Chapter Twenty-Three--
A/N: Thank you all so much for the GREAT reviews. I hope you like this next part just as much. Enjoy!
Warning: Contains violent material.
**********
He had painted the perfect picture, created something so unique, so unlike any other. This was amazing, a worthy compilation. His hands had stroked out the hues of dark crimson blood, his knife had carved the deep gash that marred the body so beautifully, his anger had brushed in the painful gasps that filled the air like a symphony. His creation, a mixture of his own joy and Boscorelli's pain. The agony and the ecstasy.
Vengeance.
He shifted his weight slightly and was rewarded with a loud, gasping whimper and rigid stiffening of the body he held. He felt wetness seeping into the fabric of his shirt, dampening his chest with its warmth. Sweat. Boscorelli was sweating profusely in spite of the freezing room and the fact that he was shivering uncontrollably. He was tempted to laugh aloud.
Vindication.
His index finger nonchalantly grazed up and down the blood-soaked blade as he sat slumped against the wall, deciding whether or not he'd plunge it into the flesh in again. Of course, with the repeat action of burying the blade into flesh, the satisfaction would be immense - but could ruin his plan terribly. The fact remained: Boscorelli must die slowly. He must suffer. Another wound would only aid in the swift arrival of his death. No, he would resist the urges and wait.
Wait for him to bleed out.
Paybacks are a bitch.
***********
Matt slid into the office chair and hastily punched the password into the database. The frown plastered across his handsome face masked the anticipation that he felt at the moment, but clearly displayed the level of concentration that pushed him to find the elusive killer. His hands were shaking with impatience, his mouth dry with expectation.
"Okay, put in the last name only and see what we get," Sam calmly instructed his eager partner, straining to be as composed as possible.
Matt's jittery fingers quickly typed the name into the search engine and hit the 'Enter' key. The machine hummed softly as it combed though thousands of files, sifting out the superfluous ones.
"Com'on," he muttered under his breath after a few long seconds had passed. The search seemed to be taking take an awful long time...
Sam chuckled softly, shaking his head at the remark. "It'll come, Matt. Be patient."
"Ummm," his young partner grunted, glaring at the computer's monitor as if he could retrieve the information through osmosis.
The outdated machine took its pretty time as it slowly sorted through the riff-raff, and after what seemed a short eternity, the humming stopped. The room was deathly quiet as the computer pulled up its offering.
Matt quickly scanned down the page, reading only excerpts as he skipped past anything irrelevant. His eyes halted halfway down the page and his mouth dropped open. "Shit, Sam..." he whispered in shock. "We got it..."
***********
Bosco gasped, determined not to heave. His stomach begged to empty itself out, but he had become so weak that he wasn't sure if he'd be able to vomit again without asphyxiating on the fluid. He tried to ignore the growing sensation of nausea and the rapid, thunderous pulsing of his heart as it struggled to keep what little blood he had left flowing though his veins. His labored, tight breaths burned his chest with every intake, and the deliciously warm and freeing sense of unconsciousness pulled gently at his exhausted body, enticing him to give up and let go.
He fought to keep his eyes open though, struggling with ever fiber of strength he had left to stay alert, awake, but even then he felt himself slipping. He found himself on the verge of giving in. This was it - his final moments of life. Well, if you could call it living. Death had to be less painful then this...
Tears streamed down his face, not so much from the considerable amount of pain he was in, but from the emotional anguish that overwhelmed him. This was it. There would be no more...
It wasn't supposed to be like this... He grimaced as he realized that his time had come, trying hard not to weep from grief. He would never see his Ma again, never say how much he loved her... He would never marry, have children... Never see Faith again, never crack a joke at her, never laugh with her again...
His chest inadvertently convulsed, choking as his body fought not to suffocate. He felt like he was drowning, and with every breath heavy fluid filled his body to the bursting point. He couldn't catch his breath; there was so much pressure...too much.
This was how it felt to die. Dying. He was dying. A soft sob escaped his lips and he stifled the urge to break down entirely. God, help me...
As the seconds and minutes passed, he could feel his body weaken slowly, seemingly losing strength with each feeble beat of his heart. His thoughts wandered aimlessly, and he wasn't able to keep his mind focused on much of anything now.
The man that held him moved slightly, sending fierce pain ricocheting though his aching body. God! he tried to scream, but could only manage a breathless whimper as his back reflexively arched in pain. Please...
Please...just let me go, God...
Never in his entire life had he ever wished to die. Never. It had come down to this.
It's not supposed to be like this... He was supposed to live a long life and die in his sleep. He was supposed to go down in a blaze of glory, a quick shot to the heart from a shootout, die on the job - the job that he loved. Anything but this...
Bosco shivered violently, his teeth chattering as his body was racked with tremors. Sweat slowly rolled down his flushed cheeks, dripping silently onto his chest and soaking his shirt through. The wetness was cold against his skin and only aggravated the vicious trembling of his fevered body.
He frowned, wondering how long he'd been lying there with a cavernous hole in his body. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes, could it have? Even though it'd felt like hours and maybe even days had passed, he was cogent enough to figure on a logical amount of time. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen - couldn't have been longer or he would have bled out entirely.
Blood had pooled underneath him and his pants were completely saturated in the dark fluid. It was sticky, cold, thick - wrong. His hands were still firmly pressed against the wound as he tried in vain to stop the steady spillage, but thick rivers of blood ran through his fingers, the vital liquid slowly becoming a darker and darker hue as time passed.
The stabbing pain from earlier had dulled slightly, no longer a vigorously twisting spasm, but now it throbbed red-hot, like someone had dug a hot poker into his side.
His captor's arms had never loosened from his throat and his hot, moist breath tickled Bosco's ear, making the hairs on his neck stand up. The man cruelly grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand away from the gaping wound, tearing the few clots that had finally begun to form. "Wish you were dead?" he growled when Bosco moaned in agony and gagged.
God, please... I can't... Help me please...
"This is what you did to me. This is how my life has been since..." the gravely voice trailed off, as if the man was in a far-off place - memory lane perhaps.
Bosco gagged again, his stomach feeling very heavy and full. Don't' throw up... Don't throw up... Please... he inwardly pleaded with his disconnected body, struggling against the bile burning at his esophagus.
God, please... I'm begging you...
***********
Faith stepped out onto the frozen sidewalk, mentally grumbling at her partner's carelessness. All she wanted right now was the comfort and security of her husband and warm bed. Instead, she was traipsing through the snow in the middle of the night, all because of Bosco.
Stop it, Faith. It's not like he meant to... she reproached herself for being in such a foul mood. This wasn't Bosco's fault. She bit her tongue, deciding not to make any comments to him about her inconvenient trip. He didn't need her ragging on him...
The snow crunched under her boots as she walked past his beloved car, smiling at the way he kept it carefully covered every night. He tucks it in like it's a baby or something... She let out a soft chuckle at the thought, picturing Bosco fondling and caressing the large piece of metal. From the way he talked about it, she had long-since figured out one thing: It was his baby...
She sighed heavily, the thick white fog of her breath a stark contrast to the pitch-blackness of the evening. Her eyes wandered to his apartment four floors above, absentmindedly wondering whether or not her partner was asleep. Time stopped and came slamming into her as she felt her breath catch in her chest.
The windows were completely dark. Dark. Bosco was afraid of the dark. He never left the lights off. Her heart dropped to the ground and her stomach leapt into her throat.
Something was very wrong.
"God," she breathed, unable to tear her eyes from the horrifying sight. "No..."
***********
"Adam-55-3, respond to a silent alarm at Amsterdam and 12th."
Carlos looked over at his supervisor, his eyes speaking louder than any amount of begging could. He had managed to put on the saddest puppy eyes that Doc had ever seen him conjure up.
He looked so pathetic that Doc almost laughed, but he smothered the sudden urge and shook his head. "Let's go," he commanded softly.
Carlos shot him a look of pure annoyance, "Com'on, Doc," he moaned, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes, "that alarm gets pulled three times a week! Nobody's gonna be there... Please..."
"Yeah, well, the first time that you don't show up is the last time that you see your badge. Got it?"
Carlos pulled on his FDNY coat on slowly, grumbling all the while, "Hey, remember that story about the guy that cried wolf? What happened at the end? Oh, yeah, the helper-guys didn't show and he got eaten up... I think we should stay here and leave the alarm puller for the wolves. Either that or I'll kick their sorry ass..."
"Shut up, Carlos," Doc muttered. "I swear, sometimes you talk just to hear the sound of your own voice..."
***********
Faith finally averted her eyes from the hollow, darkened windows, forcing herself to step back for a second and think. Okay, be rational. Think, Faith...think...
Her best attempts to come up with a game plan were thrown out the window when pure panic overtook her body. She ran to the building, frantically praying the whole way.
Oh, God, Bosco... Oh, God...
**********
He felt the man behind him wipe the blood-soaked blade off on his shirtsleeve, sending fresh wetness against his skin. Why is this happening? Why?
"Your friend Gusler remembered me," the man unexpectedly spat, breaking the silence of the small bathroom, then chuckled evilly. "We had a great time together. He fussed a lot, poor boy, but then again, he had a nice sized slug in his gut..."
Bosco swallowed hard against the large lump forming in his throat. God, this guy is so sick. He closed his eyes, trying vainly to rid his mind of the horrible images that swam before him.
"Why...?" he whispered, his throat tight and sore from the acidic bile that had eaten away the lining.
The man squeezed his neck harshly, intentionally strangling him as he cut off all air. "You want to know, do ya?" he snarled angrily. "I'll tell you - you miserable, pathetic son-of-a-bitch..."
***********
Faith ran up the stairwell, her heart beating frantically with alarm. Raw panic gnawed away at her stomach, causing intense nausea to well up in her throat. This isn't' happening... Bosco is okay... This isn't happening...
Her breath began to come sharp and short as she rounded the last corner. She stopped mid-step, staring at her partner's apartment; the familiar dark green paint and slightly crooked gold numbers. The door was closed.
Try as she might, she couldn't take that as a good sign. The closed, and most likely locked door did nothing to ease her fears. In fact, the sight of it made her feel even more trepidation and anxious worry. Bosco...
She barely felt her feet moving as she walked slowly over, the sensation of floating overcoming reality. This isn't happening... I'm dreaming...
Faith stopped directly in front of the door, hand automatically reaching into her purse to retrieve the spare key her partner had given her "just in case". She bit back the nervous sob that threatened to make her presence known, and she felt herself hesitate, her shaking fingers gripping the key tightly. Should she go in? What if...
The gruesome images from last week flashed through her head. Gusler. She and Bosco had found Gusler in his own apartment...
Faith nearly retched at the recollection. God, no, please...
The key shook as she inserted it slowly into the deadbolt, unlocking it first, then the regular lock. They both barely clicked, never giving off more sound than a pin dropping. She gripped the doorknob tightly, bracing herself for what lay inside.
**********
Sam felt his eyes widen as he struggled to comprehend what his partner was reading from the old newspaper article, "...the untimely death of innocent bystander, Ryan Peter Koch, who was fatally shot yesterday afternoon. Ryan was on his way home from school when gunfire erupted across the street, the result of an attempted bank robbery gone awry. The young boy was hit by a stray bullet and was rushed to Angel of Mercy hospital, but the gravity of his wound was too severe and he passed away en route. Koch is survived by his only living relative, his father James Lee Koch..."
The silence was deafening as both detectives stared at each other in shock. They had it. Means, motive, and opportunity. Fingerprints clear enough to nail him. Case closed.
"Uh," Matt whispered softly, breaching the stillness of the moment, "so this was revenge then, right? He killed the cops that couldn't save his son..."
Sam nodded, but his explanation made a little more sense, "Or that caused it to happen to his son. It said that the reason the robbers shot was because they saw the herd of cops surrounding the building."
"Good, God..." Matt uttered, suddenly sickened. "At least it's over now."
"Not so fast," Sam spoke slowly, the wheels in his head turning. "We need to find him first. I have a bad feeling that we may've figured this out a little too late."
**********
The man began talking, his voice taking on a gravely tone, no doubt a refection of the obvious pain he was feeling, "You killed my son. Don't you remember? You killed him. His name was Ryan and he was on his was to school. You bastards started shooting at that bank and then... then they fired back," he whispered. "And he died. You killed him. How can you kill a little boy and not even remember?"
Bosco remained silent, thinking back to that afternoon. He remembered it now, clear as day. The shock of the little boy's death had weighed heavily on him for weeks, but it had been at least a year since then and he'd managed to push the guilt away into the darkest corner of his mind, the place he kept everything that he strove to let go of. He felt his shoulders sag at the reminiscence, the heavy, strangling culpability coming back full-force.
He closed his eyes, painfully recalling every sight, sound, and feeling of the horrible day. The trees, brightly colored with the fall foliage. The scream of sirens as cruiser after cruiser pulled up in front of the gray, cement building. The uneasy feeing of disquiet as he and Ty, his partner that day, crept up to the large glass doors. The horrible roar of automatic fire as round after round of ammunition was emptied into the street from within. The shriek of a terrified child...
Bosco winced, struggling to push the images away, back to the dark corner where they belonged. The shooting wasn't his fault anymore than it was the other cops that had senselessly been slain. The robbers had seen them as they encircled the building and had tried to shoot their way out... It wasn't their fault... He couldn't let this guy get to him. He couldn't die without his honor.
"You remember now, dontcha?" the guy hissed in his ear, raw anger making his voice tight. "Gusler remembered me... He remembered me from that day. I was the hysterical father that you carelessly pushed away. You said it was too dangerous there... But Ryan was there before and you didn't make him move, didn't get him to safety. You took me away but didn't bother to save my son... Now you have to die."
The man cruelly brought his hand down, punching his clenched fist into Bosco's wound.
**********
He clenched his fists as he spoke, the warm, familiar rush of rage overtaking his senses. Just moments before he'd felt Boscorelli's body slacken, from guilt or pain he didn't know, but his temper flared and he was entirely too tempted to slit his wretched throat right that second.
Images of his son's beautiful face swam before him and brought him back to that day. The day that his only source of joy, his only reason for living was stolen. The day the music died.
He raised his fist and brought it down swiftly, drilling it harshly into the knife wound. Boscorelli's body convulsed, writhing in extreme agony as he sobbed hysterically, his breaths coming so short and tight that he wheezed. His legs kicked at the floor as he struggled against the arms that held him, and his hands clawed weakly at his wound, as if trying to staunch the pain.
It would never do. The officer's efforts were completely ineffective and he opened the wound even more, sending an excessive amount of blood splashing into the pool already drying on the floor beside them.
He reached a finger to touch the syrupy liquid, unceremoniously tracing a circle in the thickening puddle as he noted the consistency was nearly the same car oil. Funny, but he wasn't concerned anymore about how Boscorelli would die. Quickly or slowly, it didn't matter - he just needed closure. And if it took all night...
**********
Shaking fingers twisted the knob clockwise, making a great effort to open the latch with the least amount of noise as possible. Everything in her screamed for her to run in, forget her head and save her partner. But Faith knew that losing her composure now could prove devastating.
The door squeaked softly as she slipped inside, and she cringed at the barely noticeable reverberation as she closed it behind her once more. Standing as still as possible, she strained to hear a sound - any sound. Seconds passed before a low noise reached her ears, crashing into her like a ton of bricks.
It was the unmistakable sounds of pure agony: sobbing, groaning cries of pain.
Bosco, her brain registered. Oh, God...
She stood frozen as he cried, tears of distress springing into her own eyes as she listened, horrified and panicked and heartbroken all at once.
I need to do something... she though, snapping out of the terror-stricken trance. I have to help him. I need a gun. Where the hell is his gun?
Blinking the hot tears away, she looked around frantically, trying desperately to remember where he kept his off-duty weapon. Her eyes fell on the end table that sat next to the living room sofa.
Bingo.
**********
Sam nervously strummed his fingers against the desk, his mind working frenetically to figure out what they needed to do next. They really should send a squad to the address that was lit on the screen, but somehow his instincts advised him not to go to the trouble. Something told him that the evasive James Koch wouldn't be home, but out on the prowl, perhaps already slaying his next victim...
His head shot up as an idea suddenly occurred to him. "Matt, pull up that search engine again," he said quietly, gesturing to the computer. "I want you to run another search."
"Yeah?" his partner questioned as he hit a few keys, his eyes burning with curiosity. "What for?"
"I want to see which officers responded to that call. Just pull it up real quick."
"Sure thing," Matt said. He typed in a string of commands and settled back in his seat as he waited. "Here you go," he drawled softly when the page come up, pushing his chair back to make room for his partner to move in.
Sam stepped closer to the screen, reading the names to himself silently. Anthony Moretti, James Barry, Maurice Boscorelli, Tyrone Davis Jr., Michael Jacobson, Steven Gusler...
All had been attacked except for... Officer Boscorelli.
Gotcha, you son-of-a-bitch.
He tapped his finger on Boscorelli's name, "Get his address and then grab your coat. I think we got him."
**********
Faith moved without a sound into the dark living room, her heart racing crazily as she continued to hear her partner's pitiful sobs. Tears of ran down her face as she kept up a constant patter inside her head. Keep it together, Faith. Keep it together for him...
Her foot slipped slightly on something as she crossed the floor, but she caught herself and looked down quickly to see what had hindered her steps. A wet, dark stain marred the flooring, smeared this way and that. She'd seen that very stain many times before, but none had made her chest so tight, her breaths stop so suddenly. Blood. Bosco's blood.
Her hand flew to her mouth, smothering her shocked cry and the impulsive gag that attempted to permeate her lips. Oh, God...
Forcing her body to remain under her control, she moved once again for the end table, her eyes purposely averting from their downward gaze. She didn't let herself breathe again until she had opened the drawer and noiselessly pulled the familiar weight of the gun into her shaking hand. She didn't bother to check if it was loaded, knowing full well that Bosco would have kept it ready.
She took a deep, shaky breath, willing her lead-filled feet towards the back of the small apartment.
**********
The pain slightly died down in small increments, but each sob that tore through his tormented body aggravated it and sent shocks of white-hot fire up and down his side. He knew he shouldn't be crying, should try to attain his honor, but the sharp throbs were so excruciating that he didn't really didn't care anymore...
He was beyond trying to be strong, beyond trying to die with dignity. He couldn't control anything anyway, and somehow sobbing the irrepressible tears helped soothe his heartache and pain.
A slight sound caught his attention, and he forced his eyes to open fully as he stared at the doorway. The man holding his didn't appear to have heard anything and continued to play maliciously with his knife, slowly brushing it up and down Bosco's side, wordlessly threatening to stab him once more.
Was there someone in his house? Oh, God, please let it be someone... Please help me...
The hall outside was completely silent once more. Maybe he had just imagined it... No one would be there. Faith was at home, his Ma at work... Nobody else cared enough about him to drop by. He felt fresh tears of frustration spill down his cheeks and he forced back the urge to heave once more.
No! There it was again, the soft creaking of the floorboards. Bosco felt himself holding his breath expectantly as his wide eyes nearly bore a hole into the darkened hall.
He saw a slight movement and then a form move into the murky shadows.
Help me...
***********
TBC...