Warnings: Angst, violence, sexual situations, adult language, mentions of non-consensual sex and BDSM. If I had a penny for every mistake in this chapter, I'd be soooo rich (in other words, not beta-read). Bad formatting, too, but that's totally my browser's fault.
Author's note: This is the part of the story borrowed from "The Watcher," that really special movie with Keanu. And by borrowed I mean "Completely yoinked." If all the borrowing bothers you, remind yourself that you're reading a supernatural crime AU slash fanfiction and feel okay with the world again.
The story so far:
In the city of July, the man known only as Picasso has been stalking and killing young women, leaving their bodies in twisted configurations for the police to find. Picasso's newfound obsession with the detective in charge of the investigation has caused deadly events to occur. When Wolfwood left town to find answers about the case, his absence prompted Picasso to massacre over a dozen people in a club, forcing Wolfwood back to July. In his absence, Vash began a massive manhunt for their only suspect, a blonde man known only as Ray Hawthorn. Now, Wolfwood is recuperating in Vash's apartment after a forbidden night indulging in his secret passion for pain. And just as things seem to be changing for the better in his relationship with his trusted partner, Wolfwood receives an unexpected phone call.
The story continues.
Part XXXVII: The Gauntlet
Late at night, they told stories at the orphanage. This wasn't so long ago, not so removed from the terrible events of that sweltering summer in the city of July: just long enough for people to forget, except for the ones who couldn't.
The oldest and most famous stories said that, one day years ago, one of the older boys had tired of the abuse and had seen to it that the horrible caretaker and the filthy janitor got what had been coming to them for a long time. The caretaker never raised a hand or a paddle against the children after that day; the janitor never touched them in the ways they hated again. After all, the children whispered from beneath their sheets, the dead had a hard time doing either.
The story went on to say that the boy had surely been responsible though he'd never lifted a finger. He had, quite simply, convinced the two to murder each other. The official report said they had argued about money, but the children whispered that they had never known what they were arguing about, and then the guns had gone off and it hadn't matter much at all.
As for the boy, everyone said that no one would have ever thought to pin the crimes on him. They said he had looked like an angel. Still, all the children—storytellers and audience alike—knew, that though there had been no blood on his hands, there had been plenty on his soul. It just had to be true. It just had to be.
The girls squealed that it was a terrible story and that they didn't believe it (but all secretly hoped it was true because maybe it could happen again). The boys swore they had met the man and invented sweeping tales about his adventures around the world because a kid like that had to move on to do great things. But there were boys, too, who said it wasn't true and that they heard the fight really had been about money and that there never had been such a boy here, anyway. They, too, hoped they were wrong.
He was a hero, real or not, to the orphans who came after him. Even to the ones who said they didn't believe a word of it. Even to the ones with no reason to hope such things could happen. The ones who had it even worse than their hero had. The ones who bit the pillow to keep from screaming when they came for them—and they always did. The ones who spent the mornings scrubbing the blood from their sheets and trying to sit and walk in ways that didn't hurt. Yes, he was their hero because he had done something about it. He had made it all stop.
And one day, he came back to help them. Several children got to boast, "I told you he was real," that day. He swept into their lives like a prince in a fairytale, come to slay the dragons. There were many children who, overawed, could only stare because he truly did look like an angel. The rest tried to talk to him, to ask him what he had come to do.
"Patience," he answered. Then he moved through the halls silently and they followed him wide-eyed and mesmerized.
A new story was made that day.
This time, the story said, the angel hadn't done the killing himself. He had helped another boy do that, a boy just as strange and wonderful as he was.
That day, the angel had looked down at the special boy and taken his hand. "I can teach you. I can help you. But first, you have to help me. You want to help me, don't you?"
And the boy had wanted to. So very much. He had looked up with wide eyes and waited for instructions. "Good. Come with me," the angel had said. "We'll end the pain together. We'll make sure they never hurt you again." He knocked on the office door politely and then entered, leading the boy with him.
The door closed heavily. It had been over in short, scream-filled moments.
"I can't stay, but I'll be back," the angel had promised and gone as silently as he'd come.
Later, the cleaning staff whispered about all the blood within earshot of the children who hadn't seen while the police tried their best not to talk about it. None of the children mentioned the angel. None of them knew a thing.
"Honestly, Mister. We just found them that way. Honest." They hid their smiles with convincing frowns. "We didn't hear nothing, either."
After the second homicide in only ten years—this one too gruesome to be believed—the orphanage was to be closed and the children sent away. There had never been an investigation, just a small file locked away with all the other hopeless cases. The day before the children were to be moved, the doorbell rang. All the children smiled, grabbed their bags, and hurried down the steps.
"Are you ready?" the angel asked. And of course, they were.
And the old people living in the big, musty houses nearby talked about how strange it was that all the children had disappeared.
"Strange not to hear them crying at night no more," they said. "And they didn't never go with no police, neither. They just up and disappeared. Just plain gone."
But the children were someplace better, someplace where they never had reason to cry at night.
And they surfaced later as the years went by: nameless, clean-slates with a singular mission and a singular goal in fulfilling it. After all, their hero appreciated their gratitude. Their Angel appreciated loyalty. And those former orphan children gave both, tirelessly. For years and years they never wavered. Never questioned what it was they owned him, never looked at any other path.
All but the special boy he had taken under his wing and guided. That boy became a man. And one day, he strayed. For him, unlike the others, something had changed. That former orphan, who had been so loyal to the angel for so long, could not give a reason or an explanation for the change himself. It...bothered him.
Had it been gradual, like a slowly digested idea, or had it struck like lightning; like the lightning that had come with the storm that day?
That day.
The day he had first seen the Detective.
The part of his mind that functioned the way that he imagined other people's functioned tried to convince him that this distraction was a temporary setback. The minute he understood the cause of these new discordant thoughts, the minute he understood what he wanted from the man, he would be cured of him and free to rip him into a million pieces. Not so long ago, he would have done it not just for the pleasure of it—because there was pleasure to be had in taking life—but for the sake of the angel who guided him through life and the world.
Now, for himself alone, he wanted to bring this all to an end. He told himself so everyday even as, somehow, he never did. He did want to destroy him. He did.
The Detective's body in shreds would be the perfect window to the corruption of the man's soul. Everybody would know then what so very few knew. The Detective's life was one tangled up in lies and sustained on pains and pleasure he denied himself. Taking the man down would be so easy. He had only to strike and he could end all of that imperfection as easily as he had before.
And everyday his arguments were quieted by another voice that said: yes, you can end this, as soon as you find out why you don't want to. As soon as he found out why he was content to watch him. To be near him. To try and break him. Why he was so angry with the idea of him breaking his routine, leaving town, abandoning the game.
Nothing made sense.
But he had yet to pinpoint the cause, as busy as he was coping with the symptoms. He couldn't even really fathom the start of the trouble. Had it all gone pear-shaped when Milly—beautiful, sweet, obedient Milly—had been taken away from him?
Before that?
And how was he to find the answer?
He remembered the letter he kept and treasured and what it said. The letter began, simply, with words that were common, but somehow they felt poignant arranged as they were by the hand of obsession.
"His name was Chapel and he was beautiful. I owned him for days. And even though I now know what he was, I'll never forget what he is. I want that truth again. I want him back."
Somehow, Leatherman had fallen under the same spell and seemed to understand the whole of it. The cause, the effect, the madness. He resented Leatherman for that even if he admired him.
But last night had been a revelation for him. Last night, the Detective hadn't been so careful. He'd been reckless enough that following him had been easy. Something had angered him and made him fearless enough to give in. So he'd watched.
Watched the Detective enter the club in a seedy part of town. Stood deep in the shadows where the lights didn't stretch as the music pounded and the bodies writhed around him. Waited for him to disappear with the first stranger that caught his fancy. He followed, he watched. After the screams and the begging through the door and the smell of sweat and blood, he felt no pity for him as he was half dragged to safety by his meddlesome partner. More than anything, he was angry because, once again, the Detective had proven too difficult to predict.
He hadn't gone home like he was supposed to. He'd gone with him.
The patterns that were meant to be part of the Detective's life were all twisted and the fact that such behavior usually marked the end of everything—and this time didn't at all—just further upset him. He felt tempted to go back out and make his rage known in another nameless victim. But that hadn't made him feel better the last time. No, he needed answers.
What, what did he want from this man? Why couldn't he kill him?
It became clear to him all at once, like light dawning on the horizon.
He returned to his silent home and found himself with nothing to do but think. Daylight was threatening to shake off the dark and shine through by the time he threw the locks and stood in the center of the room like a lost child.
He ran a bath as hot as he could make it and sank into it up to his neck. He nestled in the water for so long that it was tepid by the time he emerged. He realized what he wanted after the sweat and longing from the club were swirling down the drain—after the sounds and the knowledge of what went on behind closed doors faded from his mind.
What he wanted.
He knew now, and it wasn't what he had feared. He had convinced himself of it. Certainly his behavior the other night with that hooker—that blue-eyed false idol who was only close enough—had alarmed him. But now he was certain that his fears had been unfounded. He didn't want that from the Detective. Of course not.
What he wanted was a whetting stone. Someone to sharpen his mind on. For too long he had been without an adversary he could identify. Detective Marlin had been the last one with a face he knew, with a life he could watch, with a family he could threaten. The detective—detectives as it turned out—who had taken his place had laid low, unknown and mysterious for over a year and a half. That alone had upset things, ruined his system, his routine. Now they stood in the open, revealed. And while neither man was what he seemed, the Detective was the one with secrets that spoke to him. A walking contradiction with eyes like a midnight sky.
What he had seen of Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood felt like a mere, insufficient glimpse and it only made him want to see more. In the bath, he had realized what he was now certain was the problem: he had never seen the man work. With all the others, he had known their lives and their little secrets to the minutest details. Even pretty little Kelly who had studied during the day and danced like a slut at night. He had sometimes returned to the scene when his artwork was still on display for all to see and studied the detectives as they walked around the bodies, stooped to lift clues from the pavement, cursed when they found nothing at all. He knew all their strategies and how to evade them.
That wasn't the case now.
The Detective hid. Not just his techniques, but also his flaws. Even to those that knew them intimately, he still played the good guy, pretended to be something he wasn't. And even when he dropped the act long enough to bathe in pain and be his true self, he always returned to the lie like he refused to let it be broken.
He wanted to know where Chapel began and the Detective ended. And for that to happen, he needed to see him. He needed the world to revolve around just the two of them long enough for him to find the answers.
A plan formed in his mind, as easy as anything ever had. And before the night was over, it was finished. Perfect in its simplicity. The sun had fought its way to a new beginning and everything was ready.
He smiled. The Detective would be so surprised when he heard about what was in store for him. And part of him imagined that he might even be pleased.
Touched.
Grateful.
It wasn't paranoia. It was self-preservation taking over his senses. The detectives he was so fond of tormenting—they were like bloodhounds. The whole city was a giant trap and everywhere he went he swore people cast suspicious glances at him. There was no light pole, no bulletin board, no post office window without his face plastered to it. He felt hunted, wronged, and betrayed.
He wasn't sure how things had come to be this way. Things like this didn't happen. Not to him. Him! Someone of his wisdom, his vision and talents cut off from all his supporters. Of those in July, he knew very little of what had become of them. Worse, he couldn't get back to Hale Beach to contact anyone there easily. His home was a crime scene now and he'd never see it again. He knew some of them, like Dominique, had been captured.
And then there was the greatest of them all, the most loyal. The disappointment.
He had turned against him. The very idea of it angered him. Things like this were never meant to happen. What would it take to make a man bred for obedience turn against his instincts like this?
That he couldn't answer. All he could do was hope that, perhaps, there was some loyalty left after all.
He scampered through the shadows made by the sun as it struggled through the sky towards a hot afternoon that was still hours and hours away. Sweat trickled from his blonde hair down his face. The world wasn't even awake yet, but he couldn't sleep. They'd catch him if he tried to sleep. He'd made a run for it on a tank of gas the day they'd come for him. He'd thought he was free to cross the border. He'd been so wrong. Every way out, every possible path to salvation had been blocked, guarded. The tank of gas had run out as he darted from false hope to false hope. And now he was out of options. There was only one place left to go and even that did not come with guarantees.
He saw the dark building—so close, just across the street—and raced to it. He was so close to what he hoped was salvation.
Inside, he stood still, hiding his anger as a pair of strange eyes peeked at him through the crack made by the space between the door and the frame. A heavy chain stretched across the gap, obscuring the view and making the man behind the door seem sinister.
"Your beloved detective has turned this city into a cage," he said after several minutes passed in silence. He wanted to go inside the apartment. The early morning rush to work passed him in the hallway and he was afraid, truly afraid for perhaps the first time in his life. He wondered if these neighbors, so busy with their little lives, knew what lived next door to them.
"You helped me once. The day they came for me, you helped me. But you were planning on leaving me to my fate this time," he said, knowing it wasn't true. His mind didn't work like that. He hadn't chosen to make him suffer; he had simply picked a different course that didn't involve him. Anger made him say the words anyway. "You saved me only to throw me to the wolves. Now you owe me."
The door opened.
He stepped inside, silently relieved and listening greedily for the sound of the many latches and bolts sliding back into place. It is always true that the most dangerous men in the world are also the most paranoid. This place was a fortress built by extreme caution and fear.
He didn't turn to face him yet. He wasn't quite sure of the expression he wore, couldn't trust it not to give everything away. Instead he spoke through clenched teeth with his back to the door. "Abandoning me. The one who made you what you are, who taught you everything."
"You'll damn us both if they saw you come here."
And that made him whirl on his feet. He glared at the other man with wolf-like carnage. "Would you truly leave me to be chased though the city like a dog until I run out of places to hide? I will not hang for crimes I did not commit."
He studied the anger on his mentor's face, head tilted to the side. "Ah, but will you hang for crimes committed in your name?"
The answer was a hiss through his teeth and a growl from his throat. "No."
The time that passed as they studied each other was tense and painful, like waiting for a sentence to be announced. And when his protégé strode towards him, he unconsciously tensed because the whole world was out to get him now and maybe this one was no different despite everything they had shared. There was a foot of space between them now and those intense eyes were staring at him curiously. He jumped in surprise when a hand cupped his cheek. It was cold, dry and somehow unnatural, just like its owner. But when it moved over its skin—the thumb tickling along his jaw and neck—it was lovingly done.
His darkly musical voice whispered, "It is true, I do owe you everything. I've always been grateful. And though I may not follow you as I once did, I am nothing if not loyal. I will not let them take you."
He hid his relief with a question. "What will you do?"
"Luckily, your return coincides with a new project of mine."
His cold eyes narrowed. "Something to do with that cop?" he spat. "Why is he different? What don't you just kill him and be done with it? Why haven't you forced him off the investigation? What is this obsession?"
His protégé's eyes widened for just a second, but he hid it by looked down, as if studying his feet. "The Detective is," was the start of his answer, but then he changed his mind and tried to begin with, "I'm...he," instead. That wasn't what he wanted to say either, so he assembled his thoughts and tried one last time:
"That is...we..."
He gave up and the shake of his head was violent.
"Tell me what it is you want from him," his mentor said and gripped the other man's wrist, yanking it away from his face and holding it tightly until he met his eyes. There was fear in the molten depths. Fear of something he didn't understand himself.
"I..."
"Legato," he demanded, his voice unyielding. He tugged on the wrist and pulled him close until their lips were close and their breaths mingled. "Tell me what you want from this man!" he whispered, almost like a caress. "Tell me."
And the killer named Legato was only being honest when he answered, "Everything."
He lowered his head again and backed away, ending their contact with a finality that almost hurt, as if the distance between them could only widen now. "I have a call to make," he said and turned away.
Morning was showing off, bright and hot and seemingly endless. Vash was gone.
Standing at the edge of doubt regarding what to do with him when he got back; covered in new scars that didn't hurt nearly as bad as the old ones had, but still hurt nonetheless, and fearing the worst for the state of this investigation and his job. It had all piled up on him when he wasn't looking. Wolfwood decided that this was one of those bad mornings. The kind that didn't start getting better until they got much, much worse. And then his cell phone rang and things really did get worse and, God, he was tired of being right.
"Wolfwood," he answered automatically.
"Oh, hello, Detective," a silken, acid voice replied and Wolfwood felt his blood turn to ice. This murderer who had turned his life into a circus had the nerve to call him now when he wasn't up to snuff, when he was in too much pain to say the right things and be who he needed to be? It was too much work to act right now.
Last night he'd had a taste of what he hadn't had in years and it made him feel a little reckless despite the pain. Or maybe because of it.
And that was the reason why, quite suddenly, he didn't feel the urge to put the mask back on. Some of that icy fear and panic melted into something else. What it became tapped at his brain like a persistent child. What it became was irritation and Wolfwood was in no condition to suppress it.
"Oh, it's you," he groaned and only then wondered if something was wrong with him. Normal people didn't talk to serial killers that way. But then, he wasn't exactly normal, was he?
"'Good morning' to you, too," the melodious voice said drolly, taking no offense.
Wolfwood shifted his cell phone against his ear, balancing it between his shoulder and neck, and padded to the bathroom. Vash's bathroom was not clean by Wolfwood's standards, but for Vash it was pretty good today; his usually less-than-tidy partner had even hung up towels. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like hell.
"Don't get all sulky because I'm not happy to hear from you. You stalked the girl I was dating, trashed my car, and put my partner in the hospital. Am I supposed to be happy to hear from you?"
Picasso didn't answer this. Instead, he said, "Where are you?"
Wolfwood rolled his eyes in the mirror. It was a weird facial expression to make when part of him was still terrified underneath it all. "Safe at home," he lied.
"No, you're not," Picasso replied coldly. His voice was inflexible and cruel, quite like the man himself must be, Wolfwood decided. A flash-bolt memory of the massacre at Club Illusion was a sobering reminder that he really didn't know who he was dealing with here. Lying to this guy wasn't the best idea. He took a step back from the conversation and tried to approach it more carefully.
"Don't worry," he tried. "I understood your little message"—if you could call a wall decorated in congealed blood looming behind a dismembered corpse a message, he thought—"I'm not going anywhere. I'm still here in the fine city of July as ordered."
"But not at your house."
Wolfwood answered slowly like tiptoeing past a starving lion. "No, not at my house. Is that a problem?"
Again the line was silent. He filled it up with rambling and wondered if he'd been hanging out with Vash too long. "Come on, now. You said, 'back', you didn't say, 'back where I can see you all the time'." He splashed some water on his face and reached for the nearest hand towel. "Listen, I didn't disappear again. I'm here. I'm just laying low and…licking my wounds, okay?"
Picasso chuckled, a strange sound coming from someone who could rip a man into fourths. "Considering where they are," he hissed, "I find that difficult."
Wolfwood couldn't help his reaction: his spine stiffened, his hackles raised. The full weight of how stupid he had been settled on him unyieldingly. Here this maniac was talking casually about the red lashed marks against his back as if he had seen them firsthand. And perhaps he had been there to see him put everything on the line for a thrill. Had Picasso been there? In the club? Somewhere near enough to hear him scream? Near enough to hear him beg?
And it was the stress—or was it the pain? Whatever it was, before he could hold his tongue, the words slipped out: "Maybe I've got someone special to help me with that." And it's not like he knew the minute he said the words that they were a mistake—he had know that before he said them—it's just that he knew acutely the minute he said them that he was playing with his life here.
He stopped breathing and waited through the silence. He imagined that Picasso could hear his heart thundering through the phone Not five minutes before he had been imagining a world where he could come home from work with Vash and now he had to imagine a world where he dared to try it and Picasso found out. After all, he thought, if he killed a dozen people just because I left town, what would he be willing to do if I did something he'd like even less?
Like start a...like start something with Vash.
"Detective, you don't want to mess with me," was Picasso's delayed response in bitter cold tones. "You really, really don't."
Wolfwood sighed and wondered why he felt the urge to apologize. He was losing it. "Okay, I'll back off." His skin chose the moment to remind him that it was torn to tatters and aching. He bit down on his cheek to keep from screaming and tasted blood. A small bead of it started to trickle from the side of his mouth. He wanted to deal with his pain alone, with a lot of over the counter drugs and some silence.
"And hell if you're not right about that and...Listen," he said too hastily, "I probably need to get back to, you know, trying to arrest you. And stuff. Umm...can I let you go?" he asked politely and the world really was a sick place, he decided.
"Aren't you a little curious about why I called?"
"Don't be pissed, but no." He wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand because Vash had put towels out special and he didn't want to ruin them.
"Well, you should be. You're already on my bad side."
He actually groaned. "Listen, I said 'I'm sorry' about that someone-licking-my-wounds joke, okay? I promise you'll never hear another word from me about...whatever." He winced at himself in the mirror—smeared with blood and covered in scars—feeling more than a little unbalanced. He didn't know what they were talking about. Worse, he had no idea why they were talking about it.
"'Whatever', Detective? Whatever? I told you not to mess with me. I thought I told you the last time we chatted that I know you. I know how you feel."
Suddenly, he was gazing at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror and seeing nothing. He found his voice quickly, "What exactly are we talking about here?"
"Where are you?"
That damn question again. Rubbing at his eyes with enough pressure to see spots before them he said, "That's the second time you've asked me that. Do I actually need to answer?"
"No."
"I thought not." And he didn't want to run around the apartment shutting windows and pulling blinds and curtains except he did and damn this bastard for taking everything, even his chance to wake up next to Vash with no regrets. "So, I take it that this is your business now? Where I sleep. Who I sleep with. You gonna flip out about this, too?" Wolfwood snarled.
There was a pause where he could actually hear Picasso sigh. Then the killer continued in that deadly voice: "Maybe you can help me understand something. I can't quite grasp the whole of it enough to taste it. And I want to taste it, Detective; to understand what that felt like: you on your knees, violated, bleeding and desperate with want and hate. And then out of the dark comes this angel and he's there only for you, to redeem and forgive you.
"Looking up at your savior through the haze of blood and pain and lust, how did you feel? I imagine that the world seemed to revolve around your rescuer; that all the light in the world seemed to surround him. I imagine that it must have been a little like a drink of water when death in the desert seemed imminent. I imagine that it came with a high price—salvation like that for one like you. Yes, the price: you rely on him. Far too much. You're terrified that he'll go away, aren't you? You're terrified someone will take him away from you."
Wolfwood felt drugged and heavy listening to that voice that was layered as if it harmonized with itself. How could this lunatic understand what he had seen? How could he put into words what he had felt then when even he couldn't? When all the darkness and pain and self-loathing for all the things that weren't pain had been suddenly washed away by bright, blinding, light? How could he know so well the relief that had come with seeing Vash there and then the fear that came later? The fear that came with the idea that maybe, just maybe, one day he wouldn't be anymore.
He remembered panicking when he came to in the hospital, once all the drugs had been washed from his system. He remembered the doctors and the nurses holding him down while his stitches threatened to rip because something—someone—was not there. He remembered not calming down again until that someone was summoned. He remembered everything being all right after he appeared at his side just like before: golden and good, and saying, simply, "I'm here. You'll be fine." And he had been after that and every time following, so long as Vash was there.
Now he felt a painful stab in his chest at Picasso's unveiled threat. You're terrified someone will take him away from you.
Wolfwood sat down on the edge of the tub when things started to swim before his eyes. The Doc at South had asked him once what he would do if Vash were killed in the line of duty or worse. Wolfwood hadn't been able to answer. And for a shrink, the Doc had only thought he understood the panic that came with just the idea of something like that happening. In truth, that damn doctor had only understood the tip of the iceberg. Losing Vash would destroy him.
"You see, I want to see the cracks in the mask you wear when you play Detective. I want to know which one of you is the real you. I want to know which part you were playing last night. Or was that even an act at all? He already knows all the answers, doesn't he? Maybe I should just ask him. It would be easy. He's not nearly as careful as you are," Picasso continued knowingly. "He's not invulnerable. I've tasted him before. I could do it again. Did you know he takes the same way to work everyday? Every. Day."
"Stay away from him." It took every ounce of his strength to force the words through his gritted teeth. "If you hurt him again I'll—"
"What? Hide him away like you did Milly? I think you and I both know the difficulty in doing that. Milly's a good girl: she goes where you put her and stays when you tell her to. Try that with your partner and see what happens. I doubt he'll go quietly."
"Well then you should listen to your own advice about Vash. He's more careful now. He knows how you think."
"Does he? I thought that was your department."
Wolfwood rubbed his face heavily. "Okay, this is going nowhere. You win: I'll play ball. Let's just...cut the talk about my partner, okay? It's not a good topic. Here, I'll even ask: what do you want?"
The voice laughed. "So I finally have your attention? Good. What I want is very simple. I want what you've denied me for over a year and a half."
And that hadn't been the answer he was expecting at all. "Wait…what?" he said frowning.
"I want to see you, the famous detective, doing your job. Saving the day. Playing hero."
"I...yeah...okay." Wolfwood shook his head and decided that he could win a few points for honesty. "I'll go ahead and say that I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Then I'll make it easy for you: didn't you ever wonder how many I watched? Surely you didn't think Milly was the last. There are others. I wonder how far you'd be willing to go to save them."
Wolfwood stood and stayed standing even when colors erupted before his eyes and sweat broke out on his brow. "Who?" he demanded.
"That's the spirit. Why don't you look outside?" Picasso said conversationally.
Wolfwood staggered to the front door—maneuvering around Vash's ugly couch and uglier black cat—swung it open and stared at a perfectly average looking manila envelope resting at his feet. He took a minute to run back inside, grab a couple plastic bags, and cover his hands with them. Then he returned and lifted the envelope slowly.
"Go ahead," Picasso said. "Open it."
And his heart stopped, but only for a second. He refused to look up, refused to even consider that Picasso was probably watching Vash's apartment right then—still?—because…hell no. Instead, he closed the door quickly and steadied himself against it when a wave of dizziness attacked.
It took some maneuvering to get the clasp open with his hands covered in plastic bags and a phone sandwiched between his shoulder and ear, but he managed.
He closed his eyes. "I don't suppose you could just tell me who she is?" he asked, staring at the picture of a pretty young redhead with big brown eyes.
"No. That would defeat the purpose of this little game."
"You think this is a game?"
"No: I know it is. And so do you. You have twelve hours to find her. Use all the little tricks you know. Do your best. Show me how you work. Only one thing: when you find her, no cops. I don't want anybody but you on the scene. It'll just be the three of us. Do this for me, and I'll let her live."
"How do I know she's actually still alive at all?"
"More to the point, how will you ever know if you don't play along? And I'd hate to think of what would happen to your special partner if you defied me. Am I understood?"
"Damn you, yes."
"Excellent. I'm going to enjoy this," he said and actually sounded it. "I want to see you. I want to know everything."
And now Wolfwood managed a chuckle, but it was bitter and tired. "I thought you said you already 'know me'."
"Not nearly enough."
Then he hung up, leaving Wolfwood to stare at the phone and wonder why he even bothered making plans. "Dear Lord," he said, switching his gaze upwards, "give me strength or just kill me now."
Vash sounded hurried when he answered his cell phone.
"Hey, what's up? Feeling better?" he asked immediately.
"Yeah. Thanks," Wolfwood answered honestly thanks to a lot of pain relievers. "But forget about that. Can you meet me in my office in a minute?"
There was a pause where he imagined Vash trying to twist the words into a new meaning; one that meant Wolfwood was resting and drinking lots of water. "In a minute?" he said when he failed to find a hidden, benign interpretation. "Where are you?"
And what was it with that question today? "Downstairs. I got a lift from Midvalley."
"You're not supposed to be out of bed."
"Something came up."
Vash didn't bother to hide his frustration. "Yeah I'm sure it did. It always does. And it better be damn good," Vash said and then hung up the phone. Wolfwood winced. A curse word and a hang-up all in the same conversation. From Vash that was the brink of seething anger. Oh, this was looking to be a stellar day, Wolfwood mused. Just stellar.
He moved carefully through the department and managed to avoid the few officers he saw who were prone to slapping people on the back in greeting. Nobody seemed to notice he was wearing borrowed clothing—the slacks too narrow at the waist and not anywhere close to being dark enough for his tastes. He admitted that they looked good on Vash, at any rate. He was only stopped a few times by friendly cops wanting to catch up or by general questions regarding orders, and once by the chatty secretary on duty who wanted to know what he was doing in.
"I didn't notice it in the system before this morning—which is strange because detectives are at the top of the list so I'm sure I would have seen it days and days ago—but I think you're in the computer for a day off and—" she said and started clicking her way through the files.
"I'm pretty sure I am. But there's no rest for the wicked," he interrupted smoothly and winked at her. This got a blush and a smile and had her forgetting to be chatty and curious.
Then it was down the hallway and to his own office. He opened the door and managed not to give up immediately when he saw the look on Vash's face. Ouch, he thought. If looks could kill. Vash was red as if his temperature was up with irritation and the bandages on his forehead stood out boldly against the heat.
He spoke before Wolfwood could. "First of all: are you really okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine."
"Good. Second of all: nice slacks."
"Thanks."
There was a moment when he neither man spoke and Wolfwood could feel the comfortable understanding from that morning disappearing as the seconds passed. The expression on Vash's face was one of not-so-patient waiting for an explanation. Wolfwood closed the door behind him and jumped right into the groveling stage. "Listen, I know you're pissed at me but there is a valid explanation for this. I just got a call from Picasso."
Vash was silent for five seconds and then said, "Okay, I'm still mad, but I'll give you points for creativity. He called you?"
Wolfwood's nonchalant chuckle even sounded pitiful to his own ears, never mind what Vash heard. "Uh...yeah."
"Is this the first time?"
And damn Vash for being so sharp. "Honestly: no. He called once before but—stop making that face it's not helping any."
Vash threw up his hands. "I'm sorry, I guess I'll never get used to the extent of things you don't tell me. It's a little strange since I'm your partner and all. Why not tell me that you've been planning on running off to take vows and become a priest while you're at it? That might shock me less." Vash got quiet, looked betrayed. Or maybe he just looked like he felt the fool and was getting used to the feeling.
Wolfwood ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated. "I-I wasn't keeping it from you to be an ass. I was just...you were already pissed at me because of the press conference, okay?" He stopped and sighed when he noticed his voice on the rise. "I just get the feeling that we haven't been seeing eye-to-eye on a lot of things lately. It was dumb of me not to tell you but I promise, from now on, full inclusion. You know everything I know, okay?"
"Does the term 'day late, dollar short' hold any meaning to you?"
"Yes. And ouch."
"Sorry, just being honest here," Vash said and crossed his arms.
"And I appreciate that. I really do. I just wish your honesty hurt a little less."
"I don't think that's my honesty. Taken any pain killers lately?"
"Yes, mother."
"Har, har," Vash deadpanned. "Okay, fill me in. What did the dear boy want?"
Wolfwood settled on the edge of the desk and went over the surreal phone conversation. Vash interrupted rarely, only to clarify or get more details. When Wolfwood was done, he shook his head as if denying the corruption of the world.
"And we thought laying low was a good idea," he said and looked so troubled that Wolfwood couldn't help but wish for simpler times when Vash never looked like that, even when he was pretending everything was alright. "Looks like we just pissed him off. After all the trouble he took to keep detectives off the case—he drove one of those guys insane and poor Frank took early retirement—you'd think he hated investigators. Now it looks like they're a part of the game. He enjoys torturing them as much as he enjoys stalking the girls."
"Yeah. Or, at least he enjoys torturing us," Wolfwood said bitterly.
"You."
"Huh?"
Vash rolled his eyes and it looked like he was getting too used to making the expression. He never used to do that. "He enjoys torturing you," Vash snapped. "Picasso and Monev ought to get together and compare notes."
"Vash—" Wolfwood tried, but Vash held up a hand.
"Later," he said. "Just later." He took a deep breath and switched subjects clumsily. "Well, there's no point standing around doing nothing." He lifted the cradle of the phone, was silent for several seconds and then spoke crisply. "Is Meryl Strife available? Well, will you tell her to come see Vash Saverem with the detective unit as soon as she's back? Thank you." When he hung up he turned back to Wolfwood and said, "The sooner we get PR handling the TV stations, the sooner we get a lead. At least, that's what I hope."
Wolfwood raised an eyebrow at Vash. "I was waiting for the Chief to give the all-clear before bringing in the press."
"Too bad. Bennigan's at City Hall chatting up the Commissioner. He's not around or available to authorize anything. I say we move in and get this taken care of—our way—before he can show up and mess it up. Okay?"
"Fine by me if you're willing to take the fall alongside me."
Vash's shrug was artful. "Not a problem. Streets?"
"We're understaffed. If we pull the guys off the checkpoints and blockades, they can run sweeps. As for the phone lines…half and half?"
Vash pulled a face to show what he thought of that. Then he just looked resigned and disappointed. "You know, I swear we almost had him. Just one more day, maybe. One more day and Blondie would have run out of places to hide. Now he's going to slip through our fingers while we're distracted."
"Which is probably exactly what he—what they—want."
"Still we can't ignore her and leave her out there. She needs our help."
"That is if she's really alive at all," Wolfwood said, injecting a little cold-hard fact into the conversation. He had no reason to take Picasso's word for anything.
But Vash shook his head emphatically. "No, she's alive. That's not how this guy plays and you know it. He's honest. In a weird way," he added when Wolfwood gave him a puzzled expression. "Or...at least he's honest with us. I'm not sure what he tells himself."
Now Wolfwood frowned. "What do you mean?"
The goofy smile was a poor distraction. "Nothing. Never mind." Vash didn't seem to care if Wolfwood believed him or not. He shook his head again, grabbed a file off of Wolfwood's desk and raised an eye to ask for permission to borrow it.
"Go ahead. My convoluted, confusing files are your convoluted, confusing files."
Vash gave him a weak smile and headed for the door. And watching his rigid back, Wolfwood felt something rising in his throat. It wanted to be said and he didn't feel the urge at all to fight it. Picasso was just going to have to kiss his ass.
"Vash!" he shouted after his partner.
"Yeah?" Vash muttered but didn't turn around.
"We never got to have that talk," Wolfwood said when he found his voice. And no, they had never explicitly said that there was going to ever be a talk at all, but he'd known that there was meant to have been one. Vash was supposed to have come home to find him waiting there and they were supposed to have worked something out so that they could both be a little less miserable. Picasso's timing was just brilliant.
There was a noticeable pause before Vash answered, "No, I guess we didn't."
"We're going to." His tone of voice brooked no questions. That psycho could just try to take this away from him.
He could try.
"Yeah?" Vash asked in a voice that even sounded casual.
"Yeah."
Now Vash turned back to look him straight in the eye and some of the softness was back, taking the place of the stress and frustration that Vash was never supposed to show because Wolfwood understood it was there either way. "Where are we going to fit it in?" he asked. "In between the crime scenes and the investigations and the fact that you're being stalked, I think we're a little swamped."
Wolfwood gritted his teeth. "We'll fit it in, dammit." He wanted to cross the room to prove it—creatively—but now wasn't the time for that. All he could do was repeat himself: "We are going to have that talk." Belatedly, he realized what a bully he sounded like and added a little more softly, "Okay? I mean…okay?"
Vash studied him for a pregnant moment longer then shook his head. "Yeah, Nick. That's okay with me," he said, managed a smile and then swept from the room.
The documents and forms required to get the ball rolling on a new investigation seemed to shuffle through the department like old men. Wolfwood lost track of the hurried orders he handed out, of the hurried meetings he barely made it through.
By the time Officer Strife called his cell to explain her progress with the news stations, Wolfwood was anxious and pretty certain that he'd had enough coffee for it to come out of his ears. He was on enough pain medication that he felt sluggish and dull and it took all his will not to show it when some plucky officer approached him and tried to impress him with how hard he was working. But handling them was the least of his problems. Technology was out to get him.
Half of the hotline that had been used up until that morning to collect tips on Ray Hawthorn—Blondie, their only suspect in the case—was now supposed to function as a tip hotline to collect any information at all about this girl. At the time of their greatest need was, of course, exactly when the phone lines in the station decided to die. All of them. They had nothing but silence and dead space on every phone in the entire station. Wolfwood wondered how much Picasso had to do with this, but couldn't spare the time to place blame. Fixing the problem was taking too long and the crowded room was even more crowded with electricians in overalls crawling around and blocking the walkways.
He watched them wearily as Strife told him to switch on the nearest TV. Strife was as creepily efficient as ever and still reminded him of a military sergeant in how reserved and professional she was. At the moment, he appreciated it. "Thanks Officer Strife, you're a peach," he said and hung up quickly. He doubted she appreciated the endearment and didn't want to hear the tirade that might result. He dashed to the corner where a beat-up old television hung from the wall on a frame he didn't quite trust and hit the power.
A pretty young reporter with dark, slanting eyes was speaking in a serious voice. He shushed the room at large and cranked the volume. The picture of their mystery girl was up, her red hair looking unrealistically vibrant thanks to the bad color settings on the tube.
"If you have any information on the whereabouts of this girl, or know someone who does, please come forward immediately. Police have reason to believe that her life is in danger."
The number to the hotline flashed onscreen beneath the photo—Wolfwood counted—for five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds total. Then they switched to sports.
He winced and cursed out loud. Ten seconds wasn't long enough to even find a pencil, more or less write the number down. "Get Strife on the goddamn phone!" he barked at the nearest detective.
"But Detective—"
"Use my cell!" he shouted and tossed it at the kid.
He only hoped Vash was having more luck. On the wall of the room next door, every inch of the photo had been blown up to massive proportions. He had a team in there with his partner right now combing it for clues as to who or where she might be while he got the phone system switched over and sifted through the tips they received.
"Detective Wolfwood," a rookie cop said at his elbow. "Would you take at look at this? We've been marking possible sightings from officers on the street. Got this from dispatch. They're all in the same area."
He studied the map with interest. In the distance he could hear Vash in what sounded like a painful conversation with the crew next door.
"Is this a logo? Is it a sign? No, behind her. Then look harder. It looks like…decoration. Like a poster you see in a college dorm or something. I need this part here bigger. And can you make it clearer?"
"Clearer at this size?" a second voice said and whistled. "And any bigger and it could give Godzilla a run for his money in destroying Tokyo, Detective."
There was a pause where Wolfwood was certain Vash had taken a deep, calming breath. It didn't seem to work. "I don't think I asked for your comedy routine, Sergeant. I asked you to enhance this image so we could stop this girl from being murdered. If you think murder is funny, then by all means, make with the funny talk. Do you think murder is funny, Sergeant?"
"...No, Detective."
"No? Good, because neither do I. So now that we both agree, why don't you take this, make it bigger and clearer and save the jokes for someone who appreciates them."
"Yes, sir," was the cowed reply.
Wolfwood heard the hurried footsteps of the sergeant on the retreat followed by his whispered curse, "Dammit." It was pretty obvious that the Sergeant had just revised the opinion he had had of Detective Saverem. Common theory had his partner as a lighthearted joker without a care in the world. And that was true any other day of the week provided there wasn't work to be done. When someone's life wasn't in his hands. Wolfwood gave a mental shrug. Common opinion was very, very wrong and in for a surprise if anybody else tried to get in the way of the investigation by being unprofessional.
He turned his attention back to the map, had the young officer send over a pair of fresh eyes to that neighborhood, and then called over the head electrician. The stained and gruff old guy gave a thumbs up.
"Back on line as ordered," he said.
Wolfwood gave a relieved smile. Just in time. "Okay, where are we at?"
"Urm…the whole board was out, but now we've got them up except for two," he said and pointed at the offending phones. "I've gotta go, but these bums will keep workin' on it. Okay?"
"Good. Great. Thanks. If there's anything wrong...?"
The big electrician jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm leavin' Joey in charge. Wave 'hi' Joey." A skinny guy in overalls behind him looked up from reassembling a telephone handset. "Oi," he said and tipped his hat.
"Anything so much as sounds fuzzy, Joey'll fix it. We all set?"
"Yeah, leave the paperwork up front."
Wolfwood almost jumped when the first telephone rang but then gave a sigh of relief. It was music to his ears. He wanted to stay in the room and listen to every call, but he also needed to canvas the street and meet up with the cops who had leads. He sighed from where he sat atop a desk, reread the checklist he had made with Vash and tried to console himself with the progress they'd made.
Unfortunately, as the head electrician was leaving, someone else was coming and his sense of accomplishment, he knew, would take a direct hit as a result. The thundering of footsteps he knew all too well were like a storm warning. He groaned and braced himself for the screaming that was sure to come.
"Why the hell is my station a fucking circus?" a grizzly voice yelled. "Who authorized this?"
This new silence was strangely louder than the silence from a moment before. Worried eyes darted between the detective and the chief. The odd phone rang and kept ringing because the staff of the hotline was afraid to answer it. Wolfwood decided that his life really was a sick joke. He hid his smile by biting the inside of his cheek and the fact that it was already pretty sore helped sober him almost immediately.
"I did," he said and stood, then turned gracefully to face the man. Pulling that off had hurt like hell.
"You. You." Bennigan took a deep breath that made his wide chest seem wider. "In. My. Office." He paused for the time it took to reign in his temper again. "Now."
Wolfwood nodded calmly and moved to meet him at the door. Before he followed him through it, he turned back to the room. "Answer the phones people. Contact me if you find anything."
The detective with his cell looked confused. "Officer Strife is on the…phone," he said brokenly. "Should I...?"
"Tell her to get back on the phone with that station. Every station. Ten seconds is not long enough."
The Chief made an exasperated noise behind him and he had to bite his cheek again. Defying authority when the Chief wasn't around was one thing, but doing it in front of his face was just plain fun.
In the hall, Vash stepped out to meet them. He took in the scene, then looked back to Wolfwood as if to say, "So now what do we do?"
Wolfwood wanted to laugh at that too because Vash when he was breaking the rules was only slightly less comical than Vash who didn't know what to do once he got caught. "Come on, partner. You reap what you sew." Vash shrugged at that and moved to walk beside him like a man going to his own funeral.
Inside the Chief's messy, cluttered office, Bennigan crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the two detectives. He still looked like his mouth hurt, which it did. Wolfwood felt generous enough to feel a twinge of sympathy for him since he was in the same boat today. It lasted a total of three seconds and then the bastard spoke and ruined it.
"I leave for one hour, two hours tops, and come back to find The Wonder Twins have finally decided to try to take my job."
"Sir, that's not what happened. If you'd let us ex—" Wolfwood tried, but was cut off efficiently by Bennigan's howl of outrage.
"If that's not what happened, then who the hell gave you permission to use PR? I don't remember doing that! Who gave you permission to broadcast at all? To call cops in off the street and ruin the network we had? It sure as hell wasn't me. Since when do detectives make decisions without their chief, huh?"
Vash stepped forward and looked pleadingly at Bennigan. "Chief, the girl is in danger! It's Picasso! We've got less than twelve hours to save her! It was either wait the hour or two 'tops' that you were unavailable in a 'meeting' or go over your head."
Bennigan scratched at his chin and narrowed his eyes at Vash. "Oh, I expect sass like that from him, Saverem," he began but then changed track. "Fine, we're wasting what little time you think you bought by disregarding protocol. You want to be Chief, good luck. For now, I'll let you two ride. You catch that freak once and for all, but after this fiasco is over, you both hang for this." He finished that last proclamation with a cruel, bloodthirsty smile.
Wolfwood glared at him so fiercely that Vash came to stand next to him just in case fists started flying again. "Hey, Partner," he whispered, "not worth it, is it?"
"No," Wolfwood said aloud, "not worth anything."
Bennigan only continued to smile viciously back at him. "I'm going to enjoy taking your badge, boy."
Wolfwood leaned menacingly across the desk and bared his teeth. "And I'm going to enjoy making you eat it after you do, Chief."
And somewhere close enough to imagine he could feel the tension radiating off the station, a man with golden eyes ran a hand gently down a television screen in a brightly lit department store as a reporter spoke.
"The following is a statement issued by the investigator in charge of the case, Detective Wolfwood of the JCPD..."
He let the name and the words wash over him. "Everything," he said and closed his eyes.
To Be Continued...
And that's a wrap for this installment. Thanks for reading! Told you this was yoinked from "The Watcher." Bad fanfiction writer. Bad, bad.
My favorite part of this chapter?
"Considering where they are," he hissed, "I find that difficult."
That was awfully snarky of him.
Up Next: The Gauntlet, Part II