*
52 hours missing
He hated what this was doing to him.
She was gone and each thread of life holding him together was slowly unraveling as the clock ticked off each hour.
He hated that alcohol made it easier to be alone.
He hated that being alone suddenly made life empty.
He hated being alone.
"Talk to me, Jack."
One more sip. The amber liquid trickled down his throat, wrapping around his brain, releasing his inhibitions. He had secrets; too many secrets.
"It's complicated, Viv."
Vivian looped her hands together, leaning forward so Jack's fuzzy vision could meet her eyes in the dim room. It was late, dark, cold outside; the empty bar smelled of gin and loneliness; an old song played softly in the background and Jack Malone sipped the last bit of amaretto from his shot glass, shutting his eyes as it clanked against the cheap wood.
"Well, I'm not going anywhere, Jack. So you can sit here and drink all night, but until you tell me what's got you so disturbed, I'm not moving from this spot."
It was enough to make him smile just a bit. He didn't expect any less.
His tie was gone, his suit a day old, his hair hadn't been brushed, and his face was slightly rough with the beginnings of a beard he hadn't yet bothered to shave. He would shave tonight because if they found Sam tomorrow, she'd be on his case.
No. When they found Sam tomorrow.
When.
He had to start thinking in terms of truths and absolutes. Because possibilities and unknowns were chewing away the thread of sanity he was trying desperately to hold onto.
"When I first joined the Bureau, I-uh, I worked the violent crimes division."
Vivian raised her eyebrow in curiosity. She'd never asked Jack about his past, how he got started. Pulling off her coat, she leaned back, folding her arms over her chest, and waited as he spoke across the silence.
"I was young, you know. Thought I could change the world. Thought I could save it." A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
There was a drop of amaretto left and he welcomed its sting on his tongue.
"A couple months in, I got this case. A serial killer. He targeted these young women, in their mid-to-late twenties. Typically blonde-haired. He liked to leave these polaroids at the scene of his crime: the women alive, bound, scared. Then dead. He liked to keep them alive for a few days, a week maybe, toy with them. Toy with me. It was a damn cat-and-mouse game to him."
He ran a shaky hand through his hair, sighing, wishing the memories away.
"His last victim-she uh, she'd been missing a week and we knew we were cutting it close. We finally found him, and she was still alive, thank God, but uh, we didn't have enough hard evidence to put him away."
He signalled to the bartender and his shot glass was suddenly on fire again, the warm release swirling around the cold glass. He shut his eyes and tipped his head back, downing the amaretto in one sip.
"I was up all night, looking at the evidence, trying to find something solid that would fry the sonofabitch for good. But, most of it was circumstantial. He was smart, real smart. Real good. But I knew; I knew he had done it. So I studied it and studied it, trying to find anything to tie him to the case."
He sighed again, rubbing his eyes in the darkness.
"So I-I planted some evidence. I knew what I had to do. I knew he was the guy and I knew, based on the little evidence we had, he'd do little, if any time. So that was that. He was sentenced for life."
Jack hesitatated to meet Vivian's eyes for a second, afraid of what he'd see there; disbelief, disgust, disappointment. Anything that would indicate she had lost that respect for him he so greatly valued. But when he did finally raise his weary head to meet her eyes, what he saw there was simply friendship. And a slight twinge of fear at where this was headed.
"Jack, are you trying to say-"
He leaned forward, slumping against the wood. "A year ago, they uh, they reopened his case. That's why I was at court that one time -- I didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want anyone to know about my mistake. They found out I had tampered with the evidence, so he was released on parole, awaiting a new trial. The other one was thrown out, a mistrial. So he's been out there now, watching."
Vivian suddenly saw with clarity why Jack had been particularly on edge, slightly jumpy, worried, nervous.
"But Jack, that's not your problem anymore. Even if he does something, it's not your jurisdiction. You did everything you could to put him away. You did your part. It's never easy to sleep at night knowing guys like him are walking the streets, but it happens everyday."
"But this was my mistake, my failure. He got parole because I tampered with the evidence. So it is is my problem, Viv."
He cradled his face then, his emotions overwhelming him.
"And that polaroid of Samantha -- that's got his signature written all over it. This is his game, Viv. He must've been watching me, finding out how he could get to me. And now he's got her."
Vivian closed her eyes briefly, a sudden fear rising up from the pit of her stomach. This was suddenly more complicated then even she could've predicted.
"I won't be sleeping easy for a long time."
*
It was dark and cold, the wind howled outside, and her eyes could make out only the slight silhouette of his figure as it moved in the darkness. She wanted to see him, to know where he was at all times. But this was his game. He spoke to her, taunted her, played with her mind.
He talked about Jack regularly and, though she was the one actually trapped in here, her mind wandered to him, worry creeping into her heart.
"It's been two days, Samantha. I think he's found the picture by now. I would've loved to see his face. Do you think he misses you much? Hmmm...I bet he fairly went mad when he saw you. A Kodak moment, wouldn't you say?"
His breath moved on her skin. He was close, so very close.
Too close.
She could feel his movement as he bent closer, his breath now inches from her face.
"Do you think he's going to kill me, Samantha?"
She wanted to scream at him, confirm to him that yes, Jack would kill him, and yes, he did miss her. And that at this very moment she knew, beyond a doubt, that he was looking for her, frantically, that Jack and Vivian and Martin and Danny -- the people in her life, the people that mattered -- were searching for her. It was a thought that brought her comfort, that brought a bit of warmth into the chill room. Made her realize that were she not to make it out of here alive, at least she knew they had tried.
He spoke again, calmly, softly.
"I'm going to kill you, Samantha. But not now."
He ran his callused fingers through her hair and over her skin, sending goosebumps down her arm.
"Soon."
*
Danny leaned back in his chair, analyzing the pictures of the crime scenes.
Jack had told him, mere hours ago, of the probable suspect, of what he had done. Of what this man was capable of doing.
The possibility of Samantha being out there, in the hands of this serial killer no less, was extremely disturbing. Add to that the scant evidence they had, the task before them seemed hopeless.
Hope.
What they always wanted, always needed.
And never seemed to have enough of.
Martin's brisk clatter drew his attention and he glanced up from the scattered files to meet his gaze, awaiting news of anything.
"No prints. This guy's good, obviously."
Martin joined Danny at the conference table, his eyes floating over to the pictures; pictures of the old cases, the women's mangled bodies, hardly seeming able to have once held life within them. It was frightening, and he looked away quickly.
"This guy's got Sam?"
Danny's hand shut the folder, fluttered to his eyes as he closed them, bidding the images his mind was conjuring to go away.
"That's what Jack thinks."
"Is that what you think?"
Danny's eyes opened once more, looking at the closed folder, traveling to the whiteboard where Samantha's face smiled back at his.
He spoke with a pain Martin felt equally in his heart, a fear he felt in the pit of his stomach.
"Yeah, I do."
"Jesus, this is insane. All right, all right, let's think about this. What about-what about Chris, the guy that took her? He's got to know something. I mean, come on, he probably took her to the bastard, right?"
"I don't think we're gonna get much out of him, Martin."
Any further discussion was interrupted as Vivian breezed in, sliding a folder across the table to Danny.
A small smile graced her features.
"We didn't get any prints from the car, the guy was real careful. But, even the smartest criminals slip up sometimes. We got a tiny hair fiber, pulled it from the passenger seat. It's who Jack thinks it is. We also got some DNA back from that guy, Christopher Moore's apartment. Sam's all over the place."
Martin looked at the evidence briefly, then spoke, confused.
"Okay, so we know who took her, we know it's this serial killer, Frank LaMarca. Say we go to his place -- he's smart, he's not gonna stick around, knowing we're coming for him. So we've got what? All we know now is that she's in the hands of a psychotic sociopath."
"He probably won't be there. But at least we know who we're looking for. We have a time frame now, too. Jack knows this guy, knows how he operates. We've got a window of at least five days here. He may be smart, but he's going to get sloppy."
Danny stood up, a sudden determination coursing through him.
"Well, we got Sam's fingerprints all over Chris's apartment. You know what, I think I'm gonna have one more little talk with our friend Christopher."
Vivian and Martin shared a look, unsure of Danny's intentions, but not doubting for a moment that he would get the information he wanted.
*
"You're going to tell me what I need to know, Chris."
That smug look still played on his features, a cockiness dancing in his eyes. Danny resisted the urge to reach out and pummel the guy. He settled for sitting across from him, a safe distance, but close enough to get to him, to get across to him that he wouldn't leave this room until he said what Danny wanted to hear.
"Now I know Frank paid you. He paid you to take her, didn't he? You hung around for a week, maybe, watching her, figuring out her routine. And then, you took her. You took her back to your place, you messed around with her, had a little fun, then handed her off like a piece of property."
Chris smiled still, unwavering in his confidence. "You got nothin' to tie me to it."
Danny smiled now, the revelation slipping easily from his lips.
"You wanna bet? We've got DNA, we've got fingerprints, hair, should I go on? You were dumb, Chris. Real dumb. He's going down and you're going with him, unless you tell me where he is."
A slight bit of fear broke through the mask, and his hands slipped from the table.
"Come on, Chris. You're an accessory. A federal agent is missing and if he kills her, you're both gonna fry. So cut the shit and tell me where he is. You might get off with a life sentence."
He waited a moment, watching the lines of carefully hardened ease and confidence slip from the man's face.
"All-all right. Look, last I saw him was when I dropped the broad off, that night. He was at his old apartment, probably the address you got. But he's not gonna stick around there, no way. My guess is he went to one of his safehouses. He's got a few of them, so he could be anywhere. The only one I know about is his place up in Westchester. That's all I know, I swear."
A hard line set on his lips and Danny merely nodded, his composure slowly slipping as he left the room, not bothering to look back as Chris was escorted away. Jack stood there, as he always did, watching.
His face was hard and tense, his jaw set against his anger and pain. He blamed himself, he always did. His shoulders were heavy and weighted down from all the burdens and failures he carried along, never forgetting, never moving past.
"Westchester."
Danny moved towards him.
"Yeah."
Jack's hand rubbed a focus back into his bloodshot eyes, burning from lack of sleep.
"Well, let's head out there then."
He started to move and Danny's hand grabbed for Jack's arm, halting him briefly.
"Jack, I saw the old casefiles, what this guy Frank does to his victims. We've only got a few days left, if we don't hurry--"
Jack's hand shot up, his mind unable to think about, to process the end of that thought.
"Don't even think it, Danny. Not yet. Not now."
He moved away from Danny, intent on one thing now.
"Not ever."
*
TBC...
