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'd said little to him, other than giving him directions. He'd tried the usual methods of talking down a suspect and they'd done nothing but increase her maniacal fervor. It was evident that she was slipping fast but still had enough sense to demand his cell phone. It went out the window somewhere by the bridge. But, the gun was real as was the mad gleam in her eye. He had to play out her charade if he was to find where she'd taken his injured agent. What little had been left of her mind in the house before the explosion was gone. But somehow, cracked or not, she'd gotten Martin out of that inferno. The total and utter darkness that had enveloped him from the moment the house had exploded was now lifted. Hope was riding with him and he absorbed everything it offered.
"How is Mar... Nick?"
"How do you think he is?" she screeched, "My poor Nicky is dying, I think. He's so weak."
"OW!" Jack yelped when the end of the gun was jabbed hard into the soft spot between his ear and shoulder.
"It's all your fault... you took his job away, all his hopes and dreams. They said you were bad... all men are bad," she babbled then nodded as the voices in her head encouraged her to continue. "But you'll pay for your sin and Nicky can watch you suffer as you made him do."
Jack sighed in relief at that and he knew Martin must have spurned her onto this trip. Wherever she had left him must be in a desolate area with no means of communications. He theorized that his rookie must have known his only hope for survival was to use Gibson's original seed of hate planted in the woman's already twisted mind. He could see Martin honing in on that and using her guilt to lash out. It was fairly clear she wanted him alive at least to see 'Nicky' and have him give the final judgement. Once he secured the area where Martin was, he could get them both out. He had no intention of burying Martin Fitzgerald twice. Whatever it took, he would get Martin out safely and he'd have his redemption.
"He's very lucky you're taking care of him. Whatever bug he has is pretty bad. Where did you get the medicine?"
He knew he had to find that out. Chris said that the CDC in Atlanta was still trying to identify it. Whatever shit that Gibson had most likely imported from the Far East at a premium price had to have an antidote. He'd seen it work with his own eyes. Martin standing in the window was proof she'd shot him up with something good.
"He's my son, nobody will take him from me again," she rattled on as the voices told her not to listen to the man who was 'tricking' her. "Shut up! He won't trick me; I know what I'm doing."
"Oh boy," Jack mumbled, she was losing it fast.
By the time she'd instructed him what exit to take, it was getting dark. He heard the ocean and knew they were somewhere south of New York and not quite in Mystic. He saw the old Ferris wheel first, a gaunt and tarnished skeleton that seemed odd and out of place. Demented or not, she'd picked a perfect place to hide, funny how crackpots had sense that way.
"Where to?" He squinted at the buildings.
"Around the back," she ordered, anxious to see her boy.
Jack stopped when the order came and squinted at the garish clowns. He always hated them; he never saw what exactly was funny about them. They'd given him more than one nightmare as a child and now loomed larger than life to haunt him again. He shut the motor off and unlocked the door.
"Wait!" she called out, sliding out first and keeping the gun trained on him.
Jack kept his eyes on the gun and slowly got out, keeping his hands away from his body. He walked cautiously towards the door and entered the building. He followed the low light towards the room. A lantern was on top of an old table and its dim light seemed to give the body in the bed a ghastly pallor. The fine features were marred by bruises and discoloration. He resisted the urge to go to the morgue and beat the hell out of Gibson's corpse. He moved on instinct, like Thomas, he needed proof. Something deep inside him needed to feel the pulse of life coursing through the young man's veins. As his fingers hit the sweat-slick neck, the eye that wasn't swollen shut popped open. Jack wanted to say something to offer comfort and hope but his voice was gone. He couldn't produce a single word.
Martin blinked and stared up at Jack Malone's face. His fevered dreams had been brutal, full of Danny's dead body and Jack's headless corpse. This one was real, so much so he could smell the perspiration hovering near the apparition. He moaned and twisted his head trying to make it go away. Seeing Jack's ghost was just a painful reminder that he'd failed miserably. Jack was dead.
"...go away... damn... nightmare..." he coughed, gagging severly and flailing.
"Cut that out!" Jack ordered, hoisting Martin's upper body up. He gripped the back of his neck hard and winced at the heat radiating off Fitzgerald. "Your old man's got my balls in a sling now. I ain't lettin' you go twice."
Martin's lone working eye went wide with wonder when his hand hit flesh and muscle. This wasn't a dream. Jack was here by his side. He vaguely recalled the conversation with the mad nun. It must have worked; she had gotten Jack.
"I ain't no dream, Junior," Jack answered the amazed and confused face. He swallowed hard when the weak hand came up to touch his face.
"God... God..." Martin's relief was overwhelming.
"No, still Malone," Jack teased, "But you're not the first person who made that mistake."
Martin wanted to tell his boss just how sick he was. He could feel the life force leaving his body. He wanted to tell him how sorry he was for his mistake and how that failure had put them in this place. He wanted to ask about Danny and Vivian and if Sam was okay. But although his lips moved, the words were lost; except two... two which came out in fear.
"...hurry Jack..."
"Hey," Malone caught the fevered blue eye and gripped the damp head in a solid affirmation on his intent. "I will get you out of here. You just keep wheezing, okay?" He saw the lips trying to form a word and read it silently. He found a smile then and tapped the swollen and discolored cheek. "I know you're trying. You're on my team, right?"
Theresa was having a hard time focusing. The voices in her head were so loud she couldn't think. She backed up and clutched her head, keeping the gun on Jack Malone .He was talking to Nick. What was he saying? Why couldn't she hear him?
"Shut up! I can't hear!" she ordered and saw Malone turn around. "Get away... from my boy..."
"Look, he's really in a bad way, he need a hospital."
"No!" she screamed, aiming the gun at his chest. "I can take care of him. They'll take him away from me again."
"Alright, alright!" Jack put both hands up in front of him defensively. "He's thirsty. Can I give him a drink?" He saw her nod and carefully eased Martin's head up. As the younger man drank, he saw the blue eye roaming around the room. He caught the busy orb and could almost hear the wheels turning. "What?" he mouthed and furrowed his brows. Martin began to cough then, violently. The hands began to flail and grab at the throat that was constricted. "Easy... easy..." he coached, hauling Fitzgerald and clapping his back. A huge wad of yellowish muck flew out and hit the floor. The wet head flopped on his shoulder and the labored breathing worsened. "You're fine now, you need to calm down."
Martin shut down, letting Jack's voice and strong hold take over. His breathing slowed down, his throat opened and his pounding heart relaxed. Finally, he opened his eye and felt his waning strength come back. He realized how badly he needed a hospital and had to put the plan in motion. He needed Jack to understand they had a slim opening and it would be up to him to lead the charge. So Martin pulled out a very rusty bugle and began the call to arms. He pulled back and caught Jack's concerned face. The dark eyes where full of fear and guilt. He shook his head to try to dispel the awful cast on the face and gathered up his fleeting energy.
"...follow... lead..." he whispered and saw Jack nod. He turned his gaze to the nun then, who was standing a few feet away with her gun trained on Jack's chest. "...moth...er..."
"Get away from him!" she screamed and motioned for Malone to take a seat on the floor by the wall behind her beloved Nicky's head. Once he had, she moved closer to the bed but kept the gun on him. "Mother's here, Nicky."
"...time... for... him... to... pay...." Martin rasped.
He pulled himself to a sitting position and gasped sharply when the whole room began to fly around. He wanted her to give him the gun, to let her think he was going to blow Jack away. But his body was a steep roller coaster without any seatbelts. He fell forward and instinctively grabbed out for her arm for support. An action she misread badly.
When Nick's hand grabbed for the gun, the voices reached a crescendo in her head so loud it created an explosion of pain and color that caused her to cry out.
"He lied to you... he's like the others... he's bad... he's a man ... he will hurt you... he doesn't love you... he lied... he lied... he's bad... he's bad... kill them ... .kill them... he... lied... bad... kill... bad... bad... bad..."
"Nooooo!"
As soon as Martin went for the nun's gun, Jack moved from the floor. It all happened so fast he didn't feel the bullet. But the loud echo of the gun and the force sent him flying sideways into the wall. A burning pain exploded in his right side then his head when it impacted with the edge of a supply cabinet. He hit the floor and the wobbly cabinet went with him. He felt the blood oozing from the head wound and his hand moved to his side over his hip where the bullet hit. He yanked his shirt with great difficulty and felt a long crease. He hoped that meant the bullet grazed him. He couldn't see Martin's face, but the younger man's body was being supported by the frantic nun who was still screaming at some invisible terror. Then he saw Martin pull his head around and stare right at him.
Jack managed to nod to reassure the worried face that he was fine. He saw Martin sigh hard and nod back. He was very dizzy and his vision began to blur. The blow to the head was worse than he thought. Martin and the nun now appeared to be in a long tunnel far away.
"He's dead," Martin lied, hoping Jack caught on. The bloodied dark head nodded and went back down, resting on the floor.
"...s'over... moth...er... we... need... to... go... now..."
"No!" She slapped him hard on the face and he flew backwards, hitting the bed hard. "You lied... you're just like them... a man... a dirty, filthy beast. You have to be punished. You were a bad boy."
At the word 'punished', Jack's fading eyes struggled to stay open. He would be losing consciousness soon and he needed to see what the mad woman was up to. He pushed as hard as he could to move whatever piece of furniture fell on his back but he was trapped. He saw her shove the gun in her pocket and reach into a black case. She took a needle out and then a small pink bottle.
"No, mother," Martin wheezed, watching the ceiling spinning wildly. He gagged and fought the urge to throw up. He coughed and sputtered as she shoved his arm down pressing it into the bed. He knew the bottle wasn't the same as the medicine she'd been giving him. This was something new and his heart clenched. What if this was the poison? What if she intended to finish him off? "...that's not... medicine... not the right color... what... doing...."
"You need to be punished," she repeated, shoving the needle into his wet arm. "You are a very bad boy. This will teach you not to misbehave again. It almost is the right medicine but it has some rather nasty side effects; painful, burning diarrhea and severe cramping, sometimes hallucinations, terrifying ones." She saw the naked fear shining from his eyes and cupped his trembling chin. "You won't misbehave again, Nicky." She stroked his cheek and moved the wet locks of hair that were plastered to his forehead. "Mother knows best, dear."
"Sick, fuckning bitch!" Jack whispered as the room began to fade away. The last thing he heard was Martin's painful scream of agony.
Brendan Gavin sighed hard and watched his boss studying Jack Malone's apartment. The call to arms had come a couple hours ago. He didn't know what prompted Chris to leave the hospital against orders but he'd learned a long time ago not to argue with the very stubborn team leader. He'd been awakened by a groggy voice and the only explanation given was the infamous Boone 'gut feeling'. So he raked a hand through his dark hair and yawned, sipping the lukewarm coffee.
"He never made it home," Chris dictated, holding the railing for support and slowly walking down the steps from the front door. "The mail's piled up and his car isn't here. I don't like it."
"Maybe he was tired, his wife and kids aren't here. Maybe he went to a hotel or..."
"No, he'd come home. Plus he's not answering his phones. Something's very wrong." Chris eased his lean frame back into the car and rested his throbbing head against the back of the seat. He had woken up at three a.m. in a cold sweat and shaking. He saw Jack's face and a coldness washed over him. His friend was in trouble.
"You look like shit, boss," Brendan announced, climbing into the driver's seat.
"And you're one write-up away from being transferred to Staten Island," Chris growled. "Just drive."
"Where to?"
He didn't know where to start. Where would Jack have gone? The fact that they only found one body in the rubble of the building was bothering him. What happened to the nun? The body found was a male, she was inside, Jack had said so. She had to have gone somewhere before the explosion. Jack said she was mentally off balance, hearing voices and such. What if he went to find her? Was he that desperate?
"The Turnpike," he replied. "Head over to Mystic."
Thirty minutes into their journey, Brendan's cell phone rang. He flipped it open and watched the sun beginning to rise overhead. The words he heard nearly caused him to go off the road. He listened carefully but had to be sure.
"Can you repeat that? You're sure!"
The tone of his agent's voice brought the leader's throbbing grayish-green eyes open. He peered at the anxious look on the young man's face and sat up. His stomach threatened to heave and he swallowed down the vomit that rose. Concussions were a bitch and this was a bad one. Once the wave of dizziness passed, he turned again. The phone was being offered.
"Boone, F.B.I."
"Agent Boone? I'm Detective Mark Koslowski of Mystic. We pulled in a hooker this morning and she had something you need to see."
"I'm short on time here; just tell me what you got!" Chris barked.
"I got a gold chalice with a photo tied to it, it's that kid Fitzgerald that was on the news last night."
"What?" Chris rasped, hoping he'd not pass out. "A chalice? What'd she say?"
"She's higher than a kite, she's rambling. But she said she got it from a 'dark eyed bitch in the dungeon'"
"Dark-eyed," Boone repeated, hopes rising. "Vivian. Vivian Johnson is a missing federal agent, she's African American. Dungeon... a cellar... something below ground. Where? Did she say where?"
"No, but she was arrested near an old church. That would tie to the chalice. I can meet you there. Where are you?"
Chris listened to the address as Brendan took the right exit. "I'm five minutes away." He tossed the phone down. "Go!" He ordered Gavin and reached under the seat to get the red light out. He flipped the magnetic unit onto the roof and the sirens began to wail.
"Vivian, Vivian! Vivian Johnson!"
The star student walked up the aisle in her cap and gown. Her parents were beaming in the seats as the college graduate went to get her degree. The sound of her name being called echoed in her ears. It was a shame that it was a cloudy day, she couldn't see the sky. Then the sun came out and blinded her, causing her to stumble. Someone grabbed her arm then.
"Vivian!"
The agent blinked and froze when the dream faded and reality slapped her. Dumbfounded, she blinked again, not able to speak. The arms holding her eased her down onto a crate. She heard other voices both from outside and within. Orders were being given and two men moved past her to kneel by Danny's side. They weren't just any men, they had uniforms and badges.
"Vivian? Can you understand me?" Chris spoke more softly this time. She was shaking badly.
The face before her was not a stranger but a handsome man with sandy hair and light eyes. This wasn't a dream, it was real. They were rescued. Somehow, some way they'd been found. She turned and saw a medic run by and drop by Danny's side. Oxygen was being forced into him and his clothes were being stripped away. An IV line was inserted and she saw his fearful eyes open.
"Calvary came, Vivvie!" Danny whispered, watching tears rolling down her face.
"Chris?" Vivian took her wet eyes from Taylor's relieved ones and looked at the supervisor. He was ashen and gaunt and the usually clear eyes were clouded in pain.
"Damn, you look beautiful, woman!" Boone teased, hugging her. "Let's get you topside and let the medics have a look."
"I'm fine, Danny was wounded." She moved as the gurney came by with Taylor on it.
"Hold it!" Danny ordered hoarsely, snaking a hand out to grab Chris Boone's arm. Something beside physical pain was cresting hard on the handsome man's very pale face. "What's wrong?"
Chris eased Vivian down onto the crate and looked hard at her and then at Danny Taylor. There was no way to sugar-coat the news, he'd lost partners before and knew how devastating it was. There would be nothing in that medic's bag to take away the anguish he would now deliver.
"I'm sorry," he choked, his eyes burning. "Martin's dead."
They'd finally gone, or so he thought. Well intentioned friends and other agents checking on his 'well being'. Coupled with the hospital personnel and even Victor Fitzgerald himself, it seemed there'd been an endless parade of bodies in and out of his room all day. He peeled a wary eye open and sighed at the empty room. It was cold and stark, much like his mood. He shivered and pulled the blanket up, though it would do no good. There would be no warmth for him tonight; nothing could take the chill from his soul. The words uttered by Chris Boone as this same day was born left him utterly gutted, like fresh kill.
"Martin's dead'
How could that be? His dark eyes moved to the window where the last remnants of the day were clinging unsuccessfully to life. Dark streaks of crimson slashed at a deep cerulean blue sky. Martin's face appeared in the clouds, the sky matching his emotive eyes. They were lit up with mirth as a wise crack emerged. They'd had their differences, but Danny liked Martin. Despite the green rookie mistakes, he saw what Jack did. Fitzgerald had an uncanny sense of getting the right angles in a case. He anticipated well and could read a crime scene with the best of them. He couldn't even remember their last conversation. It was lost in the fevered prison he'd left behind. He bit his lip and swallowed the grief.
"Let it out, Danny."
He turned to the doorway as Vivian Johnson walked inside the room. She was in a loose fitting FBI sweatshirt and jeans. The bruised eyes looking back at him mirrored the agony rippling inside his own body. No, he wasn't ready to give in yet, the pain was too raw. He'd read a story once about a group of sailors whose boat sunk in shark infested waters. One by one they'd been slowly consumed by the slick gray predators. The survivors said that the agonizing screams of their buddies nearby in the dark haunted them to this day. That's how he felt; like he was floating in a dark pool without light or hope and slowly being eaten alive.
Vivian wasn't sure how to address the dark pools of anguish trained on the window. She sat down and moved closer to the bed, resting her arms on the rails. He'd been very lucky, the mad nun's initial treatment and debridement had aided the wound immensely. He'd been given a strong antibiotic cocktail in an IV and some much needed fluid. His fever had come down steadily all day and was hovering near normal. He was expected to be released late tomorrow if he continued to improve. But there was no medicine to heal the festering soul inside Danny Taylor.
"I know how bad you're hurting, Danny. I miss him too."
"I'm fine," Danny rasped, as the echo of Martin's laugh and that cocky smile disappeared with the departing day outside the window.
"Sure you are," Vivian chased back, moving to catch the painful profile. "You can't hide from me, Danny. The longer you hold that in, the worse you're going to feel. Martin wouldn't..."
"Don't!" Danny whispered, swallowing the pain and swiping his burning eyes. "Not yet... I need to feel this... to remember... just what I lost."
Vivian nodded and kept her bedside vigil. Danny wouldn't hide long, she knew him that well. She knew just how torn apart he was and how he didn't really want to be alone. He'd slept most of the day, missing Victor's arrival. She felt sorry for the elder Fitzgerald who looked haunted and lost. He'd commended both of them for their courage and given them full support. He'd given her a copy of Jack's testimony. She told him all she knew and he agreed to consider an appeal, if they found Jack. Like Chris, she didn't think Jack was running away. Even Victor had his doubts, although he didn't like Jack very much, one thing they both knew was that Malone wasn't a coward. He didn't stay long; he was meeting his wife at Martin's house. Vivian intended to visit Jean Fitzgerald, whom she'd only met once. As a mother herself, she didn't dare imagine that kind of pain, the pain of burying a child. She thought Taylorhad fallen asleep, but a rasp broke the silence in the hospital room.
"I can't remember, Vivvie," Danny whispered, wondering how it was possible for his chest to ache even more.
"Can't remember what?" She reached over to stroke his cheek.
"What... I... said... last...." Danny swallowed hard and took a shaky breath. "Smart-assed Danny... always with the one-liners..." He bit his lip and felt his eyes burning. "What if that's the last thing he heard? Some stupid crack... dissin' him..."
"No, no, Danny, don't do that," she reassured but the grief-stricken man pulled away, holding his arms across his chest and rocking in pain. A pain so deep she wondered if anyone could touch it.
"I never told him how good he was, how much I thought of him. All that corny shit you think of after somebody's dead."
"I got your back, Harvard."
"What?" Danny blinked and slowly turned his wet eyes to the strong woman. She stood up from the hard chair and put the rail down. His eyes never left the strong brown ones that were trained on him.
"That's what you said to him. He was lost in a nightmare, terrified, shaking, he couldn't breathe. You told him you were watching his back. Yours was the voice he heard, the one that calmed him down." She reached over to lightly touch his face. "You chased the demons away. He relaxed, he trusted you. You found him in whatever Hell he was lost and brought him home. That's what you did for him last, Danny."
"Goddammit Harvard..." Danny whispered, falling into the strong arms and letting the wall crack. He held on to the rock and didn't fight the tide. It wasn't much but those incredible words offered by Vivian provided the salve that his burning soul needed. Blanketed by the protective force that had guided him this far, he wept.
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Little Sisters of the Poor."
"Who?" Chris Boone sat up, flipped the light on next to his bed and immediately regretted it. The yellow illumination slashed through his skull and he cried out, dropping the phone. "Goddamn concussion..."
"Chris?"
"Yeah?" Boone picked the phone up again and eyed the red digital numbers on his clock. "It's four fuckin' a.m."
"You got a mouth that would make any mother proud."
Chris blinked at the voice on the phone and pulled his legs over the side of the bed, hunching over in pain. One hand was pressed to the bridge of his nose, stemming the jackhammers going wild. The other was barely holding the phone to his ear. He knew that voice but he didn't have the energy to find the name or the face.
"You there, Goldilocks?"
That horrible nickname was used by one man and one alone. He grimaced and chuffed out a very annoyed breath.
"Maddox! One of these days I'm gonna find a germ you can't identify and slip it in your coffee!" he growled to the Crime Lab Veteran he'd known for twenty years.
"You know I had a nice eulogy picked out for your funeral," Avery Maddox teased. "Then you up and survive on me."
"It's four fuckin' a.m. Mad Dog, this better be good." The name of the cheap wine that the forensics specialist was fond on in his college days had become his nickname. He could almost see the dark-skinned man grinning into the phone.
"That charred bastard they pulled out of that house isn't Fitzgerald."
"What!" Boone bellowed and dropped the phone, clutching his tender skull, "Shit... shit..."
"Christ, don't keel over on me now, Goldy, I'd have to rewrite the eulogy." Maddox paused and frowned. "Chris, you still with me?"
"Yeah, give me a minute." Chris took several steadying breaths and waited for the room to stop spinning. Once his stomach landed where it should be, he picked the phone up. "You're sure?"
"If I'm not, he's the best lookin', fifty-seven year old arthritic cripple with two knee replacements that I've ever seen."
"Jesus... Jesus..." Chris slumped, raking a shaky hand through his short blond hair. "So there is no trace of Martin, he got out? How? That place was incinerated."
"That's your job, Sherlock; my speciality is the dead, not the living." He paused. "Anything on Jack yet?"
"No, it's like he vanished into thin air. If Gibson wasn't dead..."
"Him I can confirm, this guy was some poor homeless bastard, I'm guessing. The local cops told me that the area is loaded with condemned houses. The winos and druggies live in the ones that aren't too bad off. The guy's artificial knees had serial numbers. They're five years old. His name was John Powell, he was fifty two then and from Newark, but the address is now a parking lot. We're checking for next of kin." The uneven breathing he heard on the other end had him a bit worried. He knew how bad the head injury was and how hard Boone pushed himself. "Hey, Holmes, you okay?"
"Good enough to kick your sorry ass, Cryptkeeper." Boone rose and shook his head. "Listen, thanks... I'll let his old man know."
"Okay and keep that ugly mug of yours intact, okay? I don't have proper funeral attire."
"Attire?" Chris grinned, "You cheating on crosswords again?"
He hung the phone up and crossed the room, heading for a fast hot shower. After gulping down two pain killers and a jug of Orange Juice, he grabbed his keys and headed for Martin Fitzgerald's apartment. Victor had been with him at the hospital when Johnson and Taylor were brought in. He had to give the old guy credit, he'd kept it intact and been very supportive of the pair. Taylor was mostly out of it and maybe it was better that way. He still couldn't lose that shattered set of brown eyes that had met his over the awful news. The senior Fitzgerald had updated him that his wife was being driven down to the city and they'd be at Martin's. He'd put an APB out on Malone, which irritated Boone but he'd kept his anger in check, due to the man's grievous loss. Now, all bets were off. It was almost five thirtywhen he arrived at Martin's. It took several moments after his ringing for a voice to come through the outside speaker.
"Yes?"
"Victor, it's Chris, we need to talk, it's urgent." The buzz gave him his reply and he made his way upstairs. By the time he arrived at the door, it was open. Without the expensive suits and attitude, the man before him looked like any other retiree in a blue terry cloth robe with dishevelled hair, except that he'd aged ten years in one day.
"Well?" Victor demanded, opening the door and letting the younger man inside.
"It wasn't him," Chris said, eyeing the darkened guest bedroom.
"Who wasn't him? Stop talking in riddles." Victor paused when the light green eyes before him reflected something wonderful and a hand came up to rest on his shoulder.
"The body in the house, it wasn't Martin. The autopsy revealed..."
"Sweet Jesus." Victor gasped, staggered and would have fallen if not for the arms guiding him to a chair. He struggled for breath and took the glass offered a few moments later. The Irish whiskey went down easy, leaving a burning sensation inside. He finally collected himself and looked over at the haggard looking team leader. "Chris, you're sure? How?"
"I got a call a little while ago from the lab. The body was a fifty-seven year old male formally of Newark. Could be some homeless guy who was living in the cellar. They're checking for next of kin, he had no address on record. They tracked him through the serial numbers on his artificial knees."
"My God... it's a miracle. Martin... Martin..." He didn't move for several moments and then offered a wet set of eyes and a hand to the deliverer. "Thank you Agent Boone... Chris. You have no idea..."
"Yes sir, I think I do." Chris smiled. "Jack mentioned the nun, Nick's mother, she was there too. We didn't find her body either. So I'm guessing she got him out. Jack said her mind's gone, she thinks Martin is Nick."
"So she'll shelter him, protect him? Why wouldn't she take him to a hospital?"
"She's not thinking rationally. She's terrified of someone getting him. She'll hide with him."
"So we've got a little time, but... not much?" Victor guessed and saw the sandy head shake.
"I'm not so sure, Victor. Based on what Vivian told me, Martin was at death's door. She didn't think he'd live the night out. But Jack saw him on his feet, holding a gun. He not only shot at Gibson, he nailed him, saved Jack's life. Something doesn't add up."
"The nun is a nurse?" Victor sat back and thought. "Johnson said she fixed Taylor's leg. Jack said she gave Martin medicine."
"And if she thinks he's her son, Nick, she'll keep on giving it to him"
"She saved his life," Victor managed as a light in the other room went on. He stood and shook the offered hand. "Thanks, Chris. I want to tell Jean... she was shattered."
"I'll be in touch," Chris promised and went to the door. He was about to close it when he heard her sobbing cry. He only hoped they did find Martin alive. He couldn't imagine burying a son twice.
The hundredth grunt of pain and frustration gave birth to a hoarse, albeit weak, cry of glee. One hand snaked out and hauled over a blue and white cooler. Inside was liquid refreshment, water, that which keeps life in your body. The only free hand he had sunk into the cooler and got a bottle. Two minutes later, it was gone and the prisoner was breathless. He used a second bottle to wash his head wound, cursing at the dried blood covering his scalp, face and neck.
"Goddammit!" Jack vented, tugging on his left hand that was cuffed to an old radiator.
He sighed and fished into the cooler again, taking out a round container. He made a face at the container of yogurt, not being a fan of the stuff. But desperate men in desperate situations take desperate measures. So he popped the lid and began to eat. His eyes roamed over the room again and his worry increased. It was empty and he had no idea when she'd gone. He'd been in and out of consciousness for the last day or more and when he'd finally got his senses back, he'd found himself alone. It had taken him hours, working slowly and with one hand to get himself from under the shelf pinning him to the ground. That's when he'd discovered she'd used his cuffs to secure him to the old radiator. How far had she gone? How long ago did she leave? Was Martin still alive?
"No sense toting a dead man," he argued to himself. She wouldn't have taken Martin's body. She was beyond the realm of the sane now and he needed to find her quickly. He couldn't stand up; the cuffed link was at floor level. But from his knees, he could see through the slip of window and to his car which was outside. She didn't use it to get away and that bothered him. She couldn't support Martin on foot. Something didn't add up.
"Unless..." He sat back down and tossed the empty container away.
Unless Martin had escaped first- it was clear from her babbling about the pink bottle of medicine that it was something very dangerous and hallucinogenic. What if the drug caused him to lose his sense of reality? What if he didn't see the world around him and was lost in a bizarre Neverland in his tortured head? What if the injured man had fled in terror? She might have fallen asleep and missed his flight and then woken up and gone to find out where he'd got to. That's why the car was still there.
"Radio," he whispered of the unit tucked under the dash in the car just a few torturous yards outside the window. He eyed the room again, seeking any rough hewn tool to use for a pick. A discarded wire hanger was lying on the floor under an old time coat rack. It seemed to be a hundred miles away but he had to try. He needed something long and sturdy to haul the hanger over to him. He eyed the braces of the shelf lying in pieces around him. It would take some time, but he could tie the short pieces together with pieces of cloth and make a pole of sorts. It wasn't great, but it was all he had.
"Hang on, Junior," he hissed, sitting up and feeling the wound on his side protesting.
They were all around him, their evil laughter rang in his ears and the horrid stench of their breath was choking him. He staggered and stumbled, seeking escape from the devilish monsters. They were from Hell, he knew that. Nothing among the living was that big and bizarre. White faces with large blue circles around their black eyes, topped with orange hair. The twisted scarlet mouths were cruel and spewing blood. Others had green faces and black demonic eyes, their huge claws holding up severed arms dripping in blood. He was sure they'd poisoned him somehow, for the pain ripping through his guts was brutal. Each bout with the pains left him weak and disoriented, with a stench-filled watery residue clinging to his legs.
"God... please..." Martin begged, crawling down another tunnel.
It was dark here and the smell of urine and waste clung to him. He pushed onward, knowing that the army of monsters were right behind him. This prison had no end in sight, yet he had to press onward, or they'd capture him. He'd seen the others, strapped to tables and writhing in agony, their waxen faces pleading with him to help, the bodies torn open with strange hooks and blades, their entrails dripping onto the gory floor strewn with body parts. He wouldn't let the beasts capture and torture him. He didn't know where he was or who he was. All he knew was that he had to leave this place.
"Air... air..." his starved lungs cried out as a cold blast hit his hot face.
He fumbled and fell, sliding down a steel board that twisted and curved, spiralling around and around. It was too much and too dizzying a pace for his drugged body. The world spun wildly, the beasts laughed wickedly and Martin screamed and let the black curtain fall. His limp body landed in a heap at the end of the slide. He lay limp and unmoving, unaware of the rats that scurried from their holes to inspect the newcomer. He didn't see the dusty sign far above his head but it did identify where he was; the 'Wax House of Horrors'.
Prelude | Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3 | Page 4 | Page 5 | Page 6 | Page 7 | Page 8 | Page 9 | Page 10 | Page 11 | Page 12 | Page 13 | Page 14 | Page 15 | Page 16 | Page 17 | Page 18 | Page 19 | Page 20 | Page 21 | Page 22 | Page 23 | Page 24 | Page 25 | Page 26 | Page 27 | Page 28 | Page 29 | Page 30 | Page 31
Return to Deirdre's Fic Archive
