Author's Note: Not sure why it took me so long to get this updated finished up. Because it's my favorite scene so far. ;-)
"Not too hasty, Miss Meredith," her captive captor said, his voice only slightly strained by the hold she had on him, the probe already soaked with her own blood pressing against the jugular vein in his neck. She instantly saw what he meant as her gaze fell on her partner. She'd been too preoccupied with getting a firm hold on Beauchamps and putting her back to a wall to see the Brute haul LaSalle out of his chair, and press a large hunting knife to his naked stomach. Blood was already welling against the sharp edge, bright red on the pale skin, dewing on the light brown hair surrounding his navel.
She locked eyes with her partner, seeing her own fear reflected back at her. And at the same time, that defiance he'd shown since the moment he'd been dragged out of the hot box and sat in front of a glass of water he refused to drink. His intense blue eyes were telling her not to back down.
"Let him go," she said, her voice loud, authoritative, nearly two-decades of federal agent experience kicking in automatically. "Or I kill your boss."
The expression on the Brutes' faces didn't change. But Brute #1 stopped edging towards her. As for Beauchamps, he felt almost relaxed in her hold. He was lucky that her own nerves were confined to her churning stomach and not causing her hand to shake and stab him. Again, thanks to years of training in handling firearms under pressure.
"I would laugh, darluhn," Beauchamps said, a frustrating level of calm in his voice. "But I em uh-fraid that would end our con-vuh-sation pre-muh-chuh-ly.
"Which would not be all that ben-uh-ficial fuh Mr. LaSalle, eithuh."
Merri swallowed, her eyes unavoidably drawn to the small stream of blood flowing down her friend's stomach, reaching the white linen of his pants and spreading like the petals of a rose in bloom.
"Yuh see, Miss Meredith..." Beauchamps sure liked to talk. God, she was so sick of his smooth Old Louisiana accent. And so many fucking words. A constant stream of them. She wanted to go home, crawl into her bed and listen to the muffled wordless pulse of the city. "My faithful employees here may not espe-shuh-ly care uh-bout my duhmise. But they will not hez-uh-tate tuh kill Mr. LaSalle an' yuhself once I em dead.
"Yuh see, they are what is commonly refuhed tuh as 'wacko'." Beauchamps turned to one of said 'wackos'. "Psychopathic, puh-haps would be the more PC tuhm?"
Brute #1 grunted, apparently in agreement.
"The point bein' that they like killin' an' only the exor-buh-tant pay I give them keeps their blood lust in line."
Merri swallowed. This was quite the stand-off, she supposed. And to look at the Brute Twins' soulless eyes, one set grey, one set brown, well, there was quite a bit of evidence to support Beauchamps' assertion. She sort of felt like killing the arrogant asshole out of spite. Even if it meant that knife already slicing into LaSalle's skin would sink in deep and with a quick jerk of a hand, disembowel her dear friend, directly before one or both of them came for her, an onslaught she wouldn't be able to fend off in her state, on her own.
Shit.
If it had just been her...
LaSalle's blue eyes were still passionate as she dared meet his gaze once more. Still defiant. He didn't want her to surrender.
But she couldn't let him be gutted right in front of her. Even if she wouldn't have to live with the guilt of it very long. She couldn't let him die. He was the best person she knew. Sweet, loyal, compassionate, tough, protective. He protected people, saved them, with his work as an investigator or even just with a smile that brightened an otherwise hopelessly bleak day. She couldn't be responsible for the world losing him.
She dropped her arm, tossing away the thin metal spike with a clatter as it hit the table and rolled off onto the floor. And then Beauchamps was whirling on her, smacking her in the side of the face so hard she stumbled, prevented from falling to the rough earth floor by a sharp tug on her short hair that made her cry out.
"I have got her, Mistuh Wright," Beauchamps said, and the very large man stopped a couple feet in front of Merri as she was hauled up, arm twisted painfully behind her back with the surprisingly strong grasp of the refined 'Southern Gentleman'. His other firm grip was still tangled into her hair, which while short was apparently long enough to be painfully pulled on.
"Ev'ry mastuh knows such misbehav-yuh must be puh-nished tuh maintain orduh." His voice was honey-smooth in her ear but soured her stomach, sent chills down her spine. He spun her towards the open door, marched her out. "Mistuhs Wright and Crawford, bring Mistuh LaSalle and the toolkit, if you puhlease."
God, it hurt. She'd used the hold on any number of suspects, but never this harshly. It felt as if her shoulder was being dislocated as she was herded out into the bright sunshine.
And blue skies.
What the hell was that about? She felt a little betrayed by the world going on so merrily about them as they were threatened and abused. God, her free hand was the one that had been stabbed. It was throbbing all the way up her forearm. Otherwise she'd... well, Merri honestly didn't know what she'd be able to do. The arm twisted up behind her back was rather immobilizing.
Fortunately, she wasn't shoved along very far. Beauchamps brought her to a halt just behind the disturbingly maintained yet somehow still squalid old slave quarters (couldn't gloss over something with that rough a surface).
Brute #1 set down the basket, which was somehow more menacing for sitting closed in the grass pretending to be an innocent picnic hamper. She made the brief, selfish attempt at imagining that she was just on a picnic, thrusting aside the acute sensation of pain shooting through her right hand and left shoulder to focus on the warm sun on her face and the cool grass between her toes. A slight breeze fragrant with the scent of wildflowers. That hamper probably had a bottle of California Red and camembert, crackers and cavi-
LaSalle's defiant outcry evaporated her weak fantasy in an instant. He was struggling fiercely against the two men, each who were nearly twice his size. To say he didn't stand much of a chance was an understatement. But the man wasn't a quitter. He made them work hard, sweat beads glinting on their scarred-up faces in the stupid-happy sunshine as they finally managed to get their captive's wrists locked into a pair of what could only be called 'manacles'. At least, they looked like they'd been designed 200 years ago, although didn't have a spot of rust on them. (Merri had a feeling Monsieur Beauchamps was very meticulous when it came to his possessions... The amount of control he'd waged over them thus far was proof enough of that.)
She didn't notice the odd, rough-hewn post standing like a lone, naked tree several yards away until after she watched LaSalle dig his heals into the ground -a futile endeavor with bare feet on thick sod- and his eyes grow wide. At first she didn't understand. She blamed the dizziness in her head from being smacked around, stabbed and having her shoulder wrenched nearly out of its socket. But the purpose of the naked tree became suddenly very clear as the two henchman forced their prisoner's arms up and hooked the manacle chain over one of half a dozen thick metal spikes driven into the weathered raw wood about 8 or 9 feet up the pole.
He struggled a bit, trying to find his balance on feet he couldn't plant flat on the ground with arms stretched above his head just past the limits of his average height body. And then he was kicking at the post. No, he was trying to find purchase with the soles of his feet, as if he might climb it. And maybe he could've managed it. He was a wiry guy, more muscular and stronger than he looked.
But he was exhausted. She could see it in the sluggish drag on his normally smooth and energetic movements. And it was very quickly too late.
"I think twenty shall suh-fice, Mr. Crawford," Beauchamps said, his voice all 19th century colonel in volubility and commanding tone. And then said as an aside to Merri, "He so rarely gets tuh pract-uhs the skill."
Merri began to struggle in true earnest, no longer caring about dislocating her shoulder, the pain equally intense in her wrenched wrist and awkwardly bent elbow.
"Proceed at yuh lei-zhuh," he said, still as calm as ever despite her struggling. Even as he found her injured free hand with his, grabbed it, forcing his thumb into the bleeding wound and squeezing hard as he forced her forearm up her back a little further, causing white pain to stab through her shoulder. It wasn't dislocated yet, she didn't think, but oh, god- her knees grew weak but she fought to stay standing for the added weight of her legs failing her would surely tear all the muscles and tendons in her shoulder and cause the bone to pop out of joint.
But- but the physical pain wasn't the worst. No. The most painful part wasn't even her own agony yet it stabbed her directly in the heart, made her chest feel so tight that she felt like she couldn't breathe. And then there were fingers twisting in her hair jerking her head up and forcing her to watch as her friend was whipped.
It was a ridiculously dramatic scene, but she supposed that was Beauchamps' style. Why do anything mundane when you had the option for the overdramatic? She couldn't deny that it was extremely effective, he was extremely effective at the sinister. And the downright heart wrenching.
Brute #2 was using a bullwhip. She wasn't sure if this was better or worse than the old cat-o-nine-tails, only that the tip of it was snapped with such force at Chris LaSalle's pale, smoothly muscled back that it sliced the flesh open in long red lines. His skin that wasn't being slowly coated in blood was turning an angry pink, like a nasty sunburn all over his back. The crimson stripes also appeared on his arms and the nape of his neck as the man who was proficient but obviously not expert in wielding the horrid instrument sometimes missed his precise target, the expanse of Chris' naked back.
Merri cringed and she thought maybe screamed, begged and pleaded, too. She wasn't sure.
"Con-suh-quences, my de-uh," Beauchamps said easily as if he were watching some boring old polo match or whatever monotonous, pretentious sport wealthy sociopaths 'enjoyed'... Besides physically and mentally torturing people, that was. "Ev'ry act-shuhn has uh re-act-shuhn. Puh-haps now you shall cuhn-sider yuh choices mo-uh care-fuh-ly."
The pressure released on her arm, but that was only because she was begin shoved forcefully to the ground, collapsing entirely when her injured hand refused to catch her weight. Under other circumstances, Merri would've wondered why he'd let go of her. Under other circumstances, she would've responded by immediately attacking the bastard. But she'd tried that already. And she was outnumbered. But unlike those thoughts she might have had under other circumstances, there was only one thought in her head at that moment.
She ran to her friend.
The whip cracked again, catching her bicep with a sharp stinging blow. It had probably cut her flesh open, but she didn't even try to stop and look. She was too busy throwing herself at her bloodied friend who was now hanging from the whipping post like a butchered animal, all limp and reeking of blood. He grunted as her body hit his with some force (she had sprinted to him as soon as she'd pushed herself up of the ground). It must've stung like a bitch to have her front pressed up against the open wounds, but it meant his flesh couldn't be torn open any further. Hell, maybe the white cotton dress now sticky and hot sandwiched between his back and her breasts would help stop the bleeding. She'd immediately snaked her arms around his chest, pushing up onto the very tips of her toes to cover as much of his body as she could. He wasn't a large man, and she was thankful she could shield so much of him as she could as she clung hard to him.
"Boss?" One of the Brutes asked, and Merri finally noticed another slash of that terrible whip hadn't come. She'd startled and confused them with her unexpected act. Even knowing it hurt him, she squeezed LaSalle harder, anticipating giant paws grabbing her and trying to pry her off from her friend. But they didn't come either.
"Pro-ceed, Mistuh Crawford" Beauchamps sounded unperturbed by the whole scenario. Maybe it's what he wanted. That idea angered her. But at the same time, she didn't care. Not if it meant sparing Chris one more injury. "Miss Meredith uh-pparently wants the rest huh-self."
The first blow of the whip caught her by surprise. It was the single most painful thing she'd ever experienced. Like being cut and shot at the same time. It stung like being slashed with a knife, but it burned like being struck with significant force. She definitely flinched and cried out.
"Leggo a'me!" LaSalle's voice was strained but firm. She managed to swallow the scream for the second and third strikes, focusing her attention on keeping hold of the man now squirming, trying to shake her off. The fourth and fifth lashes were somehow worse, perhaps because the nerves in the flesh of her back were already flaring with pain. Or maybe it was the fact that the layer of cotton fabric had somewhat cushioned the cutting blows until the dress had been torn to shreds like her friend's naked back.
"Please, Mere. Leggo!" He was sounding desperate now, but she was just as desperate not to let him get hurt anymore. So she took the remaining lashes of the 20 that Beauchamps had ordered, slumping a little when her eight were over. How had she let LaSalle take a full 11 of them before she'd interfered, catching the twelfth with her arm? How hadn't she done everything possible to stop him being hurt to so terribly?
"Keep goin', Mistuh Crawford," Beauchamps' tone was icily placid. And her insides knotted in terrified anticipation, which was shortly followed by the searing pain of another lash of the whip slicing through her flesh. She buried her face, muffled her scream against LaSalle's shoulder and when the next strike came, she unintentionally bit into the naked skin, tasting the saltiness of him as she tried not to cry out in pain.
"Stop!" LaSalle shouted above the blood pounding in her ears, the pain buzzing in her head. "Stop it! I'll tell ya what ya wanna know! Just stop hurtin' her!"
And no further pain came.
"No," she pleaded desperately into his ear. "Don't..."
And then Beauchamps was there, his face disturbingly close to hers and LaSalle's. Her friend had turned slightly, as much as he could, to face their tormentor, but -god forgive her- she'd buried her own face into Chris' sweat-coated neck, not wanting to face the world, face reality. The pain was insane. All she wanted was some morphine and sweet unconsciousness. But something in her kept her clinging to her friend's perspiring, bleeding, trembling body. As if he were her only lifeline. She would die if she let go.
"Where is the ev-uh-dence bein' kept, Mistuh LaSalle?"
Fuck you, asshole! Merri thought fiercely. She said, "Don't tell him, Chris."
"I hafta, Mere." There was something in her partner's tone. Something that would be unrecognizable to anyone who didn't know the man extremely well... It woke the part of her brain that had fled into hiding under the onslaught of fear and physical agony. "It's the only way he's gonna stop hurtin' ya."
"Yeah, because he'll just kill us instead," she said, still mulling over how easily her friend had seemed to give in. Not that she would ever think him capable of being indifferent to her being tortured. But this wasn't like him, especially when he got all stubborn and defiant. Maybe the agony of being whipped had gone to his head, too.
"Now, now. No need tuh ah-gue," Beauchamps said, crocodile grin spread across his not-unattractive face. It disgusted her. And she had half a mind to bury her face against her friend's pungent skin once more in a desperate attempt to shut out the world. Except... LaSalle was up to something.
"You ah both cuh-rect. Neither of you will be huht any fuh-thuh if you disclose the in-fuh-mation I desi-uh. You will have the day or so required tuh confuhm the infuhmation is cuh-rect, which will be spent as my honuhed guests."
Merri wanted to lash out at him, punch the smug grin off the asshole's face. Except, she was terrified of what would happen if she let go of LaSalle. Both for herself and for her friend. She'd probably collapse completely to the ground. And then the Brutes would set in on them both, per whatever twisted amusement of their psychopathic boss.
"Un-fuh-tunately, unless the pair of you can see yuh way tuh joinin' my cuh-lection, you will have tuh be disposed of."
"Exactly why we shouldn't help you," Merri said, glaring at Beauchamps and instinctively squeezing her partner tighter, loosening her hold when he flinched.
"I believe yuh partnuh sees the ben-uh-fit in such a deal, Miss Meredith."
She couldn't see Chris' face, but she could picture it perfectly; the reluctant acceptance, the way his tongue would appear to wet his lips, his brow furrowing before he nodded in acquiescence.
"So... what'll it be Mistuh LaSalle?"
Suddenly, those large meat-hooks she'd been dreading earlier clamped onto her shoulders and hips, began to pull at her, and god help her (please, God!) she was so weak with pain and exhaustion and emotional distress that the two brutes peeled her off her partner as easily as she might peel a banana.
"No!" She screamed and struggled, fresh shocks of pain blossoming all over her back as she thrashed and the raw, bleeding wounds rubbed against one of her captor's chests. One of the bear-sized mitts caught her throat and forced her to still.
She watched, breathing heavily as words were exchanged, too quietly for her to hear above the pounding sound of her heart beating, which at the moment seemed more akin to a roaring ocean in her ears. And then Brute #1 was fetching a notepad and pen to hand to his master, who started making notes as the federal agent spilled everything he wanted to hear.
And she cursed Chris LaSalle, even as her heart ached at the sight of him more hanging than standing there, arms still trussed up above his head, red gashes on his arms and the nape of his neck, his back a sheet of crimson that glittered in the sunlight, the rest of his skin gone deathly pale. She wanted to cry for his pain. And murder him herself.
Because didn't he realize he'd just murdered them both?
A/N: Has LaSalle lost it? Could he just no longer stand Brody's suffering? Or does he have some sort of plan in mind? ;-)