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.
Pete Gibson adjusted his dark glasses from where he sat inside the small cantina and drained the bitter coffee he'd ordered. The plan was going much better than he anticipated and the large amount of money he'd paid to the local snitch had paid off. The conversations he'd shared with the junkie didn't do his son's mother justice. She'd already begun to hear voices and was losing touch with reality. The beginnings of a mental disorder in Theresa were already evident. The news of her son's death crippled her; she'd absorbed every word and with each detail he'd provided, another part of her resolve was chipped away. One look in the frantic, dark eyes told him how weak she still was. Now she would be full of guilt over the son she had deserted. By the time his visit was completed she'd been more than a willing participant in his plan. He looked up from the table as she returned. She'd fled to the rest room when he'd told her and by the look of the pale face and queasy unease in her pallor, he guessed she'd left her breakfast there.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. It's just the kind of news I wouldn't feel comfortable delivering on the phone."
"But how..." Theresa stammered, "I don't understand. He was a strong boy, how could this happen?"
"I'm sure he told you in the letters he sent how difficult his early months were in the Bureau. Didn't you call or reply to encourage him? Send him your faith in him? I mean since you deserted him to pursue this... new life."
"No... I mean... I don't know?" she puzzled, eyes darting frantically. Had she written to Nick? My God did he think she'd deserted him? No, that was a horror to painful to bear; her only child calling out to her in his time of need.
"Surely you must remember?" he pressed, seeing her guilt rising quickly. He reached over to take her hand on top of the table. Giving it a gentle squeeze, he continued to pour kerosene of the fire. "I'm sure you told him that you loved him, especially since he told you how much he was hurting. That he missed you so very much during his hospital stay. How much he needed you there, giving only that touch a mother's love can cure..." He saw the opening and seized it, driving his stake home. "It's a pity he died without his mother by his side, calling for you with his last breath.
"No... Nicky... I... loved him. I wouldn't... I didn't... Nicky? I..."
"Now, now," he soothed, patting her hand as the tears began to spill. "I didn't mean to cause this much upset. Don't do this to yourself, my dear, it won't bring him back. I'm a psychologist, Theresa, I can help you. That's part of the reason I'm here. Grief counselling is a good thing; it will purge your soul of this pain you bear over deserting your child."
"I didn't... I always loved him! You must believe me... he had to know... did he know that? Oh God..." The brutal truth cast a dark shadow over her and no more could she walk in the light.
"Easy, now." He stood and gathered the trembling woman in his arms. "I'll walk you back to the church and we can talk there. I know with some of my treatments, you'll feel much better."
A week later when his plane was over the Gulf of Mexico and heading north for New York, he allowed himself to relax. Through the hypnosis sessions, he'd planted seeds of doubt and vengeance in her mind. He'd suggested that it was her duty to avenge her son's death at the hands of Jack Malone. He'd suggested it would be her 'mission' to heed the call and follow him. That only then when justice was served, would her pain go away. Then and only then would Nick forgive her of her sins. By the last session, her already unstable mind was putty and he'd planted the final seed. Her good friend and co-worker, Sister Michael was dead. He forged the passport for her and told her to use it, even providing the ticket paid in cash. He told her about the work she could do at Our Lady of Grace. He'd even written a full recommendation in the name of the Padre she worked for. So in a few weeks, she'd be in New Yorkand in place. Then the first planning for the downfall of Jack Malone would begin. After endearing herself to the people at Our Lady of Grace, Sister Michael would 'disappear' and Jack Malone would be called in to investigate. He eyed the sky outside the window and despite the cloud cover; it never looked bluer to him.
"Jack!" the blonde patient choked on her lukewarm tea and coughed, reaching for the remote.
Sam shoved the hospital dinner tray away and pushed the volume up on the television. Despite the pain that the loud sounds caused to her tender skull, she forced herself to stay alert. The photo of Jack behind the Barbie clone delivering the news caused her heart to jackhammer.
"...no word from the officials yet on what could have become of the agent, who was last seen by a co-worker around two a.m.this morning. But the speculation is that this is directly related to the whereabouts, yet unknown, of the three other missing agents on his team. Danny Taylor, Vivian Johnson and Martin Fitzgerald have all disappeared during the last two weeks. It is thought that the injury to the only surviving agent on the elite team, Samantha Spade, was the result of a thwarted kidnap attempt."
"...only surviving..." Sam rasped, reeling from the stark realization which hit her like a sledgehammer.
"We go now to Dan Chesney at the Federal Building. Dan, anything new?"
"Thanks Jodie," the reporter continued, pointing to the podium set up in the lobby. A dozen reporters were milling about. "We're expecting a statement shortly from Victor Fitzgerald, the Deputy Director of the F.B.I. He's been involved in this case and of course his son is one of the missing agents."
As the two reporters discussed the case, photos of Danny, Martin and Vivian appeared. Sam blinked back tears and thought of the horrid possibility that she might never see her friends again. Suddenly the memories of Danny and Martin's endless bad jokes and pranks were too painful to revisit. Vivian's strong guiding hand might be lost to her forever. Jack, she shuddered and pushed that away, there was no way she could bury him. Then she saw Victor and four other local bureau representatives walking to the podium. Someone was missing and she eyed the chair that Jack had been sitting in less than twenty four hours before. Then it hit her, the missing body that should be making a statement, the lead agent.
"Chris? Chris?"
She listened intently as Victor outlined the details of the case, from the minute Danny disappeared through to Malone's absence earlier that day. The missing piece of information left her both relieved and upset. Fitzgerald had been cryptic, his notes only stating that his son's badge and a recent photo were found with an injured agent, Chris Boone.
"Injured how? Dammit Victor," she hissed, as the reporters began to shout out questions. Her ears pricked up as the query on a suspect was given.
"No, we have no leads," Victor replied, not willing to tip his hand. "But we have every available agent in the tri-state area covering this case. We are reviewing the team's most critical cases and co-ordinating with prison records of any possible felons that have been released."
"What about your son? Isn't he a suspect? He's been seen with each of the others right before they..."
"My son is a victim!" Fitzgerald roared, shoving the photo into view. "Does that look like a suspect to you? We suspect he was used by this madman, evidence in his home indicates he was infected with a virus. That information was given to you in the press packet. My son is damn proud of that badge, don't you dare tarnish it."
"Did you ever tell him that?" Sam loathed at the screen, her stomach turning at the grisly photo of Martin, his handsome features marred. She picked up the phone and dialed Chris's office. Brendan Gavin answered.
"It's Sam Spade, Brendan, what happened to Chris?"
"Hey, Sam it's good to hear your voice." The young agent switched the phone to his other hand and picked up his coffee. "I'm sorry, Sam, I meant to come over in person but the shit hit the fan this morning and we're swamped. Chris is gonna have my ass for this, he told me to come over and tell you."
"Tell me what? Come on, Brendan. All I got is the crap the television fed me."
"Okay, last night Jack and Chris met up at the old plant that Gibson converted. They were doing a walk through, seeing if they could figure out any missing pieces. Around two a.mor so, Chris left. The road was very narrow and dark; he said it was pitch black. Then his headlights hit Martin, half naked and bloody, hanging in the road."
"Jesus! Oh God, he's really dead. Victor didn't..."
"No, Sam, Martin wasn't dead," Gavin interrupted, "at least not last night when Chris found him. The rope was at an angle, Chris thought he was choking. But when he got closer, it was just tied up his back to look that way. He said Martin tried to warn him and then he got clobbered."
"He's okay then?"
"He's down the hall from you. He's got a serious head injury, they admitted him to do some tests. Something about a brain bruise, he slips in and out a lot. I'm sorry, Sam, I should have called you."
"That's okay, Brendan, anything new on Gibson? Any trace of him?"
"None, it's like the guy just disappeared. His house had been closed up for months, wherever he moved he didn't give out to his office. His computer was clean, no credit card or cell phone records that go anywhere. It's like chasing a shadow.
"Keep me posted, Brendan, I want to know as soon as you do. If they find Jack... good or bad..."
"You got it," Gavin replied and hung up.
Sam didn't realize she was still cradling the phone until a nurse took it out of her hand. She accepted the painkillers, her whole body was screaming and tense. She wanted to slip away to a dark place where she would feel no pain. She let the medication dull her senses until her eyes closed. The smiling faces of her friends appeared briefly, casting a dark shadow over her future. Then they faded away, their warm voices dying out as she let the dark consume her.
It was a glorious day and the cerulean surf crashed onto a golden beach. Overhead, gulls were singing and swooping in a brilliant blue sky under a blazing sun. Martin swam hard, keeping his eye on the large wave coming. He turned and positioned his body, just as it crested, taking him on a body surf right into the shallow waters. His head came through the water and he whooped, fisting the air. He ploughed through the shin high water and towards the beach. His light eyes crinkled in mirth as he took in his partner. Danny's bronzed back was being oiled up by a pair of very buxomy bathing beauties wearing what some would consider dental floss with a chaser. He nearly laughed at the moans of pleasure the young man was uttering. He motioned for the girls to move aside and he leaned over, and then shook the water off. The sharp cry of discomfort was followed by a pair of very angry dark eyes that glared up at him.
"Man, you got me all wet!" Danny rose and began to stalk the laughing blue-eyed devil. "You need to be taught some manners. Get him girls!"
"...wet..." Martin murmured, smiling.
"Yes, dear, but it's almost over," Theresa answered her boy and finished his bath of rubbing alcohol. She put the thermometer in his ear and smiled when the digital reading appeared. "100.1, that's down a full degree, it's working." She withdrew the needle and gave him another injection, and then saw the blues eyes looking at her in confusion. "Nicky, I was so worried, they lied about you. You're not dead. I won't let the monster hurt you again." She frowned at the circles under his eyes. "My poor son, you need to eat and then get some rest."
Martin's confusion was growing by the minute and faster than his brain could come up with a logical reply. He kept his eyes on the faded wallpaper and dusty furniture in the small room. He was lying on what appeared to be a table in someone's dining room. He swallowed and cried out in alarm when his throat rebelled. It seemed to be too narrow to accept anything.
"Shh... it's alright dear, mother has medicine for that." She helped him sit up and was happy to see he wasn't swaying as badly. She eased him down and led him to the small table and chair that was near the window. She frowned at the baggy sweatpants. "We'll have to get you some proper clothes, those won't do at all. Here now, mother made you some soup."
"Mother?" Martin repeated, totally confused. He had no idea where he was or how he had got there. He thought hard and tried to avoid the dizziness waving over him. Her hand eased him back and he felt a tap on his face. He wasn't as dizzy when his eyes were closed. "It's... dizzy... I... can't..."
"It's okay, Nicky, I'll feed you. Open up."
Nicky?
Martin's fuzzy, fevered addled brain began to pick up the pace. The chicken soup went down awkwardly, some spilling when his throat wouldn't accept it. She was right there to clean him up and encourage him to try again. In between spoons of soup was a mug with a straw with very sweet warm tea. As he gained nourishment, the pictures dropped into the blackness in his aching head. Vivian and Danny in a cellar and Taylorhurt. He's there too and Danny is talking to him, the soothing voice cools him down. Then a face appears and a fist follows.
"Gibson!" he whispered painfully and heard a sharp gasp. He saw the horror and fear cresting on her face and her dark eyes move to the doorway.
"No, he mustn't see you up... that will ruin everything. He'll kill you... he must think you're weak..."
"...where... he..."
"I don't know," she fretted, wringing her hands. She saw the empty plate and got one more mug from the tray. She tipped the straw on top of the orange juice with medicine. "Here, drink it all, son." Slowly she watched the juice disappear and he began to slide out of the chair. "No... not yet. We have to get you back to the... Nicky, please... wake up..."
The sharp slap to his face brought his head up. He understood her fear and through the hot mud inside his head, he accepted it. He staggered and stumbled, leaning on her heavily until the five feet was covered and his butt was against the table. His legs were like rubber and the whole room was spinning. The effort brought sweat to sheen on his body, which he welcomed. Something she said about Gibson needing to think he was still very ill clicked. As long as Gibson felt he was totally helpless, he had a chance. His eyes went to the open door where a battered, dirty kitchen was. There must be a cellar; was that were his friends were?
"...others... here... Dan...ny... Viv..."
"Others?" She shook her head, "No Nicky, he carried you in... nobody was with him."
The short trip to the chair left him wiped out and he lay back, letting the sweat paint his entire body. He heard her shuffling around in the kitchen and forced his mud-filled brain to remain alert. Whatever she'd given him was working; he could feel his body responding to the medicine. But he had to escape and couldn't do that without her help. Whatever sick game Gibson had planned, involved him being nearly comatose. That was his advantage and his only tool, albeit a weak one. He could not attack or overpower the brute with all his health back in place. He'd have to work on her, make her see that escape was their only option.
"Sis... moth...er...?" he rasped and turned his head trying to focus on the blurry kitchen. "Mom!"
"Nicky!" She chastised, eyeing her son from the doorway, his dark eyes pleading with her. "You must rest or you'll never get well. Mother knows best."
"...need... to... get... out... now... hurry...."
"Shh!" She moved over and began to stroke his wet cheek. "If you keep fighting, that fever will spike. You are not strong enough to fight it off."
"But... we..." Martin's words died as her face faded away and he slipped back into darkness.
Jack's head popped up and he stared at the curtain. He shook off his lethargy and wondered if he'd heard what he thought he had. She was talking to somebody but whom? Martin or Gibson. His eyes went to the window where the dark sky told him that Gibson had missed the six p.m.deadline. Gibson was a man who planned carefully. The 'showdown' was supposed to be at six. Something went wrong. His dark eyes darted as thoughts came through, maybe he'd be caught. If he hadn't, he'd have begun the grisly show he'd planned. His eyes moved to the curtain again and he stared at the space below it, where dark movement indicated feet moving near the table. She was tending to Martin.
"Martin! Martin!" He screamed aloud and the curtain parted revealing an angry face and a gun. The gun was aimed as his chest and the eyes of the woman holding it revealed a deep madness. Glazed dark wide eyes filled with hatred were trained on him. "Put that down!"
"You shut up!" she commanded, wincing as the voices in her head began to order her to shoot.
"...men are bad... men are bad... .men hurt you... kill the man... shoot the man... shoot... shoot.."
"Stop!" she commanded, waving the gun erratically. "Don't tell me what to do!"
Jack sat back in the chair and realized that she wasn't talking to him. A mad nun with a loaded gun was not something he could battle with tied up. He continued to work his bleeding and raw wrists, wincing as the pain shot through them. The left wrist was slick with blood and the bonds were beginning to loosen. He couldn't see Martin for she was blocking the entry, but he could hear his awful struggle to breathe.
"He needs a doctor," Jack calmly stated, his eyes on the gun. "He's going to die."
"No!" She jerked her arm, raising the gun and aiming as his head. "They're all men, they're all bad. They'll take him away. Nobody will hurt him again. I'll take care of him..." The sound of the back door unlocking drew her attention.
"Sister... wait!" Jack hissed but she was gone, leaving him alone again. The slamming door accelerated his actions. If it was Gibson returning, he was out of time.
Gibson's cold blue eyes went to the shivering mouse in the doorway. She had outlived her usefulness and as soon as Malone was dead, she'd be next. She was only alive because he needed her to care for Fitzgerald until the plan was done. He'd planted explosives in this house and the church where the two remaining prisoners were being held. He planned on having her call 911 and give a cryptic clue leading the police to the church. Then after they contacted the FBI and bomb squad, the half-charred note he'd left in the house would cause them to believe he was heading south. He'd even booked passage in her name and his own for Mexico.
Meanwhile, he was planning on heading north, via a boat up to Canada. From there he would lie low for awhile living under the new identity he'd bought. Changing your name and life didn't come without a high price tag. His contact had demanded more money, after the exposure on every television network when Jack Malone went missing. That was the reason he was delayed.
"Get out of my way!" he snarled, throwing her hard into the wall and then onto the floor.
He'd been delayed enough and it was time for Jack Malone to pay the ultimate price. He ripped the black curtain down that separated the two rooms and saw Malone's head pop up. The combination of hatred and disgust in the dark eyes caused a sneer to grace his lip. He turned to the star of the macabre show and tapped the glistening cheek. The blue slits appeared and a weak fist formed.
"I'm afraid I underestimated you, Fitzgerald, you proved to be more worthy an opponent than I'd planned," he effortlessly shoved the fist away and pulled a syringe out.
Jack ignored the weak mumbled pleas that Martin's fevered state was emitting; he tried to ignore the fist that came up to battle with Gibson. He kept working on his left wrist and kept his eyes trained on Gibson's back. Finally, the wrist slid free, leaving a fair amount of skin and blood on the ropes. He worked on the right hand, untying it and then moved to release his bound feet. He cursed inwardly when the needle went into his rookie agent's unprotected vein. What the hell had Gibson shot him up with? Was he already too late?
The eye that wasn't swollen shut and discolored, opened wide and Gibson laughed at the fear shining there. "Not to worry, it'll be over soon. This is just something to help the cause along."
"That's just what I had in mind," Jack snarled, launching himself at the brute, "helping to send you to hell you mother-fuckin' sick, son-of-a-bitch!"
Gibson wasn't prepared for the hard impact and grunted in pain when the force of the attack sent him hard into the table by the widow. Malone landed on him and the table shattered. Cursing, he picked up a broken leg from the scattered bits of the table and swung it at Malone. The dark-haired man ducked but the blow caught him hard on the shoulder.
Jack was still bent over from avoiding the blow and charged forward, sending both of them through the window and onto the porch. He shook free of the glass which left a large cut on Gibson's forehead. They were both shaken and over the beating of the rain onto the dirt beyond, they regarded each other warily - like two predators in a dense jungle.
The makeshift bed Martin had been resting on was jarred during the initial encounter and he tumbled off onto the floor. It seemed to him that he was on a ship as the floor was moving beneath his hands. He heard the sound of glass breaking and blinked through what appeared to be fog and saw two bodies go through the window. He crawled forward, inch by inch, to investigate.
Gibson thought of pulling his gun but his height and weight had him at a great advantage. Besides he wanted to feel the bones of the other man crack under his fists. He wanted the primal satisfaction of fist hitting flesh and blood flowing. The thought of choking the life out of Malone and squeezing hard enough to make his eyes pop gave him a rush. With a grunted cry, he fisted both hands and sneered at the shaken agent just rising.
"You want a piece of me, Snake!" Jack taunted, waving his left hand, wiggling every finger. He wanted nothing better than to rip this bastard's heart out with his bare hands.
"Shame... I was hopin' to do you last, let you watch that pretty boy slowly choke on his vomit. I just gave him something to make him sick; he'll start pukin', 'cept that his throat won't be able to handle it."
"You fucked up good," Malone spat in contempt. "First you ruined your son's life and caused his death. Now you screwed up the twisted game of revenge you planned." He saw the brief flicker of shock on the other man's face and took advantage. "Yeah, I know about Nick and so does the Bureau by now. He was a good kid, but he wasn't cut out to wear a badge."
"You ruined him!" Gibson roared, charging and connecting to his enemy's jaw with a solid right.
Jack flew off the porch and into the muddy street, the heavy rain covering him like an unwelcome blanket. He scrambled to his feet as another blow slammed into him. He counterattacked, his fists connected with Gibson's jaw and gut. The latter was like hitting a brick wall and Malone decided to avoid that and not break his hand. A verbal barrage would cause Gibson to become irrational and lose focus. That was his goal, to break the other man and then move in.
"You arrogant bastard, you were supposed to be his father," Jack hollered as a fist caught him in the side. He gasped and went to his knees, watching as the blue eyes began to become enraged. "You forced your ..." he began, rose up and landed a solid fist to Gibson's neck. "...ambitions on him. You're a bully... you put the bottle and drugs into his hands."
"Shut the fuck up!" Gibson roared, as Malone charged and sent both of them into the muddy street.
"...how's it... feel..." Jack spat blood from his mouth where his lip was cut. "...to have... your... only... son's blood... on... your... hands... forever!"
The rain fell, creating a strange arena for the two combatants. The only light other than the full moon was a street lamp several yards away. Eerie shadows played on the two men, giving each an unearthly cast. Gibson grabbed a thick piece of wood from the ground and swung hard, catching the lower back of his enemy. He smiled at the force of the blow and the hiss of pain it caused. So focused were they on their battle that neither one noticed the dazed body appear in the large hole where the beau window had been.
Martin swayed badly in the window. The wind kicked up, sending the rain into his face. He was so hot he welcomed the moisture. It was dark and hard to see, but he knew they were out there somewhere. Then he heard a sound, flesh hitting flesh and a cry of pain. He turned his head and saw two blurry figures seemingly dancing in slow motion. With great effort, he got to his knees and watched the world spin at a crazy angle.
Although he landed some solid shots at the larger man, Jack couldn't get the upper hand. The club that Gibson swung skittered away and he moved to pick it up. But Gibson saw him coming and also moved to pick it up. Jack missed and went to his knees again. He felt the wood come around his throat and his air was cut off.
"I'll... break... it..." Gibson whispered in Malone's ear. "...snap it like a twig." He looked up and saw Martin Fitzgerald swaying in the window, his eyes trying to focus on what was happening. Just then the blue eyes snapped back and the wet head cocked.
"Jack!" Martin croaked over his sore throat. His boss was on his knees covered in blood and mud. Pete Gibson was trying to snap Jack's head back.
"Well... well... the pretender is going to watch you die first." Gibson leered, his anger at Fitzgerald taking his son's place rising. "He's weak... like you are, Jack. He didn't have the right to take Nick's desk."
Jack was fighting to breathe, the wood was pressing hard into his larynx causing his air supply to dwindle. The spots that were appearing would soon turn black and his time would be aborted. His dark eyes darted and he used what waning strength he had left to thrust an elbow hard into Gibson's groin. The wood dropped and the giant fell to his knees. Jack crawled a few feet away, gasping for air and rubbing his throat.
"Martin!" He choked, watching the dazed young man blinking at him. "Get out of there, get the nun and get out the back."
"Sorry, Jack," Pete managed, through the pain coursing through his groin. He wasn't going to let Jack win. He snaked his hand to his hip and pulled out his gun. "Time to die... blue-eyed fly..."
"No!" Jack screamed, watching the deadly aim. Martin had no idea the gun was trained on his head. "Martin! Get down! Dammit, get out of there."
He picked up the club and swung at Gibson. The larger man was on his feet, taking aim. Jack deflected the first shot, which hit the door of the house. Gibson flipped him back like he was a bug on his arm. Frantic, Jack slipped and slid in the mud trying to get traction. Then as Gibson's deadly aim once again was trained on his fevered agent's face, a word flashed in his mind, blinking in big red letters.
"Scorpion!" Jack screamed and watched Fitzgerald drop like a rock out of sight, just as the shot whizzed through the area his head had been. He took advantage of the look of shock on Gibson's face and picked up the wood again, smashing it hard onto the other man's wrist. The gun sailed through the air and through the large hole where the window was.
It was late, and although she had tried dozens of times already, the determined federal agent once again tested the chain that bound her ankle. Frustrated at the solid link, she walked around the room and studied the walls and ceiling in the dim light. She was nearly hoarse from calling for help and since the chain wouldn't allow either of them to leave, she had to find some other way to get a message out. She studied the stone walls again and sighed in dejection. The tomb appeared to have no exit. A low moan brought her head around.
"Danny," she whispered, wondering how much longer the fevered man could hold out.
"...bar still... open..." Taylor teased and found a weak smile for the concerned face now bending over him.
"Hold on." She picked up a water bottle and uncapped it, then lifted his head. "Slow now... that's a good boy."
"...dog now..." Danny frowned and heard a chuckle. Then he relaxed as the cool water was applied to his face from a cloth. "Thanks... Vivvie..."
"You know," she eased him back down on blanketed floor and studied his handsome features, "you're the only one besides my father that calls me that."
"Smart guy," Danny managed, trying desperately to hold on, "...your old man. He a good-lookin'... stud too?" He felt her hand on his bandaged leg and intercepted it, his dark eyes pleading. "Don't..."
"I'm sorry, honey, but I have to check it," Vivian replied, nearly undone by the soulful eyes.
She waited until he pressed his head down against the wet blanket and then untied the bandage. The area around each wound was red and nasty. She pressed the cold cloth to the ragged edges and flinched when the greenish goo came out. She tried not to hear his suppressed cry of pain and pretended not to see the fisted hand beating against the floor. She flushed both wounds and picked up another piece of cloth. The bright green and yellow trim told her it was most likely an old vestment. She'd unearthed a box that wasn't opened in the corner of the room. It contained objects that a priest would use for Mass.She assumed whoever packed them either forgot to take them or perhaps never got the chance. But it had yielded a good deal of white cotton cloth for her to use. She tied the bandage off and looked down at Danny.
One tear was snaking a crooked path down his cheek. She used the last bit of cloth to wipe it away and the futility of the situation got to her. Without Medical attention soon, Danny would die. Martin was probably already dead and Jack would soon follow. She closed her eyes and let her guard down, weeping softly. Then a hand came up and touched her cheek. The smile that met her eyes was something to behold.
"...there's no... crying... in baseball..." Danny rasped and got the laugh he sought.
"I thought you didn't watch chic flicks," she teased of the movie about a women's baseball league during World War II.
"...not without a chic... I don't..." Danny countered, "I watch the chics... watchin' the flick..."
"That's my boy," Vivian gathered her scattered emotions. She wiped her eyes and then felt movement as Danny sat up. "You shouldn't move..."
"Air..." Danny gasped, bright eyes wide and roaming. He felt her hand on his face and shook it free. "No... no... not me... felt air..."
"Air?" Vivian repeated and saw his hand sweep an arc to their left.
"Air!" he repeated, "...from up there..."
"A window?" She rose and stared at the dark direction he was gesturing towards. "I can't see one. It's all gray stone."
"Get your ass up and look!" Danny ordered as the cool air once again touched his face.
"You're right." Vivian felt the air too and began moving the boxes.
It took quite some time to move them out of the way, adjust her eyes to the near darkness and then search. But she kept using her hand, waving it high and narrowing the zone. Finally, she determined where the air was coming from. Then she rebuilt the boxes into a crude ladder of sorts and began to climb. Her hands moved over the cold stone walls and then hit glass. It was painted and she banged on it hard, hitting something hard on the other side. Most likely it was boarded up. Dejection rained down hard and then she felt the air again. There had to be a crack in the surface somewhere. She climbed back down, got a chalice from the box and resumed her task. She used the heavy bottom of the chalice to break the glass. There was steel or metal of some kind over the old window, except for a small area perhaps 8 inches by 10 inches. It was above her head so she couldn't see out but the sounds of the night and the air gushing in told her life was on the other side.
"Danny, I found it!" she exclaimed and turned back. Her partner wasn't moving. She kept her eye on him for a moment, studying his form in the near darkness until she saw his chest rising and falling. Then she began to call for help. There was no reply, but she could try again in the morning. Or maybe she could write a note and toss it outside? It couldn't hurt; at this point she'd try anything. She climbed down, rummaged through the box again and found an old booklet written about the fiftieth anniversary of the church. She didn't have anything to write with and thought hard on how to create a message. Her eyes roamed around the room again and she caught the chair where she'd been tied and forced to watch Martin being beaten. Then her head snapped up.
"The picture!" she exclaimed, moving to the area where Gibson had left one of the gruesome photos he'd taken of Martin. She could attach the picture to something heavy and toss it outside the window. Something bright and flashy that would catch a passer-by's eye. The chalice!
It was bright gold and adorned with jewels. Somebody would pick it up and if Martin's photo was attached to it, maybe just maybe it would bring help. So she made a small hole in the edge of the photo and looped a tiny bit of cloth through it, then tied the other end to the bottom of the chalice. Finally, she made her way back up the ladder and tossed it through the opening.
"Hold on, Danny-boy," she whispered, cooling his face off again and pulling the makeshift blanket around him. "The Calvary just might come after all."
"I'm tired of playing around," Pete grunted, shaking his throbbing wrist. He backhanded a brutal blow to Malone's chin and sent the smaller man backward. He then kicked the gasping agent's midsection, taking his air away. Finally, he pulled a detonator from his pocket. It was small and silver and covered with his hand and to a delirious man would resemble the hilt of a knife.
"Say goodbye, Jack!" Gibson vented. He gripped Malone by the hair and yanked his head up, exposing his neck. He made sure Fitzgerald was watching and moved his hand as if about to slice. "And watch your prized pupil get roasted alive."
Jack Malone was dizzy and blinking hard trying not to fall unconscious. He knew that Gibson held a detonator. He'd seen Fitzgerald reappear in the window, holding on with one hand to stay upright. Then Jack saw the gun in his rookie's right hand and knew where the blue eyes were trained.
"No!" Jack choked, "Don't, Martin... don't shoot... Get out of there!"
Martin held the gun in unsteady hands and watched the grisly scene about to unfold. He knew he had only a split second to make the decision. Clarity appeared in his fevered eyes and he stared hard at Jack, sending his emotions in a powerful silent wave. Then the warm eyes turned cold when he thought on the hell that Gibson had caused him and his friends. Without a second thought, he lifted his arm, aimed and fired. The force of his actions sent him staggering backwards into the middle of the dining room. He couldn't see Jack anymore and wondered if his shot had found its mark. He tried to crawl back over to the window, but couldn't.
"Jack?" he whispered, wondering if his mentor was alive. "...sor...ry..."
For a moment, neither man moved. Jack shoved Gibson's body off and stared at the window. He flicked an eye to his enemy and saw the large stain spreading on his chest. The eyes were closed and the body unmoving. Martin? He had to get his injured agent and the nun out of there before the house blew up. Jack was dizzy and trying to navigate through the mud was difficult. He slipped twice and fell.
"Martin! Martin!"
"...s'too... late... Jack..." Gibson opened his eyes and saw Malone turn briefly. He knew he was dying but he wasn't going to let the other man win. "You lose."
"No!" Jack screamed as the dying man's hand pushed the detonator. The concussion from the blast sent him flying. It was several minutes before he could sit up, then he wished he hadn't. Debris from the house was scattered all over the ground and the flames and smoke were rising quickly.
The whole episode seemed to have happened in slow motion. His mind replayed the sickening movie again. Martin was in the window, gun poised. He felt every bit of the emotional farewell the young man had offered. For a few seconds he'd seen the light of reason in the sky eyes. Martin knew the score and took the ultimate roll of the dice. By using that gun, he'd saved his life, but at what cost?
For a few seconds he couldn't move and then Jack forced himself to get up. He winced as the torrents of rain stung his eyes. He saw the flames beginning to lick at the remaining wood timber, quickly rising to consume the frame of the house. He tried to rush to the door but the intense heat drove him back. Then a smaller explosion sent him backwards off the porch. He landed hard in the mud and the brutal realization of what he was witnessing ripped through his gut.
Martin Fitzgerald was dead.
Jack clenched his eyes shut and turned his face to the sky. He felt every needle-like shard of the teeming rain pierce him, seeming to shred his soul. His eyes raked over a flicker of silver in the mud. He bent and picked a jagged shard of glass up. Then, a new strength coursed through him and he turned slowly, walking over to where the wounded man lay bleeding.
"Get up."
Snake blinked into the rain and paled beneath the usual cocky sneer he wore. He was lying against an abandoned car, having crawled over after the bullet hit his gut. He'd had his share of enemies over the years in a variety of moods, positions and conditions. Never, not once, had he been afraid of anyone.
Until now.
"Get up, you bastard, or I'll carve your balls off and shove them down your throat!' Jack offered, venom dripping from every forced word.
"I hope he suffered, felt his skin melting and his eyes pop out of his..."
Gibson screamed when Malone's foot ground hard into the large bleeding wound in his side. He saw the crude weapon and then made the mistake of looking at those lethal eyes. Through the dirty, bruised flesh were killer's eyes, colored flint and rimmed with deadly intent.
"...where are my other two agents?" Malone asked, pressing the knife against the large bulge in Gibson's pants. He knew the large amount of blood pouring from the former NYPD detective meant that an artery was severed and that he had only minutes to live. "Where are they? Where they in that house? Answer me!"
"See you in hell, Malone!" Pete whispered.
"Nooooo!" Jack screamed when the eyes rolled and the body went limp. His hand confirmed what his heart told him. Gibson was dead. "You fuckin' bastard!" he vented, gripping Gibson's neck and slamming his head onto the ground. He continued to pummel the corpse until the Grim Reaper tapped him on the shoulder. He staggered a few feet and then dropped to his knees in shock. Guilt riddled him
"My God..." he gasped, eyes tearing from the sting of smoke and lashes of harsh driven rain. "What have I done?
The sirens came quick and furious, racing down the street towards the area of the explosion. They paid little notice to the gray car that had pulled over. Like the other motorists, the driver was getting out of the way. But the driver of the car had a very odd light in her dark eyes. She slowly pulled out and drove away, leaving the loud sounds and noise behind her. She did not journey far, but far enough away from the noise and the red lights. There was a place where she used to spend many happy afternoons in the sun with her beloved boy. She'd been here twice in the last few days, preparing for their stay. She pulled through the broken fence and her headlights cast a very eerie glow. She drove past the carosel, the coats of the proud ponies were tarnished now, their eyes dulled with age. The ferris wheel seemed bowed also rather than tall and majestic. Across the way were red, blue and yellow stands that used to hold the games of chance. How many prizes had her talented son brought home? A large hole in the face of the spider web on the house of horrors caught her eye. Nicky loved that place, it never scared him. Like discarded toys, they lay scattered and forgotten within the confines of the old amusement park.
She pulled around to a solid stone building. The mural of a clown juggling many colorful balls was faded now. She parked behind the building near the door. Her mind's eye drew up those days of yesteryear, when a very excited six-year old with shining eyes would tug her hand impatiently.
"Do you remember, Nicky?" She shook his shoulder and the lolling head stirred. "How much joy you found here. Oh you loved this place. Yes, we were so very happy here."
It took her eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness. She made her way to the entry and after opening the door, she went back to the passenger side of the car. The door was already open and the dazed body had one leg out. His wet head was leaning against the frame of the door. She tapped the flushed face and saw two eyes blinking slowly. A series of wet coughs ensued and a cry of pain.
"This cold rain isn't good for you, you're already so sick," she scolded and pulled him to his feet. His knees buckled and she had to readjust her weight. "Come on, it's not far."
Stumbling and staggering the pair made their way to the open door. She had chosen the back of the former fun house because she remembered there was a small apartment there where one of the workers must have lived. She led him inside of the small room housing a cot, table and chair. She made two trips to the car to get the rest of the things. She placed her medical bag onto the table next to some plastic cups and bowls. She eased him down and he cried out in pain, coughing and nearly choking. She moved just in time as the vomit came, hard and fast.
The pain that the acidic bile caused forcing its way past his tender throat was almost too much to bear for the infirmed man. But it seemed his throat wasn't wide enough and it took so very long to expel the mess. He was sucking air wide mouthed, like a fish on the deck of a boat. His hands clawing at air as he felt his life threatening to leave him. Arms wrapped around his trembling body and a woman's voice called to him. Someone was near; someone was washing his face, taking his tears away. The woman's voice was soft and low to his ear and soothed him. He sagged against her, moaning and teary-eyed when the burning pain wouldn't end.
"Shhh!" Theresa soothed, hugging him close to her. His face was pressed into her neck and she rocked him, rubbing his wet back. "Mother's here, Nicky, you're safe now. Mother won't let any of those bad men hurt you again."
"Mother?" Martin whispered, his thick tongue sticking to his mouth. That wasn't right. He knew who she was. She had to call for help. His mind screamed at her to dial 911 but his voice didn't cooperate. The last thing his foggy brain registered before passing out was her tender kiss to his cheek.
"That's right, dear, mother has you now."
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