Quick note, as it's been years since I've touched this. The other night I logged in to my email for the first time in two years (yahoo had locked the account!), and discovered several notes asking about the rest of this story. In all honesty, I haven't touched or read any fan fiction in 2 years. Moreover, this particular story was one I felt required a lot of editing, and, after the original site died and most of the chapters were lost, I didn't want to repost here until I'd had a chance to revise, but at the same time lacked the emotional mojo to do this, thus, unfortunately, leaving this story suspended. However, on a lark the other night, I went searching for my old USB storage devices, and, lo and behold, located the old chapters tucked away in a random folder. So I decided to repost, even though in a perfect world I would rework a lot. I can't promise I'll get to reposting everything (this was a LOOONG story!) Also, please bear in mind this story takes place during the 6th season (in 2005 - No iphones! No texting! No Eli! No Amaro! No Rollins!), and we're currently in the 17th, so to some extent this story makes very little sense unless you put yourself back in the mindset of where the characters were back then.

Over the years, he'd thought about something like this happening to her, and now he wondered if he'd jinxed her. He knew such a thing was ridiculous, but there was still that gnawing sense of what if.

But he'd figured that to the extent something so unlikely would happen, it would surely be someone she'd busted. And so he'd always watched out for that. He'd scoured the prison reports, keeping an eye out for any of the ones with whom she'd come into contact getting paroled, coming to New York. Surreptitiously, of course.

But it'd never crossed his mind it could happen elsewhere, outside the line of duty. Even though few of those other women had been victimized as a direct result of what they do. Because even though he dealt with this day in and day out, he was a strong believer in statistics. Even after his wife had died in that plane crash, the ultimate example of defying the odds to one's detriment. He'd remained rational. Rational. Rational about numbers. Numbers didn't lie. Numbers told him this sort of thing happened to other nameless people. Because at the end of the day, the majority of the population lived out lives untainted by disaster, by crime.

In order to survive in the law-enforcement business, he had to convince himself that the people in his life, the people he really cared about, would be fine. Because really, if one thought about it, what were the odds? His wife had been a fluke. A ridiculous, unbelievable fluke. One in a hundred million. That was the figure he'd once calculated. He was more than twice as likely to win the New York lotto. So surely it wouldn't happen twice in one lifetime. Surely the theory of independent probability was wrong, that these weren't mutually exclusive events. Surely the fact that his wife had died in an accident of astronomical unlikelihood meant that he'd acquired some kind of immunity.

But perhaps he'd let the pendulum of rationality swing too far the other way. Perhaps he'd become too complacent.

Or, perhaps the fates didn't consider her a part of his inner circle. Because. In point of fact, she was not his wife, not his daughter. Not really a part of his personal life at all.

But does that mean you can't love her too?

Of course, in spite of all this rationality, another part of him had worried. It had to. Because he did love her. And so even though for the sake of self-protection he'd never allowed that worry to consume him, it was always there, just beneath the surface. He'd worried about her getting shot, getting harmed in the line of duty. Sure, he'd worried about him too, her partner, but it was a different kind of worry. A worry borne of responsibility, of duty. A boss's worry. But with her, it was different. Something about her, about her past, about who she was, made her more vulnerable. More susceptible to a cruel twist of fate that may just as easily come any of their ways. And so that other part of him had worried, irrationally of course, that if ever someone he knew was to be raped, it would be her.

He'd been in the car nearly two hours, driving at warped speed. He'd made a handful of phone calls, listened absentmindedly to the weather report. He'd actually been stopped by a state trooper, of all things, and had had to flash his badge, expending three-and-a-half minutes explaining himself. Tell him he was on official business. A semi-fib.

So he'd had two hours to imagine. Picture what could have happened, what the details might be. Elliot had said it was bad, that there had been three of them. Well, that set a reference point. It ruled out a mild attack, by his unit's standards, that is. Not an attempted rape, not a rape with minimal force. Not that that wouldn't have been awful for her, traumatic, but… Three guys meant that no matter how much Elliot might have exaggerated in his use of the term "bad," it was still, by any measure… bad.

There it was, Saint Anne's. The GPS lady had nailed it. He drove straight to the entrance to the ER. Dumped the car in the wheelchair zone. Let them tow it.

He entered the emergency area and immediately spotted the two of them sitting there. Heads hung. Elliot with his hands clasped together, like he was praying. Dickie with a book in hand, not reading. Neither talking. Both staring at the floor.

His heart raced.

He looks like hell.

"Elliot!"

"Cap!"

Elliot stood up, floated towards him.

Before they even had a chance to embrace, the words were out of his mouth. "How is she?"

"I… I don't really know, they've had her in the trauma room since I spoke to you."

Cragen nodded, glanced at Dickie. "Why don't we go get a cup of coffee, you can tell me what happened."

"Okay."

Elliot instructed his son to stay put. Dickie complied; the kid looked drained.

They shuffled towards the coffee shop. Elliot hung his head low. Said nothing.

They found a table, sat down. Completely forgot to get coffee.

"Why don't you tell me what happened."

"I… I don't really know much… "

He was taken by Elliot's voice. It had never sounded this shaky.

"…Dickie… I don't know how he knew, how he knew where to go… but, he… somehow, he found her."

"Do we know if he saw anything?"

Elliot nodded, and Cragen lamented that nod. My mind jumps straight to witnesses, evidence. And so does his.

"I asked him," Elliot said. "He found her well after it happened. What I can't understand is how they managed to drag her so far away without my hearing anything. Jesus, Cap, I didn't even feel her get out of the sleeping ba-."

He watched his subordinate stop, catch himself, sheepishly look down at his lap.

You think I don't know you're sleeping together? You think when you two came into my office two weeks ago to tell me you were "dating" that I thought you meant having dinner and holding hands? You think I thought you annoyed the hell out of her all week to come on this trip so you'd have a hiking buddy? You think I haven't been able to tell you've been madly in love with her since the moment you met her?

"Elliot, it's okay. I know you two are –"

It was his turn to get flustered.

Should you be using the present tense after what's happened?

He cleared his throat. "Look, it's exactly why you aren't officially partners anymore."

"Okay," Elliot said.

"But look, that's not… relevant right now. Please, go on. So you were… sleeping, and the next thing you know, Dickie's waking you up?"

"Right. It was like, sometime after five o'clock. God, I was sleeping so soundly. And I'd even had a dream, where I'd thought I'd heard a scream. I thought it was in the dream… And now when I think back, I think… it probably was…"

"Elliot, this isn't your fault."

"I know, I know that."

No you don't. You've already decided that because you invited her on the trip, you're completely responsible for everything that happened.

Elliot continued. "Well, he led me to the spot. She was off the path, behind a tree, lying –" His voice trailed off as his chin began to quiver, but he managed to hold it in. "…Lying… on her side… curled up… on her arm. And I didn't know, but the humerus bone was fractured, practically right through. And her back… Oh God, her back… "

"What about her back?" he asked quietly.

"It was… beaten to a pulp. She'd been whipped, Cap, with a belt buckle. Flogged! Don, it was… horrific. There was no skin left. And her wrists were tied behind her back with razor-sharp wires… her hands were purple, the wires were that tight…."

He's losing control.

"… And… and I got frustrated trying to untie her, and the arm moved… I… I didn't mean to, I mean, I didn't know about the arm, but… the knots were hopeless! Still, though… I let myself get frustrated. Cap, in this situation! I lost my patience and I was careless and I let the arm move and I hurt her! And… and she cried out, and she was gasping and panting, she was in so much pain…"

It's like he's in confession.

The tears now flowed in a torrent.

Cragen placed a hand on his detective's shoulder. "Hey, hey… stop, it's okay…"

But Elliot swiped the hand away, and brusquely swept his eyes with the back of his wrist. "It's okay… I'm sorry. Look, I'm fine."

"It's okay," Cragen said gently. "You don't have to go through it. We can talk about it later."

Elliot shook his head. "No… No. You need to know. You… you should know… th-th-the details. Be-because, because you won't understand it unless… and … and she might need, she might need someone else… And I need… I need someone else, who… who knows… understands…"

Quietly, "Okay."

He's had nobody to talk to about this for all these hours. He's used to being able to share stress with her.

Elliot was talking again. "…And anyway… she was so scared I'd leave her… And all I could think was that my son had seen her like this! My son had found her, and… and… had had to figure out what to do, and he'd left her there! And I couldn't figure out what I was more upset about: the fact that he'd left her alone – that she probably knew someone had found her, but may not have understood why she'd been left – or that he'd seen this! And…"

Change the subject! Get him back on track!

"Elliot! Wait. You said she was tied up – with wires? Wirezuh? Plural?"

That's it, keep him focused on details.

Elliot grimaced. "Yeah. You've never seen anything so vicious. The wrists were each bound individually first, and then together."

That's odd. For a group attack.

"And I think I know why. But I'll get to that. Anyway, she was… she was just lying there with her eyes closed, moaning and trembling. I wasn't even sure she knew who I was. She was in so much pain, and she was freezing cold... Cap, she was so cold. I couldn't believe it."

"Was she… wearing anything?"

He considered his own question.

Would it occur to normal people to immediately ask if she was naked and to prepare to be surprised if she wasn't? Do we, in this unit, have a contorted view of reality?

"Yeah. That was the weird part. She was. She was wearing the sweatpants she'd worn to bed. And a bra."

Cragen's heart jumped on the answer, as he momentarily discarded all the other information. Information such as his best detective's obvious conviction, for whatever reason, that she had been raped. Information such as the statistics. The statistics on the likelihood that, in the absence of explanatory extenuating circumstances, as well as foreknowledge there'd been three male attackers, that a savagely beaten woman found albeit clad, but still not fully dressed, would not have been sexually assaulted as well. Still, he suspended reality, clung to this one thread of hope, even if he knew it was probably about to be shred to bits.

"So maybe she wasn't –"

Elliot flashed an almost-smile. "Yeah, I was like you; I clung to the hope. I mean I knew it was unlikely that she hadn't been… She wasn't wearing a top, and she was just so badly beaten, I figured she must have been…"

"And?"

Maybe she wasn't. Maybe he's as jaded as you are, and has just been assuming, all this time. Maybe the rape kit'll come back negative.

"…But later, I noticed the blood between her legs."

His world shattered.

He was glad he was in a hospital. Because for the first time in two decades, he knew that if given the opportunity, he might just give in and have a drink.

Elliot was still talking, and he had to force himself to pay attention. Because there were more details, more things the broken man needed to tell, so that he, his boss, could have the full story. Be fully up to speed, in order to eventually take over. As leader. As the strong one. Because that was his job. Because Elliot was tired.

"… and I knew I had to check her, I knew otherwise she could bleed to death… but… she was fighting me. Cap, she was so out of it, she didn't know who I was. She was just so upset, she… but… I didn't want to. God, I felt so… awful, so… evil doing this to her… "

"You don't have to defend yourself. You're not the one who hurt her."

"I know. I know. But…" There was a pause. Like he was thinking about something. And then he went on, as though his next sentence were the logical continuation, "Well, anyway, then we had to patch up her back, and – "

There's something he's not telling you.

"Elliot, wait a sec – did you figure out what was up with the blood?"

"I, umm… "

Why are you torturing him like this?

He considered letting him move on. But sensed his detective wanted to tell him. That there was something he wanted to get off his chest.

Push him, push him.

"It's all right," he prodded. "You had to check her. It was to save her life. She knows that. She'll understand."

"Well, but that was the problem. She was conscious, but she wasn't really… lucid. So she kept thrashing around when I tried to pull the pants… down… And because her arm was broken, she'd end up in excruciating pain as a result of the struggling. So finally I… so I had to…" He shook his head, kept blinking back the tears. He looked up, a sudden aggression in his eyes. "Look! I didn't have any choice! The blood was just flowing out of her and I –" He was bowing his head again, covering his face with his hands. "Oh God, oh God. I can't even say it out loud."

Can this story possibly get any worse?

"Elliot, what did you do?"

"I… I had Dickie hold her down."

His stomach dropped to the floor. Oh Jesus.

And now his detective was bowing his upper body, shaking his head, his arms crossed, clutching his sides like he was trying to keep warm. Or praying.

Say something! C'mon, you've got to think of something to say to make this okay!

"Elliot, when someone's life is at stake, all bets are off. You do whatever you have to do. You know that. She knows that."

For his sake, hope she doesn't remember it. Because if she does, she'll never admit that it traumatized her, because she'll worry what it would do to him, to his guilt. And keeping it inside will delay her recovery.

"I know… But my son… I made my son into a …" he shook his head.

Dickie'll get over it. But he won't.

"No," he said firmly. "No you didn't. She won't think so either, I promise you. And your son will get over this too. You'll help him understand. He'll have all the support he needs. It was the right thing to do. You had to focus on her. But tell me – how was he able to do it? I mean, he's definitely growing, but he's no Hulk Hogan. And she's pretty strong and she must've fought –"

Elliot blinked. "She did. Of course she did." His voice was almost defensive. "She fought him like she was being raped all over again."

"Then how –"

Elliot's incredulity shone in his eyes. "I don't think you understand. You haven't seen her yet. You weren't there. She was so badly beaten, she could barely move. She was so weak, in so much pain. My skinny twelve-year-old hardly had to flex his biceps and he had her completely immobilized."

Cragen shook his head, devastated by the image. Of his poor detective so weak, so broken. What had it taken to get her that way, to bring her down so far? In his heart he'd always believed, perhaps misguidedly, that if push came to shove, her mental strength would compensate for any deficiencies in her upper body strength compared to a man's. What had happened to her was truly beyond anything he'd ever had to process. "I'm so sorry," he whispered helplessly.

He didn't want to hear anymore. He began to tune out the voice. The voice that was continuing this heartbreaking story. The story that was, in one fell swoop, unraveling any hope he had for the future of his unit. Ironically, he had faith in her, that provided she survived physically, she could and would get to a point where she would recover. Not necessarily go back to how she was, mind you, but overcome victimhood. Emerge a winner. He was confident that she was this strong. Because she'd always had a uniquely healthy, balanced perspective. In spite of everything inside her that told her not to.

But Elliot was a different story. Elliot would never be the same. Elliot's faith would be shattered. His faith in himself.

Elliot was talking again, and he started, as his ears picked up another detail. An important one. A horrifying one.

His own chin now began to quiver. He was almost speechless.

"They… they left it…. inside her?"

"Yeah… "

There was a terrible, sickening irony: In any other case, this would make our day. Easy evidence!

"Did you keep it? Do you have it? We can analyze it for –"

Elliot looked him square in the eye. "She started to choke. She was gasping for air. I had to make a decision."

It must've been really bad if he voluntarily left evidence behind.

"I'm not accusing you."

No, he was definitely not accusing. Because it was occurring to him now, that he hadn't truly known what it meant to care about a victim. Sure, most of the time his interests were aligned with theirs, and he thought that meant he was on their side. But to the extent he'd ever been excited that evidence was more solid at the expense of incremental hurt to the victim, meant he hadn't cared at all. Because while justice was ultimately important to most victims, he wasn't convinced that the additional pain was always worth it.

Really, the words had just slipped out of his mouth, out of the policeman's mouth. But they'd been empty. Empty, because in his heart he didn't give a damn about the evidence. The only important thing was that Elliot had made this particular decision. Had chosen to save her life. And if that meant they would never find these animals as a direct result of having lost this specific piece of evidence, so be it. If that meant these bastards raped a hundred other women as a result, so be it. As long as she was alive. The cruel logic of it disturbed him: that was caring.

The rest of the story seemed mundane compared to what he'd just heard. That she'd passed out in his arms, that he'd thought she might have died. That his son had confessed she'd been gagged too, and that he'd removed it for her. That she'd muttered the number three before she'd lost consciousness. That he'd had to carry her out of the forest, depending on his son to check for signs of life.

Cragen had been at the hospital over an hour. Elliot had finally finished the story, choking back tears as he'd related how he'd sat with her by the side of the road, where he'd come within a heartbeat of losing her.

Elliot was clearly not used to having so much story to relate. He was all over the place with the details. He was used to telling his boss things in an orderly, coherent way, piecemeal. He was used to being detached. Logical, thorough. And he was also used to having someone else next to him to help tell the story. Making sure he stayed focused. Her.

He'd shaken his head at all of this, but still couldn't fully get his head around the part where she'd wanted to die. Where she'd practically pleaded with him, asked his permission even, to do it. How there'd been a split second when Elliot had thought she was gone.

The Olivia he knew would never have given up. Would've fought it just for the sake of not letting them win.

If she thought she couldn't hang on any longer, the pain must have been spectacular.

He couldn't believe that he might just as easily have received a phone call this morning much like the one all those years ago. The kind he would've been inclined to ignore because he was futzing with the thermostat at the pool, or adjusting the heat in his office, but would eventually answer as an afterthought on the last ring. The kind where he'd later wonder in a tree-falling-in-the-forest sort of way whether the whole thing wouldn't have happened if he'd just decided to not answer the damn phone.

They'd returned to the waiting area, to be with Dickie, who was looking increasingly despondent. They sat away from him, to give him his space.

Out of nowhere, Elliot looked at him pensively. "This won't be over tomorrow, will it?"

He knew exactly what his detective meant.

It's not like one of our cases. You can have the day from hell, but at the end of it all go home and flip on the TV and have a pizza and brush it all aside in your mind because it's not your life that just fell apart.

"No, it won't."

"God Cap, I really wish we could be the ones to handle this case. It should be us. This is what we do. We know how -"

"It will be, Elliot. Don't worry."

"But Captain, just because I was with her, doesn't mean I have that kind of clout. I –"

He had to chuckle at his detective's self-centeredness.

"You don't." He paused, smiled. "But she does." Elliot looked at him, confused. "Look, I know you're completely in love with her, but you tend to forget: she's not just your girlfriend, Elliot. She's got the same job you have. She's one of us. One of the best, I might add. The city – our city – is going to want to see her case solved. Can you imagine the headlines if this case weren't handled by the very best? If we let a bunch of hicks who've probably never even dealt with shoplifting, run the show? I already checked – Falls City hasn't had a reported rape since 1962. And they never even solved it. The Times would have a field day."

"Yeah, but how'll you convince – "

"Already done. Spoke to the mayor of Falls City myself, while I was driving up. He's as anxious to catch these guys as we are – they depend on tourism around here. And unlike us, they don't play turf games here; they'll take all the help they can get. And One PP has already agreed to it from their end. We'll even get a few uniforms in addition to the ones here."

"But what about our other cases?"

"Well, as it turns out, you and Olivia have had pretty empty plates lately anyway. We'll get a continuance on your Jamison trial. As for the rest, Brooklyn SVU will help out, and Homicide will take anything with a dead victim. If something comes up that must be handled by us, we'll reassess. Now." He hesitated, took a deep breath. Looked his detective square in the eye. "As for which of us will actually work the case – here's what I've decided."

"Cap, I want to be a part – "

"Elliot, wait. I knew you'd say that. But I also know you can't be completely objec-"

"But, Cap –"

"Let me finish! Look. You can't be the primary detective on this one, I'm sorry. That's final. Besides, she's going to need a lot of help, and I know you want to be there for her."

He watched him consider this, nod, concede his boss was right.

"But I also know that you'll go nuts if you can't participate, if you can't put your two cents in at every juncture. And, frankly, you're our best detective in the field besides Olivia. We need your input. So what I've decided is this: unofficially, you're on the case. You help out, do what you can, offer insight as you see fit. Officially, it's Munch and Fin. You let them take the lead, you hear me? You be with her. You help her. That's your job for now. Got it?"

Sullenly, "Yeah."

"Elliot, be honest. Would you really rather work the case than be with her?"

"No."

"Then stop feeling guilty. She doesn't expect you to solve it. She'll be happy whoever catches these guys. I know you want to catch them yourself, I know you think she expects you to, but that'syour guilt talking, not her. Any of us can work this case, but she needs you. And, to be perfectly honest, I'd prefer it if it wasn't you who makes the collars."

He looked up sharply. "You don't trust me?"

He cocked his head. "You nearly got tossed out of the squad a few years ago for admitting to fantasizing about killing perps. You think I think you've stopped doing that? You think I'm stupid? This is Olivia we're talking about. I've seen you nearly slug guys who look at her funny. But these guys… These guys did things to her, degraded her in unspeakable ways. Gang-raped her. Beat her nearly to death. You had to carry her unconscious for miles. She nearly died in your arms. What happened to her makes some of our other cases look like groping incidents. Are you telling me I shouldn't be concerned about what would happen if you got your hands on these bastards? Hell, I'm worried you'll need restraints just being in the same courtroom as them. So no, to answer your question, I don't trust you."

Elliot bowed his head in concession. He knew every word was true.

A few minutes passed in silence, and then Elliot spoke, still looking at the floor. "Getting a statement from her is going to be a nightmare."

"You'd be surprised."

Elliot started at the statement, eyed him suspiciously, almost angrily.

Cragen explained. "Don't misinterpret what I said as a lack of sensitivity. I know it'll be hell for her. She won't want to do it. And she may feel embarrassed that as an SVU detective, she doesn't want to do it. But she will. She's strong."

"I know, I know she is. But still, this was… some of the stuff that was done to her… I don't think I could ever tell."

"Yeah, but she's stronger than you."

Elliot chuckled. "You're probably right about that."

"You know, she's going to beat this. She will."

"I know, I know. She's the strongest person I know."

"Y'know you say that, and I agree with you, but I'm not sure you really understand what it means. I believe you think she's tough. Which she is, no question. She's tough, and so you're expecting her to pretend to be ok, to be stoic. Which she will, and you'll have to encourage her to be more open, to talk. And I know you know that. But what I'm not sure you appreciate is how strong your partner truly is."

"Cap, I do. I just hope she doesn't think I think she's weak, because she cries or something."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Look, I don't know if you realize what it's like for her to be on some of the cases you two work on. When she tells you a certain case isn't bothering her, she's not lying. And getting to a point where she wasn't lying was not simply a matter of her telling herself to suck it up. She didn't just wake up one day and decide to be a well-adjusted adult. She worked for that. And she continues to work for it. To rise above everything inside her telling her to fall apart. To lose hope. To internalize all those victims' pain. To feel sorry for herself because she's been a victim all her life. Because her own mother was capricious when it came to loving her. Do you know what that's like? To think that the only soul on the planet who gives a damn about you may also secretly hate you? I don't. I can't empathize. And I doubt you can either. And so she has to repeat this exercise every single time. And every single time, she handles it. There's a strength of spirit in her that's beyond anything I've seen in anyone else. Including you."

"She talks to you."

He gave a slight shrug. "Sometimes. Look, I'm not trying to downplay what she's been through, because it's devastating, and the recovery process will be slow and painful. I don't doubt it. And she's going to need you, badly. And I want you to be there for her. But she will recover. She'll recover and be who she was, who she is. I hope you know that, and that you believe in her and give her that credit."

"I do, I will…"

"Elliot, look. I know you love her deeply, and nobody could be more thrilled about that than me. But. I worry about you, about how enmeshed you two are. Because you've been through this too. You're a victim too, because of that love, because watching her suffer like that was probably the worst pain you've ever experienced. So there's going to be a recovery process for you too. But yours will be different from hers. You will channel your feelings into wanting revenge. You will equate recovery with wanting blood. It'll be how you deal with it. I know you. And I worry that you'll impose those values on her. That if she's not as hell-bent on justice as you are, that if she's not as angry, that you'll interpret that as a lack of recovery. But she's not built that way. It's ironic, frankly, given where she came from and what she does for a living. But she's not violent. Never has been. So if she doesn't share your zeal for revenge, don't misinterpret that as her giving up, as her not being a fighter. Because if you do, you'll communicate that to her, even if it's unintentional, and she'll be devastated. Because she'll be in an emotionally fragile state for a long, long time, and the one thing she'll be depending on throughout is that you understand her."

He was watching his detective's expression throughout his diatribe. Elliot was nodding, didn't look set to argue with him. And so he decided to take it slightly further. "The other thing you need to realize is that recovery for her might mean the gradual ebbing of her need for your protection, for your perpetual role as rescuer. But you shouldn't confuse that with her need for your love, and you shouldn't make that an impediment to your recovery. Right now, she's the identified victim, and you're the identified rescuer. But at some point, these roles will dissolve. And you have to let them. You have to let her get back to who she was. Which is proud, independent, outspoken, and giving. But also a tad bit vulnerable. You have to make sure she understands that she's not risking your love if she appears to not needyou. Because recovery won't be a black-and-white, linear process for her. There'll be fits and starts. Setbacks. She may need to go through a period where she tries to be independent again, even pushes you away a bit as a symbol of her progress. But she can't, she won't, if she's worried about your reaction. Because if she worries about that, if she worries that she can't experiment with different ways of taking control, if you send out signals that you equate loving her with being able to take care of her, she'll choose your love, and she'll never get back to who she was."

"Cap, you're right. But all of this assumes she'll get to that point where she's even able to experiment. I'm just worried that she… that she won't –"

"You know, we're used to seeing all these women one-dimensionally – all with the same personality – the personality of a victim. We're incredibly biased, because we never get to see who they really were before the attack, as well as how they turn out to be a year later, two years later, whatever. And while I'm sure many of them are never the same, and while I believe none of them get over it in the truest sense of the term, they're each individuals. Each one has her own unique way of recovering and coping and handling things. There are as many permutations and combinations of how people will react to the myriad of possible human experiences as there are human beings. Which means you shouldn't be so quick to swallow the party line – that this is something that devastates everyone irreversibly. I happen to believe something like this can make fighters out of people who weren't previously. This is, no question, one of the worst crimes against women, against people. And I know you appreciate that. But recovery is possible. The human spirit – her spirit, frankly – is shockingly resilient in the face of tragedy."

"I'm not so sure about that. Do you remember Harper Anderson?"

"Who?"

"From a few years ago. Victim of Kevin Cleary, West Village rapist. Guy who said, 'is this how you like it?'."

He remembered the case, and the victim. "Oh yes. Yes."

"Well, Harper Anderson was a fighter, she was independent, feisty. She thought she'd recovered. But look at her. Look how she handled things. A year later, what happened to her was still controlling her."

"Elliot, I'd be wary of comparing Harper Anderson to your partner. They're nothing alike. Not to put down Harper, whose determination to survive I certainly admired, but Olivia is ten times stronger, ten times more in tune with herself, and has ten times more going for herself."

"Yeah, but what happened to Olivia is ten times worse."

"You think because Harper Anderson wasn't beaten as severely and that there was one guy instead of three it wasn't as bad for her?"

"Yes, I do," Elliot stated. "I think it didn't even come close to being as bad. Because the next day, Harper could get up and go to work. The next day, Harper was able to get out of bed, and take a shower by herself, and make herself a sandwich. At least pretend things were okay. She had that option. Olivia doesn't. Olivia doesn't have the luxury of going into denial."

"Since when is denial such a great thing?"

"It's a crutch. It helps."

"True, but at some point you have to face things."

"Cap, I'm sorry, but it's an insult to even suggest the two cases are comparable. Olivia won't even have the semblance of her life back for a long time."

"Elliot, I'm not trying to suggest what Olivia went through was anything like what Harper did. What I am saying is that everyone's different. Some people fall completely apart when a boyfriend or girlfriend of three months cheats; others are able to bounce back after being dumped by a spouse of thirty years. Just because Harper's recovery left a lot to be desired and just because Olivia went through a lot more doesn't automatically mean Olivia is doomed. They're totally different people. And you also forget. Olivia has one thing Harper didn't have: you."

Elliot snorted. "Me. Ha! Me. Don't get me wrong, Cap. I'm thrilled I'll be able to be there for her. I wouldn't want her to go through this with some half-assed boyfriend who stuck with her out of pity. But still, I don't know that you can discount the severity of this attack. Harper Anderson was never at the brink of death. Harper Anderson was able to call 911 on her own. Harper Anderson didn't have to suffer the indignity of having someone else – a child – pull a gag out of her mouth, untie her, dress her back and give her water like a baby. Remind her that she was about as helpless as a person could possibly be. Harper Anderson didn't have to lie in a forest all alone, wondering if the next person who came along would help her or rape her again. She didn't have to wonder if she'd live long enough to find out."

"You know what? You're right. Olivia won't be back at work tomorrow. And you'll have to help her take a shower. No question. She's going to feel humiliated and ashamed and violated and scared out of her wits for a very, very long time. No doubt, it'll be the hardest, most painful thing she's ever had to face. And I know that many people would give up. Would fall apart, or deal with it by stewing about revenge, or confronting the fear in dangerous, obsessive ways, or by turning to drugs or to food or to no food or to the bottle. Her mother chose that path. So did I, once upon a time. But not Olivia. She'll go through a dark period, a hellish one. But it will help her that you'll go through it with her. And, one day, one day, perhaps sooner than you or I even expect, she'll be able to take that fear and that shame by the balls and expose it, and destroy its power over her. It won't happen all at once, and right now she may not even believe it's possible. Right now, she may very well believe she'll never get through this. That she'll be scared and ashamed for the rest of her life. But she won't. I believe it."

He was about to continue, but the sudden appearance of a doctor distracted him. A doctor who was walking directly towards them, looking pointedly at his detective.

Elliot catapulted out of his seat, apparently forgetting his boss was even there. He didn't even acknowledge the doctor by name or by title. Simply blurted, "How is she?"

"For now, she's stable. And it looks like she's going to pull through, although..."

Elliot collapsed back onto the seat. Hung his head in his hands. "Thank God… Thank God…" he muttered.

Cragen stood up to introduce himself. "Doctor, hi I'm Donald Cragen, Captain of the Special Victims Unit in New York. So she's going to be okay?"

"Well, we did a chest x-ray. She's got numerous fractured ribs. A few of which had caused partial pneumothorax – collapsed lung – which is why she was having so much trouble breathing, and what you'd suspected, Detective." He gestured towards Elliot, who seemed to have already tuned him out. "We've got her on oxygen, and she's stable. We did a head CT. She's definitely got a concussion, which explains the severe nausea you mentioned earlier. The fact that she had her eyes open and was recognizing you is a good sign, though. But I would still expect her to feel disoriented for a while, with possible memory loss. We also stitched up her back. Required eighty-two stitches. Unfortunately, it'll probably take longer than normal to heal, because she'll have to lie on it, because of the ribs. We put a cast on her right arm; that was a nasty break, though we think it'll heal fine." He hesitated, continued. "As for… internal damage... "

Elliot looked up. "Just tell us. Please."

Doctor Stein nodded. "Well, let me assure you, she was unconscious. She wouldn't have known you weren't there, if that's any consolation. Anyhow, it's still too early to tell if there'll be permanent damage. I must say, it's good you got her here when you did. Because the way those ribs were pushing… you were playing Russian Roulette with her airway. Another hour, I don't think she would've made it."

"Is she awake? Can we see her?" Elliot asked.

"She's on heavy painkillers. She'll probably be out of it for several hours. For now, I'm going to have to insist that only one person be in there with her at a time. There's not much we can do about the fractured ribs except treat the pain. But unfortunately because of the concussion, I am loath to put her on any kind of heavy narcotics for any extended period of time. So she'll definitely be in some pain when she wakes up. It'll be hard for her, it'll hurt her just to breathe. That, combined with the concussion, means she needs to rest, needs to stay as calm as possible. When she wakes up, we'll see how she's feeling, and we can reassess."

"Okay, I understand. Thank you, doctor."

It was Cragen's turn to speak up. He grasped the doctor's upper arm, rotated him around so that his back was to Elliot's son, who'd stood up, timidly approached them. In a low voice, "Doctor, what about the rape kit?"

"Yeah… about that. We won't have the results back for a bit of time. Based on the amount of external trauma, I'd say she was raped more than once. As for internally, it looks as though the piece of wood was wielded very... aggressively. Unfortunately, and this is just preliminary, it's looking like the blood washed away most of the… fluids you would be looking for. I'm sorry."

"No semen?"

"It's possible. But unfortunately, our labs here are using machines that aren't the latest."

"We'll send it to New York."

"I figured you would say that. The samples are already being packaged."

Cragen said, "Thank you, thank you so much, Doctor."

The doctor nodded. "I can take one of you to see her now, if you'd like."

Elliot stood up, looked at him deferentially.

He almost laughed. You don't have to ask my permission. I'm not the boss here!

"Elliot, go. Go! I'll stay here with Dickie. Before you go, though, have you two eaten?"

Elliot stared at him, as though it was the most ridiculous question he'd ever had to field. "Eaten? I… no… what time is it? I'm not really hungry… Dickie… you had that candy bar, right?"

He looked at Dickie, watched the hopeful look fade. The look that told him the boy was famished, but was expected to say he had no appetite, that the chocolate had been enough for him.

"Alright, look. I'm going to take your son to McDonald's. There's one right across the street. You go sit with her."

"Cap, you don't have to do that, I –"

"Elliot, it sounds like your son saved the life of one of my best detectives, not to mention favorite people today. I think I can spring for lunch."

"Okay. Thanks, Cap."

"It's nothing. He needs to eat and you need to go be with her."

"Cap?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank for coming."

"Elliot, how could I not?"

"Yeah, I know. But I mean – I'm glad you're here. For me."

His brother was missing and it was pissing him off. He never should've allowed the little turd to tag along.

He knew Errol wouldn't have involved him if he hadn't felt sorry for him. Sorry that he'd ended up serving four years, when Errol had done four months, in county jail, mind you. Same crime, if you could call it a crime.

He'd grown to like Errol during those four months they'd shared a cell. The bastard had a twisted, sadistic side, no question. But he knew Errol had liked him, that he'd made the guy laugh. Which made him like Errol more – he liked being liked.

But when the three of them had spontaneously decided to go hiking yesterday, during Errol's day off, he hadn't expected things to get so out of hand. He hadn't expected Errol to be set off. Truth be told, it was partially his fault, he knew. That conversation he'd had walking through the woods had done it for his friend. He'd talked about those years in prison. The three guys who'd jumped him that first week. And Michelle, the cocktease bitch who'd put him there. Even though Errol already knew the whole story. He'd felt compelled to repeat it. And he knew that that story always set Errol off.

It still made his own blood boil, every time he thought about it. How she'd gone ahead and testified he'd forced her, when she'd been the one to keep refilling their glasses. How she'd flirted – flirted with him! – right up until the moment he'd had her pinned against the pickup. She had wanted it; this much he knew. But talk about bad luck that the bitch happened to be a secretary in one of those fancy-shmancy law firms in the city. Had had the gall to report it. And those goddamn lawyers had believed her. Bitch had probably been sleeping with her boss. Who'd had friends in the DA's office. While he'd been hung out to dry.

So yeah, Errol felt sorry for him. While his friend had come to the east coast, rebuilt his life – as a cop, of all things – fools in these parts apparently didn't check for arrest records, just convictions – he'd spent four years getting gang-banged and washing uniforms.

They'd just finished discussing this, the irony of doing time for Michelle when he'd been guilty of real stuff – with others – when Errol had told him he'd needed a sandwich, would meet him back at their campsite. That's when Errol had apparently spotted her. At the picnic table, flirting with her beau. Confident, vivacious, full of life and energy. And the way Errol told it, hotter than anything either of them'd ever had.

He knew Errol thought he was better than him. That he and Tommy were low-lifes, white trash. And he knew Errol hadn't really wanted to share her. He'd wanted her for himself. Because his friend thought he would be… unrefined in his approach, his attitude towards her. Wouldn't appreciate what Errol had done for him, what he'd brought him. The different ways he could have done her. The different things he could have done to her. That she'd be wasted on him and Tommy. Like giving caviar to an infant. But he didn't care. He wanted her the way he wanted her, and so he'd had her the way he'd had her. The same way he'd had those other girls. The same way his dad had had him. Blunt, brute force.

Presently, though, they were in a bind. Because Tommy was missing, and they needed to talk to him. Find out what exactly he'd done to her after they'd all left. Because the nitwit may very well have left something behind, or done something to her that could give them all away. And Errol already suspected he had one strike against him. That she'd possibly seem him when the ambulance had arrived.

"Well," he suggested, "we could just get in the car and get the hell outa here. Canada, maybe."

"Jake, are you fucking retarded? We don't know what kind of evidence your brother left behind, and we don't know where he is. He may not give you up, but I sure as hell ain't gambling that he won't give me up. Besides, you've got a stolen car. You think just because you changed the plates, they can't track it? And we certainly can't take my car – my police trooper."

He winced at Errol's words. He didn't like feeling stupid. It was best to agree. Pretend he merely hadn't thought it out. "True. All right then. Let's go over this. You think Tommy went back? You think he beat her?"

"Yeah, you should've seen her back. We sure as hell didn't leave her that way."

"Doesn't surprise me. But anyway, so he beat her. We beat her too, with that bat. What's the difference?"

"The difference is, we don't know what else he did. I'm a cop for fuck's sake. You don't understand, they can track stuff. He might've touched something, or spit on her, or maybe he finally did her. Who the fuck knows? You forget, your little brother has been in jail too. He's been fingerprinted. He's in the system. They'll find every last thing he left there. One goddamn fingerprint, and he's fucked. Because if the bitch survives this, you better believe she'll identify him."

"Well," he raised his eyebrows, looked Errol square in the eye, "what if she doesn't survive?"

"Jake. This isn't a movie. I'm not the fucking Godfather. Think about it. She's in the hospital. With some boyfriend. You shoulda seen the guy – I was afraid of him. And they're both cops. Both of them. From New York. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire NYPD showed up there by tomorrow. I can't go there. It's too risky."

"Well, what then?"

"Unless…"

"What?"

"You could."

"Me?"

"You could go. They don't know what you look like. You could find a moment, sneak in, put a pillow over her face or something."

And all at once it was clear. His friend's plan. Errol thought he was a fool. Errol thought he didn't know that once your stuff's in the system, they can nail you. Doesn't matter if the victim's dead or alive.

He's not in the system. The asshole was smart, he used a condom. They had him on witness ID alone. If she dies, he's home free. And if you get caught and give him up, he'll make a deal, flip you and Tommy in two seconds. And tell them about Dana and Chrissy and that first one… the little girl… Melissa.

He may not have taken the fucking SATs like Errol, but he knew how the system worked. You could learn a lot in four years.

"All right, I'll find Tommy. And then I'll… take care of things."

Errol's the only one who could benefit from her death. And you have everything to lose from getting caught.

Errol may have been in a better position than he was, but this much he knew: he'd kill the back-stabbing pervert before he let himself go back to prison.