PREFACE
He sits in the worn armchair by the fireplace in the small cabin, and he holds her gun in his hand. He is mesmerized by the flames dancing delicately in the chimney, by the inferno licking at the stones placed behind the grate. He is focused intently on feeling the heat, feeling the power that the orange blaze exudes. It calms him. It makes him forget his terrible mistake, the reasons that he cannot, no matter what the consequences, return to the city.
He hears her shift, and his gaze snaps to her lithe form. Her right hand is handcuffed with her own department-issued shackles to the kitchen table, and she is seated restlessly in the unsteady chair beside it. The small cabin, abandoned in the middle of the woods, smells of rotting wood and the grimy walls make her want to vomit. There is a bowl of cold tomato soup in front of her, one that she refuses to touch. As a lone tear of frustration slides down her cheek, she hopes that maybe, if she decides to starve herself, he'll agree to take her back to civilization. Back to the city. Back to their squad room.
Back to where she can explain to Cragen that Elliot never meant to kidnap her.
Her partner gets up from the tattered armchair and stands before her, wishing he could tell her how sorry he is for ever having to turn his gun on her.
PART ONE - NOVEMBER 19TH
In the dense forest, it smells like autumn.
Not in the frisky, crisp freshness of the chilly seasonal air, but rather in the oppressive moistness generated from the dampness of dead leaves. The mouldy smell is imposing, and her boots are muddy from the sodden ground beneath her feet.
She walks with less fervour than her usual self-assured stride, her leather jacket buttoned up against the remnants of bitter daytime rains, cold vestiges of the ominous clouds above. The humidity in the air makes her hair curl, and she tucks an unruly lock behind her ear.
They walk side by side, elbows brushing lightly.
"Look," she says suddenly, putting a hand on Elliot's bicep to stop him and pointing to the ground in front of them with her other. "There, footprints."
Elliot crouches down and narrows his eyes, taking in the muddy imprints. "Same size, same pattern as the hunting boots found in Jules's basement."
"And they're leading up over there," she agrees, pointing up the hillside leading deeper into the isolated forest. Elliot takes a step forward,in the direction in which she points, determined to find the man they've been tirelessly tracking for the better part of the last two weeks. They've finally caught a break, a clue as to where this monster has kept Isabelle Mayhaden, the eight-year-old he kidnapped.
"El," she says, lightly gripping his elbow firmly to keep him from following the prints. "We should wait for the backup."
"Screw the backup," he grumbles, sliding his arm from her grip. "They'll take at least another two hours to get all the way out here, and you know Jules could be killing that girl right now."
"We have no idea if he's armed, or if he's -,"
"And there's two of us, one of him," he says curtly, suggesting that the matter isn't open for discussion.
She sighs, but she knows deep down that she wants to get this guy as much as he wants to. There's been to many mistakes already on this case, and now that they're so close, it is impossible to wait any longer. They owe it to the little girl to come and save her as soon as possible.
She falls into step beside him, and they begin the tedious treck up the thickly forested hillside, following the footprints. They are in the middle of a densely wooded area, with the squad car parked about four miles back, on the nearest road. Out here, it is just them, their perp, and the intimidating power of Mother Nature.
She is out of breath by the time they reach the summit of the forested hill, and she scans the surrounding area, looking for any signs of their perp. It is misty, and chilly in an eerie sense. The forest is thick and full around them, and the trees looming overhead spread their branches wide around the pair, making is difficult to see much of anything.
"You see him?" Elliot asks, also out of breath.
"No," she looks to the ground, searching again for the footprints that lead them here in the first place. She kicks at the amalgamation of brown and green, upturning leaves in search of the heavy footmarks. It is useless, for the imprints of the large boot have disappeared.
"Where the hell did this guy go?" Elliot asks, and she can tell by his tense shoulders that he is angry, that he just wants to find the child.
"He has to be here somewhere," she reasons, because it is true, he can't have dropped off the face of the earth. He is in these woods, somewhere in the surrounding area. And so is Isabelle. The notion that the child is here, maybe hurt, spurs her on. She continues to scan the woods around them.
"Fuck," Elliot growls, and takes off to their left with powerful strides. She trots behind him, hesitant to deal, to reason, with his anger.
"Why don't we wait for the backup, okay?" She manages to get in front of him, and places a hand firmly on his chest, stopping his agitated advance. "Elliot. Stop. We'll have more luck with a whole team here."
"Don't you get it?" He snaps. "Liv, he's probably killing her right now! I'm not about to let that happen!"
"I know. I'm trying not to let that be the case either, but we have to -,"
Her words are cut short when a bullet from an unknown shooter whizzes past her left ear from behind, hitting the tree nearest to them and ricocheting off in another direction. Elliot's eyes depict shock, fear, but he reacts more quickly than her own frozen body. He grabs her by both biceps, holding her tightly, and dives to the forest floor.
The wind is knocked of her chest abruptly, and she strains to regain her oxygen. Elliot's body is heavy on top of hers, and he's got her flattened underneath him, shielded from the bullets still being fired at them. When she tries to breathe, her body expands up into his and she can't get any air in her lungs.
"El -," she manages, and lays her palms flat against his chest, trying to push him off a bit in order to get reprieve from the tightness in her chest.
"Shhhh," he says sharply, but shifts his weight onto his elbows on either side of her head. Her chest free, she inhales large mouthfuls of the air, relieving her lungs from the unpleasant pressure.
She is acutely aware of every sound around them. The snapping of every twig makes her flinch in anticipation, and the whisper of the wind rustling the damp autumn leaves resembles the sound of footsteps swishing through the foliage. Elliot is absolutely still above her, every muscle in his body tense and perfectly frozen, coiled to spring into action at any moment.
And then another clear, deafening shot rings out and once again his whole body weight is dropped on her, and although she is grateful for the protection from the gun's random shots, the lack of air in her lungs makes her head spin uncomfortably.
"Liv," he murmurs in her ear, breathlessly, and she knows it brings him comfort to know that she is still there.
The next shot that is fired is considerably louder than the last, and the noise made at the point of impact is frighteningly close to their cover spot. She can't see anything past the protective barrier that is his body, and it unnerves her, not being able to see the threat before her.
As suddenly as he threw them down on the ground for cover, Elliot is back on his feet. His hand grabs the lapel of her leather jacket and his other hand goes to her elbow. He effortlessly brings her halfway to her feet before ushering her in the direction of safety, behind a large, mossy rock several feet away from them. She doesn't know where he wants her to be, what he wants her to do, and every movement he makes is so strong and so unexpected and quick that she finds herself tripping. She hits the damp ground on her knees, and feels the sharp nub of a stick press ruthlessly into her kneecap. Elliot grabs her by the armpits and drags her to her feet once more, and she grabs a steady hold on the flap of his jacket so that she doesn't loose him. He runs with all his speed and agility toward the cover of the rock, and she follows, feeling clumsy, both of them crouching low to protect themselves against the onslaught of bullets showering them.
When she crouches against the far side of the rock, she immediately pulls her gun from her hip. Elliot's is already in his hand, and he breathes heavily, his shoulder pushing into hers with every inhalation.
"How the hell did he find us?" she breathes, trying to measure her panting.
Elliot just shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders. "Y'ok?" he pants, and his eyes scan her quickly for signs of blood.
"Fine," she answers, still breathing heavily.
"Okay." Elliot sighs deeply, and then pushes himself from the side of the rock, crouching on the balls of his feet. "Okay." His eyes meet hers, and hold her gaze. "Let's get this son of a bitch."
She follows him with caution as he creeps around to the side of the rock diagonal to the direction from which the shots were coming. Her gun is raised, poised to take a shot, and her eyes dart speedily from tree to tree, looking for any signs of their shooter.
Suddenly, to her left, a sharp sound is heard, loudly breaking the tense silence that has fallen over the scene. Even in her own ears, past the rushing of blood and the pounding of her heart, she hears is loud and clear. Elliot stands immediately, and fires a shot in the direction of the sound. A split second after firing, he ducks back down beside her, his gun still raised. He gets rid of the casing expertly, and it falls beside her right foot. Their shooter fires back almost instantly, and it is with dread that she realizes that he is actually a very good shot. Too good, for the shot hurtles past Elliot's hand, the one holding his gun in position. It takes someone with experience, she knows, to be able to come even close to hitting an obscured, hidden target. A moving target. And then the alarm washes through her, pooling low in her stomach and heating her face.
"Elliot," she whispers, in distress. "Jules's is a hunter. He's a good shot…he knows how to use a gun."
Elliot's face registers realization, and then his features become contorted as the anger pounds through his veins. She places a warm hand on his forearm, squeezing.
"Easy," she warns, and readjusts herself so that she's ready to take the next shot. She rises slightly, her thighs burning from the strain of her muscles as they hold her in the position. She fires twice, one shot right after the other, and at once takes cover behind the rock.
Before Jules has a chance to respond to her bullets, Elliot takes a risk and stands up completely. From his new vantage point, he has a clear view of Jules, preparing to take his shots. In a split second, Elliot has fired, and Olivia hears a sound of impact followed by a loud grunt.
"Subject hit!" Elliot shouts at her, rushing out from behind the rock. Although she is upset that Elliot took such a risk in the face of an expert shooter, she is glad Jules is dealt with and she focuses on commending Elliot for taking care of it.
"Nice shot," she praises, patting him swiftly on the back as they make their way to the body sheathed in the camouflage jacket lying on the ground. Elliot shrugs her arm away though, he is still too tense and wound up to deal with touches or speaking. She knows the feeling, right after she shoots a suspect, the adrenaline pumping vigorously throughout her body, muscles primed for more violence, ready to react to the smallest threat. She knows not to question him or push him when he is already so close to the edge. It will take him a while to settle down, and she is accustomed to his uptight behaviour.
So she lets him work, watches as he checks Jules's nonexistent pulse and kicks the gun away from the dead man's hand. It skids away before sliding under a pile of neighbouring leaves, disappearing. Elliot straightens up and begins to pace back and forth, his breathing laboured.
She walks to him cautiously with her hands up by her head. "Elliot. It's okay. It's okay. He's dead. It's over now."
Elliot does not acknowledge her words, simply murmurs to himself and continues with his rapid pacing.
"Stop," she says, more firmly. "Elliot, look at me. It's alright. It's alright. Calm down."
His pacing slows, and he walks directly to her, coming to stand in front of her. He continues his murmuring, but he seems to be back with her, back in his own right mind. He sighs and rubs his forehead with his hand. "Are you okay?" he asks, restlessly, even though he has already asked her previously. When she reaches out and touches his shoulder, she is worried when she feels that he is still strung impossibly high with tension.
"Yes, El. I'm fine."
From directly behind him, further up the steep hill, a twig snaps brusquely, sharply, and the loudness of it makes his whole frame jump before her. She doesn't even have a moment to register when his entire body, wired from his panic and from the adrenaline still flowing freely though his veins, whips around in the direction of the startling noise. He is blinded by his panic, by his overwhelming need to protect Olivia, by his own heart pounding deafeningly in his ears, that when he raises his gun and fires toward the target, he is unaware of his body's actions. It is automatic, a primal urge to save himself, to keep Olivia alive, and suddenly the gun goes off and the bullet launches and Olivia screams, yanking his arm down. It is too late; the bullet has been fired, the ramifications unthinkable.
He sees the small body, dressed in pink, hit the forest floor. He sees it through the fog in his brain, the water in his eyes, and he realizes that he's made a horrid mistake. Horrible, irrefutable, irreversible. He drops to his knees in a daze, his body convulsing with the terror of what he's just done. His hand reaches up blindly. His fingers clench around the leather material and he clings to Olivia's jacket, pulling her form close to his side. He needs to feel her warmth, he needs to know that she is still with him.
Past the overwhelming emotion in his body, he sees Olivia drop her gun to the ground and sprint forward, her jacket, his lifeline, wrenched from his grip. She is racing deftly up the hill to where the little girl, blond haired and green eyed, lies motionlessly on the dead, damp leaves.
He watches through a daze as his partner envelops Isabelle's small frame in her arms, rocking her gently back and forth, pressing down hard on the child's chest, over the spot drenched in the rapidly spreading pool of crimson. His ears just barely pick up her desperate words of comfort to the girl, the tears in her voice.
The small body in Olivia's arms convulses, and is absolutely still. Isabelle's shiny eyes stare glassy, unblinking, at the sky above her. She is dead.
"No, no, no, no," the words are torn from his throat in a guttural moan, and he is limp on his hands and knees.
From her spot up on the hill, Olivia hears Elliot's rasping. She envelops the child in her leather jacket, and races back down the hill toward her inconsolable partner. She drops heavily to her knees beside him, afraid to touch him, afraid to speak.
Her partner has just killed a child. A victim. Her partner has just shot the missing girl. Elliot has just killed a child. A child. He killed her.
"El, Shhhh," she whimpers, trying to get him to look at her. "It's…okay, it's okay." She chokes, "Everything is going to be fine…"
Elliot retches, vomiting on the ground before him, a string of saliva dripping from his mouth. He wipes it away viciously. "I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to...please Liv, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to..."
"I know...Elliot...I know."
Suddenly, his head snaps up and he stares at her with a dark, cold glare. He trembles violently, his black eyes locked on her face.
She trembles beneath his glare, recoiling into herself slightly, and for the first time, she is afraid of him.
"Olivia," he rasps, his voice breaking. "Give me your phone."
She frowns, confused, and worried. "El -,"
"Give me your phone," he presses, reaching out to her. She retreats slightly, but unclips her phone from her hip.
"Are you going to call it in -,"
"Give it!" he yells, tormented, and she is startled but drops the phone obediently into his hand.
He stands on wobbly legs, his face pale and his arms trembling. He motions for her to stand up as well, and she rises to his height without further prompting. Elliot reaches for her, and although she'd rather they just call the backup and get the hell out of there, she knows she needs to be there for his well being. Because if she doesn't at least try to help him now, he will be inconsolable by the time they return to the city.
He staggers clumsily into her, his arms wrapping tightly around her and his face burying itself in her neck. He stands, defeated, as she lifts her own arms to encircle him, and runs them soothingly up and down his back. His body convulses and suddenly he is gasping into her neck, the wetness from his eyes dripping onto her shoulder. His weight is heavy, he leans against her limply, but she continues to hold him up.
"Elliot," she whispers. "Come on. Let's go back to the car." She caresses his head with her hand, and pulls back, her eyes meeting him. "Let's go," she soothes.
But he is suddenly angered, forceful. He would never hurt her, but her mind wanders there as he takes her elbow and grabs her gun from the forest floor beside them.
"What are you -,"
"We've gotta get out of here."
"Elliot?" She almost trips over herself as he pulls her along, to the top of the hill, past the child and her jacket, and down the other side of the steep escarpment. His hold changes and he hugs her at the hips so that she doesn't fall.
"Elliot, stop. Stop right now. You aren't thinking straight, let's go back. Please, let's get to the car."
He does not listen to her, only steadies her weary body against his and begins to stride down the hill. The leaves make it slippery, and she cannot fight his grip with her footing this unsteady. Instead, her fingers grip tightly to the folds of his coat and she is grateful for his arm around her waist.
A few unbalanced minutes later, when he slides to a stop at the bottom of the abrupt slope, her eyes catch on something out of place in the dense forest. Hidden expertly amongst the brush and trees is a cabin, made of wood, planted in the middle of the forest in front of them. There is a slanted deck out front, with three stairs leading to the shabby wooden door. The shingles on the roof are grey and worn from rain, but they seem sturdy enough. Inside, it is dark, and the windows are dusty enough that she can't see inside even if she wanted to. The cabin, in its entirety, is small, maybe one open room and a small bathroom composing it. Although it is dirty and tattered, Olivia can tell from the rocking chair on the deck and the axe resting in the stump beside the stairs, that someone used to live here. Elliot has yet to release her waist, and he begins walking, as if in a haze, toward the worn cabin.
"El…" she whines in quiet protest, walking half-willingly with him toward the cabin. She isn't scared of him, only of the situation, and the unpredictability of it makes her stomach churn. "Let's go back to the road. I'll tell them what happened. You'll be okay, I promise. Let's just please go back."
It starts to rain.
He stops right in front of the stairs, and turns his face towards her so that his lips whisper gently against her temple, warm breath falling on her neck when he murmurs against her. "We can't go back. I'm so sorry, Olivia. We can never go back."
