Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.
A/N: Thank you so much to all of you for your continued support, and especially Viktuuri for the barrage of reviews! Is it bad that your screams made me laugh? Just know that you gave me some sun in a grey month and I'm very grateful for it. :)
Warnings: Descriptions of blood and injuries, various highly stressful situations, and a cliffhanger (sorry). By now you should know the drill, but if any of this triggers you, please stay safe.
Hour 15: Jane
Cold
The phone buzzing in his hands interrupts his visions of blood and terror, and brings him back to the present.
"Yes?" he answers, eyes on the mountain, trying to figure out where exactly the birds came from.
"Jane!" says Wylie. "We have something!"
A wave of relief crashes on his mind. Maybe she wasn't shot up there, after all.
"You found her? Where is she? Give me the address, I'll be right there with Tork."
"I – No? We're still in the office. Sorry."
The wave retreats, leaving him with nothing but unbearable anxiety. He scrunches his eyes hard, pinches the bridge of his nose.
"But Riley fixed the chip!" adds Wylie, enthusiasm coming back full force. "And we think we know where Lazarus went!"
"Tell me," he says, heart jumping in his chest again. "I'm putting you on speaker," he adds as Tork stops by his side, out of breath.
The young agent's explanation is technical, for lack of a better word, and fired at such lightning speed he doesn't understand a single word of it. Tork looks similarly baffled – although he isn't sure he can accurately gauge the level of Wylie's speech on the man's reaction, given the overall frequency of his bafflement. A single minute is enough to rob him of the little patience he has left, but as he opens his mouth to call Wylie back to attention, there's a scuffle at the other end of the line and another voice speaks up.
" – told you to explain later! Gimmy the – no, the phone – hey! Sorry about Coyote here, you know how he can be," says a woman's voice. "All you need to know for now is, that moron never turned off the locations on his phone, so I got a map of everywhere he went in the past two years."
Riley Mitchell, no doubt, with a no-nonsense attitude he could kiss her for.
"So we got a place for you. Wasn't that hard to narrow it down. Do you guys have a GPS?" she adds, all business.
"Yeah, in the car," answers Tork. "I'll go get it."
"Actually, the car is what you might want to get. The location I have for you is just a few miles away, you'll be first on scene."
"It's the mountains, right?" he asks, as they sit in the black vehicle. "He brought her to the mountains."
A short silence at the end of the line confirms his guess. Cold sweat beads on the small of his back.
"How the hell did you – ?!"
"Why are you even asking? It's Jane," says Wylie, muffled in the background.
"We heard gunshots," answers Tork, glancing his way. "Ready for the coordinates."
He starts the car while Riley lists a string of numbers, keeping as tight a lid on his worries as possible – none of them are productive, none of them will help find Lisbon faster, and they may actually hinder his efforts by slowing down his thought process. Physical fighting was never his area of expertise. As hard as it is, he must keep his mind sharp.
It feels like he's been repeating this to himself all day.
Well, it's not like you haven't, isn't it? chuckles Lisbon in his mind.
A small orange bubble pops on the GPS's screen with a loud ping.
"Okay, let's go!" says Tork. "Jane, take right."
"Great!" answers Riley. "We'll send you back-up. ETA forty-five minutes, give or take."
"Forty-five?"
"Yeah, sorry. The location we're sending you at is a bit out of the way, there's no patrol car nearby. Also, it's not exactly precise."
"What do you mean, not precise? Do you know where we're supposed to go or not?"
Tork's stress levels appear to be climbing through the roof. It would be funny if his stomach wasn't giving unpleasant jolts every time they hit a bump in the road.
"The signal isn't great in the mountains," explains Riley. "And your killer's been all over the place. I can give you a general idea of where he might be, but I can't do miracles."
"Okay, so – what if you're wrong? What if we get completely lost up there? What if – "
"Never mind that, we'll find our way," he interrupts. "Riley? I need to speak to Wylie, please."
"I'm here," answers the young agent almost immediately.
A small pebble bounces off the car's fender with a noise very similar to Tork's GPS.
"Listen, the address you gave us earlier? You were right. I found the basement where Lazarus kept Lisbon. He also kept, uh – other things down there, I think. And the smell – "
He takes a short breath, pushes away the vivid memories dancing at the forefront of his mind.
"It's not pretty," he adds.
"Okay, sooo – we need to send more people there, secure the crime scene?"
"Probably, but – "
"Definitely," interrupts Tork. "There was blood all over a tree outside. Can only imagine what it looked like inside."
He glares. The man glares back, holding his own. He rolls his eyes – and can almost hear Lisbon chuckle in his ear.
"My point – there was an old credit card bill there. Another address you might want to check out. I took a picture. Tork?"
"On it," says the agent, picking up the phone.
"Wylie, don't send agents we could use to find Lisbon," he adds, biting his lip. "Dead people can wait. She – she can't."
"I know that," answers Wylie, undertones of real indignation peeking through his voice. "I'll run that down while we wait here. Call with an update as soon as you have one."
"Sure."
Tork sends the picture. The ping of confirmation is loud – grating and reassuring at the same time. Sand and small pebbles crackle under the wheels as he drives along the river, raising clouds of dirt in their wake.
"Jane – left at the next crossroad, there's a bridge over the river."
"How come your GPS doesn't speak on its own?" he asks under his breath.
"Oh, I muted that crap permanently. Couldn't deal with it, way too annoying."
You should remember to ask him how to do it once this is over, whispers Lisbon in his mind, a teasing lilt to her voice. That way you can stop getting into arguments with mine.
He smiles, a brief quirk of lips that disappear in a flash, and turns on his left as per Tork's instructions. The bridge they cross over barely deserves the name, a small wooden thing with minimal railing that bounces and creaks under the weight of their vehicle as they pass, throwing small rocks into the water below. The road on the other side climbs slow then abrupt, takes a sharp turn to the right as winter undergrowth turns into a grove, then into a forest thick enough to dampen the noises of civilisation.
At which point – as he should have expected – they lose signal on both phone and GPS. Tork lets out a curse.
"Is that thing going to work anyway?" he asks, knuckles stark white against the black steering wheel, the painful blood red of his bite mark a sharp point of attention in the colourless picture he makes.
"I still have a picture of the general area," answers the agent, voice tones dubious.
"Should be good enough."
"If you say so."
"Well, we're certainly not turning back, are we?" he says between clenched teeth.
Tork throws his head back against the seat, groaning.
"Urgh. I hate the woods."
"Yeah. Lisbon does too."
The man swallows his retort, throat clicking loud in the sudden silence, and averts his gaze. He keeps his own on the road ahead, driving as fast as possible considering the uneven ground. Trees on each side of them are little more than a blur.
That was mean, you know, says Lisbon in his mind.
I don't care.
He's just scared.
Do you think I'm not? I'm terrified, Teresa!
Taking it out on Tork isn't going to make things better. I thought we established that already.
He grumbles under his breath, but doesn't answer. There's no point arguing with himself, especially not about this.
The trees clear in the distance – the reason for it escapes him at first, until a ray of sunshine highlights a sign by the side of the road, and he realises what lays ahead. Depressing the clutch, he slows down until they come to a stop. The signpost, painted an angry red, displays three names on thin wooden boards, all pointing to different trails.
Falling Oaks leads upwards through a sinuous path between trees that don't appear to be oaks at all.
Lost Meadow veers to their right, on a road that disappears after a left turn.
The last one, its sharp end aiming at the trail they came from, simply says The Hills.
"O-kay – so that's not ominous at all," says Tork, subdued.
"Which way?"
"What?"
"Which way do we need to go?" he repeats, jaw locked hard enough to crack a tooth.
"Uh – let me see. South, I think?"
He takes a second to rub the spot between his eyebrows, pain flaring high and hot when his finger bumps against his nose, then switches gears to neutral and gets out of the car. The air, colder than expected, makes him shiver as he walks to the crossroad. He pinches his lips.
She must be freezing right now. Dammit.
A clacking noise echoes behind him, startling him – and then Tork is by his side, holding the GPS flat on his palm like a compass.
"What are you doing?" the agent asks.
He ignores him, takes three steps to the signpost, and focusses on the ground.
"Left, I think," he says after a minute. "Falling Oaks."
"South is the other trail's direction though," says Tork, walking back to the car, leaning against its side.
He shakes his head, points at the tyre marks in the dirt.
"No, look. Those are more recent. More deep, too. If we want to find Lazarus – if we want to find Lisbon – that's where we need to go. I'm sure of it."
He recognises the mulish expression on his face. The man is about to argue and be stubborn, lose them more of the precious little time they have. And he opens his mouth to cut his protestations short, but a loud whooshing noise breaks their standstill before he can say a word. Something violently hits Tork's left thigh – and time slows down to a trickle as they both stare with growing horror at the colourful plastic feathers embedded in his leg.
Then time jump-starts again, too quickly. Tork howls. Another bolt hits the signpost near his left arm, and he dives to the ground just fast enough to avoid a third one flying over his head. The agent takes out his gun and shoots once, the sound snapping dry like a broken bone. Something far away – not something, someone. Lazarus! – yelps. With the ringing in his ears, he cannot tell if the cry was pain or surprise.
"Son of a bitch," roars Tork, covering all other sounds. "Who the hell uses a crossbow on people! Son of a bitch!"
Crouching behind the signpost, he listens to the forest noises. In between Tork's moans, it takes him a moment to hear dry leaves shuffling in the distance, moving away from them. He springs to his feet then, smile growing on his lips, and runs to the Falling Oaks trail where the bolts came from.
Nobody in sight.
It doesn't matter.
"Lisbon!" he shouts. "She's here, she has to be nearby. Lisbon!"
His voice booms loud in the forest, but aside from small animals scuttling away, no answer. A small weight settles in his stomach.
"She's probably hiding," he mutters, trying to rationalise the situation, keep his fear away. "Of course. I'd be hiding too if I had a killer after me. Lisbon! Teresa! We have to find her."
"H – how do you even know she's still alive?" asks Tork, his breathing uneven.
"If he had killed her, he'd be busy burying her or – or moving her body away somewhere, or – even just running away. He'd be as far away from us as possible, right? You don't want the cops to find you with a dead body. But he was here. Shooting at us! And – "
He frowns, glancing behind. The arrow – bolt, whatever it is – embedded in the signpost is still vibrating.
" – and badly, too. Huh. Expected him to have better aim."
"Speak for yourself."
He flinches. In his excitement, he almost forgot the man had been hit.
"How bad is it?" he asks, rushing to his side.
"Hurts like a bitch, but that's not – I'll be fine. It's just – I'm stuck," Tork answers, face contorted with pain.
He winces, feeling sick. The crossbow bolt pierces his thigh cleanly, yellow plastic feathers pressing against the inside of his leg, impaling him to the car like a skewered piece of meat. There isn't much blood seeping out of the wound – yet – but Tork's breathing is shallow, his face is pale, and the way he supports his full weight against the vehicle makes it look like he's about to pass out.
"You, uh – you were lucky it didn't pass clean through. Something in the car must have stopped its progression."
The agent grunts, short of breath, but doesn't answer.
"Okay w – well, uh – don't try to pull it out."
Tork rolls his eyes, sweat beading at his temples.
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" he asks. "Don't answer that," he adds, alarmed. "Just – glove compartment. Get me the saw."
"You keep a saw in your car?"
"It's small. Just a few inches. Multi – multi-purpose – something. Just go get it!"
He swallows, tearing his eyes away from the man's wound, and runs to the passenger side. Tork yelps and curses when he opens the door – he moves as quickly and carefully as possible, but there's no way around jolting the car as he retrieves the multi-purpose tool, and pain knits the agent's brows together when he comes back to his side.
"Give it to me, will you?" he grunts, one hand pressed against his leg, the other holding the gun he fired earlier.
"Don't be ridiculous! You're about to fall over. I'll do it."
"No. I'll be fine. You – you need to go after him. Take that," he adds, shoving the gun into his chest.
He hesitates. Tork glares.
"We spend years trying to stop you from being a reckless jerk and you choose now to follow procedure?"
Except – it's not just procedure, and they both know it. He cares very little about his own safety, especially if acting with recklessness allows him to reach his goals quickly and with minimal loss. But leaving an injured companion behind – that doesn't sit well with him.
Then again, neither does the idea of leaving an injured and possibly defenceless Lisbon to fend on her own longer than she has to.
"What are you planning to do if Lazarus comes back?" he asks, taking the gun when Tork pushes it more firmly into his hands, and handing him the multi-purpose tool.
The saw, once unclipped from the rest of the device, is thin enough to slip between Tork's thigh and the vehicle. He gives it a dubious look, but the man ignores him and starts on an awkward back and forth motion, wincing as he answers.
"He won't come back. Doesn't have any weapon. Who uses a crossbow when they have a gun? Bet he went right back the other – urgh! God! – the other way, when I fired."
He has a point, whispers Lisbon in his mind.
Yes. He does.
"Look. I'll drive down the road, soon as I get unstuck from that – damn – thing."
"Careful with that," he says, eyeing the tiny saw, mistrustful of the man's accuracy in this state.
Tork rolls his eyes, but slows down his efforts. The way he pants is worrying.
"Look, back-up should be here soon anyway. My gun – few bullets left. Shoot a tree when you find Lisbon, or shoot Lazarus, don't care. I'll tell them to – to follow the noise."
He shuffles on his feet, body and mind both vibrating wide and high-pitched like a plucked string, indecision eating at him. The agent raises a stark face towards him, determination burning raw in every inch of his body language.
"Just go, Jane!"
Clenching the hand that isn't holding Tork's gun, he takes a short breath, then nods.
"Don't die," he says, before turning around and dashing through the trees, towards the spot they were shot at.
The path is soft and muddy, dirt crumbling under his feet as he runs up the slope of the Falling Oaks trail, making his progression somewhat hazardous. Senses on alert, he keeps his eyes forward but pays special attention to the sounds surrounding him. Birds singing are a good sign – a hunter prowling would scare them into quietness. As long as the forest noises remain natural, he can probably expect to be safe.
The next crossroad comes without a marker. Rather, a small grassy track branches out of the main road, barely large enough for a car, with trees meeting overhead. In summer it must be quite a sight to behold – a dark pathway straight out of a fairy tale – but without leaves, the anaemic sun filtered through naked branches, it gives a spooky effect. And he may not hang onto superstitious beliefs, but knowing that a serial killer armed with a crossbow is currently roaming the nearby woods is enough to send shivers up his spine, and make him sensitive to the atmosphere.
The tyre marks on the ground leave no doubt as to where he needs to go, however, and after a quick look around he follows them uphill, fingers tight on the gun's grip.
Dry leaves crackle under his feet as he makes his way up the trail, heightening his anxiety. He is suddenly, painfully aware of how very little experience he has when it comes to Texan forests and hunting grounds. The fact he hasn't seen nor heard Lazarus yet is also worrying – and while killers hunting human game have been part of his life for years now, dealing with them in the wild very much hasn't been a common occurrence.
At least you have a gun, whispers Lisbon in his mind. I bet I'd give anything for a gun right now.
He swallows painfully – can see all too easily the way locks of dark hair frame her sunny smile, the vivid green of her eyes.
No bet.
Why not?
Because I already know it's not a gun you'd give anything for.
Oh yeah? So what do I want, then?
To be home.
The birds over his head are still singing when he emerges out of the trail into a small clearing. He immediately knows it's the right place – the car parked on his right still has its trunk open, handcuffs at the end of thick silver chains glinting in the sunlight. Nearby, a pathway of muddy footprints and disturbed leaves lead around a small hunting shack. He follows it on unstable feet, stomach clenching in fear, and almost retches when he finds the courtyard behind it.
The wooden frame and its hook were bad enough – he remembers Gabriel's body and the way it hung with arms outstretched all too vividly.
The blood smeared grass just under it is infinitely worse.
With a choked gasp, he runs through the courtyard, only stopping at the edge of the disturbed area. Heartbeat coming loud in his ears, he forces himself to take deep breaths, clear his vision before it goes dark from lack of oxygen.
Think about this rationally.
Adjusting his grip on the gun, he crouches down.
Someone bled here recently. But –
With as much focus as he can muster, he tracks the natural inclination of the grass and small plants, the clusters of dead leaves across the lawn, the slight depressions in the ground here and there – all indicative of a recent struggle.
– there isn't enough blood to come from a life-threatening injury. Wait, what's that?
Something shines in between two spots of moss. Frowning, he stretches his left arm over the area, picks up the small object. It rolls between his fingers, hard and cold and half covered in blood, one end flat and the other sharp, and his hands recognise it as a nail before his eyes do. A quick look up confirms what he expected – this wasn't pried off the wooden frame.
She brought this from the basement, and then used it as a weapon when she had the chance. Clever girl.
Which means the blood on the grass isn't hers.
Which means he was right.
"She's still alive," he whispers, a bubble of elation bursting inside him.
"Yes," answers a voice behind him.
He startles, half-turns on himself and raises his hands – but not quick enough. Something hard hits his temple, sends him to the ground.
"But not for long," adds Lazarus, looming over him, his face a nightmare of dried blood and inhuman rage, before hitting him again.
Pain explodes in his head and, as his vision goes black, the birds keep singing up in the trees.
Next prompt: Sword