Lost Pretense
Chapter Four: Sure You Have Questions... But Who Has the Answers?
Rating: R (gonna do that to be on the safe side, applies to subject matter)
Word Count: 2,854
Disclaimer: I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.
Summary: He wasn't who everyone thought he was. He wasn't even who he thought he was.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of)
Author's Note: Again, I'm still working on cleaning up old fics. Like Soulless and A Sort of Prologue, this has been around for a year. I've always liked this story, despite the fact that it hails from an even darker place in my mind than Soulless.
I really wanted to finish editing and post this last night, but stupid work interfered... Oh, well. Here it is. Enjoy. :)
Sure You Have Questions...
But Who Has the Answers?
His hands were in her hair, his face in her neck. She didn't smell like what he'd expected. She should smell like formaldehyde or dead bodies, given the work she did, but instead she smelled like ivory soap and comfort, like coming home. He could breathe in this scent all day long.
His hand snaked down her back, causing her to shiver. She was so beautiful. He had chased her for so long, and finally neither of them were running.
"You're blushing," she said, caressing his cheek. She couldn't seem to help it. It was like she was afraid he would suddenly disappear if she stopped touching him. He wasn't really sure what to do about it, so he just sat stiffly, trying not to react.
"Bit of a memory. Not much. But not exactly the kind you tell your children about," he admitted sheepishly. "What are we doing, Dr. Cavanaugh?"
She had pulled him inside, into her office, and shut the doors behind them. He had picked up a snow globe and sat down on her couch, turning it over in his hands. She sat next to him, beginning her tortuous habit of constantly touching him.
"Jordan," she insisted. "It's just too weird having you call me Dr. Cavanaugh, Woody."
He winced. "That can't be my name. Woodrow Wilson Hoyt? Woody? Who comes up with that kind of crap?" he asked, irritated. She shrugged.
"I told you. Your parents had a thing for presidents' names. You were lucky you didn't get Millard," she teased, ruffling his hair.
He pulled back, reminded violently of Andrea's habit of doing that to him. "You still haven't told me what we were to each other. Did I give you that ring?"
She looked at it, suddenly red and yanking at it like a kid caught in the cookie jar. She couldn't budge it. It was stuck. He almost laughed. She did, nervously. "Uh, yeah, you gave it to me. Well... Okay, you offered it, I refused it, and then I inherited it."
He frowned. "What?"
"A long story," she said dismissively.
He rolled his eyes. "So, what are we? Married? I don't remember reading that Hoyt was married."
She coughed, the red on her cheeks deepening to a dark crimson. "No. Not married."
"And no plans for that, huh?"
She shook her head. "I've called you my ex-almost something before. Woody, we were friends. You wanted more... And I couldn't give it to you. Not because I didn't want to, but because I have... commitment issues. I panicked when you gave me the ring, and we were just friends, then you got shot..."
He noticed he was running his hand over the scar on his stomach. She nodded. "I thought I was going to lose you, and I finally told you I... I loved you, and you... You were afraid you were paralyzed, that I said it out of pity..."
"And I was an ass and threw you out?" he guessed. She looked up sharply at his words, but he quickly shook his head. "No, I didn't remember. I just followed the predictable plot line. Besides, you said we were 'almost something.' That implies something happened to stop us from becoming more."
She smiled a little, then quickly turned away and got to her feet. "Yeah, well... That about sums it up. We're just friends now."
"One thing," he held up a hand. "Why do I remember us...having sex?"
She stopped. "What?"
"You heard me," he insisted. "Either I've got a very vivid imagination, or we did, in fact, have sex."
She caught sight of something outside her office and ducked out, not quite shutting the door behind her. He sighed. Getting a straight answer out of her was impossible. "Ah, Nigel, a question. If Woody didn't die in that explosion, who did?"
"Jordan, please," Nigel began. "This isn't healthy. You—"
"I know you think I'm in denial, but this time I have proof," she told him proudly.
"Like what?" Nigel demanded. "A week, Jordan, we looked for a week and didn't find anything to prove that it wasn't Woody in that car. It's time you accepted this and—"
"Exhibit A," she said, stepping back into the room and pointing towards the couch. Will—he couldn't bring himself to use "Woody" —instinctively rose to his feet.
The tall other man smiled widely and wrapped him in a fierce and unexpected hug. "Damn, it's good to see you, Woodrow."
He yanked himself free. "Do I know you?"
Nigel stepped back and looked at Jordan. "Is he kidding?"
She shook her head. "Afraid not. While he has an interesting story about the last two weeks, he has no idea who he was before that. Or what happened in that explosion."
He fought against his rising panic. He shouldn't be here. He knew that. He had to go, and he had to clear his head. He... He was not Woodrow Hoyt. He still didn't know who the hell he was, but he was not Hoyt, and he would not pretend for these people. He pushed past Nigel and Jordan and ducked out the back as a uniformed officer approached them.
He got in the freight elevator, letting the doors close behind him as he shut his eyes. Cops still frightened him, and he didn't know why. It wasn't just that he had shot Montelli. It was more.
He was supposed to be a cop. So why did he fear them so damn much?
Jordan slumped down on her couch, picking up the snow globe Woody had dropped. She remembered him playing with this just before he told her they had to go to Littleton Village. Littleton Village... She closed her eyes. He remembered Littleton Village. Not all of it, just that one night...
"Shouldn't we go after him?" Nigel asked, causing her to look up from contemplating the flakes.
"Nigel, he's already long gone. He'll turn up on his own... Or not at all," she whispered softly. She knew Nigel wasn't the one to ask, but she had to know. "Do amnesiacs usually resist knowing who they are?"
"That is not exactly my field of expertise, love, but I think it varies. Maybe Woody's still reacting to the explosion. Someone tried to kill him. He'd be a fool to accept everything he was told at face value."
She nodded. She hoped that was all there was to it. Nigel came over and sat next to her. "So... Why exactly aren't we shouting from rooftops?"
"What?"
"Woody's alive, Jordan. You were right. He's not dead, and everyone who told you he was, to accept his death, was wrong," Nigel reminded her gently. "So why are you still sitting here?"
Jordan looked at Nigel. Bless his innocence. Nigel wasn't the one people would say that about, but sometimes it was true. "Did you notice his hands, Nige?"
"His hands, love? Why would I pay attention to Woodrow's hands?" He turned towards her. "They weren't somewhere inappropriate, were they? And I didn't even notice?"
She rolled her eyes. "The gloves, Nigel."
"Sweet Nancy," Nigel breathed. "Will. Our Woodrow is Andrea Knaub's bodyguard?"
Jordan nodded. She wished that she hadn't dropped her caramel latte. Smiling, she let herself get lost for a moment in the pleasant memory of Woody, coffee, and an elevator. But the moment passed quickly, and tears overwhelmed her eyes. She felt herself sobbing stupidly. Nigel gathered her into his arms. "Shh."
"I should be happy," Jordan muttered. "He's alive, and I should be happy. Why am I not happy?"
"Hey," Garret called from the doorway, "what's this? Is Max—?"
"No, not Max," Nigel answered for her. Jordan tried to pull herself together. She brushed the tears out of her eyes, forced herself to take slow, deliberate breaths. Garret moved into the room, and he had apparently signaled Lily, because she and Bug were crowding the office as well. They were all her friends. Her family. They deserved to know.
"Not Dad," she managed to get out. "Woody."
"Jordan," Garret sighed. "We've been over this—"
"It's true, Dr. M," Nigel interrupted. "I saw him, too. He was here. He was definitely alive. There's just one small hitch."
"Two," Jordan corrected.
"Two?" Garret demanded. "What is going on, Jordan? Did you know about this all along?"
She shook her head. "No. I knew he wasn't dead, but I didn't know where he was. Or what he was doing. Neither did he."
"Dear Woodrow has amnesia," Nigel explained. "No memory of anything before the explosion."
"Oh, god, that's awful," Lily whispered. "No wonder he hasn't found us sooner. He didn't even know where we were."
Jordan hated to shatter Lily's innocent outlook. Nigel was leaving the disclosure of the rest up to her. "Woody—well, the person that Woody has been for the last two weeks—is a suspect in Seely's case."
"The Montelli shooting?" Garret asked. At least he hadn't said the Knaub murder. Woody hadn't done that, wasn't guilty of murder.
"That's the one," Jordan agreed. "I suppose we ought to turn him in. Honestly, though, I have no idea where he is."
"Cross our hearts and hope to die," Nigel added.
Garret grunted, shaking his head as he left the room. Lily touched Jordan's shoulder. "I'm glad he's alive, Jordan. For everyone's sake. I'm glad he's alive."
Bug led Lily out of the room, and Jordan looked at Nigel just as her phone rang. She rushed for it, nearly knocking it off the desk. "Hello?"
"Jordan? It' s me. I have something for you."
He knew that what he needed to nail Montelli was out there, and he also figured he would be the only one looking for it. Montelli was slime, and it wouldn't be hard to find the trail he left behind. All it would take was looking in the right place, talking to the right people. People everyone normally overlooked. If the bastard hadn't killed Andrea, she could have told Will/Woody/whoever he really was what he needed to know. Since she was gone, he would have to settle for the next best thing, the friends she'd made on the street.
She'd dragged him to the same street corner once a week to talk to two of them—she swore she wasn't in contact with the rest. He called it her charity mission because she took them food from the diner and tried to convince them to give up the streets. Usually, she left angry, the other girls screaming curses at her back.
"Why do you bother?" he asked as Andrea wiped tears out of her eyes, sniffling. He reached into his pockets and found the handkerchief she insisted on getting him when she picked up a new set of clothes for him at some secondhand store. He gave it to her, and she blew her nose loudly.
"I can't let it go on," Andrea said finally. "I got myself out, but it's not enough. I have to get them to see they can leave, too."
"Maybe they really don't want to, Andrea. You can't force them."
"I still have to try," she insisted, and he stared at her for a moment, wondering why this felt so familiar."If I had listened to Jenny sooner..."
He stopped. He only remembered Andrea mentioning "Jenny" once. She never did again, wouldn't talk about her. It was important, but he didn't know why. He reached the corner where two low-end hookers waited without success for a John to come by. One was a tall bleach blonde, the other a short redhead. Both were dressed garishly.
"We don't do freebies," the sour-looking redhead snapped as he came closer.
"I don't want a hooker," he assured them. "I want to talk to you about Andrea."
"You a cop?" the redhead demanded.
"He's too dirty to be a cop, Ruby," the blonde said. "Hey, wait, I remember you. You're Andrea's guy, aren't you? She-it. The man himself. Heard you did us all a favor with Montelli."
"I guess you could say that," he said with a shrug.
"He's in the hospital, ain't he? Everyone knows you popped him two," she nudged Ruby. "Maybe it's time, you know. Andrea said we could do it, go straight. That he would protect us. He got rid of Montelli."
"Andrea's still dead," Ruby said coldly. "Don't be stupid, Sheila."
"Yeah, but that just leaves Ten-Man, and he's no match for Will here," Sheila insisted. She looked him over and licked her lips. He repressed a shudder. In other circumstances, Sheila might have been attractive, but she was wearing clothes that didn't fit, make-up enough for a clown, and well...there was no telling where she had been.
Ruby snorted. "He's scrawny."
He shook his head, ignoring her insults. "Why did Montelli kill Andrea? And who is Ten-Man?"
"You protect me, and I'll tell you," Sheila said. "Oh, and Ruby, too."
Ruby quickly shook her head. "Hell, no. I ain't that stupid. Jenny's dead. Andrea's dead. And he ain't gonna save you, Sheila."
"Maybe not," Sheila said. "But I want to die clean. No more drugs. No more men who have to be drunk or high to pay for me. So, Will, you gonna do it?"
This was a bad idea. And he knew it. "I bet you could get a job from Mic. He'd do anything for friends of Andrea's."
"So you'll be there?" Sheila asked. "At the diner?"
"Yeah," he agreed. So far, he knew more than he had before, he had a name: Ten-Man. He could use that. And he needed whatever else Sheila would give him. He didn't see much of a choice. "I'll be there."
Jordan walked into Seely's office and set the file on his desk. He quickly finished his conversation and hung up the phone. "What is this?"
"All the information that Nigel and I could dig up on a man who calls himself Ten-Man. I have a source who says he is Montelli's partner in a squeeze on low-level prostitutes in the south side."
Seely blinked. "What?"
Woody had been busy, Jordan thought miserably. She didn't want to tell Seely that it was Woody, of all people, that he suspected of murdering two people in cold blood. She pointed to the file, knowing that Seely would find the notes that Woody had made just as familiar as she had. "Your suspect—Andrea's bodyguard—has done your work for you. He left this for me at the morgue. I came as soon as I got it."
"And why should I trust this guy?" Seely demanded. "He shot a cop."
"Just look at the file," Jordan ground out.
It took thirty seconds for Seely to recognize Woody's handwriting. "Shit. Hoyt. This guy was working with Hoyt?"
Jordan shrugged. She wasn't going to tell Seely that Woody was that guy, not yet. "Woody was on vacation before the explosion. After Lu died... He took some time. He wasn't really talking to me. If he looked into this, it was completely on his own."
Seely nodded, flipping through the file some more. Woody had apparently gotten a name—one name—from Andrea's friends and run with it, tracking Ten-Man, aka Charlie Nomm, and Montelli for the past three weeks. Montelli even had Ten-Man down as an official snitch, making the connection impossible to deny. Ten-Man was a pimp and also the muscle that roughed up unprotected girls like Andrea. Montelli's specialty was abusing his power, arresting them without proof, getting them longer jail times and higher fines unless they agreed to what he wanted.
One thing didn't make sense, though. Why. What could they possibly gain from girls who barely made enough to get by?
That was one question that Woody's research hadn't answered. She suspected—he probably did, too— that his sources knew, but he must not have been able to convince them to tell him. Or he just hadn't bothered to tell the rest of them. She wished that she'd been able to talk to him for more than his "check the garage" and then click phone call earlier.
Seely looked at her. "Wait a minute. This tracks the guy since Hoyt died. How is that possible?"
Jordan opened her mouth to answer and was interrupted by her phone. She held up a finger and flipped it open. "Cavanaugh."
"If I'm really Hoyt," he began, the words irritating her to no end, "then I have an apartment or something, right? Clothes? Money? A gun?"
"Yes, you have—wait a minute, what the hell do you want with a gun?"
Her only answer was a dial tone.