Chapter 14

Total Internal Reflection Part I

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The Chief glared at the phone, surprised and immediately on his guard. He didn't have time for social calls now, they had to find Ed. Fran picked up the receiver.

'Chief Ironside's office?'

Fran listened for a moment, confused, then handed the phone to the Chief. He looked questioningly at her.

'It's the operator. An urgent call for you.'

Ironside pressed the speaker button.

'Chief Ironside?'

'Thank fu- goodness! At last!' It was a young man's voice that he didn't recognise, sounding breathless, almost excited. Ironside's anger rose. If this was a prank he was going to get the man arrested.

'If-'

'Brown's in trouble.'

'Ed? What?'

'He pulled my radio so I couldn't call it in. He's in trouble.'

Even in the few words that had been spoken, Ironside could recognised the panic in the other man's voice.

'Who are you? What happened?'

'Officer Erikson, Traffic Division,' the man said. He gulped a breath, then the next words came out in a rush. 'I was on duty at the cordon over by the Kingston Building when Brown just shows up. He looked like hell, red eyes, bloody nose. He was strung out, really strung out. He needed a ride.'

'Bloody nose?' The looks on the faces of Fran and Mark expressed what he was feeling exactly. So much for coincidences. But he had to keep his composure and figure out what was going on. Why was this Erikson calling him? What had happened?

'A ride? So where did you take him?' the Chief demanded.

'The old marina.'

For a second Ironside couldn't talk, a sudden spear of ice went through his heart. Why there of all places? It wasn't possible! Another possibility struck him: was this some sort of a joke by Erikson? His anger at the thought almost made him slam his hand on the speaker.

'What!' he roared. He heard the other man take a sharp breath.

'He begged me. It was weird, man. I mean, sir.'

'What about a hospital?' Ironside continued, just as furiously.

'You didn't see him, Chief.' There was a conviction and desperation in Erikson's voice that struck home. 'He was right on the edge. Probably already over it. He told me to go to the old marina and wasn't gonna take no for an answer. So I did. I dropped him off then called in, but he wrecked my radio. Please, please get down there. He needs help.'

The last word sent another chill through Ironside. He prided himself on being a good judge of men, and this Erikson did sound sincere, however strange his story. The Chief paused. Did he end the call now and leave immediately, getting Erikson to meet him there? Or did he listen now and get as much information as he could. He decided on the second option.

'Tell me. The shortest version you can.'

'Right,' said Erikson with a gulp that was obvious even down a telephone wire. 'Right. I gave Sergeant Brown a ride back from the hospital yesterday. And tonight, he shows up while I'm on duty at the Kingston Building cordon, and he looks even worse. His nose is bleeding, he has the shakes, red eyes. In the car, we talk. He insists people are following him, and he looks real scared. He tells me to take him to the old marina, so he can hide from them, even though it looks like the place makes him feel sick. I take him there, and he begs me, and I mean begs me not to tell anyone. I say, yeah, and he leaves. As soon as he's out of sight, I try my radio and he's fu- um, pulled the wires out at the back. It's dead. And he's gone. I have no radio, no way to tell anyone. I found a phone, and tried to get through to you.'

A clear, concise account, just like Ed would have made himself. Ironside had a better idea of what had happened. He remembered how Katie had been, and what Tim and Fran had said, before the hospital. She'd been scared, she'd wanted to hide and be alone, people were following her. It was just the same with Ed.

But why the old marina? It was insane, wasn't it?

No. There was a cleverness about it that bordered on brutal cunning, and showed how much Ed hadn't wanted to be found. In the old marina, Ed would go back to that warehouse and, like Erikson had said, he looked sick at the thought. Only a few people knew about Richards, and it was honestly the last place on God's green Earth that Ironside would have thought of looking. He never wanted to go near there again.

But what did that say about Ed's state of mind? How desperate and afraid of the world did Ed have to be to go back there? Ironside tried and failed to suppress a shudder at that thought. He took a deep breath.

'Thank you, Officer,' he said, his tone much more reasonable.

'Chief, how can I help?'

Ironside was touched by the sincerity in his voice. Now he knew where Ed would be, Erikson couldn't do any more there. But he still had information that may be important in the bigger case, once they found Ed and got him to the hospital.

'Get yourself back to the department, Erikson,' he said. 'I want a full statement on my desk in this office immediately.'

'Um, right, but…?'

'You worry about the statement, I'll worry about Sergeant Brown.'

There was an audible sigh of relief.

'And you know where he'l-?'

'It's in hand, Officer,' he interrupted sternly, beginning to lose his patience.

'Okay. Um, sir!'

The phone clicked.

Ironside looked up and saw two different expressions on the faces of his staff: One bewildered from Fran, one indescribable from Mark.

'The warehouse. Let's go.' It was all he could say at that moment, and Mark stood up, grabbing the handles of the chair to help push him forward. It was just as well, as he felt light-headed and unexpectedly nervous. Fran collected her jacket and followed them towards the door.

'But how do you know?' Fran asked warily. 'That patrolman said the old marina. How do you know where Ed is?'

He looked at Fran as she paused at the door. Mark already pressing the button for the elevator, pulling the van keys out of his pocket. Fran was young, idealistic, maybe she wasn't ready for this. Who would be? If she came along there would be no turning back. But he needed her help. They all did.

'You asked why Ed was at the Kingston Building so early in the morning. If you want me to give you the answer, you should come with us.'

The Chief watched as the confusion mixed with worry and fear, but she managed a tiny nod. She hesitated for a second longer at the door, then followed them.

It was straightforward enough to break into the warehouse. The door was locked but a couple of kicks in the right place worked as well as a key. Hesitating at the threshold, Ed looked around. The building was dark, he couldn't see the details very well, so he jammed the door open to let some light in. It looked vaguely familiar, and there was a lingering smell of gasoline.

Ed took a few steps, then had to stop, breathing heavily. It took a moment to calm the feeling of dread that made his stomach turn, and to push back against the memories. Only then could he keep going. Somewhere around here he'd find a place to sit down, and try to get a little rest. Slowly, Ed made his way to the back corner, beside some crates, having to push a few out of the way. Then, when he could get no further, he lent against the wall and let himself slide down to the floor.

Leaning back, Ed drew his knees up in front of him. Then he sat as still as he could for a few minutes. He couldn't describe how he felt. He didn't know if he was feeling anything, except tired and strung out. And uncomfortable. The gun was digging into the scars yet again. So he took it off his belt and pushed it to one side, then struggled out of his jacket and rolled it up, putting it behind his head. That was better. He was safe.

Safe. Ed gave a snort of cynical laughter at the thought, the irony not lost on him. Safe, in the only place he'd thought he'd never be safe in. A place he'd never wanted to think about again. He'd spoken about it only once before, he'd given a statement to Lieutenant Reese in the hospital. Just the barest of details, as at the time he couldn't think about anything more. Dealing with the guilt and the remorse that had been dragged up was difficult enough, especially with the Chief sitting, glowering in the corner as witness to all his mistakes. Just thinking about what his own carelessness and lack of good sense had landed them all in was too painful. He should have been better. He should have been on his guard.

He could remember what he said that day in terrifying detail. He could remember what he felt when he'd tried to explain, watching Carl scribble away in his notebook. He could remember sitting in the hospital bed forming the words and staring at the chipped paint on the windowsill. It felt so vivid and intense, with a depth and intricacy he hadn't realised was there.

Ed's breathing started to speed up and he could feel himself trembling. He tried to remind himself he was safe, but that didn't help. He didn't have to think about what had happened. He didn't want to. He wanted to keep it hidden forever, crushed under a lead weight of overwork, force of will and terror, all the barriers he'd put up in the past few months. He had to keep it hidden.

He couldn't bear to think of it. Not here. Not now.

No.

No!

Ed recognised blind panic as the memories rushed towards him, but as he tried to force it all back down, he realised that it was futile. Too much had happened, he was too exhausted and strung out to keep control. His breath froze suddenly and a shudder went through him, eyes going wide. Then the full Technicolor flashback roared out to consume him.

The van moved off with a jerk. Ironside had been silent as they'd rushed down to the garage, turning words over in his mind. How was he going to begin? This was a conversation he dreaded, never wanting to voice what had happened. He'd been there when Carl had taken Ed's full statement, the details that looked so terrible on paper had been no easier to hear from the mouth of the man who'd experienced them, every emotion raw and unfiltered. Worse were the things he didn't say, the details that he missed, the personal things that weren't needed in a police statement that were glaringly obvious by their omission: the pain, the terror, but above all the guilt.

Ed was always like that, Mark had said so only yesterday. He always took it all so personally. It was what made him such an exceptional officer, and such a good man. But it also meant he would sometimes struggle to let go.

The Chief folded his hands in front of him, elbows digging into the arms of the wheelchair, and he looked downward, this time unable to meet Fran's gaze.

'There was a case, a few months ago,' he said. 'The McDonald case.'

'I heard about it,' she said. 'The whole department heard about it, and worked on it as well.'

Ironside nodded, not looking up, staring at a spot of dirt on the floor of the van.

'Eve was still working, she'd become engaged, but she hadn't told us. We'd all guessed.'

A sad, but indulgent smile spread over his face as he thought about how she'd tried to hide it from him, as if he hadn't been able to tell from the way she'd been after she'd accepted. The smile faded and he pursed his lips, trying to form the next sentence correctly.

'A few hours before the McDonald case came to trial, someone tried to sabotage it.'

Fran gave a gasp of surprise.

'I didn't know…' she started to say, but he held up his hand.

'There aren't many people on the force who know the whole truth,' he said, sounding too stern, unable to say this in the way he wanted to. 'Dennis, Murray from Internal Affairs. Carl Reese. Mark and I.' He paused. 'Ed.'

She pulled back warily as he said the list of names.

'What happened?' she whispered.

'Someone from my past, a man called Anthony Richards, used the McDonald case to try to take revenge for what I did to his family. Eve and Ed. They were-' again he found it hard to say the next words, but he steadied himself. 'They were kidnapped. Ed was blackmailed into stealing state's evidence for the McDonald case, into making a call for extortion money. One of the officers who was in on it was murdered with Ed's gun. The evidence against him looked irrefutable. Iron-clad.'

There was a momentary pause before Fran spoke, as if she struggled to ask a question that she didn't want to know the answer to.

'Why would he do that?'

'Richards' companion was a felon from Texas. A string of brutal murders, physical assaults, violent knife attacks against women. Someone highly skilled in causing pain with a blade. Ed did whatever he was told, just to keep Eve safe. He did what Tony ordered him to. The first rule of kidnapping is to keep the victim safe.'

Fran was watching him, he could feel her horrified stare without needing to see it. He kept looking at the floor.

'Then I made a mistake,' Ironside said. 'I jumped to a wrong conclusion, and Eve was left behind in a burning building. Mark saved her, but-' he took another slow breath, 'but Richards got away and took the evidence. And Ed. They vanished, leaving us no leads.'

It took a few seconds for him to begin the next sentence.

'All we could do was wait for Tony to tell us where the drop was going to be. So we waited. We did nothing. All that time, all those hours, we sat and we waited.'

Ed is handcuffed, the chain over a roof beam so he is stretched out his full length, trapped and unable to get away. Earlier, he struck his temple on a metal bar hard enough to cause a concussion. His head is still ringing, his vision blurred. He's just been beaten, and the punch to his face moments earlier caused enough damage to his mouth to make him spit blood.

Lonnie McArthur steps into Ed's line of sight with a smile. It's not the smile of an evil man, it's the smile of a man meeting an old friend, long-lost and desperately-missed.

Ed's heart rate speeds up as Lonnie dabs at the blood on Ed's lips and chin. Under other circumstances Ed would have pulled his head away but he's fixed in place by Lonnie's look of utter fascination and intensity. It's like watching an expert defusing a bomb, or the anticipation of a first kiss.

After staring at the blood, Lonnie reaches down, slowly and deliberately undoing Ed's tie, and then his shirt buttons, one by one, all the way to the bottom. He pulls at Ed's shirt, carefully folding it round and pushing back his collar to expose as much skin as possible. Lonnie's eyes are bright with a terrible hunger, all his attention focused on what's directly in front of him.

Ed is shaking uncontrollably. An excruciating dread is crushing down, making it hard to breathe, and hard to think of anything but Richards' description of Lonnie's skill with a knife, the gruesome details that he'd been told with delight the day before. Ed is about to find out for himself if it's accurate.

Lonnie's hand feels like sandpaper on his ribcage, and he examines Ed's torso like a master sculptor with a fresh slab of stone that's ready to be carved. He searches for weaknesses, faults and flaws, poking the bruises and scratches, and in spite of wanting to stay silent, Ed hisses with pain. Lonnie doesn't react, Ed's not sure he's even noticed.

His breathing rate keeps speeding up, just like his heart rate, fight or flight response in full swing. Every moment stretches out, every sensation magnified. He can't help himself, although his shoulders and back muscles are aching, Ed now tries to pull away, twisting his wrists against the handcuffs, not registering any pain even though he feels more blood trickle down his forearms.

Then Lonnie steps back. There is no laugher, no attempt to mock or to gloat. Instead, there is the unmistakable snick of a switchblade.

Ed closes his eyes. He knows what comes next.

It starts with a soft pressure just below his rib, the point of the knife resting against him, like the prick of a pin. He tries to get away, but the knife follows him. Ed's feet have little purchase on the floor, but he pushes himself as far back as he can, his arms stretching past usual limits. Lonnie suddenly grabs the back of his hair with his other hand, bunching in it tightly, sending a sheet of pain though Ed's head and neck. He's forced to stay still. All he can hear is his own ragged, panting breath and his racing heartbeat thundering in his ears.

The pain by his rib grows as more pressure is applied, enough to break the skin, but the blade doesn't go deeply in. It's a biting, stabbing pain that swells, growing more acute with every passing moment. Ed clamps his mouth shut, his jaw rigid, eyes screwed up, feeling himself shaking and almost at the edge of losing all control.

The knife starts to move ever so slowly following the line of his ribcage, with a sharp ripping sensation as it glides along, splitting him open. All his muscles are tensed against the continuous pain. His throat is tight and he can barely breathe, but a soft whimper escapes.

Time stretches out and the knife keeps going, slowly, slowly, and he feels this is never going to end. He's hyperventilating and can't stop. It's all going grey. The room is fading. The sensation is warm and welcoming, a comforting oblivion where he can escape reality and be safe.

Then the knife is gone.

The acute pain stops, and the abrupt change jerks Ed back to a higher awareness. Fantasy is ripped away. He gasps in shock, feeling blood seeping out of the wound, trickling over his side.

Lonnie gave a hum of pleasure, letting go of Ed's hair, and Ed's eyes flicker open. Lonnie has been watching him, waiting for the right moment, not wanting to let him retreat into the safety of unconsciousness. The reality of what's happening hits him again. Ed's stomach clenches and he gives a dry retch, sending yet another excruciating shock through his body.

A moment later, the knife is back in the open cut, Lonnie wields it like a surgeon and a terrible, sharp pain lances over Ed's torso. The knife twists and digs in, and the pain intensifies, filling his head so there's no room for anything else. Blood pours out, Lonnie pushes his fingers into the flow, probing and exploring, squeezing it out and letting it run over his hand. There was an awed whisper from the man, like a prayer.

Then Lonnie suddenly pulls the knife along once again with one quick, smooth flick of his wrist, slicing more deeply into an already painful wound. Ed cries out, his whole body arches back, recoiling in agony.

'We had no other leads,' the Chief said. 'Once Mark rescued Eve, we thought Ed might still have been in the warehouse. The roof collapsed, and for a while we thought…'

He shook his head at the memory, the few hours he'd spend thinking his friend had been left to burn to death in a collapsed building. How strange to remember the feeling, to think that was the worst thing that could have happened.

'Wh-what did you? I mean, how? How did you find out?'

'Eve spoke to us,' the Chief said. He could clearly remember her lying in the hospital looking pale and tired, and scared. Frightened for her colleague, a man who treated her with the affection of a big brother, and respected her as a trusted friend.

'She told us how Richards had caught them, and what he'd said to her. He'd told her that everyone had a price, and convinced her he meant money. Tony could be very persuasive and Ed just did everything he was asked without question.'

He didn't want to share the confidences of his former staff member, the private things she'd told him that afternoon in the hospital, but he found himself saying it anyway.

'She was shocked, angry, betrayed. Ed had tried to talk to her, and she rejected his explanation, unaware of who McArthur was, and what he would do if Ed stepped out of line. There was a struggle, Eve said she would have been hurt, but Ed took the punch meant for her. He struck his head.'

Fran made a small noise, but didn't say anything, the tears in her eyes making them shine.

'Then McArthur mentioned Tony's name, and she realised what she'd done.'

He was silent again for a few moments, wondering what would have happened if Eve hadn't found out who was behind it. Could he have kept his belief in Ed? Could she? Would he have planned the ransom drop differently? Would he have put in place the safeguards to get Ed out? Of course, he would have discovered the truth before the end anyway, the moment Tony had spoken to him on the phone he'd have recognised his voice.

How would he have felt then, if that had been the moment which confirmed Ed as a victim too?

The knife digs in again, opening a new wound. Ed has tried to keep count of the times Lonnie has cut into him, two, five, ten, twenty, but now it's become a blur. He can hardly keep himself standing, gravity pulling him relentlessly down so he's stretched out by his own weight. His mind can't concentrate on any details for long, sensations of pain are bombarding him. Everything hurts. The blood from all the open cuts trail over his torso. And his back. And his upper arms.

The knife keeps moving. Breathing only makes the pain worse, so Ed tries to stop himself gulping down air. His hair is plastered down. He feels sweat bead on his forehead, run down his face. Every so often there is the soft drip of his blood onto the wooden boards beneath him.

The pattern is the same and the knife is pulled away, moments before he loses consciousness. It isn't taking as long now, he's lasting a shorter and shorter time with each attack. Again Lonnie smears the blood over Ed's skin, relishing the sensation. The man's hand is slick with it. For a second, Ed thinks Lonnie might actually lick his fingers and, revolted, bile rises to the back of his mouth. But instead Lonnie is transfixed, tenderly rubbing the blood until it turns sticky.

Ed swallows the sickness, choking and coughing as he does. His throat is burning with acid, making it even more difficult to breathe. He looks up for the first time in what might have been hours but feels like forever. Although his vision is still distorted, he can see Anthony Richards casually leaning against the table opposite, watching his accomplice work. When he notices Ed's gaze he gives a slight, disinterested smile; a professional smile from someone who had seen this all before.

Ed stares, a wave of something rising in his chest. It's that cold smile more than anything else that pushes him from fear into uncontrollable and overwhelming panic. It leaves him stunned, as impotent as a butterfly impaled on a pin, as the future snaps into focus. They're going to leave him hanging here forever, his life dripping away onto the floor. He's going to bleed to death in unbearable pain.

He has no way out. There's nothing he can do to stop it.

And in his panic, Ed slips into the despair he's struggled against, asking the question that has been at the back of his mind for hours. Where was the Chief?

Why didn't Ironside help him?

In all the years they'd known each other, the Chief had never failed to come to the aid of a friend. Time after time, with amazing tenacity and cleverness, Ironside had always been there, to solve and to rescue, to help and to protect. Even after he'd lost the use of his legs and was confined to a wheelchair Ironside had never, ever turned his back on one of his friends.

So why wasn't he here, now, to make this stop?

There's only one answer. At that moment, the truth of it hurts him more the slice of the knife, bringing fresh tears in the corners of his eyes.

He's pushed the Chief too far away, he's destroyed their friendship completely. The Chief could only think that he's crossed the fence and taken bribes, that he's done it for the money. And Eve is dead in that fire, Ironside will think it is his fault.

Because it is his fault. This whole stupid, terrible mess is his own fault for not being more on his guard, for making so many mistakes, for not seeing the trouble, for not being a better cop, for not figuring out a way to save Eve before she died. Shouldn't he had done something more? Now, no one is coming to help. He's on his own.

Panic grips him again, not the fleeting flash it had been earlier, but the kind that took your breath away, made your head spin, your heart thump and you could never forget. The Chief isn't going to do anything. He isn't going to help. There would be no second chance, no last minute rescue. Not this time. He's stopped any possibility with the phone call to demand money. With all the evidence he's left scattered around, no one will question his guilt.

He's alone. He's going to face a slow, agonising, degrading death hanging from a roof beam like an animal, and face it alone. He's pushed them all away. Even Ironside. He's failed the Chief, caused Eve's death, sold his soul and there was nothing left to save. No one will ever know otherwise. He's failed them all.

This is never going to end. And he's done this to himself.

Ed hears Lonnie move closer, and he gives a choking gasp of pain and panic.

Oh God, please. Not again.

He squeezes his eyes shut, the tears leaking out from underneath. Ed feels the knife press against the latest cut. No one is going to come and help him. Not even Ironside.

The blade of the knife presses into him.

Oh God, please, please, please. Not again.