Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine. They belong to the Profiler folks, who's
name I can't for the life of me remember. But I do know it's not mine.
The Memory Remains
by Erana Zeitler
Chapter One
Curled up on the sofa, Samantha Waters moved the novel away from her to stare
at the cover with dismay. She enjoyed the work of Thomas Harris, but had to
admit she was having a hard time believing that a man so obviously disturbed
as his Hannibal Lecter had managed to remain free and relatively undetected
for seven years. No matter how hard Sam tried, she could never ignore such
questions whenever she attempted to read any type of crime or horror novel.
Especially when that novel involved her former profession.
Lightening sounded in the distance, and Sam, sending a silent hope that her
question would be answered later on, returned her attention to the book.
There was nothing she enjoyed more than reading a good novel on a stormy
night. Something about it had always appealed to her. The only thing that
could make the evening more enjoyable would be a cup of tea, and the pot was
almost halfway done.
Chloe was out of town at her grandmother's for the week, and Sam had found
herself having to struggle for every moment of relaxation. When her daughter
was there she could easily distract herself, but whenever Chloe was gone Sam
was always forced to face a harsh truth -- she no longer had a life of her
own. Sometimes that knowledge caused her to sink into temporary depressions,
but they never lasted long. Not when Chloe was there, anyway.
Tonight, however, she'd felt the familiar sadness and unbearable boredom, and
had been grateful when the storm began. It allowed her to settle into a
routine she rarely got the chance to enjoy peacefully. And it allowed her to
lose herself in a world that, though fictional, was still similiar to the one
she'd left behind.
It was because of the storm, and her attention being focused on the book in
her hands, that she didn't hear the soft knocking on her door until the third
time.
Sam frowned, putting the book down on the coffee table as she stood,
uncertain of what she should do. It was possible someone had gotten stranded
on the roads and needed to use her telephone. But there was also the
possibility that the person standing outside her house was someone who wanted
to hurt her. Much as she longed to pass it off to the atmosphere and her
choice in reading material, her years as a profiler had taught her better
than to simply trust the obvious.
It was times like these when Sam wished she still had a weapon.
Taking a deep breath, she headed down the hallway towards the front door,
grateful that at least Chloe wasn't home. If the person outside was a
threat, at least her daughter wouldn't be harmed. "Who is it?" she called out.
Whether he or she responded was really irrelevant. Sam could hardly hear
anything over the storm. Shaking her head, she ignored her more cautious
side and threw open the door.
"Hey."
Sam knew her eyes were probably cartoonishly wide. "Oh my God... *John?*"
John gave her a weak and exhausted smile. "The one and only. Well, the one
and only on your door step anyway. Mind if I come in?"
She snorted at the ludicrously casual question, but forced herself to step
aside. "Of course," she said, trying to recover some sort of internal
balance.
Whatever progress she'd made in doing so was immediately lost when she saw
him in the dim light of her front hall. The circles underneath his eyes were
so dark they resembled bruises, and his eyes held the wild look that only
came from severe exhaustion. Her eyes traveled over his body, finally
resting on the hole in his pant leg and the hastily tied, blood-soaked towel
that covered it. "Oh my God," she whispered, unable to keep herself from
repeating the phrase.
"I don't suppose we could save the 'who, what, where, when and why' stuff
until after I've gotten some sleep, huh?" he asked, sounding both doubtful
and guardedly hopeful at the same time.
Sam had a feeling the hopefulness had little to do with his wanting some
sleep.
"What the hell is going on, John?"
John gave her what she assumed was a mockingly hurt look. "What, no 'nice to
see you'? No, 'how've you been?'"
"People on social visits generally don't show up in the middle of the night
with an injury and not even a phone call," Sam pointed out.
"Well, if I'd had your number, I would've called," John assured her, then
sighed and leaned back against the closed front door, running a hand through
his rain-soaked hair. "Seriously, Sam, you wanna drill me I'm game, but can
I at least have something with caffeine in it?"
She stared at him a moment longer, then slowly nodded. "I just put on a pot
of tea, it should be done in a few minutes," she answered slowly. "John, how
did you even know where I -- "
He cut her off quickly, "After the caffeine. And some advil if you have
any." As she slowly headed towards the kitchen he called after her, "Oh, and
I really wouldn't mind a chair."
* * * * *
Ten minutes later John sat across from her on the sofa, sipping from a mug
while she wrapped up his leg, muttering something which was mostly
unintelligible. From what John could decipher, she was complaining about the
'doctor' before her name having nothing to do with medicine. Finally, she
leaned back and surveyed her work. "It's the best I can do," she said,
looking up at him from underneath her unruly bangs.
"Hey, the best you can do is a hell of a lot better than the best I can do,"
John replied, hoping the self-deprecating compliment would put her slightly
at east. The way she'd been staring at him ever since he'd arrived, while
not nearly as bad as he'd feared, was still a long way away from the
reception he'd hoped for.
Of course, considering the circumstances, he couldn't really blame her.
"Now, are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked, leaning back
against her side of the couch and giving him an expectant look.
John sighed, and forced the dozen or so sarcastic replies from his mind. He
was here for help, after all, and while he was far from an expert in the
psychology field, he doubted antagonizing her was the best way to go about
it. "Do you want the long version, or the short version?"
"Short will do for now," she said.
He tried not to look relieved at that. 'For now' was a good sign. It meant
that she wasn't anticipating throwing him out in the immediate future. "The
short version is I'm wanted for five murders, that I know about."
Sam blinked, the only sign that she'd heard the words he'd expected to make
the most impact. "What happened?"
It was with supreme effort that he managed to repress another sigh. "There
really isn't a short version to that one," he warned, but her only response
was to wave a hand at him. He decided to try and condense it anyway.
"Basically, we had a string of murders in Atlanta, obviously an inside job.
I mean, the guy knew what we'd be looking for and made sure he didn't leave
it. No clues, no evidence, nothing. The only reason we knew they were even
connected was because they were all bureau guys. Naturally, the VCTF was
called in to investigate, but so far as I know we still haven't come up with
anything. Anyway, I got a call, about three days ago, from a guy who says he
has information about my old man...," John trailed off and cleared his
throat. "I've kinda been looking into that, on the side, for a while now, so
I wasn't really surprised about it, or anything. It wasn't the first call
I'd gotten. So I went out to where the meeting was supposedly going to take
place, only, as you've probably guessed, it was a set-up instead. According
to Bailey, someone tipped off the Feds that there was going to be another
murder, and they were there waiting."
"Why weren't you at the stake out?" Sam asked.
John groaned. "I'd asked for the night off so I could go to the meeting," he
explained. "When I figured out that something was off, I split. Or tried
to, anyway. Bailey saw me, but he didn't know it was me and fired. We
figured out the basics after that, and he gave me your address, then sent
everyone else off on a wild goose chase in the opposite direction so I could
get out of there. The end."
Sam was silent for a long moment, considering. "Why come to me?" she asked
finally.
He raised an eyebrow at the question. "If anyone can figure out who's doing
it, it's you," he answered, sounding annoyed at having to state what was, to
him, obvious.
"But you're not even sure that you're actually wanted for them, are you?"
John shook his head. "Sorry, yeah, I am. I spoke to Bailey last night from
a pay phone. There was a murder at the building I was at, and since I was
there the non-evidence the guy's actually leaving has become the evidence I
left." He made a face at the convoluted phrasing of his sentence.
Sam got the point, however. "Well, there's no way I can figure out anything
without some real facts. Do you have the case file?"
"No. I was kind of in a hurry when I left Atlanta. I'm sure Bailey can get
it to you."
Sam frowned. "We're going to have to find some way to get it faxed here
without anyone figuring out what's going on. Is George still working there?"
He nodded. "I'm sure he can come up with something."
John shook his head. "I don't know, Sam," he answered. "George's been
having a few problems himself, lately. I mean, it's bad enough I had to get
you involved, I don't want to drag anyone else into this."
Sam rolled her eyes. "Come on, John. I seriously doubt anyone's not going
to know right away that Bailey had some part in helping you escape, and
George will want to help regardless. The best way to get everyone out of
trouble is to find out who really committed the crimes, and why they want to
set you up."
"I take it this means you'll help?" he asked.
Sam blinked, looking genuinely amazed at the question. "Of course," she
replied immediately.
John gave a soft sigh of relief. "That's good."
She worried at her lower lip, a habit she still hadn't broken, and closed her
eyes for a moment. There was no way she wouldn't help, but she also knew
once John had gotten some sleep, he'd have a few questions of his own. And
they were questions she had no idea how to answer.
When Sam opened her eyes again, she was unsurprised to see that the last of
John's adrenaline had worn off. He appeared as though, within the time-frame
of five seconds, he'd fallen into a deep sleep. She smiled at the sight and
reached for a quilt, covering him gently. Then she sat back down and her
gaze turned towards the coffee table, and her forgotten book.
It looked like the world she'd left behind had decided to come back for her.
~End Chapter One~
name I can't for the life of me remember. But I do know it's not mine.
The Memory Remains
by Erana Zeitler
Chapter One
Curled up on the sofa, Samantha Waters moved the novel away from her to stare
at the cover with dismay. She enjoyed the work of Thomas Harris, but had to
admit she was having a hard time believing that a man so obviously disturbed
as his Hannibal Lecter had managed to remain free and relatively undetected
for seven years. No matter how hard Sam tried, she could never ignore such
questions whenever she attempted to read any type of crime or horror novel.
Especially when that novel involved her former profession.
Lightening sounded in the distance, and Sam, sending a silent hope that her
question would be answered later on, returned her attention to the book.
There was nothing she enjoyed more than reading a good novel on a stormy
night. Something about it had always appealed to her. The only thing that
could make the evening more enjoyable would be a cup of tea, and the pot was
almost halfway done.
Chloe was out of town at her grandmother's for the week, and Sam had found
herself having to struggle for every moment of relaxation. When her daughter
was there she could easily distract herself, but whenever Chloe was gone Sam
was always forced to face a harsh truth -- she no longer had a life of her
own. Sometimes that knowledge caused her to sink into temporary depressions,
but they never lasted long. Not when Chloe was there, anyway.
Tonight, however, she'd felt the familiar sadness and unbearable boredom, and
had been grateful when the storm began. It allowed her to settle into a
routine she rarely got the chance to enjoy peacefully. And it allowed her to
lose herself in a world that, though fictional, was still similiar to the one
she'd left behind.
It was because of the storm, and her attention being focused on the book in
her hands, that she didn't hear the soft knocking on her door until the third
time.
Sam frowned, putting the book down on the coffee table as she stood,
uncertain of what she should do. It was possible someone had gotten stranded
on the roads and needed to use her telephone. But there was also the
possibility that the person standing outside her house was someone who wanted
to hurt her. Much as she longed to pass it off to the atmosphere and her
choice in reading material, her years as a profiler had taught her better
than to simply trust the obvious.
It was times like these when Sam wished she still had a weapon.
Taking a deep breath, she headed down the hallway towards the front door,
grateful that at least Chloe wasn't home. If the person outside was a
threat, at least her daughter wouldn't be harmed. "Who is it?" she called out.
Whether he or she responded was really irrelevant. Sam could hardly hear
anything over the storm. Shaking her head, she ignored her more cautious
side and threw open the door.
"Hey."
Sam knew her eyes were probably cartoonishly wide. "Oh my God... *John?*"
John gave her a weak and exhausted smile. "The one and only. Well, the one
and only on your door step anyway. Mind if I come in?"
She snorted at the ludicrously casual question, but forced herself to step
aside. "Of course," she said, trying to recover some sort of internal
balance.
Whatever progress she'd made in doing so was immediately lost when she saw
him in the dim light of her front hall. The circles underneath his eyes were
so dark they resembled bruises, and his eyes held the wild look that only
came from severe exhaustion. Her eyes traveled over his body, finally
resting on the hole in his pant leg and the hastily tied, blood-soaked towel
that covered it. "Oh my God," she whispered, unable to keep herself from
repeating the phrase.
"I don't suppose we could save the 'who, what, where, when and why' stuff
until after I've gotten some sleep, huh?" he asked, sounding both doubtful
and guardedly hopeful at the same time.
Sam had a feeling the hopefulness had little to do with his wanting some
sleep.
"What the hell is going on, John?"
John gave her what she assumed was a mockingly hurt look. "What, no 'nice to
see you'? No, 'how've you been?'"
"People on social visits generally don't show up in the middle of the night
with an injury and not even a phone call," Sam pointed out.
"Well, if I'd had your number, I would've called," John assured her, then
sighed and leaned back against the closed front door, running a hand through
his rain-soaked hair. "Seriously, Sam, you wanna drill me I'm game, but can
I at least have something with caffeine in it?"
She stared at him a moment longer, then slowly nodded. "I just put on a pot
of tea, it should be done in a few minutes," she answered slowly. "John, how
did you even know where I -- "
He cut her off quickly, "After the caffeine. And some advil if you have
any." As she slowly headed towards the kitchen he called after her, "Oh, and
I really wouldn't mind a chair."
* * * * *
Ten minutes later John sat across from her on the sofa, sipping from a mug
while she wrapped up his leg, muttering something which was mostly
unintelligible. From what John could decipher, she was complaining about the
'doctor' before her name having nothing to do with medicine. Finally, she
leaned back and surveyed her work. "It's the best I can do," she said,
looking up at him from underneath her unruly bangs.
"Hey, the best you can do is a hell of a lot better than the best I can do,"
John replied, hoping the self-deprecating compliment would put her slightly
at east. The way she'd been staring at him ever since he'd arrived, while
not nearly as bad as he'd feared, was still a long way away from the
reception he'd hoped for.
Of course, considering the circumstances, he couldn't really blame her.
"Now, are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked, leaning back
against her side of the couch and giving him an expectant look.
John sighed, and forced the dozen or so sarcastic replies from his mind. He
was here for help, after all, and while he was far from an expert in the
psychology field, he doubted antagonizing her was the best way to go about
it. "Do you want the long version, or the short version?"
"Short will do for now," she said.
He tried not to look relieved at that. 'For now' was a good sign. It meant
that she wasn't anticipating throwing him out in the immediate future. "The
short version is I'm wanted for five murders, that I know about."
Sam blinked, the only sign that she'd heard the words he'd expected to make
the most impact. "What happened?"
It was with supreme effort that he managed to repress another sigh. "There
really isn't a short version to that one," he warned, but her only response
was to wave a hand at him. He decided to try and condense it anyway.
"Basically, we had a string of murders in Atlanta, obviously an inside job.
I mean, the guy knew what we'd be looking for and made sure he didn't leave
it. No clues, no evidence, nothing. The only reason we knew they were even
connected was because they were all bureau guys. Naturally, the VCTF was
called in to investigate, but so far as I know we still haven't come up with
anything. Anyway, I got a call, about three days ago, from a guy who says he
has information about my old man...," John trailed off and cleared his
throat. "I've kinda been looking into that, on the side, for a while now, so
I wasn't really surprised about it, or anything. It wasn't the first call
I'd gotten. So I went out to where the meeting was supposedly going to take
place, only, as you've probably guessed, it was a set-up instead. According
to Bailey, someone tipped off the Feds that there was going to be another
murder, and they were there waiting."
"Why weren't you at the stake out?" Sam asked.
John groaned. "I'd asked for the night off so I could go to the meeting," he
explained. "When I figured out that something was off, I split. Or tried
to, anyway. Bailey saw me, but he didn't know it was me and fired. We
figured out the basics after that, and he gave me your address, then sent
everyone else off on a wild goose chase in the opposite direction so I could
get out of there. The end."
Sam was silent for a long moment, considering. "Why come to me?" she asked
finally.
He raised an eyebrow at the question. "If anyone can figure out who's doing
it, it's you," he answered, sounding annoyed at having to state what was, to
him, obvious.
"But you're not even sure that you're actually wanted for them, are you?"
John shook his head. "Sorry, yeah, I am. I spoke to Bailey last night from
a pay phone. There was a murder at the building I was at, and since I was
there the non-evidence the guy's actually leaving has become the evidence I
left." He made a face at the convoluted phrasing of his sentence.
Sam got the point, however. "Well, there's no way I can figure out anything
without some real facts. Do you have the case file?"
"No. I was kind of in a hurry when I left Atlanta. I'm sure Bailey can get
it to you."
Sam frowned. "We're going to have to find some way to get it faxed here
without anyone figuring out what's going on. Is George still working there?"
He nodded. "I'm sure he can come up with something."
John shook his head. "I don't know, Sam," he answered. "George's been
having a few problems himself, lately. I mean, it's bad enough I had to get
you involved, I don't want to drag anyone else into this."
Sam rolled her eyes. "Come on, John. I seriously doubt anyone's not going
to know right away that Bailey had some part in helping you escape, and
George will want to help regardless. The best way to get everyone out of
trouble is to find out who really committed the crimes, and why they want to
set you up."
"I take it this means you'll help?" he asked.
Sam blinked, looking genuinely amazed at the question. "Of course," she
replied immediately.
John gave a soft sigh of relief. "That's good."
She worried at her lower lip, a habit she still hadn't broken, and closed her
eyes for a moment. There was no way she wouldn't help, but she also knew
once John had gotten some sleep, he'd have a few questions of his own. And
they were questions she had no idea how to answer.
When Sam opened her eyes again, she was unsurprised to see that the last of
John's adrenaline had worn off. He appeared as though, within the time-frame
of five seconds, he'd fallen into a deep sleep. She smiled at the sight and
reached for a quilt, covering him gently. Then she sat back down and her
gaze turned towards the coffee table, and her forgotten book.
It looked like the world she'd left behind had decided to come back for her.
~End Chapter One~