Chapter 1: Lone Wolf
"What do you know about Murph?"
"He's a class A marksman, a rock climber, and a good operative."
"Exactly."
Blue eyes looked over the top of the newspaper and stared at the man across the table. "Exactly?" he repeated.
"That's all we know about Murphy. He's even more secretive about his past than you are." Green eyes stared back at blue.
The blue eyes flickered to the other end of the room, where the agent in question was making a cup of tea ignoring the conversation, before shrugging, "So? A man's past is his own business."
Both men watched as the tall brown-haired agent threaded his way through the mismatched furniture dotting the tearoom. Snagging the back of one of the empty chairs, he pulled it away from the table and folded his long length into it. "Bodie. Doyle." He greeted the men in a quiet voice. As he sipped the hot liquid, he looked over his mug at the other two agents.
"We were just commenting that we didn't know anything about you," Doyle said. Bodie looked at him and interjected, "You were commenting on it, not me."
Murphy's mouth turned up slightly at one corner, the only outward sign he gave of the amusement he felt. "I'm surprised you haven't sneaked a look at my file, knowing how 'enterprising' the two of you are. What did you want to know?"
"Birth?"
"Yeah, or I wouldn't be here."
Bodie snorted into his tea cup as Doyle rolled his eyes. "Where were you born?" he clarified.
"In a hospital."
"What town?"
"Wiltshire."
Doyle chuckled. "That's a big place you know. And it's a county." Different tack. "Parents."
"Must have some."
"Sisters and brothers."
"Yes and no."
Doyle sat up straighter. "What do you mean,'yes and no'?"
At that moment the door opened. The three glanced at the man who put his head in the door. Anson spotted Murphy.
"Hey 6.2, Cowley wants you."
Murphy nodded with an inward sigh, gulped a bit more of his tea, and stood up, heading for the door as Anson held it open for him. Nodding again in thanks, Murphy turned down the corridor towards the Controller's office. He stopped in his tracks as he noticed the man and woman standing with Cowley just outside his office. His mouth tightened, his eyes darkened. The group noticed Murphy and Cowley beckoned to him.
Murphy shook his head stiffly, "I'm not really interested, sir. I have nothing to say to them." He started to turn back into the tearoom to find the doorway blocked. Bodie and Doyle were standing there looking at him. Murphy could almost see the thoughts running through their minds, the surprise was stamped across their faces.
Out of the corner of his eye Murphy noticed the man who had been with Cowley stalking towards the group. Something in the way the man approached them must have sent alarm bells through the other agents. Murphy saw sharpened awareness replace shock in the eyes confronting him, and a shifting of bodies poising for action. He stopped the half turn he had been making and shifted his attention back to the man approaching him. Murphy kept his posture straight and deceptively relaxed, his eyes hooded.
Looking at him from the span of timely absence, Murphy could see him as he must look to the three agents behind him. The family resemblance was there. The man was shorter than Murphy's 6'2", and stockier. His face was broader, with a hawkish nose and thin lips. Those lips were set in a cruel down turn, a permanent scowl etched on his face, whereas Murphy's mouth was relaxed. Edwin Murphy's hair was salt and pepper, but still thick and wavy, a trait his son had inherited. Murphy glanced over at his mother who had remained beside Cowley, taking in the traits he had inherited from her - the deep-set grey-green eyes, high, striking cheekbones, and straight, aristocratic nose. He shifted a cold gaze back to his father.
Murphy paid no attention to the agents behind him, but kept his attention on his father, noting the sneer playing across his face as the man stopped in front of him. "So, this is where you've gotten too. A bullyboy for an upstart organization who thinks they can get away with murder. You need your bullyboy friends around to speak to me?"
Murphy smelled the stale odour of alcohol on him and barely refrained from wrinkling his nose. He kept his voice level. "What do you want?"
"Lisa is dead." Murphy sensed that it hadn't been what Edwin had been going to say. Could he have been put off by Murphy's deliberately unemotional tone?
"I know." Murphy replied quietly.
"You know. And you couldn't be bothered to go to her funeral, or get in touch with your mother?" The senior Murphy flung out his hand pointing it towards the woman still standing by Cowley. "You are something else, you are, my boy!" The outflung hand reversed its motion and Murphy's grip closed hard around the wrist. He noticed his father's surprise at the swift movement.
"You really expect me to believe that you give a damn about Mother's feelings as to whether I went to the funeral? How do you know I wasn't there?" His lifted his eyebrow slightly. "You do remember what I told you the last time? You raise a hand to me, and I'll put you into a full body cast. You'd better believe I can do it." Releasing his father's wrist, Murphy brushed past him, dismissing him almost curtly. He reached Cowley and his mother, sparing a sad look at the woman who stood there, hands clasped in front of her. His words were to Cowley however.
"Macklin's expecting me." He turned and started down the stairs without looking at his mother again.
Macklin's office was on the main floor of the current site of CI-5 headquarters, giving him easy access to the large training area further down the corridor. This area housed, as Murphy knew, a swimming pool, and several large rooms designated for fencing, martial arts, and the other disciplines the agents could practice indoors. Macklin's office was next door to the doctor's office, so Murphy checked there after poking his head into the trainer's office and finding it empty. He wasn't surprised to find the two of them there, waiting for him. They should be certifying him fit for full active duty today, a couple of months after he had sustained a bullet injury to his left shoulder climbing a smoke stack to stop a madman.
Murphy could feel Macklin's eyes on him as he stripped off his shirt to allow the doctor to check his shoulder. He knew what the trainer was seeing. Murphy carried his height well, straight-backed, with a flat stomach, washboard abdomen, and well-muscled chest. He sat patiently as the doctor probed the area of the wound, asking how it felt. Murphy replied absently, shaking his head at the doctor's questions.
"No. It feels great. No stiffness or discomfort. The exercises Macklin gave me helped a lot." He buttoned the grey shirt he had put back on.
The doctor nodded, making notes on a chart. Macklin spoke up. "We'll let Cowley know you are back on full status. I want you back on the gun range, however, see if we can't get you aiming better." Murphy grinned wryly, thanked them both, and head back to his office.
As he entered his office, he firmly put the scene with his parents out of his mind. He sat down at the desk, pulling the open file he had abandoned for that cup of tea towards him. He sighed. He hadn't been able to finish that tea, but decided against going back for another cup. His body slowly relaxed into that state of half awareness of his surroundings that total concentration allowed as he digested and analyzed the contents, making notes in a neat hand. When he was satisfied he had analyzed the cases as much as he could to help the agents working on them, he gathered up the papers, replaced them in the appropriate folders, included the notes he had made, and rose from the chair, glancing around to make sure everything was tidy on his desk.
Glancing at his watch, he was mildly surprised to see the afternoon was gone. Closing the door to his office behind him, he headed towards Cowley's office. He was handing the files to the secretary when the Controller opened the door to the inner office. "6.2. A moment."
With a nod at the secretary, a pretty, slim girl with shoulder-length blonde hair and large blue eyes, Murphy followed his boss into the next room. Standing at parade rest in front of the desk, he waited until Cowley waved him to a chair before sitting down and watched as Cowley poured a glass of whiskey for himself. He shook his head when a glass was offered to him.
"So, did they leave straight after that little altercation, or were you subjected to my father's drunken ramblings?" Murphy asked levelly.
The Controller gave him a stare. "He ranted and raved for a few moments about ungrateful bastards who didn't know what was good for them, and then Anson escorted them off the premises."
Murphy nodded. "My mother knew that I would have been told about Lisa's death. I'm surprised it took two months to get back to me about it. My father could have just phoned the local CID and asked them to find me if he really had wanted me at there. He was probably hoping that I hadn't known about it, and surprised to find out I knew. Despite my estrangement from my family, I do have friends in the area and keep an ear to the ground."
"There's no way you will reconcile with your father?"
Murphy shook his head, 'You know what he did."
Cowley continued as if Murphy hadn't spoken. "And what of your mother?"
Murphy looked him straight in the eye. "She knows that I will support her, and help her in any way I can the moment she chooses to leave him. I can't help her until she's made the decision for herself. You know I had hoped that she wouldn't stay with him, when she had the chance to get out. If I try to force her to leave him, if I had tried to force either of them to leave, I'd have been no better than him."
Chapter 2: Background
The two men spend some time discussing Murphy's analysis of the cases he had been studying, as well as the doctor's and Macklin's reports on his health, then the agent left Headquarters for the evening. Half an hour later found him outside a small brown house on a quiet street. Opening the door set back on a small porch, he walked into the large, open kitchen. He had managed to not think of the confrontation with his father for most of the afternoon, but after the conversation with Cowley, he had replayed the scene over in his head, thinking of his family life. By the time he arived home he was fuming.
"Just in time for dinner. I might have known." the woman in the kitchen smiled as she stepped into his embrace. Her voice was velvety, with a strong Scottish accent. Tamsyn McDonald was almost as tall as Murphy, slim and supple. Her long black hair hung in a thick braid down her back. With a deep sigh, Murphy hugged her.
Tamsyn caught his mood as she hugged him back. She frowned slightly as she felt the gun at his side. Usually he removed the gun and holster on his way into the house. She loosened her embrace as he pulled away, and watched as he stalked out of the room without a word. When he returned, he had removed his jacket and gun.
Tamsyn glanced at Murphy as he walked back into the kitchen before turning back to finishing her preparations for dinner and wiping down the counter. "It looks like you had a rough day. Anything you can talk about, or is it the doctor?" She turned towards Murphy as he planted his fists on the kitchen table, his back to her. Tamsyn leaned against the counter, drying her hands on a towel. There was a long silence.
"The doctor and Macklin have given me a clean bill of health, Tam." Another sigh. "My parents stopped by Headquarters."
"Oh." Silence. "What happened?" She kept her voice deliberately casual.
"He called me a bullyboy working with a bunch of bullyboys. Accused me of hurting Mother because I wasn't as Lisa's funeral. She died two months ago and he's only just contacting me now?"
"What did you say to him?" Tamsyn kept her voice calm against the rising tide of Murphy's anger.
"He actually tried to hit me! In front of Cowley!" Murphy paused as if just hearing her question, or maybe to try and calm himself down, Tamsyn wasn't sure. "I told him I knew about Lisa's death." He slapped his palm down on the table. "Damn him! What do I have to do to get him to stay out of my life? I don't know why he keeps popping up. I've never done anything right in his eyes yet, why would he expect that to change? Why would I expect him to change? He told me that everything that happened to me was my fault. I asked for it."
"You will have to confront him Michael, sooner or later. You have to deal with what he's done."
"How would you like me to do that? Show him how many men I've killed, how many I've put into hospital, that I've beaten up? 'Look Da, I'm just like you, I beat people up. Will you please be proud of me now?' " He had turned to face his girlfriend by now, and she could see the anger blazing from his eyes, and behind that, the pain.
"Michael, you aren't like him! You are not a violent man! What you do is to stop people from hurting other people..."
"So that justifies me hitting someone, but not him? I can beat people up..."
"You don't do it because you are stronger than your opponent. You do it to stop them from hurting others. You don't do it because you get any pleasure out of it, or because it makes you feel powerful. The day you do start feeling that way is the day you've become like your father."
Tamsyn moved to his side and put a gentle hand on the rigid shoulder of her lover. "But you have to deal with him. Before your past destroys you."
Abruptly it seemed the anger ran out of Murphy and he sagged slightly. In a bleak, despairing tone he asked. "How? Beat him up? Put him into the hospital? How?"
"By confronting him and not backing down. You know you have the means, the ability to overpower him, even to kill him. Show him that confidence. The same confidence you must have shown him this afternoon. What happened wasn't your fault, but you need to deal with it. With him."
Murphy ran his hands through his hair, not looking at her, before turning and lowering his hands back onto the tabletop. Tamsyn gently brushed her fingertips across his shoulers before moving back to check on dinner.
Before she completely dropped the subject, however, she asked him one more question. "Have you heard from DI Piper since he told you about Lisa's death?"
"Gordon phoned me a couple of weeks ago to let me know that he had put the headstone up if I wanted to come down and see it." Murphy answered her absently.
Tamsyn did not raise the subject again that evening. Eventually she started telling him about her day.. She worked part time as a social worker and psychologist at a youth centre, and a lot of her free time was spent with her photography, working at a studio and emassing a portfolio. The studio was connected to the youth centre, and was used as a creative outlet for some of the kids. Murphy seemed to listen, asking her a few questions, but it was in a distracted voice; it could have been because of the book he had picked up after dinner and which lay open on his lap, but considering the fact it was taking him a long time to turn any pages, she doubted it.
"Come on, love. Let's get you upstairs. I'll give you a massage. I think you'll need one tonight." Tamsyn finally said.
Murphy gave a start and looked over at her with a rueful grunt and slight smile as he rose from his chair. She followed him out of the room and continued down the hall to climb the stairs to the bedroom, leaving Murphy to check the locks and set the security.
She heard the creak of the top stair, and looked up as he reached the bedroom door, where he stopped, stretching his tall frame, arching his back until she could hear his spine crackle. Tamsyn took the opportunity to openly study her lover. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, she thought he looked like an uncoiling panther, and moved like one. She shivered as a wash of desire swept through her, he certainly filled out the blue jeans he wore - or any pair of trousers he wore for that matter. Although, she thought with a wicked, inward grin, she really enjoyed looking at him without clothes. The one thing that she appreciated about his job was the fact that it kept him so fit. She watched as he crossed over to the bedside table to put the gun he had grabbed from downstairs into a drawer there, first checking the safety. She hid her uneasiness at being reminded about the dangers of the job, instead reaching to help him off with his shirt, her fingers brushing the scar on his shoulder. She watched as he lifted her hand to brush it with his lips before he headed into the bathroom. Her hand dropped to brush lightly across the table within which the gun lay. It was a part of the job, she knew he took no real pleasure in carrying it, or in his expertise with it, but she wished ... She felt arms come around her to hold her tight against the hard body she loved so much, and she turned in her lover's embrace.
Chapter 3 Destruction
Murphy was up the next morning just after 6 a.m. He had a quick shower and when he had returned to the bedroom, Tamsyn was up and dressing. Looking at her, he asked why she was up so early. Learning that she had an early meeting at the studio, he offered to drive her there, rather than her having to wait for the Underground. His first stop of the day when he got to Headquarters was the swimming pool. As often as possible, he started the day with laps; it allowed him to think through his day, analyze cases he was working on, figure out strategies he needed, or what he needed to do before he got to his office and the chaos that was inevitably there. He arrived at his office just after 8 a.m. En route he stopped at the tearoom for a cup of tea and any biscuits that might be lying out, then he headed for the Control Room, the hub of CI-5. If George Cowley wasn't there, he'd be in his office, or on a scene somewhere. As Murphy entered the room, Cowley hung up the phone he held in his hands.
"Murphy, good. A bombing at Liverpool Street. Get down there; see what you can find out. The Met are there now with ambulance and rescue personnel. I need you to assess the scene. Bodie and Doyle are already on their way."
The scene was total chaos. One of the trains stopped at the Liverpool Street station had been bombed. Murphy watched as rescue personnel searched the debris for bodies and survivors, staying out of the way as much as possible as he made his way through the destruction. Bodie was beside the remains of the, presumably, epi-centre of the bombing - one of the carriages of the train. He looked up as Murphy approached.
"10 people dead, God knows how many injured, and no warning." He grimaced, looking at the destroyed carriage. "Doyle is with the police getting information from them. This looks to be the carriage where the bomb was. Whoever did this was an expert. There's not going to be much to go on."
"Can you tell what sort of bomb it was?" Murphy surveyed the scene before following Bodie deeper into the hulk. "What interests me is that there were not more injuries. People are getting off and on the train at the station. It has to have been a small bomb, or more people would have been killed or injured."
"Forensics are just getting in there now. If they find something, I'll know something. Let's find Doyle. He might know more."
"Well, whoever it was knew how to make a bomb," Doyle said. "It wasn't an amateur. This whole set up looks too well planned for anyone else. Thank goodness the train was unloading passengers or it could have been a lot worse." The agents headed back to the command centre which had been set up. "So, we are going to be looking for bomb experts."
"Who have a grudge against British Rail? I know using it can be a headache, but who would have a grudge?" Doyle commented wryly.
"Maybe not British Rail itself...maybe who uses it." Doyle gave Murphy a disgusted look at the comment.
"Thanks mate, that narrows it down to three-quarters of the population of London."
Murphy just grinned. "Where are you two off too?" They had reached his car just beyond the command centre and he opened the door.
"I think we will start with some 'mates' of mine who might have some ideas of who's making bombs these days." Bodie answered. "We'll see if there are any contracts floating around for bomb makers."
Murphy nodded. "I'll let Cowley know, grab Jax and start talking to the survivors."
Chapter 4. Profile
Bodie and Doyle started working with their contacts, looking for anyone who might know about bombs and bomb experts. Murphy and Jax started talking to the survivors of the bomb attack. A couple of days after the bomb they still didn't seem to have gotten far. Then a letter which had arrived at Police Headquarters was passed over to CI-5.
"Society is turning a blind eye to everything that is going on around them. Look at them. How many people actually cared about the train bombing? They go about their own business and grumble about how much other people get in their way and inconvenience them. They walk past crime being committed and ignore it because they don't want to be involved. Well, they are going to be involved. They are going to be made to face the crime like the victims have to face the crime."
"Typed, on common paper, no usable fingerprints. Nothing." Bodie tossed the note on the table.
"Not necessarily." Murphy crossed to the table and picked up the note. "Someone with a grudge. A victim of a crime which went unpunished even with witnesses around." He sat down and continued. "The bomber is probably male. We can't rule out a woman, however, until we get more information, even if it is - was the bomber working alone? Was the bomber the brains behind the bombing, or just the man taking orders, placing the bomb? We can assume it's a grudge, so what incident took place at Liverpool Station or around it, or on that particular train at that particular time of the day, even, that was ignored by other passengers? This was not aimed at one particular person, but at the people on the train. Murphy shifted in his seat, noticing that Cowley and Jax had come in. "Do any of the stations have security cameras? Any crime reported?"
Bodie nearly choked on his tea. "You actually expect us to believe you can tell all of that from the fact that he placed a bomb on a train?" You've got to be as mad as he is. How do you expect to know that?"
"Yes, we can tell a lot about a criminal from the type of crime he commits. It's not with 100 percent certainty, but you've seen Mr. Cowley demonstrate it - that Greek sniper trying to kill the royals at Wimbledon." Murphy shifted in his seat, leaning forward intently. "You tell me Bodie, why would you be more likely to assassinate someone with a sniper bullet than with a knife or a bomb?"
Bodie's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think I'd use a gun?"
"If you were to kill someone you didn't know ... a target ... you'd use a rifle, long-range, because you are SAS trained, and that means 'stay low, hit hard and fast, and get out of the area' You'd use a knife only if you had to do close-up work."
"Bodie, I was in the Army, in Intelligence. We worked with profilers from the FBI. We actually learned a bit from them. It's a new science. I'm not going to narrow my thinking to ignore any other evidence that comes along that doesn't fit in with what I just said, but its a place to start. From there we can discount the entire scenario or refine it." Murphy glanced over at the other agent. "Maybe even prove the FBI wrong."
"It's like fingerprinting, Bodie." He continued. "People didn't believe that every individual person had a unique set of prints. I was interested enough in the subject that when my tour of duty was over, I went to University to study pyschology. To see whether there was any real truth in what they were saying. I'm not saying to go by what I've just described. But don't discount it out of hand. Let's cover as many angles as possible."
Murphy turned in his seat to look at Cowley and Jax, addressing his next question to the slim black man. "Anything from the survivors?" At the man's headshake, he continued, this time addressing the question to Bodie and Doyle. "Any luck with your contacts?"
Doyle answered that one. "They're checking into things and are getting back to us."
Murphy rubbed his upper lip absently. "Okay, since I am going to try to prove my point, and I am assuming that something, some crime, took place at King's Cross or more likely Liverpool Street Station, I guess the next step is for me to find out what crime took place." He looked at the Controller for affirmation.
Cowley nodded his head. "Take Jax with you, Bodie, Doyle, get back on the street and find that bomber."
The four agents were walking out of the room when the phone on Cowley's desk rang. He answered it and called out to the men to wait. After listening for a minute, he hung up and grabbed his suit jacket from where it was hanging over the back of his chair. "There's been another bombing."
Chapter 5. Second Time
The second bombing had been outside a courthouse. Five people were dead, with dozens injured. Fragments of the bomb had been found, just like the first, and were of a similar make, connecting the two tragedies.
Several days later, Murphy arrived home late at night and sat down at the kitchen table as Tamsyn placed food in front of him. He could hear her voice as he toyed with the food, not really seeing what was on the plate, and eating it absently. He was mulling over the second note which had arrived at Headquarters earlier. A sudden sharp cracking sound made him start and look up. Tamsyn was standing there, glaring at him.
"Finally! What is going on with you? You haven't heard a word I've said since you walked into the house. It's obviously about those bombings you've been working on. Talk to me. Tell me the problem."
Murphy stared at her for several moments before finally replying. "The police received a letter a couple of days ago. Whoever it sent it was ranting about society not caring, turning a blind eye to crime. That arrived a couple of days after the first bomb. We received another note today along similar lines saying that the previous note was being proved true - no one was concerned about the bombing, or the victims. Society had moved on and the police had given up. This one seems to be tied into the bombing at the courthouse. Something's not right, and I can't figure it out. This is not a typical bomb. He's not fitting the profile and the notes aren't making sense."
"Maybe the notes are meant to throw you off the trail of the bomber. A prankster trying for his day in the sun."
"It's possible, but for some reason I don't think so. I think the notes are what's important."
"Are you concentrating on only one person? Is the bomber and the note writer the same person?"
"I don't know. I don't think so, but if its two people, they are not giving us any clues to figure it out. The survivors haven't been able to give us any information of any one they would have considered strange. We don't even know if the bomber was on the train at the time of the bomb or left the bomb on the train and got off. We are assuming he wasn't on the train, and this second bomb would lend proof to that."
"Where exactly was the train when the bomb went off?"
"At Liverpool Street Station, they were getting off and on the train at the time."
"Has anything happened at Liverpool Street Station that hasn't been solved yet?"
"We were going to look into that when the second bomb went off. Or do you think the train bombing was meant to cover up another crime being done at the same time?"
"No, whatever crime that may have been committed would have been committed before the bombing and maybe the bombing was commemorating the crime. People celebrate important events in their lives. What happened on that day a year ago? Two? Five? And as the time passes, what triggers the need for retaliation or revenge? If it was terrorists, what political event, or religious event took place?"
"We didn't figure it being political. We have Jax looking into that idea, however, especially after the second bomb. But there were no warnings from any factions claiming responsibility. The notes don't suggest anything of a political nature... meaning like the IRA, or another other group we are aware of."
"What if the bomb at the courthouse was a symbol to punish the justice system? What did the notes say?"
Chapter Six: Alyssa
The four agents worked for some time on the bombing case. Then Bodie and Doyle were called away to babysit a visiting African Warrior seeking help to reclaim his leadership over his country. Murphy ended up having to go and help them, resulting in the arrest of another government official. When the three finally were able to turn their attention back to the bomber, Jax had come up with a very likely suspect.
Alyssa Harrison had been coming home from a party one night. She had had a few drinks – just enough to relax her. She had started across the street from the Liverpool Street Station and had run into a group of four men who had been drinking heavily and were looking for some excitement. They had dragged Alyssa into a dark back street within sight of the Underground Station and while three alternated standing guard, and holding her down, they had beaten and raped her, finally leaving her bleeding and unconcious.
She slowly recovered enough to stagger out back towards the station within sight of other latecomers. Some youths had jeered at her dark form staggering among them, assuming she had just had too much to drink, but then she had stepped into a pool of light and the extent of her injuries had become clear.
She had managed to provide descriptions of her assailants to the two Met officers who questioned her at the hospital. Eventually, two of the men had been arrested.
She had endured the trail that lay bare her rights as a citizen. The defense touched on the fact she had been drinking, commenting on the short skirt and low-cut top that served as a walking advertisement of her body, as well as a blatant invitation.
The two men insisted that she had approached them, suggesting a party, and had insinuated her interest in sexual activity, that they hadn't beaten or raped her, the cuts and bruises had all ready been there from her tripping as she led them into the dark street. More of the cuts, they felt could be explained by the roughness of the wall and the ground.
The judge thought their actions constituted assault, but not rape, as he couldn't find the evidence to prove conclusively that she hadn't initiated the sexual encounter, but he wasn't quite convinced that the cuts and bruises were not the result of the men's eagerness to enjoy her charms. He gave them a light sentence and moved on.
Alyssa had tried to appeal and tried to have the case remain open to find the other two men involved. The justice system made soothing noises, suggested she see a psychiatrist to help her deal with the incident, and shut the door on her.
"Okay." The four agents were sitting in Murphy's office where they had gathered to hear Jax's report. "Did you find out if she sought help and where?"
Jax nodded.
Murphy and Cowley questioned Alyssa when she was brought in. She was belligerent and somewhat incoherent at times. Murphy wondered if that was the result of the crime against her, or her time in the mental hospital.
"Why did you have the train bombed?" Cowley started.
"Because it happened at the train station. People were getting off and on the train and ignoring what whas happening. They saw the men and no one came forward!"
"And the courthouse was where the trial took place." Cowley continued gently. She nodded.
"So why innocent people? You could have searched for the specific lawyers, the judge, why innocent people who had nothing to do with your trial?" Murphy's voice was harder than the Controller's.
"Because I was innocent."
"You didn't choose to be their target, so why do the same thing to other innocent people?"
"Society has to pay. They have to pay attention to the victims!"
"You didn't choose to be the target of these men, but you have chosen to remain their victim."
"They attacked me!"
"Yes. But you continue to let them have power over you! Every time you let fear take over, or anger, every time you lash out at people who had nothing to do with your assault, you show these men how powerful they still are. You let them keep winning!"
"They had to pay! The courts didn't believe me. Why is it always the victim who is blamed? 'It's your fault you happened to be there, or you were dressed in a certain way, or spoke or acted. They couldn't help themselves, you provoked them. You asked for it.' That's what the judge says, that's what the public says!"
Murphy had flinched as Alyssa ranted at him. He forced himself to stillness, struggled to keep a stony mask on his face.
"Abuse is about how you are going to deal with it. You can be a victim of violence and allow the abuser to have that power over you; or you can refuse to give them that power. That is what you need to realize." He took a deep breath and continued. "You had a choice. You could stop being a victim, or continue to be one. You chose to continue to be one."
"Spoken like a man! What would you know about it? You guys are the abusers! You have the power and the rights. Women are always seen as asking for it - by the way we dress, whether we go out and drink or even if we just smile at a man! The justice system presumes the guilt of the woman before ever presuming the guilt of the rapists!"
Cowley cut into the conversation. "Who did you get to plant the bomb?"
"I'm not going to betray him."
"Do you really believe that? That she's a victim because she chooses to be one?" "Doyle, I'm not talking about the trauma that surrounds a crime, that surrounds the victim. People heal from injuries and crimes at their own rate, by why can one person move on from being a victim and another become like her? Because they let it eat at them, because they insist that society as a whole has done them wrong and now society has to give them a break. That's where we get more criminals from. You got shot, nearly died. You didn't become convinced that everyone was out to get you, or go on a shooting spree of the flats because no one was there to stop Mayli, or go on a shooting spree of the entire Asian community in London. You dealt with the fact that you were shot and you healed from it. The physicality of it might never go away, but you don't blame society for it. You accept it as an isolated incident and work from there. That is what I am trying to say. Alyssa Harrison could have continued to fight for a re-trial, bugged the Met to continue looking for the other two men.
Doyle to Murphy.
Chapter Seven: Car Accident
Now that CI-5 had a suspect for the bombing, Bodie and Doyle were able to to narrow their search. They finally came up with another name - Brian Harrison, a private at Colchester Garrison. They passed over the information to Murphy before they were called out on another case, leaving Murphy and Jax to work on the case alone. Murphy decided to follow up the information, and set off out of London to visit the Garrison and hopefully talk to the private himself.
He was unable to talk to the private; according to his commanding officer he had been AWOL for the past week. He did learn some interesting information, which he mulled over as he had a quick bite at a nearby pub before heading back to London. He kept his eyes open, checking his mirrors now and then, but wasn't expecting any trouble along the road. He was nearing London on the quiet road when his vehicle was sideswiped by another car coming out of a hidden driveway. The force of the impact spun his vehicle around, so that it flipped, rolling over and over. Murphy was thrown from the car. The occupants of the other car stopped, watching as Murphy struck the ground hard, his body cartwheeling before finally lying limply beneath a tree at right angles to where the car had stopped. His body was contorted into an unnatural position, and a thin trickle of blood leaked from his mouth. Satisfied he was not going to be bothering them anytime soon, they drove away.
Time passed, the songbirds resumed their singing, and the other animals ventured about their business. It had been early afternoon when Murphy had started back to London, and dusk was just beginning to fall when the still form finally stirred. Forcing open eyelids crusted with blood from a gash in his forehead, Murphy started to turn his head, but the effort was too much, and his eyes closed again.
Darkness decended into early night before Murphy stirred again. His first conscious sensation was a metallic feel to his head, like a steel plate lowered between his brain and his senses, but also somewhat akin to touching his tongue to a live wire. He tried moving his head, his body. Anything to convince himself that he was still actually alive. He managed to open his eyes to total darkness. Panic flung his body into a paroxysm of movement, awakening blinding pain.
"Can't see! God! I can't see!!" Moaning he realized he had somehow managed to roll himself onto his side, putting his weight onto his right side. He didn't seem to realize that his right leg and arm were broken.
"Damn it, where is the man?" Cowley growled as he paced the control room. "It isn't like Murphy not to be out of range of his R/T, and he should be responding. He's spending too much time with Bodie and Doyle, I wager, and their bad habits are rubbing off on him. He leaned over the radio man. "Keep trying, both the R/T and the car radio and notify me the instant you get him." He started out of the room when the radio man spoke up.
"Sir." The red-haired man turned to look at the Controller. "I'm getting no signal at all from his car radio. I've got a signal from his R/T, but not the car."
"Where was he going?" Cowley scowled down at the man, not really seeing how tense he was making the radio operator.
"I don't know."
"Well, get someone to find out!" Cowley was out the door before the man could agree.
One of the other agents had come in and caught the tail end of the conversation. "Who are you looking for, Peterson?" he asked, noting the strained face.
"Murphy. He's not responding to the radio or R/T, and Mr. Cowley wants to know where he was going. I haven't heard from him for a couple of hours."
"He's working on the bombing case with Bodie and Doyle. I'll hunt them down, and see if they know what is going on. You keep trying his R/T." Anson turned to leave. Peterson could hear him mutter. "Try their R/T's, I think they were following up another lead, checking out a contact.
Bodie answered the R/T. "What's going on?"
"Cowley's looking for Murphy and no one seems to know where he's gone. Do either of you know?"
"Last time I talked to him, he was heading out to the Colchester Garrison to check a lead. You mean he's not back yet? Put Alpha One on."
"I'm right here. Where the hell is Murphy?" Cowley nearly grabbed the radio mike out of the radio operator's hands, having walked back into the room in time to hear the conversation.
"He's supposed to be at the Colchester Garrison. He's following up a lead. Brian Harrison..."
"I don't care about the details." Cowley snapped. "We can't raise him."
"Sir. He took one of the Capris. The radio in the car is not responding at all. And this is what I get from his R/T." The radio operator turned to look at the Controller, then turned back to his instruments and flipped a switch. A crackling sound filled the air.
There was an insistent beeping noise coming from nearby. Using his left hand, he started hitching himself along, digging his fingers into the loose dirt, the grass, around the small rocks, anything. He dragged himself towards the sound. He didn't know why, but felt he must respond. Finally, his fingers closed over a metallic surface, and he had pulled it down to his chest before it registered that this was the source of the noise.
More by luck than conscious knowledge had him click the R/T on. He lay there, panting in the silence.
"Alpha to 6.2." The voice was disembodied, distant. The words incomprehensible to Murphy. He heard them, but there was no connection made. He didn't know what it was, the voice was just words. He lay there, panting in pain. Why pain? What happened? Why couldn't he get up? Abstract images, thoughts floated through him seeming to collide with the metal haze in his mind.
"Alpha to 6.2." The voice became louder, more insistent. Murphy still couldn't seem to figure out what the sounds were.
"Alpha to 6.2. Do you read me, 6.2?" Familiar. Something was familiar about that. Murphy managed to twist his torso so that his mouth was closer to the R/T, but all the noise he seemed capable of producing was the panting sound.
"Murphy."
The name swirled around in his brain, unconnected to anything. Why should he know that sound? What was making him try to respond?
"Murphy. Respond." The demand pulled at him, trying to reach into him, to produce something, anything to make the voice stop. Murphy managed a moan.
"What has happened, Murphy. Where are you?" The voice still demanded, but there was a questioning tone now, a concern. Murphy tried to think. Tried to formulate something. Tried to understand how to speak. He had no will power, responding only because he was conditioned to, responding to the note of command in the voice. Trying to respond.
"Black." The word was a rasp. Thought was disjointed, not connected to anything. Nothing was making any sense. It was black, that was what was all around him. How he knew, he didn't know. He fought to bring his mind into some semblance of thought, intelligence. He knew he must think. Must respond to the voice. From somewhere deep inside him, the feeling came over him that if he let the voice fade away, he would fade away.
"Murphy!" Again the voice demanded. Murphy didn't know who the voice belonged to, or why he must respond, all he knew was he must respond.
"All black." His voice was little more than a moan of pain.
"It's night time, Murphy. Can you tell me where you are. Tell me what happened!"
What happened? That gave his mind a direction to focus on, but still nowhere to start.
"Pain." He tried to tell them that he couldn't think. Thought he tried to tell them.
"Think, man. You've got to think. To remember. You've got to help us find you. Report!" Murphy moved, trying to gather his arms and legs under him, to shift position or huddle in on himself, he didn't know. All he knew was a blinding pain exploding in his head, surging through his body. His chest heaved as he retched, coughing and choking. He rolled, bringing more pain, but instinct saved him from choking, smothering on the vomit he expelled.
"Murphy! Stay with me, man!" Why was the voice so angry with him? Who was mad at him? He hadn't done anything, had he, for anyone to be mad at him?
By some miracle, he had still retained his grip on the R/T, the voice a tenuous lifeline. He rolled onto his side, trying to move away from the smell before he was sick again.
"Light, blinding." His voice was hoarse. He didn't know where the dancing lights were coming from, but they prevented him from seeing anything beyond the light. It blasted into him, light feeding pain feeding light.
"Murphy. Think. What were you doing, where were you going? What can you remember of your surroundings?" Still the voice demanded. What did it want from him? What was it bothering him for?
"Cold." The large frame shuddered, in pain, in cold from the night air, as his body reacted to his situation, pulling warmth from his extremities to heat the vital organs.
"Stay with me, man!" Hint of panic in the voice. Demanding. He wanted to scream, "leave me alone, you're hurting me," Murphy suddenly cried out as something went slithering across his face. Convulsing, he almost started retching again with the pain of movement. The voices dimmed replaced with a low whining. As he stopped thrashing about, he felt a shaggy body wriggle against his body, crowding against him, and a wet nose butting against his chin. It was moments before a connection was made to the feelings. He laughed weakly, a chuckle dragged from deep within. He heard the voice again, demanding.
He fuzzily wondered why his figures refused to uncurl from around the object squawking at him, but he didn't have the strength to throw it away.
"Murphy, report."
"Dog."
"Can you see where you are? Do you know where you are? Can you see around you?" Cowley. The voice belonged to someone named Cowley. Murphy was trying to make sense of the disjointed images flashing in his head between blasts of lights. Threads tangled in his mind. Clinging to the name, he tried to follow it back, to untangle it. Flashes.
"Woods." he whispered focusing on one flash.
"Car." He had been driving somewhere. Where was the car? Why was he on the ground?
"You are in a wood. Is that correct? Murphy?" The voice repeated the words back at him.
"Yesh." His voice slurred. Follow the thread back. Woods. Car. What was it all about?
"What about the car." Connection. Flash. An impact of sorts, trying to control the vehicle, out of control. Had it, then something twisted it...
"Crash." He had hit something. He lost the thread of thought, lost the connection.
"Where were you driving to?" Murphy rolled his head. To get away from the voice or the pain? His neck arched and the dog against him whined.
Murphy lay panting. "Cold." he managed to shift his body to get closer to the source of warmth.
"Where were you driving to? Murphy! Report! Damn it man, stay with me! That's an order." Don't want to. Don't know. Leave me alone. An image branded itself on his mind, brighter than the dancing lights. A woman, someone he knew. Someone who reached out for him, a cord extending out into the blackness, connecting. A beautiful, black-haired woman.
"Tamsyn." He breathed her name, reaching for that connection. He didn't realize he had managed to move his broken arm to curl the hand into the fur lying against him. His mind said he was grasping onto that cord, tightening. Don't let go. You can't let go. Must hang on to this. Flashes of memory, her smile, the teasing way she had of looking at him when she was asking him to do something for her, the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. More flashes, but this time men. Cowley, the name found a face in his mind. This time the thread was less tangled. Connections made.
"Help me find you." That was Cowley's voice. Must tell him what he knew. Where was he? Where had he been going? Bombs. Bombs. Bomb makers. Army? Army base.
"Col..."
"Repeat." Damn it man, why can't you understand what I'm telling you. Why are you making me repeat myself. I'm trying. Damn it I'm trying. The least you can do is understand. Murphy tried again.
"Colchester." He finally managed.
Cowley's voice faded away.
In the Control Room, Cowley moved back from the radio mike and turned to look around as someone approached him to tell him that Tamsyn had come to Headquarters in response to the phone call she had received. Cowley scowled, then made a quick decision. He ordered the agent to bring her in. Then he patched into Bodie's R/T again. "Where are you, now? You should know the route he took. Get after him." He barely heard Bodie's reply that the were already on the A12 heading towards Colchester. He had already turned to someone else standing nearby, "Get the Colchester Police Department on the phone and get them out looking for a car accident. Contact the Garrison as well, get a helicopter in the area" He barked into the radio at Bodie, "Move, damn you! And keep your car radio tuned to this. Use your R/T for communications." Bodie and Doyle moved. Cowley turned back to the radio, as agents scattered then turned towards the door again as an agent entered the room, followed by a tall, slim black-haired woman, dark eyes full of worry. He nodded. "Miss McDonald. You've been told that Murphy has been in an accident? I need you to talk to him. To keep him focused on something. I think he will respond to our voice more than mine." The woman was pale, but nodded and sat down in the chair in front of the mike.
"Tamsyn." The name was a plea. He moved his head weakly against the dog's fur. More bright lights in front of his eyes. "No. Please." He didn't know why he was pleading, only that he must. More than anything, this name, this woman, was the anchor holding him there, and if he lost that... He moaned again.
A woman's voice spoke. "Michael." It was calm, soothing. Holding a hint of worry. An anchor against the darkness threatening to overtake him again. He rolled his head. Light. "Lisa?" He couldn't see anything around the light. "Please, Lisa. I love her so much." The plea was a whisper against the pounding in his head. The light blinded him, hurting him. He moaned, his fingers clenching around fur, and the object in his hand.
"Michael. You have to fight. Remember all the anger you felt when you were younger. The frustration. Use that to fight for your life now. You used it to fight for your sanity and your pride then. Fight now." The voice was soft, but a ribbon of steel ran through it.
"Tamsyn." Dimly, he thought he could hear a woman weeping. "Lisa. Please don't do this. Please. I love her." Was he pleading to the light, or the woman weeping? Why was she weeping?
Disjointed, faint. "Keep him talking."
"Lisa." He moaned. Then, in a sudden, surprisingly strong voice. "Don't leave me!" Pain clawed his throat. Desperate, he fought against the pain around him, trying to break through the fog in his mind, the metal fog that he tasted on his tongue and in his mouth. The light was pinpoints now. She was gone, he couldn't see her, couldn't hear her. He moaned, whispering, pleading.
"Michael. I'm here. I'm here." Sobbing sounds. He didn't know where the woman was, or why she was crying. He hardly felt the dog's tongue licking the tears from his face.
"Murphy. Hang on. The local police have been notified. Someone's coming. Bodie and Doyle are on their way." The male voice, Cowley, he remembered irritably, interrupted the woman. Fretfully, painfully he shook his head. He wasn't aware he was scrabbling on the ground, his fingers, still clenched around the R/T and the dog's fur, not making contact enough to push him upright. He struggled, thinking only that he must reach the woman, to stop her from crying. Why was she crying? Why must he stop her? Teeth closed gently, but firmly around his wrist, holding him down.
Bodie and Doyle were indeed on their way, exceeding the speed limit. Their car radio was patched into the main line at Headquarters where Tamsyn was pleading with Murphy to stay alive, and Cowley barked orders.
"Blue house." Another image came to his mind, as he subsided on the ground again. What did it mean?
"Murphy? Repeat. What about a blue house?" Still Cowley demanded in his head. Does the man never stop giving orders? Go away. Leave me alone.
"Past...turnoff." He voice was slurred and fading. He couldn't see the lights anymore. Sorrow closed up his throat. Don't want to leave her behind. Don't go away. Don't leave me here alone. Please.
Doyle pounded his fists impotently against his thighs, barely refraining from screaming in frustration. They could hear what strength there had been in his voice fading. He was moaning lowly.
Suddenly Bodie put the car into a controlled skid, twisting the wheel to take a corner. Startled, Doyle concentrated on the roadway.
"Wha...?
"Bleu House. The sign there."
"Well, slow down, a bit. We don't want to end up in an accident ourselves. That will not help Murphy. And we do not want to go past the scene."
They nearly did anyway. The headlights glinted off metal, and revealed broken branches. Doyle heard the sounds of sirens behind them. Heard brakes engage, and the slamming of doors. Voices calm as they started to unload a stretcher, and rescue equipment.
Murphy felt the dog shift away. His fingers fell away, to lay slightly curled on the ground. His heart slowed. It was all going black. She wouldn't save him. Couldn't save him.
"Come on, Rascal. He'll be okay now. Good dog." The voice was calm. Female.
"No! Don't leave me!" He thought he cried out as the dog's presence faded away. He tried to move, but blinding pain sent him into oblivion. Blackness. Regret. Loss.
Brian Harrison paced around the small kitchen of the farm house he was holed up in. He was frantically trying to think of a way out of this mess he was in. He knew he shouldn't have gotten involved with his sister's mad scheme, but, well, she was his sister! She hadn't gotten a fair trial, so to speak. The bastards got away with their crime and left him to pick up the pieces and put his sister back together. He hadn't been convinced that she was ready to leave the mental hospital when she persuaded him to help her leave, but he knew he couldn't do anything but help her. Society owed her for what was done, he agreed with that. The government trained men to kill and bomb people who wronged others, and didn't that fit under that heading? He was trained to protect the innocent, those who couldn't help themselves. It was the government's fault that he had the means to avenge his sister's honour. It hadn't taken much to persuade him to make the bombs. She had said she wanted to make society pay; so she wanted to set the bombs at the locations where society had failed her. She had decided that the train bomb had to be placed on the morning commute for a greater impact. The only reason the carnage hadn't been worse was due to the fact it was a Bank Holiday, and the normal throng of commuters had been down to a slow trickle. The bomb had been small in size to be able to hide under one of the seats. He had placed it and his pack under the seat when he had gotten on the train, and then 'forgot' the package when he had left the carriage. He had set the timer for a few minutes later than the schedule had the train pulling out of the station just in case the train had been delayed and he would have not been able to get off. He had thought of an alternate plan if the train had been delayed. He would have gotten up off of his seat and made his way to the farther end of the carriage, to make it seem like he was getting ready for the train's arrival into the station. With luck he might have been able to be outside the carriage and the train going slow enough that he could have jumped if anything had gone wrong. Thankfully, nothing had.
The bomb for the courthouse had been simplier, of course. He just had to set the timer for a short while after he had put it into place, just enough so that he was out of the area when it went off. That had been timed for lunch, in order to try and get as many lawyers and judges as possible. How could they have said that his sister had asked for this attack?
Now, he was holed up at the house, waiting to hear from his sister. She hadn't been in touch for several days now. He had heard that some government organization or other had taken her in for questioning about the bombs. He had friends find out what they could, which is how he had learned that someone was going to Colchester to talk to his commanding officer and try to find him. He had been too late to make arrangements for anything to happen to this copper that had gone to the Garrison, but had been lying in wait for him on the way back. A mate had seen the man in the pub having lunch, and had telephoned Brian when the man had left, telling him that the man had been one of those that had taken his sister into custody. Brian knew there was probably only one way the man would take back into London and had quickly tried to set something up. Unfortunately, the man was still alive. He had managed to survive the accident. So far there had been no way of getting into the hospital to finish the man off; someone was with him all the time. And there was still his sister. He had to get his sister out and away from London.
He continued to pace around the kitchen, chewing his lower lip as he tried to think.
Chapter Eight: Hospital
A beeping sound, low, steady, intruding, was the first thing Murphy was aware of. He moved his head, feeling pressure in his mouth. He tried to take a deep breath, and choked on whatever was obstructing his mouth. He arched his neck, his eyes opening as he fought the reflex to control his breathing. He was dimly aware of hands on his shoulders, holding him still.
"Stop fighting. Try to relax, and we'll take the respirator out."
Murphy managed to focus his eyes enough to identity the figure bending over him. A doctor, a hospital. He tried to stop fighting, to relax his body enough to let the man do his job. As Murphy relaxed, the doctor slid the respirator from his throat, placing it on a tray held by a nurse standing beside him. Murphy worked his mouth trying to ease the sensations. His throat was parched, his voice a rasp as he tried to speak. "Water."
The doctor nodded. "In a moment, lad. Just let me look at you." He shone a small light into each of Murphy's eyes, then lifed a finger and told Murphy to follow it as he moved it across his field of vision. He nodded in what looked like a satisfied way, and left the room.
The nurse brought over a cup of water with a straw in it. Holding the cup in one hand she slid her other hand behind Murphy's head to brace it so he could drink. "Just a few sips," she cautioned.
Murphy would have snorted if he could. He could hardly manage the act of sipping the water before collapsing back on the pillow. He closed his eyes. He could feel bed sheets being pulled tight around him, and a hand gently feeling his forehead then withdrawn. He heard the squeak of rubber-soled shoes as the nurse moved about, then silence.
He must have slept again, because when he woke the room was dim. He lay there not moving assessing his condition. His throat was still sore. His head ached, but was clear. His arm and leg were encased in plaster he surmised, from the weight and immobility of them. His back ached.
So. What happened? He knew Cowley was going to want a full report, so he needed to think back and reconstruct his day. He started by going further back, reconstructing a timeline to follow.
The bombing. Bodie had contacted some of his friends to find out who was looking for a bomb and coming up empty-handed.
Letters to the police, hinting at a crime ignored. Jax looking into that. Doyle's knowledge of bombs leading to a connection to Colchester Garrison. His trip to the Garrison to check out bomb experts. Harrison, Brian. AWOL since the bombing. That was the connection, tenuous, but a connection.
Murphy relaxed, trying to ignore the discomforts of his body, letting his mind drift to thread the weave and recreate the interview at the Garrison. Captain ... Murphy shook his head in irritation. What was the man's name? He couldn't think of the man's name, but he remembered the conversation.
"Harrison's one of those squaddies who are always being disciplined for fighting in the town - I'm sure you know the sort. Things took a more serious turn several years ago when he was involved in an assault on a civilian - he was lucky to escape criminal charges and was warned that any further problems would result in a discharge."
"When was this? Do you have specific dates?"
The Captain skimmed through the file on his desk. "July 1975. Since then things seemed to have straightened themselves out until September last year, when he came on duty drunk and blew up at an officer."
"Did he give any reason?"
"Once he'd sobered up? Not really. Generally speaking he's a good soldier and was given another chance - now of course he's blown that. When we pick him up it'll be a court-martial and discharge."
"Does he have any family?" Murphy changed tactics.
"Parents died just before he joined up in '72. He has one sister, Alyssa, living in London."
Murphy's thoughts were interrupted as the door to his hospital room opened. Tamsyn entered, her eyes lighting up at seeing Murphy awake. She was followed by Bodie.
"Hello, handsome," Tamsyn greeted Murphy.
"Hi, beautiful." he responded, or tried to, his voice coming out in a croak. He attempted to sit up in order to reach for the glass of water on the table beside the bed. Bodie moved quickly to his side to offer his arm, careful of the IV tubing attached to Murphy's left arm. Murphy grasped Bodie's upper arm as Bodie's hand clasped around Murphy's forearm holding him steady. Tamsyn moved to the head of the bed to adjust the pillows supporting his back as Bodie eased him back. Bodie grabbed the glass and held it steady as Murphy sucked on the straw. Murphy nodded for Bodie to take the glass away and closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them again, Bodie and Tamsyn had pulled up chairs beside the bed and were settling into them. Tamsyn clasped Murphy's uninjured hand in her own.
"You've been unconscious for two days, Murph." Bodie grinned at him. "We kept telling the doctors that you were too tough to die." He glanced over to the other side of the bed. "We had to tell Tamsyn that as well before she'd go home and get some sleep last night." He ran an appreciative eye over Tamsyn's figure before turning back to Murphy. Murphy hadn't missed the look and narrowed his eyes at Bodie. Bodie unabashedly shrugged.
Tamsyn had caught the interplay, but wisely ignored it. Instead she asked, "What do you remember?"
"Not much about the accident, but I remember the Garrison." Murphy shook his head irritably as he tried to shift in the bed. "Harrison has gone AWOL. Disappeared the same time the first bomb went off. I'd say he definitely is involved, if we hadn't thought that before. We have to find him. "
Bodie looked at him. "You're not doing anything for a while, mate. Except leave yourself to the tender mercies of this lovely lady."
Murphy growled, mock possessively. "She's too smart to fall for you, Bodie, so you might as well not even try!!"
Bodie chose to ignore the comment, switching the conversation back to the case. "We're looking for Harrison now. Your car was hit by another vehicle, so Jax has been looking in the area to see if we can find out where Harrison has gone to ground. We figure that he knows we have Alyssa and that's one of the reasons he ran you off the road. The vehicle had to be a truck of some sort, capable of withstanding the impact enough to drive away, so we are looking for a lorry, or army vehicle. We went back to the Garrison to see if Harrison had any friends that would help him out with something like this." He noticed Murphy's attempt to stay alert and awake, and quickly stood up. "I'll let Cowley know you are feeling better, and later we will get your report on what happened at the Garrison, and what you remember about the accident. You'd better get some rest." He grinned at Tamsyn before heading for the door.
Tamsyn leaned forward to press a light kiss on Murphy's lips. "I'd better let you rest as well. The doctors say you are going to be alright. Broken leg, and broken arm, so you are not going to be moving about much for a while. You'll be in hospital for a while longer, until the doctors are satisfied you are healing properly and you don't have any head trauma. Your Bodie and Doyle have offered to help set up the downstairs room beside your study as a temporary bedroom, since you won't be climbing the stairs for a while. Let's hope this is not going to become a trend for you. First getting shot, now broken bones ... what next? Kidnapped and tortured?" She tried to make her voice light, but Murphy could hear the worry behind it.
"I wouldn't say that too loud if I were you." He tried to joke with her. "You know things come in threes." He paused. "It's strange, one thing I remember about the accident is talking to a woman. She was surrounded by a light. I thought it was Lisa. There was a dog as well."
Tamsyn looked puzzled. "There was no sign of a dog being near you when Bodie and Doyle and the ambulance arrived. The ground was moist enough that there would have been paw prints, even after everyone walked over the ground."
"I thought I heard Doyle's voice before everything went black, then a woman's voice telling the dog to come away. Funny, she called him Rascal. That was the name of the dog Lisa and I had as kids, before he ran away."
"Mr. Cowley had phoned me to tell me you were missing, and I had decided to come down to Headquarters. I really didn't want to sit by the phone and wait for a call about your condition, or that they had found you. When they finally let me through to the radio room, Mr. Cowley had me on the radio talking to you. You called me Lisa." Tamsyn smoothed back a lock of hair from Murphy's face before continuing. "I just thought you were not thinking straight." She noticed his eyes sliding closed. "Get some rest. I'll be back later on to see how you are doing."
Cowley had been worried that someone would try to get at Murphy while he was in the hospital. He knew that Murphy was well liked in the squad due to his easy-going manner and humourous nature. He was always willing to lend a hand to any case that needed a fresh pair of eyes and the others knew he'd cover their backs if needed. Cowley made sure that a couple of agents were assigned to guard Murphy's door until Bodie and Doyle found Harrison.
Bodie strode down the corridor of the hospital. He had gotten Murphy's report of the conversation at the Garrison and what he could remember before the car accident. He stopped as he saw Cowley approaching. Briefly he recounted his conversation with Murphy. At the end of it he added:
"I think we should put a guard on Murphy's room. Now that he's awake, we won't be around here constantly keeping an eye on him. I don't know how safe he is and we don't have a good picture of this guy." He turned and noticed Tamsyn leaving the room and walking towards them. "Don't know if I'd tell her that."
Cowley had been glaring at Bodie. "When I need you to tell me how to protect my men, 3.7, I'll ask for your opinion," he said ascerbically. He nodded at Tamsyn as she stopped beside them. "Are you going home now?"
Tamsyn nodded. "Now that I know he's okay, I can sleep a bit."
Cowley nodded. "3.7 would you drive Miss MacDonald home? Then you are off-duty for the evening." Without waiting for a reply he continued down the corridor.
Bodie motioned for Tamsym to precede him down the corridor, following a step behind.
He dropped Tamsyn off outside the house and continued down the street to make a circuit of the block. He wasn't sure how crafty Harrison was, but his concern over Murphy's safety extended to Tamsyn as well. The problem, he figured, was - how was he to know if any of the vehicles parked on the street belonged there or not.
He had returned to the front of the house, found a parking space with a clear view of the driveway and one of the windows, and settled down to wait for something to happen.
Chapter Nine: Capture
Tamsyn wearily entered the house after Bodie dropped her off. Dropping her purse and keys on the kitchen counter, she turned to make sure the door was shut and started to punch in the security code. As she finished punching the code in, she heard a noise from the other end of the hallway, where the front door was. She had just left the kitchen to start down the hallway when the front door slammed open and a man rushed in. He was dressed in dark clothes with a dark cap on his head, and camaflauge paint on his face. Tamsyn froze for a moment, then screamed. She started for the door of Murphy's study, where she knew he kept his gun, but the stranger grabbed her before she got two steps in the door.
Tamsyn fought him desperately. Murphy had taught her the basics of self-defense and chivved her into practicing, but that deserted her in her shock. She had never been bodily attacked by anyone in her life, and never expected it to happen, even knowing that Murphy dealt with criminals. She had agreed to the self-defense lessons to stop him from continually insisting she learn, but for some reason, it had not occurred to her that the men Murphy dealt with would break into her house and attack her. This was supposed to be a sanctuary, off-limits to the outside world and its corruptness.
She was trying to twist in his arms, to either break free or turn to claw at him, when everything froze.
"Let her go! Let her go and move away from her, or I'll shoot." The steel in the voice made her want to weep in relief. Bodie. She used the momentary distraction to jab an elbow into the intruder's midsection, causing him to grunt and loosen his hold. That gave her the opening to twist free and move out of the way. She wanted to throw herself at Bodie in relief, but wisely stayed out of the aim of the gun he held pointed at the intruder's head.
"Get down on the floor, face down, arms out at your sides," The sound of the gun hammer cocking was loud in the small room and Harrison moved to obey. "Tamsyn, move back against the far wall - or better yet, take yourself into that other room for a few moments. If that door has a lock, use it. Backup is on its way." His head tilted slightly to indicate the open doorway set in the corner of the room.
"What?" She stopped to wet her lips. "What are you going to do with him?" She asked nervously.
"Just go."
Tamsyn skirted Harrison who now lay face down on the floor. She watched him nervoulsy, making sure to stay out of the reach of his arms. Once around him, she darted for the door of the inner study, and Bodie heard the click of a lock. He didn't take his gaze off of Harrison however, and the gun never wavered.
"So, why do this? You must know that we would figure it out, and put guards on Murphy. You must have been at the hospital to find out who Tamsyn was and follow her home." Bodie questioned him almost conversationally.
"I ain't sayin'nothin'" The man muttered into the carpet.
"Suit yourself. We already have your sister in custody, Harrison. That's the first thing we did when we learned about the car accident. I'm guessing you were involved in that. Don't know what the point was; the information Murphy learned would have been recovered, all it would have taken was a phone call. Your sister told us why she had you plant the bombs. Still, makes no sense to me..." Bodie stopped talking as he heard a noise, then relaxed slightly as he heard several familiar voices.
"Bodie?" one voice called from the kitchen.
"Ray! Got your handcuffs on you?" The familiar curly head of his partner appeared beside him, taking in the scene. Holstering his drawn weapon, Doyle reached for the set of handcuffs he always seemed to carry and quickly handcuffed Harrison, pulling him upright as he did so. Anson and Jax appeared in the open front door, automatically checking the other rooms. Only after Harrison was handcuffed did Bodie relax and walk towards the door on the other side of the room. Knocking, he called out to Tamsyn and heard the lock click open and the door cracked open just enough for her to peer out.
She noticed that Doyle had Harrison in his grasp, but that didn't stop her trembling. "Who is he? Did you know that he'd be here? Were you expecting him to be here? What is going on?"
Bodie put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away. "We didn't know that Harrison would come after you. We didn't know that he knew where you lived. We thought he would try for Murphy in the hospital, but he must have thought that Murph would be guarded and you wouldn't. He's the man that we've been looking for, and the man who ran Murph off the road."
"Why didn't you arrest him before now?" Tamsyn's fear was turning to anger.
"Because we didn't have a picture of him, and when Murphy went to the Garrison, he wasn't there. We had to wait until he made another move and came out into the open."
"You used me as bait? Or did you expect to use Michael as bait?"
"Murphy was guarded. You were safe while you were at the hospital, because we could guard you at the same time. We put guards on Murphy as soon as you left the hospital tonight."
Chapter Ten: Finale
Bodie and Doyle were relaxing in the tea room a couple days after the Harrison case had wrapped up. Doyle handed a mug of tea to Bodie before taking a seat and picking up the sports section of the newspaper someone had left behind. He had just started to read the results of the latest football match when Bodie spoke up.
"So, did you learn anything new about Murphy? Your curiousity satisfied?"
"Not really. Still haven't learned all that much about him. He's got a family that he doesn't get along with, a sister who's passed away - how we don't know; he lives with a gorgeous woman who's got you drooling into your pint, and he's Military Intelligence. I suppose that tells us a bit, but it really doesn't tell us anything at all."
"Well, what do you want to know about him? That he likes puppy dogs and rainy days and little children and he helps old ladies across the street? What's to know, really? That he's loyal to his friends and will help them out, he's a good man to have at your back, you can trust him. What more do we need? He's got us covered when we need him and that's what's important." Bodie grabbed another section of the paper, turning to check out page three. "And for your information, I am not drooling over his girlfriend. I know better. He'd flatten me if I even thought of it. I know which birds to stay away from."
Doyle snorted, unconvinced. "Yeah, right. You'd steal her from underneath him if you thought you could get away with it."
"Can I help it if I have great taste in women? Now you, Doyle ... that bird you took out to dinner last night ... what were you thinking? I thought I taught you better than that!"