Title: Trance.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones that I created.
Rating: T for violence in later chapters.
Summary: An old adversary plots the perfect murder.
Author's notes: Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you.
TRANCE.
By
Helen Louise.
Escaping from prison had been unplanned – an accident – and almost ridiculously easy. After the 'guilty' verdict had been announced, he had spent one night in the holding cells at the courthouse and from there he was to be transferred to the State Penitentiary, where he was scheduled to spend the rest of his life.
That night, he had lain awake – not plotting any escape, but allowing his regrets to surface. Not regret for what he had done – he truly believed that the woman had deserved to die – but regret at being caught; at him, one of the finest minds in the country, being outwitted and outsmarted by Mark Sloan. He fantasised about exacting his revenge, but the fantasies were outlandish because he knew that he would never again taste freedom in order to bring them to reality.
What he didn't know was that, in the cell next to his, somebody else was having a sleepless night – but for entirely different reasons. Had he spared a glance at that man, he would have seen him filled with nervous energy, his eyes alight with anticipation. But he never spared that glance. Instead he just lay in the darkness contemplating his futile retribution.
The next morning did nothing to change his outlook on life. He wasn't the only prisoner being transferred that day and he dully shuffled out to the prison bus along with the others – all of them handcuffed and shackled; all of them walking with their heads bowed. All except the one from the cell next to his, whose demeanour was subtly different – but only to those who looked closely. He didn't carry the same air of defeat; wasn't enshrouded in a cloak of hopelessness at the grim future that lay ahead. And his eyes moved furtively, constantly, as though he were waiting for something to happen.
When it did happen, it happened in mere seconds – well planned and perfectly executed. The guards on the bus never stood a chance.
Though the breakout hadn't been for his benefit, the murderer saw the chance when it arose and seized it with both hands. An explosion sent the bus careening out of control, then tipping onto its side. Self-preservation kicking in, he hung on for dear life and, when the dust had settled, crawled towards the one man who had the connections to attempt such a daring escape – the man who had been pointed out to him as an international terrorist. The man who had been in his neighbouring cell the night before.
When the masked men burst onto the bus, spraying bullets into the already incapacitated guards, he held up his wrists in mute supplication. The terrorist with the bolt cutters freed his comrade first. Then as the retreat began – the other prisoners ignored – he snapped the cutters through the chains that bound his wrists and ankles. A moment after that, they were gone.
The silence was eerie. After the violence of the crash and the bursts of automatic gunfire, a hush had fallen over the scene. Then somebody moaned softly. He got to his feet, aware of others around him doing the same. Some didn't move, trapped where they lay, others were bleeding freely. But, aside from him, they all still wore their shackles. The majority weren't about to let such a little detail stop them. The guards, to a man, were all dead and the road they were on was deserted. Nobody would be hunting them for a long time to come. As they staggered towards the illusion of freedom – all splitting up and heading out on their own – he brushed himself off. Picking a direction at random, he began to walk – a plan already forming in his brilliant mind.
Five years might seem like a long time to some – but not to him. He could be patient when he needed to be and he needed the time to try and rebuild some kind of a life. A life that wouldn't have him constantly looking over his shoulder waiting for justice to catch up with him.
His first step was to leave the country. That proved to be expensive but, with his new-found underground connections, relatively easy. He had planned meticulously when committing his murder – preparing for every imaginable eventuality, including the fact that he might end up on the run. He had distributed his wealth carefully and used various aliases and so getting his hands on the money had not been a problem.
He had ended up in Sweden, from where he watched closely as the manhunt got underway and the escaped prisoners – the terrorist included – were recaptured. His name got a lot of mentions after that – he was the only one still at large. But as the time dragged on, the interest waned and the papers found other things to write about.
He had changed his appearance and his name – a completely new identity had even allowed him to set up practise again – and all the while he had made the connections he needed as his plan for revenge slowly came to fruition.
Five years was enough time to let anyone forget. Of course, Mark Sloan would have been alerted when he had escaped, but his guard would have dropped after so long – and he had never directly threatened the man. It was time to put his plan into action.
His beard was gone and his hair was now blonde, but Doctor Gavin Reed – albeit now known as Peter Hendrickson – was returning to LA.
"Steve, will you calm down? I'm fine." Mark's tone was filled with fond exasperation. He knew that his son was worried, but his constant fussing was beginning to wear on his nerves.
"Dad, you had a heart attack," Steve reminded him, tucking a blanket around the older man's knees as he settled onto the couch.
"It was just a mild attack and I've completely recovered." He leant forwards slightly as Steve began fluffing pillows. "Do you really think Jesse would have let me leave the hospital otherwise?"
"I know, dad. I just…" His hands stopped moving and he looked down at them. "You really gave me a scare, you know?"
"I know and I'm sorry." Mark felt a twinge of real guilt. His son was only reacting exactly as he did whenever he was hurt. "But really, I'm going to be just fine."
"That's right." A new voice joined the conversation as Jesse emerged from the kitchen carrying a pitcher of iced tea. "It was just Mark's body giving him a little warning; telling him to slow down a little."
"And will you?" Steve asked, with barely a trace of sarcasm.
Mark grinned at him. "Physically, I'm going to have to. I'm not getting any younger. But mentally…"
"You're going to have more time on your hands than ever," Steve finished the sentence for him. "More time to look into my cases, more time to snoop around…"
"I don't think 'snoop' is the right word…" He trailed off as two pairs of eyes regarded him appraisingly. "Well, maybe snoop a little…"
Steve poured his dad a drink and settled down next to him. It was good that things were seemingly normal – the heart attack, however mild, had given him the biggest scare of his life. And, whether his dad liked it or not, he was going to make sure that Mark followed Jesse's advice and started taking things a little easier – starting right now.
"Well, there's going to be no snooping and no investigating – not for a week at least," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "I've taken some time off."
"Steve, you don't have to…"
"No, but I want to," the younger man retorted. "I can't remember the last time I took some time off – I've got vacation time stacked up until next year. We're just going to kick back and relax and enjoy a little quality time."
Mark smiled fondly, appreciating what his son was doing. In all honesty, the attack had scared him too and the best recuperation he could have thought of was exactly what Steve had come up with.
Jesse was also smiling as he got to his feet. 'Just what the doctor ordered'had never been more appropriate – but knowing his friends' uncanny ability to find trouble in the most mundane situations, he wondered how long the vacation would last.
"Well, it's alright for you guys," he said. "But some of us have to go to work." He looked at Mark seriously. "Call me if you need anything. I mean it."
"I will. Thanks, Jesse." Mark answered, with genuine gratitude. Mild or not, he had still suffered a heart attack and Jesse had been the one to take care of him – and to ensure that he emerged from the scare unscathed.
"Yeah, thanks Jess," Steve added sincerely, accompanying him to the door. "I don't know what we'd have done without you."
"It was my pleasure." He smiled – then his gaze grew critical. His friend obviously hadn't been sleeping well. "I don't suppose there's any point telling you not to worry?"
"None." Steve answered, with a wry smile. "But I'll try."
"You cannot do, under hypnosis, what your conscience would morally and ethically stop you from doing."
"So I've heard."
"You could not turn Mother Theresa into a murderer simply by putting her into a trance."
"Absolutely not."
"So tell me again, why are we here?"
Reed smiled thinly. In spite of his impatience and protestations, the man opposite him was hooked and he knew it. He was, after all, an expert in the human mind. He leant forwards onto the desk.
"Because you want to know how to commit the perfect murder – and I know exactly how to do it."
"But you just said…"
"No. You just said," Reed interrupted, with barely concealed irritation. "But you were right. Hypnosis alone wouldn't be enough to overcome those ethical and moral barriers that you mentioned. However, in my time overseas I made the acquaintance of a very… interesting and innovative scientist." The smile returned to his lips. "He has developed a drug that, along with the power of hypnosis, can crumble those barriers into dust. Individually, we have nothing – but together…" The look on his face intensified. "We can turn anybody on this planet into a killer."
A light entered the other man's eyes, but he was still determined to play it cool. "And you expect me to just take your word for this?" he asked, feigning casualness.
"Of course I don't. What, do you think I take you for a fool?"
The man's eyes narrowed – Reed's tone had suggested exactly that. "Be careful who you insult, Doctor," he snarled. "You're playing a very dangerous game here."
"On the contrary, I'm not playing games at all." The tension threatened to get out of hand, but then Reed smiled brightly. "Naturally, I do have a demonstration in mind. Tell me, have you lived in LA for very long?"
"I've spent my entire life here," the man answered, his eyes still narrowed after the previous exchange.
"Good." Reed pretended not to notice the thickening atmosphere. "Then the effectiveness of my display won't be lost on you."
"What..?"
"Keep watching the news. You'll know when it happens," Reed told him. "And then we'll talk again."
TBC…
