Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey

by Rabid Raccoons

Chapter 21: Call For Help

…

Trina Watson felt her mouth drop open slightly as she studied the computer screen in front of her. Was this for real, or some kind of sick joke? She read the e-mail again:

Trina I hope this is you my sister had your email please i hope this is you sister on drugs in trouble need help now two others captive here with me call police I am at 10 Mountainview drive in Glendora in LA help me please need u

Mark (u called me 55)

Trina's breaths were rapid and shallow. Fifty-five was the number of Mark Vincent's football jersey in college at Texas A&M, before he was hurt. Trina had been raised in a houseful of men - her father and six brothers. She had been watching football all of her life. A Texas native, she was more than familiar with Mark Vincent when he became one of her patients. At first she felt sorry for him; she had quickly become convinced that there was something viable trapped inside the shell. His sister, even other nurses, had laughed at and ridiculed her. But soon, Trina was sure she saw a flash of recognition in his eyes when she came back from a few days off. She was aware of the research being done on brain injuries, and she had hoped something could be developed to help Mark. She had even written a few researchers about him; she was devastated when his sister had moved him from the extended care facility in San Francisco, where she worked. She had always treated him as if he were "normal"; talking to him about current events, football; her own life. She called him "55."

Who the hell else would know that?

She looked again at the time stamp on the e-mail: almost 10 minutes ago. She hesitated, then clicked the "reply" button. Mark?

In seconds, she received a reply: still here help pls

She swallowed, clicked reply again: What is the name of my dog?

The wait for a reply seemed interminable, but it arrived in less than thirty seconds: u call him bear 4 coach bryant bear likes bananas

Trina gasped, started to bring her hand to her mouth, but snagged the cell phone off the desk instead. She rapidly punched in some numbers and brought the phone to her ear.

"9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

...

Liz Warner was not unsympathetic. She genuinely like both Alan Eppes and Amita Ramanujan; it wasn't as if she enjoyed causing them pain. Yet she had been an agent long enough to understand how important a thorough investigation in the early hours of a case could be.

She wrapped her hands around the mug of coffee Alan had given her and threw a question into the middle of the kitchen table, to see who picked it up. "Charlie has developed a drug problem since his injury?"

Significantly, Amita remained silent - but Alan sat up straighter in his chair and glared at her. "It's not like he's become a junkie!"

Liz pressed gently. "But there have been issues."

Alan glanced at Amita. Still silent, she stared at the tabletop and ignored them both. He sighed again, returning his attention to Liz. "He hasn't been himself," he finally admitted. "Short-tempered, a little shaky sometimes. But he's had a lot to adjust to..."

His obvious sadness almost convinced Liz to stop. Almost - but not quite. Still, she tried to couch her words carefully. She twisted the mug in her hands. "I'm just wondering," she said. "I know Don. If he saw Charlie struggling with an addiction... I'm just saying, it all came about because of the injuries Charlie received when they were on the run together last summer. Don would feel a certain responsibility to help his brother. Don's still on medical leave. Maybe when he got clearance to drive again, he took Charlie somewhere."

"You mean like a rehab?" questioned Alan. He frowned and shook his head. "I don't think so," he started, but Amita's voice suddenly interrupted.

"She could have a point," she said in a near-whisper, still looking at the tabletop.

Alan looked flummoxed for a moment, then reached out and took Amita's hand. "Sweetheart? Is there something you know?"

She turned her head and raised eyes shining with unshed tears to look at Alan. "I know," she breathed in a somewhat wobbly voice, "that Charlie obviously felt he couldn't come to me for help." She blushed. "My cousin put the family through years of heartbreak because of addiction before he finally OD'd; I've always had very strong opinions on this subject, and Charlie knows that." A defensive expression crossed her face, but it was soon replaced with one of sadness and resignation. She pulled her hand from Alan's and turned her head to look at Liz. "You're right about Don feeling responsible for Charlie. Even after the...incident, when Don...fell down the stairs, his main concern was always his brother. Even if Don didn't take him to a rehabilitation facility, they could be holed up in a hotel somewhere."

"Why would they do that?" Alan demanded. "And why wouldn't Don at least tell us what he was going to do?"

Amita chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, then went back to staring at the tabletop. "Something like this could lead to the loss of Charlie's clearance," she mused, then glanced at Liz. "Couldn't it?"

Liz shrugged. "Conceivably. There are a lot of variables..."

Amita didn't seem to want to hear anymore, and turned her attention to Alan. "Maybe Don's job would even be endangered, if he covered for Charlie. Maybe Don didn't want you worrying, or fluttering around making Jello..."

Alan reddened, and Amita gasped. This time, she reached for Alan's hand. "Oh, God, Dad, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that!" She was on the verge of hysteria. "Please, forgive me!"

Alan smiled, and squeezed her hand. "There's nothing to forgive, dear. Everyone knows I make Jello."

Liz grinned, and Amita tried to smile. The tears that had been threatening suddenly began to fall, however, and soon her face was a study in misery. "Why would he leave me?" she whispered.

Alan let go of her hand - but only long enough to rise from his chair and move to stand behind hers. He leaned to wrap a now-sobbing Amita in his arms. "Hush, now," he murmured into her ear. "Charlie loves you; don't question that. Hush, sweetheart...it's okay…."

...

Nikki lounged against the battered desk at LAPD headquarters and inhaled the aroma of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The scent of both the coffee and the office brought back memories. Coffee there had its own particular bouquet – stronger than normal, slightly acid. She missed the coffee – but as much as she had enjoyed the work there, she didn't miss being an officer. How could she miss it, after the step up she'd been handed? F B I. She spoke the letters to herself, proudly, almost mystically. She was FBI.

She sipped at her coffee, waiting while Joe Wharton talked on the phone. She knew him from back when, and as her luck would have it, he'd been assigned to the Eppes case. He was a ready-made contact, and she was there to pick his brains, just as she'd been instructed to do by A.D. Wright. She paused in mid-sip as Joe's voice rose, and she looked at him. He was looking back at her meaningfully, wanting her to hear his side of the conversation.

"Slow down, miss. What did you say your name was? Trina Watson? Can you spell that for me?" He jotted on a pad of paper, and began repeating back to her what he'd heard, partly to confirm it, but partly so that Nikki could hear. "Okay, now, you're saying you got an email from an old patient of yours? He says he's in trouble – that he's in fear for his life from his sister, who is his caretaker now? And where are you? San Franciso? Why are you calling LAPD? Because your old patient is in the L.A. area? And 911 gave you the LAPD switchboard number. Okay. Hold on just a second." He covered the receiver with his hand, and spoke quietly to Nikki.

"I'm trying to slow her down, get her to calm down and talk through this again, but you may want to get on the phone with your people while I do this. She says she was contacted by a former patient of hers named Mark Vincent, who is now in the care of his sister. I worked the Montague case – Mark Vincent's sister is Audrey Montague." His eyes gleamed with excitement. "But get this – Ms. Watson here said there are two others captive, there with him."

Nikki stared at him. "That doesn't even make sense," she said. "Mark Vincent is in a coma. How could he email her?"

Joe's face fell. "I forgot about that." His forehead puckered. "Was he really in a coma? Or maybe he was just a paraplegic or something – can't they hook someone like that up to a computer?"

"I don't know," Nikki said slowly. "I thought he was comatose. I'm gonna call and check though, just to be sure. Does she have an address?"

Joe spoke into the phone. "Ms. Watson, do you have an address, a location of where they are supposed to be? Okay, let me write that down. Look, I'm gonna give you my email address, and I want you to forward that email to me. Okay, hold on…"

Nikki didn't hear the rest of the conversation; she had pulled out her cell phone and was busy starting a call of her own. Her coffee sat, forgotten and growing stone cold on an LAPD desk, as it had so many times in the past.

…

A half hour later, Nikki was back at the FBI offices, huddled in a conference room with Colby, Liz, David, Sam Jarrett, and A.D. Wright. It was nearly eight in the morning, and the bullpen bustled with agents. Inside the conference room, however, it was quiet, as Liz' quick fingers hit a keyboard. She waited then, frowned and shook her head. "Nothing," she muttered. "I don't see any property listings under Audrey's name – not under Montague, and not under her maiden name, Paris. Not just here – nothing comes up on the national database, either."

A.D. Wright frowned. "She's not listed as the owner of the address that Trina Watson gave us?"

Liz shook her head. "No, it's another name -," she broke off abruptly and hit the keys again.

David's brows were drawn. "I don't know, this just doesn't sound right. Mark Vincent was in a coma – how could he possibly communicate?"

"We're sure he's in a coma?" interjected Colby. "Maybe he has some function."

"I saw him," retorted David, his dark eyes flashing. "When we were working the Tuttle case, I drove over to San Francisco to check out Audrey's story, and to make sure this brother of hers was real. He was real, all right. His eyes were open, but he couldn't move, couldn't talk. He was just a shell."

"And shells don't send emails," said Liz, quietly, thoughtfully. Colby and David glared at each other across the table.

Liz hit the 'enter' key, and uttered an exclamation. "Now I know why the property owner's name sounded familiar. He's Audrey's attorney!"

Sam Jarrett spoke up. "She must have had him put the house in his name – but why?"

"A need for privacy, maybe -," Colby was already rising from the table, "who cares? That's enough for me."

David opened his mouth with a scowl, apparently to argue, but Sam Jarrett cut him off. His drawl was quiet, but his voice had a weight that belied his soft delivery. It had the effect of stopping Colby in his tracks, and David in mid sentence. "I'm thinkin' it bears checkin' out," he stated calmly, "but since we aren't sure, we ought to do it right. Unless you don't need little things like warrants here in the big city."

A.D. Wright grinned at him. "We most certainly do. Granger, just hold up. You aren't going dashing off half-cocked, and Sinclair, don't smirk – I agree with Colby and Sam – this is enough reason to go check it out. Get a warrant and a team together - we're going in."

….

J. Everett Tuttle sat on the veranda of his rented house in the Caymans, and frowned absently at the handy man several yards below him, pruning the tropical growth that was constantly threatening to choke the driveway. He'd just hung up from a phone call with his man Ralph Nardek, and the nagging sensation that had begun a day or two ago was intensifying. He couldn't put a finger on it – couldn't even call it a suspicion, but he felt instinctively that something wasn't right. Never mind the fact that Nardek was supposed to be on a plane out to join him today, and had cancelled his flight. No, there was something else there – the partly cocky, partly evasive tone in Nardek's voice that had never been there before, his hesitation before answering routine comments or questions, as if he was thinking about his reply, first – but it wasn't enough to point out, to call him on it. Just enough to make J. Everett Tuttle wonder if he was being sold out, and to spark thoughts of how he would retaliate if he was.

….

Charlie retched weakly, and took in a shuddering breath. He was swimming in pain; it seemed that he'd been either hit or kicked everywhere on his body, except for his head, and even there he'd taken a couple of glancing blows to the face. Nardek hadn't wanted to knock him out, but he had apparently enjoyed inflicting pain, and had delivered blow after punishing blow, magnified by the brass knuckles and the nightstick he'd used to deliver most of his abuse to Charlie's torso and arms. Legs were another story; Nardek had preferred to use his own legs and feet there – stomping and kicking. Charlie was sure that nearly every square inch of his body was bruised.

That alone didn't account for how badly he felt, however. Bruises were just that – bruises, and as painful as they were, he didn't think they could account for all of his other symptoms – the dizziness, the nausea, the strange pains that gripped his chest and made it hard to breathe. He must have internal injuries, he reasoned; he was certain he had broken ribs. He retched again, and the resulting wave of pain that coursed through his body pulled a whimper from him.

"Charlie."

Charlie blinked, and tried to focus. Don was awake and crawling toward him, painfully. He looked bad, too – he was breathing heavily as he pulled himself along the floor. Charlie couldn't respond; he didn't have enough left, just stared through slit eyes as his brother crept next to him, and raised a hand that still had a fuzzy pink cuff attached, encircling his bloody wrist. Don lowered the hand gently on Charlie's shoulder and left it there, and just panted for a moment, trying to regain his own breath. "He's typing. Mark. Can't see what – but I hope – he's calling for help. If he is, Buddy – it shouldn't be long – you just need to hang in there – okay?"

Charlie closed his eyes, swallowed, then opened them and tried form a response. Okay. His lips moved, but no sound came. A shudder ran through him; he closed his eyes, then fought to open them again. The dizziness overwhelmed him; he felt un-tethered, drifting, as if he were twisting in the wind. Had to stay awake, in case they came back. If he was unconscious, they would turn on Don, and he couldn't let them hurt his brother any more than they already had. After all, it was his fault that Don was here. Had to hold out, as long as he could…

The door creaked behind him, and he stiffened. Ralph Nardek's voice floated into the room behind him.

"Hello, boys. How are we doing this morning?"

….

End Chapter 21