Chapter Four
Alex had always commented that it was absolutely amazing how Natalie never seemed to have trouble falling asleep. Of course, what Alex never realized was that Natalie didn't sleep.
Natalie dreamed.
Natalie had always been about fantasy; finding the magical in the real and learning to reach for it. Reach for the stars, to be an Angel.
Tonight, her dreams were filled with dogs. Big fluffy dogs, and cute little short-haired dogs. Dogs that barked, and ones that yipped. Canines surrounded her and Natalie, swimming in puppies, never stopped to ponder that this was just a bit too many puppies to be entirely realistic. Dogs normally didn't join her for a rousing round of 'You're the One That I Want'.
It was her dreamworld and in her dreamworld, anything was possible.
A particularly persistent St. Bernard was licking her ear playfully, while a Chihuahua yipped in her ear.
Oddly, the yip sounded more like a telephone ring than an actual yip.
It was odd, very odd.
"Natalie?"
Natalie hugged the dogs closer, blinking as she searched the meadow. "Pete?"
"Natalie!"
A rough shake of her shoulder brought reality back with a whoosh.
The dog was still ringing.
"Pete?"
From the darkness, the handsome face of her significant other loomed into view. Natalie blinked.
"The phone, Natalie. Your cellphone."
"The dog is a phone?"
Pete's look was obviously befuddled. Thankfully, Natalie regained her senses quickly enough, and with an apologetic smile to her beloved, picked up the phone and swung her long legs over the side of the bed.
She glanced at the clock. Two o'clock.
"Hello?"
"It's Bosley, girl. You better get your ass in here. We got trouble."
Natalie said nothing. Rubbing at a small sore spot on her neck, she thumped bare feet on the floor, and pushed off the bed.
"Be right in," she said softly. Closing the cellphone with a click, she arched her body, taking in the silhouettes of both man and dog as they waited for the news. When Pete frowned, she gave a small smile, shoulders arching in resigned determination.
"Charlie?" he said huskily.
"Who else?" she answered.
Placing the phone back on the dresser, Natalie reached for her pants.
--
The phone was neatly plucked from the counter.
Alex slid it into place on her belt with a click. Jason's house was silent. The lack of sound from Jason's closed bedroom door indicated he wasn't asleep. Alex knew by experience, when Jason slept soundly, he snored. Loudly.
Her boots clicked loudly on the linoleum, and this place, all of it, seemed cold.
It was an odd realization, that came accompanied with a curious crack in her chest. Her gaze drifted over plates and cups that remained in order, largely unused, because Jason never cooked.
The only time they were ever brought out were those times she did it for him.
The kitchen was impersonal, with every touch of her eradicated.
Her hand rested on her phone, a nagging reminder, and with a quick breath in, Alex turned, reaching for her leather jacket hanging neatly on the back of a chair.
In two steps she was at the door. The note was taped on the door, and the spare key slipped into her cleavage.
Without another look to Jason's closed door, Alex stepped out of the house, and into the crisp air.
--
The phone kept ringing.
The tune Dylan had chosen when she had first received her Cingular phone was 'Born to be Wild'. A little hoaky, a little too much attitude, sure, but it personified her, and it never failed to make her smile when she heard the tinny sound coming from her hip.
Tonight, she didn't dare even take a second to look at the vibrating cellphone.
Every nerve, from shaking fingertips to twitching heartbeats told her to run. There was a child stuck in her that shrieked from fear. It was she who enveloped her heart, and closed her lungs until it was nearly impossible to breathe.
It was the child who had seen the man she adored become a murderer.
It was the woman who stood now, to find the man she let fall still standing firmly on her ground.
Her lips twitched. Sweat trickled down her face, but she made no motion to remove the uncomfortable liquid. Her eyes, frozen from either shock, fear, paranoia or a little of all three, continued to bore into the form, but he was neither a ghost nor an apparition.
He was simply Seamus O'Grady.
Her ex-boyfriend, the one who had shown her all his secrets and made her scream while he discovered hers, had never approved of her smoking.
It was almost ironic, really, the fights they had over her smoking.
"They'll kill ya, Helen, they will," he'd drawl, plucking them from her fingertips and tossing them out of the window. "And ya smell bad, too."
She had quit, back then, because of him.
But she still relished the smell, still sometimes itched for the tranquility that came with taking the little white stick and sucking in.
His fingers were now wrapped around a Marlboro, her old brand. His eyes were closed, and he inhaled deeply, the crisp burning end flaring bright red, white paper turning black, and ashes falling in a graceful arc to the ground.
He smiled, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and studying it.
"Ya know, I always hated these. Never knew what ya saw in them, Helen." He shrugged. "But I figured if your bitch girlfriend can't kill ya, then nothin' can."
"I'm not your girlfriend." It was a stupid statement. It meant nothing, and it wasn't anything they didn't already both know. But it was defiant, edged in hate, and anger. It was words coming out of her mouth, and it was enough to break her free of the ice that had been holding her.
Arms relaxed slightly, hands clenched into fists, but Dylan said nothing more.
Seamus snorted. Lips pulled up into an almost sneer, and for a moment, he seemed a parody of the awkward boy with the braces and the over-excited giggle.
"Betcha didn't know this would happen, would it? You and your friends, walkin' about every night, savin' the world. How's the ribs, Helen? Hurt ya just a wee bit?"
She stiffened slightly. It took effort not to bring a surprised palm to the bandage around her torso, covered by her shirt, where he couldn't see.
Not unless he had been watching her for a while.
But of course, he was watching her.
Seamus was obsessive and compulsive, but when he gave his attention, it was fullblown.
"Never felt better," she lied easily. Her heart was hammering loudly against her chest, almost drowning out any other sound, but she gave no indication.
She never moved.
Seamus took in the tense posture, and smiled.
"Such an easy to read bitch ya are, Dylan. Ah knew you'd be down here alone. I knew it when I saw ya tonight. You're so damned loyal, you think, but the second you think ya don't understand you leave everyone behind."
"You don't know me," she whispered. The words seemed to give her strength somehow, and she found her voice. "You don't KNOW me, Seamus."
The almost shout just seemed to amuse him. "Where are you friends, then?" He motioned to the cellphone, now still and silent. "They don't even know where you are, Helen. But I do. I've always known."
He stepped forward, and quickly, quietly, Dylan put a foot back, weighing her balance on the balls of her feet. Shit. Shit. Shit-
"They're not gonna be there for ya this time, Helen. I'm gonna make sure of that. You'll be alone, diggin' your grave, same way you left me." He paused, shoulders shrugging as he craned his neck. Bones cracked, loud vertebra snapping as he adjusted himself. "I'm not going to just kill ya, Helen. I'm going to take you, and your little friends, and I'm gonna destroy you and everything you love. I know what ya are. I know what ya do."
"You touch them, I'll kill you," she whispered, blood now boiling beyond any reason, any fear. "And this time, I'll make sure you're dead."
"Hmm." He snorted slightly. "Ya think ya hate me, Helen, but ya don't. You won't know the meaning of the word until you've been betrayed by everything you love and end up alone. Then you'll hate me." Cocking his head, he studied her. "Pity you won't be able to savor that."
From the shadows, like ghosts of judgment, men dropped from balconies, emerged from doorways, and from behind her, another stepped off a motorcycle. Faceless, nameless men, they could have all been Seamus, and it would be less intimidating.
"We just wanted to give ya something to remember us by," Seamus said. Dylan's finger twitched. One, two - four - six ... eight.
Eight.
A bat swung out of nowhere, and pure instinct saved her as she rolled into a ball, shifting up to swing her legs hard under another, sending him crashing into the ground.
On her hip, the phone began to vibrate and pulse.
Born to be Wild sang gaily, even as she felt the force of a fist crash into her cheek.
--
The aura was tense all around.
Natalie shifted uncomfortably. The Townsend Agency, normally bursting with sunshine and good morning cheer was dark with shadows, and silent.
Alex, who usually sat down on the other side of Dylan, was now standing, arms crossed, one palm at her mouth. It was the only sign of nervous anxiety Alex had ever displayed, her habit of chewing absently on her thumbnail.
"Alex," Natalie whispered.
The other Angel caught her glance, and when Natalie waved a manicured palm, she blanched, bringing her fingers out of mouth, across her chest, before continuing her pace.
The screen held a stern lady, so immobile it could have been a photo. The speakerphone, usually so animated and alive, now just appeared to be a speakerphone.
Bosley, his rump on the desk, had his ear to the phone, lips pursed in a thin line.
"She's not picking up," he said finally, pulling the receiver away and slamming it in the cradle.
"Alex, Natalie, are you sure you don't know where she is?" Charlie asked.
"No," Alex said immediately.
"I'm sorry, Charlie," Natalie responded. Alex settled in beside her, and immediately, Natalie's fingers wrapped in hers. "We dropped her off at the hotel and it was the last we heard of her."
"Maybe she's just asleep," Alex said hopefully. "You know Dylan. In Cancun, she slept through the hurricane."
"And I'm sure she's having wonderful dreams," Mary snapped, interrupting as she glared menacingly from the screen. "But I've got two dead celebrities and I'm paying a good amount of money to an agency who was supposed to assure me that that didn't happen again!"
"Ms. Briggs, I understand your frustration," Charlie said, never changing his tone, "But these things to take time."
"Chess takes time, Charles," Mary snapped, "Body counts don't."
"We have a suspect," Natalie said immediately, casting a glance at Alex. "All we really need to do now is locate him and who he works for."
"Well, that's very nice, Miss America. Might I suggest you and the reigning Geisha over there find Angela Bowie and bring him down before I find Julia Roberts in my morgue?"
Alex blinked, Natalie's mouth dropped open, and Bosley snorted.
"Now, just wait a minute-"
"Mary, I won't tolerate that kind of talk," Charlie said firmly.
Mary sighed. Fingers rubbing the bridge of her nose, she finally looked up, shoulders slumping as she reached for another cup of coffee. "I'm sorry, ladies. Truly, I am. You don't understand the pressure that's coming from the department."
Natalie looked up, and in an effort to do something, ran her hands through her hair. "We'll find him, Ms. Briggs."
"You better. Look, I hate to say this, but, the captain's made it clear. If another celebrity gets shot or killed, he's going to let it out that the Townsend Agency is put on the job and let you take the heat."
"Mary, that's not how we do business."
"It's not how I do business either, Charlie," she maintained, "But the Captain's given me orders. Get to work."
The screen darkened to black.
Alex gave a huff, crossing her legs and arms at the same time in one vicious jerk. "Talk about having severe emotional issues! And I thought I was distant!"
"Charlie, can she really do that?" Bosley asked. "Put all that blame on us?"
"We're not even going to entertain the option," he answered. The tone was easy, friendly. "Because we're going to find this suspect before another celebrity dies, right Angels?"
"Of course, Charlie," Natalie said.
"Sure, Charlie," Alex said.
Dylan's chime was noticeably absent.
"But first I think we should find Dylan," Natalie said.
"I agree," Charlie responded. "Bosley, can you try again?"
"One white girl, coming right up," Bosley answered, grabbing the phone and dialing.
--
The solid metal screeched as her forehead slammed into it.
Dylan cried out in pain, a frustrated yell. Another fist came, fast and hard, and with a mind splintered by pain, she just managed to shift, seconds before the hand crashed into the trashbin, barely missing her.
Sucking in her breath, Dylan rolled back, jerking with her waist to land on her feet.
The bruised ribs flared in complaint, and she stumbled, wincing while she blocked another blow with a forearm, hand closing around the wrist to snap it before a step backwards sent her careening into thug number seven.
The vibration on her waist was an unwelcome distraction. 'Born to be Wild' was shrill and inconsistent.
Her ribs. Her God-damned ribs.
Fuck.
Gritting her teeth, Dylan planted her feet and shot up, fingers just closing around the lower rung of a balcony ladder.
And her ribs screamed.
She twisted, legs closing around another's neck, and with a snap, she jerked him unconscious, milliseconds before she fell flat on her back as another slammed a crow bar in her thigh.
Her head cracked against the pavement, and already, her mouth was tasting blood, but Dylan swung her feet in an arc, and stumbled to her feet.
'Born to Be Wild' continued to play.
Large, burly arms captured her around the waist, but she bit and stomped, and suddenly the hands sprung free, giving her enough space to twist and turn in a roundhouse, slamming his face into the dank ground.
A foot lodged into her back, sending her flying forward.
Four down, four to go, and Seamus kept coming.
The others were easy. On a regular day, even with a bruised rib, Dylan could have taken them with no question and just a little bit of fun.
But Seamus was different.
Seamus blocked her kick and sent another in its place so fast she got clipped in the chin.
Seamus came relentlessly, and mercilessly, with the glint in his eyes that he had when they had made love, or fucked, or whatever the hell it was they had done eight years ago.
"Give it up, Helen," he drawled. "I always knew where to touch ya!"
She grit her teeth, and suddenly she had pushed off from the wall and buried a heel in not one, but two of the men, crushing voice boxes, and larynxes.
And then she felt it, the crash against her ribs, the explosion of pain that became so blinding she couldn't move in time for the boot that careened into her face.
Another came, this time on her mouth.
Dylan was on her knees.
Fingers tangled in her auburn mane, head jerked up and she was swallowed by him, filled with Seamus, and drowning in his world.
"Like I said, I always knew where to touch ya, Helen."
His lips came down on hers, hard and cruel, and she could do nothing to stop it, not when he bit her, savagely, not when his fist came down, and she landed face first in a puddle on the cement.
'Born to Be Wild' played on.
She couldn't move, not even when Seamus carefully unclipped the phone from her belt, and in her ever darkening vision, crushed it against the wall.
--
Inside the emptiness of the bungalow currently occupied by Dylan Sanders, a dog whined outside the door.
Tiny rasps of nails against wood forced the door to rattle, but it didn't budge.
Slowly, it creaked open, and a golden ball of fuzz shimmied in the creak, yelping happily as it careened around the bed and made for Dylan's pile of laundry.
Natalie entered, opening the door wider for Alex to come in.
"She's not here," she said, looking back to glance at her friend.
"She would have told us where she went," Alex ground crisply. One dainty foot stepped over the pile of forgotten magazines on the floor, in the direction of the dresser.
"She didn't before," Natalie reminded her. Sinking down on the bed, Natalie reached for the Cosmo with Annabeth Torres on it. The smiling brunette was dead now. It was surreal. Tracing her face with a nail, Natalie glanced up. "She wouldn't, not again-"
"She had no reason," Alex said. "She wouldn't. Not now."
"You're right. It's crazy. Maybe she just went for a drink-"
"She would have taken her phone."
Natalie closed her eyes, blowing out her breath, and sucking it back in. "Well, she could have turned it off."
"She never turns off her phone."
"Well, Alex, what you want me to say?" Natalie snapped, exasperated, and tired and worried, and where the hell was DYLAN?! "I mean, she's gone, and I don't know why, and she's gone missing before-"
"Natalie!" In a second, Alex was there, arms wrapping around her friend, and pulling her in closer. "Relax, okay?"
"I can't-"
"Sure, you can." With a smile, Alex caressed her face gently, smiling into the crystal blue eyes. "Dylan's a fighter, remember? She wouldn't abandon us. Look! Her bracelet's here, and all her clothes is here, and there's a coke can condensing and creating an irreparable ring on that antique wood desk over there." Natalie snorted with a half smile. "She's not going anywhere. She'll be back."
Natalie sucked in her breath. "She will be back," she decided. "And because of that, I probably shouldn't let Spike chew on her last AC/DC - SPIKE!" Scrambling up, Natalie began to play an impromptu tug-of-war with her dog, pulling at Dylan's sacred black shirt.
Alex stood, hands on her waist, searching for the details.
Her eyes fell on the dresser. The contents of Dylan's shell jewelry box were mangled and spilled over.
"She took something," she whispered.
"What?" Natalie asked.
Alex swallowed. She was jumping to conclusions. Dylan was probably out with some guy, doing what Dylan did best, love them and leave them.
"Nothing," she said, smiling tightly. "Come on, let's get some sleep. Dylan will be back in the morning, and we still have a Thin Man to find."
"Unless Dylan found him first," Natalie tossed.
"What?"
"Nothing," Natalie shrugged. "Let's go."
"She wouldn't-"
"I don't know."
The two women stared, contemplating each the others ideas, sorting them, tossing out theories, and bringing in new ones.
"I don't know," Natalie said again.
"Me neither."
With a nod, Natalie blew her breath out. "Let's get some sleep. She'll be back tomorrow."
"Right," Alex responded. "She has to be."
She moved to the door, and when her fingers slipped on the doorknob, she never told Natalie it was because her hand was shaking.
--
The alley was silent, pitch black.
It was almost impossible to distinguish darkness from darkness here, and as it was, she might have lain there all night.
The figure, dressed in all black, had her pale face obscured by reddish hair, tangled in wet tendrils that were almost black with dirt.
It was the strands and their smell that had alerted him.
With a rough push, he had her on her back.
Her lip was torn, blood clotted. Eyes were fluttering with life, but she couldn't move, struggled even as her head fell back to the cement.
He knelt on his haunches, peering down at her.
When her eyes opened, hazel or green or brown, he could never decide, her mouth opened with a painful rasp in.
"You," she whispered.
Eyes drifted to the hair, matted and dirty, but still hers, and he tangled fingers in it, tugging.
He was rewarded with a hiss of pain, but nothing more than that.
His hand moved to her chest, and he pushed lightly.
She gasped, eyes fluttering.
Eyes narrowing, he placed the cane down beside him, and with a wiry strength that was deceptive coming from such a lithe body, he lifted her, easily.
"No," she whispered, and her palms began to try to push at his chest.
He let her struggle with her fading strength. She was beaten. It would not be long.
It wasn't.
With a defeated cry, she collapsed against him, a sobbing hiss against his throat.
Carefully, almost gently, if he was indeed capable, he closed his eyes, and inhaled, mouth brushed against her wet strands, over the porcelain of her skin. His arms tightened around her, and in the dark, dirty street, no one saw as the Thin Man carried Dylan deeper into the night.
end chapter