I risked my life for you because I care about you. Deal with that.
Another night, unable to chase her words from his head — not with alcohol, not with drug-aided sleep, not with music or cards or anything. She echoes in his mind, her voice thick with emotion, her cornflower eyes swimming, her body tense in its borrowed finery, still shaking with the remnants of adrenaline and fear.
He droops wearily in a leather armchair, tumbler of Scotch dangling from the fingertips of one hand. It has been four long days and three longer nights since the auction. He has tried to give her space; has needed time of his own to rest and recover from what truly was an ordeal.
Now, he knows he won't make it through another night without seeing her, knowing she is all right; that her heart and spirit are still whole. That she still cares.
Her head aches like she is coming off a three-day bender that had ended in a concussion.
What the hell had happened?
She'd gotten back to her motel after the auction, she's sure of that much. Then… then…
It was all blurry, like trying to see her memory through fogged over glass. She'd been upset — overwrought, really — the breakneck pace of that day and night, her first real undercover assignment, the Kings, Reddington–
Oh, oh, Reddington — Red, with a gun pressed to the back of his head, moments from death.
The image thickens her pain-induced nausea, her stomach roiling greasily; she rolls to her side in case she vomits. At least now she knows that she's lying down. She gingerly lets her eyes slide open to evaluate her situation. The light is dim, thankfully, but it means she can't make out much. She's lying in a smallish bed; it's not particularly comfortable, either. She's clothed in what looks and feels like a hospital gown and she feels stiff and cold, as if she's been lying still for a long time.
Her head snaps up as a banging thud breaks into her thoughts and light floods the room — she can't quite suppress a moan at the stabbing pain it brings. As her eyes adjust, she sees someone has come in, standing silhouetted in a square of light across from her bed. A door? A window? She's so dizzy…
"Hello, darling!" A tinkling voice comes from the shadowed figure, a voice that seems familiar. "Awake at last! I do hope you're about ready to be useful."
She isn't there.
The dingy motel room is quiet and still, with nothing looking particularly out of place. She could be out, or working, but there is an air of emptiness to the room that doesn't sit right. One upside to living in a motel has become a notable downside — the room is tidied every day, whether it suits his purposes or not.
He pulls out his current burner and calls her again, hoping this time she'll answer, even if it's to tell him off. When it rings, he spins on his heel furiously.
It's there, on her nightstand, chirping away, and he goes hollow inside. She'd never leave her room without her phone. Where is she? Is she hurt? In danger?
He tries to still the torrent of his thoughts, to think logically. He'll need Dembe, he'll have to question the housekeeping staff… As he turns to go, he sees it.
The small, white envelope, his name scrawled across it in an all-too-familiar hand.
He opens it; reads its short, gloating message.
Oh no, he thinks, Oh, Lizzie.
Tucking the note away in his jacket, he takes a moment to run his hand over the soft grey fleece of her robe, laid neatly on the back of a chair. He brings it to his nose to try and catch her fading scent.
Now all he has to do is find her, find her and see her safe.
"Madeline Pratt," Liz says, her voice hoarse and rusty with disuse.
"Elizabeth Keen," the other woman returns. "That is your real name, isn't it?"
Liz shrugs awkwardly. There seems little point in dissembling now.
"Why am I here?" she asks. "What do you want from me? There's no one to pay ransom, if that's what you're thinking."
"Oh, I think I could get a good price for you," Madeline replies, her voice light and amused, her hand trailing over the end of the bed as she circles the room. "I think our dear Raymond would give me whatever I asked for to ensure your safe return."
She laughs at Liz' flinch on hearing his name. "You don't like that, do you?" she says, sitting beside Liz on the bed. "That I can see it? His preoccupation with you, his obsession? If you think everyone who knows him, who sees the two of you together can't see it, then you're even more foolish than I thought. But you listen to me, you little bitch," and her voice was suddenly tight with rage, her face pushed into Liz'. "He's mine, do you hear me? You can't have him. And the best part is, you are going to help me get him back."
Madeline pushes up from the bed in a rush and stalks back to the lit opening — it is a window, Liz can see now — boosts herself onto the wide sill, then disappears out of it as if it were a door, heavy wooden shutters closing behind her.
Liz is left lying in bed, her aching head spinning, to wonder both what the hell just happened, and what Madeline has in store for her.
They work quickly, in sync as always, the perfect fit. Dembe, running searches, gathering information wherever he can. Red, making phone calls — cajoling, manipulating, calling in favours wherever he can, threatening when he must.
Another day has passed already, and he still hasn't pinned her down. All he knows for sure is that wherever she has taken Lizzie, it isn't on American soil. And it's a wide world out there.
He firmly blocks thoughts of what Madeline might be up to, and focuses everything he has on finding her. His fear spurs him like an angry hornet as he paces through his days.
She doesn't lie idle while Madeline is gone. As soon as she can bear it, she sits up, then stands, swaying a little as she takes stock of the room.
Like a prison cell, there's the bed, a toilet, and a bare sink — she supposes she's just lucky that there's plumbing at all. Beside the bed stands a piece of what looks like medical equipment — all tubes and dials and buttons — the use of which she cannot even guess at, but which sends a little thrill of fear through her. Surprisingly, a large mirror hangs on the wall kitty-corner to the bed. The room is circular, walled in dull grey stone, and unlit. What light there is in the room comes through cracks in the wooden shutters on the large-ish window.
Most importantly, there is no door.
There's no way in or out of the room but the window Madeline used. When she manages to drag herself over to it and shove open the heavy shutters, she quails.
Like the worst cliché ever, she's locked in a tower, at least ten stories off the ground.
What on earth is she going to do?
A lead, a thin one, thanks to Dembe's relentless searches. Six months previous, a construction contract, stonework. No location, or details they can use.
But it's something.
He needs to go farther back, he thinks, maybe all the way back to a year ago when he last saw her before the Kings.
What baffling game is she playing, here — and how long has she been playing it?
When Madeline comes back, Liz is waiting, seated quietly on the bed. She's hoping to get more information out of her captor — or at least some food. She's been in this tower at least a day, and has had nothing but a few handfuls of water from the sink.
The sudden clatter of the shutters makes her jump, but she doesn't move. Since she's watching this time, she sees that Madeline is using a cherry picker to get up to the window. This time, there's a man with her, carrying a heavy black bag that makes Liz suppose he is a doctor. She thinks uncomfortably of the machine behind her.
Madeline is smiling, and Liz is sure that it doesn't bode well for her.
"And how are we this afternoon?" Madeline trills. Her smile widens, and she tosses something over to Liz, who catches it in reflex. "Hungry?"
Liz looks at the object in her hand. It's an apple, large and shiny and red. She looks at it for a long moment, aware not just of the risks but of the irony of it all. She's too hungry to care too much, though, so she bites into it and eats eagerly.
The man, the doctor, moves around the bed silently and starts to fiddle with the machine beside the bed. Not wanting to think too much about what he might be doing, Liz focuses on Madeline. She has stepped into the room and is admiring herself in the mirror, fussing with her hair.
"I rather thought that you had no further use for Reddington," Liz remarks, tone casual. "Since you sold him out to the Kings."
Madeline turns to look at her, eyes narrowing. "That," she says icily, "was merely the next move in a game we have been playing for years — a callow child like yourself could never hope to understand."
"A game?" Liz is suddenly furious, rage welling up like bile in her throat. She swings out of the bed, anger giving her strength. "A game? You gave him to monsters, who sold him to a man who wanted his head. Literally. I saved his life with seconds to spare, seconds." She stops herself with difficulty, breath heaving, fists clenched.
She sees with some satisfaction that Madeline has paled, that her eyes are shocked and wide. A heavy moment passes as they stare at each other, and then Madeline seems to shake herself.
"If not you, it would have been something else," she says coolly. "Raymond has an unerring ability to get himself out of trouble, and I'm sure this would have been no exception. He doesn't need you, that much is certain."
She turns back to the mirror, smoothing her hair, tracing her own features with a delicate finger. Liz sits back on the bed, at a loss. Was Pratt truly this cavalier, this foolish? Or does she actually believe that her actions had no consequences?
"We're ready to begin, Ms Pratt." The doctor's voice interrupts Liz' thoughts, and she turns her head to look at him. His face is impassive, but she thinks his eyes hold a little worry.
"Get on with it then," Madeline snaps. "I don't need to watch, do I?"
"Certainly not if you do not wish to," the doctor answers politely. He looks down at Liz and gestures. "You should lie down, Miss," he says. "It will be much easier."
He has a thick accent, some kind of Slavic, she thinks, but she can't place where. She's evidently much farther from home than she'd hoped, and her heart quails a little. She lifts her legs onto the bed and reclines, leaning against the wall. It won't hurt to cooperate for now, until she knows more about what's going on.
"What are you going to do?" she asks, damning herself for being unable to keep the fear out of her voice. "What's that machine for?"
"Oh, don't worry," the doctor says, relatively kindly. "It won't hurt you. This is a plasmapheresis machine, yes? It draws your blood, then separates the plasma from the blood cells, and returns the cells to you. You may become a little tired, sleepy, but it won't hurt, okay?"
She nods, not able to think of a reasonable reply, mind whirling with horrified thoughts about why on earth Madeline Pratt wants to collect her blood plasma.
The doctor lifts her arm and ties a rubber strip about halfway between her elbow and shoulder. He rotates her arm so her palm faces up, then lets it rest along her thigh.
"Make a fist, please," he asks politely, neatly swabbing the inside of her elbow with an alcohol wipe.
She complies, because she can't fight them both, because Pratt almost certainly has a gun. She sits passively while he taps her arm gently with a gloved finger, finding a vein. Offering a faint smile, he neatly slides a needle into her arm, and they both watch her blood begin to flow down the tube attached.
The machine whirs and clicks gently, something is spinning and circling, flashing red.
Her fear threatens to choke her, and she thinks of Red with a desperation that surprises her.
A dead end.
Their only lead has turned into a dead end, literally — the mason on the other end of the stonework contract is dead, body found six weeks after the date of the contract, in a slum on the outskirts of Vienna.
"She certainly won't be there," Red says aloud, pacing, thinking. "Madeline would never be so careless. But we can likely concentrate our efforts in Europe, likely in the East. She has contacts almost everywhere…" He trails off as his thoughts outstrip his voice, racing to contacts of his own, people he can use, places he can search…
"Raymond." Dembe's calm voice breaks into his thoughts, and he pauses, turning to look at his oldest friend. "We can't keep going like this. It's taking too long. The FBI must be looking for her, too — if we connect with–"
"No," he interrupts firmly, mind rebelling at the thought. "Not in this, Dembe, no. Madeline will see that ham-fisted Ressler coming a mile off, and Lizzie…" His voice trembles a little, and it takes some effort to wrench himself back under control. "It's the wrong tool. This isn't the time for a blunt instrument."
"Well, then," Dembe replies, placing a heavy hand on Red's shoulder in comfort, in strength. "Perhaps a visit to the DMV?"
It's after the fifth, or maybe it's the sixth, time the doctor comes that she starts to despair. He comes every day to take her blood, and although at least part of it is replaced, she knows she is weakening.
Madeline comes only once a day as well, to bring her a small meal before the doctor does his work, apparently not finding it necessary to take any particular care of her. Liz doesn't know if it's in contrast to her own sharpening pallor, shadowed eyes, and shaky limbs, but Madeline looks increasingly healthy as the days pass — her hair golden and shining, her skin vibrant and creamy, her eyes bright and alive.
This time, while Madeline is absorbed in her reflection and the doctor is bending over her to insert the needle, she clutches at his arm.
"Please," she whispers, as quietly as she can. "What's really going on? What is she doing to me?"
He shoots a nervous glance at Madeline, but she is lost to the world around her, humming softly.
"It is just what I told you," he murmurs back. "I take your plasma, yes? That is all."
"But why?" she insists, desperate for a glimpse of her fate. "What is she doing with it?"
"She…She takes it," he answers, his whisper grim. "I inject her with it, right after we take it from you, every day."
He slides his eyes Madeline's way again, and inserts the needle, starts the process once more.
"She has been doing research, you see. She thinks she will be remade, be young again. You aren't the first…" His voice trails off as Madeline turns around, smiling.
"Are we done yet?" she trills. "I don't have all day, you know!"
"It takes time," the doctor replied defensively. "You know this. Some more time is needed."
She rolls her eyes. "Well, then. We'll just wait."
She sits on the end of the bed, watching them, beaming.
God, he hates it here.
The smells, the humming noises, the people, the dismal air of defeat and resignation. Mostly the smells.
He watches Glen through the greasy window, fingers tapping absently at his knee. Now isn't the time to make him wait, and he thinks their last phone conversation may have actually had an impact, because it's only twenty minutes before Glen waves him in.
"Red," Glen greets him. "It's been a while. How've you been?"
"Busy," Red replies briefly, unwilling to do the dance, even for a minute this time around. "What have you got?"
"Well, I've been poorly, off and on, not that you care, with my sciatica acting up and…"
The typical litany trails off as Red gets deliberately to his feet. He leans over, placing his hands firmly on the desk, and levels his eyes on Glen's, letting every iota of the rage, frustration, and fear he has suffered over the last two weeks show in his face.
"Listen to me, you odious little rodent," he says, his tone pleasantly conversational. "If you don't tell me what you know and tell me now, I will paint this office with your intestines."
Glen sits back, looking away. "All right, all right," he says, testily defensive to cover his alarm. "I've got what you wanted, as always, I might add. There's no need to treat me like a schmuck."
"Where is she?" Red demands, not moving, not giving an inch.
"Madeline Pratt," Glen says, handing him a slim folder. "Currently spending her time in Jesenik, at the home of oil baron Petr Mladek. Everything you need to locate her is in there."
"Czech Republic," Red muses, straightening up, mind racing ahead, making plans. "I can work with that…"
"She's been there a while," Glen continues, catching his attention again. "Months. Interestingly, there have been three unsolved missing persons cases in the Olomouc region in past three months or so. All young women, late-twenties, early-thirties. Could be your girl isn't the first."
Red nods his thanks, face impassive as his stomach clenches and burns.
"She'll be the last."