A Sky Full of Tears

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

Sequel to "Martyr's Moon"

Disclaimers in part I.

A SKY FULL OF TEARS

(Nip/Tuck – CSI: Miami)

by wordwolf

PART VII.

"I'm sorry you had to come out in this dreadful weather, Lieutenant."

Behind the wheel of the Hummer, Horatio Caine replied to his passenger without looking at him. "Actually, Dr. McNamara, I'm not even here. We're not making this drive, and we're not having this conversation." He stared steadily forward at the rain as it came down nearly horizontally. Neither rain nor wind nor slick, empty road perturbed the immense vehicle at all.

"Really. Why not?"

"You really want to know?" Caine risked turning his gaze from the road and the storm to regard the other. "Because I'm using department time and equipment and bringing a civilian with me in a situation where by the usual standards probable cause does not exist, and on the strength of a tip from a woman who's supposed to be dead. I could lose my shield for this."

McNamara found himself quite impressed. "So why are you doing it?"

Caine looked forward again, eyes narrowed. "Because this time, it's personal." He sighed a little; McNamara waited for him to continue. "Last month I couldn't recognize – or maybe I refused to see – anything different about this James Pierce, and because of that, I ended up giving a double murderer the opportunity to kill again. Then I was so sure he was dead that I held back one of my team from going after him – and permitted him to escape. It wasn't until Dr. Troy came to me earlier this week to tell me about that phone call, and we discovered the disappearance of Miss Avalon's body, that I realized what we could be dealing with. Whatever the hell this man is and can do, he won't be doing it again on my watch."

It wasn't long before they went off the road and into the near-trackless morass of the Everglades. McNamara felt for the comforting weight in his jacket pocket, then risked distracting the driver by asking, "How do you remember this route after so long?"

"I don't. It's still in the navigational computer. Luckily for everyone involved, I hadn't purged it yet. Isn't that Dr. Troy's car?"

McNamara peered through the rain and darkness. "Yes, it is!" His heart sped as the Hummer plunged in and out of the deep, muddy ditch that had stood as the last barrier to Troy's less muscular vehicle. A shed now stood under the wind-whipped cypress tree on the little patch of solid land, which had almost become an island. Smoothly Caine glided to a stop beside it, killed the engine; he leaped from the Hummer and drew his gun in a single fluid move, McNamara right behind him, and together they swooped for the hideout.

XX

Christian Troy tried to keep his eyes on James Pierce and away from the gleaming point of the spike. There had to be a way to stall for time… but why? In the hope that Kimber, of all people, would suddenly grow a spine and take that hacksaw to their captor's neck, or something? Not a goddamned chance in hell; she'd never had his back, or anyone else's, in her whole mess of a life. In the miraculous event that she tried, Pierce would probably kill her with his bare hands – or just one of them – and Kimber knew it. She huddled in the corner and was not about to move anytime soon.

Maybe it'd be best just to submit and get it over with. With a warped kind of luck, Pierce would overdo it and kill him; maybe if he shoved his own head forward at just the right time, Troy could ensure a relatively easy death for himself. Considering that no one on earth was looking for him, or even knew where he was, that was about the best prospect available. Yes, just get it over with…

Or maybe not. "Wait a second!" Troy cried. "Before you do – do it, I just have to know: What about the picture? If Karen is dead, where'd that picture come from?"

Pierce almost dropped his spike and mallet, he was laughing so hard. "What kind of a fucking moron are you, Troy? Haven't you ever heard of Photoshop? Shit, twelve-year-old kids are manipulating digital images these days! Easiest thing in the world to copy a picture from the right kinky website and lay on the image of my mark… way fucking easier than preparing a rite for twenty-five goddamned YEARS only to have it fucked up by some lovestruck asshole of a plastic surgeon!" Laughter had mutated into screaming rage, then forced down into icy calm again. "This is it, Troy. And don't think I can't hold your head immobile. If you give me a hard enough time, I can always paralyze you for as long as it takes. Meanwhile, this'll help." He set down the pick and hammer, reaching into his bag and coming up with a roll of duct tape. He tore a strip, pasted it over Troy's mouth, and stepped back to admire his work. "Hmm. Not bad. I'll bet I'm the first guy who was able to get you to shut up for the last dozen years." The tape roll went down and the pick and hammer came up again. Moving slowly for maximum effect, Pierce raised them and advanced again.

But the steady beat of rain on the roof and rush of the wind had masked the rumble of the approaching engine. The first sign of the rescuers was the door, flung open; a voice commanded, "Freeze! Police!"

Pierce turned, but slowly, a smug grin growing on his face as he appraised the two. "So. Hail the conquering heroes. I don't know how you found me out, but it's not going to matter at all."

Caine eyed him coolly from behind his cocked and aimed gun. "James Pierce, you are under arrest for the murders of Blair Blackwood, Vanessa Piggott-Ross, and Karen Avalon."

"Oh, so I am?" Pierce chuckled. "You mention Blair… but you conveniently forget that I killed her in full view of nearly a dozen people, all of whom meekly let me leave afterwards and considerately forgot my name and description. But you and Dr. McNamara are going to do even better than that…"

His tone was calm and calming, rhythmic, soft yet commanding… In a sweating panic, Troy realized what the sorcerer was doing. There must be something hypnotic about his voice; already the others had stopped, were beginning to relax, to submit and obey. Troy struggled uselessly against the tape, the chains, but all he could do was sweat and make rattling noises, easily ignored. Kimber had pressed herself to the wooden wall, eyes wide with incredulity and horror.

Again Pierce had put aside the spike and mallet, and slowly approached Caine and McNamara, his hands held out. "You're going to do exactly as I say. You're going to stand there all nice and cooperative, and you, Caine, are going to give me that gun. And you're going to keep standing there all nice and cooperative until I gut-shoot you both, and watch you drop, writhe, and die…" He reached out with his right hand; Caine slowly turned his own pistol around, offered the grip to Pierce, made no move or sound as the other put his own hand around the gun…

A shriek like tearing metal shattered the deadly white-noise quiet in the shack – Kimber screamed, and screamed, and screamed as if it were the last sound she'd ever make. Caine's eyes went wide, and he grabbed to recover his gun when suddenly a shot blasted out, then another, and another. Pierce crumpled to the floor and lay, twitching slightly, as Dr. Sean McNamara finished emptying the full six-shot load of his small snub-nosed revolver into the sorcerer's body.

The surgeon met the criminalist's inquiring gaze. "Dr. McNamara, do you have a permit for that?"

"Of course I do. Don't tell me you want to see it right now."

"No, I guess not." With that, Caine plunged across the shed, holstering his gun and producing his handcuff key. "Are you all right, Dr. Troy?" he asked as he pulled the duct tape away and began unlocking the shackles.

"If those shots didn't deafen us all, yes." He looked up at the other with pure gratitude on his face. "How did you know to come here?"

"Your partner, Dr. McNamara, got a call from someone claiming to be Karen Avalon – just as you did."

"No kidding." Troy rose from the chair, rubbing his wrists, and looked admiringly toward Kimber, who had stopped screaming and slumped back against the wall, crying softly. "She must have gotten that one off right before I got here. Well done!"

She looked up, eyes wet and confused. "I did?" she gasped in a voice that was not yet restored to itself. Halfway between her breathy soprano and Karen's alto, it sounded almost computer-generated. "I don't think so. I might have… I guess I must have… Did I call you, Sean? Damned if I can remember!" She sniffled and began sobbing again as Caine reached her, helped her up and took her soothingly in his arms.

He was about to say something comforting when another noise intervened – a nerve-wracking screech of steel on something hard. All eyes turned to McNamara. He was kneeling on the floor beside Pierce's body in a spreading crimson puddle, the hacksaw picked up and in his hand, pumping back and forth through Pierce's neck, metal scraping across bone. "Sean," Troy almost cried out, "what the hell are you doing?"

McNamara didn't look up. "Someone's got to make sure this son of a bitch doesn't come back yet again. Bullet wounds are one thing, but I'd like to see him reattach his own goddamn head."

Caine watched in stunned open-mouthed astonishment. "Dr. McNamara, how do you expect me to explain the decapitation of the suspect in my report?"

"You' re a trained professional, Lieutenant. You'll think of something."

"Looks as if I'll have to." Caine pulled his gaze from the gruesome scene and sent it roving around the rest of the shed, eventually choosing the big wooden chest against the farther wall. He gently released Kimber and crossed to open it – then froze. "Doctors, now we know for sure what became of Karen Avalon." A sigh. "At least she might have a chance to rest in peace."

McNamara paused in his repulsive task; Troy choked back a sob. Neither went over to see for himself.

EPILOGUE

Christian Troy insisted on returning to work the next morning as usual, a slight subdual of his manner the only sign of recent events. Again, Sean McNamara remained cool and followed his partner's cues, which were few indeed. Days passed before they even discussed the incident.

It was in the middle of the morning, in the break room between a consult and a routine liposuction, when Troy broached the subject. "Thank you for taking care of her for me, Sean."

McNamara knew what he meant. The senior surgeon had taken it upon himself to arrange the cremation of both bodies. Karen's urn burial had taken place in the presence of friends contacted via her workplace and church. As for Pierce, the doctors had taken fierce satisfaction in flushing his ashes down the office men's room toilet. "Somehow I don't think the awesome power of liquid is going to save the bastard this time," Troy had observed as they watched the gray sludge swirl away. It had felt good.

Now McNamara looked at his friend, smiling gently. "It's all right, Christian."

"Actually, thank you even more for taking care of me. I don't like to think about what Pierce was going to do."

McNamara smiled more broadly. "You'll have to thank Kimber for that one. If she hadn't had the guts to make that call to me…"

Something occurred to Troy. "I've been thinking about that. If Kimber was calling for help, why'd she bother pretending to be Karen?"

"I don't know, Christian, but she did a fine job of it! She had that girl's speech pattern down cold. And would you believe she was able to quote Philip Larkin when I insisted on it?"

Troy peered at him. "Sean, Kimber Henry is barely able to quote Mother Goose!"

"Then what's your explanation? I have a hard time imagining Karen herself calling from the other side."

Now Troy only shrugged. "If she did, she won't do it again. It's over." He sighed, repeated, "It's really over." There was a brief silence, deep for Troy and awkward for McNamara, before Troy relaxed and resumed. "You did remind me: I want you to take this." He placed something on the table between them: his copy of the collected poems of Philip Larkin.

The other drew back a step. "No, Christian – no, I can't take this from you!"

"You have to." Troy turned away. "I can't look at it anymore."

"Oh. Well, then, if you put it that way…" McNamara picked up the book. "I'll keep it for you. If you ever change your mind, I'll have it."

In his office later, McNamara casually flipped the book open and began to read at random:

"COMPLINE

Behind the radio's altarlight

The hurried talk to God goes on:

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done,

Produce our lives beyond this night,

Open our eyes again to sun.

Unhindered in the dingy wards

Lives flicker out, one here, one there,

To send some weeping down the stair

With love unused, in unsaid words:

For this I would have quenched the prayer,

But for the thought that nature spawns

A million eggs to make one fish.

Better that endless notes beseech

As many nights, as many dawns,

If finally God grants the wish."

He quickly closed the book and shut it away in his desk's bottom drawer. Neither of them would be going back to it anytime soon.

XX

It was after dark when Christian Troy arrived at the bar, a new one he was trying on the recommendation of a patient. Inside looked inviting, with a soft reddish glow promising warmth and a crowd. He plunged in, found a seat near the middle of the action, looked around.

It seemed that the recommendation was a solid one. The women in this place were first-rate: tall, lean, hot, and eminently willing to display it. Troy waited only until his drink arrived before picking it up and rising, heading for an empty spot beside a blonde – natural, it looked like – who needed no enhancements. And if that didn't work out, there was a fine redhead two tables away. No, he wouldn't be going home alone tonight. He moved slowly, casually, conscious of appraising eyes upon him – appraising and pleased – and he felt himself smile coolly. There was no hurry. After all, he now had all the time in the world.

END