Sorry so late in updating, hope y'all enjoy!
insert standard disclaimers here, including for slow updaters
i
Peter awoke with a start, the sunlight starting to slant low through the tall window glass, making it nearing 6 pm or so. The laptop and bits of stickie notes were still balanced across his stomach, where he'd stretched out in a small but obviously comfortable recliner, and, apparently, at some point checked out. Perhaps after the clipped, icy conversation with his father earlier in the afternoon, which had reignited his headache - at least, in a psychosomatic way. There'd been a couple Sam Adams in Dunham's fridge, which he'd purloined purely for medicinal reasons, and now the day was gone.
He eased to a sitting position guiltily, and set the laptop and stickies off his belly back on the nearby desk. Squinting the sleep out of his eyes and yawning, he idly pawed through the stickies to reconstruct his thoughts. His father – Walter, he corrected himself firmly – had described the radioactive genetic manipulations he'd discovered, and how he needed unadulterated worms to test some things out. Somehow, through what was supposed to have been an acidly biting witticism on Peter's part, this had led to Astrid being dispatched to the New England Aquarium downtown, to their extensive penguin exhibit. Peter wryly imagined Astrid flashing her badge at the college student docents and demanding to interrogate the puffins.
He stood up, stretching his back, and considered calling Olivia again. She'd checked in with him earlier, prior to his conversation with Walter (and the beers), only to mention the possible tie with a technology firm employee and the fact of another dead body. He stood by the window, idly eyeing the street, and tunelessly humming the jingle from the latest advertising campaign of Massive Dynamic. With the random fact collection power of the internet, he'd found Martin Abrams and Massive Dynamic at much less than six degrees of separation to each other, one being employee of an oddly publicity-shy startup called GenoWave and one being a silent investor through what looked like a shell corporation.
GenoWave. In the faddish lingo of military industrial companies everywhere, the information provided on GenoWave's hypothetical products or services was of the "Offering Technological Solutions To Real-World In-Situ Issues For The Modern Warfighter" type, i.e., both devoid of content but conversely able to be interpreted as just about anything. The most interesting reading came from press releases and their own website which mentioned the main technical staff. A couple high-energy physicists oddly mixed with biochemists and a neurobiologist. And then the founder, Dr Richard Maven, author of several papers on ice ecosystems, and late of the University of Calgary. About the right age to have known his father while still the young, impressionable graduate student Rick or Richie Maven. No pictures were available on line – would Peter recognize him from his nightmares, anyway?
Peter shuddered, and sat down heavily on a settee by the window. He checked his phone for messages or missed calls, but there were none. Olivia must be still engrossed in the the crime scene she'd been on her way to when she'd called earlier. He sighed. Leaving a message was too difficult; he still didn't have the entire puzzle put together in his head for a 40 second update after the beep. He'd have liked to talk it through with her live, let things crystallize. With a scowl, he also admitted it would be easier to talk things out with both she and Walter together, for the mother of all yin and yang points of view.
The four walls and deepening shadows of the apartment seemed to close in on him suddenly, and he felt an overwhelming need to be on the move. Not through any desire for company, of course. He gathered up his stickies, shut down the computer, and went into the bathroom to wash up. Splashing water on his face, he looked at his dripping reflection in the mirror with the dawning realization that he had spent the better part of a day with the perfect, unfettered, if unethical, opportunity to innocently sift through Olivia's things. The woman who had lied and blackmailed him into coming back to Boston, out of reach of his Iraqi score and within reach of some fairly nasty former acquaintances. The real Peter Bishop would have leapt at the chance to get a drop on this woman, find an angle and get the upper hand. The real Peter Bishop – the life he was going to get back to as quickly as possible. Right?
With more force than necessary, he yanked a hand towel off a rack and rubbed his face dry. He strode forcefully through the living room, collected his things, and was out on the front stoop of the apartment with the door slammed shut before stopping to consider where he'd go. His jet-setting world had narrowed completely – now it was the hotel, the lab (no, no, no), the no-doubt still Olivia-less Federal Building or… here.
At the still Olivia-less but intoxicatingly Olivia-infused brownstone apartment.
The hotel it was then. He walked briskly down the street to where he was pretty sure there was a T station, knowing that the train stopped just a couple blocks from the hotel.
ii
In the bustle of dark figures in plastic windbreakers carrying on various forensics tasks, Olivia's still form and blonde hair stood out. She gazed down at the now-sheeted body at her feet, watching the blood from what would have been the head area slowly pool near the toe of her shoe.
"Ma'am?" A grizzled Boston PD captain tapped her on the shoulder, flipping open a notepad.
Olivia gathered her thoughts and turned to him, composing her face into an expectant expression. Her eyes flickered to the badge hung around the man's neck.
"Yes, Captain? What have you found?"
The detective began to rattle off items from his notes.
"This will all be in my report, with more of a narrative, but I thought you'd want to know at least the basics now. Victim's name is Mark McMannis. Boston native, but lived up in Nashua. Has a couple of grown kids, and an ex-wife. Ex-wife said she hadn't talked to him, but seemed like they were cordial enough. Cause of death…" The detective paused.
Internally, Olivia smiled ironically. Not even a veteran like him would see this type of thing very often.
"I think I can guess the cause of death," she said. "Did the coroner come up with anything interesting yet, though?"
The BPD officer made a look of disgust.
"Only that there were some wicked big maggots in the corpse already, considering he's only been dead probably 12 hours."
Wicked big blue ice-cold not-maggots, Olivia thought.
"Anything more about McMannis, where he worked or what he might have been involved with?"
The detective dutifully checked his notes again. Olivia idly considered that the temporary "Homeland Security" label she was stuck with wouldn't play well in a lot of situations, but that one could still depend on the older, salt of the earth, god-family-country law enforcement types to respect the mission. The ostensible mission.
"Says he was a plumber. Worked for some contract company, Boston Rooter? Did maintenance work, emergency calls, that sort of thing."
Olivia's jaw slammed shut.
"Thank you, detective. Let me know if you come up with anything else." Nodding at him, she pivoted on one foot and pulled out her cell phone and started to dial as she walked over to a quiet corner.
The officer looked faintly surprised at being cut off in mid report, but chalked it up to High Level Things. He put the notebook back into his pocket and merged back into the windbreaker crowd.
"Charlie," she barked, as soon as the phone was picked up, "see if Boston Rooter has a contract with any of the same companies that Curt's Electrical does."
Charlie's wry amusement came through the line.
"And hello to you, too, Agent Dunham. You mean, companies like GenoWave? Your boy toy called with a similar request."
Olivia felt a flush to her cheeks.
"Peter? He called you?" she echoed redundantly.
"Yes," he answered, "but don't worry, I told him you'd never date a colleague."
"Charlie!" Olivia started.
On the other side of the phone, Charlie rolled his feel off his desk and grew serious.
"Kidding, Dunham. Bad joke. So, yeah, Bishop called and asked me to check on GenoWave, get a list of all their service vendors. Boston Rooter, coincidentally, is on the list."
Olivia gnawed her lower lip for a moment.
"Charlie, we need to get a search warrant for GenoWave. Could you work that? We need to get corroboration from McMannis' and Baker's companies that each of the dead men had a service call at GenoWave in the last week or so, for justification."
There was a pause. "Ok. Take a couple hours, probably. We could always play your new Homeland buddies' national security investigation card and go in without one, if you were sure."
"Um," Olivia hesitated. "Just see what you can do the regular way first, ok? I need to go pick up the Bishops from the lab, anyway, so I wouldn't go right away."
"The lab?" Charlie repeated. "I think at least the not-yet-crazy Bishop is on his way to their hotel, don't know if the father is with him."
Frowning to herself, Olivia nonetheless brushed off the comment to Charlie.
"Oh, right. Well, I will round them up and get status, and then check in with you a little later. We can shoot for GenoWave during office hours first thing tomorrow, try the ask-nicely approach before pulling out the paperwork and starting alarms."
As Charlie signed off, Olivia was at her vehicle and redialing for Peter Bishop's phone. The response was an immediate "out of service" message, meaning his phone was either off or out of range of a cell tower. She left a message to call her back, and started up the SUV to head back into town towards the Bishops' hotel. It was a lot to ask of the man to just stay put, obviously.
iii
The not-yet-crazy Bishop who couldn't stay put emerged from the underground Copley T stop and turned the corner to his hotel. In a matter of minutes, he was up in the room he shared with his father and had turned on the Celtics game. He got some aspirin from his shaving kit in the bathroom, and sat down in front of the TV stand. Pulling a water out of the minibar, he blanched momentarily at the ice-borer-canister-sized gap on the top shelf and belatedly stood up to survey the room. Popping the top on the water resignedly, he started to make a sweep through the suite for any other residual experiments his father might have stashed.
Coming to his suitcase, he noticed that the top lid had been carefully replaced – more carefully than he remembered doing it that morning, what with a splitting headache and his father reciting "Gunga Din" at the top of his lungs from the shower. Tilting his head, he used a coat hanger to gingerly lift the top of the suitcase. There weren't any foreign objects in there, Peter was relieved to see, but his eyes narrowed as he confirmed that the clothes within were in a subtly different disarray then what he remembered in sharpening focus from earlier that day. He grimly finished a quick round of the room and then turning the living room light and TV out, he edged sideways to the window and peered through the side of the curtain down to the street.
Prius – no. Some sort of Japanese sedan, probably not. Black Crown Victoria… definite possibilities, though a total cliché. There were several SUVs parked on the road, as well, more ubiquitous than minivans any more, making it more convenient for your military industrial complex surveillance needs.
He considered his options. Nothing obvious had been taken, so whomever had tossed the room was doing reconnaissance, not theft. And they'd been very careful and deliberate, so not amateurs, either. Sitting back on the couch with only the small reading lamp on, he pursed his lips and took a swig of the water. Question was, did they get what they wanted? Or would they be back?
His question was answered that moment when the door was slammed in and two men rushed into the room. Reacting by instinct, Peter immediately doused the lamp next to him. With no lights, he had a slight advantage over the two men by virtue of his relative familiarity of the suite's layout.
His advantage would be measured in seconds, he knew. Peter launched himself at the spot where he expected the larger of the two men to be, driving a shoulder into the intruder's gut and slamming them both into the wall. Rolling away, he crouched behind a chair while seeing the second dark shape belatedly move over to intercept him. His hand lit upon the post of a floor lamp next to him, and he grabbed it with both hands and swung it like a Louisville Slugger to crack resoundingly into the second intruder's head.
Something heavy hit him in the shins – the man on the floor had scissored his legs around Peter's and knocked them out from under him. Peter fell full length to the floor, knocking the wind out of him, while he felt rather than saw the man jump to his feet and move in to finish him off. Returning the favor, he cocked back a foot and slammed it up at about knee height toward the enforcer guy at his side, and was satisfied to hear a sharp crack and a grunt of pain.
Peter jumped to a crouch with his back toward the door, and started to quickly crab walk back through it with his eyes straining into the dark of the room to catch a glimpse of the two intruders.
Which is why he didn't see the third man, who caught him solidly in the kidneys with a vicious kick. He rolled to his side on the floor, gasping.
The third man straightened, closed the door, and switched on the overhead lights. Squinting painfully, Peter looked up to see a broad-shouldered man with close-cropped black hair and grim expression. Behind him, he could hear the other two getting to their feet as well.
"What are you doing here? What do you want?" Peter snarled. Best offense..
The man in the doorway didn't deign to answer. One of the other thugs delivered a few well-placed kicks to the ribs, and as Peter tried painfully to curl his body out of the way, the dark-haired man caught a fistful of his shirt, plucked him off the floor and sprawled him out flat on the couch.
"Peter Bishop," the man said casually. "I expected tougher. Or more broken, I'm not sure."
One of his partners, bleeding from his temple, cast an evil eye on the captive Bishop while producing a syringe from an inner pocket. Almost simultaneously, the dark-haired man had dropped to one knee, wrapped an elbow around Peter's throat and had his head pinned against the sofa's armrest. Peter immediately threw his hands to the man's arm and tried to pry it away, only to have the lack of oxygen send black stars in his vision.
"Give it to him."
Peter felt a sharp prick on his bicep and found his head loose again. Despairing, he threw off the man's restraining hand and sat upright on the couch.
"Listen," he said. "I can get what you want. Let me know what your organization's stake is, and I'll make it good. I've got the money."
"You don't need to do this. We can negotiate."
The dark-haired man looked at him with amusement.
"What we want," he answered, "is Walter Bishop's prize guinea pig. The one that already has all the hooks in place for no doubt half a dozen different really interesting medical experiments. And all we want is to feed you to the worms, prematurely."
Peter's gut went cold with realization, even as he felt the cloying fizz of the drug start to permeate his muscles. He dizzily remembered Olivia's warning from earlier.
"The FBI knows about GenoWave."
He tried to focus on the dark-haired man, ignoring the others. "That's right. And in any case, this stuff didn't work before, and it's not working now, unless you're selling permanent headache cures to people unclear on the concept. You need to stop getting your science from bad Hindu comic books and…"
The back-hand across the mouth sent Peter hard back into the cushions and the fizziness abruptly engulfed his head, too. He thought he must be imagining things when the door slammed open for the second time that night and he heard, "Freeze! FBI!"
There was an interminable period of gunshots, glass breaking, and footsteps pounding down the fire escape past the window. Peter shook his head blearily and slumped off the couch.
"'Livia?" he called weakly, hoping.
Olivia bent over him and propped up his shoulder with a strong hand.
"Peter! Are you hurt?"
He shook his head disjointedly in mock humor. "Not sure. The drugs are probably covering it up." His head bounced back against the edge of the sofa.
Olivia's eyebrows went up and she patted him down for injuries. But for a little blood on his face and some tender spots, he didn't seem to be badly hurt.
"Peter." she said with concern, holding both his shoulders and trying to look into his eyes, "Have you been drugged?"
There was a labored pause. "Um. Yeah. Needed calvary about 5 minutes earlier. Next time….wait, you're not hurt?" He focused on her face with exaggerated care.
Olivia pulled his head against her shoulder and patted his back.
"Shh. I'm ok. We have to get you out of here though, alright?"
She took Peter's face in her hands and looked into the slits of his eyes. "You have to help me get you to the car, and get you somewhere to sleep this off."
He shook his head out of her hands and laid it back against the sofa.
"Tol' you I needed my own room."
Thank you all for the helpful and encouraging reviews. Please forgive any nits here or there with names and such, I have no beta but would love a volunteer!