Darkness Rising
A Once Upon a Time in Mexico story by Merrie
Disclaimer: If wishes were horses I'd sell mine and buy SJ.
Summary: Sands and Jeffrey, after having a good long homicidal run have finally been caught. So what happens next? And how the hell does a wanted psychopath wind up in the CIA anyway?
Characters: Jeffrey, Sands, Roland Rivers, Emily Brisbane, Dr. Claire Harrington
Author's Note: Sorry I couldn't get this up as soon as I wrote the last chapter of A Gilded Cage, but unfortunately studying for a stats test interfered. I would have complained to my professor that I needed to write this instead, but I don't think he would have been quite as understanding as all of you.
Rating: R for extreme violence, graphic imagery and language.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Second Guesses and Negotiation
"Jesus, Roland. I know you said you wanted to make the man suffer, but do you think that just maybe you might have gone overboard a little?" Emily asked with a frown as the doctors were called in to attend to Sands' broken and battered body. "I mean…I wanted him to suffer too for what he had done to Sus, but this? What have we done, Roland?"
"He'll be alright. I didn't kill him," Roland said hesitantly, his eyes locked upon Sands' bloodied form. "God I'm just like him now," he whispered.
"Roland, no you're not—"
"Look at what I've done to him, for fuck's sake! He was defenseless, Emily. He was tied up and I knew it. I knew it and it didn't stop me. He didn't stop me…" Roland murmured with a frown. "He didn't even try. He just kept encouraging me. Why the fuck would he do that?"
Emily shrugged. "He's insane, Roland. His reasons are his own."
"It was like he wanted me to hurt him," he said with a frown, having not heard her response. "Like he wanted to be fucking punished or something; as if I were justified in what I was doing to him."
"Roland, who the fuck knows what's in that twisted excuse he calls for a brain? Maybe he felt some amount of guilt and responsibility for what he did, but I doubt it. What's more likely is that he gets off on the pain," Emily said with a sneer in Sands' direction.
"What?" Roland asked, having half heard her that time.
Emily rolled her eyes but answered him anyway. "I was saying that that sick bastard over there probably gets off on pain. He strikes me as the type."
Roland's face tuned from disgusted to pensive as he looked over his enemy and victim. "You think so?"
Emily let out a soft snort in irritation and rolled her eyes again. "For fuck's sake Roland, I don't know. Maybe he imagines he's the Queen of England in his off moments. Who cares? But even if that's true, it doesn't make what we did right."
"What we did? I didn't see you in there beating on him," Roland said bitterly.
"I didn't stop you. I knew what you were doing and I didn't stop you. That makes me an accomplice," Emily refuted.
"The whole fucking hospital probably knew what we were doing. That bitch doctor certainly did. And what kind of fucking sense does that make? I thought doctors were sworn to 'do no harm' or some bullshit like that."
Emily shook her head. "This whole place is nuts and I think it's catching. That bastard killed two of my best friends and countless others and here I am defending him," Emily said dryly.
Roland frowned. "I know. He killed them all and he didn't even care. He showed no remorse whatsoever, that fucking sociopathic bastard. But…you're right. I shouldn't have done that. No one deserves what I did to him. Not even him. I just…I was so angry. I wanted to make him pay, Em. And I did."
"We all have things to answer for in this life, Roland. Things we wish we hadn't done; things we wish we could take back. They're ours. And we pay for them, Roland. We're paying now."
"Not as much as he is," Roland said grimly. Emily couldn't help but nod.
WWW
Washington DC, 12 March, 1986, 7:42 AM
The fire had apparently raged for hours. Sands had wanted to stay and watch it burn, but somehow he wasn't able to get that desire across to the all-too-helpful medical technicians and family members. They had whisked him away to the hospital before the mob had even showed up. Not that they had many neighbors, especially not within walking distance, but he had no doubt in his mind that once the nosy sons of bitches saw the ambulances and the fire trucks speeding past their houses they wouldn't be too far behind. It wasn't fucking fair. Why should they get to stay and watch when he couldn't? It was his house! He had started the fire, for fuck's sake. Best not to let anyone know that, Sands. They'd lock you up for murder.
"I don't care. I was supposed to die, you son interfering bastard," Sands hissed. "I just wanted it to end."
Aww Boo-fucking-hoo. If you really thought I was just going to let us fry then you're dumber than I give you credit for, and that's saying a lot.
"Just leave me alone," Sands moaned, placing his head in his hands.
"Young man? Are you alright? Who are you talking to?" a voice asked a few seconds later.
Don't you dare tell him. You will not get us fucking locked up. I won't let you.
Sands scowled but did not lift his head. "No one. I wasn't talking to anyone. Just leave me alone."
"I know you've been through a trauma, but that's no cause for rudeness, young man," the voice berated him softly.
Sands laughed bitterly then. "A trauma? Both of my parents are dead, sir. They died in a fire that destroyed my house as well. I have nothing left."
"That's not entirely true," the voice said hesitantly.
Sands sighed and looked up. He was greeted with the sight of a middle-aged gentleman with small round glasses perched on a well formed nose above a rail-thin stature encased by a clearly expensive grey pinstripe suit. "Who are you?"
"My name is Maximilian Dellacourt, young sir. I am your father's chief attorney. Or, I was in any case. I am also the executor of your parent's estate. I am terribly sorry for your loss, but the truth of the matter is that the world moves on. What happened to your parents was a terrible tragedy, but we must not let ourselves become embittered by it. We must not lose ourselves to our grief."
Sands blinked at him. "Excuse me?"
Is this guy serious? Fuck, and I thought your parents were callous. You know what? I think I like him.
"You should really attempt to listen, young sir. What I'm telling you is of the utmost importance and I do not appreciate talking to someone who isn't going to hear what I have to say."
"Oh. Right. Go on, I'm listening," Sands murmured, too dumbfounded to do anything else.
The gentleman cleared his throat. "Yes, well as I was saying, I am the executor of your parent's estate. Now listen closely. Pending an investigation into their death, you stand to inherit everything. You were there only son and as such, their only heir. You wouldn't be able to access it until your next birthday as you remain a minor, but you will be given a stipend enough to keep a young man like you accustomed to the life you have been brought up in. Do you understand me? You stand to inherit quite a large sum of money, Mr. Sands."
That is, if they don't find out you're the one who torched the place. But still, we should celebrate! You're going to be a…just how much money are you going to get anyway?
"Might I ask how much I stand to inherit?" Sands asked cautiously.
Mr. Dellacourt looked at him with a mild glare, as if to imply that no one of such high breeding and manners should be asking such a question, but Sands just gave him a look right back in return and the man went on anyway. "Roughly seven hundred and twenty-two million dollars, young sir," he said in a dry voice.
Sands couldn't quite remember what he had done after hearing that, but it was a safe guess that he probably gaped. Before he could even think to gather his wits about him to say something in response, the man continued.
"That figure is just what the banks hold, Mr. Sands. You also own the majority of the stock in your father's company and properties throughout the world. There are also numerous investments both of your parents took an interest in as well, but I won't get into any of that now. Needless to say, young sir, you are a very rich man."
And I bet you're going to turn into a fucking snob because of it? The voice sneered. Fucking rich people.
Sands was about to retort to that when he realised Mr. Dellacourte was still standing in front of him and seemed to be waiting for some kind of words of wisdom. "Thank you for informing me, Mr. Dellacourte. I regret to say my energies will probably be put toward clearing my name of…" he paused for emphasis. "...these tragedies."
Dellacourte nodded. "Indeed. Well I have no doubt that these matters will be taken care of soon. I mean, they can't possibly believe you would set fire to your own house, can they? What possible sense could that make?"
The voice laughed. If he only knew. Maybe you should tell him. That could be fun. Think he'd believe us? Think he'd say we couldn't have the money if he found out you were insane?
"No sense at all," Sands agreed with a mental glare at his unwelcome guest.
He nodded again. "Well if you are feeling up to it, I suggest we go and speak with the young detective that was practically standing upon my heels to get in here. The nurse made him wait outside, bless her, but if you're able to speak with him, I rather think you should. If only to get this whole mess straightened out."
But what if I don't want to talk to him, you interfering bastard? Sands thought to himself with a mental scowl while on the outside he was all smiles and acceptance. "I will certainly follow that advice, Mr. Dellacourte. Lead on."
"Call me Max, young sir," he said after a moment's consideration before taking him to meet with the detective.
WWW
Present Day
Claire Harrington, M.D was silently fuming as she surveyed the ills that had been inflicted upon her patient. Something has to be done about this. This shouldn't have happened. And yet… I can use this to my advantage. I can make him trust me. She nodded to herself as she realised what she would have to do. It was simply, really. She had seen enough mindless cop shows to understand the concept of good cop, bad cop. Agent Rivers and his woman were the bad and she would be the good. She would earn Mr. Sands' trust by caring for him. She would show him that she had only the best intentions for him; that she would never do anything to harm him. That is, unless it was for his own good. Sometimes bad things had to happen for the good of the person afflicted. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. She firmly believed that.
"Are you ready to hear the report, Doctor?" a voice interrupted her thoughts.
She nodded. "Yes, do go on. How bad is he?"
The attending physician that stood at her elbow cleared his throat checked and rechecked the chart in front of him, and began. "Two broken ribs, a fractured jaw, broken nose, broken left cheekbone, and the wound on his chest has broken open again." The doctor closed his notes and cleared his throat again. "It could have been worse, but that man beat him up pretty badly. If you aren't going to call the proper authorities, I will."
"And say what?" Dr. Carrington seethed, her vision filled with images of strangling that bastard CIA agent for what he had done to her patient.
"Tell them what happened! Look, I believe what they say about him, I believe that he killed all those people, but no one deserves that."
"They won't believe us," she continued.
The doctor scoffed. "Why wouldn't they? We're doctors, for Christ's sake, Claire."
Dr. Harrington's eyes narrowed minutely at the usage of her first name, but she didn't comment upon it. "And they're CIA agents. They'll just tell whoever's in charge that they were defending themselves; that they were given leave to use all necessary force to bring him back to us and they did so."
"That's a load of bullshit and you know it, Claire. They beat him while he was in their custody. He couldn't even defend himself because he was restrained. Tell me you're not going to let them get away with this."
"Oh I'm not, Greg," she stated coldly. "You don't have to worry about that."
Dr. Harrington's companion frowned a little at that as he looked up and saw the set of her jaw and the steel in her eyes. He didn't worry, actually because it was clear that she would see to it that the persons responsible for Mr. Sands' condition would pay dearly. He only hoped he be around to witness it when she did.
WWW
"So…who are you and what did you do to deserve taking care of the psycho?" Sands muttered as a nurse bent over him to shine a light into his eyes for what seemed like the twentieth time to check him over for a possible concussion.
"Don't talk. You've got a fractured jaw," she instructed evenly, her voice practically medicinal in itself.
Sands rolled his eyes and gently lifted his aching head up to take in his bound hands and feet. "All I can do is talk. And it doesn't hurt," he further elaborated, giving the IV in his right wrist a meaningful look. "I don't know what you're giving me, but I feel about ready to float off this bed and out the window. That is, if I wasn't tethered down."
"If you're trying to get me to remove your restraints you're wasting your time," the nurse, or possible intern-he could never remember such things-said clearly. "You're going to stay here until you've healed and then you'll be handed over to the proper authorities."
"Where I'll be locked up for the rest of my life or executed. Yes, I know," Sands finished for her. "Neither option sounds like much fun to me."
"Fun? You're looking for fun?" the nurse/intern asked incredulously. She was probably an intern. Nurses didn't wear the white doctor coats, did they?
If he could have shrugged, he would have. "Why not? If we can't get any fun out of life, then what's the point?"
"What you would consider fun normal people consider worthy of a death sentence, Mr. Sands."
"Be that as it may, that doesn't mean it's not fun."
"You're sick," she said disgustedly.
"Which is why I'm tied to the bed in a fucking crazy ward, I'd imagine," Sands said dryly. "But don't knock it 'til you've tried it."
"What? Are you completely insane? I'm not going to go out and kill someone just because you say its fun!"
"Did he say kill someone? No, he didn't. And of course we're crazy. We're nuttier than squirrel shit," Jeffrey added with a smirk. "You don't have to kill someone to have fun. Oftentimes, it's more fun to maim them for life. Have you ever given someone a limp before? That's one of my goals. One day I'll have enough patience to do so, you mark my words."
"Do you even know where you are? You're tied to a bed with a quartet of armed guards standing outside the door just waiting for you to make a wrong move. Trust me, you're not going anywhere."
"I escaped this fucking place once already and I was drugged to the fucking gills while I did it. What makes you think I can't do it again, sweetness?"
The intern's dark denim-blue eyes narrowed at the name but she didn't comment upon it. "We've learned from our mistakes. You're not leaving this hospital until it's time for you to be thrown down into whatever hole they come up with for a cockroach like you and forgotten about. Either that or they execute you. I wonder if they'll let me watch."
"No death penalty in this state, sugar. Sorry to disappoint," Jeffrey drawled with a smirk, clearly enjoying the banter he was having with her.
"Pity," she murmured with a frown, flipping her chin-length black hair in an irritated gesture.
"Well I tell you what hon, if they decide to do whatever it is they do to people like me because of what I did in Maryland, I'll be sure to have them send you an invitation, savvy?"
"Oh I'll be there with bells on," the intern said coldly. "Maybe I'll even wave to you before the do it."
Jeffrey smirked. "You're a real bitch, you know that? I think I like you."
"Gee, my day is now complete. I have gotten a psychopath and a murderer to like me. I think I'll write home to mom."
"I'd do that, but Sands killed his mother so my letters wouldn't get anywhere," Jeffrey said wryly.
"Can you send letters to hell? I bet that's where the bitch ended up," Sands muttered under his breath.
Jeffrey tsked. "Such language. And about your mother, too. She would be so ashamed."
"Oh shut the fuck up. This is all your fucking fault, you know. If you hadn't stopped to chat with the fucking CIA we might have gotten out of here," Sands growled.
"What? Fuck you. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Get fucking shot? They had the goddamned place surrounded, Sands! You want to blame someone; blame fucking Rivers for throwing that fucking knife."
"I am going to kill that son of a bitch anyway, don't you worry. Look at what he fucking did to us!"
Jeffrey rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I was there, Sands. I don't know about you but I had fucking fun getting be beat up by a little prick like him. It was exactly how I wanted to finish up the day," he said dryly.
"He's not going to get away with it. I mean, how the fuck can he? This is a hospital, for fuck's sake! Why didn't anyone fucking stop him?" Sands yelled, his hands balling into fists despite the dull pain that threatened to break through the blanket of painkillers he was currently under. "No. You know what? I'm fucking glad they didn't stop him. I'm glad they didn't do a goddamned thing to him. I hope they don't. I really do. That just leaves them all to me. And I will make them all pay," he hissed.
"We're fucking tied to a bed, Sands. Just how are you going to make him pay, exactly?" Jeffrey asked sardonically.
"Patience is a virtue, Jeffrey. I can wait. I'll let him think I've forgotten how he's wronged us. I'll let him think that poor, crazy Sands is too fucked up and scared to do anything about it. That's fine. Let him have his moments of superiority. I'll make him scream in the end."
"You're fucking insane," Jeffrey muttered with a gentle shake of his head, not wanting to tempt the pain.
"Yes, I am," Sands agreed without hesitation. "But that doesn't mean that I won't get him."
"Yes, it does," the intern spoke up from her silent corner of the room, startling both men. They had forgotten she was even there listening to them. "You're never going to get free."
"Oh really? And what makes you so fucking sure?" Sands asked with a sneer. "I've done it once, halfway drugged to the gills and tied up. What makes you think I can't do it again?"
"Because I won't let you," she answered with authority.
Jeffrey snorted before Sands could reply. "What's your name, sweetness?" he asked.
"I didn't know you were blind as well as insane and arrogant," she said with a smirk as her clearly obvious nametag flashed in the garish fluorescent light of the room.
"Ha, ha very funny. I can't exactly turn to get a better fucking look, now can I sweetie pie?" Jeffrey responded with a mixture of a smirk and a scowl.
"My name is Ms. Drasden. And I'd appreciate if you called me that, Mr. Sands," she said evenly.
"Oh come on. What's your first name? I won't tell anyone, I promise," Jeffrey asked with good-humored levity.
"We're tied to a fucking bed and you're trying to flirt with one of the jailers? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sands asked incredulously.
"I'm bored and I don't want to talk to you. That leaves…well let's see…no, no one in that corner, no one on the fucking ceiling, oh wait that only leaves her," Jeffrey said with a scowl. "It's either make conversation with them or go crazy by having to listen to your ranting. I choose them."
"You shouldn't. They're just out to get us," Sands insisted, giving the intern a suspicious glance.
"They've already gotten us, Sands. Now stop being so fucking paranoid. And stop interrupting. She hasn't told me her name yet," Jeffrey said pointedly.
"Well she's not going to now. She sees that were fucking—"
Sands was cut off by the intern's crisp, no-nonsense voice. "I would appreciate it if you didn't curse so much, Mr. Sands. And my name is Lauren if you really must know," she said in even tones.
"Lauren. My new favorite name," Jeffrey said with a smirk.
"What gives you the fucking right to tell me how to talk? I can say whatever the fuck I want," Sands groused, glaring daggers at her.
"The fact that I can decide to put you on so many anti-psychotics that you can't even hold a coherent thought let alone speak, Mr. Sands. Now if you remain civil and do what I and Dr. Harrington tell you, we won't have to resort to that."
"She's a hard-ass, Sands. I'd listen to her. Oh. Whoops. Sorry, Lauren. Slip of the tongue, you see," Jeffrey said, feigning all the innocence of a silver-tongued devil as he did so.
"Naturally," Lauren said drolly. "This goes for…both of you," she said hesitantly, seeming to accept the fact that there were indeed two of them when many others in her position had not. "These are the rules: no cursing, no using of pet names, no yelling, no assaulting the staff, no biting the hand that feeds you. I'm sure there will be more added, but this is my prerogative. If any of these rules are ignored or broken, there will be consequences. Some worse than others. If on the other hand, you're cooperative I promise that this," she gestured towards his bloodied and bruised face, "will never happen again."
Sands snorted. "And why should I believe you? I didn't see any of you or your boss stepping in to stop him last time."
"That's because you weren't cooperating last time," she said as if it should have been intuitively obvious. "Cooperate with us, and that will change."
"So, what? If I behave like the good little boy I'm clearly not you won't condone members of this nation's law enforcement agency practicing their abusing techniques on my face?"
"In essence, that is correct," she said with a nod.
"And you won't drug me into oblivion again? That was a whole lot of no fun," Jeffrey muttered.
"You will be given antipsychotics to keep you calm. There is no negotiating around that. However, if you do what we ask of you when we ask it, I will insure that you're never given enough that you don't retrain some form of lucidity."
"'Some form of lucidity,'" Sands repeated dryly. "That's very reassuring."
"It's all you're going to get. Now, do we have a deal or not?"
Sands grunted.
"Do you really have any other choice, Mr. Sands?"
No. He didn't. Fuck. "We have a deal, Ms. Drasden."
TBC
A/N: Well this certainly took a long time to write. Sorry about that. Sands and Jeffrey kept telling me to go bug someone else, and Roland just locked himself away in a guilty corner. It makes it difficult to write under those circumstances, let me tell you. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, and I'll see you next chapter.