Scotty realises it's his own groaning which has awoken him. His head feels split in two.
Why does everything hurt so bad?
He can't seem to stop the noise moaning from within his chest. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to breathe deeply, but even that hurts. He can feel dirt against his face.
He exhales carefully and moves slowly. Slowly.
He sits up, keeping his eyes closed to force back the dizziness that threatens to spin him back into unconsciousness. He can taste coppery blood.
He blinks twice, but it's pitch black. He may as well have kept his eyes closed. He lifts one hand to his forehead and feels dried blood and a lump the size of a small egg.
"Shit..." He frowns and runs his hands down his chest and his legs. No broken bones – but everything feels sore and bruised and he can't figure out why. For a moment he's terribly afraid.
He looks up and notes the faint circle of light far above him. Suddenly, it all comes rushing back. John Smith, Brenda, the well. Lilly.
Lil.
His breath gasps sharply inwards as he remembers his gun firing as he fell. He remembers Lilly's eyes widening and he can remember hearing her scream for him as he fell.
Oh, God. Oh, God, I shot Lil. I shot her.
He staggers to his feet, gagging and retching as his dizziness sweeps over him and his head throbs.
"Lil!" His voice his hoarse and rough. He coughs and chokes and tries again. "Rush!" He cranes his head upwards, gripping the rough stone walls with his hands. "Lilly!" he shouts.
He listens desperately, but he can't even hear the wind.
He drops to his knees and scrapes his hands over the dirt until he's located his gun and his flashlight.
The flashlight flickers, and the casing is cracked, but it works. He uses it to find his phone, but there's no signal.
His heart sinks as he realises Lilly's phone is still in his pocket.
"Shit," he whispers. He shines the torch up to the top of the well. He's not sure how deep it is – not too deep, all things considered. But it certainly isn't shallow.
"At least it's dry, Valens," he mutters. He tucks his flashlight into his belt and runs his fingers over the stone wall, using the crumbling stonework to haul himself up a couple of feet. He wedges the toe of his shoe into another rough pocket.
He keeps close to the wall, jamming his fingers tightly into rough crevices and hauling himself up. A third of the way up, he makes the mistake of looking towards the top. He overbalances and tumbles back down again, his skin tearing and scraping against the walls.
He lands with a soft cry and darkness creeps into the edges of his vision again before he blinks it back furiously and staggers to his feet again.
He forces the nausea back and starts to climb again. Sweat soaks him, and blood runs freely down his forehead into his eyes, stinging and burning. His left shoulder throbs uncomfortably and he knows that the fall has done its damage, even if it hasn't left him with any broken bones. He thanks his lucky stars and jams his fingers into the wall again, tearing his nails and ripping his skin open.
By the time he reaches the top, he's faint with exhaustion, and he can hear each beat of his heart in his ears. He pulls himself across the ground until he's lying flat in the dirt, well away from the deep hole in the ground.
"Lil?" He turns his head and gazes tiredly around the clearing.
There is no sign of a body, which he is thankful for. For the first time, he notices that the light is grey and pale. Dawn is breaking.
How long was I down there? How long did it take me to climb out?
He starts to panic, his sweat-drenched shirt chilling him as it sticks to him. He scrambles to his feet, ignoring his body's painful protests.
He sweeps his flashlight over the ground. "Lil!"
He calls for her again and again, but he knows she's not there. For a moment he's ridiculously relieved – if she's not there, then maybe he didn't shoot her. John Smith wouldn't have taken her away if she was alive...
He's taken her.
His relief disappears instantly. The beam of his flashlight sweeps across glittering metal and he kneels by John Smith's abandoned shackles, chills racing up his spine.
There is a dark stain of blood on the ground, sticky and brown.
Lil's hurt.
Scotty's hurting, badly, and he's starting to worry about the injuries the fall has left him with. Straightening his back is almost impossible, so he walks with his shoulders hunched forward, limping as he hurries towards the road.
He holds both Lilly's phone and his own, staring down at them desperately as he scuffles along. The sun has crept up now and the shadows are growing long as the day lightens.
Shit, shit, shit.
He can't remember what time it was when he and Lil left the car. He can't figure out how long he was down in the well.
He's had her for hours. Oh, Lil...
He stops, gasping for breath, and his phone suddenly shrills loudly as he blissfully finds a patch of the forest with a phone signal.
Stillman.
"Boss..." His voice is barely there, and he tries again, and again, but his breath is so desperate and deep and raw he can't get anything out except sobbing gasps.
"Scotty?" Stillman's voice is instant concern.
Lilly's phone beeps, indicating six unheard voice messages.
Scotty coughs and sinks to the ground miserably. "Boss... He's got Lil."
Stillman has driven so fast he's beaten the ambulance he sent ahead for Scotty.
Scotty looks up tiredly, slumped on the ground at the base of a large tree. He has no idea how much time has passed – but it must have been at least an hour. Probably more.
The ambulance pulls in behind Stillman's car as the lieutenant rushes towards Scotty, who hasn't moved from the exact position he described to Stillman over the phone.
"What happened, Scotty?" He kneels down and Scotty wants to cry.
He glances back to the paramedics. "I ain't goin' to hospital," he says softly.
Stillman puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. "Don't worry about that. Where's Lil?"
"Oh, shit..." Scotty runs a hand across his forehead, feeling tired and dizzy. He's finding it hard to remember the details. He prods gently at the lump on his head.
"She wouldn't wait," he says softly, only half-remembering it all but knowing that part, at least, was true. Lil wasn't going to wait. "Brenda's still alive. He told us she was here." He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the tree, tears hot and close behind his eyelids as his guilt deepens. "She ain't right, boss. She ain't sleepin'."
"I know." Stillman's voice is grim and Scotty realises he's feeling just as guilty.
We knew she was all broken like that and we just let her convince us she was okay.
The paramedics kneel by Scotty, shining lights into his eyes and speaking to him.
He brushes them away, feeling irritated and restless. "I ain't goin' to hospital," he says firmly. "Just give me some damn painkillers."
"You're in bad shape, Scotty," Stillman says worriedly. He runs a hand over his head and Scotty can see sweat on him, despite the early morning chill in the air.
"He ain't gonna wait," Scotty says, sounding angrier than he meant to. "He's got Lil – he's taken her somewhere to stash away. We've gotta find her." He brushes the paramedics off again and staggers to his feet, stiff and aching, but able to stand. "She's not gonna be the next victim on his list," he says fiercely. "I'm gonna find her."
Lilly's mouth is dry, though she contributes that mostly to the fact she's unable to breathe through her nose. She wonders vaguely if it's broken, and is struck by a sudden superficial moment, worrying about how she'll look if it is.
I hope it's not crooked.
She closes her eyes again, feeling dizzy. The car seat is cold against her cheek – vinyl. One of her shoes is missing and she tries to remember when she lost it. She comes to the conclusion she must have fought John Smith as he dragged her back to the car, though she can't remember doing so.
Scotty.
She lets out a little moan of despair and bites her lip hard to stop a sob escaping. She has no idea how deep the well is. Deep down inside herself, she is convinced her partner is dead. She's convinced he's lying under the night sky with a broken neck, alone, and his skeleton will be found years later by another cold case detective and they'll try and piece together exactly what happened to him.
She's not aware she's sobbing until John Smith chuckles and looks back at her through the wire grill that separates the front seats from the back.
"You're not having a good day, are you, detective?" he asks softly.
She squeezes her eyes closed, too tired and grief-stricken to play his games.
I should sit up, she thinks numbly. I should sit up and try to see where he's taking me. I should try and attract somebody's attention.
He's taken her gun, and her hands are cuffed behind her back with her own handcuffs, pulling and biting into her skin.
Now and then he starts to hum to himself, and he drums his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.
Talk to him, she tells herself. You have to get out of this yourself, Lilly, or you'll never get out of it at all. You have to talk to him. You have to play his game because it's the only game he'll let you play. It's the only game you can win or lose.
But she stays silent, and keeps her cheek pressed against the backseat of the car, her hands pressing against the small of her back, passive and still.
There's no point.
"Tell me, detective..." John Smith adjusts the mirror so he can watch her over the barrier between them. "What happened back there? In the woods? Why did you look so afraid?"
She turns her head away from him and closes her eyes.
He chuckles again and leans back in his seat. "It's okay," he says after a moment. "We have time to talk. We have plenty of time."
Scotty has been told not to take painkillers, regarding his head injury, but the spectacular bruising down the left side of his back is too painful to ignore, even in the depths of his guilt and exhaustion.
He crunches the painkillers between his teeth and gulps it all down with coffee as the team gathers in Stillman's office, taping maps and papers and photographs up on the windows.
"Let's say he wanted to get Lil hidden before daylight," Kat says, her voice faltering only slightly as she runs her hand over a map covering the route Scotty and Lilly took. "He had three hours or so to get her somewhere before the sun came up, but let's assume he wanted to hide her quickly..."
Scotty watches, but barely listens as Miller continues to talk, drawing circles and crosses on the map she's taped up. His mind races. Information has been coming thick and fast and it seems every two minutes, someone else bursts into Stillman's office with a new sheet of paper and a new item of information to try and get their heads around.
It's become clear that Colleen Legarth slowly starved to death in her prison in Newark. Her body showed no obvious signs of physical trauma or abuse – and somehow, in a confusing and rather sick way, Scotty thinks that's worse. Because he doesn't understand why John Smith likes to lock women up and do nothing to them. He just takes them and stores them away and Scotty can't see a reason for it.
It's different this time, and that frightens him again. Because John Smith can't stick to the same pattern, this time, without giving himself away.
Lil fought him. There were drag marks all over the place, marked out by little cones and tape as everything was photographed and examined. And one of her shoes, kicked away into the scrub. The sight of it had sent Scotty to vomit behind one of the larger trees, guilt and fear roiling up inside his stomach and his chest.
And the blood. Not much, but enough to convince him his bullet had flown wild and grazed her arm.
He forces himself to focus again, aware that Stillman is keeping a close eye on him and won't hesitate to apply further insistence to the argument Scotty should be in hospital, being thoroughly checked over to make sure he's okay.
Kat is standing back and staring at the map, looking upset and helpless as she realises the extent of the area they estimate Lilly could be in. And that's just if they're lucky.
Vera stumbles in, his tie so loose the knot is in the middle of his chest and his shirt sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up untidily. "More basements possibly used by John Smith," he says, holding up a sheet of paper and shaking it. "Nine of 'em."
"Nine?" Scotty asks, blinking. Stay awake, Valens. Stay sharp. You gotta find Lil. Keep it together; for her.
"Only five women have been linked to John Smith," Jeffries says. "Lil could be in one of the other four basements."
Vera nods excitedly and manages to look a little smug. "Let's get out there and find her."
Scotty doesn't need to be told twice. Hang on, Lil. I'm comin' for you.
In the grand scheme of things, Lilly should have deeper concerns. And she supposes she does, really, but as John Smith prods her forward, all she can think about is the blood crusted down her chin, and that maybe her nose is really crooked now, and that her missing shoe means her right sock is getting dirty.
Thinking about such ridiculous things means she's not thinking about Scotty, and that's a relief.
She trips and falls to her knees, scattering leaves and dirt as she struggles to get to her feet again. It's not easy with her hands cuffed behind her back.
She gives up and sits back on her heels, breathing quietly, her head hanging low. "Help me up," she says.
John Smith stands behind her. "Giving up so soon, detective?" he asks mildly. He pulls at the back of her collar and she staggers to her feet before he pushes her forward again.
Damn it, Rush, if you don't start talking to him you're not gonna get out of these woods at all. And what if Scotty's still alive, huh? No one's gonna find him down that well. You're all he's got.
Alarmed and excited by the sudden realisation that there is a chance Scotty could be okay, Lilly starts talking breathlessly.
"Have you got somewhere to keep me out here, John?" she asks, stumbling a little. "Or are you just bringing me out here to put a bullet in my head?"
He chuckles softly, apparently pleased that she is suddenly talking to him, and so brashly.
"I have somewhere," he says. "This is a special one, detective. And I'm well aware that I may not get another chance to bring someone here, so I'm giving it to you."
His words send chills up her spine. He genuinely sounds as though he is doing her a favour, donating this special place to her.
A grave.
She hurriedly moves to speak again, forcing the thought of tombs and death back. "Brenda's dead, isn't she?" she asks.
So stupid of me, to think he'd leave his victim alive. So stupid of me to let him read me like that and use Brenda to manipulate me.
"She was alive three days ago," he answered mildly. "I doubt she's succumbed to the natural way of things just yet. Stop here."
She stops, and she can hear her heart thundering in her ears. "You starve them?" she asks softly.
"I doubt they notice," he answers, scraping his foot across the ground, disturbing leaves and twigs. "By the time I seal them in, they're barely alive as it is. All the hope is gone and it's just the science of things keeping them there."
Lilly feels tears spilling down her cheeks again and she's too exhausted to try and stop them. "You wait until they think nobody is coming for them," she says.
"That's right," he answers pleasantly. His foot scrapes harshly over metal, and he smiles. She watches him, half-thinking about running but knowing she'd barely take two steps before he caught her again. She's so tired she feels dizzy and disoriented – though she supposes that could also have come from the blow to the head.
He lifts a manhole cover, straining to shift its heavy weight. She thinks again about running, and dismisses the idea once more, reminding herself that, if nothing else, he has her gun.
There is a round, black hole in the ground. Terror hits Lilly hard in the stomach and before she realises it, she's babbling.
"Don't make me go down there," she says. "Please. I'll talk with you; I'll answer all of your questions. I'll talk about what gets me out of bed in the morning; I'll tell you about my childhood, I'll talk about my nightmares, just don't send me down there..." Her voice fades away in a wail and she sobs, afraid and embarrassed.
He watches her, his head tilted slightly to the side. "We will talk when you're inside," he said softly. "Hurry now, detective."
"No." She shakes her head desperately and backs away from the hole.
He sighs wearily and walks towards her. She sinks to her knees, pleading with him.
"Please," she begs, "please don't keep me down there. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. Please."
"Don't you like the woods?" he asks. "Or is it the dark you're so afraid of?"
He sounds so kindly and curious it causes her to shudder.
"Perhaps disappearing down a hole like this will help you feel a little closer to your partner and his fate," he says, smiling at her.
Something inside her breaks completely. She lifts her chin and screams loudly at him, one long, shrill note piercing the clear morning air. She lets her rage and grief and exhaustion pour out of her, and when she's run out of breath she sinks to the ground completely, panting and sobbing.
He drags her nearer the hole, and she kicks at him desperately but she's too weak to do anything but cause him annoyance.
"You had better brace yourself, detective," he says rather apologetically. "It's a bit of a drop."
He shoves her and she slides quickly beneath the surface and into the bunker, landing heavily in a crumpled heap twelve feet below him, her bones jarring and the wind rushing out of her lungs as she hits the dirt.
She squirms slightly, gingerly testing her limbs to make sure nothing is broken.
"Here are your keys, detective," John Smith says pleasantly.
She looks up and is almost hit in the face by her handcuff keys. She looks up at him again, desperate and unashamed of the pleading tone in her voice.
"Please don't lock me in the dark," she says.
"Ah," he says with a smile. "It is the dark you're afraid of, then? Have you seen too many monsters, detective? Does the light keep them away?"
"Please don't leave me in the dark," she says again.
He tilts his head and smiles down at her, stretched out on his stomach with his chin resting on his hands. He looks almost nostalgic as he gazes down at her, and a lazy smile spreads across his face. "I'll leave you with the light," he says. "I won't put the cover back on, detective."
She nods up at him gratefully. "Thank you."
He seems pleased, being thanked, and she makes a note of it. He's exceptionally polite, too, and she silently urges herself to stay civil and not lose her temper with him again. She needs him to come back.
Talking her way out of here is her only option.