Note: Characters aren't mine; they belong to several people I will likely never meet. I'm just borrowing them with the acknowledgment that they'll be put back on their respective shelves relatively unscathed. Consider yourself disclaimed for this, and any subsequent chapter hereafter.
Eidolon
She kneeled in front of the couch, the room lit solely by the vibrant flickering of a fire roaring in the corner. That fireplace was the sole selling point for this particular Manhattan apartment, something about the warmth it provided screamed home. Not to mention, the price for the tiny one bedroom abode was the cost of a large ranch where she came from. But any piece of Montana, however trivial, had been a welcome comfort in her transition to city life. After all, the winters back home were grueling, and the old fireplace her father maintained served to bring the family closer during the colder months. Settling down on the shag carpeted rug and burying her toes into the fibers, she set out to begin folding the laundry that she had put off for days now. The simple moments like this she had learned to cherish, for they allowed her some sense of normalcy in her otherwise hectic life.
Six pairs of slacks and several of her sweaters later, she came across a small, long sleeved tee-shirt bundled up with the rest of the clothes and had to stifle a bubble of laughter. The Dr. Seuss tee depicted a circus in well worn primary colors, McGurkus's circus to be exact, complete with the Zoom-a-Zoop Troupe. Lindsay smirked, recalling the owner's insistence that the shirt simply reminded one of the old proverbs about chickens and hatching, and the ills of excess. A complacent sigh and a quick look over her shoulder told her that things were going to be okay, not perfect, but okay nonetheless.
The shrill ring of her pager snapped her out of her silent reverie. That was the problem with being on call; apparently the city never sleeps. Hopping up to her feet and quickly silencing the beeping device, she began her trek toward the kitchen to return the page. A soft, though labored sigh, followed by a lonely arm drifting lazily off the side of the couch stopped her in her tracks, taking her attention off the task at hand for a moment. Lindsay cautiously returned the arm to its former place, careful not to disturb its slumbering owner. Pulling an old quilted blanket off the back of the couch, she properly tucked in the sleeping form with a soft kiss to the forehead. Meanwhile, silently praying that some peace would come after what they'd been through. Even so, something in her gut told her that it wasn't completely over yet.
Taking a deep breath, she phoned Mac, wondering where the night would take her.
Earlier:
The late afternoon bullpen was the usual hustle of energy. Phones ringing, suspects complaining, witnesses recounting stories... However, Detective Flack was oblivious to the routine commotion. Having just dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's concerning his latest case; he was in the midst of closing up shop early on Sunday for once. Eager to get to Armstrong's, down a cold one or two, and catch the last half of the Giants game, he quickly cleared off his desk, grabbed his coat and made a beeline for the door. No more than ten steps away from freedom and his bachelor's night off, he noticed a young woman near the entrance. Visibly shaken, yet trying to hide it, she seemed completely lost. She noticeably stiffened as people rushed by, yet remained somewhat invisible to the rest of the busy bullpen. His sense of duty had gotten the better of him, and figuring the game could wait a few more minutes, he offered some direction.
"Need some help, miss?"
Wordlessly, she handed him a piece of department issue paper, which, surprisingly had his name scrawled on it in a haphazard fashion. He deduced that she must have asked to speak to him by writing down the name at the front desk not five feet away, where visitors normally sign in.
"You're looking for him?" he uttered, slightly taken aback at this particular turn of events. She remained silent, but a closer look made the detective more unnerved. She was bundled up, which wasn't really the odd thing, considering it was nearly twenty below outdoors, with a wind chill. No, it was the way she continued to shiver, seemingly to the bone, despite the warmth inside. It wasn't the cold making her shake; he'd seen it in hundreds of suspects and victims alike. It was fear.
She affirmatively shook her head slowly, deliberately, and he took note that she obviously didn't recognize him by sight. Trying in earnest to speak, she managed a pained whisper, "I don't know who else to trust."
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for the complete cancellation of his plans for the evening. Off came the overcoat, as he led the way toward an informal meeting room, offered her coffee, tea, or something to eat. She declined with a stunted "no, thanks."
Flack had dealt with hundreds of cases, but never had anyone singled him out as the only person that could be trusted. It thoroughly unsettled him for some reason, and he didn't know why. What he did know was that he couldn't place the girl, nor could he see much of her under the layers of winter wear. Something told him she preferred to remain hidden, barely noticeable. He also honed in on another peculiarity, in the way she spoke; it was as if she was compensating for an injury, for it sounded as if her jaw, cloaked behind a cherry colored scarf, had made no effort to move.
"Well, if you were looking for Detective Flack, you've unwittingly found him." He extended a hand by way of greeting, though she offered none of her own. "Care to clue me in here? You are?"
She looked around, behind her, acting quite paranoid. Post traumatic stress perhaps, Flack assumed. The girl acted as if she'd seen or done something, at this point he wasn't completely sure which. However, as she cautiously pulled off her gloves, hat, and scarf, his suspicions immediately turned to victim rather than suspect.
"Woah, wait a sec. What the hell happed to you?" he instinctively moved toward her to get a better look at her injuries. She tilted her head away, knowing that the left side of her face probably looked hideous by now; it had been a day or two. How long exactly, she didn't know for sure, which agitated her more than being attacked in the first place.
An artful mix of deep purple and blue studded her temple, cheek, and jaw line. She wouldn't have been surprised if the arch of her cheek had been crushed and her mandible dislocated by the blow. It hurt to speak, but when the detective began to call for EMS, she stopped him suddenly, with a worried "No, please. Wait."
Obviously in pain, and probably still in shock, something about the urgency in her voice and the odd circumstances surrounding this particular meeting made him ignore protocol for the moment and comply. She was scared, for her life. And what the detective didn't realize, that simply by sitting there, he had opened up the proverbial can of worms.
Yet the girl was surprisingly uncooperative for someone so anxious to find him. Most of what he could discern from the peculiar encounter was that someone had her convinced she was on top of a hit list. She didn't know where else to turn, however she obviously didn't have much faith in the justice system either. The seasoned detective tried his best unthreatening approach to elicit who she was referring to; however, she couldn't seem to explain much of anything. It was as if she wanted to talk, just didn't know how or where to begin, or if it was safe to. Fumbling for words, and composure, Flack started to wonder if he should write the girl off as mentally disturbed and call the paramedics anyway.
But then she asked for a pencil and a piece of paper.
What she drew for the detective stopped his heart for a second. She certainly had his full attention now.
Because he was still staring at the artistically depicted sketch, he didn't notice the girl on the verge of collapse, her adrenaline fading and the horrific ordeal finally completely catching up with her. A dull thud as she hit the ground shook him out of his internal state of astonishment and back into cop mode.
Mac met him at Trinity General, where Flack was seated outside a room in the emergency suite. He was rifling through what had been the contents of the vic's pockets, trying to get a sense of who she was. Hell, he'd take a name, any name at this point, just so he had some lead to follow.
"Where's the fire Don, you left a 9-1-1?"
"Mac, sorry to page you on your day off, but this girl," he spoke in soft, yet deliberate manner, using a thumb to gesture to the room behind him. He handed Taylor a newspaper clipping he'd found in her personal affects, amongst a bottle of Advil, a dated, well worn strip of pictures from a photo booth, and some loose change. The newspaper article described the Wilder drug bust, implicating the young detective as a hero of the day, "this is why she singled me out."
He took hold of the familiar newspaper clip, admitting openly, "I don't understand. What does this have to do with anything?"
Detective Flack continued, still hushed, "Look, I didn't get much from her, but a picture, they say it's worth..."
"A thousand words, yeah, yeah," he said, waving him on, "You're white as a ghost Don, what the hell is going on?"
He didn't know how else to explain, so he handed over the girl's drawing. It depicted a distinctly ornate Celtic cross, one he'd seen before and had less than fond memories of. The words right anterior antebrachium were written hastily across the bottom of the paper, sealing in his suspicions. Mac's usual stoic expression soon mirrored the pallor that Flack had been portraying only moments ago. "This girl knows something, perhaps not even what she knows. But if this is what we think it is, they don't play games."
Somehow the young lady was involved with, or had knowledge of the former Wilder clan, presumably way over her head.
Mac urged the detective to divulge everything he could, which admittedly was based more on observation than conversation. She didn't appear to be much older than in her early twenties, but her choice of descriptors on the paper made him assume that she was educated, likely in anatomy or medicine. She hadn't offered much by way of name, only that it was complicated. Either she was a part of witness protection, or she went by aliases on her own accord. One thing was certain however; whomever she was running from, she certainly didn't want to be found.
Mac was presented with a puzzle. And in lieu of any reliable witness testimony, he always turned to the pieces that made the puzzle solvable, the evidence. "Well, let's see what she can tell us then, what are we waiting for?"
"She's unconscious Mac, I don't think we'll be getting much out of her tonight."
"You'd be surprised," he smirked slightly, a coy sort of expression toying at the corners of his mouth, but never actually surfacing completely. He reached for the phone in his pocket and paged Stella.
Addendum: I'm new to this particular domain, but the show has been a favorite of mine for a while. Regardless, it has seemingly been ages since I tried my hand at a story, so your constructive criticism is always appreciated while I continue to reveal my plot.