September 29th, 1997- Infringement.
Amanda rose early the next day, with the intention of revealing Hoffman and Melanie to John. However, to do that, she needed proof, and the only way she could think of to obtain this proof was to return to the scene of the crime.
She knew that they had been a number of places together, but, seeing as the control room was where she had seen them most recently, she would start there. Surely she would find SOMETHING to implicate them.
Then again, this was Hoffman.He had managed to fool John for God knew how long, without a single slipup. He was careful, he was meticulous, and he certainly took no risks. It would be a damned good stroke of luck if Amanda found anything at all.
She crept down the hallway, her eyes wide and searching. She knew Hoffman would install security measures to keep people from finding what he and Melanie had been up to. She knew it was likely that they would be security traps, giving no warning at all, and she kept her eyes peeled for anything that indicated a trap, trip-wires, motion sensors, unusual devices lying about. She had to be extremely careful, because, she knew, that if Hoffman were to discover her now, he would kill her. Why would he do so? Because Amanda Young had crossed an invisible line- the line that determined (in Hoffman's eyes) whether she would live or die. Amanda was too great a threat to be kept alive.
There were no traps to be seen, not even a security camera- the overall lack of security disturbed Amanda more than if she'd actually seen any security. Security was easy to dodge, if it was obvious to the eyes. Invisible security, however...
Amanda swallowed tightly and hoped that Hoffman was not already aware of her presence, merely waiting for a time when she turned a corner, or lowered her guard, and he leapt out at her, ruining any chance the woman might have had at notifying John. For John had to know; he was considering Hoffman to be his successor, and to have someone like him to succeed John...
That could NEVER happen. John's work would be wasted.
As Amanda drew closer to the door at the end of the hallway, she drew out her only weapon- a pistol. She had to bring some form of protection with her- to not do so would be incredibly stupid.
She paused before she thrust her gun into the doorway, hoping that nobody was in the room. Melanie, she was sure she could handle. But Hoffman? He was easily a foot or so taller than Amanda was, and considerably heavier. He was also a member of the police force, and had had training. Amanda was not inexperienced, exactly, but nor was she up to Mark Hoffman's standards.
When she stepped into the doorway, her heart galloping away at a hundred miles a minute, she was relieved to see that the room was empty. She let out a sigh of relief, lowering her pistol. She was not going to put it away, God no, but nor was she going to meander around the room holding the gun in front of her, the muscles in her forearm taut. To do so would bring unwanted and unnecessary discomfort.
Her eyes scanned the room, seeking anything out of the ordinary. The room was fairly small, barely large enough to house more than four people. A control panel took up most of the space, thrust against the back wall, with a beaten-up old chair that looked like it was in its' prime about fifty years before perched in front of a particularly complex display of buttons. It was obvious, however, which one was used to kill the old woman. All of the other buttons were coveted in a layer of dust, save for a single red one, situated in the middle of the panel, directly in front of an ageing monitor, whose screen was dark. Amanda investigated this monitor interestedly. It was obvious that the monitor did not belong there, that Hoffman (or Melanie) had placed it there.
Amanda ducked her head behind the monitor, and saw that the monitor's cord had been pulled from the electric socket. "Interesting," she murmured. For Mark Hoffman, this was sloppy. But perhaps that was his intention- to trick Amanda into thinking that he was getting sloppy, when in fact he was growing in skill.
Amanda turned away from the monitor- the dark screen unnerved her- and searched the rest of the room. Aside from the control panel, there was also a single bookcase (with no more than five pieces of literature apiece), carelessly pushed against a side wall. Amanda flipped through each of these books, but there was nothing of interest there. The books were simply remnants of the people who had used this room previously.
There was only one other item that could be of importance- a wastepaper basket. To Amanda's surprise, it was overflowing with discarded pieces of paper. The woman considered the bin briefly. Could it contain any evidence against Hoffman?
She thought not. However, she intended to be thorough in her search for evidence, and she did not want to leave any single place unsearched, for even the smallest scrap of evidence could be enough to condemn Mark Hoffman.
So it was with a feeling of slight anticipation that Amanda Young plunged her hands into the pit of white paper, sifting through it, clutching at random scraps, and then pulling them out and peering at them, before dismissing them and throwing them into a corner of the room. She did not intend to leave them there; she would place them back into the bin as soon as she was finished.
Her eyes fell upon a corner of a photograph. It had been taken relatively recently, and had obviously been looked after (aside from being thrown into the bin, of course). It was glossy and still looked new, even though Amanda couldn't see much of it. Curious, she pulled it from the bin, and she squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach heaving. One thing was for certain- this photograph had something to do with Hoffman.
When she was sure that she would be able to keep the contents of her stomach inside of her, Amanda took another look at the photograph:
The control room was dark, the lighting poor- Amanda hadn't dared to turn on a light, for fear of what it might do- the sudden flare of light could easily alert Hoffman to her location. Yet Amanda could make out that the photograph was of a man, in his early to mid-twenties, with a mop of dark hair. Further inspection revealed the man to be Kael Simons, one of the four criminals that Hoffman had suggested be tested. On his neck was the razor collar that she, Amanda Young, had created.
The man was lying in a puddle of his own blood. Pieces of yellowing flesh, visible even in the poor lighting, were there in amongst the blood. Amanda's stomach heaved again, as she realized who must have taken the photograph. It hadn't been her- why would she do such a thing? It was disgusting! And she knew it couldn't have been John- he took no pleasure whatsoever in seeing his subjects die. He would not take photographs of those who had failed- it went against everything he was working towards. Melanie obviously couldn't have done it.
That left only one other person: Hoffman.
But why would he do such a thing? Was it for his own sick pleasure? Amanda didn't think so, because Hoffman rarely portrayed emotion of any sort, and, when he did, it was because he was acting.
So why, then? What was the reasoning behind the actions? For there HAD to be a reason for why Hoffman was going behind John's back, why Hoffman was using Melanie like a puppet, why he had taken the photograph.
Amanda turned the photograph over, and felt her blood run cold. On the back of the photograph, written in meticulous, curly script, were the words 'THE PROMISE HAS BEEN BROKEN.'
The words looked as though they had been written by a woman, and not a man- such script could only be printed by a woman. The letters were intricately linked, and were slightly slanted. The overall effect, though quite neat, was frightening, for Amanda had seen this type of writing before, on only one other occasion. She remembered it quite clearly, as if it had happened only hours before:
"Mark," John said, sounding pleased. "You have news?"
"Yes."
"Good news, I hope?"
Hoffman's mouth twisted into a sneer. "The best, John." The accomplice moved to John's side, producing a small notepad. He did so in such a manner that it was impossible to see what was on the notepad, unless you were right beside him, and were able to crane your neck.
Amanda watched as John took the notepad from Hoffman, his hands shaking slightly. A lump seemed to swell in her throat at the sight. She hated seeing John so frail, so...old. It was unnerving.
Hoffman held John's wrists, ceasing the trembling, and Amanda crept closer, desperate to see what Hoffman had written. It couldn't have been anything good, because John's expression was pained- and only grew in depth the longer he read the note.
Amanda, suddenly desperate to see what was on the note, leapt forward with sudden speed, catching Hoffman off guard. Her hand lashed out for the scrap of paper, and she tugged it from her mentor's grip, turning the paper toward her, revealing a meticulous, curly script-
"That's none of your business," Hoffman growled, taking the paper from Amanda with unnecessary force. His eyes were fierce, and they bored into Amanda's, forcing her to quail before him.
He had then left the room silently, leaving Amanda speechless.
Amanda had not gathered the courage to ask her mentor about the note until two days had passed, in which two of the original four friends had failed their tests. John had been very quiet during that time, and Amanda knew it had something to do with the note. "John?"
He did not answer her, but merely continued to gaze at the wall blankly. His eyes were unfocused. Amanda tried again, worried for her mentor.
"John? What's wrong?"
John turned towards her with a saddened expression. His eyes were unnaturally bright- were they bright with TEARS? "Jill Tuck," he began, his voice trembling slightly. "Wants to go to the police and expose us."
Amanda blinked. "What?"
John sighed. "Mark brought me a note that Jill wrote herself. She wants a way out of this, and, seeing as I have not provided her one as of yet, she has decided to create her own way out: handing us in."
"No. No, she wouldn't do that to us-"
"It was her handwriting, Amanda. I was married to her for three years. You think I would not recognize her handwriting?"
Amanda sucked in a deep breath, hardly daring to believe it. Hoffman had WRITTEN Jill's 'note', declaring that she wanted out- thus giving Hoffman a reason to kill her. Oh, Amanda knew that Hoffman had killed Jill- she had SEEN him driving away in the direction of her apartment, and when he returned, he had REEKED of blood- such a smell was hard to get rid of. As if any more evidence was needed, Amanda had also smelt Jill's perfume on him. It had been very faint, but it had been unmistakeably there. Jill hadn't written the note. Hoffman had outright murdered her- for no particular reason.
And the writing on that note matched the printing on the photograph.
Which meant that Hoffman had almost certainly written on the photograph as well. But why? Why would he have written 'the promise has been broken' on a photograph of Melanie's dead lover?
It made no sense.
Amanda sighed heavily. She knew that the only way she would know everything was to ask Hoffman himself- and there was no way in hell he would tell her anything!
Yet she had enough to confront John with. She would show him the photograph, and ask him if the writing was the same as Jill's. If, no, when he confirmed, she would inform him that his ex-wife couldn't have written on the back of the photograph, because she had already been dead for a few days.
That was going to be the hardest part of it all- telling John, her leader, her teacher, her father, that his ex-wife, whom he still loved profusely, was dead. Amanda didn't want to do this to John, but it was vital that he did know- otherwise Hoffman would walk free. He would continue to murder. He would continue to disgrace John.
And that was something that Amanda was NOT going to let happen. As much as it would hurt John, she knew that he would be grateful that he knew; he would be able to put a stop to Hoffman once and for all.
Amanda sucked in another great whooping gasp, trying to keep herself under control. It was not easy; her vision was becoming blurred, and her breath constantly caught in her throat. She clutched the glossy photograph to her breast, knowing that it was her- and John's- only hope.
Yet the confrontation with John was not the only barrier that Amanda had yet to overcome. She needed proof that Jill was dead, so that John would believe her, and not think that she was lying. She had been absolutely truthful to John, for the most part, and she shuddered to think of what would happen should he not believe her when she chose to confront him.
But where would she obtain this proof? It wasn't as if she could return to the scene of the crime- that particular act might end up painting her as the prime suspect, at least in John's eyes. Perhaps she could ring someone? No, that wouldn't work. She was a fugitive, and anyone who happened to recognise her voice would call the police, and they could easily trace the call back to where Amanda was- the new lair.
But, then again, if Jill had been dead for over a week, then surely the media would know about it? Jill was John's ex-wife- being the ex-wife of one of the most wanted people in the country certainly granted you some fame, however unwanted it may be. The news that Jill was dead would surely be news headlines, once the media found out! And, since Amanda had been watching the news studiously over the past week, and seeing nothing of particular interest there, the media must not have found out about Jill yet. However, when they did...
It seemed as though Amanda now had the proof she needed.
XxX
John was dozing lightly when Amanda appeared in his doorway, her chest heaving. She had hidden the photograph in her pocket, so that if Hoffman or Melanie should have walked in, they would not know that they had been discovered. Amanda kept her hand clenched around the small square-shaped piece of paper. If anyone wanted to get it off of her, they would have to pry it from Amanda Young's cold, dead fingers, because there was no way in hell she was EVER going to let it go.
Hoffman and Melanie would never suspect that she had been in their 'lair', because she had taken great care in cleaning up after herself. She had scoured every inch of the room, making sure that nothing looked out of place, and she had fixed up the few objects that did.
The only way they would find out was if they searched the place for fingerprints- Amanda had forgotten to wear gloves. It had been a careless mistake, and it was one that she berated herself for.
However, there were more important matters to attend to.
Amanda moved closer to John, who was resting on a beaten-up old mattress. It was particularly lumpy in some places, but it was the best they had to supply him with. After Melanie's little fucked-up game, they had had to make do with what they had. The goddamn police had John's makeshift hospital bed. Amanda was only glad that they had not gotten his wheelchair. That wheelchair was John's only way of moving about these days- he was far too weak to move on his own, and it appeared to pain him to even stand up, let alone walk.
He was sprawled on the mattress, his mouth slightly open, yet he did not look uncomfortable. He looked more comfortable, more at peace with himself that he ever had at that moment.
Amanda sighed, watching her mentor sleep. She wished now more than ever that he could walk without grimacing in pain, could talk without coughing, and could live without the cancer that plagued him so.
She hated to wake him. But it was vital that he knew. And she had to tell him before either Hoffman or Melanie arrived.
She shook his shoulder gently. "John?" she whispered. He stirred, turning over slightly in his slumber. Amanda tried again.
"John?" She shook his shoulder again.
He opened one bleary eye, as though wary of who it might be, and, when he saw that it was Amanda, opened the other. "Amanda?" he croaked, sensing her distress. "What is it?"
Amanda took a deep breath. She struggled to control her emotions, which threatened to bubble and overflow. She couldn't let that happen. She needed a clear head. "I-" she began, and found it difficult to go on. John watched her intently, all traces of sleepiness gone now. The breath in her throat caught once more, and it literally became a struggle to say anything more. But she knew she had to be strong. For John's sake. For her own. "I-I have something to t-tell you," she finally stuttered. John tried to sit up, and his expression of concern became one of intense pain.
Seeing this, Amanda helped him sit up, her hands trembling as she did so. John did not miss it, and a frown made itself known on his aged face. "What is it, Amanda?"
Amanda reached into her pocket. "Before I tell you," she began, her voice wavering, as her control faltered momentarily, "I need you to tell me whether the writing on this photograph is the same as Jill's." She produced the photograph, which she had folded neatly, and she deftly unfolded it and held it out to John, who took it.
His eyes widened, as he processed first what the photograph was of, and then the nature of the writing on the other side. Though his expression revealed little, Amanda could sense his shock. She didn't want to do this, but at the same time, she had to.
She waited until John looked away from the photograph. He met her impatient, stricken stare. "Yes," he finally rasped, handing the photograph back. Amanda waited, but John said no more. She took another, shuddering breath, and placed the photograph back in her pocket.
"John, Jill didn't write that on the back of the photograph."
John raised an eyebrow. "If she did not, Amanda, then who did? You remember I was married to her for three years, don't you? I know her handwriting. That was it."
"John, I am so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but Jill, she...she's dead." Despite herself, Amanda felt tears slide down her face, making tracks down her smudged face- in her desperation to find out the truth, she hadn't bathed, or tended to herself in any other way.
John's face hardened. "No. I do not believe that." He turned away from her, facing the wall. When he next spoke, his words were cold, cruel- and reminded Amanda of the very person she was trying to condemn- Hoffman. "Leave me now."
Now shaking with suppressed sobs, Amanda stood up. Her hair, which had been tied back, was falling down around her face, making her appear even filthier than she really was. She stared at her mentor with wide, hurt eyes, before her hand struck out at what was nearest her- a television set. She did not, as John may or may not have expected, strike the television down, but rather, hit the button that brought the ageing machine to life. The button was big and bulky, so there was no possible that she could have missed.
With a groan, the outdated television turned on. The image on the screen was fraught with static, but it could still be seen fairly easily. As Amanda had hoped, the image was that of a newsreader, a man in his early thirties.
The sudden rush of sound startled John, who turned to face the screen, confusion written all over his face. "What are you doing?" he asked his apprentice, who held a finger to her lips and made a shushing sound.
"Listen, John."
The newsreader looked up from his collection of papers. He shifted them into place, before flashing a broad smile at the fugitives. "Good morning, I'm Daniel Paxton. For our top story, we turn now to Pamela Jenkins." He inclined his head towards a young woman with blonde hair who wore a pair of black glasses. She inclined her head slightly at Daniel, and smiled broadly before addressing John and Amanda:
"Thank you, Daniel. There's a bewildering mystery at this hour. Jill Tuck, ex-wife of the infamous Jigsaw Killer, was found yesterday afternoon, brutally shot to death in her home. Authorities are not revealing much about Miss Tuck's death, but it's clear that something strange is happening in Mayfield. More information regarding Miss Tuck's death will be available as soon as possible. Back to you, Daniel."
Before Daniel Paxton's rather unattractive face could be shown once again, Amanda turned the television off, and turned to face John. "You see?" she whispered wetly. "I was not lying to you, John."
John's eyes were bright, and, as Amanda watched, a few fat tears leaked out of them. His expression was now one of the most utmost sorrow, and, upon seeing it, Amanda felt her heart break. He stared at her helplessly, and Amanda knew that, despite her misgivings, she had to go on.
"Jill couldn't have written on the back of the photo," she stammered, moving forward. Her voice wavered pathetically, as she produced the photograph once more. She held it, back facing John, and she went on: "Because she was already dead when this was written."
"What are you saying?" John croaked, taking the photograph from his tearful apprentice.
Amanda swallowed. "Who gave you the other note, John? The one that Jill supposedly wrote to tell us she was handing us in?"
John's eyes widened, as he processed this. "Mark," he realized.
Amanda nodded solemnly.
XxX
All day yesterday, a storm had been pending. The sky had looked beaten, bruised, and swollen.
Now, the next day, the storm broke with no warning other than a single clap of thunder, so loud that it seemed to shake the entire hospital. Rain fell suddenly and heavily like a giant tent collapsing with a whoosh and a roar.
Perez couldn't see the storm because the curtain around the other (unused) bed blocked her view of the window. But she could hear the thunder and see the brilliant flashes of lightning. The fat raindrops pounded on the unseen windowpane with the force of drumbeats.
She ate a filling breakfast of cereal, toast, juice, and a sweet roll, and then settled down to listen to the raging storm.
The weather seemed to match her mood. Today was a very dismal day indeed. Erickson's family had arrived to pull his life support, and, despite him being her boss for five years, Perez was not allowed to be there. Instead, she had to begin her physical therapy, which would aid her to be able to walk again. She'd gotten the all-clear about the same time Strahm had gotten his- and she had been over the moon at first. She would be able to walk.
Today, however, she did not want to go to physical therapy. She wanted to be there for Erickson, one last time.
Two orderlies arrived at her door with a wheeled stretcher. The first one, who was a middle-aged man with receding brown hair, said, in a kindly voice, "We're here to take you down to the physical therapy department, Agent Perez."
Perez sighed. "Okay."
The first orderly moved into the room, the second not too far behind. Both were dressed in white clothing, and both seemed nice enough. The second orderly was a man in his mid twenties, and was completely bald. He had an earring in one ear, and gave the impression that he could be quite intimidating when he wished to be. He introduced himself as Carl Parker, and the other was Patrick Wild.
They said very little, but their presence was somehow comforting; Perez did not want to be alone, with only her thoughts for company. She allowed the orderlies to place her upon the stretcher, making only a small sound of pain when her legs bumped the stretcher. "Sorry," Patrick apologized, sounding genuine. Once Perez was secure, the two orderlies wheeled her from her room, only to be met by two more orderlies, Zep Hindle and Keith O'Hara, who were accompanying another man in a stretcher. Perez recognized the man at once.
"Peter!" she cried, and she could not help the note of intimacy that came with her love's name. She flushed, slightly embarrassed, but the orderlies appeared not to have noticed. Strahm smiled when he saw Perez. Though he still looked slightly sick, the smile was nevertheless dazzling.
"Lindsey," he whispered, and, as the orderlies began to wheel them down to the physical therapy department, he took her hand in his. They were being wheeled side-by-side, and for that, Perez was grateful. Though she was still saddened at the thought of Erickson leaving them forever, she was glad Strahm was by her side.
They said no more, but merely took comfort in each other's presence, as the orderlies wheeled them into an elevator, getting out on the first floor, which was where the PT department was. There, they turned the two FBI agents over to Alicia Atkinson and Paul Browning, the two specially trained therapists who were in charge of the hospital's PT program.
Alicia Atkinson was a small, dark, slightly birdlike woman brimming with energy and enthusiasm. She greeted Perez enthusiastically, pecking her on the cheek lightly. She then proceeded to ease Perez off of her stretcher. Perez was slightly alarmed at first, and gripped Alicia's sleeve for support, but she needn't have. Alicia didn't let Perez fall. She merely stood the FBI agent up, making her lean against a rail, holding her around the waist. Perez swayed slightly, but was delighted to discover that she could at least stand. After a few moments, Alicia even went so far as to remove her support from Perez entirely- and there was no noticeable difference.
Paul Browning was also nice. He was tall, taller than Strahm, and had hair the colour of coal. He was not quite as enthusiastic as Alicia, but that was perfectly fine with Strahm. Though he had only just met the man, Strahm found that he liked Paul already. Strahm was also eased out of his stretcher, and there was no pain at all- which Strahm was delighted to discover. Paul gripped Strahm under the armpits, and stood him upright with no problems at all. Paul was very strong. "Do you need support?" Paul inquired, once Strahm was upright. Though he swayed a little, Strahm felt that he did not need help. He shook his head no, and Paul moved his arms away from Peter Strahm.
The two therapists stood back and gazed at the two FBI agents with something close to reverence. Smiles spilt across their faces, as they watched the couple gain control of their footing, eventually ceasing the swaying.
They then guided the two FBI agents through half an hour's worth of exercises, using a variety of machines and modified gym equipment that gave a workout to every muscle group. There was nothing in the least strenuous about it; a healthy person would have found it laughably easy. "For your first couple of visits," Alicia said, addressing both Strahm and Perez, "we'll concentrate primarily on passive exercises." But, at the end of the half hour, both Strahm and Perez were exhausted and achy. Following the exercise, both were given a massage that made them feel as though they were a loose collection of disjointed bones and ligaments. After the massage, there was a session in the whirlpool. Both Paul and Alicia assured the two agents that the angry weals on their legs were now healed enough to get in. The hot, swirling water made them both feel as though they were nothing but mere liquid.
After that, they were permitted to take a shower in a stall that had handrails and seats for invalids. Perez would have preferred that she and Strahm shower together, but of course, such a thing would not be allowed in a hospital.
The glorious feeling and scent of soap, hot water, and steam was so wonderful, so exquisite, that taking a shower seemed deliciously sinful.
Alicia dried Perez's long, curly hair with an electric blower while she sat in front of a dressing table mirror. It was the first time she had looked in a mirror since the day she had embarked on the near-suicidal Jigsaw raid, and she was pleasantly surprised to see that, after everything she had been through, how normal she looked. No doubt Strahm would look better as well.
Perez considered her appearance in the mirror briefly, before she turned to her therapist. "Can I ask you something?" she asked.
"Sure."
"Why are we going into therapy so quickly after the accident?"
Alicia looked surprised, but quickly recovered herself. "Blisters heal very quickly, Agent Perez. The hospital knows you and Agent Strahm work for the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and we'd like to get you back to your jobs as quickly as possible. Since your legs are healing, why wait?" She smiled brightly at Perez, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Perez returned the smile. "Yeah, I suppose so."
Once she was dressed in a fresh hospital gown, she got onto her stretcher (not needing any assistance this time), and Alicia wheeled her into the PT department's waiting room. "Patrick and Carl will be along shortly," she assured Perez, before leaving the room.
Perez gazed around the room interestedly. The walls were bright, and had numerous paintings on the walls. Though Perez didn't have the faintest idea of what they were supposed to be, she enjoyed them nevertheless.
There was only one downside to the waiting room- Strahm wasn't there. Perez guessed that his orderlies, Zep and Keith, had arrived for him early. That was really too bad, she thought, settling back onto her stretcher contentedly, she had really wanted to see how he had cleaned up.
Drowsy, she closed her eyes and yawned.
"Hello, Agent Perez."
Perez opened her eyes and smiled at her two orderlies. It had been Carl who had spoken to her, and he returned her smile, his eyes crinkling up pleasantly in the corners. "Time to go," Patrick announced, and the two of them began to wheel Perez back to her room.
XxX
At precisely eleven fifty –three AM, Special Agent Daniel Erickson's life support was cut, and another life was taken into Death's loving embrace.
XxX
"What are you going to do?" Amanda whispered, her face streaked with tears. John raised his eyes to hers. They were not bright with tears as they had been before, but they appeared hollow. Empty. "He's using her."
"I know," John said quietly. He paused. "It's time to play a game."