Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.
Previously on... The Hell Within:
1. A federal agent and a mother grapple with their feelings for each other. Norman finds the salon where the killer/his accomplice may have got the tattoo from.
2. A father nearly meets the same fate as the killer's other victims. But Ethan Mars successfully finishes the second trial.
3. A furious police lieutenant, sensing a sabotage of the investigation, slashes the tires of the woman following him. Lauren Winter was left with four deflated tires while Lieutenant Blake follows the car clue in the Bear Trial. The Ford Mondeo has been traced to Mad Jack's garage. And Carter Blake is determined to get his hands on the GPS that Barry, the mechanic, had tipped him off about.
4. An obese private eye and a spunky young detective are caught in a dreadful traffic jam, even as Virgil Minnelli has made a call to Paco, warning him of Shelby who had been asking too many questions…
5. A young journalist finds herself at a garage where the killer got the car fixed. The mechanic seems more than obliging… ("I'd be anything you wan' me too," he grinned, sizing her up.)
Being a fugitive was harder than Ethan Mars had imagined. Because you could leave nothing to chance. You always kept to the dark alleys. Pressed yourself against walls when a police car passed. Jumped at your own shadow. And prayed to all heavenly forces that those who did see your face did not recognize you.
What worsened the feeling of being hunted was the feeling of being alone. Barring a strange guardian angel in a leather jacket, he had no one to fall back to. Ethan sank again in the lane, his mind numb and body far too uncooperative. He weighed his options now, since his new found mortality compelled him to think.
The only clues he had, came from the hangman – the alphabet puzzle. Maybe it was time he began to share the details of the puzzle with someone. It was either Madison Paige or… or… he was afraid to admit - Grace Garner.
It was either a woman he had met a few hours ago or someone he had loved since high school. The choice may have been an obvious one to make, but it took Ethan a while to come to. Two years had changed a lot. She no longer loved him. He knew this even if she had never been with a man since.
What tipped the scales in her favor was the jacket he wore. Whilst he crouched, thinking, his hands snaked around his chest under that leather jacket. His mind almost instantly felt a surge of gratitude for Grace. She had gifted it to him, two months ago on his birthday.
It meant that she still cared. And that he could actually trust her. With this thought, he pulled out his phone and began dialing her number.
The sharp ringing shattered the glass-like silence in the car. Both Grace and Norman jumped at the sound. She tried to dig the phone out of her pocket. Norman tried to keep his eyes on the road. His gaze returned to her, though. He damned the interference, cursed the gadget and also himself for holding back a sneeze lest he disturb the quietude.
He saw the look on her face change when she answered the phone. The way the color drained from her face as she said, "Hello?" There was something different in the 'hello' itself. He tried to ignore the strangeness of it all.
"Hello?" she repeated into her phone.
"… Grace… ?
"Y-yeah… ?"
"It's me."
Her heart pounded furiously now. Next to her, Norman continued driving, too weary to eavesdrop. Grace swallowed hard.
"What is it?"
"I'm on to something. I think I know how I can find Shaun."
It hurt so much; Grace could swear her heart would give way.
"I see."
It did not sound remotely like the way she felt. When had she learnt to pull herself together?
"You aren't alone, are you?" Ethan asked.
"No," she said as the car came to a halt. Norman got out and Grace followed. What, he mouthed to her. He could see that she was afraid. And that it had something to do with the phone call. "Carry on," she said to him, "I'm right behind."
Norman frowned a little and turned away. Grace followed, but remained out of ear-shot. She was scared for Ethan. And was half responsible for the mess he had gotten himself into.
"How are you… doing?" she asked him.
"We don't have time. I want you to take down letters from the hangman."
"The what?"
"Notepad and pen. Now. Hurry!"
Grace heard the sound of sirens screech past. Almost as if it had crossed her. She could hear the sound of shoes plunging in and out of puddles and huffing. She used that time to pull out a notepad and a pen from her bag.
"Are you there?" she asked. There was some more panting before he came on the line.
"Leave a blank," he said quickly, "like a 'dash' and then write a numerical five."
Grace carefully noted down the details. "What's wrong?" asked Norman, from up ahead.
"N-nothing, it's nothing!"
Of course, he didn't believe her. Grace dreaded that look in his eyes and willed him to walk on.
He did.
Grace examined the puzzle Ethan had given her.
_ 5 2 / _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _/ R _ _ _ E _ E L T/ _ _ _ _
It did not make any sense.
"What does it mean? How does it help?"
She followed Norman to the tattoo salon. It was named Ink Inc. Norman found it witty and opened the door for her. Grace took a step backwards, shaking her head.
"It's the alphabets to the address where the killer's kept Shaun."
Grace bit the inside of her cheek to not cry in shock. It nearly bled from the incision. Norman gave her a final look, before entering. He was thinking of taking her in himself. It was cold outside. But then again, it was better this way. Better if he investigated alone.
"Steve Wyland?" he asked a man behind the counter.
"Yup."
"Norman Jayden, FBI. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
The glass door swung to a slow close behind him, cutting Grace away from the rest of the exchange.
"How do you know all this, Ethan?" she struggled to ask him.
"You can't tell anyone about this, Grace."
"I won't."
"I have to go now."
"I need to speak with you. I need to know… more… please!"
There was a pause at the other end. Then – "I'll call you."
"… When? Tell me so that I–I can be ready… "
"Today. As soon as I reach someplace safe."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
The line went dead.
Inside, Norman and Wyland leaned over the sketch of the tattoo.
"This look familiar?" he asked Wyland.
"Yeah, just a sec."
He pulled out a thick spiral bound register with all the tattoos he had ever engraved upon human skin. They spent a while flipping through the register.
"That one!"
They found the tattoo. "Yeah, made this one for David," he said.
Norman looked up. "You know the man?"
"Yea, but he's a good sort. He the one you lookin' for?"
"I'm looking for a man with this tattoo. I just need to ask him a few questions."
"I don't think he'd do anything serious enough to get in the FBI."
"All the same, I need an address."
Wyland opened a smaller diary to look for it. "You know… there was someone else with him. A friend. He'd come with David to get the same tattoo. Maybe he's your guy…"
"We'll see about that," said Norman.
Outside, Grace waited, enveloped in the cold breeze. She buried her face in her hands, waiting for the talk inside to end. Her mind went back to Ethan, and to the letters in the hangman.
Oh God, just make this end. Just get these three days over with.
Madison Paige followed Bradley as he went inside.
"Yeah, there was a car here matching your description."
"Okay…" she said, finally feeling like she was making headway. "So, tell me about it."
"The car had a little problem with the shock absorbers. It bounced even on smooth roads."
"Yeah, I know about shock absorbers."
The mechanic gave her a look. Madison shrugged. "Hey, I know vehicles…"
"So you'd also know that it takes an hour or so to fix up."
"I think that's enough time to remember something about the driver."
Bradley bit his lower lip. "I'm sorry, who are you again?"
"I'm a journalist."
There was a pause.
"Was there someone with the driver?" she prompted.
"There… was a child there," the man replied, "he looked like he was asleep."
"Did the driver say or do anything suspicious to catch your attention?"
"He called up this guy, Virgil Minnelli, who rents cars, yeah? Was really pissed and fired him for sending a car that wasn't in working condition."
Madison showed him a picture of Shaun, which she had taken from the front page of a newspaper. "Is this the kid?" she asked.
Bradley looked at the picture. "Yeah, that's him. Where'd you get the picture?"
Madison sighed. Some people clearly managed to remain out of orbit with current affairs.
"It's not important," she said. "Did it look like he knew Minnelli well? Did business with him before?"
"Yeah, I guess. So maybe you'd wanna go question him."
Madison nodded. "Right."
"I've a brother who works for him there. Maybe he'd give you the goss."
Madison nodded again. "Okay. Thanks. But can you tell me which way the killer went?"
Bradley motioned to the road before him. "It's a straight road. There's nowhere else to go."
Madison followed the direction of his arm. The city outskirts.
"And you're positive you never got a look at his face?"
"Nope. He had a cap and glasses, the whole works. Didn't really care, as long as he paid up."
Madison shook her head.
"Did the guy do something bad?" Bradley asked her.
"It's something I've to find out. Can you give your brother a call? Tell him I'll be coming?"
Bradley gave her a crooked smile. "You ask for too many favors, lady. What's in it for me?"
Madison returned the smile. Or rather forced herself to.
"When we find the man," she said as she stepped just that little bit closer to him, "I'll be standing right here, outside the garage." Then she whispered into his ear, "And I'll be anything you want me to be."
She moved away from him. "Call your brother."
They grinned at each other. Madison winked and turned away. She sat on her bike, her grimace hidden under the helmet as she started the motor.
The things I gotta do…
Blake had driven between two enormous piles of what he called 'car-cass' as his police car entered Mad Jack's scrapyard. The entrance board ominously warned its trespassers - "Access Prohibited." Blake stepped out of the car, cringing not at the slush, but the deeply annoying sound of a bulldozer. The dust and the misty screen of rain streamed down his face. It did not make his day any better.
He remembered Ash's warning.
Be careful, Lieutenant.
Gritting his teeth, he walked to the deafening source of sound. "Hey!"
The burly African-American in control did not seem to have heard it.
Blake considered it an affront. "Hey, jackass!"
That helped.
Mad Jack gave him a fleeting glance before killing the engine. He climbed down the bulldozer, visibly displeased at the interruption.
"I'm Lieutenant Carter Blake. I want to ask you a few questions."
"I'm listenin'."
"Let's talk inside," said Blake and gestured to the garage. He did not need a criminal's permission to seek out refuge from shitty weather.
"So… what can you tell me about a Ford Mondeo with the license plate number 620-LFR-20?"
Mad Jack shrugged. "Nuthin."
Blake gritted his teeth again before talking. "The car nearly ran over a bunch of cops before crashing near Paschall's Alley. And I know the car's here. Are you still gonna stick with 'Nuthin'?"
Mad Jack gestured to a pile of vehicular reject. "It's a graveyard for cars out there. And you dun' ask the undertaker about bodies."
Blake scowled. "You're not being cooperative. I don't like that."
"You gonna arrest me, Officer? For bad behavior?" he sneered.
"It's Lieutenant. What did you do with the car?"
"You're wasting your time… Officer."
"Lieutenant. Where is the car?"
"I never saw your damn car! Now go take a walk."
"Someone paid you to clam up, is that it?"
Mad Jack began walking back to the bulldozer. Blake fired the final salvo in his arsenal.
"Tell me about the car and you get to walk. Or is that too much for your nigger brain to process?"
It did the trick. He stopped short and turned around. A perceived threat to his person and race had him charging at Blake in the manner of a raging bull. The Lieutenant stepped aside. The ebony Hulk blundered ahead. Blake lunged at him from behind. Together, they fell to the ground.
Mad Jack tried to roll onto his back and crush him under his weight. Blake managed to angle out of harm's way. Yet his left arm took a bad hit. Blake rolled out of the way but grunted when Mad Jack got hold of his ankles. With a quick spin, he flung Blake diagonally across the garage. The Lieutenant laded on the windshield of a car. Hard.
Stunned and rattled, he jerked and crawled to the roof of the car before dropping off behind the boot. Mad Jack moved swiftly to the back. Blake wasn't there. Gleeful now, Mad Jack rotated his neck and cracked his knuckles.
"What's wrong, pretty boy? Don't wanna play no more?"
He stepped cautiously ahead, his eyes darting over to see a hint of black and blue ducking around. "You scared, asshole? You fuckin' scared now?"
Mad Jack bent his heavy frame between two cars and looked underneath one row. He saw nothing.
"Nope," said a voice above him. The iron rod smashed into his head. It took a single blow to fell him. Lieutenant Carter Blake towered over his crumpled assailant.
"Party's over," he said.
Norman opened the door of the salon. He found Grace standing outside, face in hands.
"You okay?" he asked her.
She nodded, not quite looking up at him. "Let's get you some coffee," he said as he led her into a café. Grace was inwardly grateful, for her hands felt like icicles. They sat at a table next to the large glass window. Grace looked outside while Norman ordered two cups.
"Was it your mother?" he asked her.
"Who?"
"The phone call you just received…"
"It was a friend. Mom's not in the country. She doesn't know about this."
"Won't you tell her?"
"It won't help."
She looked out of the window again and that was the end of the conversation. Norman looked around the café, at the people there. Some looked back at him. Norman wondered what they deduced, looking at a battered, pale man and a despondent woman opposite him. Did they wonder about his bruises, her grief and how they knew each other? Did they wonder at all?
The coffee arrived and Norman quite gratefully reached for his. "Grace…" he said and motioned to the cup before her. She took a sip before setting it down.
"I'm scared," she said.
Norman put his own cup down and leaned closer. "Tell me," he said.
"I'm scared of everything. I haven't slept the whole night. I feel sick inside. So sick."
"You're worried for your son. And Ethan."
His name stirred something inside her, he noticed.
"I am scared for Shaun. Ethan can- I know he can, take care of himself."
Norman exhaled slowly. Something about his intense gaze stung her eyes. And then he said what he'd been keeping inside him for so long – "I know you care."
Her eyes widened. She tried to think of something to say. But Norman got the first say. "I know you still care for Ethan."
"You can't say that," she said. It came as a whisper.
"He's always on your mind."
She recoiled from him, an expression of contempt marking her features. "Do you know who's always on my mind?" she asked.
Norman remained still and silent, aware that any response was added provocation.
"Jason's always on my mind! Not a day goes by when I don't… think of him. And now Shaun… nothing else matters, nobody else matters to me!"
That harried admission struck him hard. But he took a deep breath and rammed a final nail into the coffin.
"Why does it affect you so much… if Ethan doesn't matter to you?"
Her eyes grew cold. She leaned back into her seat, watching him. Norman stared right back. Their eyes burned into each other.
"You can't decide," she finally said. "You can't decide what I feel for someone."
"And you can't push people away as per your convenience!"
A horrible silence followed. Norman had lashed those words out into the air. And now he knew he couldn't take them back. Grace bent forward and he could see she was fighting for words. "What… do you mean… ?" she asked.
It sounded more baffled than defiant.
"I apologize," he said coldly, lifting his coffee cup off the table. "I was out of line." He brought the cup to his lips. "Seeing as I am someone who does not matter."
He took a long sip of his coffee. It pricked and scalded his mouth, still raw from the bruises, but dulled the sensation her lips had left on his. He wanted to forget about the kisses, the embraces, his lips on her neck, her breathless moan in his ear.
His eyes watered from the flesh consuming heat of the coffee. His hand was less than gentle as he slammed the cup down on the table. Grace saw the hurt in his eyes. She wanted to go and sit next to him. Put an arm around his shoulder and kiss him ever so gently on his cheek. Take in that soft fragrance of pinecones he had on his neck. Just that gesture, she knew, would be enough to bind them together for the time being.
Instead, she pushed her cup away. It remained largely untouched. Her voice was cruel when she spoke. "You're right," she said and rose from her seat. "You do not matter to me."
Her heart and nerves revolted violently against her tongue, but she walked away with a firm jaw. It was unbearable to be in the same room with him. To look into those yearning eyes, to want to touch those fine lines around his mouth, to pull herself closer into his warm, tight embrace and to kiss that soft, warm mouth, those hungry pair of lips.
His head reeled at her harsh words. She had to be lying, his instinct screamed. But his profiling capabilities were marred by emotion. He had let this get personal. Norman Jayden grappled with desires and feelings that had been dormant for years. He could've sworn he was immune to women and sexual urges.
But he had let a certain Dr. Garner slip through the cracks. A desperate mother who could only think about saving her son. This was not how things were supposed to go. This was not going according to plan… at all…
"You should go after her."
Norman looked up. The waiter was smiling at him.
"Sorry?"
"You should go after the lady. I know something good when I see it. She'll see it too someday."
"Thanks," said Norman and forced a smile. He paid the bill and left. While walking along the curb, he saw Grace standing at a corner, hailing a cab.
There's still time,his mind urged. Go for it!
Norman began walking towards her. His pace quickened. He would pull her away from the curb, chide her gently for the delaying their pace. As if nothing had happened.
"We've got leads to follow," he would say.
But suddenly, a greater instinct took over. He halted in his steps.
No.
He watched as Grace got into a cab and it drove away. Norman turned around and began walking back to his Impala. Her leaving was a good thing, he consoled himself. He could now concentrate on the investigation and also the reason he was in Philadelphia.
The real reason.
The rain water entered his nostrils and nearly clogged his windpipe. Mad Jack choked, spluttered and came to. He was lying under the immense grey sky. And on the mucky ground beneath. He tried to move. Mad Jack could stretch his legs, but his arms were trapped. After a careful examination, he realized his wrists were tied together by a strong chain.
It led all the way to the bulldozer. Inside the bulldozer sat Lieutenant Carter Blake.
"Aha!" he said. "Fine day, innit?"
Mad Jack struggled against his bounds.
"The hell you think you're doing, motherfucker?"
"Just makin' things a little more interesting," said Blake as he cranked up the engine. He was initially rusty at the machine controls, having worked on construction sites long ago when he was sixteen. But soon, the old knowledge of youth caught up with him and he maneuvered the machine forward.
Mad Jack got dragged along, his legs making twin tracks as he moved.
"What the hell's wrong with you, man!"
"Wanna tell me about the car?" Blake bellowed over the thundering engine.
"I ain't no snitch!"
"Have it your way."
Blake drove the bulldozer ahead, full throttle, in deliberate zigzags. Mad Jack, though bulky, was no match for the rattling machine which swung him against the metallic debris.
"You're crazy, you're fucking crazy!"
"Can't hear ya!"
With that, Blake reversed the bulldozer. Slowly. Its long winding wheels of tainted steel inched closer to Mad Jack in a gradual crunch.
"Wait!"
"What?"
"I'll talk!"
The bulldozer was coming closer to crush his arm, then sides.
"Say what?"
"The-the car's near the crusher!"
Blake stopped the engine. "Where, again?"
"It's on the top of the car-pile, next to the crusher!"
"What's it doing there?"
"I was told to get rid of it today!"
"Oh yeah?" Blake leaped out of the silenced bulldozer. "Under whose authority?"
"I dunno, man! Dint see his face, dint ask the name. He paid cash and I ain't the questioning kind."
Blake ran to the pile of cars next to the crusher. He climbed up the smooth, slippery surfaces of the cars to get to the top. Apparently, he had arrived in the nick of time. The Ford Mondeo was right on top. Blake managed to yank open a barely functional door and clamber into the back of the seat. It had been smashed. Badly. The roof was dented and ever other corner of the car had caved in.
He checked the back seat before moving ahead. Blake was wedged between two seats as he blindly ran a hand in the floor space in front. He found a smooth metallic rectangle and pulled it towards himself. A few more fumblings later, he found the rest of the pieces.
Blake climbed down the mountain of cars, slipping in places as he did, before reaching the ground. He walked past Mad Jack, who was still tied to the bulldozer.
"Hey man, what about me?"
"You know the drill," said Blake, "you've the right to remain silent. Use it."
He walked on and made a phone call to Ash. "Send some men to get Jackson Neville. And round up some hackers who can programme and retrieve information from GPSes."
"Right away, Lieutenant."
Blake knew Ash had questions about his encounter with Mad Jack. He would explain everything later, of course. Minus the racial slur, though that was a necessary evil. Provocation had been the only weapon at his disposal. It was also a tremendous time-saving measure.
Satisfied at a job well done, Blake got into the car and drove at a manic speed. He intended to drop the GPS off at the station and continue exploring the rest of the clues. He wanted to be the one to serve Ethan Mars's ass personally, to the ravenous press on a platter.
Grace looked out of her window, in the taxi. She did not entirely understand what happened, back in the café. How things came to such a pass. It was going. Perfectly fine. Everything had been put behind them. But then, Norman had to mention Ethan. Push his name ahead, as if the man was to mean something to her.
Didn't he understand? Didn't he know it was over? That talking about her missing son's father hurts now? He was no one to decide. No one.
Why did he have to go on about Ethan? About her feelings? And then his own? Did he really think she was in a position to decide what she felt now? With her son missing? With the last hope of ever finding him dying out?
So much snapped inside her back there. And she did not let it all out. But the little she said had hurt him.
Why did she do it? Why did she hurt the ones closest to her? Then again, was Norman closest to her? He was but a hostage of circumstance and vice. Why did he say that she was pushing him away? Looking back, it seemed as if he wanted her away from him. As if it was better that way. If so… why was he hurt by all this… if they didn't matter… to each other… ?
Nothing made sense. Grace felt a tightening in her chest. She had pulled herself into a much greater mess than she realized… she only hoped she'd get out of it safe and unscathed. Grace Garner could take only one more dent in her armor. And then, no more.
Scott parked the car on the curb opposite the Blue Lagoon. Kathy's phone rang that instant.
"Good timing," said Scott and got out of the car. "See you inside."
"Yeah, Ash?"
"Kathy, I need you to send over some numbers."
"What kinda numbers?"
"Hackers. The sort that programme GPSes."
"Yeah, I could send you one or two. What's this regarding?"
"Lieutenant's making some headway in the case. Apparently tied a known felon to a bulldozer and drove him around."
Kathy let out a low whistle. "Seems like the Lieutenant's in his element."
"He's on fire."
"He's a Nazi."
"Where'd you get this theory from?"
"Same place he got his torture techniques. Bet he could use Jell-O and feathers better than the CIA uses water-boarding."
She looked out of the car window. Scott had already entered the nightclub. He had left his inhaler in the dashboard.
"Nice talking to you, Ash. But I gotta run. I've my own thing goin' on here."
"Good luck. Don't forget about the numbers."
"Sending them over."
He hung up and Kathy promptly texted him a few handy digits. Then, she stretched in her seat before reaching for Scott's inhaler and getting out of the car. She had to catch up with him. Scott wasn't the sort who waited.
Impatient at Kathy's absence, Scott flashed his police badge to a henchman. "Take the stairs over there," he said to Scott and pointed at a flight across the dance floor. Scott nodded and elbowed his way through doped revelers who gyrated to Leighton Meester's "Somebody To Love."
It was an uphill task.
Kathy flashed her own badge at the bouncer. He seemed surprised, for Kathy did make an unlikely cop. More so, when she wasn't in uniform. Nevertheless, the detective hoped it would work to her advantage. Even if she wasn't dressed like a skank, the classic jeans and white shirt combo should help her blend in.
Of course, her black jacket concealed her badge and shoulder holster.
She knew Scott alone would be able to handle Paco. Walking in on 'the talk' would break the rhythm. Instead, she decided to make a beeline for the bar. She was sure of find one of Paco's cronies lurking around over there. Someone who would spill his gut after a drink and a good night on town. To her sheer luck, she found Roy Shapiro. Paco's right hand man and a certified sleazebag. There was several assault charges against him.
The victims were women. Mostly prostitutes. Kathy could happily take him down some day, when there wasn't a Big Daddy around to make calls and bail him out. She sat on an empty bar stool a little distance away. His eyes were on her, she knew. Kathy reciprocated the gaze. It took a little pouting and fidgeting on her part, but it did the trick.
Roy Shapiro slipped the key to his suite into the back pocket of her jeans, cupping her buttock ever so slightly. Kathy watched him disappear before following the same way. It was too easy.
Scott Shelby showed his badge to the bodyguard at the entrance to Paco's office/love nest. He stepped aside to let him enter. Scott walked down the dimly lit corridor and knocked at the door. There was no response. He opened it and found Paco lying slumped against a chair, his back to the door.
"Paco Mendes?"
There was no answer. Years of working on the street had taught Scott to anticipate what he knew was coming. He turned the swivel chair around. Paco Mendes had been shot through the head.
Roy Shapiro had the champagne and the music ready. Except that the music was disturbingly loud, with David Guetta belting out "Toyfriend."
She could barely hear her own thoughts over the cacophony.
"Champagne?" he yelled over the music.
"Yes! Thanks!" she yelled right back.
He turned his back to her. Kathy whipped out her gun. Roy caught the reflection on his ice bucket. With a sudden turn, he flung the bottle at her. She dodged it but not fast enough. It crushed into her shoulder and she dropped the gun. Kathy dove out of his way when he brandished his own revolver.
"I can tell a cop from a mile!" his voice boomed, loud and maniacal, over the music. He aimed the gun at her. "Show me your warrant!"
Kathy raised her arms in the air. "There is no warrant!"
He cocked the gun. She did not flinch.
"How does Paco know Virgil Minnelli?" she asked.
"With all due respect, honey, I'm the one who gets to ask the questions."
"Ironically, your boss is the one in serious shit. If you don't…"
Roy could not hear the rest of the sentence.
"What?"
Kathy spoke something, but the words remained indistinct. She saw his gun waver.
"I can't hear you!" he said.
Roy let his free hand roam over the knobs on the music system. Kathy backed slowly against the wall, mouthing the words but not speaking. Her raised hands interlinked behind her head. Kathy felt for the small wall painting behind her.
Roy took his eyes off her for a second. A second was all she needed. Kathy removed the painting off the wall, hands still behind her head. Roy turned towards her. He could barely register a golden frame spinning wildly through the air. Towards him. It hit his face.
Kathy covered the length of the room in a single bound. With another leap, she tackled him and they went crashing over the side table. The ice bucket and the music system hit the ground when they did. Kathy brought a punch down to his face, instead of 'across.' It inflicted more damage, something she observed when Blake roughed up suspects.
Kathy grabbed his collar and pulled him up for a head butt. And then, there was her finishing move. She scooped her fist into the ice bucket and swung it at Roy's face. That knocked him out cold. Kathy dragged him to the bed and handcuffed him there. She let the ear-splitting music hammer on.
Roy had to know what was going on. Once he came to, Kathy would be back for him.
Scott inhaled deeply at the sight. The breath was ragged. He knew things were going wrong even as he felt for his inhaler. It wasn't there. The door behind creaked very slowly. Scott sensed movement before it even began. The dark figure had endeavored to sneak out from behind the door. Scott thwarted the attempt with a fiery push.
The shadow rammed against the door. Scott landed a punch to his face, shocked at the feeble force. He needed his inhaler. The deprivation worked to the masked man's advantage. Scott was at the receiving end of unrelenting blows.
He dodged them the best he could, gasping.
Can't breathe, can't fucking breathe!
Scott grabbed a chair and held it unsteadily between them. It proved a good defense, but not for long. Scott felt himself lose consciousness and tried to fling the chair at the dark figure as a last ditch effort. The killer toppled but rolled over and knocked Scott off balance. He was on his feet faster than the private eye.
Scott saw a white hot flash. Then, he felt the full impact of a jaw-shattering kick. He anticipated another blow coming. But it did not. His vision was blurry but he saw someone pounce on his attacker.
It was Detective Conley.
Kathy locked herself around his back. The killer thrashed around wildly, slamming her backwards into the fish tank. The glass cracked on impact. Scott convulsed in a corner. Kathy lost her grip on the killer. She slipped to the ground. The killer sent a burning slap across her face.
Kathy went still as she hit the floor. The killer surveyed the damage and decided to leave. He turned and began to walk away. Kathy flared up in a final flash of strength. She reached for his jacket and got dragged all the way to the door before the killer forcefully opened the door into her face.
Kathy screamed but did not lose her grip. Still, the killer managed to tear himself away from her and made good his escape. Either that or Kathy tore a pocket out of his coat. She looked at her enclosed fist. There was indeed a pocket. She gagged over the blood that clogged her nose and shifted weakly to look at her fallen comrade.
"Scott? Scott!"
He was still.
"Shit!"
She crawled over to him, realizing only then, the extent of bruises on herself. It had been two rough fights, one after another. She stretched till the inhaler was in his mouth and pumped the renewing spurt of air into his mouth. He gasped, reviving almost instantaneously. Still, he kept his head down and groaned before trying to sit up. "Owe you one," he gasped to Kathy.
She panted too and sat next to him. The office was a terrible mess. Paco Mendes lying dead on his chair did not beautify the scene. Or the scenario.
"Who was that guy?" she asked.
Scott rose to his feet. "Let me figure that out. You call the station. Get a forensic team here. A competent one."
"On it."
Kathy was on the phone. Scott was on his way out.
The bodyguard was outside the door, standing as if nothing had happened. "Who was the guy? The one who came before us?"
His answer was less than courteous. "Sorry, I don't speak 'cop'."
He was more cooperative after a punch. A rejuvenated one at that.
"Aaron. He said his name was Aaron."
Scott let him go and went back inside. "Any luck?" he asked Kathy.
"They're on their way."
"Good. This was one fucked-up dead-end."
"Not entirely. I know someone who might talk."
"Shoot."
"Roy Shapiro."
Scott raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you find him?"
"He was… around."
She pulled her shirt and jacket to reveal a black mark on her shoulder. "And not very welcoming either."
Scott gently patted the wound. It was fatherly in its own way. "The bastard… where is he?"
"I'll take you to him."
"Can hardly wait."
Scott held the door open for Kathy as she led the way.
Ethan reached Madison's apartment, safe and sound. It was generous of her to lend him a duplicate key. He closed the door behind him and looked around the studio apartment. It was sparse and strictly utilitarian. There was a lot she could have done with the space. The place could have been better furnished. And maybe echo a bit less.
He did not dwell on that for too long since he had a promise to keep to a woman he hadn't had a decent conversation with in months. Eagerly yet with a little trepidation, he dialed her number. She picked up and her voice made his heart pound faster. He was nervous.
"Hello?"
"Are you alone now?"
"Yes."
He took a deep breath. "How've you been?"
"Better on other days… how are you holding up?"
"I'm a fugitive."
"… Right…"
It was Grace's turn to take a deep breath on the other line. "What's happening, Ethan? What is the hangman puzzle about? How is it a clue to Shaun's location?"
"It… it just is."
Grace leaned forward. She was at the edge of her bed, not having bothered to change from her wet clothes after the taxi ride. The rage and frustration she'd thrown at Norman was immediately forgotten when her phone had rung.
"Tell me, Ethan. Tell me everything…"
"I don't know where to start… there's so much to say…"
He paused on the phone, grasping for words. The silence got too much for Grace to bear. "I know about the blackouts," she said, suddenly. The voice jumped at the other end. "What?"
"I spoke to Dr. Dupré. He told me everything, right after the police made a mess of his office and- "
"Mess? What do you mean 'mess'? What were the police doing there?"
She had screwed up. Then and now. Grace Garner was about to confess to something she thought she could've avoided… until later. This is exactly what happened when she got stressed. She screwed up.
"The police knew about your blackouts, Ethan…"
She stopped. Grace could not make herself go any further.
"How?" he asked.
Ethan was met with a stony silence.
"How?" he repeated. The tone was demanding.
"Because I told them."
Dead silence. On both ends. Like the tense moment in the car with Norman a few hours ago, Grace was trapped in a situation where to speak first seemed a dreadful burden. Ethan was courageous enough to break it first.
"… Why? Why would you do that?"
"I don't… I didn't know, I was scared and you weren't picking up the phone and- "
"What the fuck were you thinking? I'm a suspect now! They're after me and they won't stop now!"
"Maybe you could've thought of that before you landed up dazed and out of your senses outside my house! Or before you tried to dope yourself and jump off a train!"
There was another pause. Grace could feel Ethan struggling with his thoughts.
"I don't ever remember landing up at your house."
He ran a hand over his forehead and then through his hair. "Grace… why?"
"Because I didn't know what else to do…"
They were quiet on both sides now, breathing lightly. Ethan put the phone next to him to cover his eyes for a while before getting back on line.
"Did it…" He paused to swallow the lump in his throat. "Did it really take two years to undo fifteen together?"
Grace swallowed hard too.
"All it took was an accident, Ethan."
It felt like she would cry. But she didn't. She was so brave, he thought. The one who really pulled through during the crisis. Ethan sighed. "I'm so sorry."
"What are you doing, Ethan? Why are you doing things to get yourself in trouble?"
"Because it's the only way I can find Shaun."
"How?"
"There are trials. It's the only way out of this."
"What trials? And what about the hangman?"
"I can't tell you about the trails..."
"Why? Ethan, why?"
"Because… you'd never believe me."
"I believe you now. Please tell me."
"I-"
Ethan couldn't get himself to say it. Not immediately. "I… I think I'm responsible for what happened to Shaun."
"What? How?"
Grace stood and paced the room. She couldn't take this anymore. "Ethan, please! Talk to me!"
She heard a sob on the phone.
"I'm sorry, Grace. I'm so sorry."
"Ethan, tell me what happened. What did you do?"
"I don't know what happened… I'm sorry…"
"Ethan, I'm begging you."
"I've to go."
"Ethan, don't hang up! Ethan! Don't!"
"You'll hear from me… when this is all over."
"I can't wait three days, Ethan. It's my son!"
The silence deafened her from the other line. Then – "He's my son too."
"Ethan…"
"And I'm doing whatever I can to bring him back."
"I know, I'm sorry…"
"Sorry doesn't fix it, Grace."
"I know, I know, Ethan…"
"I don't think we can even mend what's broken. It'll be unfair to even think- "
"I want to help you. Let me help you, Ethan."
"You can't help me. Nobody can help me."
"Where are you, Ethan? Let me come see you."
"It's too risky… too dangerous…"
"I – I can't just sit here and watch the cops get to you."
"I'll be careful this time. And turn off my phone now so I don't get traced."
"You think I'm helping the cops trace you?"
"Can't be too careful."
"Ethan, it was a mistake. We've all made mistakes."
"I'm trying to correct mine."
"Ethan…"
"Goodbye, Grace. You'll get our son back. You'll see him again."
"Ethan, wait!"
The line went dead. Grace kept looking at the number, tears falling down her face onto the handset. She placed it on her bed-side table and slowly sank back into her bed. Ethan was right. You couldn't mend what was broken. And Grace Garner knew that she had pushed the envelope too far this time. Ethan would probably hate her for the rest of their lives. Only and only because she didn't trust him enough.
Because she didn't trust her own judgment of a person.
Grace would regret this. For every living moment. That would be her punishment.
Are you prepared to suffer to save your son?
The old power plant on Embarcadero Street.
Lauren looked up from her notepad. She had written down the addresses from all the origami figures in serial order. If she had known how deserted the place was, she would have come the next day. But with Carter Blake pursuing the first origami figure and slashing her tires as warning, examining the address on the second figure seemed the next logical step. Either way, she didn't want to be sitting idle.
Lauren did consider asking the taxi driver to wait for her while she looked around. However, he was gone before she could frame her request better. The absence of an irate driver and a ticking meter, no doubt, gave her more time to explore. Even as Lauren tried to push open the main gate, she wished she had the money to pay extra. Then again, she could have got her car a new set of tires.
The gate did not budge. Lauren shivered and looked around. There was nobody, not a soul. "You'll be fine, you'll be fine," she muttered to herself as she climbed up an uneven pile of bricks and past the opening of the crumbling wall.
She saw a door before her. Like the gate, it did not yield to pressure. The other option was to continue past some barb wires to God knows where. Lauren was scared. She found an old drum lying in a corner, knocked over and weather-beaten. Like the rest of the setting. It was heavy. Lauren grunted at the effort and stumbled to the door.
She flung it weakly at the handle. Nothing happened – the impact was not strong enough. Lauren picked it up again and walked backwards, facing the door. Then, she sprinted in long bounds towards it, panting as the barrel began slipping from her hands.
She made it just in time, breaking open the door. Lauren tripped and landed on the barrel, slipping off the surface when the barrel rolled. She looked up at the ceiling, a careful hand running along her ribs. No damages sustained.
There was a long winding corridor; she saw that it disappeared into the darkness. Lauren switched on the flashlight in her cell phone. Something glowed in the dark. It was a butterfly. Spray-painted. She remembered noticing a butterfly shaped origami figure. Things did not make much sense, but they did become a little clearer.
What happened here, she wondered. How was it connected to the fate of a drowning child? Her heart pounded all the way to her ears. She turned to look at the door behind for reassurance. It had glided to a half-close, covering the only way out. The words behind the door prickled her skin.
Sprayed in a dark red with somber mockery, read: Coward.
Lauren squealed in fear, backing away from the door into a dark corridor. She banged into a door. A shaking whimper escaped her lips as she threw it open and heaved herself up the elevated ground. She leaped back to her feet, pumped, curious and alert. The torchlight illuminated a large room. There was a raised platform on her right. She beamed her light upwards.
There was an open hatch above, an even ground before it. And then, there was a long jump to where Lauren stood. There were butterfly signs spray-painted on the wall, and 'Coward' on the second door as well. She turned and flashed her light on the other end of the room. There were wires…
Weird.
Lauren could not see too far into the room. She had to make her way through the wires. Edging closer, she brought her pinkie finger to the topmost wire. There was no current. Lauren turned her flashlight around. The place gave her the creeps. She paused for a moment and swore that she could hear footsteps.
The place is driving you crazy.
Taking a deep breath, she bent through the gap between the wires. Lauren leaned over and landed on her palms. She took another deep breath and raised her right leg off the ground. Bringing the knee to the wire, she balanced herself and propelled her body forward with her left leg.
With quick timing, Lauren bent her legs as she tumbled through the wires. She flashed her light over the tangle she had come though, mildly impressed. Her profession, however dishonorable, gave her an impressive degree of flexibility.
Flashlight pointing ahead, Lauren moved stoically towards the next set of wires. She stuck her left arm out, through the wires, holding the mobile-torch. Carefully balancing her weight, she stuck her left leg through. Lauren bent low, head moving from under the wire to the other side. She looked up, angling for a smooth move. And that was when she saw the body.
Brown, charred and tangled in the wires ahead. A hideous silhouette.
She screamed.
Her legs gave way and she dropped her phone. Panicking, she struggled against the wires that trapped her in place. The stray beam of torchlight was still somewhere along the ground. Lauren did not bother retrieving it, more eager to run up and away into the darkness. It was pitch black everywhere except near the body. The torchlight further illuminated the frightening apparition. Lauren grunted and screamed again, the wires twisting and closing around her wrists.
"Help!" she screamed. "Help!"
It echoed in the large room, growing in volume and ringing fiercely in her own ears. She lost her balance, falling on her right shoulder. Lauren kicked the air. Her feet got caught up in the wires. A pair of arms closer around her.
She screamed again.
It echoed again.
Lauren fought and bit, spat, cursed and struggled till a voice finally said, "Hold still." She was crying and realized it only then. Lauren whimpered and pulled at her bonds.
"Please… help…"
A strong arm found its way around her shoulder. The other freed her from the wires that held her in place. The hand retrieved her phone lying on the ground. Lauren saw the faint outline of her savior as it glowed against the light. The person noticed the body.
Lauren heard a faint "Holy shit," from that end.
The shadow turned to her. "Let's get you out of here."
She let the man scoop her into his arms, too faint to protest. Unabashed now, she sobbed into his shoulder, too shaken for restraint. The arm supporting her back gave a rough, awkward pat to her shoulder. Lauren moved her arms tighter around his neck, shaking as the person carried her back into the cool, open air.
She recoiled from the sudden brightness of the street lights and buried her face in his chest. It felt familiar. There was something about the tang of perspiration wafting through his shirt. About his rough touch. The gruff, husky voice. Yet unusual about the care those arms took in holding her.
Holding her.
Lauren knew almost instantly then. She craned her neck upwards. Her blurred vision sharpened. Lieutenant Carter Blake was looking down at her. They exchanged a look.
Lauren knew she should release her grip, but she held on. In that brief horrific moment, he was all she had. Blake carried her into the police car, to the back-seat, yet again.
But this time, he was slow. Tender almost.
"Get in," he said, and Lauren did. She was grateful to be away from the rain. He shut the door and pulled out his phone. The lieutenant began talking to someone on the line. Lauren wasn't listening. She tried to wrap her arms around herself, to get warm. There was a black, over-sized trench coat already covering them.
She never realized when he had slipped it on her. Lauren looked at the coat, then at him, wide-eyed as he continued to speak on the phone. As if all that had transpired was part of the job. Still, when she wasn't looking, Lauren missed the look the lieutenant gave her. She had been through a lot, the poor bird. He sighed, shook his head and continued to talk on the phone.
AUTHOR'S NOTE/RENEWED DISCLAIMER/ANNOUNCEMENT
AND AN APOLOGY
I've been terrible. The WORST person ever! The delay was ridiculous. To atone for such a grave transgression, I wrote this gigantic chapter. I wanted to update my other HR fan fic before I got to this one. The delay had been even longer for that one. I'm not at all proud. In fact, there was so much more I wanted to cram into this chapter. But I guess it'll have to wait for the next one. I am so, so sorry.
Another reason for the delay was that I lost someone close to me. Didn't feel like writing much after that.
I knew I had taken too long when Jim Slade reviewed asking for another chapter. He never does that. Then Soul Searcher, Schooled Ash (welcome to the club!) and Greased Lightening reviewed. That sent me into a bit of a panic mode. So a lot of this chapter has been written very fast, in very short notice. So many portions re-written. It was awful. I hate editing, but here I am. :D
Please pardon any typos you see. They annoy me and I'm trying my very best to avoid them.
Yes, Madison was flirty in this chapter. I incorporated that bit after Sexy Girl. Personally, I'm against the slutty journalist stereotype and will do my utmost to avoid it if I ever write a story where the protagonist's a journalist.
Renewed disclaimer: I own Heavy Rain. If not the copyrights, but the game. Finally! I felt like such a moron for writing 13 chapters into a story I had only YouTubed. The game tumbled out of the PS3 when I unwrapped it a few days after Christmas. It's one of those moments you go numb with happiness. Considering I played it on Hard mode, I got a decent enough ending, something I wasn't gunning for. I wanted the worst possible end first, but played along. Jayden died in the warehouse fight against the killer, Madison became a bestseller, Lauren killed Scott, Ethan – Shaun started afresh.
Not too shabby I'll say.
Announcement: My dear readers, I'm happy to announce that a short story of mine (titled Mists of Time) made its way into a book of short stories with 14 other authors out of a lot of entries, me being the youngest of the lot. :P The name of the book is Labyrinth – Short Stories. It may seem like self-plugging, but you have all been so encouraging, I figured you'd want to read something of mine, beyond the fanfiction –y pursuit I have going on.
Please buy it. The kindle edition is available on Amazon. I shall leave the link on my profile, so it's easier for you to find it. Please let me know what you thought of the story. Mention it in your reviews. OTHERWISE I SHALL UPDATE NO MORE! BWAHAHAHAHAHAA!
No, but seriously. This is a huge deal. I would love if the folks who've been so encouraging, get to read it. Would've loved to sign your copies. ;D
Okay folks. I've held my end of the deal. Chapter's here. Do understand that I only update once I know all the reviews are in. So get cracking! Greased, Lightening, Soul Searcher, Honky Tonk Man, Urban Cowboy, Chyrstis, mythstoorfoot, Jim Slade, Schooled Ash.
Jim Slade! Be careful not to over-indulge in beer! It can be dangerous. Veerry dangerous.
This is my longest chapter at around 10, 130 words. The size of an average screenplay without the dialogue, I'm told. Yikes...
Much love to you all, people! You are loved. xxxx :)