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 fifteen minutes of peace over a stack of pancakes ended abruptly for Jack Malone when an unpleasant sound pierced his ear as left his table at the coffee shop. He winced as the weasel called out his name again.
"Yeah," he replied, turning as Dean Craddock approached the cashier. Jack paid his check and exited, walking swiftly and hoping to lose the other man.
Craddock was an annoying fixture in Administration, the kind of rat that employees despised but administration loved. He was a stern taskmaster who scrutinised every case that even had a slight infraction on the part of an agent. More than one agent had been suspended, Malone felt, without merit. By his book, the forty-ish, balding whiner was a frustrated agent wannabe. He couldn't crack it on the street so he made sure he made those that did, pay.
"I want to talk to you about that rookie you snuck through the back door."
"Back door?" Jack whipped around and loomed over the smaller man. "That's a load of shit, Craddock and you know it. Fitzgerald is more than qualified, you have his records."
"I also had three reporters on my back asking me how a rookie managed to nearly get the very person he was supposed to save, killed."
"Get off my back!" Jack hissed, entering the elevator. "The kid's good, he's green is all. Not all of us have your stellar record of arrests." He paused and watched the other man's face flush. "Oh, that's right; you have no jackets, do you?"
"That's enough! I won't be talked to that way, especially by a rogue like you. You withheld his file, that's a violation. You had no right retaining it after the last choice was made. There were other agents who deserved that place and never got the chance."
"They didn't make the cut the first time," Malone insisted of the list. "What the hell sense would it make to haul them in again?" The doors opened and he stepped out. "For the 'record' Craddock, Fitzgerald was my first choice, my only choice. I made that clear and got overruled."
"This isn't over, Malone, I'm watchin' that hot-shot and if he pulls another stunt like that, I'll have his badge."
It was barely six a.m.and he already had a headache. Between all the local calls he'd fielded from the internal department brass, Victor's call and now Craddock, he was simmering. Over the screaming tension in his head, he heard his cell phone.
"What?" he growled, wincing at the echo of his voice.
"Jack? It's Nick. I need to talk to you about my job."
Nick hadn't been able to get through to his boss on the phone, so he drove into the city. He found his first ID badge in the glove compartment of his car and that got him into the building. Now, despite the turbulent stomach, the splitting headache and sickness that comes with a severe hangover, he was trying to find the courage to face his boss. What had gone wrong? Why had Jack pushed him out? He'd worked so hard in therapy to conquer his demons. Didn't they understand how badly he needed to prove himself?
"Nick?"
"Your mustang tactics won't fly this time, Jack, you won't get away with this. That kid showed last night that he's not the rising star you thought he was!" Craddock grabbed at the team leader's shoulder to emphasize his point.
"Get your slimy fist off of me and don't tell me my job!" Jack snarled.
"Jack?" Nick repeated confused at the harsh tone. "I don't understand. It's about my job with the team."
"Huh?" Jack only half-heard the raspy voice on the phone. "Job... team... Nick you don't work here anymore. You have to move on... like the doctor said."
"You make sure that Fitzgerald has his paperwork on my desk by eight a.m.and it better be good." Craddock threatened.
"He's got a concussion and you'll get your damn report when I review it," Jack retorted as he listened to Nick's babbling in the background. Craddock continued his tirade and Jack felt sure there was a drill going through his ear. "I gotta go, Nick."
"DiSipio?"" Craddock added the clues up. He read the fatigue on Malone's face and pushed harder, "Another one of your failures. Your track record is beginning to show just how short-sighted you are."
"Jack!" Paula Van Doren stepped in front of her irate team leader as his fists clenched and his muscles screamed in tension. "Enough! Go to your office. I'll speak with Dean."
"You do that," Jack snapped, heading up the hallway.
He paused in the doorway of the large office. He frowned and eyed the back of the body seated at a desk. The last person he had expected to see at his desk was Martin Fitzgerald and certainly not this early. How had the newcomer eluded Danny Taylor? His eyes snaked over to Taylor's desk and the computer was off. Jack rubbed his throbbing eyes and moved into the office, his thoughts trained on Fitzgerald Outspoken on the border of cocky, the bold young man oozed self-confidence. Despite his hot-head and rookie mistakes, Jack got a feeling about him in his gut. He'd learned long ago to trust his instincts and they told him this kid was the final piece he needed but the eager rookie needed a lot of seasoning and he was about to get his first dose of salt.
"My office, hotshot, now!" he barked, skirting past the injured man and not looking back.
Martin jumped and sucked in a harsh breath when Malone's unexpected bellow slammed into his still tender skull. He took a few seconds to compose himself and stood up, grabbing the desk for support. His eyes flickered to the glass wall behind which his mentor was waiting. He looked awful; no doubt he'd had a long night ahead and a lot of questions to answer. It had been a costly error but he'd learned from it. This job was what he wanted and his training at Quanticowas finally being put to use. He knew Jack was pissed, but he was ready for whatever bullets the angry leader would fire at him.
Jack saw Martin approaching just as the third ring ended and a very groggy voice met his ear.
"...lo..."
"Taylor? Put Martin on the phone, I need to ask him something."
"...okay..."
Jack listened as the dull thump of footsteps and the call of Martin's name sounded. Then a short string of curses in both English and Spanish met his ear. Finally after the sound of something falling and breaking, the disturbed agent was on the phone again.
"Uh... he's uh... can't come to the phone now Jack," Danny answered, glaring at the empty room.
"Really? Where is he?"
"Uh... he's... uh... I'll have him call you..."
"That won't be necessary," Jack replied, "since he's standing five feet away from me."
"He's there!" Danny snarled. "There he goes again, running out on his partner. You picked a winner this time, Jack. I oughta knock the other side of his head in."
"You were supposed to be watching him! How'd he get past you?"
"I dozed off..." Danny protested, still annoyed that the rookie had slipped out on him.
"Go home and get some sleep. I'll need you here by noon to do your write-ups on the case."
"Look, I'm sorry, Jack, I don't know how he got by me."
"You can take that up with him later," Jack answered and hung up.
He watched as Fitzgerald approached the door and didn't miss the features pinched in pain, the bruised blue eyes and the awful pallor. His years of experience told him the dull pain in those eyes was more than physical, but he wouldn't tread lightly. Fitzgerald had all the right tools, he just needed some time and a good ass-kicking to make sure he learned how to use them properly.
"Sit down while you still can," Jack warned of the 'ass-chewing' that was about to ensue.
Martin took a seat across from Jack and was about to go into the rational apology that he'd worked on during his ride on the train coming to work. But before he could utter a sound, a piece of paper and a pencil was thrust at him. He looked at it and then at the stormy dark eyes of the man whose team he'd yearned to be a part of.
"Write down the word team," Jack ordered and watched the slim fingers work. He waited until the confused blue eyes looked up at him. "You see an 'i' in there?"
Martin sighed hard and pushed the paper away. He'd not expected a lecture on these lines; he knew his job. Why couldn't Jack just see he'd made a mistake? He shouldn't have turned his back on the suspect. Had he not done that, the bat would not have met the back of his skull. He wasn't a child and didn't need a lecture on cooperation and cohesiveness.
"I didn't hear you, Agent Fitzgerald!" Jack snarled and saw a flash of defiance in the expressive eyes. "You holster that temper, last night wasn't enough for you?"
"Look, I screwed up!" Martin protested, "Nobody knows that better than me. But I don't need a lecture on..."
"Shut up!" Jack stood and loomed over the cocky rookie. "Answer my question."
"No..." Martin mumbled.
"Good, well at least you can read." Malone picked up the paper and held it right in front of the annoyed face. "And until you understand exactly what this means, you keep it posted at your desk."
"Aw, come on Jack..." Martin began but the fist slamming down and sending the pens and pencils into a wicked dance silenced him.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Jack leaned closer and waited for Martin's head to rise. "You're not riding solo anymore, hotshot, and that stunt you pulled last night is proof you've still got a lot to learn."
Martin never moved while Malone addressed every issue of teamwork, partnership and trust. With every hot word issued, his stomach knotted even more. Jack was right; he had been selfish and that had nearly gotten their victim killed. The words rained down on him and every one hit him like tiny needles. Reckless, impulsive, screw up, hothead and more colorful descriptions of his actions were now littered all over him.
While the two men hashed over the events of the night before, neither noticed the shell-shocked visitor in the corner. Nick, numb all over, crept quietly to his old desk. Gone where his mementos and photos, all the things that had made this workplace his own. He heard the muffled echo of Jack's loud shouts as his eyes went over the new personal items that littered his desk. It wasn't right; it wasn't fair. This man had stolen his job, his place on Malone's team and his desk. He saw a navy blue mug with gold lettering bearing the Quanticoemblem and the graduation number. His hand moved and he snatched it, needing to take something back from the man who'd stolen his life. With tears burning his eyes, he stumbled down to the street, clutching the mug to his chest. He had nothing left, the coldness inside of him made his choice easy.
Sam moved a little in the bed and shut her eyes, waiting for the nurse to come in and administer the painkillers. The night medications were strong and she knew she'd sleep until dawn. There were no dreams and for that she was grateful. During her waking hours, she fought the awful replay of the horror in the warehouse. The monster looming over Martin and then a pain exploding as her body exploded. Other disturbing images were invading as well; including Eric Keller screaming at Martin. She couldn't see a picture but the memory of his voice angered her.
"Jack!"
She jumped a bit and her voice betrayed how startled she was. He was sitting in a chair just on the other side of the rail. She could barely see him in the shadows; the only light was from the hallway. But even in the dim light, she saw the pain. Jack wore guilt like nobody else, his eyes all too often heavy. Her throat was dry and she tried to sit up a little but the pain in her side and head crashed down.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have upset you," Jack fretted, rising and moving away from the bed.
"Sit down!" she barked weakly in her best Malone imitation.
"Here." He poured a drink and thrust the straw in the cup, holding it carefully so she could drink.
"What are you doing here? What about Vivian and Danny? Chris... said... he... said..."
"Easy," Jack coached, gently pushing her shoulder back until she was against the pillows. He pulled the light blue blanket up and then gripped the rails.
"Talk to me, Jack," she begged, not liking the darkness in the eyes above her. He turned away then and let out a shaky breath. One horrid thought crossed her mind and she nearly lost her own breath. "Oh, God... no... dead?"
"I hope not but..." He sagged and walked away, turning to the blackness outside the window. "I can't stay long, I'm meeting with Chris to go over some evidence."
He paused and eyed the utter darkness, not even a star dared to glimmer and give him hope. It was as if some evil force has cast a dark shadow over him, not yielding to any light. He turned back then but didn't move closer. She looked awful, so frail and pale but the alternative was too painful to think about. So he slowly began and in a haltering voice, hued in tones of desperation and exhaustion he told her all that had occurred from the time she fell until his meeting with Victor just before arriving. By the time he was finished, he was spent; he slumped in the chair and dropped his head into his hands.
Sam was shocked and numb. It was too much for her healing body to absorb. She knew Pete Gibson and that he could be responsible for something this evil stunned her. That he fathered Nick DiSipio and was using him as a part of his mad plan was sickening. Taking Vivian and Danny and nearly killing her, all to get at Jack. But Martin being poisoned and possibly slowly dying alone and in the dark was agonizing. She didn't know what words to use to comfort Jack. Where would they be? How do you tell someone who is the victim of a sick predator that the blood he now saw on his hands was not his fault? She slipped her hand through the bars and caught the side of his face. She pressed her fingers there, gently applied pressure, letting him know he wasn't alone.
Danny knew before he opened his eyes. He shivered in the cold, the lack of body warmth signalled that what he'd thought was a bad dream was in fact reality. He coughed and turned onto his side curling up and wincing as the cold stone floor kissed his hot flesh. The fever was worse and his leg and head throbbed relentlessly, but it didn't compare to the other pain. He sighed hard and swallowed his fear and the emptiness threatened to consume him.
Martin was gone.
He closed his eyes and his heart sank. A part of him wanted to believe that the feisty rookie was still alive; but the gnawing fear inside told him differently. Like a rabid rat chewing it's way free from a trap, the dull pain ate away at him. Even in his darkest moments he'd felt sure that somehow they'd survive. Had he ever told Martin he thought he was a good agent? Or had their colorful discussions, too often heated, taken up valuable time?
"I'm sorry..." he whispered into the darkness.
"Danny?"
"He's dead... isn't... he...." he choked, then coughed, pushing himself up to get better air.
"No, honey, at least he wasn't when Gibson took him away."
"How long?"
"I don't know," she replied, "a few hours ago, maybe. I guess once he delivers that photo to Jack, he'll use it to lure him in. "
"He's gonna die, Vivian, hell he was barely alive before..."
"Don't give up on Jack, Danny."
Her ailing partner didn't reply but Vivian knew he was fading fast. Hope had been the light that kept him going before. Now, with his fever weakening him, his rally flag was gone. Martin had been the reason Danny fought so hard. The thought that Fitzgerald was dead had taken the wind from the ailing man's sails. As much as she feared Danny's prophecy was true, a part of her felt that Gibson would fail.
"Where are you, Jack?"
Danny tossed restlessly as the fever ate away at his last defences. His dreams were a bittersweet mix of memories. From the cocky rookie's first few weeks when they'd been at each other's throats through the last few months when he'd seen the faltering green steps turn into confident strides. He'd hoped that as time went on they'd learn from each other's differences, Martin's polish and insight against his street smarts and savvy. The distressed soul slowed his frantic breathing, closed his eyes and began to pray.
He stood alone, lost in a place so cold and desolate it held no hope of redemption. He didn't know how long he'd been standing over the tomb. An odd word for a timeless ritual of the need of the living to come to terms with the finality of loss. His eyes were dry; there were no more tears to shed. His eyes went to the name on the stone and his fingers traced over every letter. He recalled the winning ten year old boy whose smile lit up his heart. The charming teenager who was a star in every sport he played and the engaging young man who'd graduated from college.
Gone
Shattered
Stolen from him by Jack Malone. His only son, his pride and joy whose life had given his own so much more meaning was now buried beneath the cold marble stone and unforgiving earth. He closed his eyes and recalled that fateful day just one month ago when he'd gotten a call from the captain of the Mystic Police Department. The seven words every parent dreads.
"Mister Gibson, I regret to inform you..."
The crime scene photos were as disturbing as the tape his son had left behind. He'd gone back to the only place he felt secure, his childhood home. The message wasn't long and rambled in parts, due to the lethal combination of drugs and alcohol. A lost soul whose heart cried out in pain; a young man who felt violated and betrayed by the world he'd trusted. The unseeing eyes of his son gazing at him from a bloated blue corpse, lying among the rats and trash in the bedroom he knew as a boy.
So on this fateful day in October, Peter Gibson made a vow on the grave of his lost son. He knelt and placed both hands on the tomb and made a vow.
"They'll pay, son, I'll write your name in their blood... justice will be served."
"More coffee, Chris?"
"No thanks, Jack," the blond yawned as he eyed the thermos Malone was shaking and shook his head.
Jack eyed the exhaustion on the younger man's face and then his own burning eyes went to the clock. It was nearly two am and they'd been going over evidence for hours. He knew Boone wouldn't quit, despite the time. They'd gone over some of the evidence at the office and then when the New Jersey State Troopers called to say they'd found what they thought was the place the prisoners were held, they'd gone there. The last of the forensics lab had departed but the two senior agents remained. Together they'd combed every inch of the place, uncovering rooms that had been occupied and blood. Someone had been hurt, and recently. The lab would determine the blood type and shed some light on whose it was. The loose grate in the ceiling of a makeshift medical room had given Boone a thought. Coupled with the tracks outside he'd assumed that Martin had discovered this place and gained entry through the ventilation system. They'd found traces of blood out there as well.
"Why'd he come inside and not call it in?" Jack asked, eyeing the open vent in the medical room.
"Maybe he couldn't. Could be Gibson found him first."
"No, I don't think so. Martin came through that vent."
"Into a medical room," Boone turned and eyed the frustration rising again in Malone. "He had to have a reason for coming in here."
"He saw something... heard something...." Jack theorized, still eyeing the vent.
"The shot." Chris flipped through his notes. "There was a casing in the hall. Either Gibson or the nun shot Taylor or Johnson. Martin might have been in the vent system and heard it."
"So they brought the wounded person in here and Martin surprised them?"
"That's my guess... and somehow Martin got one or both of them outside through that vent. All those tracks tell me Gibson got here afterwards. He doesn't know that Martin didn't call it in..."
"So he moves his operation, which means he's gonna fuck up," Jack predicted leaving the room and walking up the hall to the rooms where they surmised Johnson and Taylor were kept.
"So close..." Chris sighed, entering the room and once again tapping the keys of the portable computer.
"Close doesn't cut it," Jack snapped, eying the laptop computer that Boone was working. "Anything?"
"No, the virus is complicated. The lab guys might be able to get something from the hard drives but it'll take time."
"I don't have any fuckin' time!" Jack yelled, kicking the cot. "I want this bastard!"
"And I don't?" Chris growled, shoving the computer aside. "You think this son-of-a-bitch isn't on my hit list?"
"Alright, I'm sorry," Jack sighed hard and shook his head. "Go on home, we're both fried and snipin' each other won't help."
Chris quietly turned off his computer and got his jacket on. He walked over to the slumped body seated on the cot and held out his hand. The head slowly rose. He needed a way to restore hope to the telling eyes now clouded with gloom.
"You always have this, Jack."
Malone took the hand and rose, letting the younger man feel the full power of his grip. He silently sent with it his own affirmation of the respect he held for Chris Boone. He knew how much blood and guts the blond was putting in this case and that he'd do anything to get the missing team back. He released the hand and tapped the worn team leader's face.
"Get your ass moving, pretty boys like you need a lot of beauty sleep."
"Fuck you, Malone," Boone teased with a weary grin, taking his exit.
Jack sat back down on the cot and closed his eyes. He let the time slip away and tried to become Pete Gibson. He thought on all the clues given and the cryptic messages left behind. He listened and heard Danny Taylor's restless pacing and the calm waters of Vivian keeping Taylor's head in check. He hoped they were together and that Martin was with them. At least then they'd have each other. Or had Gibson killed the pair and kept only Fitzgerald? He dozed for awhile and shook himself free of the lethargy gripping him. Standing, he put his coat on and then walked through the crime scene towards his car.
His brain was too numb to absorb any more thoughts on the case. He was beyond the point of exhaustion. He welcomed the darkness that enveloped him for the morning light would be harsh and unforgiving. The small dirt covered access road was bordered by tall trees and the utter blackness that came with it was eerie. Then, without warning, a body suspended from a rope dropped down and hit the ground in front of his car.
"JESUS CHRIST!" He yelled and slammed on the brakes, his mind screaming the name of the body that he'd nearly hit. "CHRIS!"
He jumped from the car and his insides turned to ice; his staggering legs barely able to carry his stunned body. As he got closer to the battered figure he realized the ropes were under Boone's arms not around his neck, but until he felt a pulse he couldn't be sure. He tugged the rope off and frantically called his friend's name.
"Chris? Chris... dammit... Chris...." His trembling fingers pressed against the crimson-tinged flesh. "Thank God." He slumped and then frowned and saw something was tied under the gag that was across Boone's mouth. He untied the gag and tugged out a brown leather object. He opened it and Martin's badge was revealed along with a grisly photo.
"Photographs don't do him justice."
The voice was colder than the metal of the gun now pressed to this neck. It caused his blood to boil and the all rage that had been festering inside of him began to turn into molten lave. How many sleepless nights had he spent finding new and more painful ways to eviscerate this monster?
"Put your cuffs on."
He did as he was ordered and kept his eyes trained on the bloody face of Chris Boone. Then a hand snaked under his coat to his shoulder and his gun was removed. He rose and turned letting his lethal gaze rake like smolderingembers onto the beast before him. Gibson was dressed all in black and his eyes were merciless. It was as if the man had no soul at all. What Jack saw reflected back at him were the bloodless eyes of a killer, a man without feeling, who had nothing to lose by his actions. But Jack had everything to lose, including the lives of his friends.
"And just how did a clever man like Chris Boone get taken down?" Gibson asked as he waved the gun, motioning for Malone to rise. "The same way you did... let's go."
"Where?" Jack asked, eyeing the injured man at his feet. "He's hurt, he needs help."
"I can remedy that," Gibson leered and took aim, then laughed as Malone went to his knees again, covering the wounded man.
"You sick fuckin' bastard!" Malone growled, "Where are they?"
"All in due time, let's go."
"Go where?" Jack asked, not moving from Boone's side.
"To meet your destiny," Pete replied, taking aim at the bloodied, blond hair.
"No," Jack yelled, throwing his body over Chris's neck and head.
Gibson just laughed and slammed the cocky team leader's head with the gun. He took Malone to the car and began the short trip back to where the curtain would soon rise on the final act of Jack Malone's life.
She watched the sky starting to get lighter and frowned, it was all so confusing. Was this the weekend or did she have to go to work today? She sighed hard and turned around eyeing the dirty walls of the kitchen. She always kept a clean house, how had she got so careless? Her fingers worked together, wringing and gripping in fear. The confusing timelines shifted again. Was this a school day? Would Nicky be needing breakfast? Then the room seemed to change and a huge monster lurked in the corner. He grinned evilly and unzipped his pants. He'd be back soon and he'd yell at her. He always yelled at her and if she didn't behave. He'd do the bad thing again. He'd hurt her and she couldn't have that, not again. A low moan drew her attention and she moved from the window. Shuffling quickly into the next room she approached the old dining room table where a pale young man was lying. The bad man had brought him in a little while ago and told her not to touch him and that he'd be back. He was bare-chested and his body glistened, slick with sweat. Her trained nurse's eye told her before his hand moved to his brow.
"Shh... poor thing... so sick..." She peeked around the room and it was quiet, the beast wasn't there. Just as she turned back, his eyes opened.
Through a thick sea of hot mud, Martin forced his eyes open. One eye wouldn't cooperate and he realised the pain that slammed into his face when he tried might be the reason. He was hot, so very hot, and thirsty. He tried to pry his swollen tongue from his mouth but it wouldn't move. He moaned again and began to thrash, he had to escape this heat. Then he swallowed and panicked when his throat seemed to close up. It felt like he was being forced to swallow jagged razors. He was choking, coughing and grasping for help.
"Easy, now... please you must stay quiet." She worried for this boy; the beast had beaten him so badly already. She hovered over him, cupping his discolored face in her hands. The one eye that was able to work focused on her. A shaky hand reached out seeking warmth. Human contact was vital, that was one of the first things she learned. Just as she reached to take the hand and soothe the moaning man's fears, he touched her face. "Calm down, that won't help. Slow and easy, slow down... that's better."
How she'd got here he didn't know but his fevered mind saw only one thing, a small woman with dark hair and eyes and a soothing voice. She'd found him and he was safe. So he reached out to touch her, to make sure she was real and he wasn't dreaming again.
"Mom? Thank God... sick... need help... Mom... there..."
She gasped and tears formed in her eyes. The face before her turned into the one she'd longed to see, dark hair curling around an olive face and dark eyes. Her very one angel sent so long ago from God. He wasn't dead; the beast had lied to her. Her beloved Nicky was alive and he needed her. She took his hand and kissed it and then took hold of it, holding it tight. She moved closer, using her free hand to stroke his cheek. He was so very ill and she provided the touch only a mother can give.
"Mother's here, son, I'll take care of you now, you're safe."
Safe.
Martin sighed and let his eyes close, letting that word and the soft hand on his face cradle him.
She left his limp hand go and eyed the rooms around her. Certain that he wasn't home yet, she moved quickly to the box locked in the closet. She moved the floor boards and took out the metal box she'd hidden from him. He could walk in at any time and that was a risk. But this was her only boy that needed her and she would do anything, even sacrifice her own life to save him. So she opened the box and drew out the syringe and the vial of medicine. It went into his arm easily and she washed the syringe in antiseptic and hid it along with the vial in the pocket of her sweater. There was enough to last at least for a few more doses. Then she locked the box and shut the door. She began to sing softly as she bathed his fever, vowing that she'd not let anyone harm him again.
"I'm right here, Nicky," she whispered, kissing his damp cheek.
"Where the hell is Jack Malone?"
The doctor that was stitching the head wound on the injured man frowned as the loud voice bounced off the walls around him. The man he was tending to moved his eyes to the door and grimaced. The doctor didn't know who was outside but it didn't matter. This patient was not ready for anyone to question him.
"I'll take care of it," he reassured the pale man.
"Thanks Doc, but postponin' the hurricane won't make it go away." Chris tried to sit up and regretted it immediately.
"I told you not to do that!" Doctor Tim Harrison complained and moved to get an empty kidney dish as the battered, blond man vomited.
Victor Fitzgerald entered the small cubicle just as Special Agent in Charge Christopher Boone's stomach erupted. He wrinkled his nose and moved back a bit, noting that the younger man's pallor matched the shade of green of his eyes. He'd gotten a call from the New Jersey State Troopers who'd found his son's badge and a gruesome photo with the unconscious agent on a deserted road. He'd arrived and been told that Boone was alive and had suffered a head injury and some facial contusions.
"How is he?"
"Alive," Harris replied, assisting the injured man to rinse his mouth. "Drink, you need the fluid." He got a cup of water into the injured blond and eased him back down.
"Chris? Did you find Martin? Where's Malone?"
"I'm sorry; he's not up to this yet. Although his X-Rays were negative, he did suffer a grade 4 concussion and has passed out once since he arrived. I'm admitting him for observation. You'll have to wait before..."
"It's okay, Doc," Chris whispered, wishing that the room would stop moving like deck chairs on the Titanic. He closed his eyes and tried hard to quell the tide of quickly rising nausea. He tried to sit up again but was held in place by a firm hand. He cracked an eye open and was surprised to see Victor holding him down.
"I'm not a tyrant you know," the senior agent answered the surprised green eyes. "Who did this to you?"
"Pete... Gib...son..." Chris managed and saw the disbelief in the blue eyes. "...s'true... he's... af...ter... Jack... using... team... bait..."
"And Martin?"
"...bad... sick... virus... home grown maybe... lab working..."
"Yes, I know that, I got that report late yesterday evening." Victor knew the younger man was fighting hard to remain awake, his eyes were rolling. "Chris is there anything else you can tell me? Was Jack with you? Did Gibson take him?"
"...no... alone... driving... saw... saw... Martin... hanging..."
"Oh my God..." Victor rocked back on his heels and felt his stomach drop.
"no... dead... sor...ry... sor...ry..." Chris huffed in annoyance at his poor choice of words, "...he was... choking,... eyes wide... no air... I ran... to... him... he saw me... called my name... warned... too late... something hit me..."
"So Gibson used Martin to lure you?" Victor scrutinized. "Are you sure?"
"...mis... take... thought... Jack's car..."
"Oh," he nodded, watching the pale eyes slipping. "Chris?" The eyes slid shut and the doctor moved in.
"I'm sorry, you'll have to go now."
He gave the unconscious man's shoulder a pat and left the room. He already had a team from Washington coming down to work every angle of this case. Now that he knew Peter Gibson was a suspect, they had a lead. But what were two senior agents doing on a crime scene in the middle of the night? If they knew Gibson was a suspect why hadn't they said so sooner? He had more questions for Boone and for Malone if he turned up. If Jack had prior knowledge and withheld it, he'd have his badge.
"Danny?"
He frowned and furrowed his brows displeased with the disturbance. Waking up meant pain and shivering and misery. Here he was free of that and didn't wish to revisit the area so he resisted. But the soft voice wouldn't let him alone and a hand tapped his cheek. Again it pushed and prodded him to wake up and he protested. He didn't want pain in that place, here he had none.
"Fuck off."
"Nice," Vivian chuckled at the cranky voice. "You're starting to sound like Martin."
Martin. The name brought his eyes open and he realized Vivian was sitting next to him. He stared at the chair across the room and back at her in confusion. Then he inhaled the distinctive scent of hot chicken soup and saw her holding a water bottle with a straw in it. He parted his lips and drank greedily.
"Gibson came back a little while ago and untied me. He left some food." She halted abruptly and hoped that Danny didn't notice.
She helped him sit up and got some soup into him and watched the wheels turning in his head. She didn't tell him how the brute leered at her, showing her photos of an unconscious Jack tied to a chair. Worse yet was the photo of Chris Boone hanging from a tree. She didn't want to think of the likable agent as a swaying corpse. Plus Danny was weak and the only hope that he clung to was Jack finding them. She wouldn't take that from him.
Danny was halfway through the soup when it hit him. Why would Gibson feed them? Why wouldn't he just let them die? Something didn't add up. He turned to Vivian and caught the dark eyes off guard; where hope once was now only a horrid hollowness remained. His heart sank and he called out softly to her.
"Talk to me Vivvie," he asked quietly.
"He's got Jack," she replied simply and sat back, resting her head against the stone. She heard Danny sigh once and lie back down, she wished she could think of something to say but words escaped her. Danny spoke then and she turned.
"Food."
"What?" Vivian asked.
"Food, why's he feeding us? Why bother now?"
"I dunno, and right now I don't care."
"He's got something planned, he must have changed the show." Danny sat back up and took another sip of water. "He didn't count on Martin finding us... that changed everything. We still have time. I got a gut feeling this ain't over."
With Danny's weak voice buoying her, she kept the vigil, allowing him to sleep while she stood guard and waited for Gibson to return. She prayed silently, going back to the familiar lines of faith she'd learned as a child. She always found comfort in prayers and hoped that the Lord heard her call.
Something slammed loudly and Jack's head shot up too quickly. He moaned and blinked painfully at the cracks of light coming through slivers of torn shades on a very old window. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he scoped the room. He vaguely recalled being dumped on the floor and being injected with something. Whatever Gibson used to drug him was strong; he'd been out for hours. His arms and legs were bound to a chair that was bolted to the floor. The brightness of what light was trickling in told him it was close after midday. The room he was held prisoner in appeared to be a very small living room. There was a dark curtain suspended in front of the archway separating this room from the next. He heard a shuffle of feet and saw the movement under the bottom of the curtain, just as it was pulled back.
His eyes narrowed in disgust and shock at the sight before him. Martin Fitzgerald was lying on a white linen cloth on top of a dining room table. Although he was covered to the waist by a sheet, his upper body was slick with sweat and his eyes were half closed. His dark hair was curled and plastered to his pale face. The damp cheeks were rosy with fever. But it was the horrid sucking sound that caused Jack's stomach acids to churn. His rookie agent was fighting too hard to breathe; it sounded as if he was slowly choking to death. Then Gibson moved into the picture, grinning evilly as he cupped Martin's chin. He nudged the slack lips with the nozzle of a water bottle and then laughed when the weak man's lips moved seeking water.
"You sick fuckin' bastard!" Jack hissed, straining against the ropes.
"Not to worry, Jack old friend," Pete replied, tossing the bottle aside and moving his hand down Martin's bare chest. "The poor lamb's misery will be over before the new moon rises. How easy it would be," he paused to move his hand to Martin's throat and apply a small pressure. The blue eyes bugged open and the mouth sucked silent 'O's of agony, desperately seeking air, "to end his suffering now." He saw the fire shooting from Malone's eyes and got a rise of delight. He almost envied the way Malone bled for his troops. "But that would be too easy; he has to suffer, gasping for his last bit of air before he chokes to death on his own blood."
"Why? He's done nothing to you. He didn't kill Nick, you did." Malone saw the moment's hesitation and the beefy paw was removed from Martin's neck. The cold slate eyes regarded his own for a moment. "You want justice? You and me can settle this alone. You let me call in a medic for him and you release the others. I'll go with you."
"Tsk... tsk... such a valiant hero." Gibson sneered, moving his face lower to study Fitzgerald's tortured features. "I'll give you credit Jack, you sure have an eye for talent. This one's quite the fighter."
"He's everything you're not," Jack replied and saw Martin's head turn. "Martin? Can you hear me?"
"Oh, I'm afraid the infection consuming him has his mind out of your range."
Jack ignored Gibson and concentrated on Fitzgerald's lost face, "FITZGERALD! I'M TALKING TO YOU DAMMIT, LOOK AT ME!"
Martin blinked as a light penetrated the murky water he was drowning in. He turned towards the light; he recognized that beacon and strove hard to find it. He began to swim for the light shining ahead of him and used all his waning strength to focus on it. He knew that light, the voice that broke through brought hope to the dark storm clouds he was mired in. It gave him renewed energy to fight back.
"That's it!" Jack drilled, watching in amazement as the damp head turned towards him. He didn't hide his revulsion at the swollen and discolored flesh that marred the young man's fine features. "MARTIN! MARTIN!"
"...ack... there...."
'Yeah, Junior, you keep fighting," he encouraged. He saw the lone eye that wasn't swollen shut start to drop and he barked again. "Don't you quit on me! FITZGERALD!"
Martin's shoulders jumped and he shook his head weakly, blinking and turning towards the light. The waves were rough and he was truly struggling to tread the thick water. He couldn't breathe, his throat was full of muck and it was choking him. He coughed and coughed, trying to expel the blockage and panicked when his airway closed.
"Calm down," Jack ordered. "That won't help. Spit it the hell out... TURN YOUR HEAD AND SPIT IT OUT!" He held his own breath and drilled Gibson with a lethal laser when the sick predator laughed at the young man's struggle. But finally the wad of phlegm flew out. "That's it, Martin, now just take it easy."
Gibson eyed his victim for a moment and frowned, wondering why the blue-eyed fly was rallying. He should be close to the coma stage by now. Maybe the orange juice he laced wasn't strong enough? Or maybe he underestimated the will to live. He gave the damp head a pat and laughed when the weak face turned towards the human touch. His laugh grew deeper when Malone cursed at him and just about broke the ropes binding him. At the call of his name, Fitzgerald turned away from the hand and towards Malone.
Gibson wouldn't give the arrogant federal agent the satisfaction. "I'm afraid we can't have that," he moved again, shutting the curtain and taking Martin's hope away. "Showtime is at six sharp, don't be late!" he teased and moved towards the front door.
"...Ja..ck... no... go... ple...ase...." Martin begged, his delirium not allowing him to understand.
"I'll fuckin' kill you," Jack issued in a hot breath as Martin's lost eyes were cut off from his view.
Jack took a moment to let his head overrule his heart and he relaxed. He eyed the ropes on his hands and tried to think of a way to work one arm free. As he jerked his hand under the coarse rope, the motion caused the flesh to tear. That blood would make his wrist slick, hopefully enough to pull his hand out. As he worked, he thought on Gibson's clues. This was revenge against him for Nick's death. Whatever he had infected Martin with was tied to the cause of Nick's death. He furrowed his brows and thought on the coroner's report. DiSipio died by choking on his own vomit; the result of an alchohol poisoning. So that was the grisly end he had in store for Fitzgerald. He winced from the pain of the ropes cutting his flesh and thought of being forced to watch Martin choke to death slowly.
"Hang on, Junior," he rasped, flexing his wrists harder against the rope.
As soon as the door shut, she watched the clock and waited ten minutes before entering the dining room. She moved to his side and gently kissed his cheek, causing his heavy eye to open. She saw the confusion on his face and used a cold cloth to bathe it and his neck and chest. She began to sing and it seemed to calm him. His horrid breathing was a bit better and she thought maybe the medicine was working more than she had hoped. She slipped the syringe from her pocket and took it out of the alcohol sodden cloth it was wrapped inside of. She drew up more of the antidote from the vial and injected it into his arm. It was the third shot she'd given him and she'd increased the dosage. She'd also been giving him something mixed in his water to help with the congestion in his chest. She lifted his head and put the plastic nozzle inside his lips. He drank it all down, the effort exhausted him and his eye closed. She bent to kiss his cheek and her experience told her it was working. His fever was coming down.
"Shhh... shh... mother's here, Nicky, mother's here."
"...mo...m..." Martin tried to open his eyes but couldn't. Her touch and the soft voice singing to him calmed the rough sea and he floated contentedly.
"That's it, son, you rest, I'll take care of you. He won't hurt you again."
"Who's there?" Jack paused as the conversation stopped. The face that appeared on the edge of the curtain coupled with the odd conversation he'd heard gave him his reply. "Siser... uh... you're Nick's mother?"
"Yes," she replied and eyed the blood on his wrist.
"Look, Gibson is going to kill all of us. You have to untie me. We need to get Mart... uh... Nick to the hospital right away. He needs a doctor to..."
"No... no... no..." she denied, her fears rising. She'd waited for years to find him again and nobody was taking him away. The monster lied to her; her boy wasn't dead. If she let this man and the other strangers take him, they wouldn't let her see him again. She'd failed him far too long, she shook her head. "You lied to me... you all lied to me. You can't have him. I'm his mother; I'll take care of him. I won't let you take him away again. He's not dead! You lied ... you lied..."
"No! Wait ...wait!" Jack's plea fell on deaf ears as the curtain dropped. He continued working his wrist and thought on another way to break through to the deranged woman before Gibson returned and time ran out.
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