lookin' back at me by then."
He sounded so sad and lost she fought hard to wake up, hoping to see those sad eyes. But she remained lost in the weird darkness. It was unnerving and senseless to be trapped like this. Her mind was spinning and working stuck in a shell that was lying limp and useless. He'd mentioned Vivian being missing and that they were checking on new leads. She needed to wake up and tell him about Martin and that phone call. He needed to know that, he was the last one left on the team. What if the animal that attacked her, used Martin again to hurt Jack? She couldn't let that happen. So she forged forward in the darkness, hoping that light would break over the unending horizon before it was too late.
Martin woke up with a start, when the echo of a loud bang reverberated throughout the extremely cold van. His fuzzy mind and dry mouth told him it had been hours since he'd been awake. He didn't remember falling asleep, just riding in the dark. But the sound of the motor coupled with the motion must have caused him to fall asleep. He peered at his watch and tried to make out the numbers, which were on the right side of the dial. It was somewhere after midnight, close to three a.m. he judged. He heard a loud voice nearby and listened intently.
"...no... I'm gettin' it towed. Just get over here so I can unload the stuff."
Towed? That wasn't good, he'd lose his lead. Martin untangled his twisted limbs and bit his lip in pain as the pins and needles from lack of circulation jabbed at him viciously. As the fire raced through his dormant veins he tried to find a way to escape. He moved his hands and found a door handle, a slider. He theorized that Gibson used this to get from the back to the front without leaving so nobody outside would see him. He kept his hand on it, as he followed the fading conversation.
"...not far, only about an hour from home. Just get here. The tow is coming, I see his lights. You pick me up at the service station on Route 9. Yeah, the one by the Tile Store across from the Wendys."
Decision time; ride with the truck to the station and try to get out then? Or, take a chance here and follow on foot? Too many things could happen at the station. If Gibson caught him, he'd never be able to update Jack. Then again, if he hoofed to Route 9 and found this service station, how would he be able to tell which direction they went in? Time was running out and he heard another motor close in and the door slam again. He took a deep breath and slid the lever, peeking from under the tarp. He lifted his head and peered through the windshield several feet away. Gibson was talking to a stranger in front of the truck's swirling yellow lights . Martin easily slid through the narrow passage and pulled the door shut behind him. Keeping an eye on the two men speaking, he slid out of the open door. He rolled on the ground and out of sight down a hill. He kept his eyes on the pair as they walked towards the van. He took a deep breath of relief when Gibson opened the back door and stepped inside.
"...too close..." he whispered
"Everything okay back there?" the driver asked.
"Yeah, just needed to get my laptop."
Martin closed his eyes and counted his blessings. He'd been sitting right next to the same leather case that Gibson now held.He kept his eyes on the pair and slipped down a little further, just waiting for them to leave.
"Okay Mister..."
"Smith," Gibson lied, extending his hand, "Jonas Smith. My wife's gonna meet me at the service station.I'll ride with you that far."
"Okay, just leave a note inside the van with your keys for the manager he'll be by seven or so."
Gibson had no intention of coming back. The van couldn't be tied to him as it was bought with the dummy account he'd set up a year ago. He used latex gloves every time he was inside of it, so there would be no prints. The equipment was portable and he wouldn't need it much longer; the only fly left to snag was the blue-eyed one. As he rode the short distance to the service area, he wondered where Fitzgerald had gotten to. He made a mental note to call Jack Malone. Better yet, maybe he'd stop in to see him tomorrow morning. The poor man would need somebody to talk to, a professional to guide him through his trauma.
"Something funny?" the driver asked when his quiet passenger began to chuckle.
"Private joke," Gibson replied, seeing the pathetic and overrated Jack Malone pouring his heart out.
Beep... beep... beep... beep.
"...the hell..." Jack grumbled as he sat up and put the low light on. Once his eyes adjusted to the harsh entry into his darkened sleep quarters at the midtown hotel, he reached for his watch. "Four thirty?"
He sighed hard and read the digital numbers blinking at him. He fumbled inside the drawer and got a pencil out, writing the numbers on the hotel laundry form that was next to the phone. The hotel was much closer to work than his apartment and he had a change of clothes in the office. Reading the numbers he frowned, recognizing the exchange as one from Southern New Jersey. He rubbed his eyes, stumbled into the bathroom and relieved his full bladder. After drinking two cups of water he returned to the phone. He dialed the numbers, cradling the phone and rubbing the tension between his temples.
"Hello?"
"Who the hell is this?" Jack demanded, not willing to give his name just yet.
"Jack? Thank God."
"Martin?" Jack was completely awake now and sat forward, grabbing the pencil. "Where are you? Why haven't you checked in? Do you know there's a Goddamn APB on you? What the hell's the matter with..."
"Shut up!" Martin hissed peeking from the floor on the filthy phone booth he was sitting in.
He was sharing the confining space with urine, feces and other assorted filth. He'd gotten lucky after his journey up the road began. A truck driver hauling ice cream to the casinos had given him a lift to where Route 9 intersected. From there it was a five minute walk to the service station. Gibson was still there, waiting for his ride. Martin had no intention of losing him, not when he was this close.
"Start talking and it better be good," Jack replied, "Where are you?"
"I'm not sure, somewhere near the shore on Route 9, Miller's Body Shop is across the street. I know who's got Danny and Vivian. It's Pete Gibson."
"You're nuts," Malone denied. "Look, Martin, that one thin rope your ungrateful ass is hanging from is breaking fast. You come in now or you can kiss your career goodbye."
"Sam?" Martin changed the subject, hoping to rid his clearly irate boss of some venom
"Alive, better but not awake."
"Thank God, that was all my fault."
"Nevermind that, what the hell are you doing in New Jersey? Why Gibson?"
"I can't go into details now but he's my shrink.I haven't been able to get a hold of him since I zonked out and Danny got nabbed After Keller confronted me in the hospital lot, I was pissed. I wanted an answer so I went to his office to see if there was a number where he went off to. Jack, I found a diary, a journal he kept. He's been using me for months, tailing me, he's got fuckin' tapes of the inside of my house. He's using drugs and hypnosis, I think he's causing my blackouts. The office is bugged to, so don't take any chances, watch your cell and phone calls. He's got tons of shit on me, since my first days on the job. I don't even know this guy..."
"He's not after you; he's using you to get to me. You're sure it's him? You're positive?"
"I'm fuckin' lookin' at him!" Martin hissed, eyes bulging. "Don't talk to me like I'm crazy. I'm his Goddamn lab rat! I'm sitting in dog shit in a fuckin' phone booth. I saw the evidence, I read his journal. He's got shit on me clear back to high school."
"Okay, calm down!" Jack thundered and winced at the rapid breathing he heard. "You stay put and don't take any more chances. I'll come and get you."
"No, I'm too close. His van broke down... he came into the office before I could finish reading the book. He cleaned his office out, there's no evidence left. Who to you think they're gonna believe? Huh? A green rookie whose fuckups have cost him three of his partners? Or a decorated veteran with more medals than the Marines? I got nothing Jack, aside from the hospital blood work with drugs in my system. How's that gonna look? I go in there accusing him and he'll not only deny it but we'll lose any shot of getting Danny and Vivian back. He could move or kill them. He could leave the country. I won't take that chance, I have no choice."
"You always have a choice," Jack argued. "You're in the middle of nowhere, unarmed, what can you do besides get your fool head blown off?"
"He won't kill me, he would have done it by now." Martin debated, keeping an eye on the two figures across the highway. "I'm the bait, remember? Worse gets to worse, he'll use me to lure you in, but he won't kill me, not yet. I'm gonna follow him and find Danny and..."
"No! You listen to me," Malone interjected. "Your balls are a in a sling now. You go gallavantin' off on a wild goose chase and you're done. You can kiss that badge goodbye."
"You can have the badge, I want Danny and Vivian back, it's not even close," Martin argued back of the choice. "Look Jack, I got an idea. He doesn't know I'm on to him. What if tomorrow you or Chris tell the news media that I went missing? That you found evidence, ropes, tape, a sign of a scuffle. I can be the inside guy."
"More like the dead guy," Jack sighed hard but realized that most of what Fitzgerald said was true.Without evidence, none of Martin's claims would hold water. And if Gibson was holding his missing agents, he could indeed kill them.
"Twenty four hours, that's all I need," Martin plead into the angry silence. "I'll call in every few hours. If I'm right, they're close by. I need some wheels though.There are a lot of roads and paths in this area, too much to cover on foot. I know they're close, Jack, I can find them.You can say it was an anonymous tip. I'm gonna do this, with or without your help. I'd rather have you in my corner. Please Jack?"
"I'm gettin' soft," Jack replied wincing at the plea on the phone. He knew the sometimes impulsive rookie could indeed hang up and pursue Gibson on his own. That wasn't an option and left only one choice. "Okay, hotshot, you got twenty fours hours and that's all. I'll check a car out from headquarters and leave it by the phonebooth you're calling from. You wait there for me, understood? I'll leave some food and stuff in the trunk and a radio."
"Thanks Jack, you won't be sorry," Martin vowed.
"No, I'll be the jackass next to you in prison," Jack commiserated. "You okay? You're not hurt?"
"I'm fine, I better go," Martin answered, then recalled the news photo. "Just one more thing, in the back of the journal there was a picture, an old newspaper clipping of a football player, looked like a college shot. He was holding a trophy. The kid's name was DiSipio. I don't know if he's connected to this or..."
"Nick?" Jack's voice interrupted and went up a full octave. His heart nearly stopped as the full ramifications of his actions hit him like a sledge hammer. He nearly dropped the phone and clenched his eyes shut, sucking in a ragged breath. "No, Jesus Christ...."
"Yeah, how'd you know that?" Martin asked, his brows knit in confusion.
"He... was... uh... you took his place. He was only on the team a few months," Jack managed to reply through the numbness now enveloping him.
"So Gibson blames me for taking this kid's job? Why? What's he to Gibson? What happened to him?"
"It's a long story and we don't have that kind of time," Jack rasped painfully as the dark-haired youth's face rose up to haunt him."I don't know his tie to Gibson, but I'll find out."
"Shit... shit... he's heading this way..." Martin panicked, at the sight of the large man who was walking towards the booth.
"Martin! Martin!" Jack called out but only got the eerie reply of dial tone.
He hung up the phone and waited until the shockwaves left the room. If Martin was right, they finally had the upper hand. The 'why's and 'what fors' could be filled in later. He took a fast shower and as the hot water massaged his aching bones the mixed up pieces of the deadly puzzle began to take place. As he dressed, the file from his former rookie opened before him in his mind's eye. The background information seemed to blink in red letters.
"...unwed mother..." he mumbled, shoving his damp feet into the smelly socks. "...Theresa... DiSipio..." he grunted and sat back reeling."Sister Theresa... Shit! shit!" He grabbed his keys and took his belongings. He paused at the hallway phone and had his finger on the numbers intending on dialing Boone's beeper. Then Martin's warning loomed up and he wondered how far the powerful Gibson's bugging went. He knew where the fair-haired agent lived and what route he took to work. He took a cab to the office and checked out an agency car, then he sped to the area where Chris exited. He entered an all night supermarket and spotted a clerk in the customer service area.
"F.B.I.," he issued along with his badge, "I need to use your phone."
Chris Boone didn't like surprises, especially when they got him out of the shower. The odd message took him a few moments to figure out. A young girl answered his callback and said that his Aunt Bernice had been taken ill and was in the manager's office. He asked if she had the right person and she insisted she did and it was very urgent. The market was on his way to work so it was possible to stop by. He was halfway there when the name struck him. He knew then who was waiting for him but now why. The manager's office was deserted when he arrived at six a.m.
"Jack? What the hell is going on?"
"You're not going to believe this," Jack noted sipping some coffee and swallowing the last of the doughnut the manager provided. "Hell, I'm not so sure I believe it myself." He wouldn't give Chris all the information, since if it went bad he didn't want his friend to lose his job. But Boone was his only ally and he needed him. "I need you to trust me on this one, Chris. I can't tell you why or how, but Pete Gibson is behind this."
"Snake? What do you mean? Are you sure? How did..."
"I don't have time to go into it. I need you to meet me on Route 9 in two hours.Here's the address. I got a tip to follow."
"Well, okay, I'll go with you and..."
"No," Jack denied. "I can't let you... just trust me, Chris. I know it's asking a lot but I can't tell you right now."
"Okay, I'll tell Victor you're following a lead," Chris said as Jack exhaled in relief, his eyes shining with gratitude.
"Just like that?" Jack said, extending his hand.
"Nobody I trust more," Chris answered and took the hand. "You'll always have this, Jack."
"Thanks Chris, you may have just saved me and my team. Listen, be careful of what calls you make, I think he's got the office bugged, maybe even your cell.If something happens, I'll call the gym as Agent Robertson, okay?"
"Yeah, that'll work. See you in a couple hours," Chris said turning away then he saw a large set of emotive blue eyes, rookie's eyes. "He called you didn't he?" He didn't get a reply but the silence gave him his answer. "I hope you know what you're doing, Jack."
"That makes two of us," Jack replied heading for the car, twisting the keys in his palm.
Jack pulled off the turnpike onto Route 9 and made his way to the designated meeting area. His keen eyes darted left and right, taking in every part of either side of the road. Finally he spotted the Auto Repair Station that Fitzgerald had mentioned. His eyes shot left and sure enough there was a deserted phone booth near a thicket of trees off the side of the road.
He turned around at the corner and made his way back to the phone booth. There didn't seem to be anyone near it, but he was very cautious as he got out of the car to inspect it. Wary of Martin's frantic call that Gibson was heading for him when they last spoke, ; he was relieved to find no blood or signs of a struggle. His nose wrinkled as the strong stench of urine, dog feces and other undesirable elements rose up from the filthy booth.
He made a quick search of the immediate area, but found no broken glass or signs of trauma. He stood by the booth where the missing man would have been standing with the view of the body shop in front of him. He recalled how Martin had seen Gibson approaching as they spoke. Why would Gibson need to approach the booth? He had a cell phone so had no need for its use. It could have been that he dropped something and was checking the road. Jack looked back at the booth and theorized that without the benefit of an overhead street light, Gibson couldn't have seen Martin. Martin on the other hand had been looking over to the Service Station which had lighting. So if he'd been quick enough, he could have slipped out of the booth and into the woods nearby. But on the off chance that Gibson had spotted Fitzgerald and followed on foot, he had to check it out. He'd seen a turnoff when he turned around initially that would be a better place to leave the car.
Martin felt sure that the huge and deep sigh of relief he emitted could be heard all the way back to Manhattan. He was so weak from not eating that he was dizzy and the hours spent outdoors with just a light jacket had him shivering. He was filthy and the stench that covered him was making him sick. He slowly crept up the hill from where he was hiding in the trees. He saw Jack turn to head back to his car and started to call out to him. But Malone was already behind the wheel and turning the engine on.
"...the hell is he doing?" Martin hissed. He jogged back down the hill and through the trees heading up the road. He climbed back up and cast his eyes down to where the car's headlights could now been seen. He hooked his thumb out and waited for his boss to see the Ōhitchhiker' and pick him up.
"Where the Hell is he?"
Chris Boone looked up briefly from the report he was working on when the bellow shook the room. He coolly regarded the older man and noted how much hostility was burning from the steely gray-blue eyes. That was one thing the kid inherited from his father, that rippling emotion. He put his pen down and stood up, taking his empty coffee cup towards the pot on the other side of the room
"Good Morning, Deputy Director Fitzgerald." He spoke evenly as he filled his mug. "Would you like some coffee?" he asked, pointing at the empty mugs nearby with his free hand.
"No, I don't want any Goddamn coffee," Victor raged, slamming the newspaper onto the team leader's desk. The blazing headlines on the front page about his son fleeing the hospital and possibly being on drugs had him enraged. "I want some Goddamn answers! Where is that cocky son-of-a-bitch?"
"And what cocky son-of-a-bitch would you be referring to?" Chris replied nonchalantly as he made his way back to the filing cabinet.
"Don't you play games with me, Boone." Victor crossed the room and grabbed the blond man's arm. "I'll transfer you to the middle of nowhere so fast your coffee won't have time to get cold. Now where is he?"
Chris didn't reply, rather he glared with open hostility at the arm holding his own. Finally Victor backed off and released him. He pulled a folder from the drawer, shut the cabinet and returned to his desk. "Jack's following up a lead, he'll be in after ten if you need to leave a message..."
"I'll leave a message alright, I'll deliver it myself. I'll be back in his office at noon. If he wants to keep his badge, he better haul his ass here and be in that chair when I arrive. That's the deadline, you tell him that."
"If I talk to him, I'll be sure to pass that along, Victor. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"I want an update. Where's Martin? Have you spoken with him? Has Malone? Is he with Martin? He better not be hiding anything, I'm not in the mood for one of his Goddamn wild goose chases."
"Jack left a message on my voicemail earlier this morning. He got some kind of a tip about the case and is meeting someone in Jersey. That's all I know. As for Martin, no I haven't heard from him but I do have an APB out."
Chris handed over the file in front on him and while the gray-haired man scanned it, his rapid eyes keeping time with the vein throbbing in his temple, the blond updated him. He told him about the incident with Keller and his theory that Martin was hiding low, licking his wounds.
"We have his apartment under surveillance and a guard 24/7 at the hospital by Spade, so if he decides to show up, we'll catch him." He paused and saw the armor crack a bit as the father in Fitzgerald began to fight through the shield. The hand that gave the folder back was trembling just a bit and his eyes were pinched. "He's a smart, kid, Victor. This isn't what it looks like, I'd stake my badge on it."
"You have no idea who that man in the warehouse was?" Victor replied, regaining control.
"No." Chris levelled not giving away the information he had received from Jack. "But it's pretty clear it's Jack he's after. We're running his old cases, something will crack soon."
"What if that bastard has Martin?"
"I don't think so." Boone studied the back of the tense director's trenchcoat. "Sam wasn't supposed to fall. That screwed up his plans; he took Johnson out of desperation. If he's a control freak, that'll rattle his cage. He's gonna make a mistake."
"So now we just wait?"
Unless you have a better idea, yes." Chris watched as the older man turned towards the door and stared back at him. "You push him the wrong way he might kill Vivian and Danny. As long as he still has them, there's a chance. He's gonna call Jack... that's been his plan all along"
"If Jack had been doing his job here, we might have caught him already," Victor hissed, pausing in the doorway.
"Jack's shield might be dented a bit and his methods might not be the same as yours," the blond team leader directed sharply not breaking the icy gaze. "But he's one helluva agent and you ought to consider yourself lucky this Bureau has him."
"Just give him my message."
"Yeah," Chris scoffed in disgust as the door slammed.
Jack was about to leave a message with Chris Boone, when he saw a figure several hundred yards ahead in the road. Part of him wanted to grab the missing man with relief while the other part wanted to throttle him for being so careless. He eased the car up the road, slowed down, beeped and unlocked the back door. He put the window down to address the confused face trying to sit up front. His eyes zoned in on the blood stained blue shirt and a tattered bandage on the hand.
"It's okay, looks worse," Martin answered the silent questioning eyes.
"In the back, lie on the blanket over the seat and keep that fool head of yours down," Jack directed. "Now that you finally got it out of your ass, I'd like to keep it attached."
"Good to see you too," Martin rasped, shivering badly and flopping onto the seat. "Can... you... turn... the..heat up?"
"There's a cheap hotel up the road," Jack updated, while shoving the heat on full blast. "I'll pull around the back and get a room. I've got clean clothes and food in the trunk. We'll get you cleaned up and some food in you." He paused and frowned when all he heard was shivering and teeth chattering. "You sure you're okay?"
"F..f...f...ine."
"What's with your hand?"
"Cut it... runnin' from the booth... stopped bleeding."
Twenty minutes later with Martin scrubbing the cold and filth from his lean frame in a hot shower, Jack was working on his laptop. He typed in his access code to put up Nick DiSipio's file. He paid close attention to the birth date and information given at the time the young man applied to become a federal agent.
"Mother, Theresa DiSipio, New York. Father, unknown." He scanned the other information and found something else that stuck out. "Big Brothers of America."
That might be the key, it could be that Pete Gibson was Nick's 'big brother'. He knew the veteran NYPD detective was heavily involved in youth programs. He added that to his notebook of things to check and continued re-reading DiSipio's file. Nothing else popped out at him so he started a new search. He pulled down the information he could find on Gibson. He scanned the early years and high school then stopped cold when he hit the profile of college credits.
"Community Service, Geneva, New York."
He flipped back through his notebook his notebook pages. It was the same town that Theresa DiSipio had lived in at the time Nick was conceived sometime late in her senior year. "Good Shepard Soup Kitchen," he read aloud of Gibson's three month hitch for credits for college. He downsized that link and went back to the search index. He backtracked and found Nick's mother's High School and jotted the number down. He heard the water turn off finally in the bathroom as he dialed the school.
"Good Morning, my name is Jack Malone," he spoke to the secretary who answered. Martin came out of the bathroom draped in a cloud of steam. He nodded to the food on the other side of the table. The wet headed agent nodded once and quickly slipped into the fresh clothes laid out. "I'm an F.B.I. agent from New York. I need some information on a former student."
Martin was curious about the information Jack was getting. As he pulled on the socks, jeans and a Columbia University sweatshirt, he listened as his boss began asking questions about Theresa DiSipio. By the time he shoved his feet into the sneaks and went to the table, Jack was hanging up. He saw the senior agent move to the bed and pick up a bottle of clear liquid. It had a red cross on the front and the name told him what would follow.
"No way!" Martin pulled his hand back. "I look crazy to you? That shit hurts."
"What are you, four years old?" Jack growled, waving his hand. "Quit fuckin' around with me, Martin, you already fried the last nerve I had." He grabbed the palm and inspected the cut which ran across the meaty area between the thumb and first finger. He rolled his eyes when the blue-eyed man yelped as the antiseptic was applied. He then put on two large band aids and nodded to the table.
"Eat!' Jack ordered, pausing to write down the information and upsizing the information on Pete Gibson. "Bingo!"
"Whaddyagot?" Martin muffled, taking a huge bite of a sandwich. He popped open a container of hot soup and stirred.
"It's all they had," Jack addressed the wrinkled nose peering down into the soup container. "There's donuts too, you need to get your sugar up." He was all too aware of the low-blood sugar condition Fitzgerald had and he'd recognized the symptoms developing.
"It's fine," Martin sipped the tomatoish soup and rifled through the bag to get a vanilla iced donut. "What you find out?"
"I think you found our key," Jack said, scanning his notes, he clicked onto the photo displayed of Gibson as a star quarterback for Syracuse University. "Look at this." He moved the screen around so the ravenous rookie could see. "This is Gibson his senior year," he did a close up of the youthful face. Then he pulled up the staff photo of the rookie agent he'd hired a little over a year ago. "Nick DiSipio."
"Strong resemblance," Martin muffled, "Nick's darker, but the features are almost the same. You think Gibson is his father?"
"Gibson needed community service credits during his senior year in college. He worked for several months on weekends at Soup Kitchen in Geneva, New York. Good Shepherd," he paused to sip his coffee and eyed the flushed rookie. The other thing that struck him was that the fresh-faced rookie with his wet spiky hair and the oversized shirt had the capability of looking so much younger. He could have passed for a student of the school on the shirt he wore. "You looked like a boiled lobster."
"I was freezing," Martin defended, although despite the hot shower, he still felt chilled and his throat hurt. "So what about Good Shepherd?"
"Geneva is the town where Theresa, Nick's mother went to high school. I spoke to the secretary of the school and she pulled up her records. Theresa was an active volunteer at Good Shepherd for two years. Nick's birthday is November; Gibson started working there during the winter prior."
"So he met her, got her pregnant and ran out on her?" Martin asked, wolfing down the sandwich and chasing it with the soup.
"He's not listed on the birth certificate and Nick told me he came from a one parent home. Pete was engaged to a socialite with a shit load of money, old money.'"
"The unforgiving kind?" Martin guessed and saw the dark head nod. "So he dumped her? She had the baby alone?"
"He wasn't born in New York, so I'm guessing she started over in New Jersey, raised him alone there. It's where he went to school until he got a scholarship down south in college." Jack sat back and thought on his interview with the rookie. "Gibson became Nick's big brother when he was about ten. I asked him about his family, he didn't mention Gibson but he said his mother was a medical missionary in South America."
"That's it, then," Martin tossed the napkin down and lifted the hot soup, sipping on it. "She's the missing nun and she's working with him. I'm guessing that the job she got at Our Lady of Grace was a cover"
"Yeah, I think you're right," Malone agreed and thought on the South American man who'd told him about the dark-haired visitor the nun had. "I'm bettin' Pete was the visitor that the nun had last year. He recruited her down there and she came north in December after her friend died."
"What friend?"
"Sister Michael, the real one, died in December. Theresa DiSipio must have worked with her there. Father Paulo mentioned her by her first name as a good friend. I'll bet she used her passport to get out of the country."
"But why?" Martin questioned. "Maybe Nick knows where they're at? What happened to him anyway.?"
"No, he can't tell us anything," Jack dismissed. "You spoke to her? Vivian called Brendan Gavin at Boone's office just before she disappeared. She said she got a call from you and that you spoke to the nun. You were going to meet her at Pietro's."
"No," Martin answered. "I was at the hospital when Vivian got taken. I never spoke to her. Pietros?" He spat in contempt of the play on his name. "Christ, he's got brass balls."
"Okay, so he's got a first class recording and camera setup. It's obvious he's invested a lot of money in this. So wherever he's keeping Danny and Viv will be hard to find and break into. Top notch security measures, you be careful. That body you saw in the warehouse wasn't Danny, it was an expensive dummy."
"A lure?" Martin finished his donut and took a sip of hot coffee. "To get Sam? But when she fell, he had to get out quick and regroup."
"That's my guess, he found out Vivian was coming back and put together a static heavy phone call to her, from you."
"So we don't know if he has the nun or not?" Martin asked.
"She's with him and it doesn't appear to be against her will," Jack noted. "Chris told me that they found a patrolmen unconscious inside that place. Vivian called 911 when she got 'your call' and they rolled a unit. The cop only saw one person, a middle-aged dark-haired woman that he thought was Spanish. She was praying in Spanish." He paused and carefully inspected Martin as he ate. The eyes were bright again and that haunted look was gone. Whatever the rookie had read in Gibson's journal must have been the right medicine. But now he wanted to know what Martin did with Gibson in that office. "So exactly what happened between you and Snake?"
"Snake?" Martin sipped his coffee and shook his damp head. "That's a fitting nickname." He fought the to urge to crawl into the bed and sleep. Instead he sat back in the uncomfortable chair and let his mind go back in time. "It all started the first night, when Danny and me found the passage in the cellar of the armory."
Jack listened as Martin slowly extracted information from the painful events and put them all on the table. He never wavered or hesitated; he wasn't making excuses or whining about what had transpired. He was taking it on the chin and standing straight. That was the most encouraging sign and one Jack hoped would help him reclaim his place on the team. When Martin finally finished, he threw his head back and moved his bandaged hand over his eyes. The senior agent absorbed all the information and then moved his chair back. The heavy cloak of guilt had been transferred from the rookie's shoulders to his own. It was not the best time or place to revisit the decision that lead to this moment, but it had to be done.
Martin drew his head back up and watched curiously as Jack rose and walked to the windows. He knew by the clench of the jaw and the flash in the dark eyes that Malone was upset. But something told him it was not his own ass in the sling this time. Something much deeper was bothering Jack. He finished his meal, tossed the trash away and eyed the gear on the bed. There was a new cell phone, a knife, a small flashlight and other tools on a small belt that he clipped onto his belt loops. He pulled the long sweatshirt down just as Jack spoke.
"You need to be extremely careful, Martin, that he doesn't see you. It's pretty obvious he planted a trigger word in your subconscious while he had you on that couch. Whatever that word is, no doubt it's what caused your mental breakdowns when Danny, Vivian and Sam were attacked. Since we don't know what the word is, we're flying blind."
"It's a chance I gotta take," Martin replied.
"The phone's clean and I programmed a number into it for voicemail. You call every two hours. If you get in trouble and can't reach me, you call Chris's cell phone, it's programmed in there" Jack ordered then walked over and faced Fitzgerald who looked very weary and drawn. "Listen to me, Martin, when you find Gibson, you call it in, understood? You DON'T," he emphasized with his index finger, "Move in on your own. You can't handle it alone."
"I got it," Martin agreed, recalling the horrid sight of Sam lying broken on the ground.
"Look, lose that right now, you can't afford it," Jack growled of the guilt washing over the handsome young agent's features. "That can't help you now or Danny or Viv."
"That's easy for you to say," Martin snorted and shook his head. He examined his palms and eyed the senior agent. "You're not wearing their blood."
"No?" Jack snarled, jabbing his finger into Fitzgerald's tense chest. "That bastard's doing this to me, not you. You're just the worm wigglin' on his line. Sam's in a coma, Vivian and Danny could die - all in my name. You don't have the market on guilt, hot shot!"
For several anxious seconds, blue eyes bore into brown and neither tense, male moved. Then Jack turned away again to face the demons that lurked just beyond the horizon he was peering at through frosted glass. Martin took several calming breaths and levelled his nerves. Jack was right, if they were to find the missing agents, he'd have to have his head on straight. He shoved the guilt away and prepared for his mission.
"I'm ready, you got the keys?" he requested quietly and put his jacket on, clipping the phone to his belt.
"Martin," Jack replied in calm tone without turning around. "No matter what goes down, you know this. You were picked to be on my team for very specific reasons. I don't work with anything less than the best. Don't let that prick rattle your self confidence. He's using you, remember that. None of this is your fault. You got balls, hotshot, you use 'em."
Martin accepted the high compliment and checked his gear again. He found several power bars in the duffle back, along with gatorade, water, cookies, crackers and other non perishable food items. He finally broke the uncomfortable silence that lingered between them.
"That van in the service station was the one where I hid. I don't think you'll find anything but..."
"Chris is picking me up here, we'll stop by and talk to them. Listen Martin, if this goes south you know we're both fucked." Jack turned back and watched the only remaining member of his prized team securing his meager weapons. Given more time, he might have been able to come up with a better plan but the little time they had was running out. "So I think the best plan is for you to simply vanish. No trace whatsoever. Let Gibson think he pushed you too far. The garage has you on video fighting with Keller. You ran off like a bat out of hell. Coupled with what he's already spouted to the press, it might be enough to make Gibson think he pushed you too far."
"Yeah," Martin replied, "You know that might work. His ego just might be big enough to make that happen. I'm the key to your gallows. If he can't find me, it'll force his hand."
"You just make sure he doesn't find you!" Jack said loudly and got annoyed when the young man found a half grin for him. The cocky grin was as unnerving as the fact Martin knew just how to punch his buttons. "Shut up, Junior."
"I'm touched, Jack." Martin rasped, trying to take some of the pain in the guarded dark eyes away. "Look, you know it's our only shot at getting Danny and Vivian back alive." He walked to stand beside his mentor and thought on that guilt he was now looking at. "So why can't you call this Nick? Maybe Gibson's contacted him? Hell, he might be an accomplice. Don't you have a phone number for him or..."
"Psychic hotline," Jack replied sarcastically and saw the young man's face creased in confusion. "Nick's dead."
Theresa DiSipio was a very devout person. Pete had gotten used to her odd little rituals and now worked around them. She prayed for several hours and was content to spend what time he didn't need her, confined in the small room that was attached to the prisoners' chambers. She knew how to access the panels, slipping in and out quietly while they slept. She left food and had provided the medical attention Taylor needed both times he'd been injured. Her declining mental state did concern Pete though.
As he toweled off from the shower and prepared to dress for his trip into town to meet with Jack Malone, he thought about Nick again. The boy would never truly be gone and he'd be haunted by the loss the rest of his life. He gripped both fists and growled, fighting off the urge to shoot Jack Malone down like the rabid dog that he was. It was all his fault that the his only son was now lying cold in an unforgiving grave. That had spurred him on to travel to Costa Rica and find the boy's mother. He knew from Nick's letters and the pieces of conversations the boy shared with him about his mother, that Theresa had obviously began to break down. His meeting confirmed it; she clearly had a mental illness. But he'd used guilt and the photo of Nick's bloody corpse to rub salt into her open wound. He'd soundly addressed her lack of mothering and how much her boy needed her and how badly she'd abandoned him. She had no choice then and agreed to help him.
Now he just hoped that her mental state would hold out just long enough to incorporate the final phase of the deadly plan. He'd have his meeting with Jack and extract the information needed to find Martin Fitzgerald. His prized lab rat had not surfaced at home, the office or any of his usual haunts. He'd find Martin and, if necessary, take him by force. Bloody and broken didn't matter, as long as he could remain alive on the mousetrap so that Jack's neck would snap when he tried to free him.
"Theresa?" He knocked on the door and frowned when the nonsensical Latin stopped and a shuffling of feet was heard. The door opened a crack and the anxious dark eyes looked up at him. He almost missed the fire that used to linger there. He'd used that ripe body for many years during the time he entered Nick's life until the boy went to college. But now he found the crazy woman repulsive. "I'm going out, you have to watch the monitors. I won't be back until tonight. Understand.?"
"Yes... yes..." she stammered, easing from the doorway and following him downstairs into the large area where the computers were. "I'll be good... Pete... I'll be good."
"I know you will," he cooed, stroking her dark hair and patting her back. "I'll see you later." He cast his eyes at the monitor and a grin formed as he watched Danny Taylor glaring openly at the camera. He enjoyed baiting the young man and punched the microphone button.
"Temper, temper, Danny boy, you would be well advised to save that energy."
"You'd be well advised to shut the fuck up!" Danny hissed, shoving off Vivian's arm.
"Okay, go on, Danny," Vivian whispered into the tense Taylor's ear. "Give him what he wants."
"I'd love to stay and chat but I'm off to visit with my colleague, Jack Malone. The poor man is just about unglued. It seems his whole team is gone and all he has left to hold onto are his skinny balls."
"You bast-"
"Danny!" Vivian shoved him away from the camera and into the bathroom as Pete Gibson's laughter echoed in their quarters.
"I'm okay." The frustrated dark-haired agent slumped onto the toilet seat. "I can't stand this anymore Vivian, I gotta get out."
"He's getting desperate."
"He sure as hell don't sound it," Danny sighed hard and eyed the quiet woman. "How so?
"He's going to see Jack," she tapped his back and waited for his to rise. "He's pushing the envelope. Come on, you need to eat."
"So you think that he's running scared?" Danny asked, following her into the main room. He sat at the table and took a sandwich from the senior agent. He nodded when she held up coffee and put it into the microwave.
"Sam changed everything for him. She wasn't supposed to fall. Then there's that incident with Martin and Keller."
"That cocky bastard's on my list, too," Danny muffled, swallowing the ham and cheese on rye. They'd been forced to endure the painful scene that Gibson so willingly provided. "I never liked that guy. What the hell did Sam see in him?"
"I'm guessing that Martin is in hiding. He won't go home, I'm sure they have an APB out on him by now. He won't go to the office, so he's hiding and that is not a part of Gibson's plan. Without Martin, he can't get Jack. So he's going to see Jack to try to get some information about Martin from him."
"You think Martin called Jack?" Danny took the coffee as Vivian sat across from him.
"He better, he can't fight this alone. He needs Jack." Vivian replied, watching the young man's weary face. "And you need some sleep. While Gibson's gone, you rest up."
"What are you going to do?" Danny asked of the odd tone in her voice.
"I'm gonna find the key to the door," she replied. "Somebody has been coming in and out and there's no keyhole or slot, so it has to be a spring trigger."
"From the outside in the hall somewhere," he answered, taking a pickle and munching on it.
"There's got to be one in here somewhere, Gibson wouldn't build a place like this and risk being caught or trapped inside the cells."
"Good luck," Danny shook his dark head, "I spent the first few days here going over every inch."
He watched as she rose and began her search. He finished his meal and crawled into his bunk. He was not only exhausted but his ribs hurt and his headache was fierce. He drifted into an uneasy rest his dreams invaded by dark menacing shadows bearing Jack's bloody, severed head. His sweat soaked body tossed in the bunk, his pale lips moaning as the horrid visions increased in their fury. Would the nightmare ever end?
"Jack?"
Jack Malone looked up from this desk as Vivian Johnson poked her head in the room. She was the first agent he'd selected upon being named to head up the elite unit of the F.B.I several years ago. She was the best agent he knew and someone he'd come to lean on over the years. Along with Danny Taylor and Samantha Spade they had become quite a force and had the highest success rate of any of the Missing Persons Units in the Mid Atlantic Region. But their close knit quintet was about to expand. Upper management felt that the number of cases and heavy workload required the addition of another agent. The brass was putting a lot of pressure on him to accept a rookie out of Quantico. On paper the kid looked okay, but he'd visited him during field trials and came away with an odd feeling in his gut. He'd always had an uncanny knack of reading people and he had a sinking feeling this kid was in the wrong line of work. There were a dozen more qualified agents in the bureau already that had applied for transfer. There were two folders in front of him and his mind replayed the angry meeting he'd held with his boss. He'd presented a half a dozen solid points supporting his choice, the better choice. But they'd turned a deaf ear and 'encouraged' him to make a different choice.
"Jack, Dan Henderson is here, he's the state trooper who pulled over McDevitt on the Jersey Turnipike."
"Yeah, Viv, sorry," he sighed and fisted his hand over the folder on the right, the man he would have chosen.
They were closing in on finding a missing man who'd disappeared during a business trip. The state trooper in question pulled over the man's car after he disappeared. He had a dashboard camera that hopefully would give them a lead on who stole the car and from that they could find the suspects responsible for the man's whereabouts.
"I'll be right in, you go ahead," the weary team leader suggested and waited until the door closed again.
Jack sighed heavily and eyed the folders on his desk. It went against everything he'd written up in his assessment of the viable candidates, but the decision was taken away from him. He'd been ordered to make a choice, a very specific choice, but definitely not his choice.
"Maybe next time," he muttered, tapping the folder of the young man he'd have chosen, one he felt was the right fit. His records were outstanding and the interview he'd given had left Jack with a good feeling. He wanted to keep this file close by, just in case he had the opportunity again. So he slid Martin Fitzgerald's folder in his top drawer and picked up his pen, signing his name to the final paperwork accepting Nick DiSipio as the new member of the top-notch team.
Jack slipped into the phone booth at the bus terminal and dialed Martin's number. He frowning in annoyance by the second ring and shifting uncomfortably by the third. Visions of Fitzgerald's dead body with Gibson dancing over it flashed into his mind.
"Come on... come on... pick up..." he voiced his hope and the phone clicked.
"Yeah?"
"Where the hell where you? It was five rings!" Jack thundered.
"Takin' a leak, sorry!" Martin replied and easily heard the concern between the crusty issued words. "I'm fine, no holes in me and all body parts working."
"Where are you?" Malone pressed.
"About twenty miles north of where you left me," Fitzgerald replied. "I've stopped at every gas station, diner and store on this stretch, nobody saw either Gibson or the nun."
"Well I might have something for you," Jack replied, fishing the small paper from his pocket and opening it up. "The van was clean, no prints, nothing, just sand. But I found a gas receipt shoved down the side of the driver's seat. It's from a Sunoco station in Atlantic County, it's about fifteen miles north of where you are. It's pretty rural out that way, perfect place for a hideout."
"Okay, got it," Martin copied down the address and phone number. "I'll check in at one if I don't find it first."
"You okay?" Malone cocked his head, "Your voice sounds funny."
"You know if word gets out you have a heart, your reputation will be ruined," Martin teased. "I could make some big bucks out of this."
"Not enough to bail the two of us out of jail," Jack snapped. "Just keep that hot head of yours down, okay? And don't forget, if you find something..."
"Call it in, I got it, Jack, I left my red cape at home," Martin assured him and hung up.
He winced, rubbing his sore throat and resting his throbbing head against the inner car door. His glands were swelling too, it was difficult to swallow and opening his mouth wide was painful. He'd stopped at a drug store and picked up Tylenol and throat spray. He cursed his bad luck at picking up a bug now, when he so needed to be sharp. He took a sip of the sweetened tea he'd purchased at a donut store and put the car back in gear. The sun was shining and the sky looked blue again. He had a feeling this road was the key to the puzzle he sought. The lead was slim but it was all he had and he didn't intend to waste it. He was determined to find Vivian and Danny, no matter what the cost.
Vivian flinched when a table was slammed down hard and the echo rang around the room. She could imagine the look on the irate face of the person responsible for the noise. Danny was pissed off, frustrated and extremely agitated. She couldn't blame him, her own frustrations were beginning to build and she'd not been here two weeks like he had. Wearily, she sat on the floor by the corner of her room and shook her head. They'd searched high and low and couldn't find a trigger switch anywhere. Whatever Gibson did, it was first rate. A string of curses followed by something hard being heaved at a wall brought her to her feet. She crossed through her room, then the bathroom and finally entered Danny's room. He was stalking the confined area like a panther trapped in a cage.
"Danny..."
"What? Calm down? Why?" he snapped, curling his lip in disgust. "Why the hell should I? I want outta here!"
"And I don't?" she replied, keeping a distance and letting him 'unwind' a bit more. "We have to be..."
"If you say 'patient'," Danny warned and saw her look away. "I'm done with patient, Viv. Wherever the door is, it has to open sooner or later and I'm getting out, even if I have to break that son-of-a-bitch in half!"
Vivian heard Taylor's words and paused, her mind spinning and turning. She nodded slowly and theorized. Gibson was gone and most likely would be gone for awhile. Wherever they were, it was probably in a rural area where he could move more freely. So he'd have to spend time going and coming, added to whatever time he was planning on spending with Jack as he had vowed to do. The terrified eyes of Sister Michael came into her mind. Although her glance had been brief, it was enough to see the woman was scared.
"...and alone..." she thought aloud.
"Huh?" Danny puzzled, walking over to stand next to Johnson. "What are you thinking?"
Vivian didn't reply, rather she gave the handsome agent a small smile and turned toward the screen. They were being monitored, she knew that, there were tiny cameras in every corner of the room.
"Sister Michael, it's late and we haven't had our lunch yet. You know how Pete likes to keep a tight schedule. He's going to be very angry with you, you've disobeyed him."
"Oh," Danny whispered, nodding as he saw what she was doing. "I wouldn't want to be in your shores, shoes not with that temper he has. He's gonna explode. You forgot the wash too," he pointed to a pile of laundry in the box in the bathroom.
"No, no," Theresa whispered at the faces on the monitor. She'd delivered the food earlier, hadn't she? Panic set in and she got confused, losing all sense of time. What if she had forgotten?
She turned away, her dark eyes darting to and fro. Pete's irate face appeared, those blue eyes seething and his face red in anger. The large fist came up and she flinched inwardly as if the blow actually came. She began to pace around the large room, breathing so hard and fast her chest hurt. Her heart began to hammer and she broke out into a sweat. She wrung her hands together and turned as the prisoners continued to speak.
"You know he might not come back," Danny called out. "Kidnapping is a federal offense and when federal agents go missing, they put out all the stops. If he screwed up, he's headed out of town, leaving you to hold the bag."
"They'll put you in prison for a long time, a very long time." Vivian picked up the ball and pressed onward. "Women's prisons are not very nice, Sister, they'll hurt you in there."
"Oh God," she whispered, her whole body trembling. She'd seen the prisons in Costa Ricaand she knew what the women did to each other there. "No... no... I don't want to be... hurt... no... no... bad place... bad... bad..."
"It's working!" Danny whispered, feeling the weight on his back beginning to lift as the first sliver of hope appeared.
"We can help you, Sister. If you let us go, we'll protect you. Nobody will hurt you. I promise," Vivian vowed and waited.
Maybe that was what she should do. Pete said he was going to the city but what if he'd lied? What if they were right? What if he wasn't coming back at all? She didn't want to go to prison. She didn't want to be raped again. She didn't know what to do and the image of Pete's angry face loomed above. Had she forgotten her chores? She'd have to unlock the door to find out. He'd be so angry with her if she had . Why couldn't she remember? She had to hurry and find out. The transmitter that opened the doors was in her room. She put it in the large pocket of the sweater she had on and turned. Then the voices came back, the bad ones that gave her nightmares and scared her.
"Kill them... kill them... kill them..."
"No, no," she denied, dropping to her knees and clutching her head.
"They'll hurt you, they're lying to you... like he does... devil's pawns... devil's hands... you must stop them... the devil is evil... they are evil... evil... evil..."
She stopped trembling then as the voice gave her strength. She stood and walked to the small closet, taking the gun from the basket of yarn she had there. Pete didn't know about the gun, she'd found it in the trunk of the car when they first came to this place. They weren't going to help her; they were working for the devil. She'd have to do God's work and purge the earth of them. Then the voices would stop, once she did as she was ordered to do. She tucked the gun into her other sweater pocket and slowly left the room.
Jack ate a turkey sandwich without tasting it, washing it down with lukewarm and bitter lukewarm, bitter coffee. It seemed to be the right taste for the sour mood he was in. He'd updated Chris Boone from the gym using Agent Robertson's code name and as soon as he did some research and made a few phone calls trying to dig up information on Gibson and any possible new real estate transactions he'd done, he intended on meeting Martin near that gas station.
He threw the trash out and made his way to the file cabinet. As painful as this was, it was the first and very necessary step in his journey to find out the truth. He fingered several files before coming to the right one. His fingers were still on Nick DiSipio's case file when a knock on the door sounded. He didn't have time to even turn around, when he heard the click as the lock changed. He shut his eyes and prepared himself, Boone told him Victor was coming. But the voice he heard was not the one he'd been anticipating. It was one that turned his guts icy and caused his blood to boil. He gripped his hand into a fist over the file and it took every ounce of fiber he held inside to keep his exterior cool and nonchalant.
"Jack, is this a bad time?"
"No, Snake, come on inside," Jack replied calmly, swallowing the bile of disgust that rose in his throat.
He shut the file cabinet and turned, eyeing the tall and massive man before him. The idea that this large muscular brute with torture in his mind had manhandled both Danny and Vivian caused a rage inside him he'd not known before.
"I heard about Johnson, I thought maybe there was something I could do to help."
"Thanks but we've got it covered," the inwardly seething agent replied, keeping his distance.
A part of him feared losing control if he got to too close. Suddenly the truth of Martin's words of warning in that busted up phone booth rang true. If pushed into a corner, Gibson could and would kill both of the missing agents and there would be no proof or bodies for that matter. But if he could buy some time, stalling Gibson in the city, it would give Martin more room to manuever. manoeuvre
"First Taylor, now Johnson," Gibson pressed, seeing how distressed Malone was. "Is Spade out of ICU yet? I heard she came close to dying. You've had a tough run of luck, lately, huh?"
"Yeah," Malone replied, trying hard to hide the vile contempt in his eyes. "But we're gonna get this son-of-a-bitch."
"You have any leads?" Gibson knew they didn't, but he wanted to see Jack Malone squirm like the worm that he was. He lived for the day that he'd read about Malone's suicide. After all, it ran in the family.
"No!" Jack lied, not hiding his face this time. Let Gibson think the disgust was over the lack of evidence.
"Sit down, we'll talk." Gibson moved to the chair by the desk. "I heard you were in San Diego tracking down leads on that missing nun. You get anything?"
"That's not my case anymore," Jack replied, dying to scratch the itch in his hand that wanted to beat the shit out of the arrogant former detective. "In case you didn't notice, I have no team."
"Oh, now Jack, don't lose hope," Gibson oozed with false sympathy as Malone took the seat across form him. "I'm sure Danny and Vivian are still alive."
"You sick fuckin' bastard," Jack screamed silently, his eyes flashing and his hands tingling to reach out and wipe the smirk from the larger man's face. He was rubbing salt into a very open wound and it hurt.
He stared hard into the icy blue eyes and felt a chill run up his spine. There was a glint there that he'd seen over the years. It was born from the ill harbored hopes and sick desires of every man he'd arrested. Now it was shining from Gibson's eyes and just beyond it possibly was were the broken and bloodied bodies of his two missing agents.
"So this priest Chris Boone mentioned didn't help any?"
"Dead end," Jack answered, watching that sick glint dancing in the pale blue eyes. He wanted to reach over the desk and beat the truth out of him. He crossed his arms over his chest and kept them under control. "And it's out of my hands now."
"What about Fitzgerald? How's he handling all of this?" Gibson asked, needing to find out what Malone was hiding. He knew something was lurking behind those dark eyes, he'd seen them hot like this before when Malone was upset.
"He's uh..." Jack paused , putting on his worried face. "Well, truth is Snake, I haven't... nobody's heard from him."
"He's missing?"
Jack almost smiled at that, the shock in the other man's voice was real as so was the surprise in the widened eyes. Good, that was one thing in their favor. As long as Martin remained 'missing' Gibson would continue to spin his wheels. Eventually he'd make a mistake.
"Nobody has seen or heard from him since yesterday. He had a run in with Eric Keller in the parking lot of the hospital. It was on the news..."
"I didn't see it," Pete lied.
He felt sure Martin would have gone crying to Jack as soon as the plane touched down. But he knew Jack wasn't lying, his expertise and experience told him that. Plus he'd spoken with Victor Fitzgerald who was on the verge of coming unglued. What if he'd pushed the blue-eyed fly too hard? What if Martin went over the edge before the trap could be baited? He cursed himself for not being more careful. He didn't like it when his plans got sidetracked.
Jack rose and walked out of the office onto the short crosswalk twenty nine stories above the street. Far below, they walked, ran and drove through the streets of the city. Thousands of people going to work, school or play, moving like tiny ants over the terrain. He heard footsteps but didn't move.
"He's out there somewhere, Pete," Jack rasped, allowing his voice to 'crack' for the other man's benefit. "Alone, scared... hell he might even be dead; it's all my fault."
"Now, now, Jack," Pete laid a hand on the downcast man's back and felt the body jump "I'm sorry, I should have realized you're on edge."
On the edge of breaking your balls you cocky bastard!" Jack's mind replied
Gibson was so excited over Malone's obvious despondance he was nearly hard. The thrill of the moment he'd been planning for so very long was coursing through him. It took all of the strength he had not to whoop out a call of glory. Jack Malone was going to pay for his sins. As for Fitzgerald, he'd find him and if not, he had Danny Taylor as a backup. It was no secret that Malone bled for his troops and if necessary Taylor's bloody face would do just fine. He heard a tap on the glass and turned to see Victor Fitzgerald's angry face. For a split second, he felt sorry for Jack Malone.
"Martin's father is here, I'd better go," he said, slipping his card into Malone's suit jacket pocket. "Call me, anytime, especially if you need to talk."
"Great," Jack sighed, as one devil was replaced by another, bearing sharp talons. He turned as Gibson was consoling Victor and the large man left. Victor gave him one blazing glare of fury and entered his office. "I wonder if they make casts for balls." He thought and made the long walk to his office.
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