Well, let's see how this new chapter system works...hope it doesn't get entirely lost in the shuffle!
Hmmm, judging by response to the last part, some people seem to *like* me hurting poor sweet Darien-sama...will I be able to resist the seductive pull of angst, spare an innocent man?
Heck no. The story plunges onward, and if things seem to get easier, it's only the calm before the storm...
For the Good...
Part 4
Friday invariably was the longest day of the week. This Friday didn't simply drag. Hobbes was convinced his watch went backwards when he wasn't looking.
He couldn't say it was a boring day. A brief car chase lead to a longer pursuit on foot before he and his partner finally cornered three small-time crooks with connections to a big-time syndicate. Supposedly the Agency was tracking the commerce of surplus prescription drugs to the black market. The truth was somewhat darker, because medicines were far from the only thing being smuggled. Hobbes didn't know all the details, and didn't care to. Neither did Lewis.
Hobbes couldn't say why that non-curiosity in his partner annoyed him as much as it did. It made him feel almost obliged to ask for more information from their boss. He had to stop himself from so questioning the director when they made their preliminary report that afternoon. Admittedly it wasn't that difficult to put his curiosity aside, with most of his mind on another matter.
Lewis didn't notice his preoccupation. "You better be on the ball next week," he did condescend to say before they left for the weekend. "I'm not covering your ass if you're late again. Yesterday and today was enough."
"Yeah, whatever." Didn't really matter as it were. Today might well have been his last day at the Agency.
"Hey, Hobbes." Hobbes turned at the difference in his tone. Lewis met his partner's eyes with a small reluctance. "You did good today," he admitted. "If you hadn't shot out their tire we'd have lost the perps."
"Thanks," Hobbes said, surprised. "No sweat."
"So, got any plans this weekend?"
Oh, me and an old friend are breaking into a secure facility to save my ex-partner from a clandestine government organization which is researching his biosynthetic gland for unknown but almost definitely unethical purposes. That is, if we're not too late to help him, and if we can succeed in breaching state-of-the-art defenses with some computer hacks and a lot of luck, and if we can then escape with a man who is probably about one baby step away from being a complete psychopath.
Hobbes shrugged. "Nothing much. What about you? Hot date or did she wise up and dump you?"
Lewis's halfway amicable expression darkened like an oncoming stormfront. "Screw you. Be here Monday before nine or I'm going straight to the director. I don't need to put up with this." He stalked out the doors.
"Guess she did," Hobbes mused, and gave Lewis time to leave before departing himself. Then he drove directly to Claire's place. It was already past five. No time to spare. Borden had promised to have everything they needed, so from here on it was up to the two of them.
***
The night Fawkes came to them for help, Hobbes and the Keeper were awake until three in the morning, discussing what he had told them. At last, having come to no definite conclusions, Claire retired to her bedroom, and Hobbes sacked out on the futon in her study. Darien spent the night on the couch where he had crashed.
The next morning they spoke with Darien, and with his agreement called the Official at the Agency and explained the situation. Their boss listened patiently. When Hobbes was through, he asked, "Fawkes is there at Claire's house now?"
"Yeah. He says he's feeling okay, but Keeper says he's going to be on the edge within three days, whether or not he quicksilvers. She wants him in the lab for tests and stuff."
"If she thinks it's best, all right. Bring him in."
"Are you sure, sir? Because we don't want to compromise the Agency, but if the CIA guesses he might have come back here, then we'd have to deny it, and I don't--"
"Bring him in," the Official repeated. "What time will you be here?"
Hobbes looked at the others. "An hour sound good to everyone? Okay. We'll be there in an hour."
So the three of them drove to the FDA offices. It wasn't until they were getting out of the car that Darien tensed. "Gland bugging you?" Hobbes muttered anxiously.
Darien shook his head, gaze searching the parking lot. "No...there's something..."
"Agent Fawkes."
Three men materialized from behind a sleek, silver van. All were in suits, two square-jawed and broad-shouldered as football jocks, the third tall but slight. He approached with smooth assurance, flanked by the burly pair.
Darien stared at the central man. "Giles?"
"You have to trust us, Fawkes. As your former colleagues here do." The thin man nodded congenially at Hobbes and the Keeper as he slid forward. Darien took a reflexive step back. Suddenly, with seamlessly quick stealth, Giles reached forward and jabbed a narrow metal tube to Fawkes's chest.
Something hissed. Darien lunged to the side, shimmering and vanishing as a ripple of quicksilver washed over him.
He was too late. One of the other men calculated his feint and grabbed his invisible form, shoving him against Claire's SUV. With a silvery tinkle, quicksilver cascaded down, revealing Fawkes braced against the car door. His brown eyes were wide and fixed on the Keeper, on Hobbes, with unmistakable accusation and a despairing betrayal.
Then he collapsed, eyes closing as his legs gave out. His captor caught him as he sagged.
Everything happened so fast Hobbes barely had time to pull his gun. "What'd you do to him?" he hollered, aiming at the man holding Darien.
"Dr. Giles." So snarling, Claire slapped Giles, hard enough that the man's head snapped back. The instrument dropped from his hands and rolled. She swiftly scooped it up.
"Fawkes?" Hobbes asked. When Darien, slumped against the car hood and supported by the man who had stopped him, made no response, he glanced to Claire. "What the hell is that?"
"A hypospray. High pressure injection. Fast acting." Her face was white as she brandished the silver cylinder at the other doctor. "What was in here? What did you give him?"
"Only a sedative." Giles rubbed his cheek where her blow had landed, then peremptorily snatched the instrument from her hands and pocketed it. "I'm sorry for the dramatics, but given his state of mind we didn't have much choice. If you'll excuse us."
"Hold it," Hobbes said. His gun didn't waver, still pointed at Giles's man. "You're not moving an inch--"
"Let them go, Hobbes."
Claire and Hobbes started and glanced back. The Official had emerged from the FDA building, his face grim and unreadable, Eberts a colorless shade at his side. "You're interfering with another agency's operation."
"Like hell! They just drugged Fawkes--"
"Agent Fawkes is CIA, not Agency," the Official said harshly. His eyes moved to Giles. "Doctor, take your patient and go. I apologize for my agents' transgressions."
"You're CIA?" Hobbes demanded.
"He's one of the doctors I trained in working with the QS gland," Claire said, icy fury sharpening her words. "Have you been deliberately building his resistance to the counteragent, Giles? Do you have any idea the damage you are--"
"The situation is fully under control, Doctor," Giles smoothly declared. "Please put him in the van, agents." He gestured to his men, who eyed Hobbes's gun still aimed in their direction, then shrugged and ignored the implied threat. The man supporting Darien half-carried, half-dragged him to the silver van while the other slid the side door open. They stowed him in the seat in the back, and the first man clambered in after him. They had a brief view of Darien draped over the seat, his head drooping awkwardly. Then the other man closed the door on both of them, went around to take the driver's seat, and started the engine.
"I don't know what Fawkes told you," Giles said, "but you must realize he's not thinking clearly. He's not been well. We're doing everything we can for him. Rest assured, we understand his value." He nodded cordially to the Official. "Thank you for your assistance. I'm sure you can explain everything to your agents; I have a patient to attend." He climbed into the passenger seat, and the van pulled out of the lot.
Hobbes turned and immediately headed for his own vehicle.
"Bobby, get back here now," the Official commanded.
"No time," Hobbes called back over his shoulder. "If we don't move it we're gonna lose 'em. You got them off their guard, we have to take advantage--"
"I'm telling you this only one more time, Agent Hobbes," the Official said. "This is another agency's business. It's not our concern."
Claire's eyes widened. "You set him up." She spoke with soft certainty. "You knew they were here--you told us to bring him so they could get him."
"We can't afford to interfere whenever we want to. They know what they're doing. Agent Fawkes is their business now. This isn't worth losing our careers."
"You fat bastard--"
"Sir," Claire said, still calmly, "do you know what they're doing to him? Regardless of Giles's allegation, Darien was not delusional. I've considered what he told me--"
"It's not our concern, Doctor."
"--if I'm right, the consequences--"
"Listen to me, Claire."
"--I don't know if they have a connection with Luke Lawson, or came up with it independently--"
"It's over," the Official growled, with the force to override her. "You and Hobbes are to put him--it--out of your mind. Whatever happens to Fawkes is no longer Agency business." His eyes flicked to his aide. "You better write up a memo, Eberts."
"Yes, sir." Eberts was staring down at the ground as intently as if the sequel to the book of Revelation were being penned on the lot's asphalt.
"Up yours," Hobbes snarled, savage. "Maybe you don't owe Fawkes nothing, maybe the Agency doesn't, but I do. He was my partner. He saved my life. There's no way I'm letting him go to hell without a fight." Drawing his badge from his pocket, he threw it down to the pavement at the Official's feet, then spun on his heel and stalked to his car.
The Official waited a moment in considering silence, then picked up the badge, handed it to Claire and instructed, "Stop him. He's no good to Fawkes if he can't keep his head." And turning, he walked back inside the building, Eberts trailing behind him.
Claire followed Bobby, understanding as the Official did that after the sleepless night and the shock of Darien's removal, Hobbes needed time to cool down, to release his anger before facing the situation clear-minded. There were other, better ways to handle this that wouldn't get them arrested or destroy their careers. This was a civilized country, where the sovereign rights of an innocent man would not simply be tossed aside. Open battle was not needed here to save him, only the logic and persistence to prove their point to an oblivious bureaucracy. They would manage this without breaking faith with the ideals they had always served.
Neither of them knew then that the brief glimpse through the CIA van's window as it drove away would be the last time they would lay eyes on Darien Fawkes.
***
Three and a half hours after leaving the Agency, Hobbes was walking into the psychiatric adjunct building of the San Bernardino County Hospital. He strode freely down the halls, following the route he had traced out on the hospital's floor plan. No one so much as glanced at his identification tag until he reached the set of fortified double doors leading to the north wing.
The receptionist behind the glass screen on the right wall was backed by a uniformed guard standing before the doors. Next to him, a black plaque with white block letters labeled the entrance to the Brighton Ward for the Criminally Insane.
The guard nodded once to Hobbes. The receptionist behind the glass looked up from her book. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah." Hobbes stepped up to the window and brandished his badge. "Good evening. I'm a federal agent. I have business here. Need to talk to one of the patients."
One plucked orange eyebrow went up. "Kinda late for an interrogation, isn't it?"
"This can't wait for Monday. The sting's tomorrow and if we don't have these names--anyway, I should be registered."
The receptionist checked her computer, squinted at his badge and nodded. "You're Vecchio? Yeah, you're listed. I'll call one of the doctors. There's a chair over there." She aimed her chin at the plastic seat across the hall and returned to her book.
Hobbes sat down and waited, tapping his fingers and hoping it was just his imagination that the guard was glaring at him. Claire had assured him that this part at least would go smoothly--or had conveyed Charlie Borden's assurances, which wasn't quite the same thing, to Hobbes's mind.
The ex-Official had come through on at least some of the bargain, providing the necessary false ID and making a timely addition to the hospital computer's schedule. The Keeper had given Hobbes the newly minted card last night. His picture was as lousy as the one on his real ID, and the name worse. "Vecchio? Oy, my grandma'll be rolling in her grave."
"There wasn't much choice," Claire said. "He didn't make up the name--rather than try to add an entirely new persona to the authorized database, he, or his hacker, rather, attached your data to another agent's record. Since the real David Vecchio is stationed in Chicago, there's little likelihood of him appearing here."
"So who is the Official's hacker, anyway?" Hobbes thought to ask, but Claire didn't know, and they had other concerns.
"The ID will get you through the door, but once inside he couldn't guarantee you'd be given free reign," she said. "And I can't come with you. I know at least one doctor on the staff personally, and I may have met the others, including those involved with Darien. It's very possible I encountered some of them during my time with the DOD. If they recognized me--"
"I follow. You're pretty well-known in those circles. And I'm a nobody agent."
"That's what they've needed to think," Claire said sharply. "Don't begin believing it yourself. Playing this subterfuge for this long should have proved that to you as much as it proved the lie to everyone else."
"Hell, I've always known how talented I am. Don't need the reminder. Though it's nice to hear it aloud." He grinned at her. "Especially from you."
She smiled back, that frustrating little smile of hers that could be teasing or just as easily be honestly meant, then grew serious again. "Once inside, it's up to you. If this goes wrong--"
"I know. We won't get another chance, once they're on to us." She had told him that, over a year ago, explaining why they so desperately needed to be patient, bide their time until everything was ready. If they failed in the first time, even if they weren't caught, they would never succeed against the increased security which the attempt would effect. This gambit was all or nothing.
It scared the hell out of him. But Bobby Hobbes was no stranger to pressure. Although every nerve in him was strung taut with tension, they sang with exhilaration, not petrified anxiety. One chance meant this had to succeed. He had to succeed. There was no other choice.
"Agent Vecchio?"
He stood up. A man in a white coat had emerged from the locked doors. He extended his hand to Hobbes. "I'm Dr. Lapier. You're here to question a patient?"
"Yeah." They shook. Lapier squeezed briefly and released as fast as was polite.
Hobbes gave the doctor a quick once-over, stifling a chill. He recognized the name from the Official's list. Not hospital staff, but attached to the project studying Fawkes.
Could he suspect? Hobbes dismissed the notion immediately. There probably weren't many doctors here at all on a Friday night. And even if Lapier knew Darien, there was little reason he would recognize Fawkes's former partner on sight. Much less chance that he'd have an inkling of their plans.
Nor was Lapier especially threatening in appearance. He was of medium build and medium height--putting him a couple inches taller than Bobby--with brownish hair thinning but not yet balding. All that saved him from stunning mediocrity were his eyes, which although a nondescript, muddy hazel, were slightly too wide-set, round enough to bulge. They had a disconcerting habit of locking onto objects without wavering or blinking.
Hobbes shrugged off his momentary alarm, quick enough it was unnoticeable. "Let's go, don't have all night." He brushed past the doctor and the guard, striding through the opened doors with brisk professionalism. Lapier had to hurry to catch up.
"Please keep your voice down, Agent," the doctor requested when the doors clapped shut behind them. "It's after curfew, so the patients are asleep."
Hobbes had studied the ward in close detail; he knew exactly where he was going. He headed for the elevator without delay. The sterile gray halls were half-lit, to enforce the perception of night for cells without windows to the outside. Barely visible through wired glass portals in the locked doors, patients slept in dark rooms.
Lapier produced a keycard to operate the elevator. "Third floor," Hobbes told him. At the doctor's askance look, he shrugged casually. "I've been here before, know my way around. Not my choice to disturb you at night, but this is a priority case."
"Ah." The elevator chimed as it came to a stop and opened. Hobbes stepped into the hall, the doctor at his heels inquiring, "Now, Agent, who are you here to see?"
Hobbes checked his watch, as if the late hour were his major concern. "Guy by the name of Fawkes. Darien Fawkes. Before he went bonkers he was a professional thief, and we think he had dealings with an international ring of--"
Lapier, halting in his tracks, cut short the fabrication. "Fawkes isn't available."
Realizing the doctor no longer walked with him, Hobbes also stopped. "What do you mean, he's not available?"
"Mr. Fawkes is in no condition to answer questions at the moment." Lapier offered a thin, unconvincing smile of placation. "If you'd given prior warning, we could have arranged something. Perhaps later this week..."
Hobbes pretended to consider it. "The sting's tomorrow morning; this really can't wait. Can you just show me to his cell? I'll take whatever I can get out of the guy."
"I'm afraid not." The doctor turned back to the elevator. "He's drugged at the moment, but even if he weren't it's unlikely you'd get anything useful out of him. Fawkes is severely schizophrenic. His psychosis is such that he's rarely coherent and often delusional, so you wouldn't be able to trust what answers you got from him. I'd advise you abandon this line of inquiry as unfeasible."
"Sorry to hear that," Hobbes said. As he spoke he scanned the hall, looking and listening for signs of another's presence. No one was in evidence. And they were right out of range of the security camera over the elevator. "I have to try, though. Boss won't listen to excuses unless I've at least seen the guy. Please, I just need a minute."
"I can't allow that, Agent." Lapier's thin smile might have widened in triumph. "Begging won't help. As a doctor, I have a responsibility to my patients, and I don't think your interrogation would benefit Fawkes. We can't risk triggering a violent episode. And he particularly hates anyone connected with the government."
"Gee, I wonder why," Hobbes said, and swung his fist.
He clocked Lapier on the jaw, and followed up with a blow to the back of his head. The doctor dropped like a lead weight, no so much as a whimper escaping his slack lips. Hobbes massaged his bruised knuckles, muttered, "How come you science-types always got such hard skulls?"
Only a few steps down the hall he had spotted a maintenance closet. He dragged the doctor's unconscious body over to it and stowed him inside, leaning against a mop bucket. A quick frisk relieved Lapier of his keycard and a ring of keys. After a moment's thought, Hobbes removed his white coat as well. The sleeves were a little long but it fit reasonably otherwise. With a roll of packing tape on the closet's shelf he secured the doctor's wrists behind his back.
The corridor was still empty. The guards made their rounds only once an hour, and there were few doctors or orderlies on the night shift. Hobbes closed the closet door and tried keys until he found the match. He slipped it off the ring, locked the door, then gave the key a sharp kick. With a second kick the grip snapped off, leaving the key's shaft embedded in the bolt.
That should hold him long enough. In the labcoat with his borrowed keycard in hand, Hobbes strode purposefully down the hall. If he looked like he belonged here, it was less likely he would be questioned.
The route from the floorplans was burned into his memory. He turned down a hall, used the keycard to pass through a set of double doors, turned another corner, and he was there. The corridor was exactly like the rest, except the doors lining the walls here had no windows, and their steel was reinforced by double locks.
At the end of the hall, the doors were closed but the identification tags were empty, save the final one. Inside its plastic sheath, the medical chart was headed by a typed name: "Fawkes, Darien G."
"What's the 'G', Fawkes?" Hobbes muttered under his breath as one by one he tested the keys in the lock. "Don't see you as a 'Gerald', you were born before Ford. Gary? George? Gingrich? Goofball?--that's it!" The sixth key slid neatly into the tumbler.
He turned the key and it sprang, but the red light on the electronic lock below still blinked. Holding his breath, Hobbes swiped the keycard through the slot. The diode went dark and a steady green light flashed on. With a metallic click the bolt unlocked.
"All right," Hobbes breathed. Setting his fingers on the handle, he pressed down and swung the door outward.
The cell beyond was dark, the dim florescents from the hall casting their murky ambience over the padded walls. In the far left corner, the gray light picked out a cot bolted to the floor, and outlined the figure of the man seated upon it. Clothed in a shapeless white jumpsuit, his dark hair a blot against the uniformly neutral surroundings, he turned his head slowly toward the intrusion. Red eyes reflected like a cat's through the shadows.
Hobbes stared, all his expectations not enough to brace him for the simple shock of seeing his friend, alive. It took a second for him to overcome tongue-tied recognition enough to whisper, "Hey, Fawkes."
to be continued...
That is, if anyone survived the transition to chapters..?