Title: Breakdown
Author: Miss Peg
Word Count: 10016
Rating: T (for violence and some language)
Summary: Van Pelt wakes up in a large empty room, when the reason for her
kidnapping comes to light, Lisbon is forced to make a decision that
could affect everybody. Character death and violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist, if I did, I would not write this into the series...
Notes: WARNING: Character death!
Thank you to kathiann for the lovely art to go with my fic, I love a good old chapter header and I can't wait to listen to the fanmix!
A massive thank you, as always, to tromana for the support, cheerleading and most importantly, betaing. I couldn't have done it without you!
Chapter One: Grace Van Pelt
'I got you some food.'
Grace Van Pelt opened her eyes, the world spinning painfully across her vision as she rolled onto her back. The cold, dank floor had given her a crick in the neck. She tried to focus on the man – at least she assumed it to be a man – who had spoken a moment before. When the room finally slowed to a near stop, he was gone.
'Wait,' she shouted, reaching a hand out to the floor and pushing herself up into a seated position - something which she regretted the second her head began to spin once more. She was close to vomiting, that feeling in her mouth where her lips tingled and she knew her stomach couldn't hold out for much longer. She snapped her eyes shut again and lay back down. The floor was anything but ideal; her whole body ached from head to toe. Sometimes it mattered little, she was alive and that was all that was important.
Van Pelt listened to the constant drip, drip, drip nearby, a sound that had infiltrated her dreams barely minutes before. She didn't know how long she'd been there, or how she came to be in such a cold and dark room. She tested her sight again, but the overwhelming nauseous feeling put a stop to that.
'Come back,' she groaned, resting a hand against the side of her head, where she could feel the evident shape of an enlarged, sticky bump. No wonder she felt so ill.
The last twenty-four hours were hazy; she'd been out on a case somewhere in the Napa Valley, a man had been decapitated. They'd just split up the workload; Cho and Rigsby went off to question the victim's family, Lisbon and Jane took a ride to the local police station with a witness they suspected of carrying out the murder. Van Pelt had stayed back at the scene as a team of divers searched the nearby lake for the head. She'd been put out by the unimportance of her role; she'd proven herself time and again to Lisbon and more often than not, she exceeded the role handed to her. On the other hand, she had not long since been dealing with the death of her low-life fiancé and the anger issues that had followed. Still, she'd felt hard done by, which was why the time spent by the lake had been anything but pleasant.
How did anyone expect her to succeed in her job if they kept pushing her backwards? Or so it felt. Van Pelt idolised Lisbon, she was one of the youngest senior special agents she'd met and when her role working alongside her had been confirmed, she'd been over the moon. She'd had a crazy idea that she might actually be able to learn from the woman - not that she hadn't already learned a lot - but she'd hoped that her acquaintance with Lisbon might aid her climb up the professional ladder. Realistically, Van Pelt knew that she was attempting to run before she could even walk. Another direction her life had taken since that fateful day at the safe house. O'Laughlin had not only been her fiancé, he'd also given her an idea that she could be greater than her current status. Not that there was anything wrong with looking to the future and hoping for grandeur and success. She just didn't give herself the space she needed in order to achieve her dreams. She wasn't as career-focused as Lisbon for a start, she wanted to get married, she wanted a family and as much as she would have loved to follow in Lisbon's footsteps, she knew it was all at the expense of everything else Van Pelt wanted in life.
She breathed slowly, in and out, her stomach settled as she kept her eyes firmly closed. Something was amiss. She couldn't remember what had happened after she'd sat down, frustrated with her junior status, she remembered footsteps and then, then, it all went blank.
'Eat up, before it gets cold.'
That voice again, so gentle, but not quite comforting. A chill spread through her body and she couldn't be sure if it was caused by the temperature in the room or the sound of this man - whoever he was - talking to her so carefree. Who was he? And what did he want with her?
She considered the rest of the team going about their tasks; Cho and Rigsby had no doubt stopped somewhere for lunch, probably Taco Bell (if they could find one) or a pizza joint. Rigsby wouldn't settle for a cheap sandwich from the gas station, if he did, he'd be grumpy all day and she knew Cho wouldn't appreciate that. Lisbon would be reining Jane in from wild accusations and a desire to hypnotise the suspect, or some mysterious plan he hoped to keep from her. The last thing they needed was for their only witness statement to be considered inadmissible in court should they be able to prosecute.
Van Pelt couldn't be sure how much time had passed since she'd been sat by the lake, there was no sign of any natural light and her head hurt too much to really know for sure if there were any windows nearby. She still couldn't open her eyes without feeling an intense case of nausea. Would they even know she was no longer waiting for the recovery of the head? Did the divers think she'd skipped out on them in favour of lunch? She hoped not, Lisbon knew she was serious about her job, but even so, the thought of anyone passing on such information annoyed her. She wouldn't have gone anywhere if she could have helped it. What if Lisbon tried to call her?
Her cell phone.
A moment of panic sent her head spinning once more; she wrapped her hands around her body, searching her pockets for the familiar bump of her phone; to no avail. Of course, whoever had taken her and put her in this, warehouse, derelict building, whatever it was, they must have taken it. Her gun was gone too; the holster she stored it in when on her person wasn't attached to her belt. Her stomach filled with a feeling she didn't often experience, adrenaline was one thing, but good, old honest fear was long ago pushed down. She gasped for air until her lungs filled with a couple of deep breaths and she doubted her ability to get out of this alive. It didn't help that she couldn't even open her eyes without worrying she'd vomit.
The ground wasn't smooth, more the rough ridges of large tiles. Van Pelt felt her way across the floor on her stomach, slowly, stopping frequently to ward off the sickness. She didn't know where she was going or whether there was any point in attempting to move anywhere, but she couldn't just lie there and hope Lisbon and the team would save her. She was an officer of the law; she had skills which could help in a situation like this. However, most of the time she didn't feel like her head was splitting in two. She still had to try, it was in her nature.
Maybe she would rest a little more, though. Slow and steady, she told herself, something she was reminded of in the years she ran track. Long distance journeys required more time and planning. Her hands were a terrible pillow but curling up in the foetal position gave her some comfort. The room was colder than was comfortable; she didn't expect to sleep, but at least she could rest her mind, if only for a few minutes.
Perhaps if she pretended she was sleeping, then the man would leave her alone and before she knew it, the team would be there, arresting him or killing him, it didn't matter, as long as she could go home.
A loud thumping reverberated through her brain, the pressure was extreme. Van Pelt pressed a hand against her forehead as the tears strolled down her cheeks. She opened her eyes and yet all she could see was blurred shapes around her. Fear, much stronger than before, grasped hold of her until she could barely let out each breath. She'd never been so scared before, not even when faced with her fiancé pointing a gun in her direction. She'd lost count of the number of times she'd stared death in the face, looked down the barrel at the possibility of her life ending and yet none of her past experiences had prepared her for this moment.
'Daddy,' she cried out, resting her palms against the cool, stone surface. The feeling of the ground was the only guarantee that she was somewhere physical and not spiritual, or so she assumed. She didn't want to die, she wasn't ready. There were too many things she wanted out of her life. This wasn't how it was supposed to end, alone, somewhere that she couldn't even see.
Footsteps vibrated in the distance, breaking through the beat of her heart and the thump of her swollen head. They were growing louder; it was probably the same person who brought her the food. The food which she'd not managed to eat and she wasn't even sure if it was still there.
'Crying for her daddy,' said the man's voice, laughing.
Van Pelt rested her cheek down upon the ground; the contact with the earth comforted her a little. She longed for the hustle and bustle of the CBI bullpen, of the mundane tasks of searching through files for names, addresses, patterns and themes. She wished to be sat with a smile on her face, laughing at a joke Rigsby made or one of Jane's annoying but hilarious pranks. She even missed the sullen expression on Cho's face whenever he was hard at work. She would have taken a lecture from Lisbon, a reprimand from the boss, even the loss of her job; if only it meant that she was safe. What she wanted more than anything was to be back by that lake awaiting news of the decapitated head; she metaphorically kicked herself for taking her life for granted.
The room felt darker, but she was clueless as to whether it was a sign of nightfall or another factor entirely. Did the team know that she was gone? Did they think she'd merely taken herself off somewhere for a rest, or did they fear the kidnap that was her reality? At least, she assumed she had been kidnapped. Why else would she be lying on a stone cold floor whilst a stranger brought her food? She wiped at her tearstained eyes, wincing as her fingers touched the wound on her forehead. The sickness had subsided a little, but that didn't mean she felt well enough to make a run for it. She still couldn't even see her hand clearly in front of her face.
'Not long now,' said the man's voice, its tone committed to memory. It amazed her how comforting a human voice could be in times of greatest need, despite the terrors she potentially faced with him nearby. What did he want with her?
'Til what?' she asked, rolling onto her back once more. She stared at the shape in front of her, squinting in the hope of clearing up the view.
'You'll see, Grace.'
Van Pelt rested a hand against her chest, feeling the speed of her heart beating faster and faster. Something about the way he said her name made her want to scream and cry. She had no idea why she was there, but she knew deep down that something wasn't quite right. Whether she would get out of the situation alive or not, she wasn't sure. What scared her most was dying alone.
In most other life threatening situations, she had been with others; when O'Laughlin shot Lisbon, when a US Marshall supposed to protect a witness looked ready to fire. Each and every time she'd been proactive and shot first, she'd defended herself and the others around her. She had done her job. But now, now she was left with no choice but to take anything that came her way. Her visual impairment was only second to the fact she had no weapon to defend herself. She expected that even with such impairment, her instincts would allow her to save her skin. Without a weapon she felt naked and useless. She'd not known in the early days how much she'd come to rely upon her gun. As a rookie she'd hoped it would become little more than a useful tool if and when she needed it, but to rely upon it for protection had been a far cry from the day she arrived at the Police Academy.
The footsteps started up again, growing quiet as the man walked away. Van Pelt wanted to shout, to beg him not to leave her there alone, but as she listened to his footsteps echo around the room she knew there was little hope of anything but adding a sore throat to her injuries.