Jadie
Summary: Don and his team face one of their most difficult cases. They can't seem to find any evidence against a violent killer until a lone witness turns up. Can they get the information they need from the traumatized girl before the killer claims any more victims?
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Numb3rs characters—if I did they'd be doing my homework.
WARNING: This fic contains violence towards children and violence in general. May be extremely graphic descriptions. (The killer is one sick S.O.B.) If you don't like that sorta thing…you've been warned.
CHAPTER 2: Those Eyes—"… have seen more--know more--than any child's should…"
Don walked into the conference room casually, taking his hands out of his pockets. He wanted to appear as non-threatening as he could possibly be. He glanced around the room. It was a long, wide room, with nothing but a large table and some basic chairs. The girl sat in one of the chairs on the side of the table, in the very middle of the room. Don walked up slowly to the child.
"Hey," Don half-whispered, as he leaned over, trying to get the girl to look at him. "Can I sit here?" Don asked pointing at the chair next to the girl. At first it appeared as if he wasn't going to get a response, then, in a fleeting moment that Don could've almost sworn he imagined, the girl gave him a brief, measuring glance, and a very small, almost imperceptible nod. Don smiled inwardly. He had already gotten further than Agent Reeves.
"Ok, thanks." Don spoke reassuringly as he slowly slid into the seat next to her. Don put his hands on the table, interlacing his fingers, and he took a moment just to take in her appearance and observe her.
She was ten years old, or at least that's what they figured. Don wasn't sure himself. To him, the girl was so small that he thought at a glance that she was only seven or eight, at the very oldest. However the doctors that had looked her over had estimated her age to be ten and hell, what did Don know about figuring someone's age? She had pale skin, with an almost translucent look, and her bones were prominently visible. The doctors wanted her on some kind of diet, Don recalled, She was pretty malnourished. She had long black hair that was in a state of utter dishevelment, but she wouldn't let anyone touch it with a brush. What struck Don the most about her face, however, wasn't the paleness of her skin, her prominent bones, or the stark contrast of her dark hair, but rather her eyes. Those eyes, Don thought, have seen more—know more—than any child's should. They were a brilliant shade of green, and currently, those eyes were fixed to the table. Blank, unmoving, the girl looked like a porcelain statue, poised and fragile. She wore an oversized, tan, long sleeve shirt that surely had seen better days; the ends of the sleeves were frayed and there were some stains that resembled dried blood and Don tried not to cringe. He knew that at the hospital, they tried to give her other clothes to wear, but she'd put up a fit and wouldn't wear anything but what she had had on. She wore also slightly large blue jeans and ragged tennis shoes that maybe, had once been white, but were now a faded, dull color, like they had been caked in mud so many times that they were permanently stained.
"So…" Don started after the long silence, "Would you tell me your name?" He figured that her name would be a harmless topic, and a good place to start. After all, they couldn't keep referring to her as 'the girl' or 'the witness.' Don watched as her eyes drifted from the table up to the ceiling, over to the wall, wandering aimlessly as if she were searching for her name in the architecture of the building—as if it held all the secrets. Don waited patiently until finally, her eyes drifted sideways over to him.
He felt like she was turning him inside out with those eyes.
"Danny called me Jadie." Soft and light, her voice was somehow ominous and unnaturally child-like. It hadn't sounded like the voice of a ten-year-old, rather it sounded like a four-year-old during a thunderstorm, wary of the dark, and of bogeymen. Her eyes had been fixed on Don when she had spoken, but now they drifted back to the table, then to the ceiling, where they fixated.
"My name is Don. It's nice to meet you," Don said, recovering from the oddity of her speech. "Can I ask who Danny is?" He continued gently.
Her eyes found him again.
"You can ask," she nearly whispered, "but I might not tell," she asserted a little louder. Don felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rise. This girl, Jadie, he mentally corrected, was an eerie child. She sounded younger but her actual word choice, her tone, was, well, incredibly adult-like.
"Jadie," Don spoke a little firmer, attempting to dispel the unsettling feeling he was experiencing, "Who's Danny?"
"A ghost, a dream, a nightmare." Jadie whispered rapidly, almost frantically. Her eyes immediately glued back to the table. Her hands gripped the edge of her chair tightly. Don felt as if he were on the edge of some precipice and that if he found the right question, he just might be allowed a glimpse of what was truly in the darkness beneath him. He racked his mind. If he said the wrong thing, he might not find out who Danny really was, and he had an unusually strong feeling that this Danny person was important.
"Do you like Danny?" Don questioned. Somehow it seemed like the only safe question to ask. Don watched with increasing amazement as a single tear fell from each Jadie's eyes and she opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it, opened it again, and closed. Open, close, cough, clear the throat, open, close. She couldn't seem to find the words. There was a long pause. Don waited, giving her the time that she seemed to desperately need to find the words she wanted.
"He—was very—nice to me." Jadie finally spoke, haltingly, "No one was ever—that—nice –to me." Jadie's eyes roamed the room, frantically, as if she were a trapped animal, cornered, helpless.
"Hey now," Don murmured comfortingly. He risked a hand on her small shoulder. Nothing more. Just a small show of comfort. At the hospital, Jadie had made it quite clear that she didn't like to be touched—not a surprise really—and Don didn't want to push his luck. At least now I know why she is more comfortable around men, Don thought, He must have been her protector or at least her friend. Something… Don watched Jadie, as she looked more lost. More child-like—gone was the eerie feeling Don had experienced earlier. She looked so lost, so alone. Don's heart ached for the small girl. Her hands came up from the chair and she sat them in her lap. She stared at her palms as if maybe they would tell her whatever it was that she wanted to hear. Don was sure, there was something that she wanted to hear, but he just didn't know what it was yet.
"What happened to Danny?" Don queried softly, "You said he was a ghost, did he…" Don trailed off, not sure of the route he was taking.
"He tried to help me," Jadie whispered uncertainly, "he didn't want me hurt but…" she trailed off, fear, for the first time, pervaded her porcelain features.
"But…?" Don encouraged, giving her shoulder a slight reassuring squeeze.
"He shouldn't have!" Jadie half-yelled, startling Don. She turned towards him with ferocity and a frantic quality that was nearing panic. "He didn't understand! Nobody does! She's…" Jadie paused struggling for the word, "…evil." She finished in a hushed whisper, then her eyes widened in horror and she clapped her hands over her mouth like she'd said something she would have rather not revealed. Don stared. He was almost one-hundred-percent certain that he was right; that the killer was indeed a woman.
As he looked at the mortified Jadie, the question now entered his mind: Where the hell do I go from here?
Please R&R!