Chapter Five

"Did she call?"

The no-nonsense Alex gave no greeting when Natalie picked up the phone. There was nothing but flat urgency, and Alex, twirling the telephone cord around her finger, hidden in Jason's bathroom, knew Natalie didn't care.

"No," Natalie responded, voice tinny and full of static. "Hang on, I'm right outside his house."

Jason's loud snoring vibrated on the floor panels while Alex walked over on bare feet. When she opened the door for Natalie, the blonde gave her a surprised glance, gaze lingering from head to toe.

"You look... casual," Natalie managed finally, a smile emerging in spite of herself.

Flushing slightly, Alex pushed the cut off sweatshirt back up her bare shoulders. It immediately slid down again. Considering she was wearing nothing but the over-sized shirt, she did indeed look like a sorority pin up girl.

"It's Jason's," she explained, letting her friend in. "I didn't have a chance to bring anything with me, and apparently, he gave all the clothes I left here to Goodwill."

Natalie's eyes grew wide, palm to her mouth in a horrified gesture. "Not the cute little mini skirt with the lace down the front?"

With a wince, Alex nodded.

"Oh my GOD! I'm sorry!" Natalie's palm sank down. "Did you kill him?"

"I thought about it," Alex replied, "But there were enough celebrities biting it today."

The bad joke brought them both back to earth, and Natalie, fingers skimming through her long blonde hair, sunk down on the couch.

"I stopped by the bungalow, she's still not there."

Alex, remaining standing, began to pace back and forth, fingers to her mouth. "We have to find her," Alex said.

"Alex?" Natalie pointed to her lips, and shook her head. Immediately, Alex's hands came down.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly, settling down next to Natalie.

"No problem," she responded easily. "On Dylan-"

"I don't know. She didn't leave us really many clues, and she should have called by now-"

"-Unless something happened to her."

"-or she didn't want to be found."

"Neither of which is exactly a wonderful option," Natalie sighed. Head floating back to rest on the back of the couch, she was still a minute.

"We should tell Charlie," Alex mused.

Natalie's head came up. "I don't know, Alex..." Legs uncrossing, Natalie fidgeted.

"You don't think we should tell Charlie?"

"What if Dylan comes back by then?"

"What if she doesn't?"

Natalie's eyes closed, arms crossed in a visible sign of her frustration. "Then we have to find her."

Alex nodded. "Let me change-" Pushing off the couch with a disgruntled sigh, she moved around it, heading for the bathroom, when the bedroom door opened, very nearly colliding with her face.

"JASON!"

Jason, hair flat against his head, wearing a ratty t-shirt and boxers with clowns on them, still appeared to be half asleep.

"Alex?" Rubbing at the mop on his head and blinking his eyes, he craned his neck. "You're still here?"

The brunette paused, glancing from Natalie back to her ex-boyfriend. "Yeah."

"Oh." Shifting his bare feet on the floor, Jason seemed to be stuck in an awkward silence. "So... going to the bathroom?"

The almost bashful look on his face tugged at the line of her mouth, threatening to turn it into a smile.

"Unless you're going in."

"No, no... go ahead." He bowed quickly, motioning in its direction with his hands. Once again, Jason's gaze snuck back to her. Still for a minute, as if taking her in, he finally let out a sigh. "Wow."

Alex blinked. "What?"

"I uh..." he coughed, clearing his throat, shrugging. "I just... it's been a while since I've seen you in that. You... you look good, Alex."

The heat that immediately went to her cheeks was almost embarrassing. Stepping back, she shrugged slightly. "Um... thanks. Why don't you go ahead? I've got some time."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Okay." He nodded, a hard swallow making his Adam's Apple bob. "It is my bathroom and all..."

"Right."

Holding her breath, she waited as he moved around her. Ample heat emanated from his body, and she felt it. When his palms brushed against her arms, feather light, she bit her lip.

She was incredibly grateful when the door closed, and her stiff body was finally able to relax.

Making her way back to the couch, Alex found Natalie gazing at her with what had to be an almost playful smirk dancing on her lips. "You know, you were holding your breath the whole time he was standing there."

Alex's stare was littered with frost. "Don't start."

Natalie shook her head, blonde strands skimming her shoulders as they shook with mirth. "You're lucky Dylan isn't here," she teased. "She wouldn't have missed an opening like that for anyone."

"Well, Dylan's NOT here, is she?"

The snap was inappropriate, unexpected, and Alex regretted it immediately when Natalie visibly blanched.

In a second, Alex was at her side, arms sliding around the blonde, head resting on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"No, you're right. She's not here."

"For a reason."

"I know Dylan, Alex. You do, too. Even if she did leave, she would leave a note. We have to find her."

Alex contemplated. It was becoming increasingly painful to swallow, as her thoughts were with Dylan and her eyes were on the bathroom door.

"We're going after her," Alex said thickly. "I promise. But first I want to do something that'll keep us on track with this case."

Natalie's expression was curious. "What do you mean?"

Alex nodded. "Just something that's been bugging me."

--

Dylan Sanders was a remarkably heavy sleeper. It wasn't a very great gift to have when one was the closest thing to spy as she was, and as a result, survival instinct had given her something of a happy medium.

When Dylan woke up, Dylan woke up.

Alex said that was the weirdest thing of all, the way Dylan never seemed bleary eyed, never had the sudden dizzy pull back to sleep that she battled. Dylan's eyes opened, and suddenly everything came back.

Dylan was asleep, or not asleep. There was no in-between.

This morning, her eyes blinked open, and Dylan shifted immediately-

-to be caught with searing pain blasting from her ribcage.

Dylan's gasp was short, surprised. Her back fell to the sheets, and with darting eyes, she let her breath blow out, trying to regain her control as she found herself looking at an off white ceiling.

What the hell?

Her palm, for the moment rubbing at her ribs, stilled up on discovery that the tape holding her wounded bones together was not the dirty peeling one that she had stuck hastily before leaving the bungalow, but a pure white tape held in place by gauze.

Dylan was naked, covered only by linen sheets, cool and soft as air against her skin.

Her clothes, which according to her last coherent thought, had been muddy, sweat soaked and altogether icky, were folded and clean, resting on the side of the bed.

The bed. She was on a bed.

Dylan blinked, sucking in her breath to stave herself for the pain that had lessened to a dull throb, shifted herself up, resting gingerly on her elbows as she glanced at her surroundings.

Everything was white. There was no color to this place at all. White bed, with white sheets. The loft she was resting in was large, with varnished wood floors, a small, no-nonsense kitchen, the bed, and a large, clear space.

Where the hell was she?

Her head, previously ignored in her surprise, now reminded her of the blows she had received the night before. It pounded, large and looming.

Oh, God.

Seamus. Seamus was alive and after her. Again. And she wasn't dead, even if she was sure he could have killed her. She was in a strange place, and had no idea how she got there-

Her eyes closed. Clarity was returning every second, but it wasn't fast enough.

Dylan had had enough of being unsure of where she stood.

"Allright," she mustered in a decided whisper. "When I open my eyes, I will know exactly where I'm at, who I'm dealing with, and how the hell I ended up here."

Okay, that was wishful thinking at it's finest, but Dylan had learned from Nat, nothing was impossible if you believed in it hard enough (except pregnant males, and how that topic came up at breakfast one day, Dylan never wanted to remember).

With a deep, shuddering breath out, Dylan looked for her moment of calm, envisioned the fear, the paranoia, the insecurity sweep away from her, as if she was brushing it away herself with a broom.

Hands curling into fists, Dylan focused on the room.

Second glance, this time, calmer, more information.

The loft was a 1920's era building that was more than likely located in a high rise in Downtown. A quick glance at a crack in the white curtains over the many windows confirmed it. The floor was varnished, but well worn, and the bed had a barely perceptible dent on one side of it, indicating that whoever slept here, more than likely slept alone.

"Great," she whispered, "Now I'm starting to think like Alex. Indicating. Geez." Shaking her head, she let the sheet fall, and reached for her clothes. The loft was impeccably clean, but incredibly sparse. The wide open space could have been used for a number of things, but Dylan's growing suspicion was hammered through with a remembrance of a dream.

"Or not," she said, louder.

Barefoot, she pulled the shirt over her head, tossing the leather jacket onto the bed and padding to what looked like a closet.

There was nothing inside her now. She didn't know what she was feeling, or why she was here, but when she opened the door and found black upon black of shirts, blazers and suits, she had her answer.

"Thin Man," she said, reaching forward to touch one of the immaculately tailored suits. On the floor, lining the edge of the closet wall, were rows of Harley Davidson and Doc Marten boots of a surprisingly big- footed person. "Of course."

Closing the door with a bang, Dylan leaned against the wood, eyes now on the floor.

Scuff marks, sparring scuff marks. There, on the wall, black roaches against the white speck, were number of what she now knew to be swords, disguised as canes and umbrellas.

There was no gun, but she did remember when he threw it away in anger.

And the dream, what she thought was a dream, had been real. Fingertips felt the bump against her neck, the small rasp of skin lamenting the loss of her hair.

"So much for the going bald part," she muttered.

He hadn't killed her, at least that was a good sign. He hadn't tried to kill her since he kissed her, and since the last guy that kissed her (and her lips still stung in protest) had pretty much done that WHILE he tried to kill her, Dylan wasn't really banking on that as a safety net.

He had stripped her naked, bandaged her and cleaned her wounds. Her clothes had been washed, dried and then he left her here, alone.

Why?

Dylan wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

Stepping toward the bed, she reached for her jeans, ripped and torn at the knee like the kind she mangled as riffraff. She had one foot in the leg when the door opened.

Caught offbalance, there was no time to go into a defense stance as the Thin Man stepped into the room.

His eyes, a piercing blue that seemed almost abnormal, honed into her, He wasn't wearing the suit that had become his trademark, but black pants, black shirt, and a closed blazer that seemed equally severe.

There wasn't much Dylan could do, hopping on one foot with the other tangled in the leg of her pants, so she took a breath, smiled stiffly, and tossed out a "Hi."

He stared, cocking his head before slamming the door closed with a foot, moving across the floor to the window.

She wasn't sure if she was being ignored or given a moment for a last reprieve before he killed her.

Still, beggars couldn't be choosers. With a hiss of pain, she hopped the second leg into her pants, and began to pull them up.

And of course that was the moment he came at her like a cat.

She was too surprised to do much of anything when the steel grip of the Thin Man caught her about the waist.

"HEY!"

She struggled, but the fist she threw was merely brushed aside as he glared at her. One hand clamped to her hip, the other warding off her blows, Dylan was in no position to shimmy out.

"You know, you really earned that whole 'Creepy Thin Man' name!" she muttered.

He quirked an eyebrow in reaction. That was as much as she got before he clamped his mouth and reached for her shirt,

"Hey! There's such a thing as foreplay, buddy!"

When she raked him on the cheek, he lost patience.

Knees pushed on legs, arms grabbed arms, and sheer weight and loss of balance suddenly had Dylan on the bed. The Thin Man, surprisingly heavy for someone whose nickname was 'thin', kept his legs hooked about her knees. His crotch settled down on her hips, keeping her lower body buried, and one hand clamped two of hers together, holding them roughly against her chest.

"I'm so going to kill you," she whispered.

He ignored her. With the free hand, he silent placed his palm under Dylan's shirt, and roughly pulled up.

She struggled all the harder.

He only stared. Gently, with long fingertips, he began to inspect the bandage, smoothing over the bruised ribs before reaching for the paper bag that had fallen alongside of them.

In her surprise, Dylan's fighting jerks suddenly stilled. He pulled out a fresh roll of gauze.

"What..."

He gave her another glare, this one a little more meaningful, a 'Told you so', kind of stare, before he let go of both her hands and began to unroll it.

Pushing up to her elbows, Dylan stared, watching with a closed throat as he, as gently as he could, began to pull the gauze from around her stomach. When she hissed in pain, he paused.

In his glance was almost a question, as if, for the first time, he was asking for permission to continue, and when she hesitantly nodded, he pulled harder, shifting the used gauze away and grabbing the fresh roll.

"I can do it," she said huskily. With shaking hands, she tried to reach for it. He shook her off, shaking his head before moving off of her, indicating with a quirk of his hand that she should turn over.

Her eyes closed as smooth fingers drifted over her skin, gentle, as if he was barely touching her.

The jerk of his hands made her grunt with pain, but he was done.

With a shaky breath in, Dylan shifted over.

His eyes were amazingly blue.

Weird how she hadn't noticed it before.

"Thanks," she said finally.

Silence, so common with this man, took over, as he continued to stare, and she, for the purpose of doing anything at all, pulled her shirt down.

Yes, he was a killer. He had no morals, and he more than likely wouldn't hesitate to take her out if it served his purposes, but... what were his purposes?

Curiosity and instinct overruled common sense. She had no words for the moment, but she had learned in her dealings with this man that meaning could be conveyed in just the simplest of touches.

Gingerly, she leaned forward, fingers outstretched. He was still, watching her with hawk eyes as the hands came closer, closer.

When they reached his shirt, he batted them away.

"No!" she snapped. He paused, eyes narrowing. She tried again, and this time, he caught them, holding them at a distance. "I need to see," she ground out. "Please."

He had to understand. The man was a voluntary mute, but he was sharp, quickwitted. He had to be to survive so long in this profession.

When his palms relaxed, she smiled. Slowly, as one would touch an aggravated dog, Dylan curled her fingers over the fabric of his shirt, and after another glance at his face, pulled up.

The flatness of the stomach was something she expected. He gave a slight shudder that rippled through his whole body, as her fingers accidentally raked the muscles of his abdomen. She watched them tighten reactively, but she went further.

Her motion stopped when she found what she was looking for. Fingers brushed gauze.

With an unsteady breath in, Dylan readied herself. Palms swept gently over his skin until it was clear, the bandage that covered the upper half of his body, a spot about the size of her palm tainted rusted red.

Licking her ups, she shifted closer, eyes now mere inches away from him. She could feel his breath on her lips.

"Well," she said finally. "I guess we solved that mystery. You're not immortal after all. Just really, really lucky."

His lips twitched, almost as he tried to smile and found himself unable. Her head throbbed, and no longer able to ignore it, Dylan dropped her hands, closing her eyes and bringing a palm to her forehead.

"God," she whispered. "When Seamus gets pissed, he gets pissed."

There was a silent beat, and then she felt fingertips brushing against her cheek, moving gently to the nape of her neck-

Alarms went off in her head, and her eyes shot open.

"NO!" she snapped, pushing his hand away. He looked disgruntled, and tried again. "NO!" she said again, louder, firmer. Snatching at his hands, she glared back. "Listen, Anthony, or whoever the hell you are, I've only got so much hair, and if you keep yanking it off I'm going to be really, really pissed off. You've got like, four locks of them, okay? Just play with those."

Shoving at the bed, she threw his hands back at him, and grimaced into a standing position.

He was completely still, somehow managing to look dangerous and creepy despite the fact that he was sitting on a plush pure white bed, and had something close to a pout on his face.

"Why did you save me, anyway?" she snapped. "We're after you, you know that? We're AFTER you. You're killing people and we're the good guys and we take guys like you down!"

He narrowed his eyes.

"Don't look like that, okay?" Finding her boots next to the bed, she sat down in a nearby chair and began to yank them on. "You know perfectly well what I mean." She paused when she realized her socks were missing. Tossing him a snort, she glared, "Well? Where are they?"

He shrugged.

"I want them!" She didn't know who was acting more like a child, him or her. "Now!" she emphasized with a stomp of her foot.

For some reason, she knew that amused him.

Pushing off the bed, he stepped forward and crossed his arms. Right next to his dresser.

Fine.

Limping over, Dylan opened the top drawer, discovering dozens of white socks, neatly rolled together. She glanced. He smirked.

"Shut up."

Grabbing a pair, Dylan pulled them on roughly, hopping on one foot to get her boots on, and grabbing her jacket in the process.

"My phone..." she began patting her pockets, only to be struck by a dim memory of Seamus and a wall. "Shit," she whispered. "This is all your fault, you know. If you didn't go slinking around in dark alleys I wouldn't have gotten into this mess. Nat and Alex are probably going nuts trying to figure out where I am."

His face, or rather, his glare, was something like a blank canvas. She could visualize his response, almost like she was talking to a dog, or better yet, a cat.

This one seemed to say, "Tough."

"Shut up."

When she had regained her composure (she had given up on getting her cool back right right around when he caught her with her pants down), she marched up to him, still out of his plucking hand's reach, and gave him a nod.

"Fine. Look, because you didn't try to kill me, and even tried to help me by bringing me to the Psycho Ward, I'm going to give you about an hour to run out of here before me and my friends come back-"

The speech, however threatening, was cut off almost immediately by a hand gripping her shoulder. It came so quickly, so fast that she didn't have a chance to react. The Thin Man, Anthony, didn't change his expression. It was cold and calculating, and Dylan could swear not one muscle moved.

But she could read him. Suddenly, she knew what he was trying to say, by his too tight grip, and his answering glower.

"You didn't do it," she whispered suddenly. "That's what you're telling me, by bringing me here, by not killing me - you didn't do it and you want me to know..."

His grip only tightened, but Dylan was past caring. Stepping closer, too close, Dylan's hands moved to his passive face. "Why do you want me to know?"

He didn't blink, not when he stared at her, not when his fingers moved, slow and smooth like a magician-

With a yelp, she smacked him, rubbing at her scalp while he held the few strands he managed to grab to his face, rubbing softly.

"That is really starting to piss me off," she muttered. "Fine, whatever. I'm going."

She was halfway across the floor when she heard a soft, raspy, "No."

There was too much anger, too much frustration, a whirling confusion of thoughts and feelings that began to turn in a maelstrom in Dylan's heart. The enormity of the gesture didn't register. "No, what?!" Her words were angry, torn from her throat as if on a springboard. "No, WHAT, Anthony?"

He was struggling, visibly, body shaking, and eyes watery - a different man from the one that stood before her minutes earlier.

His mouth began to move, but the words didn't come with it.

Dylan's features, before frozen in anger, began to melt into something else, but what it was, she couldn't define.

"No," he finally managed.

It was too much.

She had no idea what he was trying to say. He was a killer, and all the evidence was pointing to him, he could have been saying "No, I don't want you wearing my socks," for all she knew.

Or he could have been saying, "No, I didn't do it."

God knew, why the hell she wanted to believe he said that.

He was trembling still, but his face had regained control, and he stood, straight and tall, palms fisted around the hair he stole while he waited for her reaction.

With a push of her breath, Dylan shook her head slowly, taking a small step back, increasing the distance.

On his chest, there was a silver medallion.

A glance back at the door, and one to his chest, and suddenly, she had no choice.

Moving quickly, she snapped it. He didn't flinch. The trembling had stopped, and he looked like a killer again.

"Prove it," she said, stuffing the medallion into her pocket.

She knew he'd let her go. She was never a prisoner here. She still didn't know what she had done to make him believe that she was different.

Things were so uncertain with him, and she hated that feeling.

She hated the feeling that consumed her as she slammed the door, found an elevator waiting, and stepped inside.

It was the feeling that he, a murderer, wasn't the murderer they were looking for.

That this time, The Thin Man was innocent.

--

The killer wasn't quite ready to give up on his celebrities, not yet.

Even if the women were extraordinary, even if they pulled at him, he wouldn't give it up. Not quite yet.

The media had named him 'The Celebrity Sniper'.

He was extraordinary.

It fascinated him. The fact that these women, these beautiful, extraordinary women, were after HIM. They were concentrated on HIM, and they were willing to do anything to find him.

No longer was he nameless, faceless, speechless.

He was named by them, pursued by them.

In the shadows, he watched her, the red-head, with her sexy stride, and her angered scowl. She was conflicted, she had doubts.

He wouldn't be nameless for long.

The killer knew he should rest. Take some time to plan this out, but it was of no consequence how long he waited. He had been waiting for years.

It was like a carnival, and his fifteen minutes were almost up.

He smiled, waving good-bye to the red-haired girl and picking up an itinerary for that night.

Yes, there it was, it hadn't disappeared.

It was still there, just like they said it would be.

His pass to the funeral of Annabeth Torres.

Where Jason Gibbons would be attending.

end chapter