"First Baptist Church of Chicago." Mahone tapped the paper in front of him. He was still pissed that the list had taken so long to comprise. What did these people not get about top priority? And computer problems? That just didn't cut it when someone's life was at stake. This was the FBI for God's sake!
Miss Revlon looked up at his voice, her baby blues somehow more startling without those extra minutes spent in front of a mirror. For once her eyes were naked. In fact, having been pulled from her bed in the middle of the night, Agent Morgan was completely free of face armor.
"I thought Christina Scofield was a Catholic?" she didn't sound nearly as argumentative either; Mahone took a moment to muse before responding. "She was when she died, but we don't know if this was always the case or that religious denomination would matter to Scofield. It seems to me the church's location would be the most important factor."
"It's worth checking into," definitely not as argumentative.
She was opening her mouth, perhaps to prove him wrong when Frank Tancredi entered the room. Mahone saw her eyes shift to the door, watched as they softened and then turned to take in the man's disheveled look for himself. Tancredi looked like he hadn't slept in a week and Mahone figured it must be nearing that.
"Sir, we've checked the Catholic churches with no luck. We're moving on to any and all condemned churches. We will find them."
Frank nodded, but the hope was gone from his eyes. Mahone had the feeling the man believed his daughter was dead and was just going through the motions. But he hoped to prove Tancredi wrong.
"Let's start with First Baptist...Praise Temple Baptist…Go down the list until we find them." Mahone's eyes flicked to the man who had been standing quietly, awaiting further instruction," Get moving Agent…now."
"Yes Sir!" seconds later, a man with a mission, Agent Hale was moving out the door.
XXXXX
Crumpling up the Styrofoam cup he held in his hand, Mahone tossed it aside and grabbed the piece of paper listing the abandoned churches in and around the Chicago area. His eyes moved slowly over the black print as if he had missed something, but what?
The list was in alphabetical order, from First Baptist to Stone Temple Baptist. He was still studying the page when something occurred to him.
And while it was probably a long shot, the need to keep busy drove him. Pulling his chair closer to the desk, his long fingers found a home on the keypad of his computer and he began to type.
Knowing that his men would start at the top of the list as ordered, Mahone chose a different path. With a few taps, Stone Temple Baptist Church appeared in the search engine at the top of the screen and he hit enter. Mahone wasn't really expecting much but when the results popped up his eyes widened. 'Formerly, St. Nickolas Catholic Church… Stone Temple Baptist was renovated in the 90's and closed in 2005 after a small fire, thought to be arson...'
"Son of a bitch!"
He was just reaching for the phone to redirect his team when Agent Morgan sailed through the door.
"You found something," this wasn't a question and he didn't bother answering.
Agent Morgan could probably feel the electric current in the air, the same current that was making every hair on the back of Mahone's neck stand up.
He had found something all right.
Jumping to his feet, he was already moving as he barked his commands into the phone. "Stone Temple Baptist, 60623 English. I want every man we have on this!"
Mahone didn't notice Agent Morgan's eyes riveted on him as he finished relaying his orders. It wasn't until he had slipped his cell phone into his pocket and was speeding past her that he even remembered her presence in the room at all.
Matching the urgency in his stride as she struggled to keep up with him, "How can you be so sure they're at Stone Temple Baptist?"
Mahone barely looked her way, "I Googled it."
XXXXX
The church wasn't dark, the pews lined up like silent sentinels could attest to this. But it was dim enough for Sara, in her haste, to bump into the last pew. It was almost as if the heavy bench had jumped right out in front of her.
This thought, along with many others, leapt into her head even as she winced at the scraping sound of wood on wood. Even as her already pounding heart sped despite the reasoning that Michael couldn't possibly hear her through the closed door, and she had closed the door, she was certain of it. Not to mention the fact that the room was sound proofed, or so he had promised the day of her arrival.
Still the scraping sound had had the affect of finger nails on a chalk board and Sara's shin was still throbbing from the bump.
She ignored the pain and pushed on, her immediate goal the big double doors that seemed so very far away. She was almost there when her eyes were drawn to the small sofa, chair and coffee table set off to a side of the room that had been cleared, most likely to allow for this small living space.
The sofa and chair were worn and mended with duct tape, most likely curbside treasures, the table nicked and scarred, but Sara barely registered these things as her focus went to the objects laid out on the table: a set of car keys and her cell phone. The battery and her SM card rested next to the phone. Dissected but undamaged. It made sense that Michael would disassemble the device, things like that could be traced, couldn't they?
Quickly, but quietly Sara scooped everything up, her nervous fingers almost fumbling the items but she managed to keep her grip long enough to stuff everything but the set of keys into one of the pockets of the sweatpants she was wearing. The keys she gripped tightly, to keep them from knocking together.
She was turning to head for the door when she noticed the duffle bag. It was setting on the floor next to the sofa. Against her better judgment, but her curiosity getting the better of her, Sara moved quietly to the sofa. The soft sound of fabric on fabric breaking the heavy silence as her backside made contact with the edge of the sofa. In contrast, the zipper of the duffle bag equaled, or so it seemed to Sara, the zip of a rocket as she wincingly eased it along it's track.
Pushing open the heavy nylon she peered into the bag. The documents, passports, new identities for the three brother's glared accusingly up at Sara, as if to ask why she was doing this to them.
Taking a deep breath, she averted her eyes and eased the documents out placing them beside her on the sofa, where they instantly slid, the papers on the top moving to reveal a fourth passport. She reached for it not needing to open the small blue folder to know what she would find. But somehow she did need to see it.
Her own face stared up at her, the photo one she didn't recognize at first, but then it hit her. A friend had snapped the picture with Sara's own cell phone a month or so back. She thought she had deleted it…
Sara Michaels, her new identity blurred for a moment as the reversal of the two printed words, Michael's Sara…refusing to go unnoticed, brought tears of pain to her eyes.
Swallowing back her tears, Sara placed the passport on top of the other documents.
With hands that were shaking even more, she reached back into the bag.
The rest of the duffle's contents were what one would expect, clothing, toiletries…a wallet.
Sara hesitantly reached for the smooth brown leather. It was a bi-fold, just a cheap $20.00 wallet worn around the edges from being carried in a back pocket. Michael's back pocket.
Why was she doing this to herself? Why not just go? Michael could wake up any moment and notice she was missing. Still her finger's disobeyed and closed around the soft leather, as if her heart were leading the way, as if it had an agenda all it's own.
Sara opened the wallet slowly as if it too would make a mountainous noise, but it was only the soft moan from her own lips that broke the quiet's pall.
The two boys, caught at a happier time, smiled up at her, their eyes squinting from the sun, sure to be more startling than the sky that framed them, bluer than the waves that danced motionless at their sandy feet. They were on the beach, arms slung around one another, in a careless but caring fashion.
Like brothers…
Sara's eyes filled again and she brushed the soft sleeve of her shirt across them to clear her vision.
She couldn't do this. Maybe once the brother's were free…once they were in Panama, then she could slip away. If she left now Michael would panic, he would panic and rush things. They would get caught. But he was a murderer and…And she no longer cared.
Her eyes swam over the unscarred flesh of the blue eyed boy, the smaller of the two…She had seen glimpses of that boy in Michael and it was Lincoln that kept that small piece of him alive. With time, maybe the two brothers could get that back?
Shoving the items back into the bag took no more than a few seconds, the zipper louder than a jet's zip this time followed and then Sara was rising from the sofa. She was about to retrieve the items from her pocket so that she could return them to their spot on the table when the floor board creaked.
Her eyes flew up at the small sound that was like a fire cracker in the silence and then they were opening wide in a freezing horror.
His hair mussed as if from sleep, a very much alive Paul Kellerman was standing no more than five feet from her.
He's alive? Paul's alive and he was sneaking up on me.
This thought flew through the windows of Sara's mind and then it was gone like vapor in the wind, only to be replaced by the certainty of, Paul's here and he's going to kill me. It was as if her pulse pounded out each word in slow motion, Paul's…here…and…he's…going…to…kill…me… But that made no sense because her heart was speeding.
A smirk snaked onto Paul's lips. Her growing fear was apparent. "What do we have here…little birdie thinking about flying the coop? I can practically see your little birdie heart pounding from here…"
Sara's eyes darted to the sofa where the car keys lay. In order to search through the duffle bag she had set them aside. The keys would have made a good weapon. She cursed herself for only a moment and then through her escalating panic she remembered the syringe tucked into the tightened waistband of her pants. If she could only get to it in time.
"Paul…you're alive…I'm…I'm glad" it was all she could manage in her efforts to make nice...to delay the inevitable.
The words left a dirty aftertaste in her mouth.
"Did you think that I wasn't, Sara? Is that what Michael told you? What a sly bastard. No wonder you looked like you'd seen a ghost!" Paul's smirk which was out in full glory shattered into a laugh that raised the hairs on the back of Sara's neck.
If he gets a hold of me…
Sara's feet instantly came un-glued and she shuffled back two paces. The small table was somewhere off to her left, the sofa behind it. The chair was to her right. She couldn't let Paul corner her in. If she wasn't careful he could easily do so, taking advantage of her panicked state. Hoping it would go unnoticed, Sara consciously eased her body further right, bringing her a little closer to the double doors of the church.
She could make a run for it…
"You could always make a run for it…" his amused voice echoed her thoughts.
Sara froze, her eyes never leaving his face.
Paul liked the chase.
Her mind filled with the horrible things Paul would do to her if he caught her, and he would catch her, Sara knew this with a certainty. If she ran he would catch her and the encounter would be volatile. But if she could somehow control the situation...If she could get to the syringe...Get close enough…
The plan was crazy. But not only was it crazy, it could easily get her killed…or worse.
But she wasn't going to run…and if she wasn't going to run this was her only hope.
Sara took another step. This time in Paul's direction.
The expression on his face changed from one of amusement to amused surprise. "What are you up to little bird?"
He stayed where he was, still looking relaxed, his belief not daunted in the least, that he was still the one in control of the situation. Sara almost let this sway her. Almost let his reaction, or lack of reaction freeze the puddles that her reluctant feet had temporarily become stuck in. At least he hadn't launched himself at her…yet.
"I'm not up to anything…It's just…" Sara made herself speak, hoping to sound friendly and inviting. She paused and pushed her hair back from her eyes, to lock gazes with him, "we don't have to tell Michael about this, you know? This can be our secret Paul," her hand had moved to the collar of her shirt where she played her fingers along the edges of thin fabric attempting to draw his eyes to her skin.
His eyes took in her white flesh and then he was moving. He took two steps before stopping and despite her slamming heart, Sara somehow stood her ground.
He was so close…too close…but she needed him closer still, if this was going to work.
"Our secret?" His head was cocked to the side as if studying her, as if he was still trying to figure out what she was up to.
A chill moved along Sara's wired spine, but she nodded and took another three steps, her movements closing the gap between them. There was less than half a foot between them now.
All it would take…
His fingers moved up to graze her neck, the pulse beating there a worthy rival to any speed metal band. She darted her tongue out to swab her dry lips and his eyes followed.
"You forgot something Sara…" She noticed the smile on his lips turn nasty a second before he slammed her body into the wall.
"You forgot that I like it rough!" Paul said as he hauled Sara from where she now lay stunned and gasping on the floor. The impact with which she had hit the wall had knocked the wind from her and she couldn't seem to catch her breath.
Everything was happening as if in slow motion, one minute Paul was standing over her and the next he was forcing her up and against the wall, his body pressing into her, convincing her that there was more to come.
"I want you to stay awake for this. Pity I can't let you scream. I really wanted to hear you scream, Sara, but we'll make do," he sounded almost remorseful as his body pressed into her again.
She had to get to the syringe before he discovered it.
A quizzical expression lit his face and Sara felt all hope leave her, he had felt the syringe in her waistband.
"What's this?" his fingers roughly moved between them and down her body, but instead of stopping at her waist as Sara had feared he would, his hand moved lower and dove into her pocket.
"What do we have here?" he repeated, as if there was a chance she hadn't heard him. His meaty fingers were gripping the cell phone and its life blood. He brought the pieces up in front of her watering eyes. Sara was still having a hard time breathing, he was pressing too much of his weight against her lungs and rib cage. And she held the small hope that he would not notice that she was crying, that he would believe the wetness on her cheeks was due only to a lack of oxygen. She didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction.
He waggled the phone in front of her face, "Who ya gonna call Sara, huh, Ghostbusters? Get it; you thought I was dead…thought you were seeing a ghost?" His laugh spewed out into her face then, a lunatic spray of spittle and bad breath hitting her hot tear slick cheeks.
He tossed the phone parts aside and reached for her face, his fingers squeezing, his short, trim nails sliding, leaving snail-like marks along her wet cheeks. "Michael doesn't even have to know about this Sara, it can be our secret."
And then he slapped her hard.
The blow knocked the side of her head into the wall and she felt the tip of a painful heat bloom as a bruise took shape on her left cheekbone. Soon the heat would spread and Sara's whole face would be on fire. The taste of blood filled her mouth as she licked the split in her rapidly swelling lower lip, but she didn't have time to think about these things as Paul yanked her head back by her hair.
"Fight me you stupid cunt!" he spat harsely
"Fuck you!" Sara spat back, the red spittle dotting his unshaven cheeks.
She squeezed her eyes closed in preparation for the blow that her words were sure to inspire. But it was cold steel that met her hot swollen cheek instead.
She opened her eyes to meet his seething blue stare. "You're really not that much fun, you know? I don't know what my brother sees in you…oops...saw in you." He traced the edge of the Glock 19 along her chin. Looking down, Sara could see that the gun was fitted with a silencer. He noticed her taking this knowledge in. "Can't wake the whole church…God needs his rest, Sara."
"Let her go, Paul."
"Michael!" One second she was against the wall the next she was in front of Paul, the gun now pressed into her neck from where he stood behind her.
"She was trying to escape Michael. She had the phone." Paul nodded toward the discarded pieces. "She was gonna call the cops. I caught her trying to put the damn thing back together."
"He's lying, Michael! Yes, I was going to leave. But then I couldn't…I couldn't leave…I care about you Michael." Sara pleaded, her eyes searching his. "I swear Michael...I know how much this means to you."
"I care about you Michael, I know how much this means to you!" Paul mocked savagely. "She's a lying bitch Michael!"
Michael's cold eyes moved from Paul, to Sara and then to the now shattered cell phone lying on the floor.
"Let her go Paul. I'll deal with this."
"You'll deal with this? How, Michael? Slap her on the hand. Take her upstairs, cuff her to the bed and then what, bring her a bologna sandwich? Fuck that! I have the gun this time! I'm the one calling the shots!"
In Paul's agitation, the gun dug into Sara's neck and it was this that woke her up. All of Paul's concentration was on Michael. He no longer saw her as a threat, if he ever had and she highly doubted it. But maybe his underestimation of her could work in her favor?
The problem was, when she went for the syringe of morphine, Michael would see what she was doing. Her eyes sought his out and caught them.
Paul was still yelling, something about Michael always getting his way, but Sara was tuning it out. She wondered what Michael was thinking as her hand started to move toward her waistband. She was begging him with her eyes to not give her away, to not tip his brother off. And so far Paul was unaware of her movements.
But if Michael were to sound the alarm it would all be over.
And even if he didn't, how long would it take for the morphine to do its work? Long enough for Paul to squeeze off a few killing shots, first in her direction and then in Michael's?
It's all or nothing, Sara thought as she pulled the syringe out from under her shirt and into plain view.
If Michael saw it, and Sara was sure that he must have, he wore his best poker face. She slid the cap off and squeezed her palm around it to keep from dropping it and giving herself away.
"Let her go Paul," Michael tried one last time, and Sara saw it for what it was, Michael giving his brother one last chance to walk away. But she was surprised when Michael took a step toward them.
"Stop!" Paul yelled into her ear, the sound almost deafening. "I'll fucking shoot her…I swear I'll fucking kill her Michael!"
"Give me the gun Paul."
Michael took another step, his hand held out, palm up as if to receive the gun.
What was he doing?! Sara's grip on the syringe tightened. She needed to think! She quickly calculated Paul's height, 6'2, and then aimed blindly for the spot the main artery in his upper thigh would be located.
She was as ready as she would ever be.
"I said stop!" The gun left her neck and now Paul was pointing it at Michael, who froze in his tracks as soon as the barrel of the silencer landed on him.
"Do it." Michael said, his cool blue eyes never leaving Paul's red face. "Do it...now." It took Sara a few seconds to realize that Michael was not talking to his brother. He was telling her to use the syringe.
Without another thought, Sara slammed her arm down hard, her grip sure on the syringe and then she was hitting meat, the plunger pressing down on impact.
All of this happened in seconds accompanied by the sound of a gunshot, a muffled thwap as the bullet moved through the silencer.