Part V, FAST APPROACHING SHADOWS
…
Provenza watched the two police cars burning, flames licking high into the air with trails of black smoke billowing. There was no sound and yet he felt he could hear the roar of fire, the cracking and blazing as fire ate away, fueled and out of control.
It had been a nightmare watching Sanchez crumble to the ground, the camera too far away to tell where he had been shot. Provenza had cried out against the cloth in his mouth, the robe around his wrists chafing as he tried to make them budge. Provenza was irrevocably stuck. He was forced to watch the pool of blood under Sanchez, watch as Sykes crouched next to him and turned him onto his back, her hands on his shoulder smeared in blood as well.
Another shot was fired, Provenza only saw Sykes flinching when the bullet burst into the engine tank of one car. Her hands dwelled into the collar of Sanchez's shirt and Provenza watched her drag him away from the burning police cars, watched as she heaved and dragged till she took cover behind a bush. No more bullets flew but as much as it was a relief it did not calm Provenza down.
Flynn was briefly on the screen, hand in hand with the Captain as they crept along what looked like a cellar-like corridor. On another screen, from another angle he watched the Captain doubling over, vomiting unto the floor. Flynn keeping her hair out of her face, his eyes fastened on the way they had come, an anxious look.
When the screen flickered away from the Captain and Flynn, Provenza was left with another view of an empty staircase. The screen flickered again and he watched an empty corridor.
The door into the computer room opened and the bastard stepped inside, dumping his black backpack unto the ground. The goggles and mask came off and the guy approached Provenza with one of his wide, mirthless smiles. Provenza watched him with a frown.
"It will be spectacular, old man," he said and patted Provenza on his head, the condescending tilt to the gesture not lost on Provenza.
"Do you see how they're all struggling?" he paused with a look at the monitors, "All for you."
Provenza tried to look away from the bastard, averted his eyes from the screens but it only made the guy smile wider.
"Do you wanna greet your guest? The one you came to rescue?" he asked and pointed at the bundle of clothes in the corner. Provenza refrained from grumbling into the cloth; instead he narrowed his eyes at the black figure who went to the corner.
The bundle of clothes; the little feature to the room that Provenza had tried to ignore with vehemence from the moment he had laid eyes on the bundle.
The bastard untangled clothes and heaved the body up for viewing. Provenza saw the tangle of brown-blonde hair and a gash on the temple, old caked blood matted into strands of hair before he realized it was indeed Buzz.
Buzz with a pale pallor, motionless body that seemed to slump toward the ground with more gravity than was possible. Provenza realized there was really nothing to mistake from the posture, nothing to mistake from that skin tone. The kid was not merely unconscious. He had known it for some time and yet he had pretended that still bundle of clothes had not been in the room with him. Provenza had clung to a small hope.
Now it was merely the stark truth.
"Wakey, wakey," the bastard sang as he lifted Buzz's head, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I don't think he will wake up anytime soon."
"Now, Buzz – that's his name, right," the bastard chatted, his voice again conversationally as he looked at the dead body in his hands, "He put up a good fight, I'll tell you that. I wanted him alive for you, but well, he struggled too much."
The bastard looked at Provenza then, a strange gleam in his eyes, "You've only got yourself to blame for this, old man. This is all you."
Provenza felt confused and angry, torn between rage and sadness. Buzz had only been a means to an end for the bastard, a tool to ensure Provenza and the rest came to the mansion with haste.
The bastard then quickly got to his feet, stepped a foot away from Buzz.
Provenza closed his eyes and bit down hard on the cloth, his hands balled into fist, nails digging into skin. He refused to look at the bastard any longer, the sight of those blue eyes and that smile; it was sickening.
He heard the door open and close, a little whispered, "see you in a bit," and the bastard left Provenza alone again. The silence sounded sorrowful to him, loud and sad.
"Where's Buzz?" Mike asked when he entered electronics. Provenza was standing next to the controls, looking over the shoulder of Sanchez as the younger detective tried to tinker with buttons and make the screens do what he wanted.
There was a red light flashing that Provenza really did not like the look of.
In the interview room sat the Captain, nonchalantly briefing through files in the folder before her on the table, a pen in her hand rhythmically clanging against the table. Every now and then she would grace their suspect in the interview room with a wide, warm smile. Flynn stood up against the wall, arms crossed and a most sour look on his face; his nose scrunched up, lips curled in distaste and narrowed eyes.
Their suspect, a janitor from Damien Reynolds School, kept giving Flynn a nervous look out of the corner of his eyes, slowly scooting his chair a bit to the other side. The guy was fidgeting, unsure of himself and beads of perspiration had slowly started to form on his forehead, under his armpits. Provenza was just glad he wasn't in the room, he was sure the guy smelled as well.
"Late or sick," Provenza grumbled in reply to Mike's question, "Sykes's trying his cell phone. Meanwhile we need sound from the interview room."
Mike patted Sanchez on the shoulder and he took over, quickly tapping a few buttons and suddenly the Captain's voice came over the sound system, low but clear.
Sykes stuck her head in the door, "I can't get Buzz on his phone or landline. I've even tried to contact him on twitter."
"Twitter?" Provenza wondered, not sure he wanted to know whatever it was.
"Buzz has never been late before," Sanchez interrupted.
"If he was sick he would call it in," Mike supplied.
"That's not our only problem," Sykes said, "detective Reynolds has gone to the janitor's house."
Provenza rolled his eyes, "You've gotta be kidding me. Did he at least wait for the warrant?"
"Nope," Sykes answered, "I tried to stop him but he's pretty upset."
"You don't say," Provenza looked around. Mike would be able to handle electronics. They needed to get to Reynolds before he did something irreversibly stupid. "C'mon Sykes," he told the girl, "We're going detective-hunting."
She followed him with a wide smile.
…
She told herself she would not cry.
Amy crouched low behind the wilted bush, just able to glimpse between the branches to look at the front of the mansion and their two cars burning. Her hands were on Sanchez's shoulder, trying to keep the blood from flowing. He was unconscious now. She had briefly turned him and looked at the neat exit wound on his back. The wound was small, clean through. It was better this way, she tried to console herself. It could have been much worse; the bullet could have splintered and torn everything apart. That would have been much worse.
She was unharmed. That was a good thing too. The wound in her hand that was merely a minor disturbance. She could ignore it. She looked around the bush, surveying the mansion and its many blank windows; she listened to sounds besides the roaring of fire licking away at their cars. She wondered if anyone would be able to see the black smoke that rose into the air.
She looked to the gate, out to the dirt road and wondered what would be most sensible to do.
She knew what she wanted to do but it would be impossible to go back into the mansion and find the person responsible for this, let alone shooting him when she had no gun and he was armed to his teeth and knew the layout of the house.
If Sanchez had not been bleeding out on the ground, Amy was almost certain she would go back in.
Instead she took the rest of Sanchez's shirt and tore it further into strips so she could bind it over the gunshot wound, around his torso and shoulder. She kept still, listening while she bandaged his shoulder, every once in a while looking up at the mansion.
Sanchez was heavy; she needed him to be just slightly conscious if she had to drag him anywhere.
She gently patted his cheek and his head lolled, eyes fluttering.
She slapped it again, a little harder, "C'mon, Julio – you gotta wake up."
He mumbled something and his eyes opened.
She hoisted him up to his feet, his body leaning heavily on her but he followed when she started walking in the direction of the gates. They needed to get as far away as possible – and further towards possible help. It was too dangerous to linger here.
Detective Reynolds was pacing their murder room, again. They had managed to intervene before he entered the janitor's house and now they were merely waiting for a warrant. Sykes tried to ignore him but his shoes were angrily pacing back and forth and the flash of motion before her desk every other second, well it annoyed her.
Amy did not say anything though, she felt bad for the guy. He was visibly upset, even more so when Provenza had scolded him, rather gently from what Amy could tell.
Buzz was still not reachable; she had even typed in another little message to him. She just wanted to know whether they needed to worry or if he was down with the flu.
Amy could tell even Provenza was a bit worried. It was a Tuesday and closing in on the afternoon. It was highly uncharacteristic of Buzz to not even have called in sick by now.
Detective Reynolds swept by her desk again.
Amy sighed; she stood up, "Do you need anything from the break room? Coffee? Water?"
"Oh," the detective looked like someone being interrupted from a trance; he blinked and then looked at her. He managed a small smile, "No thank you."
Amy smiled back and then hurriedly went to the break room.
Provenza was tinkering with the coffee machine.
Amy smiled wider.
"You making a fresh pot?"
He nodded.
"I'm still not able to reach Buzz," she told him, paused, "We've gotten anywhere with the janitor?"
"He lawyered up; Flynn's grumbling out in the hallway with said lawyer and the Captain's in a meeting with the Chief."
"Oh."
The coffee machine sputtered to a stop, freshly made coffee wafting from it. Amy reached for a mug but Provenza opened another cabinet and drew out two travel mugs.
Amy arched an eyebrow.
"We're going on a little take-away tour, right after we check whether Buzz's home or not."
She nodded.
"Indian or thai?" she asked him.
"Greek," Provenza answered.
…
She felt faint. The kind of faintness that spun you in circles inside your own head, the kind that made you unsure if the very fabric of your surroundings was disintegrating or simply just rearranging before your eyes. The kind that made you yearn for someone to take a blunt object to your head so you could leave it all behind in a slumber.
Vomiting had not helped. She could not remember when she had last had a meal but it was only acid that came up. Yellow tart spit that she kept gagging up, her feet unsure under her, her skin feeling suddenly too hot.
Andy's big hand landed on her forehead, a small caress as much as to check her temperature. His eyes dark and worried. He kept glancing back the way they had come, fear contained inside his irises.
"C'mon Sharon, we gotta keep moving. There's gotta be a way out."
"I feel sick."
He nodded his eyes suddenly on her again. There was a tense little line around his mouth; it flattened when he stepped closer. He tentatively took a hold of her shoulders. "You were drugged, remember?"
She shook her head. She couldn't remember anything; every little thread of comprehension seemed to slip between her fingers, evading her grasp. There was an underlying dull ache behind her eyes, one that only intensified when she tried to think.
"C'mon," he tugged on her hand and she gripped harder around his hand, following, walking at a pace just short of running. She was not even sure if she was walking or flying, the ground beneath her seemed too far away. It tilted and reversed in a pattern that made her nauseous when she looked down.
The shadows were no longer hiding but were out in plain sight, hovering in the air, sliding along by her feet, tangling in between the concrete floor and walls. It's just hallucinations, she kept telling herself. It did not seem less real though.
She followed Andy, only aware of the shadows and trying to keep a tight hold of his hand. Shadows forming shapes in the air, slithering along next to her, in front of her, behind her. Sometimes they were even in the air above her.
"C'mon, we are nearly there," he said and she gripped harder around his hand, stepping wide of one shadow that suddenly sprouted up from the concrete floor like a plant, its branches full of darkness. She shied away, her shoulder to the wall, edging past it.
Andy walked right through it, seemingly unharmed by its presence.
"Something's wrong with me," she whispered, looking back over her shoulder at the shadow. She was sure it looked back at her, "I feel like I'm about to pass out."
Andy stopped briefly, worry even more pronounced on his face now. There was a shadow slithering around in his hair and it made her uncomfortable.
"I know," he breathed, a small note of resignation to his voice. "That sick bastard injected something into you. You told me, remember?"
She shook her head again, only vaguely remembering that someone had shoved a needle into her neck, briefly wondering why everything felt like a surreal nightmare.
He stepped closer, a thumb along her cheek to make her look at him, "You'll be alright, okay? I promise."
She nodded, he sounded so certain.
"We just gotta get out of here first. Okay."
He insisted on walking, insisted on getting out of here. She was not sure were here was, she was not sure what was real and what was only figments of her drugged mind.
"C'mon Sharon," he told her gently when she stopped again, ready to fall over. She followed him. He wasn't a shadow of that she was almost certain. Maybe she just needed a bit of fresh air and she would be able to breathe, able to remember without it seeming like a hazy dream from years back.
"I keep forgetting how much I detest lawyers," her lieutenant lamented.
Sharon refrained from commenting; she had been married to one for too long. She was biased. People tended to not believe her when she said they were not all that bad. Judging by Flynn's pinched expression he was in a sour mood and it would only deteriorate if she mentioned that she had met a few decent lawyers in-between. More importantly today she felt inclined to agree with him.
Instead she noncommittally hummed.
He uncrossed his arms and took a sip of his coffee. The break room was fortunately empty; they were taking a small break. She had just come from her meeting with Taylor and the Mayor. The reason she felt grateful for the empty break room and the cold water bottle she was sipping from. God, sometimes she forgot how tiring bureaucracy could be. It grated on her nerves today.
"You seem far away? Penny for your thoughts?" his voice changed from grumpy to concern.
She looked up and caught him staring. "Oh, nothing."
"Nothing?" now he sounded intrigued, a wide smile plastered on his face from ear to ear.
"Nothing, really. My mind's blank."
"You sure?" he grinned and earned a smile in return.
She rolled her eyes; leave it to him to cheer her up unintentionally.
She smiled back, drinking a large amount of water so she did not have to answer.
He continued to look goofily at her.
"Stop looking at me," she told him.
"That's an order?" he asked cheekily.
"Damn straight that's an order," she smiled.
He gave a laugh and sipped from his coffee cup.
"You know, my mind would be blank too if I had to be in the same room as Taylor for more than five minutes."
She narrowed her eyes, "Not to mention a stressed out Mayor looking to be re-elected."
"Right. They still perturbed about budget?"
"Budget, popularity with the general public and everything in between."
He hummed.
After a short silence he spoke again, "That janitor annoys the hell out of me, his lawyer even more. But I don't think he's behind Damien disappearing."
She shook her head, "No, he seems too shy and intimidated for that."
"So we are back to no leads."
She sighed and gave a small nod.
Her lieutenant sipped his coffee and she tried not to look too closely at him, her hands around her water bottle as she thought about what they needed to do now.
Mike came through the door looking almost lost, "Provenza's thinks someone's taken Buzz. His place is wrecked and there's no sign of him. There's blood."
…
Mike was not sure how he managed it but he somehow dislocated the joint of his thumb. A slight 'plumb' sound and he was able to slide his hand out of the handcuff. He was not sure if it was worth the pain though, awful as it throbbed under his skin, his hand aflame from fingertips to his wrist.
He was not even sure if it really happened. Everything seemed distorted as if it was happening outside his comprehension, outside his control.
Mike sat for a long time trying to breathe, afraid to move from fear of more pain.
When he dragged himself away from the radiator, it hurt less than he had imagined. He used his right hand for leverage and tried not to bump his injured leg into the floor. He was covered in sweat in a manner of seconds, breathing heavily as he slowly made a progress across the floor, crawling awkwardly. He gritted his teeth and told himself if not for the pain he would most likely be unconscious. It did not comfort him much.
Slowly he made his way to the corpse of the detective at the other end of the room, the small little gleam of metal his goal. The gun came within his touch and he gritted his teeth further; nearly there.
He gripped the gun that lay just next to the detective's pale hand, for a brief second suddenly feeling a small notion of relief and hope.
Mike heard the creek of the door and turned his head just as the door opened inwards.
It looked like a robbery upon first glance. Everything strewn out across the floor of Buzz's apartment, open books in among scattered clothes, shards of broken glass and one armchair overturned. It was not different from so many other crime scenes Mike had seen through his line of work but knowing it was Buzz, knowing Buzz was now officially missing, it was horrible.
They all wore grim faces as they silently overlooked the technicians and uniforms. Provenza and the Captain were standing in a corner having a solemn discussion, their voices too low to hear. They did not seem to disagree but there was something strained about their mannerisms nonetheless. Flynn had taken Amy along with him and gone to case the neighborhood; Mike understood only too well. He wished he could be anywhere but here. The Captain took out her phone, giving Provenza a quick pat on his overarm before she dialed a number.
The blood was just inside the doorway. A little pool that was neither too large nor too small. Possible a head trauma, Mike catalogued; they had a tendency to bleed profusely. It was not large enough to be a wound to the heart or a major artery; Buzz hadn't bled out here.
Someone had knocked Buzz unconscious and then trashed the place? Then taken Buzz with them? Nothing appeared to be missing from the apartment, as far as they could tell. It was neatly trashed. It was too strategic.
They had already sent a blood sample to forensics; it would take some time before they knew if it truly belonged to Buzz. But it was human blood; Mike had already ascertained that with his kit.
It was only when the front door closed that they all noticed the square black and white photo someone had stuck to the white wood of the door. A picture of the whole squad, Buzz's head circled with a red marker.
…
Andy had not expected to find Mike behind the door but there he was, half-splayed, half sitting on the floor next to the corpse of detective Reynolds. Sitting in a pool of blood, a bloodied hand around a gun aimed at Andy's head.
"Andy," Mike breathed in relief.
"Mike," Andy said in a likewise relieved tone.
It seemed almost surreal to find each other like this. Sharon peeked around his shoulder, her hand grasping even harder around his. "Lieutenant Tao," she breathed in greeting, her voice sounding shallow.
"I've been shot," Mike said, his voice eerily calm.
"I can see," Andy retorted, looking at the crude bandage around his thigh, "Can you walk? There's another corridor we can try. I think there may be a way out down here in the cellar."
"I can't put any weight on my leg. I can barely crawl," Mike answered and Andy saw the pained expression on Mike's face. Andy walked further into the room bringing Sharon with him; she glanced at the dead man next to Mike.
"What happened?" Andy asked.
"He shot himself," Mike explained, "I think whoever set this up was manipulating him into helping. The detective said something about the guy promised him his nephew would be here. He was talking to someone on a headset and he knocked me down, and then shot me."
Sharon made a motion as if she wanted to take a closer look at the dead detective, Andy tugged on her hand and she stayed.
Andy shook his head, "Best let it be; we'll figure everything out when we get out of here."
Mike nodded, then, "I know the way out. The way we came in, I remember the way."
"Okay; can you walk if I help?"
"I'll try."
Andy let go of Sharon to help Mike to his feet; she almost wouldn't let go, looking at something in the far corner. There was nothing in the corner but dust but Andy knew that whatever that bastard had drugged her with it was something serious. She had told him what had happened when they gone down the stone staircase, the dark full and her voice small. He had never seen her like this. It felt as surreal as everything else about this place, about their situation.
Andy left the broken bottle by his feet as he bent down, sitting on his haunches. He swept an arm around Mike's midsection so he wouldn't have to put too much weight on his injured leg. They both grunted when they stood up, Mike from pain and Andy from the extra weight.
"Captain, are you alright?" Mike asked Sharon when he noticed she was staring into space, a funny look in her eyes.
When she didn't answer Mike looked to Andy, "Is she alright?"
"She's been drugged with something, I don't know, some kind of hallucinogenic maybe. Her pupils are blown and she keeps telling me about these shadows she keeps seeing. She was sick earlier."
"Oh," Mike looked closer at her, then, "She'll be alright. Probably a small overdose. We just have to watch her, make sure she doesn't doze off and fall asleep."
Andy did not really feel reassured but he nodded in agreement nonetheless, Mike's arm around his shoulder heavy.
Sharon looked at the dead detective again, a closer step as she scrunched up her nose. "I feel like I'm dreaming," she stated and Andy only felt inclined to agree with her. The whole thing was absurd.
"A nightmare," she whispered, her eyes flickering between the corner and the dead man. She looked on the verge of saying something else, unsteady and wavering. Andy prayed she wouldn't pass out; he could not carry her and Mike at the same time.
"I can't hold this," Mike whispered to him and indicated the gun shaking in his hand over Andy's shoulder. Andy looked to Mike's other hand; it looked red and swollen. Mike was right, he needed his hand to hold unto Andy's shoulder and Andy needed both his hands free if he was to help Mike.
"Give it to Sharon."
Sharon took the proffered gun and Andy was relieved she did not look at it funnily like she was staring at everything else. At least she was somewhat familiar with a gun in her hand.
Andy stumbled with Mike against his side across the room, to the door. Sharon followed.
They limped along, Andy with Mike on one side hanging onto him and hobbling awkwardly, Sharon just behind them.
Andy was half afraid she wouldn't follow but she did, thankfully.
They rounded a corner, the corridor divided into two separate hallways. Mike pointed in the direction he had come through and they took a right turn. Andy briefly looked in the other direction; it was where he and Sharon had come from. He had half expected something to come barreling down that way, surprising them.
It was a slow progress but they finally made it to the little cellar room that had a backdoor entrance to the outside.
"Little captain, you can't hide," a voice sang, close by, distorted but loud.
They heard footsteps, loud banging as if someone was clanging a hard object against a wall; a beat of sound to announce that someone was closing in on them.
Andy kicked the door into the little room open, stumbling with Mike by his side. Looking over his shoulder he noticed that Sharon had stopped.
"Sharon, c'mon," Andy told her, the tone harsh.
"Get into the room," Sharon told them, her voice steady.
Andy hesitated, Mike about to protest.
"Get into the room and out, lieutenants'," she told them.
She had taken a stand just outside the door, legs apart and her arms in front of her, the gun aimed down the way they had just come. She was biting her lower lip and her eyes flickered but at least her grip on the gun was steady.
"That's an order," she bit out when they still hadn't moved.
Everything seemed to be happening too quickly. Andy reacted to her command, went inside with Mike. They quickly made for the exit; a trapdoor made of two wooden doors, pushed at it till they opened into sunlight and fresh air. Andy helped Mike outside, and then with one foot still inside the room he yelled back to Sharon, "C'mon Sharon, hurry."
There was no answer but the sound of a gun going off.
"Shit."
Her eyes narrowed briefly at his exclamation.
Andy almost smiled despite it all. Sharon abhorred rough and crass language. When she cursed it was as graceful as everything else she did. He had only upon very rare occasions heard her exclaim something that sounded like 'fuck' and it had either been because she had snubbed her toe against a cabinet or something disastrous had happened to her treasured high heels.
Her eyes were almost dark when they latched onto him. He wished there was something he could do, anything really, to take away the look of tiredness to her face, the look of slight despair. It was the same expression he wore himself he had noticed when he had gone to the rest room to splash some cold water on his face.
Someone had taken Buzz. Someone had been following their team around and taken pictures. A little boy was missing. How did it all fit together? They had not slept but worked through the night; now morning had arrived and they were no further along with their investigation. Forensics took time; no neighbors remembered anything important. The janitor was a no-go. Taylor wanted them to cooperate with the feds since their own division was being targeted.
Sharon was in her office and Andy had joined her after he saw her hang up her phone. She had been talking to Rusty, he figured. The blinds were up; they were in plain view of everyone. He could not take her hand in his. Not that he held her hand ordinarily; he wanted to though. There had been pictures of all of them in that box. She looked slightly disheveled, hair no longer neat or combed. He looked worse though; smelled after too many hours canvassing the area surrounding Buzz's apartment, spent too much time in already too-worn clothes talking to neighbors and running to and from the crime scene.
His body was fueled by strong bitter coffee to the point where just the notion of food made him slightly nauseous.
She briefly touched his shirt sleeve, standing close enough to bring him a bit of comfort and not too close to arouse any suspicion from outsiders looking in their direction.
"This is a nightmare," she whispered out of the corner of her lips, her eyes still dark and obscure.
He nodded his throat tight. Any words leaving his mouth now and it would only end in something neither of them was prepared for.
This felt like they were all being targeted.
"I think we all need to go home, get a couple of hours sleep. A shower and some food and then we can meet again at lunch. Go over everything we have, start from the top."
Andy nodded. This was always the hardest thing to do when there was so much at stake. But it was also the most sensible thing to do; everyone who had worked in this profession knew that you could only work so long without breaking.
"Rusty home?"
"Yeah. I've got a uniform stationed outside the apartment," she seemed fidgety.
"Better paranoid than sorry."
She nodded.
Neither of them made a move, Andy staring at the top of her head as she continued to fiddle with his shirt sleeve, her eyes avoiding his.
He was about to open his mouth and say something when they both heard voices of other people. They looked up into the murder room.
"We've gotta a lead," Provenza said when he came barreling in through Sharon office, the rest of the team in tow and Detective Reynolds lingering in the background with a determined expression.
…