A/N: Yes, I'm doing it and I can't actually believe I'm doing it. I'm updating EARLY! This is a rare event, I repeat, A RARE EVENT. I had an unplanned eight hour bus ride to Chicago for debate and now I finally have a laptop so I was able to work on this chapter for you all. Consequently, it's also the longest chapter I've written so far. But before you get to read this wonderfully long chapter and resolve that awful cliffhanger from last time, I have to thank my lovely reviewers! Thanks to estrelita lovesSVU, onetreefan, Sweet-4-Stabler, obsessedwithstabler, SVU 101, WuHaoNi, OElvrs4life, lijep, XxcabyxX, Hkitty 9013, KaydenceRei, Kate Taylor, Drop Dead Saxy, AliasCSINYFriendsER, CarbyLivesOn, Soaringmunkymuffins, and JJ. You are all amazing!
This chapter is dedicated to anyone who was outraged with the cliffhanger I left at the end of the last chapter. LOL!
Officer Wilson drummed his fingers impatiently on the dashboard. He yawned widely, regretting his decision not to drink another cup of coffee earlier that day; he was in desperate need of a nap - or, even better, actually falling asleep for once. He seemed to be having the worst luck coming home: he had caught all of the traffic lights.
He watched as the cars on the other side made their turns in the left turn lane. The light must be changing to yellow now, he figured, for the cars had begun slowing down. But not all the cars - a large truck seemed determined to make that turn before the light changed. Wilson frowned deeply; the truck was making no effort to slow down, and it didn't have its - Wilson gasped, just as he realized what was going to happen.
The truck smashed head on into the car two lanes down from Wilson. Wilson was too shocked even to figure out exactly which traffic laws the truck had violated: now there were more pressing matters at hand. People from the other cars around him begin jumping out and running towards the scene of the collision. Officer Wilson grabbed his walkie-talkie and leapt out from the car, running towards the crowd of people. He barked orders into the walkie-talkie, detailing the accident, the location, and that medical assistance would definitely be needed.
He approached the crowd, displaying his badge. People immediately parted to let him through. It was a real mess. The truck had shattered the windshield of the car and the driver's lifeless body was hanging over the edge of his seat. Wilson thought about helping him, but then decided the guy could wait, since he had deliberately caused the accident. Instead, he turned to the destroyed blue car.
He couldn't exactly see inside, but he could tell there must be someone in there: the window was sprayed with blood. The car was smoking dangerously and Wilson knew it could burst into flames any minute. Without waiting another second, he yanked open the door.
A brown-haired woman was inside, and she wasn't moving either. Wilson didn't wait to find a pulse; all he knew was that he had to get her out of the car as quickly as possible. He could hear sirens in the distance. Struggling to avoid being cut by the shattered glass that covered the woman's body, he reached over her to unbuckle her seat belt. He then dragged her lifeless body from the car, feeling tiny pieces of glass cut into his skin as he held her. He gritted his teeth and tried to move her carefully, as he didn't know the extent of her injuries. He managed to get her out of the car and had only moved her a few feet before the car burst into flames.
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"He's WHAT?"
"Dead, sir," Agent Miller repeated.
Agent Eric Thompson scratched his head. "How is this possible?" he asked hoarsely.
"I don't know, sir," Miller said softly.
"This can't be!" Thompson exclaimed angrily. "Are you positive of the identification?"
Miller nodded. "I saw him myself and DNA tests later confirmed it."
Thompson exhaled. "He's been dead a week, you say?"
"Yes, that was what the medical examiner said."
"Could he possibly be mistaken? Is it possible that the decomposition was accelerated b y the location or anything?" Thompson asked desperately.
Miller shook her head. "There was nothing accelerating decomposition. The medical examiner was certain, and I even had three others confirm it. All place the time of death at a week ago, at least."
"This is a mistake!" Thompson exclaimed, still refusing to believe it. "Richard White cannot be dead!"
Miller only looked at him helplessly. "I thought you would be happy about it; doesn't it mean that you can get those people out of the program?"
Thompson stared at her. "No. We entered them into the program five days ago," he said weakly.
"What does that mean, sir?"
"It means, Agent Miller, that Richard White didn't do it. We're looking for another player."
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"Good morning, Rose."
Rose looked up at the sound of the door opening. She smiled when she saw Dr. Wright. "Good morning," she responded.
"How are you doing today?" he asked as he sat down in the chair next to her bed.
Rose shifted herself into a sitting position. "I'm fine; how are you?"
"Just fine, thank you," Wright answered, smiling. "Did you have another dream last night?"
Rose nodded . "It was much like the other one I told you about except that it was in more detail. The woman is laughing on the phone now and when the man comes, his face is clearer."
Wright scribbled the details down on his paper. "Did anything else change about the dream? Was it longer perhaps?"
Rose nodded, her eyes widening. "It was kind of hard to make out, but it looked like the man got shot as well."
Wright frowned thoughtfully. "That's very interesting. What happened after that?"
"Nothing," Rose said softly. "He got shot and then the dream ended." She paused, watching Wright scribble down some more notes before asking, "Does this mean anything? Am I getting my memory back?"
Wright sighed. "It's hard to tell," he admitted. "It seems logical that your memory would come back in your dreams because that is when your mind is the most relaxed and the subconscious most vulnerable. But…Unfortunately, Rose, there is nothing in your history to suggest that anything like this happened to you. Perhaps it is an interesting take on a different event that happened to you. Sometime, our mind warps events, making true events into a different situation, an exaggerated situation that represents much of the same feelings, but isn't the actual situation."
Rose frowned sadly. "So my memory isn't actually coming back at all?"
Wright shook his head. "No, your memory has come back some," he corrected her. "We keep making small breakthroughs all the time."
"But those don't mean anything to me!" Rose exclaimed. "I don't know why I see fire, but hear shouting. I don't know why the other day I felt pressure on my abdomen. I don't know why I dream about a man and woman being shot in the night. I don't know anything and you tell me nothing!"
Wright sighed. "I know it is difficult for you to understand. I understand that you are frustrated. But things like memory come back slowly. These bits and pieces are all part of a larger story that I'm trying to piece together for you. I don't know what they mean yet, but they are all part of it. I promised you that you would get your memory back and I'm not going to break my promise unless you want me to give up. "
Rose let out a long breath slowly. "I'm sorry," she whispered. A tear slowly slid down her cheek. "I'm so sorry."
Wright smiled. "It's understandable," he said kindly.
Rose smiled uncertainly. "So…What now?"
"I had an idea that might help you…Do you want to try it?"
Rose nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, please!" she said eagerly.
Wright smiled. "Good. Lie back." Rose obeyed and, sensing it was coming, closed her eyes. Wright chuckled. "I want you to respond with the first word that comes to mind. Don't think about it: just respond. Do you understand?"
Rose nodded. "Yes."
"Are you ready?" At Rose's nod, Wright began. "Food?"
"Spaghetti," Rose said immediately.
"Smell?"
"Wood." She frowned, surprised by her answer.
"Don't worry," Wright assured her. "You're doing just fine, Rose. Letter?"
"E."
"Place?"
"Chicago."
"Chicago?" Wright repeated, surprised. "Open your eyes, Rose." She did so, blinking uncertainly up at him. "Let's talk about Chicago." Rose nodded as she pulled herself into a sitting position again. "Why did you think of Chicago?"
"I…don't know," she said. She had just said the first place that came to mind, and not even she knew why that place had been Chicago.
"Do you remember ever going to Chicago?"
"I don't know if I've ever been there," Rose said slowly. "I mean, I don't remember ever going there, but that doesn't count for much, does it? I think I must have gone there…I feel as though I've been there before."
"Okay," said Wright, "So you think you've been to Chicago…Do you have any idea why you might have gone there?"
Rose frowned thoughtfully. "Hearing Chicago makes me think of a friendly place, like I have friends there. Maybe I went to see friends?"
Wright nodded slowly. "Very likely. We will have to look into this more later."
"Why not right now?" Rose asked.
"I was thinking we could see if we could get anymore information from the word game again," said Wright.
Rose nodded. "Okay."
Wright smiled at her. "Close your eyes," he said as she lay back. "Ready?" She nodded. "Animal?"
"Dog."
"Holiday?"
"Halloween."
"Job?"
"Doctor."
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"Charge the paddles again, damn it!"
The machine clicked and charged. "Clear!" The woman jumped up from the table, but there was no change.
"How long has it been?" one of the nurses asked in a whisper.
Another nurse looked at the clock. "It's been almost half an hour."
The other nurse sighed. "Maggie…" she said softly. "Maggie, it's been so long…"
No!" the doctor said firmly. "Charge the paddles again," she demanded. The nurse reluctantly pressed the button. And the doctor pressed the paddles down again. "Come on!"
The heart monitor suddenly stopped shrieking, replaced by the steady rhythm of a heart beat. Both nurses and the doctor looked at the monitor.
"Now that's what I call a miracle," one of the nurses remarked. The heart monitor showed that the rhythm continued to rise. The doctor let out a deep breath.
"Let me know when she wakes up."
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Agent Thompson sighed in frustration for the umpteenth time that day after having been told Richard White was actually dead. He had seen the body himself just to convince himself, and it had indeed been Richard White who lay in the morgue, killed over a week ago in a hit and run. Thompson didn't mind that the son of a bitch was dead, but what terrified him was that he had suspected the wrong man.
Who can the other player be? he wondered. He had so far been unsuccessful in locating any other enemies of the two detectives. He had read extensively into what had been his best (admittedly, only) lead, but that had also fallen through: the man involved was reportedly dead, having died when a bomb exploded in his house, which the detectives and two doctors from Chicago had barely escaped.
His fax machine began stirring as a fax came in for him. Thompson frowned, but before he could go over and read it, his desk phone rang, startling him from his thoughts. "Thompson," he said into the receiver.
"It's Agent Miller, sir."
He sighed heavily. "Do you have anything else?"
"Yes," she said slowly. "You might find this interesting. I know you requested information about the case involving Detectives Stabler and Benson and the two doctors."
"Yes?" Thompson pressed her impatiently.
Miller sighed. "There was a terrible car accident earlier this afternoon. According to Officer Wilson, the truck drove straight into a car across the road, slamming into it head on. The driver is dead, and the victim is in critical condition. The victim is one of your doctors."
Thompson led out a frustrated sigh. "Which one?"
"Dr. Abigail Lockhart."
"What is Dr. Lockhart doing here?" Thompson wondered out loud.
"I don't know, sir," Miller responded. "But from what Officer Wilson said, this was no accident. The driver of the other car intentionally ran into her in an attempt to murder her."
"But why would anyone be that stupid?" Thompson insisted. "The idiot tried to kill her in broad daylight in front of several witnesses."
"Maybe they were both supposed to die," Miller suggested. "That way, it wouldn't matter whether or not there were witnesses."
"That makes sense," Thompson agreed. "What doesn't make sense is that the only person who wants both Dr. Lockhart and Detectives Benson and Stabler dead is dead himself…Of course," he went on thoughtfully. "Is there a possibility that this is just a nasty coincidence?"
Miller sighed. "No, it can't be."
"Why not?" Thompson asked.
"We found the attempted murderer's driver's license in the car," Miller said. "His name…his name was Derek Bloomberg."
"Bloomberg has a brother?" Thompson exclaimed incredulously.
"Yes, but he's dead now,' Miller pointed out. She hesitated, and then went on slowly. "We searched his apartment after the attempted murder. You'll never guess what we found…"
"What?" Thompson asked impatiently.
"He was ordered to make the hit," Miller told him. "We found a note in his apartment."
"Who wrote the note?"
"I know this will sound crazy," Miller warned him. "But it was signed 'Michael Bloomberg.'"
"What?"
"I know," said Miller, sighing. "I called the fire department that responded to the bombing just to make sure Bloomberg was actually dead…They should have faxed you their response."
Thompson dove for the fax machine. He quickly read the fax and paled immediately.
"What does it say?" Agent Miller asked.
Thompson cleared his throat and read aloud, "Although it is clear that no one could survive the bomb if they had been inside the building, nothing in our findings indicated the Mr. Bloomberg was inside the building at the time of the bomb. Because we cannot confirm that Mr. Bloomberg was inside of the building at the time of the bombing, we can not confirm that he died in the bombing…" Thompson's voice trailed off.
"Then he's back?" Miller asked fearfully.
Thompson nodded slowly. "Yes. Michael Bloomberg is alive and he is back for revenge."
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Abby woke up slowly, as though she were drifting into the cove after a turbulent battle with the sea. Her mind flickered from clear to foggy, from questions to answers. She groaned as she began to regain consciousness.
"Ms. Lockhart?"
A high-pitched voice, unfamiliar to Abby knew her name. Abby struggled to open her eyes, becoming aware as she did so of the pain that was consuming her.
"Where am I?"
The nurse smiled. "You are at the hospital."
Hospital…The word seemed to register in Abby's brain. "Hospital?" she repeated.
The nurse nodded. "You were in a major car accident, Ms. Lockhart; you're very lucky to be alive."
WHAT?
And then she remembered. The traffic light…the truck…the sound of metal slamming into metal…
"When?" she asked weakly.
"Earlier this afternoon," the nurse answered as she checked Abby's vitals. "You were very lucky. There was an officer on scene who pulled you from the car before it burst into flames." The nurse wrote down the vitals on the chart. "You suffered from a concussion and a bad fracture to your arm. We managed to set it while you were still out."
Abby nodded absently, trying to take it all in. "Do I have to stay here?"
"We're keeping you here overnight so we can monitor you after the concussion, but if everything looks okay, then you can be released tomorrow," the nurse told her. "Can I get you anything?" she asked. "Is there anyone I can call for you?"
Husband…It was all coming back to her now. The reason she had been at the intersection: she was supposed to go back to Chicago…Carter wouldn't know where she was, Carter would be very worried…
"I - Can I call my husband, please?"
The nurse nodded. "Sure, I can call him for you-"
"No," Abby said. "I want to talk to him myself."
"Okay," said the nurse slowly. "There are pay phones down at the end of the hall to your right; I can take you down there if you want."
Abby sighed. She hated wheelchairs. However, she nodded and allowed the nurse to guide her into a wheelchair and push her down to the end of the hall.
"Do you think you can make it back yourself when you're done?"
Abby nodded. "Thanks." The nurse smiled and left her alone with the telephone. There was an older man on the phone now, and Abby sat around waiting for him to finish. After she had waited for over ten minutes and the man showed no signs of ending his conversation, Abby roller herself over to the elevator and up to the next floor.
The elevator doors opened on the next floor and Abby rolled herself down the hall. She checked the floor map: the phones were about halfway down the hall. The hallway was relatively empty; the few people she did meet didn't spare her anymore than a passing glance. She was almost to the phone area when something else caught her attention.
Abby rolled the chair back around to be sure she hadn't made a mistake. The woman inside was alone, lying on the bed, staring into space. Abby knew from the empty hallways that this was the psychiatric ward. She wondered what the woman was doing here…why Olivia was in the psychiatric ward when she was supposed to be dead…
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Rose stared aimlessly out the window into the darkening evening sky. She was lying on the bed, as always, and thinking. She liked to stare out the window into the horizon. It made her feel as though there was something more to her than just the endless monotony of her hospital room. As much as she wanted to regain her memory, she was becoming increasingly annoyed with the slow progress she had been making. Her outburst to Dr. Wright earlier that day had only managed to embarrass her. He was trying to help her and Rose knew she should be more grateful for it.
She was jerked abruptly from her thoughts at the sound of a knock on the door. Rose frowned. The nurse had passed her room only ten minutes ago. "Come in," she called.
The door opened slowly to reveal a woman in a wheelchair wearing a hospital gown. Her right arm was in a cast. She had long golden brown hair that was thrown messily around her shoulders and her brown eyes were wide and full of surprise. "Olivia?"
Rose frowned. "I'm sorry?"
The woman faltered. "You - you aren't Olivia?"
Rose's frown deepened. "I - wait…" She paused thoughtfully as something came back to her. A nurse had called her 'Olivia' once before too. "Who are you?" she asked.
The woman bit her lip. "You don't remember me?" Rose shook her head, excitement building. Could this woman possibly know something about her past?
"I'm Abby," the brown woman introduced herself.
"Abby…" Rose whispered, seeing if the name brought back any memories to her. It didn't.
Abby rolled her chair closer to the bed as Rose spoke up again. "Why did you call me Olivia?" she asked blatantly, hoping to finally get some answers to her questions.
"Oh…" Abby suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "It's rather a long story."
Rose shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere." She smiled, trying to coax Abby into telling her. She could see Abby was in need of some answers herself.
Abby sighed. "I have two friends in New York that I met when my brother and mother died. Both of them were detectives in the Special Victims Unit: Detective Elliot Stabler and his partner, Detective Olivia Benson."
"Were?" Rose questioned.
Abby nodded solemnly. "It happened very recently. They were shot and killed in an alleyway."
"An alley?" Now Rose was really interested. Her dream about the man and woman being shot was set in a place that resembled an alleyway. Could the man and woman be…?
Abby interrupted Rose's thoughts by continuing. "Yesterday, I met a man who looked very much like Elliot Stabler. He was working at the hospital where I work. When I told my husband and psychiatrist, they both insisted that I come back to New York in order to convince myself that Elliot was actually dead. I almost managed to do it, but then my husband called me and told me to come back home."
Rose frowned. "But you're still here…What happened?"
Abby sighed and winced, feeling pain shoot up her arm as though reminding her exactly why she was still here. "I was hit head on by a truck on the way to the airport earlier today. That's how I ended up in the hospital."
"Where were you going?"
"Home," Abby answered. "I live in Chicago."
Rose's eyes widened and she gasped in shock. "You live in Chicago?"
Abby nodded. "Yes…Why?"
Rose smiled. "I guess now is the time for me to explain my story." Abby nodded indulgently. Rose sighed and brushed back a lock of her hair. "I lost my memory. I've been working with Dr. Wright to regain it back. They told me that I was in a car accident and then a coma. When I woke up, I couldn't remember anything.
"Dr. Wright told me my name is Rose, but…when I first woke up, one of the nurses called me 'Olivia.'"
Abby's eyes widened. "Isn't it possible that your name is actually Olivia?"
Rose shook her head. "Dr. Wright said the nurse had just made a mistake."
Abby frowned. "What if your name really is Olivia, though? I mean, the nurse seemed to think so. You can't remember anything about yourself, so…maybe…"
Rose bit her lip, thinking hard. "Why would Dr. Wright tell me my name is Rose if my name is really Olivia?" she asked finally.
"Probably the same reason that Elliot is in Chicago," Abby answered quietly. "I'm not sure exactly what that reason is."
"I still don't know," Rose said. "I'm sorry I can't be who you want me to be, Abby. Rose is the only identity I know now. I can't just turn away from it. It's - it's the only thing I know." Her voice sounded close to tears.
Abby nodded slowly. "I understand," she whispered. She rolled her chair around and headed towards the exit. "It was nice talking to you…Rose."
"You too," Rose said, smiling. "Maybe I'll see you again before you leave?"
"Maybe," Abby said softly. She opened the door with her good arm and began to roll herself back into the hallway.
"Abby?"
She turned around. "Yes?"
"What do you do in Chicago - I mean, what is your job?"
Abby smiled. "I'm a doctor."
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It was nearing 11:00 when another knock sounded on Rose's door. She already knew who it would be. "Come in," she said.
The door opened and Dr. Wright entered. Rose had become accustomed to Wright's nightly checks. He strolled over to her.
"Everything all right, Rose?"
Rose had spent the last hours between Abby's departure and Wright's arrival mulling over everything the young doctor had told her. She decided she had to ask Wright a very important question.
"Who's Elliot?"
Wright's face completely changed. The soft and inviting look in his eyes was replaced with a hardened stare. Rose even noticed that his entire body had tensed at the sound of that name. But a moment later, Wright regained his composure and acted as though nothing had happened.
"I don't know, Rose," he said to her, but she sensed he was lying, for he quickly said, "Good night."
Rose gave a quiet sigh of frustration. Elliot clearly existed and it was just as clear that Wright didn't want to tell her about him. She decided that instead of venting her frustration to deaf ears, she would ask someone more likely to give her answers, namely Abby, the doctor from Chicago.
"Good night, Dr. Wright."
All right, there is no crazy cliffhanger at the end of this one! I have no idea when the next chapter will be up, but I can guarantee it before the end of the month. Next chapter: a meeting, a confrontation, a trip, an uneasy discovery, a hostage (possibly more than one!), and more! Thanks for reading; please review!
