(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)
by wordwolf
Disclaimers in Part I.
PART III.
When he saw his partner step out of his office, Armani and Guccis exchanged for t-shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers, Sean McNamara's eyebrows rose. "I've never seen you leave the office dressed like that, Christian."
"By special request only, Sean," Troy replied with a smirk. "A young lady's asked me out ... and specified sneakers and loose clothes. Just in case I want to join in."
McNamara smirked back. "She's probably taking you to a gym." Troy glared briefly at him and didn't dignify the comment with a reply.
XX
A couple of minutes before seven, Karen Avalon pulled up to the curb in ... Troy felt revolted. A Hyundai. A six-year-old Hyundai. He wondered how he would steel his stomach to get into such a vehicle, and toyed with the idea of asking her to switch cars and let him drive. But he didn't know where they were going, and it occurred to him that the woman might be insulted, so he gritted his teeth and got into the nasty thing. He even managed a smile – for her, of course, not the worthless car. She was dressed as he was, in sweatpants and a suitably opaque t-shirt, and a long white canvas bag was lying across the back seat. Of course he wondered for a tempting moment what was in it.
They made a little small talk for the brief drive, until pulling up in front of ... a gym. Karen looked at him with concern in her face. "Is something wrong, Dr. Troy?"
"No – no, nothing," he replied, a little too airily. "But please, call me Christian. I'll be Dr. Troy when I operate on you."
"Which cannot be a moment too soon for me. Really, Doct – Christian, you have no idea how grateful I am to you and Dr. McNamara." She hauled the bag out of the car, and he gallantly stepped up and took it from her.
As they entered the gym, there were some stares for the handsome newcomer with Karen Avalon, but he repaid those stares with his own. For a flash he wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Who were these people? Why were they wearing huge mesh helmets that made their faces look like giant flies' eyes? What was with the white padded tunics and vests that made the women's chests almost indistinguishable from the mens'? And all of them holding – were those swords? Not exactly. Suddenly Troy realized what was going on, and felt like a prize fool for a moment. "So you fence."
"I do," Karen replied with a grin, unzipping her equipment bag. "And this is my night to teach the beginners' foil class. I was hoping you'd like to try."
"Mmm... maybe I'll just watch." He sounded dubious, and instantly regretted his tone when he saw the shadow of disappointment on her face.
As she closed the Velcro seal on her protective tunic and took up her mask, gauntlet, and foil, she said quietly to him, "I hope this won't be a waste of your evening. My advice: watching beginners drill is boring. You should watch Maestro Cosimo work the advanced sabre group." He followed her slightly envious gaze across the gym, seeing a tall, spare, elderly man who seemed to be made of rope and wire under his skin, and the strapping younger ones who were stretching and warming up around him. Karen sighed. "One of life's injustices is that there is no women's sabre at this club!"
Troy framed a reply, but quickly decided that it was a little too suggestive. Or a lot too suggestive. He let it pass, and just watched as his escort went through her warm-up stretches – very fetchingly, he thought – and resolved at least to try to get something out of this.
And as it turned out, he did. Troy would have felt silly participating at this first visit, but was enchanted as he watched. As a teacher Karen was patient and precise; sparring on the piste, she was quick, bold, and graceful. And as she had predicted, it was thrilling to watch the Maestro and his sabre team in action. It all looked like something he might want to try sometime; in terms of romance and challenge, it certainly beat the treadmill all to hell. Maybe he could recommend this to Sean too; here was an activity that could help him with his machismo issues without any real danger. Yes, this definitely would not be a waste of his evening.
It was close to ten when the fencing club broke up for the night. "Shall I take you home, Christian?" Karen offered as she packed up her gear.
"Back to my office would be better. I need to get my car." He smiled as he took the loaded equipment bag from her. "Thanks for bringing me."
The hope in her voice sounded almost sad to him. "You weren't bored?"
"Not at all." He widened the smile. "But the night's not over yet. I'd like to see your moves in a different sort of setting."
"Excuse me?"
Oops. He'd been a little too fast. Fortunately, she seemed bewildered, not insulted. "I mean, do you dance?"
Good save. She softened and smiled. "Not very well, I'm afraid. And especially not tonight; I'm exhausted."
"That's understandable. Think you'll be rested up by tomorrow night?"
"I most certainly will. Thank you, Christian; I only hope I won't embarrass you."
"Not a chance. I know a place frequented by certain malpractice attorneys with delusions of cool; I want to show them and their skanky mistresses who is seeing the most beautiful swordswoman in south Florida."
Karen grinned. "Then I hope that couple shows up so I can see her too, maybe toss a gauntlet."
Troy laughed delightedly. The girl really did know how to fence.
Getting into Karen's Korean turd on wheels was easier the second time. Troy considered her relaxed body language and her apparent eagerness to see him again on his terms. This might be a safe time to bring up a personal issue. "Can I ask you a question?"
"You just did. Would you like to do it again?"
If he'd been drinking anything, it would have been all over the car. "Really, Karen, you have GOT to stop making me laugh!"
"Sorry, I can't resist. You have such an appealing laugh; I love to hear it."
That was sweet. "Thank you. I hope you don't mind my asking: who gave you that tattoo? You were obviously very young at the time. I guess the most direct way to phrase it is: what was up with your parents?"
"I never knew them." She didn't look at him.
"Adopted?" His heart sped up a little.
"Not even that. Foster homes, group homes, eighteen years a ward of the state. Wasn't easy. I hid in books a lot." An edge came into her voice. "I can't remember the day I was tattooed, or who did it. Not a thing. But I do remember getting up the next day and going downstairs ... and overhearing my foster parents discussing moving up to Atlanta and buying a house. Two days later I was back in the group home." Her hands tightened on the wheel. "No doubt they bought that house in Atlanta."
Troy was grasping for the right words when they pulled up in front of the practice; it wouldn't do to reveal his own secret and lay himself open. Then he had something. "Maybe tomorrow night I can help you forget for a little while." His hand covered hers for a moment, his lips brushed her face, and he departed into the night.
XX
"Damn," breathed CSI Eric Delko. "How the hell could there be two of them?"
The circumstances and method of this murder were entirely different, but the scorpion mark defacing the victim's body was horribly familiar. It was, in fact, the first thing the criminalists noticed; with the victim utterly naked to the morning light, spread-eagle across her own bed and bound hand and foot to the corners, there was nothing to hide it. The second thing they noticed was the deep stab wound directly to the heart, cutting into the mattress beneath. Beside the satin-sheeted, blood-drenched bed, Calleigh Duquesne sighed and brought up the camera. Today would be a long one.
As his investigators went through their expert paces, Horatio Caine turned his attention to the heavy, silent man hunched in the delicate chair at the victim's dressing table. "Mr. Ross? I know this is hard for you, but we have to ask some questions."
He looked up with dry eyes. "You know, I had a feeling something like this was going to happen someday... First I've got one for you. She didn't suffer, did she?"
"We'll have to wait for the medical examiner's report before we know for sure. But as far as I can judge, I would say that she died instantly." The size and location of the wound told him so. Looking more deeply, the lack of any bruising at the wrists and ankles, lightly bound with silk scarves, showed there had been no struggle. The late Vanessa Piggott-Ross had submitted peacefully to her own brutal murder.
"That helps," muttered her husband. He gazed resignedly at the long, lean body, porcelain-pale where not bloody, curly red hair spread across satin pillows, eyes closed as if only in sleep. "She liked the dangerous type. Stupid, but I put up with it."
"Why did you put up with it, Mr. Ross?" asked Caine gently.
"Because that's what she wanted. It was worth it to both of us. She put up with what I wanted, too." He met Caine's eyes, truculent, defensive. "You're not here to judge us. Vanessa and I had a very open, very happy marriage."
"Where were you last night?" This question was just as gentle as the others.
"With my mistress. We were out dancing until about eleven; then we went back to her apartment. Plenty of witnesses saw us."
"You understand that we have to check out your story."
"Of course you do. Like I said, you're here to find her killer, not to judge us."
"Did your wife have any enemies, Mr. Ross? Anyone who might nurse a grudge? A stalker?"
"Not that I was aware of. But I didn't know her lovers, just as she didn't know mine. We respected each other's privacy."
"Of course." Caine carefully kept the disappointment from showing. Ross had just said what no cop wants to hear.
"H? Here's something you should see." Delko approached; there was a small framed photograph in his latex-gloved hand. Caine peered at the image of a giggling little girl under red curls, in the arms of a young man sporting fancy shades and a wide white grin. With one arm he supported her, with the other he was holding up her blouse, showing the black scorpion, crisp and new in all its hideousness.
"Mr. Ross, I assume this is your wife as a child. Do you know the man?"
"I never met him. That's Vanessa's godfather. They were very close."
"And you never met him?"
"I already told you, we respected each other's privacy." He gazed fondly at the picture. "Damn, she was so beautiful. And the scorpion just made it more special..."
"With your permission, Mr. Ross, we'd like to borrow this picture and copy it."
"Take anything you want." He waved an arm, heavily and dully, indicating the room. "All her secrets are safe now. For good."
XX
Leaning on the boardwalk rail, Christian Troy enjoyed a long, sensuous gaze along the beach. Pretty girls everywhere. There was no more pleasant way to spend one's lunch hour than taking in the sweet sight of Miami's principal natural resources. This day especially, it stimulated thoughts of the night ahead.
Tonight would likely be the night. He smiled to himself, shook his head. The seduction of Karen Avalon was taking much longer than he'd anticipated, but to his own amused surprise, he didn't mind. Ferociously willing women were thick on the ground; he was enjoying the challenge of not scaring off an old-fashioned girl. And once they finally got around to the main event, he was going to give her the time of her life. After that, who knew? At present, they were having more modest fun together. Sure, she'd said she wasn't much of a dancer, but Troy knew that no one who moved like that on the fencing-strip could be clumsy on the dance floor. Even if she was unpracticed, he had more than enough cool for both of them.
"Well, well. Dr. Christian Troy."
The voice was frosty and mocking, and Troy was already annoyed as he turned to it. "Do I know you?" The man – little more than a boy, really – was tall and very slender, blond as a wheatfield, and had the kind of perfect smile that left most women charmed, most men envious, and Christian Troy irritated when it interrupted his peace.
"James Pierce." He extended a hand and just about seized Troy's, which had not been offered. "You won't remember me, but don't worry. Soon enough, the whole damned species will know that name. And fear it." The perfect smile flashed, and the hand squeezed.
Troy's eyes widened. He'd never felt such a grip in his life; another flex, and half the bones in his hand would be crushed. The other noted the touch of panic in the surgeon's face, and dropped his hand with an air of triumph. "Sorry. Mustn't hurt the expensively trained hands, now."
"Who the hell are you?" Troy wished almost desperately that he could see through Pierce's shades into the eyes beneath. No doubt they mocked him.
"Told you already. You're not supposed to forget until I leave." The stranger swung himself up to the boardwalk rail next to Troy and looked out over the beach. His smile spoke of ownership. "What a bumper crop of ripe women. Special, aren't they? Set apart. Hey, Christian, did you know that was the original meaning of 'holy'? But if you set them even farther apart – beyond the pale – they become unholy."
Troy looked at him with loathing and bewilderment, underlaid with just a touch of fear. "What the hell are you getting at, and what does it have to do with me?"
"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all having to do with you. It's only for those who seek the secrets, who understand power, where it is and how to take it." He turned again to Troy, looked him up and down as if choosing lots at an auction, then gazed across the beach again. "Did you know power is fluid? Like the sea. Water ... blood ... sperm. Flowing, leaking, trickling, pounding. Waiting for the ones with the knowledge and the patience. Waiting for the right time for the secret of remaking all things. Waiting for the new moon to go blue, then black. Dark, and dark again."
Who IS this freak? Troy felt his guts twisting. More than anything, he wanted to walk quickly away, but his feet weren't obeying. Something was making him stay and listen to the bizarre monologue.
"Long ago and far away, they knew about the power in the blood and the sperm, how to set the offerings apart, how to wait. Do you know the asvamedha?" Troy could only shake his head, a slow, stunned motion. The other grinned coldly and went on. "The horse sacrifice. It could change a king of men into a king of gods – IF done right. The perfect horse went free for a year, and the slightest human touch would ruin it. It had to be brought to the sacred ground without a hand laid on it. Then the sword would fall, and the blood would flow ... The queen would be brought to the horse, lie beside it, lie with it and take it inside her – "
"Why are you telling me this crap?!"
Pierce made an icy, crackling sound that Troy belatedly realized was laughter. "You're right, Christian. You'll never understand. I should just go ahead and thank you."
"What the hell for?"
Another cold chuckle. "You've borrowed something that belongs to me, but you're being just a bit too gentle with it. Where's that wild goat who balls up women like tissues and tosses them in the trash?" Troy felt the heat rising to his face, but could not say a word. "Come on, you old dog, quit trying to learn new tricks! Go ahead, hurry up and squeeze her dry. All I want is the husk, and I need it by Friday night."
Suddenly Troy realized what the other was referring to. Through his teeth he growled, "I don't give a damn who or what you are, but you're going to leave her – and me – alone. Do you understand me? Stay away from us!"
"Oh, Christian. You're so cute when you get mad!" Pierce grinned like a scimitar, raised his hand and patted the surgeon's cheek, turned and sauntered off along the boardwalk. Behind him he left Troy, shaking with anger and a fear he would never admit.
TO BE CONTINUED