Chapter 4: Talebearer
"And what can I help you with Ms.?" Christopher McCann said politely. He was in his mid thirties, very handsome and very charismatic, nice dresser. An up and comer in the New York Bell corporation, he was in charge of all NY registered 800 numbers, not a small task at all.
"Pezzini," Sara supplied.
McCann, for a second, blanched, or so it seemed to Sara, but then he quickly regained his composure. "Ah, Ms. Pezzini, how can I help you?"
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, fine," he said a little curtly. "Just busy."
"Ah, well then, thank you for sparing the time, I was just wondering if you could help me trace down a number."
"Which number?"
"One eight hundred pay back," Sara said, watching him carefully.
"Well, that could certainly be done by one of our operators . . ."
"I've talked to your operators. They can't find it."
"What do you mean?"
"They looked and looked, that number is nowhere in the system."
"Well, are you sure it's the right number?"
"I'm sure."
"It could be a national . . ."
"No, I put a trace on it, whatever phone or voice mail box or whatever picks up that number comes from inside New York."
"So you're telling me that someone in this department has set up an anonymous 1-800 number and then hid it in the system?"
"That's the only thing I can think of."
"Why would someone want to do that?"
"To hide a hit man agency."
"What!" McCann said, far too loudly.
"This number is connected with one unsolved kidnaping that we know of, possibly more."
"This can't be real," the man moaned, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands.
"Why not?"
"You've just accused one of my people of ah, a, crime. A serious, serious, crime."
Sara watched him cautiously, something was wrong with the way he was reacting to her information. He was panicked, not furious. But her Witchblade wasn't warning her.
Then it occurred to her, for the first time, that the Witchblade hadn't helped her once. A slow, cold, terror started creeping over her, the Witchblade always gave her help, it showed her the crime in frighteningly intimate detail, it gave her heightened senses, advanced warning, and at times it dominated her consciousness. But not now. When her dearest friend was in mortal danger it was cool and quiet.
"Yes," Sara stuttered. "I'll, ah, be sure to, ah, keep you informed on the investigation."
"Are you alright Ms. Pezzini?"
Sara nodded vaguely. "Yeah, I've, um, got some more investigating to do."
"Naturally."
"Don't leave town."
McCann laughed, almost nervously. "Not a worry."
"Thanks," Sara said out of habit before she left his office and then left the building.
She would be abandoned, she had been told that. During the periculum she was assured that she had not been abandoned. But what if that was then and this was now, what if she had been abandoned. What if the Witchblade didn't like her passionate, unethical, selfish, hopelessly foolish crusade against the White Bulls. What if the Witchblade had chosen her because she was in a position to cut down those people that were causing the deep insanity of the human race. What if this was the Witchblade's way of punishing her for ignoring her true vocation as a police officer?
No Sara thought desperately as she fingered the delicate silver band that was fused into her body. I've worked too hard, I've done too much, I've lost too much. I refuse to let this abandon me!
But still, it remained unmoved.
* * *
"Hey!" Gabriel shouted to a dark form moving towards him. It was the first movement, beyond that of the shadows, he had seen since his kidnaping. At this point he didn't care if the dark form, which was slowly becoming that of a person, was a friend or a foe, he just wanted someone to talk to. "Hey!"
"Shut up," the man said, right before he stepped into full view. Gabriel recognized him immediately, he was the man that unlocked his door the night before, the man whom he had hit with the lava lamp.
"Who are you?" Gabriel asked, a little less boldly.
"Your kidnaper."
"Oh," Gabriel said, he hadn't expected such an obvious answer. "Why'd you kidnap me?"
"Because you are the person she'll miss most."
"She?"
"Sara Pezzini."
"Sara?" Things started to make sense. He had been warned, both by Sara and by Ian Nottingham that being her friend would lead to trouble. He had said he hadn't cared, and, oddly, as he was sitting in the cage, he realized he didn't. He managed a cocky smile, "Why would you think I'm the person she would miss most? " the younger man demanded.
"Because you're practically the only person she calls."
"You have her phone records?"
"We have everyone's phone records," The man said. "So, who you know in Shanghai?"
"An archeologist who's ideas are too western for Red China," Gabe answered quickly. "Sara Pezzini and I really aren't that close."
"I don't care."
"I'm an antiques dealer," Gabriel said desperately. "I'm doing some research for her."
"It doesn't matter how you know each other . . ."
"Who in their right mind would pay a ransom for their antiques dealer?"
"We're not asking for a ransom."
"Well then, what do you want?"
"It's not what I want, it's what my client wants."
"You were hired to kidnap an antiques dealer?"
"You're not scared." the man observed dryly as he to a menacing step closer to Gabriel, who was safely locked in his cage.
The young man smirked at the observation, "Why should I be afraid?"
"I can hurt you."
Gabe shrugged.
"A lot."
"You don't know who you're dealing with," Gabriel said with more bravado than he felt. Sara was an amazing woman, by any account, and she would find a way to save him, but he didn't know how, and he didn't know when. Still, he could live with those uncertainties as long as they were just the corona around the sun of certainty that was Sara.
"You think she'll risk her life to save you?"
"I know she will."
"Who would risk their life to save an antiques dealer?" the man asked, laughing as he threw Gabriel's back at him.
"Someone who doesn't like being jerked around."
"You are a cocky bastard."
"I'm not a bastard," Gabriel said, more or less implying 'yes, I am,'to the first adjective without apology.
The man turned away from Gabriel as he sighed in disgust. "I always hated cocky bastards. How 'bout you?"
"Never really thought about it." Gabriel admitted. His tone of voice made it clear that he still wasn't thinking about it.
"Why would you?" the huge man asked as he turned around. "It's your cardinal virtue."
With one smooth movement a trail of amber liquid flew from the flask that had appeared in his hand and slapped Gabriel full in the face. While being doused with low grade poly malt whisky has never been a pleasant experience for anyone, the raw alcohol burned the raw skin around his eyes and the soft brown orbs themselves were consumed with pain as the chemical remains of the mace which had disabled him the previous night mixed with the whisky. He was lost in the pain for a moment, only peripherally noticing that the rest of the flask was being dumped on his head. By the time he was able to open his eyes again and register a blurred vision of the world, he was soaked with cheap whisky and more annoyed than frightened. As he tried to concentrate on his breathing and ignore the maddening pain he was tempted to demand, 'What the hell?' However, when he saw the large man pull out a match book and light a match, he got it.
"You've got a be kidding me."
"Still not scared?"
"You can't kill me."
"I have a fire extinguisher."
Gabriel stared at his captor, dumbfounded by the idiocy of the plan; douse him with cheap alcohol and then set fire to him. It was like a bad Bond movie. No, a bad generic spy movie, Bond had never been that lame.
As the man lowered the match, expecting his victim to tremble in terror, Gabriel watched, still more annoyed then frightened. When the match was less then an inch away from the cage's metal bars Gabriel leaned forward, ever so slightly, and blew it out.
For a second the man looked at the smoking match, and then he glanced up at Gabriel, who's eyes, painted red with swollen blood vessels, seemed to say 'well what did you expect?'
"Damn you," the man grunted as he lit another match. Gabriel watched, disbelieving, as the flames were brought close to his alcohol soaked t-shirt only to blow it out when it was a few inches away. This pattern repeated itself twice more before the large man wised up and started using his lighter. Again, Gabriel blew out the flame before it could reach him.
"I can do this as long as you can," Gabriel told the man when he pulled the matches out again. "I think you're gonna have to come to grips with the fact you've wasted a flask of whiskey."
The man grunted angrily and lit another match. "See if you can get this one," he said, his voice edged with malice. He tossed the lit match in a graceful arch which should have (if this were a movie) landed, still aflame, on Gabriel. And then (in the movie) the young man would burst into flames and start screaming in pain.
But it wasn't a movie, it was real. So the flame died as it flew through the air and the smoking stick landed harmlessly on the top of the cage. Both men looked at it for a moment before Gabriel broke into a smile, "Man, this just isn't your day."
Out of silly, futile, rage the man kicked Gabriel's cage with all his strength. The cage tipped and almost fell over and when it finally righted itself the young man was propelled into the cage wall and came away with a gash on his forehead, which would have been hidden by his bangs if it weren't pouring out an unreasonable amount of blood.
"Hey!" a shrill girls voice said. "You trying to kill him? Can I help?"
"No, Nat," the man said, just a tad annoyed that his torture session had been interrupted. "I'm trying to scare him."
"He doesn't look scared, just bloody."
"As long as he looks like he needs rescuing," The man said. "Is it set up?"
"Yeah," The girl, most likely named Nat, said, glancing at Gabriel then back at the man. She looked giddy, excited. "Toph, this is crazy. I can't believe we're doing this."
"It make you hot?" the man, apparently named Toph, said.
"Yeah."
The man laughed softly, walked up to her, and Gabriel looked away. Maybe it was because he hadn't had anything to drink in over 12 hours, maybe it was because he had just hit his head, or maybe it was that Gabriel had always found Bonny and Clyde more disturbing than romantic, but Gabriel felt like gagging.
***
Sara felt naked as she sat in the lobby outside of Kenneth Iron's office in the Vorschlage international headquarters. Only once before had she felt so helpless in his presence, when she had lost the Witchblade and needed to beg for two million dollars to save Conchobar's life. He'd refused. The situation was totally different now. She didn't have a request, only a problem, but still, the life of someone she dearly loved was in the balance. Perhaps Irons sensed her uneasiness, her fear, her vulnerability. She sat in his waiting room for nearly three hours, ten times longer than he'd ever made her wait, before the door leading to the hallway leading to his office was opened and the menacing form of Ian Nottingham looked down on her.
"Mister Iron's will see you now, Miss Pezzini," Ian said, his voice unnaturally formal considering how often he had watched over her and saved her life.
"Thanks," she said curtly as she walked past him and led the way into Irons' office. She idly wondered if she had decided to kill Irons from some reason, at this point, would Ian be able to stop her. She was a good five paces in front of him, it wouldn't be hard to pull out a gun as she entered the office, squeeze out two quick shots before Nottingham could react. Of course, then she'd be dead. Well, maybe she wouldn't. She did have the Witchblade after all.
As the smooth glass door to Iron's office opened she blinked and shook off any assassination ideas she'd harbored. She had told Nottingham she wasn't a murderer, and assassinations were wrong, and she too often needed Irons' help. She decided not to think about whether or not he deserved to be assassinated.
"Ah Sara," Irons said in his smooth, clear voice. He stood as she entered the room, a charming tradition form a time long past. "I'm sorry you had to wait so long but I was tied up in a conference call with the Vorschlage stockholders around the world. You don't just put someone who took all the trouble to call from Thailand on hold."
"Of course you don't," Sara said, her voice tense and reclusive.
Taking his cue from Sara, Iorns decided to talk business. He sat down at his desk and motioned for her to sit across from him. Nottingham remained a sentry at the door.
"What can I help you with?" he asked, all business.
"I'm not really sure," Sara said, the uncertainty in her voice playing traitor to her desire to always appear in control of the situation. "The Witchblade, it's . . . not working."
A smile that almost seemed wicked but was, in truth, merely sarcastic, spread across Irons' face. "Sara, are you implying that the greatest weapon to ever have been born by woman has a loose screw or chipped cog?"
"No," Sara said angrily. This was deadly serious, Gabriel's life was on the line. She couldn't bear Irons treating it like a joke. "The case I'm working on now . . . usually I receive visions, emotions, signs that I'm on the right track. Ever since I've gotten this thing everything has always been connected."
"And now you're disconnected?" Irons asked.
"Yeah," Sara said, her voice raw.
"As I understood it some, ah, indiscreet actions resulted in a . . . considerable leave of absence from the police department."
"Yeah," Sara said, a bit uncomfortably.
"So, if you don't mind my asking, how is it that you're working on a case at all? Would this have something to do with the band of corrupt officers you've sworn to expose?"
"Actually it does," Sara said, carefully guarding her relief. She didn't want to reveal that Gabriel was involved in this whole mess. Nottingham had threatened the young man once, she didn't want to give Irons the opportunity to make good that threat through idleness.
"Humm," Irons said, he seemed to be considering the problem in some depth, Sara had to fight the temptation to hold her breath as she waited. "Perhaps," he finally said, drawing out the word for all it was worth, "you are not meant to expose these men."
"What?!"
"You are special Sara," Irons said passionately. "Think about what those who came before you have done, Joan of Arc freed France from British rule, Elizabeth Bronte won World War Two for the Allies. Do you really think the blade wants you to focus your attention on a petty corruption ring?"
"It's more than that!" Sara insisted.
"Regardless of what it is, the Witchblade just might want you to focus your attentions on more pressing matters."
"I thought I commanded it, not the other way around."
"The tension between destiny and choice is tenuous."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"That, perhaps, you should not accuse the Witchblade of abandoning you until you are sure you have not abandoned it."
* * *
As it turned out Gabriel could stand, although the pain created soft edges around his frame of vision and breathing took about half of his concentration. He could even walk, in a sense; he was limping heavily and depending on Toph to support most of his weight as he was dragged to the Production area.
"So what?" Gabriel said, because the silence was unbearable. "We're gonna make a video and send it to Sara? Demand a ransom? She doesn't have any money."
"Than why are you working for her?"
Gabriel didn't know what to say to that. "You know that the only thing you're going to get from her is violence, right?" He said, trying to change the subject. "What are you going to do when she comes in with both guns blazing?"
Toph man didn't answer. Instead he used all of the strength in his arm to fling Gabriel forward. Propelled by a force greater than he could counter, Gabriel tumbled into a makeshift studio. As soon as his instincts forced him put weight on his broken foot, volts of pain made him collapse. He landed hard next to a rickety folding chair.
Gabriel's mind reeled as he tried to find thoughts beyond the pain. When he finally managed to become aware of his surroundings, he saw was inside a square drawn on the floor with red electrical tape. Behind him there hung a plain white sheet and in front of him there was a video camera with the young girl behind it. She was blond, pretty, and reminded him too much of his younger sister. She didn't fit. He kept his eyes on her as the huge man stepped up behind her.
"Are we ready?" he asked quietly and coldly.
"I'm already taping," she answered just as quietly.
"Fine," Toph said, before pulling a tape recorder out of one of his pockets and placed it next to the camera's microphone.
"Sit in the chair, Mr. Bowman," a slightly effeminate digital voice said, "and read the card."
"Card?" Gabriel asked, somewhat bewildered, he didn't see a card.
"Damn," the girl whispered as she spun around and pulled out a series of bright orange poster boards covered with writing in thick black marker. "These cards" she mouthed.
Gabriel looked at Nat as if she was insane, then he turned and looked at Toph the same way. "No."
This seemed to make them furious. They exchanged bothered glances for a moment before the man decided to rewind the tape and play it again. "Sit in the chair, Mr. Bowman, and read the card."
"I heard you the first time," Gabriel said. "But why the hell should I?"
He was getting red in the face and she was gnawing her lower lip nervously.
Because the cement floor was chilling him through his sweat pants and because it was a slightly more dignified position, Gabriel decided he would sit in the chair. Using mostly his arm strength he pushed himself onto the chair, "So this is for Sara?" he asked, once he was positioned and his eyes were examining the pair behind the camera with a critical scorn.
The girl, somewhat encouraged by his partial obedience, nodded vigorously.
Gabriel nodded more subtly, a very dangerous and potentially profitable plan started forming in his mind. "I've seen two of them, Chief," Gabriel said quickly. "Camera man is mid thirties, six two, 210 pounds, dirty blond hair. Prop girl 17ish, five six, 115 pounds, blond . . ."
Throughout his quick ramble he saw the pair behind the camera become more and more panicked. Gabriel wondered if it would occur to them to press stop and rewind, apparently it didn't. Instead Toph reached into his coat and pulled out a gun, which he aimed straight at Gabe's head. That stopped his descriptions, but not his insolence.
"You can't kill me," Gabriel told his captor. "You need me to get to her."
The mans brow wrinkled with fury. He seemed to ponder the question for the moment and then, suddenly, his eyes seemed to clear. The obvious had finally occurred to him, as if by divine inspiration.
"Stop the tape," he whispered to Nat.
"But," she began to protest quietly.
"Stop it and rewind."
"Alright," she muttered as she pushed a bright red button on the top of the camera. Then louder: "Why?"
Toph didn't answer, instead he stormed onto the small stage, charging Gabriel with a somewhat wild look in his eye. Before Gabriel could, reasonably, consider running or dodging, he was on the ground, blood flowing freely from his mouth and nose and the world around him refusing to come into focus.
"Get this," the larger man said. "You hear all about people taking care of their hostages on the news, I've never understood why. You see, the more we hurt you, the more we make this place like hell, the more wretched and pathetic you look when she sees your picture, the more she'll hurt and the more she'll need to rescue you. So, I might not be able to kill you, but I can make you hurt like you didn't know was possible. Do you understand?"
Gabe licked his lips, which were dry except for where the blood was coming out. "Yeah," he finally breathed.
"Good," the man grunted, grabbing Gabriel roughly by the shoulders and hauling him back into the folding chair before walking back behind the camera. "We understand each other?" he asked again.
"Perfectly."
"'Kay Nat, " Toph yelled.
"Right,"his accomplice replied before she pushed the red button again.
Toph pushed the play button on his tape recorder and once again Gabriel was told "and read the card."
To Be Continued . . .
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