Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.
A/N: Shout-out to LouiseKurylo, Jancey, impatricialp, MaraFeila, inkstainedfingers97, and MartyMc49, because all reviews but especially yours have tremendously brightened my days this past week. Hope you'll like this chapter as well.
Warnings: Captivity in the trunk of a car, dealing with a psychopathic serial killer while injured, and allusions to religion and elements of Catholic Faith (as always in Lisbon's chapters). Mind your stress levels and please stay safe.
Hour 13: Lisbon
Disgrace
Exhaustion gets the better of her after only a few minutes of riding blind, curled up on herself in the trunk of the car. Even with the best intentions, she's unable to figure out where Lazarus is going or how far they move away from the basement in which he kept her. After a while, when nausea threatens to rear up, she makes a conscious decision to stop resisting sleep – hoping to at least get back some amount of strength in anticipation of the moment she'll be left out.
She drifts in and out of consciousness for what seems like hours – but cannot possibly be more than twenty minutes – as the car twists and turns alongside uneven roads.
Then it stops with a loud shiver, the door falls shut, and light footsteps walk away.
Silence.
For a moment, nothing happens. She stays quiet and unmoving, straining her ears to figure out Lazarus' next move. But time stretches wide and tall as she waits, and waits, and waits – and soon enough, alone in the dark, she wonders if there is a next move at all.
Maybe the man decided she was too much trouble after all.
He'll come back, whispers Jane in her mind. You need to be ready when he does.
She looks around, tries to stretch her limbs as far as they will go – but cannot find any handle to open the latch from the inside.
Figures.
What if he decided to let me die in his car? Dioxide poisoning –
Car trunks are not airtight, Lisbon. Besides, you can kick out the tail lights if you need to. Your hands' movements are limited, not your feet's.
What about heat stroke?
It's February. You will last at least a few days, probably up to a week with fresh air supply. It can get pretty cold at night.
I'm injured and dehydrated, she thinks. This is not good.
But she can almost see Jane roll his eyes.
Fine, he whispers in her mind. Maybe you'll last two or – or maybe just one day instead of a week. It's still long enough for us to find you.
She starts. The chain between her wrists rings like chimes.
Find me?
Teresa. Did you really think I would give up looking for you?
She swallows the painful lump in her throat. It's so easy to forget she isn't completely alone. That people – Jane, Cho, the whole team – are out there, raising a ruckus on her behalf. Somewhere. Out in the world, in places she can barely imagine right now.
I will never give up, whispers Jane. And you know that because if our roles were inverted, you would never give up either. So give us a little credit, Lisbon. We'll find you. You only need to hang on until we do.
"Okay," she whimpers. "Okay. I'll try."
Good. Now get that nail out of your pocket. You'll need it when Lazarus comes back.
She nods, then tries to roll on her back. The bullet graze on her left side stings sharp and biting, but the pain thankfully doesn't last – as soon as she's back in a motionless position, all unpleasant sensations dull down to a numb kind of throbbing. Something easy to ignore as she tests the length of her chains, see how far she can move away from the latch.
Reaching her pocket proves impossible.
"Damn it! Now what?"
Tail lights.
"Right."
Stretching her leg, she feels the bumps and edges of the trunk with the tip of her toes, trying to figure out where to kick – she'll probably have to turn around again, she thinks, it'll be easier with her heel – when a noise outside makes her freeze.
Footsteps. Coming closer.
I guess at least I won't be left to die here.
See? Silver linings, Lisbon.
Very funny.
"I'm going to open the trunk," says Lazarus, voice muffled by the closed hood. "If you move before I tell you to, I will shoot you. Do you understand?"
She shivers, pushes down on the fear rising inside, threatening to overcome the small amount of bravery she managed to muster through Jane's encouragements.
"I said do you understand?"
"Yes," she answers.
The latch pops over her head. A rush of cold wind makes her shiver a second time – she didn't realise just how hot it had been inside – but chases some amount of drowsiness away.
"Push the hood up."
Forest, she thinks as she gets a look at the bare trees surrounding them.
Mountain, says Jane, correcting her first impression. See how the ground slants? He drove up the hills.
She nods, glancing at the small shack ten feet away from the car.
Hunter's cabin. Isolated place – shabby enough that it may not even be registered as a house. This is not good.
Jane's voice, for once, doesn't chime in with its running commentary. Lazarus, face half-hiding behind his gun, stares at her with a hungry expression.
"I will toss you the keys. You will keep your hands in sight at all time. If you do anything I didn't tell you to, I will shoot you."
She nods, makes sure to follow his instructions as she removes the handcuffs. No point in angering him unnecessarily. He still thinks he needs her to contact his father's spirit – she'll get more chances to escape before the day is over, she has to believe it.
Has to keep faith.
"Get out of the trunk. Slowly."
Oh please, whispers Jane in her mind. Slowly? He busted your ankle! What does he expect you to do now, leap out like a three-legged gazelle?
She bites down on the smile that wants to climb up her lips and carefully lowers her legs to the ground, keeping her hands in sight.
Hush. This isn't the time to snark.
You know – technically I'm not the one snarking here, Lisbon.
I said hush!
I'm hushing, chuckles Jane.
"Walk," says Lazarus.
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"Walk."
She takes a deep breath, clenches her teeth against the pain, and hobbles on. The uneven ground covered in dead leaves makes it hard to keep herself upright – every three steps, one of her feet hits a rock, or a root, or a small mud hole on which her socks slip all too easily. Lazarus gives succinct directions as she walks, staying behind her, no doubt with his gun pointed at her back. Under his orders, hands up, she circles around the cabin until she reaches a small courtyard in the middle of which stands an unidentified wood contraption.
Swings, whispers Jane.
She squints.
Swings usually have chains and a seat, not handcuffs hanging down a hook.
Well he's a serial killer, Lisbon. You have to expect him to get a little creative with his childhood implements.
The insistent, nasty memory of a tortured body hanging by its wrists crosses her mind. She bites her lip.
He wants to hook me up like he did with Gabriel.
You cannot let him do that.
She rolls her eyes, confident that Lazarus – who still walks behind her – won't notice.
No kidding. Do you have any better advice?
Just remember he could have brought you back to the basement. He didn't. There must be a reason.
She frowns.
What do you mean? I destroyed the table's hook. He wouldn't be able to hold me there anymore.
He hooked you to a pipe on the ceiling earlier. He could have done it again. Instead, he went to the trouble of moving you here. Why?
Her injured ankle gives off a new painful twinge when she slips on another puddle of mud. Out of breath, she stops, lets herself fall on one knee. She feels like a failure. Surely other cops – or anyone really – in her situation would fare better.
Don't be silly, whispers Jane in her mind. You're still alive. Most people would have been killed over their inability to convince him they have psychic powers.
I'm scared, she admits silently.
Hang on. Make him talk. You might find something to use against him.
"Get up," says Lazarus, voice cold and distant.
She doesn't risk a glance behind – instead brings one hand to her left side, the other down on the ground. Dead leaves crunch under her fingers, the debris sticking to her palm.
"I said get up!"
"I'm trying," she answers, panting – defiant. "I'm hurt. I can't go quickly."
A quick prayer, then she leans heavily on her left side, makes a show of it – groaning so that Lazarus will miss her hand deftly dipping in and out of her pocket, taking the nail out and concealing it between middle and ring finger.
Not bad, Lisbon, whispers Jane in her mind, and she can nearly see his proud grin, hear the impressed undertones in his voice. Not bad at all.
She gets back on her feet, fighting the urge to chuckle – because she can feel the slight shivering of hysteria inside, and if she lets go, soon she'll be sobbing uselessly. There isn't time for that. Soon perhaps – hopefully – but not yet. So she clenches her teeth – once more, and it's becoming a nasty habit – and walks the remaining steps to the swings structure. Then she stops and turns around.
Lazarus stands about fifteen feet away from her, brown paper bag and bottle of water in one hand, gun loosely pointed on her. She swallows down her fear, breathes quietly, and quickly glances up and down – taking the man's general appearance in. He frowns back at her, brings his shoulders up as if to make himself taller. But under the boyish bravado, she can read his body language well enough – he doesn't really intend to shoot, at least for now. He only plans to frighten her into compliance.
Good.
Then she notices the reddish brown stains on his white sneakers, and fear rises up again because that is not mud.
He killed someone recently.
Very recently.
Hold on, whispers Jane's comforting voice. Maybe that's your blood. You left quite a mess in the basement, remember?
She lets the idea settle at the base of her skull, then dismisses it. Her blood would have been dried by the time he got there. The stain on his shoes still looks fresh – barely congealed.
Well, he had a nosebleed earlier. Maybe some of it fell on his shoes.
It would have left drops on the top of those sneakers. The stain there is on the side.
Well, maybe he bled on the ground, then walked in it?
No, Jane. Stop. Just – stop. I know I'm right this time.
She leans slightly against the wooden structure, holds Lazarus' dark gaze, and reads emptiness in it. She shivers. He killed, then walked in the blood of his victim, probably left bloody footprints everywhere. And he didn't care that he did.
That's why they're here, in this isolated place up in the mountains, and not in the basement anymore.
Because the FBI knows his name – if they don't know it already, they will learn it soon enough.
Because he doesn't care about his own life anymore. He's ready to leave everything behind as long as he gets what he wants.
And that terrifies her more than any gun.
I need to get the upper hand back.
"You're not a very nice person," says Lazarus suddenly, waving the gun in a vague encompassing gesture.
She raises an eyebrow, but keeps silent.
"I've been kind to you. I gave you food. I let you relieve yourself. And the pain you're in? You brought that down on yourself – I wouldn't have harmed you if you hadn't jumped on me. The other one, you know who I'm talking about? He wasn't so lucky."
He seems to be waiting for an answer. She nods shortly, still unwilling to talk.
"That's because I believe in you. You do have powers – you proved it," Lazarus adds. "So I got water for you. More food. And I'm ready to give you one last chance."
She nods again, suddenly uncomfortably aware of her parched throat.
"But if you cause trouble again, I'll shoot. I won't hesitate. I want you to know that."
"Okay," she says – voice coming in barely a whisper. "Okay," she repeats, louder this time.
"Good. I will give you this," he says, raising the hand holding the water and paper bag. "But first, you will lock your left hand in those handcuffs."
"I won't be able to catch," she protests.
The look he shoots her way is so fierce – so threatening – that she bites her tongue, quickly nods, and slips her left hand in the metallic loop without further discussion. The nail stuck between her fingers clicks lightly against the steel.
Don't close it too tight, whispers Jane in her mind. Leave yourself enough space to be able to slip out as soon as you can. He's far enough that he'll probably miss it. You might get a chance to escape that way.
"I know," she whispers.
"Who are you talking to?" asks Lazarus.
She opens her mouth, hesitates. The expression on his face is ravenous – terrifying – and she knows she should exercise caution. But the answer slips between her lips before she has time to think it through.
"My guardian angel."
Lazarus looks stunned. And she can already hear Jane's scoff turning into an outright laugh – but the truth is, as things currently stands, there is no answer that could possibly be more accurate.
She releases her breath, holds his gaze, and smiles.
Next prompt: Waiting