DONATELLO:
The idea had come to me in my sleep, almost two years ago. My alliance with the police was tense, since they didn't really trust the whole "vigilante" system. But I'd come through for them more than once, helping them to track down their perpetrators. On a rare occasion, they had provided me with information on mine. Aside from Shredder and the foot clan, I didn't really put my nose into criminal activities. If I saw it, I stopped it. I rarely took cases home. But when I did, such as with Amy, I usually ended up needing some help.
The idea was simple. Create a digital, graphic image of a man able to be controlled within my computer and sent through the cable modem. I had tried using the phone line and a normal modem, but it just wasn't fast enough to transmit a clear image. The graphic enhancement had to include such minute detail that the police wouldn't know that it was, in fact, a computer rather than a camera creating it.
Chris Matthews, a Detective when I met him and now a Lieutenant, had accepted my help with some caution at first. I wouldn't give him my name, and that bothered him. But it didn't take him long to realize that I was getting results, which in turn were promoting him faster than he could keep up. I told him to keep my name and face out of it, and he didn't have any problem with that. My credit was his, and nobody asked questions.
"Tell me what's going on in the Clareson murder/kidnapping," I asked, staring at the man on the screen. Blonde, thinning hair, green eyes, and in good shape, he looked excellent for a man of his age. His birth certificate claimed he was nearly fifty. I was surprised that he was in at this time of night. Working late, again. I'd expected to leave a message.
"The guy we picked up was cleared of charges," the speakers next to the computer monitor informed me. "He seemed like a good enough suspect though. Criminal record, Florida and North Carolina both want him for questioning about drugs and Pennsylvania wants him for murder. He's been deported, so to speak."
"Why was he ruled out?"
"He wasn't in New York during the murders. He was in a detox unit up in Maine."
I nodded slowly, considering his words. "Any new suspects?"
"Not at the moment."
I sighed. "You know, Deana kidnapped Timothy and Amy from her ex-husband. Ever consider him a suspect?"
He was quiet for a moment. "The thought crossed my mind. But he fought fiercely in court for those kids. Why kill them?"
"He only killed the boy," I reminded him.
He stared blankly at me, through the screen. Of course, it was not me he was seeing. But I knew I was seeing a clear image of him through the webcam. "What do you have on Amy Clareson right now?" I asked, changing the subject.
He paused for a moment and leaned forward, out of the peripheral view of the camera on top of his computer monitor. He returned with a file folder in his hand. "Officer Jane Lexum is pretty much handling the Clareson case," the speakers next to the computer monitor informed me. "I can give you her e-mail address if you want it."
"Mmm," I considered. "No. Just tell me what you know."
He sighed. "Well, at the moment the case is pretty centered on finding Amy. Fourteen years old, brown hair green eyes. We think the perpetrator may have taken her with him, but we're not sure why."
"Did you consider the fact that she might have escaped?"
"Yes," he answered. "But she would have contacted someone by now. We've spoken with her family, and with her friends at school, even her boyfriend. No one has seen her."
"She's probably scared," I suggested, glancing at the still figure on my bed. She was asleep, peacefully for once.
"We've put out alerts all over the state. Somebody should have seen her by now. But maybe you could find her, huh?" he grinned.
I considered the thought. "If I did find her, where would she go?"
"Well, her father does have legal custody of her."
Scratch that idea.
"So even if he's a murder suspect, she goes back to live with him?"
"He's not a murder suspect, Don. We have no reason to suspect him."
"What if he was? Where would she go then?"
He hesitated for a moment. "That depends," he answered.
"On what?"
"On what, if anything, she saw. She'd be under police protection until the trial. Then she'd either go to a foster home or into the witness protection program."
"Police protection?" I questioned. "You mean juvie?"
He hesitated. "Uh, well, no. Not exactly. We have a housing program for kids like her. It's separate from juvenile hall."
Great. "Foster placement would put her where?" I asked. "With family?"
He sighed. "The only family we've located is her maternal uncle. He was reluctant to talk to us. He basically said he hadn't seen her and didn't really want to get involved. He seems to have kind of a prejudice against teenage girls. But he was cooperative. He'd probably take her for a few months, if need be."
"Why do you say he's prejudice?" I questioned.
He shrugged. "He seems to think that the first thing she'll do is go out and get pregnant, and he doesn't want that. It was just an impression, really. It wouldn't be a permanent solution, is all I mean."
"Right," I mumbled under my breath. "How's the boy?"
He shook his head. "I couldn't tell you. Have to call the hospital about that."
I intended to. "Has the ME determined a cause of death on the mother?"
"I'd guess strangulation, from the ligature marks on her neck. But there's no report yet."
I nodded slowly. "Off the record, do you think there's evidence to suggest the boy saw the crime?"
"Suggest, yes. But as for convincing a jury…"
I was silent.
"You have a theory, don't you?" he assumed, after a long silence. It wasn't really a question.
"I do," I affirmed. My theories, by the time I gave them to police, were pretty substantially backed up. He knew that. And he took them very seriously.
"What's your theory?"
I breathed deep. "Deana filed lewd child molestation and child sexual abuse charges against her ex, and lost. Let's say the verdict was wrong. He really was molesting Amy. So she divorces him, and can't get full custody of the children. She takes them, runs, gets caught, and is brought up on charges of kidnapping. He gets the kids back, and sexually abuses Amy some more. Mom sees an opportunity, takes it, runs with the kids to New York City."
"Don, we know all that," he interrupted. "Except that legally we can't say that he abused his daughter whether or not he actually did because he was found not-guilty in a court of law!"
"What part did Timothy have in all this?" I continued. He stared at me for a moment. "None," I answered my own question. "Absolutely none. He was dispensable. What part did the mother have in it?" This time, I didn't give him a chance to answer. "She put a stop to the abuse. He was pissed at her by the time he got to New York.
"So let's set the scene," I continued. "Late at night. Someone comes to the door. Mom isn't home. Amy answers it. It's her father. And just then, Mom comes home. She attacks him. They struggle. Amy runs. My guess is that Tim walked in, and with no great love for the boy, he killed him too."
"So where's Amy?" he asked. "Why hasn't she shown up yet?"
I debated on how much I was going to tell him. I decided to give him a little bit more. But I had to be careful how I worded it, or I could land him in trouble. "Let's say Amy runs into someone on the street. We'll call him John. John sees she's scared. Doesn't know anything about her, or her situation, offers her shelter."
"John would know with all of the alerts we've had out."
"He doesn't care, then," I sighed. "He has his reasons. Whatever they are, he's got Amy. Safe. And he's waiting for you to arrest her father, and take him to jail so she'll stay safe."
He sighed. "Don, that's an interesting theory but it's all based on an assumption that we can't make. And believe me, no matter what John thinks, she's safer with the police."
"You've already said her father would regain custody unless he's a suspect. Is he?" I challenged.
He sighed and was quiet for a moment. I had him trapped, and he knew it. "We've already questioned her father, Don." I stared at him intently. Now that, he hadn't told me. "He's... he's not what I would consider a suspect. And he has an alibi. And no motive! And he's totally broken up about this."
"Either that or he's a good actor," I shot at him.
He sighed. "Either way, we have no case against him, Don! If we could come up with new evidence to prove that the verdict was wrong and substantiate some of your claims then... maybe. But I don't really see how that's possible."
Amy stirred and I watched her for a moment. But she didn't wake up. I sighed, wishing I weren't so damn helpless.
RAPHAEL:
I awoke slowly, feeling the warm, moist kisses on my neck. Breathing deep, I took in her sweet scent along with the chilled air. She pulled away and rested her head under my chin. I took another breath and moved my hand to circle her waist. Her skin was soft and warm under my fingers. She snuggled closer to me, the heat from her body mingling with mine. "Good morning, Raphael," she whispered.
I smiled and kissed her dark hair. "Your nose is cold," I informed her as she nuzzled against my neck.
"It's freezing in here," she laughed. "You guys need central heat."
I ran my fingers up and down her bare skin, feeling the brush of the blanket on the back of my hand. "What are you doing here?" I asked. "Aren't you supposed to be at work or something?"
She laughed quietly. "What, you want me to leave?"
I smiled. "Nah, just wondering."
"I kept falling asleep at work last night," she informed me. "They sent me home. I was too tired."
At some point last night, she'd slipped into bed. And I didn't even remember it. I glanced at the clock. Ten a.m. on Friday. I wondered how many hours of sleep she'd gotten. She hardly slept at all during the week since she'd gone back to school. She worked at night and went to school during the day. And that didn't leave much time for anything else.
She shivered against me, and pulled closer. "You cold?" I questioned.
"Very," she admitted.
I smiled. "I've got a remedy for that."
She laughed quietly and slid off of me to lie on her side. I turned to face her, nuzzling her gently. She sighed and I smiled. I brushed her dark hair out of her eyes and kissed her lashes. A smile crossed her lips. "So did you sleep well?" I asked as I kissed the tip of her nose.
She pressed hard to me, crushing her breasts against my hard chest. "Mmm hmm," she mumbled, ducking her head back under my chin. I wrapped my arm around her and held her close, savoring the intimacy. I hardly ever saw her anymore, and that nearly killed me. We hadn't really made love in… way too long. Weeks. Up against the wall in the tunnel didn't count.
"What time did you get to bed?"
"About two," she murmured.
"Wow, so you got a whole eight hours then," I grinned.
She moaned contently. "Yeah."
"How's it feel?"
"Wonderful," she sighed.
I felt a warm kiss on my neck and breathed deep, taking in the sweet smell of her shampoo. For a long time, we lay silent, enjoying the closeness. We never got to do this anymore, and it felt good. "Raph?" she whispered.
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
I smiled and pulled away to face her. She was so beautiful. I brushed my fingers over her smooth skin and brought her lips to mine, taking her in a heated kiss. She moaned as she melted into me and I pushed her gently onto her back. "Let me make love to you?" I pleaded, my hands moving slowly down her body.
She laughed quietly. "Now, why would you want to do that?" she mumbled.
I pressed my lips to her neck gently… And the phone rang. I groaned. "Don't answer that," I begged.
She sighed. "Raph, I have to."
"No," I protested. "Please?"
But she'd already picked up the cell phone. "Hello?"
I closed my eyes, and prayed it wasn't who I thought it was. "Yeah," she told the caller. She glanced at the clock. "What time?"
It was. Her boss was calling again. More overtime. God, why couldn't she just tell him no? "Really?" she questioned. "Is he okay?"
I kissed her neck again and ran my hands down her sides. She tilted the phone away from her mouth. "Raph, cut it out!" she whispered, squirming to get away from me.
I sighed and rolled off of her, staring up at the ceiling. She talked for a moment longer, then hung up. She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She didn't have to say a word. I already knew. I sighed as I watched her dress. "It's extenuating circumstances, Raph," she mumbled.
"Yeah. And when is it not?" I could hear the icy tone in my own voice.
"Matt got into an accident on his way to work," she sighed. "He's in the hospital. And the only other person who can fill in for him is in Maine right now."
"They need to fuckin' hire more people," I snapped.
"Well, when four people with the same job quit in two days, it puts a bit of a strain on the work force."
"Those people quit three weeks ago, Kat," I reminded her. "How long does it take?"
She pulled a sweatshirt over her head and turned to me, her eyes cold. "I don't know. I don't do the hiring."
I pushed my anger aside. "Kat, come on," I begged, sitting up. "Just give me five minutes."
She grabbed her hairbrush off the dresser and ran it through her hair quickly. "I can't do that, Raph. They go on the air in less than two hours and they're not nearly done with the show. They need all the help they can get right now."
I pushed the blankets aside and stood up, walking over to her. She turned and jumped as she found me mere inches away. I grabbed her arms and held her for a moment. "Kat…" I pleaded.
She sighed and looked away. "What do you want me to do Raph? It's not like I work at McDonalds, okay? If my job doesn't get done right, the whole city knows about it."
"It's not your job to be coming in at all these crazy hours and…"
"Raphael, please," she whispered, looking back toward me. I fell silent and she leaned into me, her lips meeting mine. She kissed me briefly. Too briefly. I didn't want it to end. But she pulled away and broke my grasp. "You know I love you," she breathed. "But this is just a really hectic time in my life and you're gonna have to bear with me."
"For how long?" I pleaded.
"I can't answer that."
"Well, if you can't, then who can?"
"Raph…"
She touched her finger to my lips and kissed my cheek quickly. "I love you."
She pulled away. I sighed and stared down at the floor. Then I turned and walked out of the room after her. "When will you be back?" I asked.
"I have to go to the library and finish my report on abnormal psychology," she informed me. "And I have to go to work again tonight so I'll need to sleep for a few hours if I can. I don't know. I've still got a lot of work to do on that paper and… oh, shit." She hit her forehead with her palm. "I just remembered I have a history exam tomorrow. Ah!"
She left still sorting through all the things she had to do.
AMY:
I woke up more quickly than I would've cared to with the realization that I wasn't alone. I sat straight up and looked frantically around the room, memories flooding back to me faster than I could sort through them.
"Did you have a bad dream, baby?"
Fear floods through me as I see him in the doorway. He walks over to me and sits down, pulling me onto his lap. I can't fight him. He's a lot bigger than me, and we both know that. "It's okay, Amy. It was just a dream." His hand runs lightly back and forth over my bare leg.
Tears stream from my eyes as his hand rises and his fingers slip under my panties. "Daddy, please…" I choke.
"It's okay, Ames," he breathes, sliding a finger inside of me. "I love you…"
"Amy?"
I spun to the figure lying on the bed. "Amy, it's okay. You're alright."
Then, I remembered where I was. A gentle hand on my arm guided me back down and I closed my eyes and struggled to gain control of my breathing. "Bad dream?" Don whispered.
I tried to answer, but my voice caught in my throat. I felt tears burn my eyes and panicked, for some reason unknown to me. My thoughts were a total blur. I turned my back on the figure next to me, catering to the inexplicable desire to be alone. Tears streamed down my face.
Pain rips through me as he forces his huge thing inside of me. No, he's not big. I'm just small. I could tell you how old I was, if you asked me. I could tell you with only one hand.
"Don't cry, Ames," his gentle, quiet voice whispers. "I know it hurts, baby. But it'll be over soon."
"Daddy, no," I beg through the tears. "Please, don't hurt me…"
"I love you, Ames…"
A hand touched my arm and I jerked away reflexively. "Don't touch me!" I screamed, falling onto the floor in my hurry to get away. I scrambled a few feet, and then stopped, curling into a ball and sobbing. I huddled in the corner, trying to make myself as small as possible. Maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could disappear. My body shook violently, of its own accord.
"Doesn't that feel good, Ames?" He strokes the owie between my legs, kissing my tears away. "Tell Daddy."
"It hurts," I cry quietly.
"Shh, it's okay," he breathes. "Let me kiss it and make it better."
"No, Daddy, please…"
"Make it stop!" I screamed at the top of my voice, throwing my head back and convulsing violently. "Oh God, get away from me!"
MICHAELANGELO:
I didn't knock. I threw open the door without a second thought and saw her shaking on the floor. Donny was sitting on the edge of the bed with a shocked and horrified expression on his face. He looked lost. I ran to the tiny figure on the floor and she screamed, and swung blindly at me. "Go away!" she yelled. "Get the hell away from me!"
I went to grab her hands, but Donny pulled me back. "No, Mike, leave her alone. You'll only make it worse."
I hesitated, unsure of what to do. But the look on his face reminded me of what I already knew: that he didn't want to see her hurt any more than I did. I glanced once more at her as Leo and Raph showed up in the doorway. "What the hell is going on?" Raphael demanded.
I looked to Donatello for an answer. "She's okay," he assured us. "She's having a flashback. It's not an uncommon aspect of post traumatic stress disorder."
She cried and collapsed on the floor, curling into a ball. Her thumb found her mouth and she quieted. "Shit," Raph mumbled under his breath. "She's psycho."
"She's not psycho, Raph," Donny shot angrily. "She's traumatized."
"What the hell is she doing in your room, anyhow?" Raph demanded.
Good question. I glanced at Donny who, in turn, glared at Raphael. "Knock it off, Raph," Leo sighed. "What difference does it make?"
"You're one to talk, Leo," he mumbled, turning away. Leonardo glared at him, but didn't say anything.
I glanced again at Amy. She was whimpering quietly, her eyes squeezed closed and her thumb still in her mouth. She looked like she was about six, waking up from a bad dream. Leonardo walked into the room slowly and knelt next to the still figure. "Uh, Leo, I wouldn't…" Donny stammered, but Leo raised a hand to silence him.
We all waited, scarcely daring to breathe, as he touched the top of her arm through her T-shirt. "Amy," he called quietly.
She breathed deep, pulling her thumb slowly from her mouth. Her eyes remained closed. Finally, she opened them slowly. She took a sharp breath in and sat up, her eyes darting around the room. "Are you alright?" Leonardo asked. She glanced at him, dumbfounded, and managed a slight nod.
I walked to his side as he rose to his feet again. Donny took his place near Amy, resting a hand on her shoulder. She stared at him for a moment, and brushed her hair back from her tear-stained face. "You need anything, babe?" I asked, as gently as I could.
She shook her head mutely and I left with a great deal of hesitation.
AMY:
"I'm sorry," I whispered as he held my head to his chest.
"For what?"
"For whatever the hell that was."
He brushed his hand over my hair. "It's okay, Amy. It wasn't your fault."
I breathed deep and we were quiet for a moment, leaning back against the side of the bed. I considered the events of this morning, and cringed. "I don't understand it," I whispered. "I mean, I didn't have a single nightmare all night long. But then when I woke up... I just freaked out. I don't know what happened to me."
"It's called post traumatic stress disorder," he explained. "It's the direct response of the brain to notably stressful circumstances in which it relives and repeats the experience in an abnormal way. Either that or it blocks the episode out completely and has severe manifestations of stress without any recollection as to why. It's an abnormal coping mechanism."
I understood about half of that. "When will it stop?" I questioned. "Does it ever go away?"
"Oh, yeah," he assured me, confidently. "How long it takes just depends on the circumstances. And what kind of measures are taken to promote treatment."
"Treatment?" I asked nervously. I had a feeling I knew what that meant. "I don't really think I want to talk to some psychiatrist about..."
"You can talk to me, can't you?" he interrupted.
I considered that for a moment. "Yeah," I finally answered, hesitating. "I think so..."
"Well, that's therapy."
He slouched a little further, almost lying on the floor now, and held my head to his hard chest. I clasped my hands in my lap. "Amy?"
"Yeah?"
"You do know you can trust me, right? I mean, if you ever wanted to talk. It'll never be repeated if you don't want it to be."
I considered his words carefully. I knew he meant them. There was a long silence. There were things I wanted to tell him. There were things I'd never told anyone, that were still eating at me years after they'd happened. No matter how much I'd tried, I could never bring myself to trust the doctors or counselors. I didn't know them. And even though I knew that they were obligated by law to keep my secrets silent, I couldn't make myself tell them. I didn't know them. I didn't trust them. I was just another patient, and I knew it.
I knew I was Donatello's "patient". But it was different, with him. It was like he actually cared, and not just about forcing me to get better. Sure, he wanted me to recover. But not so he could add another name to his list of success stories. I felt like I could talk to him. And I intended to. But there was something he had to know first.
"Hey Donny?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm pregnant."
