As Liz, Samar, Aram and Cooper left the post office together, Liz glanced at her watch. It was 6:15pm, and Ressler would be winging his way to Detroit at this very moment. She silently wished him well, still aware of that unfilled, empty hole in the middle of her being. She took him for granted, cherished his friendship and comradery, yet she barely showed it. She didn't treat him as well as she should. She hadn't been there for him during some painful episodes he'd had this past year. I'll do better, she told herself, once he returns.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Cooper asked her, standing beside her in the yellow elevator.
She smiled and shook her head. "It's nothing. Just thinking of missed opportunities and friendship and doing better by people."
Cooper put his arm briefly around her shoulders. "The holidays are renowned for bringing out those emotions. This is the time of year it's far more noticeable when we are not with the ones we love and care for." He looked away thoughtfully. "Charlene and I are having Christmas dinner together this year. It's a start, and something I'm extremely grateful for."
Samar leaned on Aram. "That's wonderful, sir. I'm also very thankful this year," she said, lifting her hand to cup Aram's cheek.
Aram smiled, looking at her. "Me too. Absolutely, me too."
"I have a surprise for you tomorrow, my love," Samar told him, looking conspiratorially toward Liz. Aram's eyes shone.
Liz watched them all, feeling like a tiny island amid a sea of caring. She was alone tonight and tomorrow, until she picked up Agnes on Christmas morning. Her thoughts returned to Ressler, who also felt alone even within the circle of his family. Have the best Christmas ever, Ressler, she thought to herself.
###
Under the coat, despite his throbbing headache, Ressler's mind cleared somewhat, and he turned his attention to the front of the vehicle. There were branches across the front of the car, and he might have better luck at grabbing one of those. His phone lay silent and dark in the back, invisible to him without its screen light, but it shone out like a beacon of hope. Crawling out from under his coat, the cold air hit him. A soft breeze was coming in through the smashed windows, bringing in flakes of snow with it.
His breath huffing as he slithered forward between the two front seats, he positioned himself on the passenger seat that was leaning downward toward the ground. With no light outside now, he had to go by feel, and reached as far forward as he could across the dashboard to touch some of the branches across the caved in front end. Several were between one or two inches thick, if he could just break one off.
Shivering hard now, he began his task, reaching far out of the car with his outstretched arm, his feet wedged on the passenger seat. As his gun and holster snagged on some metal, he pulled it from his belt and shoved it in the center console. At least that still opened, while the rest of the car was a crumpled mess. Stretching out the windshield, his upper arm dug painfully into the twisted metal and shattered glass of the windshield as he strained. He ignored the wet feeling on his arm as his suit tore, the metal piercing his skin as fresh blood flowed. He needed a stick.
He almost laughed at the absurdity of it, then redoubled his efforts, straining even more to pull on a decent sized branch with his gloved hand. He was rewarded when the crack of the branch filled the darkness, and the branch suddenly gave way. His heart leapt at the sound. The branch still held but it was loose now. If he could twist it, it could just snap that last part of the stringy bark that was holding it to the trunk. And with teeth chattering, and his breath huffing around his face, he set to work. The branch was unwieldy, its offshoots getting in the way as he slowly turned it. "Come on, you son of a bitch!" he hissed through chattering teeth. "Come on!"
And in answer, the branch gave way, causing him to fall back into the car and land on the passenger door again. The warped metal of the door jabbed him in his back again, but all he could focus on was the long stick in his hand. He'd got one! His spirits soared.
###
As Liz unlocked the door to her apartment, she leaned back on the closed door behind her. What had been a home had become a crime scene, and then a stark, cold crime investigation unit that happened to have a bed in it where she slept alone each night. There was no warmth here. No love. Only cold floors and sparse furnishings. No toys covered the floor. No finger paintings adorned her fridge. No sound of laughter or giggles came from her child's bare room. It was Christmas, and she was alone. Tears sprang to her eyes and she angrily brushed them away. She wouldn't give in to melancholy. But she didn't want to stay here either. And with the only place that remotely felt like home for her, she lifted her phone and called Reddington.
"Hey," she said as he answered on the second ring. "Where are you?"
"Elizabeth, lovely to hear your voice. As to where I am, well," he paused, "somewhere in the air approaching Montreal. It's wonderful this time of year," he replied, his joviality grating on Liz's nerves.
"You're in Canada?" He never ceased to amaze her. He'd been in DC less than two hours ago. "So, Christmas across the border this year then?"
"Not so much for Christmas, though that is a splendid idea. You should come. I can have Edward pick you up after he drops Dembe and I off." He spoke as if having his personal pilot fly his equally personal Lear jet back to DC to retrieve her was equivalent to carpooling to work. "I have a matter of some urgency that I must discuss with an acquaintance of mine regarding our dear departed Marco Torres, but afterward I could show you the beautiful city of Montreal."
Liz walked to her empty kitchen, and leaned on the counter, listening to him. "Thanks, but I'll pass. I'm picking Agnes up Christmas morning."
"Aaahh, I see. Enjoy your time with her and give her my love. I do miss the little imp."
"I do too," she replied, then wished Red well and hung up feeling more alone than ever.
"Good grief, girl, snap out of it," she admonished herself, and reached for a half empty bottle of scotch. As she poured herself a shot, her mind sprang to Ressler once more. This was his drink of choice. And silently toasting him in the empty air, she slumped on her couch, drink in hand.
"Merry Christmas to me. Right..."
###
In the cold darkness of the crushed car, Ressler was busy stripping off the smaller twigs on the branch he'd procured but left some of the twigs at one end to form a pseudo 'hand'. Satisfied it would reach his phone, or at least hoping like hell it would, he placed it in the back, then slid through once more to take up his position on the back seat. Armed with his grabbing stick he hefted it over the back seat and into the rear compartment, which was no mean feat with the ceiling pressing in hard on him.
And then found that he couldn't see a freaking thing. He jabbed around with the stick in the direction he'd seen his phone laying but had no idea if he was touching it.
"Like doing it by Braille," he muttered, concentrating, holding the stick outstretched in his hand. He dipped the end to the floor, then began to pull it back in a dragging motion. As it got closer to him, he reached down with his other hand, his head pressing hard on the ceiling above as he leaned further into the back and felt around under the 'hand' end of the stick.
Nothing.
"Damn it." He exhaled, then pushed the stick toward the back of the vehicle to begin the process again.
And so, he continued for well over an hour, unsure if he was feeling something under the hand of the stick, yet pulling it back each time and checking, until his arm and back muscles were screaming at the continued strain of overreaching. He couldn't see the phone and had no idea if he was connecting to it or not. For all he knew, he had pushed it further away. It was hopeless trying in the dark.
Shivering, yet also sweating with the strain, he slumped into the back seat again, still holding his precious stick. Safely depositing it on the floor along the rear seat, he lay down, pulling his coat back over him as the frigid air made his skin prickle. It wasn't warm under his coat, but he was out of the breeze, which helped. His lower left leg was cold, wet with blood, but there was nothing he could do about it. Despite the situation, he laughed out loud. Reddington would have a field day with this, fixing him up, bandaging him and playing doctor. He shivered in the cold, his laughter fading. There was nothing funny about this.
He checked his watch. 7:40pm. He should have just landed in Detroit by now. Under his coat, he could picture his brother waiting at the airport, checking his phone. Checking the boards to see if he'd got the right flight. Pete was the first one who would notice something was wrong. He would call to check. Ressler's eyes widened.
"Shit!" His brother would call looking for him. He shot up again, narrowly missing the caved in ceiling and grabbed his stick. It took less than a minute to get himself in position again, his stick at the ready, extended into the rear compartment, waiting for his phone to light up.
"Come on, come on, come on…" he whispered, watching and waiting. He held his breath, as if to breathe too loud would disturb things. "Come on Pete…"
His phone rang, lighting up the darkness in the back.
"Yes!" Stick in hand he stretched out his arm, now able to see the 'fingers' of the stick in the light of his phone. With his arm stretched as far as it could go, his back muscles rippling and burning, his forehead squashed into the metal of the roof he maneuvered the stick another inch toward his phone.
He couldn't reach it very well, but he could cover it with the 'fingers' of his stick! Now, if he could just grab it and drag it toward him. He steadied the stick in his hand, but when he got ready to pull it, he stared at his phone in horror.
"No!" His previous joy did a 180. "Son of a bitch! No!" Every time the phone rang the vibration moved it a half inch toward the back of the vehicle, with the downward angle the vehicle was on. Slowly and steadily it inched further out of his reach, ringing and vibrating its way toward a gash in the smashed in rear doors. And finally, on the last ring, it tipped precariously on the ruined tailgate, fell through the twisted metal of the torn door and dropped onto the snowy ground behind the car.
"Noooo!"
The ringing stopped, leaving Ressler alone in the dark again. While the phone had been ringing, he'd had a lifeline. Now it was gone. Slumping in the rear seat, he threw his useless stick to the floorboards beside him. "Shit, shit, shit!" he yelled into the darkness, punching the back of the driver's seat. Breathing hard, he stared into darkness enveloping him.
He had no phone. He had no means to call for help. He was on his own.
