A/N: First of all - Happy Birthday, Cat!
Second: This (birthday-)update, which is basically the last chapter to this story (but not to the universe, as it doesn't leave me alone), and I did not like each other much. We struggled on for months, with bouts of undignified shouting on my part, mutual sullen ignorance, and an defiant resistance on the chapters part to make sense or flow in any way. However, please, do not let it deter you from reading. Cat, I love ya and miss ya...sorry, I can't offer anything better for your birthday.
Month 6 - Day 163 (June 19th - a Sunday)
It's strange to ride inside the cabin while his men are in the back. He thinks they've given him some odd looks, but doesn't find it in him to care much about that. There is not a chance that he'd be in the back today. If he were, Boyd knows, Grace would be too, and that is completely out of question.
There's not a chance in hell that he'll allow Grace any unnecessary exposure to anybody who might feel even remotely offended at the sight of a western woman out in town while they are out of the compound. There's nobody left inside the compound who dares not to watch out for her anymore since last month's incident.
Taking her out of the supposed safety has had Boyd growing ulcers for days. He's become tenser almost by the second since the decision was made. Under different circumstances, he wouldn't even consider taking Grace out to a crime scene but he needs her profiling expertise. It's supposedly more like what they saw regularly back in London. Double murder with an as yet inexplicable motif. He'd love some of Eve's or Frankie's sophisticated forensics, but not even they could provide all the insight they need. They do need a profiler and that's what Grace is.
He's told the men in advance, but he knows they are far from convinced. It brought a small smile to Grace's face when she heard him describe the men's expressions. She must feel like having travelled back in time. He feels like he's travelled back in time.
The potholes shake the car, shuffle Grace against him and he can't suppress the small smile at the intensified contact. Under different circumstances he'd tease her about the teenage situation they are in. But it takes only one look at the cloth almost entirely covering her body and her head to bring him back to jarring reality. Of course, Grace is not wearing a full burka, but even the bit of covering she uses makes Boyd uneasy. It singles her out, in any case. And there are already so many things that could go wrong during this outing.
The next bump in the road is violent and Boyd swallows the curse on his tongue in a hiss. He is worked up already, getting even more so is dangerous.
They both know it.
Grace next to him grimaces, he can see, but he can also feel her shuffling closer to him, her thigh pressing deliberately against his. It's all they can do, otherwise she'd be squeezing his hand to calm him down. He nods slightly, the corner of his mouth fleetingly turning upwards in acknowledgement. Grace notices, but her face gives nothing away.
The driver mutters in a broken mix of Arabic and his local dialect; an apology, if he understands Grace's reply correctly. The man tenses and she falls silent again.
Today's scene is a bit of a rite of passage for the men who will process it. They don't know that Grace will not only be there to assess the psychological aspects of the crime, but also to help him assess the progress his recruits have made over the last five months. Boyd is in no doubt about the quality of the core group of four or five, it's the others he wants Grace's opinion on.
It sounds easy enough; they have done this hundreds of times back in London. Boyd stops himself mentally providing the obvious comment. It is getting repetitive, which does nothing for his ease of mind.
Repetition leads to tranquility. Tranquility leads to mistakes. Mistakes can be deadly.
It's only a few minutes later when they reach their destination and the moment he climbs out of the car and then helps Grace down, Boyd can feel the tension in his body increase. It's possible that he is overreacting, but what if not?
Grace accidentally bumps into him as they round the car to the back, but as he passes her hand quickly brushes against his side. No accident, then. It calms him somewhat.
The scene is partially inside the building, partially in its shadow. One body inside, one outside, just around the corner. Straight forward at first sight, but without even looking at Grace, Boyd knows that she sees a lot more than the first sight suggests, even from such a distance. It's the gut feeling from decades of dealing with innocuous looking crime scenes. Nothing is ever quite as it seems at first sight.
The men swarm the scene to assess it and Boyd is pleased to note that they take all the necessary precautions not to taint any evidence without him having to remind them. Next to him Grace nods, a small smile gracing her features.
"They know what they are doing," she whispers.
He doesn't reply, his focus on the body just beyond the door. The men walk around the body, crouch down, talk quietly amongst themselves. They supposedly do the same inside the building, though their steps seem to be even more uncertain. Even from this far Boyd doesn't need a psychologist's opinion to understand their behaviour.
"Report!" he bellows, briefly amused by just how good it feels to do it.
Next to him there's something that might be a short-lived snort, but he can't be sure, as the men return and report their initial findings. Nothing really unusual, they say hesitantly, except the posture of the corpse. Not a natural pose for somebody having been shot.
"Dragged there?"
Young Rajha nods, a hint of a grimace flitting over his face. "Blood smears on ground."
"Shot outside with other man," Abdul confirms, even less calm than his colleague.
"What's inside with the corpse?"
The men hesitate; answer only after he's repeated his question. "Koran, many linen cloths. No shoes. Shoes gone from man outside too. Knives."
Boyd turns to look at Grace, trying to guess what she derives from the information given. He doesn't need to be told that there's a ritual aspect to all this, but what exactly, he isn't sure.
Her gesture is minute, but he follows her a few steps further. Her voice is quiet under the wind blowing through the street. "We need to be very careful here, cut the site assessment as short as possible. Otherwise we'll offend the locals."
Boyd nods, he's been thinking along the same lines.
"Check the angles of the entrance wounds," she offers, "have them look for anything to make a large fire."
"Ritual suicide?"
Grace shrugs. "Happened before. It's feasible the victims were shot, possibly in some sacrifice. Possible they did it themselves. The materials would be used for a mourning ceremony."
Nodding slightly, Boyd passes on the orders, feeling an uneasy edge at the closed-off faces of his men. They know the order comes from the woman, possibly one thing too many on top of the obviously religious killing they have to investigate. They want to do policing, they want to solve crimes, but there is no question that they believe, first and foremost, in the adherence of their religious demands. They are willing, but it only goes so far.
Boyd follows them, enforcing his orders. Inside the building, his gaze is immediately drawn to the body. His instincts, forced to lay almost dormant over the last months, kick in as he surveys the key aspects Grace has pointed out.
The placement of the body implies some sort of ritual being set up, which almost immediately would preclude them from being able to gather proper forensics from the body. Sullying a religious site...it would be a lot worse than doing so with any Pagan or Christian ritual...and Boyd prefers not to remember the kinds of bloody bastard hell they caught every time they came across one of those.
From the angle he has, he can't judge whether the wound was self-inflicted either. Bollocks to it all.
Around him the men are uneasy. He doesn't know enough of the religious pitfalls, curses his lack of knowledge. Grace can't come inside, he can only...
Inwardly, the swear words become more colourful by the minute as he can see this excursion going to hell in a handbasket.
"Let's leave this inside and see about the other," he orders.
Boyd isn't sure, but upon the first step outside, it feels as if the wind has changed, so to speak. He might be overreacting, too many thoughts about too many things, exactly what he hates with a passion. The simple training and assessment excursion has already gone wrong, he knows; nothing is as simple as it was supposed to be.
Seeing Grace in the middle of the road, his hackles rise, along with a ball of...
"Get inside the car," he orders quietly, garnering a raised eyebrow in return.
"What's wrong?"
"Grace, for God's sake," he blusters, "stop being difficult and just get into the damn car!"
Of course, she doesn't simply follow his order; of course she can't just do what he wants her to. She simply has to question him, argue even in the middle of a dirt road, outside some religiously orientated crime scene in a questionable part of Kabul. Even though she knows the situation, knows the risks he is trying to avoid, she can't just let it lie. That's just so Grace. And he can't even start yelling, because that would upset some obscure tenet of politeness.
She gives him a look from narrowed eyes, clearly displeased with his behaviour, and he can almost imagine the 'discussion' she'll no doubt want to have to dissect his supposedly atrocious behaviour. But for that they need to get back alive, don't they?
"Just get into the car, Grace," he repeats much more quietly and to his eternal relief she at least moves towards the car. Small favours and such things.
He looks around the street, but Boyd knows it's a waste of time. Every person in this Godforsaken street has followed the exchange. Sometimes Boyd wonders how crimes can remain unresolved, when the people he encounters have such a penchant for gossiping. Grace has berated him for this prejudice several times over the last months, but he can't help it. People's interest in other people's affairs bothers him. Here, just as much as back home.
A short and sharp command sends the recruits scurrying, but it seems too late already. The attention is already too much on them. There are, naturally, the curious men, the few curious women and the many curious children he can see gathering on the road, coming closer, some brave souls even nearing the car. Some of the children already surround Grace; no surprise there.
What bothers Boyd are those he can't see openly, those hiding in houses, around corners, behind piles of rubble. There's a quick flash of a memory, the interpreter who turned against them, raised a gun against him. He doesn't want a repeat performance of that.
His second command is even sharper, more urgent too, and it finally seems to snap the men out of their state and send them back to work.
For a few minutes everything seems to run smoothly, and Boyd makes a deliberate attempt to relax. It doesn't work. Forensics are pointless. Judging from what they already know, a thorough investigation into the possible offender would do more harm than good. Still, Boyd is inherently and genetically a policeman and as such, he can't just let it lie.
Waving Ranhja to follow, he heads towards the car. The younger man hesitates upon noticing the direction. "Ranhja!" Boyd commands sharply, unwilling to accept any more dillydallying. The situation doesn't improve the longer they stay, but some sort of result needs to be achieved.
He waves Grace closer, noticing with a short blip of annoyance that, of course, she did not go and sit in the car. Bloody woman.
As soon as she is in hearing distance, he turns to the young recruit. "Ranhja, is this house some sort of mosque? Or a prayer room?"
The man shakes his head. "No," he announces with a quick glance at the woman.
"Is this place used for any sort of religious practice?" Again, the younger man replies negative.
"But we can safely say that this is not some ordinary murder for money or a quarrel?"
Ranhja fidgets nervously. "Yes."
Boyd looks at Grace expectantly. "Your professional opinion, Doctor?"
She smiles, briefly, aware of the young man next to them. Turning towards him, she asks politely. "I know it might be seen as a terrible affront towards the customs of the people. And I know I'm putting you in a difficult situation. Do you have an idea how I could see the inside of the building?" Her hand shoots up in Boyd's direction before he can say anything. "Otherwise it is tealeaf reading, Boyd."
Watching the exchange, Ranhja seems to fight a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's not proper behaviour for a woman in public of course, and it's not proper behaviour for a man to accept it like Boyd does and is obviously used to doing. In all honesty, he has missed these small squabbles at the sidelines of a scene. It feels like back home in London when all was still glorious and they were a scary number of years younger.
The young Afghan addresses Grace directly. "They see you go in, they say is holy site. You go in, they say holy site is..." Visibly searching for the right word, he finally shrugs. "Is...dirty," he finishes. Uncomfortable doesn't begin to describe his demeanour and Boyd doesn't need Grace's expertise in reading people to know that apart from cultural prejudices the young man has problems to overcome, there is also a distinct level of anxiety in him. Association isn't necessarily a positive thing in such a case.
"It is a holy site then? Religious, even though it hasn't been before?" Grace asks.
"Not yet," Ranhja confirms. Grace accepts the finality of the remark with a nod, unlike Boyd who is tired of all the hold-ups.
"Grace," he calls none too gently, motioning her to follow him towards the building.
She does, but her reluctance is palpable, just as much as Ranhja's tension next to him.
"Sir," he cautions, but Boyd shakes his head.
"I know, it is almost pointless, but if we want to get anything out of this scene, she needs to see it."
"People will be angry."
Boyd almost laughs at this. "Then it will be finally business as usual."
The men tense up immediately as Grace comes close, though she tries to be as unobtrusive as possible. Naturally, it doesn't work.
She bypasses the building to see the body lying outside, stays in a respectful distance to the dead man, keeps silent.
The atmosphere around them, however, grows more tense and menacing by the minute.
Boyd can feel it, can see it in her stance that she knows it too.
"Boyd," she quietly addresses him.
He knows his bullheadedness is what's one day going to kill him. The excursion was a mistake, Grace's presence or not. He's known it from the moment they arrived, but has ignored it for his damn need to feel like a detective again. The conversation with Gina, back at Christmas briefly flits back into his mind and he shakes himself. Dwelling on thoughts is not going to be helpful. Action is required.
Admitting defeat, he orders quietly, "Go back to the car and stay inside."
She doesn't answer, but moves cautiously back towards the vehicle.
His senses in full force, he can almost hear the dust rattling over the ground, see the sun burn down on the grey-brown landscape of huts and dirt roads. Something's coming, he knows it with absolute certainty.
"Let's move out of here," he orders the men, effectively abandoning the scene and the case. It doesn't sit well with the detective he never stopped being, but the cost might be too high for what they could possibly achieve.
There is a group of people rounding the corner on the other side of the street, men mostly, a few boys and adolescents. All local, all agitated, all shouting.
Boyd quickens his steps.
He doesn't want to presume anything, can't be sure, but this is a situation of erring on the side of caution. Especially, since the group seems to make straight for the cars that brought them here and where Grace is still headed. She's not inside and even if she were...
There are at least 20 people in the group, their aim easily discernible, their reasoning as well.
Boyd starts running, more out of instinct than real knowledge.
He'd shout, but it won't help now. It wouldn't make Grace move faster, it wouldn't stop this group of men. Only possibly aggravate them more.
He runs faster, trying to bring his body in between the angry mob and Grace, praying inwardly that his team will step in and help. They did it for him, why not for her.
There are only a few feet left between him and Grace, just a few hasty steps and he can shield her body with his, but he can feel the group closing in as if they are breathing down his neck. Their shouts resound in his ears, their steps resonate on the ground, every sensation amplified.
Grace turns, calm until her gaze connects with his and her eyes grow wide. She stares at him, blue against dark, for an interminable time, then her gaze goes wild. He can see her opening her mouth in a scream, can even see that her lips form his name, but he can't hear the sound, for in that moment, like an explosion of a bomb, a shot rings out behind him.
It's all he hears, and it's all he feels as something burning touches him, creating a fire that consumes his body in pain.
She screams again or still, he isn't sure. Everybody seems to scream around him. Everything seems to scream. He stares at Grace, sees her face contort in whatever horrible emotion she's going through in that particular moment and he feels sorry, so incredibly sorry that she has to go through this. Again.
Gracie hanging onto his leg at Christmas turns rapidly into Luke laughing at him and demanding the football, Mel's face, the less than salubrious platform under Waterloo Bridge. And Grace. Grace, Grace...and Grace again.
And then he falls, the bullet in his chest burning his body from the inside.
The earth is shaking, why he can't say. It's all hazy, all a blur, even behind closed eyelids. Underneath the haze there is pain, searing like he can barely remember. He notices that somebody has placed him on his side, not his preferred sleeping position; he wants to complain, only to realize that it doesn't matter. He'd be glad for more darkness, where things aren't hazy and not painful, but it doesn't seem to come.
From afar he can hear something that must be voices, sounds he cannot place. It's an effort to even identify them as such, too much it seems.
He doesn't remember what has happened. His situation seems wrong somehow, not how it is supposed to be. Weren't Grace and he supposed to be sitting by a pool somewhere in Northern Italy these days? Grace has set her heart on going there and though it's all the same to him, he has set his heart on letting Grace have what she wants. There are a lot worse things, he thinks.
This is not Tuscany though, nor is he at the wheel of the classic roadster he'd imagined himself renting and gunning down a few picturesque country lanes. He's lying on shaky ground, hurting like when he was knifed, and everything is hazy.
It is a monumental task and Boyd isn't sure he can deal with the swelling nausea, but one of the voices sounds familiar and he wants to know whether he is right. One eyelid is pried open, then the other and all he sees at first, is dirt. Dust. On planks. The dust jumps and flies with every pothole, making him want to cough. He can't.
Too painful.
"Boyd?"
Grace sounds tentative, thin, but it's good. It's Grace.
Another monumental effort and he can move his head to look at her.
There are tear-tracks on her cheeks, constantly fed by more tears. They are like a clear stream in the dirt and blood on her face. Her eyes, welling over, are bluer than the sky he imagines above their holiday home.
It seems to take forever to catalogue all this and he doesn't even manage to notice her hands on him. Exhausted from the little he's done, his eyes close and Boyd slips away.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.
