Deakins walked into his office after the video was finished, closing the door behind him. He was stuck on who would want to hurt his detectives. Goren and Eames were the best team he had, with the highest arrest-conviction record of the entire squad, and where there was no lead they always managed to find one under a rock or in the shadows.
But now the cards were different. Eames was being held hostage, being beaten and abused on a fairly regular basis, and Goren was beginning to crumble. It was not a healthy thought, but it was the truth.
His door was almost closed when a hand forced it open, that hand belonging to a young woman who Deakins knew very well. Her name was Meredith Qualms, a handwriting analysis researcher and a hopeful detective herself. She was a long time neighbor of Deakins, she admiring him since she was a young girl, he and her father were long-time buddies. That did not mean he paid her any favors, he made sure of that.
She was tall, roughly five-foot-nine, with a slender body and a high head. Her shoulder-length hair was a sandy brown, her almond eyes bright blue and her cheekbones high on her face. There was a small childhood scar on her chin, a scar Deakins could remember cleaning from a bad fall from her bike when she was seven. She was twenty-six now, and not the child she once was.
"Sir?" she asked. "I—"
Deakins ushered her in his office, and he quickly closed the door behind her. What they were doing was against protocol, and they had to keep it quiet.
He turned to face her. "Meredith, I thought I said I'd meet you."
"Sir, this couldn't wait." Deakins noticed the files in her hand, files he had told her to sift through. He had asked her for many reasons. To hide it from Internal Affairs, to hide it from Livingston, to hide it from Carver, amongst others.
Deakins motioned to his desk and he walked to his chair as the CSU sat before him, the files in her lap. "What's so important?"
"I think I know the connection with these four men," said Meredith. "All of them were tried and convicted of federal felonies, and all of them enrolled into a program that allows felons, one they've served their time, to give back."
"So, these guys are all spies for the government," said Deakins.
"In a way, yes. They work undercover to help bust drug rings and conspiracies, the lot," added Meredith.
Deakins folded his hands on his desk, lacing his fingers. "And that's it?"
"No, sir. All of these men were charged by the FBI, and the agent on their cases was Special Agent Livingston."
"Livingston?" asked Deakins, shocked. "As in our-pain-in-the-assSpecial Agent Livingston?"
Meredith nodded, a small grin playing on her lips. "The same." She lowered her eyes to the files in front of her. "Sir, may I tell you my theory on this case?"
"You have a theory?"
"Yes, sir."
Deakins leaned back in his chair. "Indulge me."
"All these men have a bone to pick with the FBI, especially Agent Livingston. The FBI trains them to shoot guns, to fight hand-to-hand, to remain undercover for months, even years at a time. They know the chain of command, from the local to the federal level. They would also know that the FBI only comes in when a high-profile case hits a local level, in this case, Detective Eames' kidnapping," explained Meredith.
"So, you think this is their way of getting back at Livingston? It's pretty thin, Meredith," commented Deakins.
"Anorexic, I know. But they also knew that they had to make sure Agent Livingston has a good shot at finding whoever they snatched, Detective Eames. Detective Goren is the best candidate in finding her, and that only ensured that Agent Livingston will run into the four of them—"
"And then it's all over," finished Deakins. He looked at the CSU, her eyes focused on him. "Nice theory, kid."
Meredith smiled. "Thank you, sir." She rose to leave.
"Meredith." She stopped, turning her upper body to look back.
Deakins stood. "Have you filled out your application to transfer here?"
"Yes, sir."
---
Tyler had called Goren and said they had something from the second tape that he would want to see. The detective had invited Livingston to join him on his trip to the Forensics Lab, and they were on their way there, Goren driving one of the Mountaineers.
In Goren's mind puzzle pieces were beginning to fit together, not forming any theory, but nonetheless fitting nicely.
Eames had been abducted the day before, around seven-twenty or seven-thirty, by Dr. Littman. Robby's sketch of the doctor matched the dead doctor in the morgue. The CSU team had found a movie stub for the night before in Eames' apartment, a late movie at a small theatre. They found one for the same time and place at Dr. Littman's home, verifying that they were on a date. Employees at the movie theatre said they had an argument after the movie, and that she went home on a cab while he drove home in his over-priced Volvo. Goren guessed Eames did not like the relationship's direction and called it off, and Littman retaliated by drugging and kidnapping her. But it was shallow, now that Littman was dead.
When Tyler had the lock of hair analyzed to confirm it was Eames', the DNA scientist for the shift found a foreign sample of DNA, male but not Littman's or the felons who were keeping her. It was most likely the unknown fingerprints' DNA and it had been saliva. Goren had been angered, thinking of the perpetrator kissing Eames on her head before yanking out a few strands of hair. But it was compelling evidence against whoever was doing it to her, to him.
To us.
Deakins had called him to tell him the felons had been in a correctional program where they work for the FBI in order to receive shorter jail time. All four felons were stationed in New York, but because they were given FBI anonymity no one knew where they were. All of them had been caught by Livingston, suggesting that he was the intended target. But the captain agreed with Goren on one thing. It was way too personal to be just a shot at Livingston.
The blood on the index card belonged to Eames, which Goren knew was from her last beating. She had been bleeding when the tape had cut to the puppet, and her life was draining out of Goren as well. But he was determined to find her.
Livingston's disappearances had caught both Goren's and Deakins' attentions, and they were watching him closely. Goren had told his captain that he suspected Livingston as being involved, seeing that he now had a Nokia bar phone and neither the Motorola nor the Samsung non-bar phones he had possession of before. Deakins told him he would look into Livingston possibly using disposable phones, but it would not mean much of anything by itself. Goren still had his hunches and gut feelings, and they were all warning him of the special agent.
The ride was made in utter silence, and soon they were parked in front of the Forensics Lab. The walked along side each other into the building and met Tyler in the lobby. He shook their hands in turn and escorted them to his office.
"Where's the evidence?" asked Livingston. Goren and Tyler ignored his presence.
"What'd you find?" asked Goren.
"In the second tape, Archie noticed an abnormality in the outer film. Turns out it was a billboard in another window. The contents of it are still murky, but we're triangulating her position with the windows. We're not entirely sure, but we think she's somewhere around Hell's Kitchen," said Tyler.
"Basically, anywhere between Thirty-fourth and Fifty-ninth, from Eighth to the Hudson," said Livingston. "That's a lot of space to cover. You can't be more specific?"
"We think on Seven Avenue, but—" began Tyler. He did not get to finish, for Livingston marched out of the office and out of sight. The CSU and the detective looked at each other, and Tyler spoke.
"Your captain had me pull your records again," said Tyler. "My people are looking into whoever's been calling you."
Goren nodded, unclipping his phone and holding it in his hand. Looking up, he asked "Who has access to my number?"
Tyler shrugged. "It's in your file, isn't it?"
"Yes…"
Livingston had access to his file. He also had access it Eames'. He had mentioned it before. He would have reviewed the detective's files and realized how important their bond was, and he could exploit that. But could was the key word there, meaning it might not be him. It was compelling, nonetheless.
His hand began to vibrate, his phone ringing in his hand. "Goren."
"How about some quality home entertainment?" suggested the raspy voice.
---
Eames was woken by someone grabbing her shoulders and dragging her across the floor. They did not even bother to try to pick her up, just pulled her across the floor. In her mind another beating was echoing in her head, and that was not what she wanted. Pain was not a great companion, mainly because it took up all her attention and did not give her time to think. Yet when she had time to think, she never did. Her flight response was screaming at her instead. She struggled, twisting to free herself.
Moss dropped her in the middle of the room again, and Herbert bent down and began to unlock the warm cuffs on her wrists. Rush leaned over in front of her, grabbed the tape, and ripped it from her face. It did not hurt, nor did it sting. Compare to nightsticks pounding on her body it was nothing.
When she felt her hands free she automatically tried to run. She stood and turned, hands reaching out at her. She punched, kicked, scratched, and even bit whoever touched her, ignoring the pain that ached when she moved. Someone's dark arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her off the floor, and she dug her nails into Rush's hands. He yelled out but did not drop her, his grip tightening instead.
A loud crack reached Eames' ears, and she stopped squirming. She snapped her head in the direction it came from, and she saw Stover with a long bull whip. He cracked it again, and Rush let her go, slinking into the shadows. Eames stood face to face with Stover, he with leather in hand and her with nothing but her fists and reflexes. The latter was deemed useless after a swift blow to her head, and she fell into her hands and knees. Stover took a step forward, and she lifted her head, locking eyes with him.
"If you dare—" she started.
The whip landed hard across her back, and she screamed, falling to the floor and rolling onto her back. She saw Herbert, Moss, and Rush each holding a nightstick.
"Shit."
---
Goren sat in the same vacant office, his eyes glued to the latest video of his partner being tortured. When she had been freed his hopes leapt in his chest, they rising as she fought back. It was the Eames he knew, and she was still there.
He heard her speak, her voice giving him confidence. Perhaps she would escape and get it caught on tape, but his logical side knew better than to believe that. When the whip cracked his hopes shattered, and another brutal beating began. It was horrible, the whip catching her in her face and the nightsticks catching her on her body. Her screams were amplified in his brain, and he could feel his internal balance being thwarted, and he felt himself leaning dangerously close to the perilous side of the fence. It was a nauseous experience.
Suddenly the beating stopped, Eames lying on the floor on her back, her clothes ripped and her face bleeding. A man stepped forward, approached her, reaching down and grabbing a fist-full of hair in his fingers, forcing her to sit up slightly. The three other men walked out of the shadows, their hands empty, though they were popping their knuckles and necks with much pleasure. Goren leaned forward in his seat and watched as his partner began shaking her head, the fear rolling off her body and through the screen, filling the office and officer with dread.
The man holding her chuckled, his eyes gleaming eagerly with a side-ways grin across his face as he brought a lighter from behind her. Her eyes darted from the men standing before her to the flame that erupted from the lighter, and she screamed out, trying to leap away from him but not succeeding as the orange glow started creeping towards her injured and bloodied face.
"BOBBY!"
Alex!
Her voice echoed in his head, the sound waves bouncing off his skull and intensifying the hatred that was threatening to undo the little control he still had. The scene cut to the God-forsaken puppet, who had introduced the video with a simple but crude statement. Goren's anger was boiling over as the puppet spoke again.
"My, my. Naughty little partner you have there, detective. I wonder what it's like, wondering what happened next."
Once the screen went blank, Goren could still hear Eames' screams in his ears, and in an act of rage he picked up the chair he had been sitting in and threw it at the television. It busted the screen and knocked it to the floor in shattered pieces. He stormed out of the squad room, all the detectives there watching him carefully as he hurried past, taking the stairs and not saying a word to anyone.
He heard the front door to One Police Plaza creak loudly as he kicked it open, his coat and scarf around him and his hands in his pockets. He felt the cigarettes and matchbook in his pocket, and he took out the pack and found him a cigarette, lighting it with the matchbook and returning the pack to his pocket.
Why were they doing this to her? Why, what did they want from him? Did they want him to beg for her? He was unsure, his mind detached from reality as he walked down the street. He was balancing on one leg atop his fence, his body leaning towards the side of the fence he did not want to go. There was no one on the other side to grab his ankle and steady him, no one to extend their hand to help him on the safe side; but perhaps that was what they wanted, him to fall and never get up.
Goren found himself wandering the streets of New York, his feet taking him somewhere without his mind knowing where to.
---
Deakins exited the cab late in the night, before him St. Patrick's Cathedral, where Detectives Davis and Argo said Goren was. He needed to talk to him about Eames. Another tape had come in, a tape no one had watched, and he needed to see if his detective was willing to view the contents with him. He walked into the sanctuary to find Goren sitting in the second to the last left pew, his head down and his hands in his lap. His hands were very still, an unusual trait, and his eyes were closed. Deakins walked to him, sitting on the left side of his detective, and quickly crossed his chest before he sighed.
"Goren." The tall man sat up, crossing across his chest and he opened his eyes.
"Sir." Goren's voice was very hollow and firm.
"We've got another tape—"
"I'm going after him," said Goren. Deakins was confused.
"Who?"
Goren folded his hands together. "I know who's behind this, sir. I know, and I'm going after him."
Deakins looked at his detective, understanding that he was going through a hard time. "Goren—"
"I'm not a cop tonight, sir," said Goren, laying his head on his knuckles, his elbows on his knees. Deakins did not know what to say about it, so he leaned forward and set his hands on the back of the pew in front of him. His eyes rose to meet the illuminated cross that lay before them.
"Are you asking for guidance?" he asked.
"No." Goren lifted his head and looked at the cross, his eyes full of such emotion the exact feeling he was experiencing was unreadable.
"Then why are you here?"
"I've come to ask for mercy."
Deakins did not follow. "For mercy?"
"The ability to show it tonight."
---
Eames could no longer take it. It had happened so frequently and so fast that it should not hurt so much, but this time something else was going to happen, something she could not prevent. She desperately wanted to stop it, her tears and aches begging for it to not happen. But they, it, was too much for her small body to handle. She could feel it rising under her skin, her flesh surrendering when her mind was screaming to stay strong.
It was almost upon her, and she bit her lip so hard she tore completely through the skin, her upper teeth grazing her lower ones. When it attacked her she cried out, and she felt a piece of her heart break. It hurt to hear. Like glass it splintered inside her and began tearing what was left. She did not feel them pick her up, bind her, gag her, and toss her into her corner. She felt like she did not exist anymore, her soul being separated from her body and leaving a damaged shell.
Afterwards she rested her head in the corner, silent tears falling down her face as she cried, her mind whispering for him to find her.
---
Deakins and Goren shared a cab, which dropped Deakins off at his house first. As he was shutting the door he paused, his eyes falling on the detective. Goren handed him his badge, his hands unconventionally immobile.
"I'm not a cop tonight, sir," repeated Goren.
Deakins nodded. "I know. Bring her back."
He closed the door and stood in the light of the streetlamp as he watched the cab drive away. Thunder echoed omnisciently overhead, but no lightning was visible. As Deakins walked into his home, Goren's badge in his hand, he paused and reflected. Goren would bring Eames back, he knew it. And at the moment he did not care how he did.