March 27
Basement office.
2:39PM
"You realise that it's impossible." John stated in that no nonsense way of his that made Monica's palm itch to smack him. They were discussing Anna Richard's identification of Daniel Winfield and his family.
"Nothing is impossible John." She said resignedly. This was an old argument, and she just didn't have the energy fight with him today. She was tired and irritable. She'd dreamed again last night.
"Highly improbable then."
"John just for once, can't you make that leap? The same people who attacked Anna Richards are the same people attacking women in Logan today. She positively identified them. All the signatures are the same, from the group sex, down to the bloodletting. Maybe they've had time to perfect the drugs they give their victims, and their abduction techniques, but every other detail is the same."
"I don't believe that these people go around druggin' women and stealin' their blood so their God can grant them immortality. It's ridiculous."
"Not immortality John – eternal youth. There is a difference. Accident or mishap has a good a chance as any of killing them. But until that happens, they will retain the appearance of youth."
"I don't buy it." He said flatly.
"You don't have to. But the facts are staring at you right in the face. Somehow the Cult of Priapus and Ayana have accessed the secret of youth. Every five years they embark on an orgy of mayhem and murder to sustain that youth. And once the computer has finished it's search, I expect we'll find more assaults dating back even further than 30 years ago."
"Just because members of the same cult practice the same screwed up rituals that they did 30, 100, even 1000 years ago, doesn't mean that –"
"Will you just give it a rest?" Monica shouted. "I'm tired of having to explain this over and over to you. You don't believe any of it? Fine. I don't care. Just do me the favour of *pretending* to respect the fact that I might be able to make a valuable contribution to this case."
John sat back at his desk stunned, as Monica swept past him and stormed out of the office.
XxX
6:15PM
Monica's apartment
Hands. Heat. Fire. A knife against her neck. Her life draining away. John.
John.
Monica awoke with a jerk, heart pounding erratically. It was John. John was doing those things to her. Mocking her, making her beg. Bringing her to the brink of release, only to leave her wanting more. Drawing blood with the cold steel pressed into her neck.
"A dream. It was only a dream." She muttered, trying to convince herself. It was the same dream she'd been having for days now. The same dream that was showing her more and more detail with each telling. The same dream that she knew, without a doubt, was not dream at all. It was a premonition. Of her own death.
"No fucking way." She called out in defiance to the empty apartment, before grabbing her coat and car keys and slamming the door behind her.
XxX
"Monica? What's wrong?"
She'd driven aimlessly for about an hour before pointing the car in the direction she knew she'd been simultaneously heading for and avoiding.
"Can I talk to you?"
"Absolutely." John stood back and invited her in. "You're not okay, are you?" Worry lines creased his brow as he walked her over to the couch.
"Honestly? No, I'm not okay." She replied shakily, as they both sat down.
"You can tell me what's wrong, you know. Whatever you need, I'm here for you."
Monica gave a weak smile. "I know you are John." She took a deep breath before continuing. "I've been having strange dreams. But they're more than just dreams – I think they're premonitions."
"Premonitions? Of what?"
"Of lying on an alter and feeling people touching me. Of experiencing sex with numerous partners. Of almost reaching climax only to be denied. Of feeling my blood drain out of my body and dying."
John was silent. "Is that what you were dreaming when I woke you up the other day?" he asked finally.
"Yes."
"They could be just the product of an overtired imagination." John offered feebly.
"The first one happened just before we got this case. Before I knew any of the details."
"Still, --"
"Don't. You know me. You know I see things, feel things. They're not just dreams John. They're very real."
John thought about it for a moment. "Did you recognise anybody?"
Monica hesitated. "No."
He shook his head as if to clear away the fact that he'd just asked her if she could relay any information about an active case from a dream.
"I'm sorry Mon, but I don't buy it. You know I'm no good with all this stuff."
"Yeah."
"Doesn't mean that I don't respect your beliefs or abilities, because I do." He said, thinking of her outburst in the office earlier in the day. "I just have a little trouble making the jump from dream to premonition."
Monica acknowledged this indirect apology with a slight smile. "I have a bad feeling about this John. A very bad feeling."
"You know I trust your instincts, but a dream can't hurt you. And we're not anywhere near Logan or the Winfield's."
"But we're going back."
"If this is bothering you so much maybe you shouldn't."
"And maybe if I stay here it'll happen the exact way I've seen it, regardless of where I am."
"I promise you that I won't let Winfield or any of his screwed up family near you."
"I'm destined to be the eighth victim John. They'll find me."
"Monica –"
"I've seen it."
"Would you stop? This defeatist attitude isn't like you."
"You can't change fate." She insisted.
"That's a load of crap. You yourself have told me, numerous times I might add, that fate is what we make it."
Monica closed her eyes and leaned back into the couch. An image of John's face contorted in an evil smirk, his hands pinching her raw flesh filled her vision. "It scares me." She said softly.
John took her hands in his. "Hey. Nothin' is going to happen to you. *Nothing*." He stressed. "I won't let it."
Monica forced the image from her mind and allowed his words to comfort her. He would never hurt her. She knew that. But still . . . if her dream was a premonition of things to come, things that the other seven victims lived through, why was John present?
Basement office.
2:39PM
"You realise that it's impossible." John stated in that no nonsense way of his that made Monica's palm itch to smack him. They were discussing Anna Richard's identification of Daniel Winfield and his family.
"Nothing is impossible John." She said resignedly. This was an old argument, and she just didn't have the energy fight with him today. She was tired and irritable. She'd dreamed again last night.
"Highly improbable then."
"John just for once, can't you make that leap? The same people who attacked Anna Richards are the same people attacking women in Logan today. She positively identified them. All the signatures are the same, from the group sex, down to the bloodletting. Maybe they've had time to perfect the drugs they give their victims, and their abduction techniques, but every other detail is the same."
"I don't believe that these people go around druggin' women and stealin' their blood so their God can grant them immortality. It's ridiculous."
"Not immortality John – eternal youth. There is a difference. Accident or mishap has a good a chance as any of killing them. But until that happens, they will retain the appearance of youth."
"I don't buy it." He said flatly.
"You don't have to. But the facts are staring at you right in the face. Somehow the Cult of Priapus and Ayana have accessed the secret of youth. Every five years they embark on an orgy of mayhem and murder to sustain that youth. And once the computer has finished it's search, I expect we'll find more assaults dating back even further than 30 years ago."
"Just because members of the same cult practice the same screwed up rituals that they did 30, 100, even 1000 years ago, doesn't mean that –"
"Will you just give it a rest?" Monica shouted. "I'm tired of having to explain this over and over to you. You don't believe any of it? Fine. I don't care. Just do me the favour of *pretending* to respect the fact that I might be able to make a valuable contribution to this case."
John sat back at his desk stunned, as Monica swept past him and stormed out of the office.
XxX
6:15PM
Monica's apartment
Hands. Heat. Fire. A knife against her neck. Her life draining away. John.
John.
Monica awoke with a jerk, heart pounding erratically. It was John. John was doing those things to her. Mocking her, making her beg. Bringing her to the brink of release, only to leave her wanting more. Drawing blood with the cold steel pressed into her neck.
"A dream. It was only a dream." She muttered, trying to convince herself. It was the same dream she'd been having for days now. The same dream that was showing her more and more detail with each telling. The same dream that she knew, without a doubt, was not dream at all. It was a premonition. Of her own death.
"No fucking way." She called out in defiance to the empty apartment, before grabbing her coat and car keys and slamming the door behind her.
XxX
"Monica? What's wrong?"
She'd driven aimlessly for about an hour before pointing the car in the direction she knew she'd been simultaneously heading for and avoiding.
"Can I talk to you?"
"Absolutely." John stood back and invited her in. "You're not okay, are you?" Worry lines creased his brow as he walked her over to the couch.
"Honestly? No, I'm not okay." She replied shakily, as they both sat down.
"You can tell me what's wrong, you know. Whatever you need, I'm here for you."
Monica gave a weak smile. "I know you are John." She took a deep breath before continuing. "I've been having strange dreams. But they're more than just dreams – I think they're premonitions."
"Premonitions? Of what?"
"Of lying on an alter and feeling people touching me. Of experiencing sex with numerous partners. Of almost reaching climax only to be denied. Of feeling my blood drain out of my body and dying."
John was silent. "Is that what you were dreaming when I woke you up the other day?" he asked finally.
"Yes."
"They could be just the product of an overtired imagination." John offered feebly.
"The first one happened just before we got this case. Before I knew any of the details."
"Still, --"
"Don't. You know me. You know I see things, feel things. They're not just dreams John. They're very real."
John thought about it for a moment. "Did you recognise anybody?"
Monica hesitated. "No."
He shook his head as if to clear away the fact that he'd just asked her if she could relay any information about an active case from a dream.
"I'm sorry Mon, but I don't buy it. You know I'm no good with all this stuff."
"Yeah."
"Doesn't mean that I don't respect your beliefs or abilities, because I do." He said, thinking of her outburst in the office earlier in the day. "I just have a little trouble making the jump from dream to premonition."
Monica acknowledged this indirect apology with a slight smile. "I have a bad feeling about this John. A very bad feeling."
"You know I trust your instincts, but a dream can't hurt you. And we're not anywhere near Logan or the Winfield's."
"But we're going back."
"If this is bothering you so much maybe you shouldn't."
"And maybe if I stay here it'll happen the exact way I've seen it, regardless of where I am."
"I promise you that I won't let Winfield or any of his screwed up family near you."
"I'm destined to be the eighth victim John. They'll find me."
"Monica –"
"I've seen it."
"Would you stop? This defeatist attitude isn't like you."
"You can't change fate." She insisted.
"That's a load of crap. You yourself have told me, numerous times I might add, that fate is what we make it."
Monica closed her eyes and leaned back into the couch. An image of John's face contorted in an evil smirk, his hands pinching her raw flesh filled her vision. "It scares me." She said softly.
John took her hands in his. "Hey. Nothin' is going to happen to you. *Nothing*." He stressed. "I won't let it."
Monica forced the image from her mind and allowed his words to comfort her. He would never hurt her. She knew that. But still . . . if her dream was a premonition of things to come, things that the other seven victims lived through, why was John present?