FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM
Don strode into the war room, having deposited Wiseman into the capable hands of a missing persons agent for debriefing. He'd been out of the office for less than two hours, but felt like he'd been out visiting an alternate universe for a few weeks. Liz and Nikki were both speaking into phones while they typed on keyboards, and in Nikki's case, shuffled papers with a spare elbow.
David walked in moments behind him and gave his arm a friendly squeeze in passing. His second in command was on a mission, and that was to update their displays. They went from all Calvin Graham, all the time, to a comprehensive array of linked screens.
One remained fixed on Graham. Adim Davis, Lisa Trask, and an unfamiliar woman each got their own screen, and another rotated evidence photos. It all too prominently featured the barbiturate-filled syringe that Don expected to be seeing in his nightmares, but Don was more curious about the new addition.
"Gila Davis," said Nikki from across the room. She was still on the phone, but the irritated tap of her fingers indicated she was on hold. "Adim Davis's wife."
David met Don's questioning gaze. "Missing since, get this, the day before Graham's trial. Adim was lying about her being out of town, and it turns out nobody really knows where she is."
Don gave a low whistle. "She fit Graham's victim profile?"
"Nope."
Don frowned, watching the screens. It was more than just a macabre display; it was a tool to invoke thoughts, jog memories, and just maybe, with enough repetition, make vital connections. Gila Davis. Pretty, sweet expression, intelligent-looking. No criminal record, no police calls, no lawsuits, no prior marriages...no, she didn't fit the victim profile. "She's a hostage," Don said. "Agree?"
David came up to stand beside Don, joining him at the screen. "Coerced testimony? That Davis was going to give willingly in the first place? Followed by kidnapping Davis, holding him hostage, letting him go, and making him kidnap someone else?" There was considerable doubt in the agent's voice, and Don couldn't help but lend credence to it.
"Don't know. But why does a guy like Davis suddenly kidnap a serial killer's next victim for him?"
"She's in on it?" suggested Colby from the back of the room. "The good doctor's wife falls for the poor, misunderstood murderer and the two of them scheme happily ever after?"
That damned syringe again, and the uneasy twisting of his own stomach. It's just to knock you out for a while, don't panic. You'll be more comfortable unconscious... It had been Rogerson who was the sadist. Blondie had just been the unprincipled puppy dog in love with the guy and willing to do anything for him.
"Rog- Graham kills his victims with injections, right?" asked Don. "Drugs them, then shoots them when they're out?"
Liz unleashed a flurry of typing behind him. Nobody paid attention to Don's slip of the tongue. "Different cocktail," she said after a minute. "The kidnap syringe contained IV anesthetic, Graham dopes them out pre-kill with feel-good stuff delivered intra muscularly. Anxiety meds, muscle relaxers, painkillers, that kind of thing. There's a different skill set involved, almost anyone can give an IM shot, but IV takes some training."
"So nothing to indicate Davis has been doing the kill shots," concluded Don. Another point occurred to him. "Graham's been doing this a long time, Davis hasn't been back from the field all that long. If they were working together, it'd have to be a pretty recent development."
"Maybe they were working together," suggested Colby. "Had a falling out, Graham shocks the hell out of him to scare him back into the fold, and now he's back to kidnapping as usual."
"The wife could have fled," said Nikki. "She finds out something that terrifies her about her perfect husband, so she decides the safest thing to do is vanish. She probably still has contacts outside the country."
Don nodded. "Check travel records. If she flew anywhere, I want to know. Let's run down her credit cards and do a local hotel sweep."
"On it," said Nikki.
"She could be a hostage, she could be an accomplice, or she could be fleeing from her husband. Let's dig deep, but do it quietly and fast. Two of those scenarios put her in significant danger, and we don't want to be the ones to get her killed." He eyed the syringe again. "Put out an APB, if she's found I want her in custody and brought here immediately. No press, no phone calls to anyone who could be Graham, she comes straight to this office."
Don's words acknowledged the very reasonable theory that she could be an accomplice. So did his sense of logic, and his knowledge of criminal behavior. At the same time, his eyes were focused on the pictures of her, and the summary of her work with MSF. No, his gut whispered. This was a doctor he was looking at, a real one. He'd seen that expression before.
GERALD CHAMPION REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER, ALAMOGORDO, NEW MEXICO
Don carefully moved his head by millimeters until he had a full view of Billy Cooper sitting in a chair beside his hospital bed, wondering how it was that he found it harder to move rescued and medicated than -
Thinking about the basement proved a mistake, and he made himself focus on Coop. His partner looked pretty rough. Unshaven, sunburned (and perhaps a bit flame-burned, come to think of it), with his eyes glazed over in what could be exhaustion or pain. It didn't take long to see why he hadn't shaved; the just-healing cuts in the skin of his upper neck probably didn't invite sharp blades to venture anywhere close.
What Don expected to feel was forgiveness, but what rose up instead was anger.
Yeah, I'm lying here paying the price for everyone's fuck ups. You, Coop, rushing in to save the day against every bit of tactical logic. You, Petey, for getting pissed off and murdering your only lead instead of taking the time to run a smart interrogation. And who the hell has an excuse to not being right on my tail with a helicopter? You never even thought they might have dumped the boat in a decoy location?
You didn't come for me.
That was the wrenching hurt that could only be felt as anger, lest it finish ripping him apart forever.
I trusted you guys. I counted on you. You didn't come.
Don closed his eyes. And what about those kids on the dock? What if Coop did the right thing and stood by waiting for me while another person was murdered in front of their eyes? Trust was still sacred at that age, trust that the good guys would save the day. Coop gave them that. Better me lying here going through this hurt than to have ten innocent kids learning what this murder of hope feels like. This is what I'm here for, to protect that, right?
"You - got shot. Couple times."
Billy nodded with a 'so what' expression on his face, challenging Don to make something of it. Following Don's concerned gaze down to his leg, he finally rolled his eyes and jerked up the fabric of his pants to reveal a heavy bandage wrapped around his calf. It was soaked with blood new and old, and unexpectedly made Don want to gag. Hoping the ordeal hadn't made him permanently squeamish, he asked, "They - let you in the field like that?"
His partner snorted, a good-hearted sound. "What do you think, genius? The ER doc stitched everything back together, and I wasn't dumb enough to ask him what I could and couldn't do."
"Where's the other?" Billy had clearly hoped he wouldn't ask. Reluctantly, he tugged up one side of his shirt to reveal a burnt, bloody line on the side of his ribcage where Rogerson had fired his gun point-blank along the agent's side. There were stitches in the middle of the mess, but they'd clearly been having a hard time holding the wound together through whatever the hell the agent had been doing, and there was more congealed blood sticking to his shirt.
Don felt nauseous, and the last thing his tender throat and aching muscles wanted to contend with was throwing up any more. He looked away and tried frantically to remove the bloody images from his head. It didn't work, and he rolled to his side, retching so hard it brought water to his eyes. He was cold, shivering, and hot beyond imagining, and he noticed nothing of Billy Cooper's frantic departure and the entry of the doctor and her nurse. When he finally stopped throwing up, the doctor was there kneeling by the bed with soothing words that he didn't comprehend. There were orders and drugs added to the IV line, and slowly the world became just bearable enough for him to focus his eyes on the doctor and listen.
"Are you feeling any better?" she asked gently.
He blinked his eyes in a yes, afraid to move. Afraid of what his world and his reactions seemed to be now. Afraid that he was no longer an FBI agent. Afraid, suddenly, of being alive.
"Are you scared?" He couldn't bring himself to answer even with a blink, so he simply met her eyes steadily and knew what she would see. The doctor reached out and just barely touched his hand with the back of hers, and he was amazed at the comfort that barely perceptible gesture brought. She took a seat next to the bed, tugging the thin white hospital blanket back up over his shoulders. It was little enough shelter, but it helped. "Do you still want to live?"
He stopped breathing. Not like this. No. Not afraid, not so sick when I see my partner that I dread seeing him again.
"You must have wanted very badly to survive. The agents and paramedics told me how you rescued yourself. There are quite a few people who would have simply used a chain around their neck to kill themselves in your situation. It would have been very easy."
Yes, I wanted to live.
The doctor leaned forward, her forthright words holding Don's attention and respect. "It's not uncommon for people to survive traumatic events only to commit suicide later. When you get yourself through something by fantasizing about the moment when it will all be over, and that moment comes - it can be psychologically crushing to find that there's still pain and fear."
Yes. That. "It doesn't feel over." He practically blurted the words out, and didn't care that it hurt.
"It isn't," she said bluntly. "But it's going to get better every day. I have to tell many people that they won't fully recover from their injuries, but you are not one of them. Physically, you are going to be fully healed in a month. Think you can handle the psychological end of things for me if I give you my word you're going to be running around breaking down doors again soon? You can even jump out of helicopters and pull distressed damsels out of burning buildings if you really want to."
Don felt himself smile unbidden. "I'm FBI, not Superman."
The doctor smiled back. "Okay. But the promise of a full recovery and perhaps just a tiny, sexy little scar on your arm still stands. Okay?"
This time he managed a nod, and felt inordinately proud of himself because of it. Next up, helicopters.
She was still eying him, and he closed his eyes, the temporary euphoria fading. "What about the PTSD? That's the real cause of - throwing up when -" there was acid in his throat, and he stopped, gripping the blanket as hard as he could."
"You're completely correct," said the gentle voice, and the lack of platitudes coaxed his eyes open again. There was so much in the expression of the doctor; understanding, compassion, caring. After so much sustained cruelty, it hit him so strongly as to bring tears to the back of his eyes. "Your brain is going to be doing things to you that you won't be able to control, and you will experience fear and emotions that are just as horrible as what you went through in that basement, and even purely physical reactions."
"I know," Don whispered. I don't know if I can take that. I especially don't know how I can take that and still be an FBI agent.
She had no trouble hearing what he didn't say. "Your ability to recognize that PTSD for what it is, and endure it and treat it, will make the difference between this incident ending your life as you know it or simply being a bad experience in your past. If you face that with the same courage and intelligence you showed during the last few days, you will make it out of this intact."
FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM
"You don't think he's a bad guy, do you?" asked David, snapping Don out of his trance and coming to stand beside him at the screen.
Don shook his head. "But what I think's not always right. What else we got?"
"ERT finished searching Graham's house, and didn't find anything that might indicate where he's holding Trask. They did find dead tazer batteries, police supply catalogs, and a bunch of low-rent conspiracy stuff. You know, the prison system is deliberately rigged to produce criminality, AIDS was invented by the government, growing up in an abusive home makes you a serial killer..."
"All things that reinforce his view that he's a victim," mused Don. "You know, most rape survivors, especially men, are desperate to avoid being viewed as victims. Most don't even want to talk about it, let alone bring attention to their time of greatest helplessness."
"What if it never happened?" asked Nikki from behind them. "I know doubting a rape victim is the last thing in the world we should do, but this guy profiles as a manipulative narcissist with a martyr complex. Maybe being from an abusive home didn't get him the attention he craved, so he came up with something even more horrible."
David and Don both nodded. "Plausible," said Don. "Don't think knowing one way or another'll help us find him though." He turned to face his team. "David, Colby, check out Graham's house for any hints to where he might hide out. The forensic guys might not have picked up on the human side of things. Liz, Nikki, you do the same for Davis. He's the more inexperienced criminal, so we've got a much better chance of finding him than Graham. I'm going to interview Davis's friends and co-workers."
CHARLIE'S OFFICE, CAL-SCI
Charlie picked up a small digital recorder and spun it in his hand. When computers and pen and ink failed him, sometimes this magical little device saved him from humiliation the likes of which he would be facing if he addressed the crowd with nothing prepared. Manmade disaster rescue. Wasn't that a statement of the human condition? He pressed record.
"There is no poetry in cruelty. But when it brings out compassion and caring in others, sometimes we see the very best qualities of humanity drown out the worst in a thundering roar. That's what drives some of us to work among the wreckage." Charlie pressed stop and turned his head away. It was heartfelt and a hollow platitude. It was as deep a truth as he could voice, and a self-serving smirk.
Was it true?
"We all struggle for redemption from our own wreckage, and at times it is only through the eyes of a father, or a brother, or even a stranger that we see this cracks in our foundation as a thing of beauty. They speak to endurance, love, and the qualities that remain standing through the passage of time, only growing more significant with the shifting of perspective. When we seek to save others, we expose ourselves to pain beyond measure and yet through our actions, we save ourselves."
"We look on, awe-stricken by the wreckage. We look at the victims, and selfishly we hope that we are never in their shoes because we cannot imagine surviving their pain. Those in this room are here because we are moved by an emotional and ethical imperative to mitigate the damage caused by our own. While natural disasters are tragic, manmade disasters strike at our core."
Charlie's throat was growing uncomfortably tight, and he stopped the recording again. Unable to continue, he transferred the recording to his computer.
DON'S APARTMENT, THAT NIGHT
Don sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. "You haven't asked me anything about what happened in New Mexico." Robin looked at him in silence. "Did you - look it up?"
"Are you asking if I violated Federal law and your privacy by accessing sealed case files on my boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"You're a cynical, suspicious bastard sometimes, you know that?"
Don had to smile. "Comes with the territory."
Robin leaned towards him. "I've known you long enough to know - whatever scars Rogerson left you with, they've faded and become part of you now." Don nodded, almost timidly. "I also know you're very troubled right now, and - I'm not sure exactly why."
Don sighed. "Trouble is how people see you after, and how you see yourself reflected in that. Second-guessing every move for whether it's influenced by what happened, or what someone's thinking about you. Am I too close to the case, and if that's so, why am I going to sleep tonight when there's a woman out there being raped and beaten. Been living with this long enough to know the answer is to forget it all and just do my job like any other agent, but..."
"Can I ask you something?" Don nodded. Robin's expression hardened at what she might hear. "That mob witness - did you really sleep with her to get her to flip?"
Don closed his eyes. "No. God, of course not."
"What was it then?"
"She was scared to death. She was in danger, she was alone, and she needed someone. So did I. It - wasn't calculated, for either of us. It was one of those cases where - sex made a good excuse for intimacy and emotion between strangers."
Robin nodded. "Was she - in love with you?"
Don shook his head. "We reassured each other that there were people in the world who could be caring, and gentle. I guess that was a loving act, but - I think we left each other better off, but - no. I wasn't using her, or vice versa."
Robin let out a sigh of relief, and Don felt his heart constrict. "Sweetie - are you worried that I'm going to leave? This isn't a game for me, I promise."
"I try not to be. But you have a reputation, and - I know the odds between us would have to try really hard to get any worse."
His throat tightened along with his heart, and he tried desperately not to feel like he was on trial for his life. "People beat odds, all right? And - talk to any woman I've been with. Ask if I hurt her, or she wouldn't still come to me if she needed help. Please?"
There were tears in Robin's eyes, partly from relief and partly from empathy with the fear that was consuming Don. "Okay." She ran her fingers gently through his hair, exploring, caressing. Her eyes were incredibly sober, lacking in Charlie's raw pain but holding a similar aspect of confused exploration. Why was that? He reached out his own hand, placing it on Robin's heart and feeling it beat.
"Why is it that - when people find out, they have this - this need to figure me out all over again?"
"I can't speak for everyone," said Robin.
"You, then. Why are you - re-examining my soul?"
"I think because - who you are, what your life has been - it's turned you into this person I love. And - it's painful to think about you suffering, but - also - it's me looking at who you are now, and who you have been, and trying to figure out where Don Eppes and what's been done to Don Eppes intercept."
Unexpectedly, Don caught himself smiling. "Good luck. I've been trying to figure that out myself. Any leads?"
"No." She moved closer to him, snuggling into his arms. "I'm getting the feeling I might enjoy the investigation, though."
Don buried his face in her hair, seeking until he found an earlobe to target for a playful nibble. "Wanna interrogate me?" he whispered, falling automatically into teasing banter.
Robin twisted her head until their faces met, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, eye to eye. "No," she whispered, closing her eyes and kissing him so softly it made every past hurt and every tension melt. "I want to make love to you."
Don closed his eyes and smiled. "Okay."