Elysium
Chapter Two
Devin Hilshire
Missing: 10 Hours
The coffee was dull and bitter in her mouth, the acidity rolling off of her tongue. She was getting tired of being babied by her peers, her coworkers, her colleagues. The pain was bad, but it wasn't devastating. There was no reason why she couldn't go out into the field, try to help. Jack's patronization was killing her; she was the oldest member of his particular team. Danny teased her, Vivian mothered her, Martin looked like he was going to have her committed. And Jack-- all Jack seemed capable of was condescension.
She was angry. She didn't like being angry. It made everything fuzzy around the edges; it also made her job harder. Not like you have a job right now, her brain muttered at her. She manned the phones, waited for information. The more the case progressed, the less it looked like the woman was in any sort of danger.
She stared at the photograph until it made her eyes hurt, and Danny joined her around the table, just staring at her before he said anything. She took another sip of her coffee, and it was growing cold, the taste nearing sawdust. "If you think I can't read you, you're wrong," Danny said to her.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied strongly, afraid of what he was saying to her. Danny was one of her best friends, but she couldn't trust him to keep his mouth shut about anything.
"You don't like being stuck in this office any more than the rest of us would."
She had to smile. Even if he wasn't completely right, he was still right. "I just don't feel like I'm a part of the team."
He narrowed his eyes at her and smiled. "You're still a part of the team. You're just a little . . . unavailable right now. You can't help that."
She paused before answering. "I keep thinking like maybe I should have been able to help that."
"People get shot, Samantha," Danny told her firmly, ever the voice of reason. "It's nobody's fault."
He could say that all he wanted, but she still felt like, somehow, she had been responsible for her own shooting. If it hadn't have been for her, there wouldn't even have been a gun there in the first place. She should have taken him down, shot at him as soon as he went to pick up the bag. But maybe then they never would have found Sidney.
There was a hubbub, the elevator doors opening and closing, and Jack, Martin, and Vivian emerged onto the floor of the office. "We found her," Jack announced, and Danny turned to smile at Sam, perhaps hoping that she would be relieved. And she was-- she always was, naturally. But they had done it without her.
She didn't know why she had felt like the world was supposed to stop on her weeklong vacation. People still went missing, and the Missing Persons Unit still had a job to do-- even if Special Agent Spade was indisposed.
"Was she with the other boyfriend?" Danny asked, his voice ringing clearly through the obvious silence.
"Yeah," Jack answered, but his eyes were focused on Sam. "She was. She ran away. But we recovered her."
Samantha rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying not to look at any of them. If any-- absolutely any-- of them gave her another sorrowful glance, a look of pity, she was going to have to scream. It was just a gunshot! she wanted to yell at them. I'm okay! It was just a bullet!
But she didn't know how true that statement would be.
"Okay, everyone, close up. Enjoy your night off. I'll see you all when the next call comes in," Jack said to everyone, his brown eyes still concentrated on Sam. "And Sam? Can I talk to you?"
Martin's look did not go unnoticed. She wondered how much he knew about her now-defunct relationship with Jack, how much any of them knew, for that matter. She tried to stand, Danny offering her a hand, but she refused it. "I can do this on my own," she told Danny, and the others all watched her. Martin looked like he wanted to come to her rescue, and part of her brain was saying, 'Yes, please', and the other part was indignant, stubborn.
She followed Jack into his office, and he quietly closed the door behind her. That was never a good sign. How many closed door conversations had they had? He sat down behind his desk, and she sat in the chair in front of him. "What is it?" she asked softly. How quickly they fell back into old habits.
"I've gone back to Marie," he told her after a beleaguered pause.
She couldn't even tell him she was surprised, not honestly. She had guessed as much when he hadn't come to see her after the incident. There was nothing like a life-threatening situation to put one's life in perspective. Her own life had been cruelly jarred into perspective; she could only imagine what his had felt like. "Oh," she said quietly.
"I just wanted to let you know. Before you heard it from someone else."
"I appreciate that," she replied, standing up. She started to walk out of the room, leaving their relationship dead and gone, but he stopped her.
"Sam?" She turned back to look at him, trying to smile. "I'm sorry," he said. Too little, too late, her brain whispered, but she knew she had no right.
"It's okay," she told him, hand on the door handle. "Things change."
*
She stepped inside the elevator, shaky and disconcerted. Sometimes the memories were stronger than at other times. Barry Mashburn hadn't been a bad man; he'd been hurt and confused and in pain. She knew what that felt like. She reached out a shaking hand to press a button on the inside of the elevator to bring her down to the parking garage, but someone called to her to stop the elevator.
She recognized the voice immediately-- Martin. She pressed and held the doors open button, waiting for him to board the elevator. He smiled at her as he stepped onto the elevator, and she smiled back, even though she wasn't up to smiling. "How are you feeling?" he asked her, and she shrugged.
"I've had better days," she told him honestly. The elevator doors binged shut, and it was just the two of them in the silence of the confined space.
"It's your prerogative to be in pain," he told her, and neither of them looked at each other.
"Maybe," she replied. "But it's not my prerogative to be useless."
"You're not--" he started, but then he stopped, and she wondered vaguely what it was that he was going to say.
How had she not realized what she felt for him? How had she been so incredibly blind? And now they were friends, just friends. And that was okay with her on some level. She appreciated his friendship. But there was something so much more, right under the surface and deeper. He was so close that she could reach out and touch him, and she wondered what he would do if she were to simply reach to him and pull him to her.
"Hey," he said, turning to look at her. "What's the matter?"
She thought, as he stood there, gazing at her softly, that maybe she could just tell him, just say that she was having feelings of the not-so-friendly variety. And then he would say that he reciprocated and that he had been so incredibly worried about her when she had been inside that building, so afraid that he might lose her. And then she would say that the feeling was mutual and they would kiss and see where things went after that.
"Is it Jack?" he asked.
She had to laugh, and she shook her head. "No," she told him as the elevator stopped. "It's not Jack." She smiled and stepped out of the elevator. He followed her, and she turned to look at him.
"Do you want to-- go grab drinks or something?" she asked him. In the dim lights of the parking garage, he looked tired, weary, exhausted.
Something in his eyes flickered. The scene felt oddly reminiscent to her; the feeling in the pit of her stomach returned. So much for the feelings being reciprocated, her brain hissed at her.
"I-- I've got plans," he told her, and her heart plummeted.
"Oh, okay," she murmured.
"Some other time?" he asked, sounding like her, sounding the same way she had sounded when he had asked her for drinks. And there hadn't been some other time.
"Sure," she told him, and she turned to leave.
"Sam?" he asked, and she turned back, her heart hoping against hope.
"You okay?" he asked her, his eyes soft, his voice softer. "If you-- if you need anything at all, just call me."
"I'm fine," she told him tightly, and then she turned back and walked away from him.
*
Samantha stared at the piece of paper on her kitchen table again. It seemed unreal, jarring to her sense of reality. A single piece of paper, words written on it. She had seen it when she had come into her apartment, and she had read it, but she was only now beginning to digest it. She had been FBI for a long time, and no one had bothered to tell her that no matter what, no matter how much training she may have gotten, no matter how many cases she may have experienced, nothing could prepare her for the time when things started happening to her.
She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at the table, setting the glass down next to the piece of paper. Everything she knew, everything she had learned, told her not to touch it, not even to look at it. She should call the authorities, she thought, call someone, do something.
She was numb. She didn't know what to do or who to call.
It was just a piece of paper, unthreatening in its own right. She had heard of this happening-- a big case goes down, pictures plastered all over the paper, nuts come out of the woodwork. It had just never happened to her.
It had been inside her apartment, too. Somehow, whoever had written the note had gotten inside her apartment. She had inspected the place immediately, walked over every square inch, her firearm ready, but there was no sign or forced entry, and there was certainly no one in her apartment still.
'Samantha Spade,' the paper said, 'I'm coming for you.'
Finally, she picked up the telephone to dial someone's number. She didn't know whose, just as long as it was someone's. Her first thought was Martin; he had told her to call if she needed anything, but she didn't think this was quite what he had in mind. And he had a date.
It didn't matter, she decided. Martin was it.
She dialed his number and waited for him to pick up. She didn't even know what she would say, but she had a feeling it would begin in tears. She needed a place to stay, someone to stay with. And then she had to go to the police and report the note. She hadn't moved it, just let it sit there smugly on her kitchen table. The phone rang, once, twice, three times. And then his answering machine picked up.
Danny was the next person to call. She had no friends, only coworkers, but they would have to suffice. And if Danny failed, Eric would be the next person on the list. And then Jack. The phone rang, once, twice, and her heart started to sink.
Then there was a click. "Hello?" she heard.
"Danny?" she said, exhaling in relief.
"Samantha?" he responded. "What's wrong?"
"I need a place to stay," she told him. "I need your help."
To be continued . . .
Devin Hilshire
Missing: 10 Hours
The coffee was dull and bitter in her mouth, the acidity rolling off of her tongue. She was getting tired of being babied by her peers, her coworkers, her colleagues. The pain was bad, but it wasn't devastating. There was no reason why she couldn't go out into the field, try to help. Jack's patronization was killing her; she was the oldest member of his particular team. Danny teased her, Vivian mothered her, Martin looked like he was going to have her committed. And Jack-- all Jack seemed capable of was condescension.
She was angry. She didn't like being angry. It made everything fuzzy around the edges; it also made her job harder. Not like you have a job right now, her brain muttered at her. She manned the phones, waited for information. The more the case progressed, the less it looked like the woman was in any sort of danger.
She stared at the photograph until it made her eyes hurt, and Danny joined her around the table, just staring at her before he said anything. She took another sip of her coffee, and it was growing cold, the taste nearing sawdust. "If you think I can't read you, you're wrong," Danny said to her.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied strongly, afraid of what he was saying to her. Danny was one of her best friends, but she couldn't trust him to keep his mouth shut about anything.
"You don't like being stuck in this office any more than the rest of us would."
She had to smile. Even if he wasn't completely right, he was still right. "I just don't feel like I'm a part of the team."
He narrowed his eyes at her and smiled. "You're still a part of the team. You're just a little . . . unavailable right now. You can't help that."
She paused before answering. "I keep thinking like maybe I should have been able to help that."
"People get shot, Samantha," Danny told her firmly, ever the voice of reason. "It's nobody's fault."
He could say that all he wanted, but she still felt like, somehow, she had been responsible for her own shooting. If it hadn't have been for her, there wouldn't even have been a gun there in the first place. She should have taken him down, shot at him as soon as he went to pick up the bag. But maybe then they never would have found Sidney.
There was a hubbub, the elevator doors opening and closing, and Jack, Martin, and Vivian emerged onto the floor of the office. "We found her," Jack announced, and Danny turned to smile at Sam, perhaps hoping that she would be relieved. And she was-- she always was, naturally. But they had done it without her.
She didn't know why she had felt like the world was supposed to stop on her weeklong vacation. People still went missing, and the Missing Persons Unit still had a job to do-- even if Special Agent Spade was indisposed.
"Was she with the other boyfriend?" Danny asked, his voice ringing clearly through the obvious silence.
"Yeah," Jack answered, but his eyes were focused on Sam. "She was. She ran away. But we recovered her."
Samantha rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying not to look at any of them. If any-- absolutely any-- of them gave her another sorrowful glance, a look of pity, she was going to have to scream. It was just a gunshot! she wanted to yell at them. I'm okay! It was just a bullet!
But she didn't know how true that statement would be.
"Okay, everyone, close up. Enjoy your night off. I'll see you all when the next call comes in," Jack said to everyone, his brown eyes still concentrated on Sam. "And Sam? Can I talk to you?"
Martin's look did not go unnoticed. She wondered how much he knew about her now-defunct relationship with Jack, how much any of them knew, for that matter. She tried to stand, Danny offering her a hand, but she refused it. "I can do this on my own," she told Danny, and the others all watched her. Martin looked like he wanted to come to her rescue, and part of her brain was saying, 'Yes, please', and the other part was indignant, stubborn.
She followed Jack into his office, and he quietly closed the door behind her. That was never a good sign. How many closed door conversations had they had? He sat down behind his desk, and she sat in the chair in front of him. "What is it?" she asked softly. How quickly they fell back into old habits.
"I've gone back to Marie," he told her after a beleaguered pause.
She couldn't even tell him she was surprised, not honestly. She had guessed as much when he hadn't come to see her after the incident. There was nothing like a life-threatening situation to put one's life in perspective. Her own life had been cruelly jarred into perspective; she could only imagine what his had felt like. "Oh," she said quietly.
"I just wanted to let you know. Before you heard it from someone else."
"I appreciate that," she replied, standing up. She started to walk out of the room, leaving their relationship dead and gone, but he stopped her.
"Sam?" She turned back to look at him, trying to smile. "I'm sorry," he said. Too little, too late, her brain whispered, but she knew she had no right.
"It's okay," she told him, hand on the door handle. "Things change."
*
She stepped inside the elevator, shaky and disconcerted. Sometimes the memories were stronger than at other times. Barry Mashburn hadn't been a bad man; he'd been hurt and confused and in pain. She knew what that felt like. She reached out a shaking hand to press a button on the inside of the elevator to bring her down to the parking garage, but someone called to her to stop the elevator.
She recognized the voice immediately-- Martin. She pressed and held the doors open button, waiting for him to board the elevator. He smiled at her as he stepped onto the elevator, and she smiled back, even though she wasn't up to smiling. "How are you feeling?" he asked her, and she shrugged.
"I've had better days," she told him honestly. The elevator doors binged shut, and it was just the two of them in the silence of the confined space.
"It's your prerogative to be in pain," he told her, and neither of them looked at each other.
"Maybe," she replied. "But it's not my prerogative to be useless."
"You're not--" he started, but then he stopped, and she wondered vaguely what it was that he was going to say.
How had she not realized what she felt for him? How had she been so incredibly blind? And now they were friends, just friends. And that was okay with her on some level. She appreciated his friendship. But there was something so much more, right under the surface and deeper. He was so close that she could reach out and touch him, and she wondered what he would do if she were to simply reach to him and pull him to her.
"Hey," he said, turning to look at her. "What's the matter?"
She thought, as he stood there, gazing at her softly, that maybe she could just tell him, just say that she was having feelings of the not-so-friendly variety. And then he would say that he reciprocated and that he had been so incredibly worried about her when she had been inside that building, so afraid that he might lose her. And then she would say that the feeling was mutual and they would kiss and see where things went after that.
"Is it Jack?" he asked.
She had to laugh, and she shook her head. "No," she told him as the elevator stopped. "It's not Jack." She smiled and stepped out of the elevator. He followed her, and she turned to look at him.
"Do you want to-- go grab drinks or something?" she asked him. In the dim lights of the parking garage, he looked tired, weary, exhausted.
Something in his eyes flickered. The scene felt oddly reminiscent to her; the feeling in the pit of her stomach returned. So much for the feelings being reciprocated, her brain hissed at her.
"I-- I've got plans," he told her, and her heart plummeted.
"Oh, okay," she murmured.
"Some other time?" he asked, sounding like her, sounding the same way she had sounded when he had asked her for drinks. And there hadn't been some other time.
"Sure," she told him, and she turned to leave.
"Sam?" he asked, and she turned back, her heart hoping against hope.
"You okay?" he asked her, his eyes soft, his voice softer. "If you-- if you need anything at all, just call me."
"I'm fine," she told him tightly, and then she turned back and walked away from him.
*
Samantha stared at the piece of paper on her kitchen table again. It seemed unreal, jarring to her sense of reality. A single piece of paper, words written on it. She had seen it when she had come into her apartment, and she had read it, but she was only now beginning to digest it. She had been FBI for a long time, and no one had bothered to tell her that no matter what, no matter how much training she may have gotten, no matter how many cases she may have experienced, nothing could prepare her for the time when things started happening to her.
She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at the table, setting the glass down next to the piece of paper. Everything she knew, everything she had learned, told her not to touch it, not even to look at it. She should call the authorities, she thought, call someone, do something.
She was numb. She didn't know what to do or who to call.
It was just a piece of paper, unthreatening in its own right. She had heard of this happening-- a big case goes down, pictures plastered all over the paper, nuts come out of the woodwork. It had just never happened to her.
It had been inside her apartment, too. Somehow, whoever had written the note had gotten inside her apartment. She had inspected the place immediately, walked over every square inch, her firearm ready, but there was no sign or forced entry, and there was certainly no one in her apartment still.
'Samantha Spade,' the paper said, 'I'm coming for you.'
Finally, she picked up the telephone to dial someone's number. She didn't know whose, just as long as it was someone's. Her first thought was Martin; he had told her to call if she needed anything, but she didn't think this was quite what he had in mind. And he had a date.
It didn't matter, she decided. Martin was it.
She dialed his number and waited for him to pick up. She didn't even know what she would say, but she had a feeling it would begin in tears. She needed a place to stay, someone to stay with. And then she had to go to the police and report the note. She hadn't moved it, just let it sit there smugly on her kitchen table. The phone rang, once, twice, three times. And then his answering machine picked up.
Danny was the next person to call. She had no friends, only coworkers, but they would have to suffice. And if Danny failed, Eric would be the next person on the list. And then Jack. The phone rang, once, twice, and her heart started to sink.
Then there was a click. "Hello?" she heard.
"Danny?" she said, exhaling in relief.
"Samantha?" he responded. "What's wrong?"
"I need a place to stay," she told him. "I need your help."
To be continued . . .
