Ch. 5

Danny was shaking, which wasn't any surprise to him. An equal cocktail of rage and pain would do that to a guy. His only concern was its lack of wearing off any time soon. It was mostly visible in his hands, especially while he was trying to eat, but seeing as how his appetite had been demolished his lunch was brief, too brief for anyone to walk in and witness the food continually falling off Danny's fork.

Not one to be wasteful, Danny stuck his lunch in the fridge with a label (never a good idea to leave a meal unmarked) then headed for the nearest database to look up info on Garrard and do a little catching up. He dropped himself in front of the first unoccupied screen and immediately regretted it when his arm pulled. He winced, hunching, and muttered a string of curses that would have made a sailor cringe.

Leave it to Jack to reawaken old wounds; figuratively and literally.

Danny stared at the screen all ready to receive the needed keywords. He was tempted, powerfully, to type in Quinn's name and see what came up. Nothing new, he could already guess that. If anything it would be mostly misdemeanors, traffic violations, and assault and battery all before Quinn hit the age of eighteen. Once the man had become too old for a juvenile detention center he started playing things a little more under the radar.

Danny knew what he would find, yet the desire to look tugged at him hard. The only thing holding him back was the chance of being caught, especially by Mac. The man was a former marine, and so had the knack for slipping in unnoticed. Once he saw what Danny was looking at, he would start asking questions, and Danny didn't want to have to lie, especially to Mac. Their friendship was probably hanging by a thread as it was.

Danny finally typed in Gerrard's name, and his file blinked onto the screen. Mac hadn't been exaggerating when he said that Gerrard's rap sheet was a mile long. The only crimes not mentioned were anything concerning assault, murder, rape, or molestation. He had tried robbing a bank once, which had landed him straight in jail. For the most part, his special trade appeared to be extortion through various scams. And like Mac had said, the man had mob ties. He had worked for several well known names, a few of which Danny knew through his dad rather than a police file, and it made Danny uncomfortable. As for what Gerrard did for these men, nothing was mentioned. Obviously Gerrard knew when to shut up when it came to the people he worked for. Danny was pretty certain, however, that Gerrard's extortion skills played a large part in his being hired by so many.

Any one of Gerrard's 'employers' would have motive to kill him. The same went for Gerrard's extorted victims. It was a shock he had lasted as long as he had, and Danny doubted any tears had been shed for the man.

Danny took his hand from the keyboard and lightly placed it on his shoulder as though trying to hold it together. A dull ache had remained after the flash of pain, and that ache was now becoming a little less dull, which meant the painkiller he'd taken was wearing off.

Danny sat back with a small grunt of discomfort.

It was a threat. Jack hadn't grabbed Danny's wounded arm just because it was convenient and Jack was forgetful.

But whether Jack would push things farther than hurting Danny's already broken arm, even Danny couldn't say. If Quinn was smart then he would stick with his little hints and not try anything that would cause Danny's father to have second thoughts about not testifying.

Think again, Messer. Danny knew better than to hold to that small hope that was nothing more than a thought. Quinn would try something. His threats were never empty, and he knew how to act while still remaining hidden in the shadows. Danny was living proof of it unto himself. As kids, when Jack wanted to play rough, he made sure to do any bruising below Danny's neck-line. If Danny told, then it was his word against Jack's, his father's protests against Al Quinn's overabundant pride for his bigger, tougher son.

So why did Al keep bringing Jack by even when Calvin expressly forbid it? Because of business. Al Quinn was a king – no, more like a shark – in the restaurant business. He had places established not just in New York but all over the states. But that wasn't why Calvin was always the middle man doing business with him for Ricky and the rest. The thing was, even today, Danny still didn't know what that business had been exactly, because Calvin had always said that Danny was better off not knowing. Danny didn't want to know, really. It didn't matter in the long run. What mattered was, because of the older Quinn's earnings from his restaurants, the associations it helped him make, the associations it helped him maintain, and his predator cunning and callous, the man really was on top of the food chain. Calvin, despite his own name and associations, wasn't quite at Al's level to be able to tell him what to do.

So Al kept bringing his son.

As Danny reflected back on this, he realized that he must have known the position his father was in. Calvin, for a short while, had always assumed that Danny and Jack were just being boys – bad mouthing and duking it out after words. Danny ratted, of course, but he had only gone into the details a few times, like when Jack had smacked Danny in the back with a baseball bat, then when Jack had pinned Danny down with a knee in the chest. But Jack kept returning, and the details became obscured, even when Jack nearly choked Danny to death while holding him in a headlock, and dislocated his arm by twisting it behind Danny's back (Danny had said it happened when he fell out of a tree).

Danny, to his disgust, had been put in the uncompromising position of being a liar; number one, to spare his father the grief of the truth, and Number two, to save his own neck. The times Danny had told, the pain Jack liked to inflict increased, only to decrease when Danny proved that he could keep quiet.

Danny, his hand still on his shoulder, curled his fingers into a fist so tight his hand shook.

Jack really was a pro at making life hell. The guy was a sadist in the worst way in that he had the position and power to be as cruel as he wanted. It had only ended when Calvin had practiced a little cunning of his own and got Al to conduct all business at some elite, high-rollers club where privacy was made a specialty.

Calvin hated that club. His membership had always been assured, but he had never used it and had always bad-mouthed the place. Then came that gypsy cab mugging, and Calvin began doing a lot of things he didn't like.

Danny's chest tightened as though someone had twisted a vice around it.

He's going to jail for me. It wasn't a first realization, just one he couldn't dwell on. It was too much, too hard – hell, getting hit by the car had been less painful. Neither Calvin or Danny were the type to say I love you, but they didn't have to. They had their actions which always said what words never could.

Danny closed his eyes. This is exactly what he'd been worried about; losing focus. When he opened his eyes, he saw the rap sheet vanished to be replaced by the screen saver. Danny hit the enter key, then redirected the screen back to the opening, ready to receive new keywords. Danny's shoulder was starting to throb, and with his watch reading six o'five he decided now was as good a time as any to call it quits for the day. Were things back to the way they were, Danny wouldn't be heading home until eight, and that was only if he had nothing left to do.

Danny rose carefully from his seat and headed out toward the locker room. He tried to move his thoughts back to the Gerrard case, and couldn't. While walking, he kept his head down to avoid anyone's eye contact. The tightness in his chest was still constricting, rising up to become a tightness in his throat. And he was fairly certain that, emotion-wise, all one had to do was look at his face to know that something was up.

Danny quickened his steps, ignoring everything, until he reached the safety of the empty locker room. He headed to his locker, throwing the door open and pulling out his bag, swinging it onto his working shoulder. He then turned, and taking a deep breath, headed out of the room, once again walking quickly in avoidance of everyone else.

" Hey Danny?"

Danny's heart lurched as though trying to leap out of his mouth. He tried to continue on as though he hadn't heard, then felt a hand land on his arm. He slowed, stopped, and turned to see Stella smiling at him.

Danny's heart plummeted. Besides Mac, Stella wasn't exactly someone he could just brush off. Yet of everyone, she had been the one he had been least eager to confront.

He cleared his throat that was being stubborn about loosening. " I was just headin' out. Mac's orders I head home early. Did you need something? Because – you know – it might have to wait. I mean, unless it can't..."

Stella's smile faded into a small frown. " You okay Messer?"

Danny cleared his throat again. " I'm, you know, just a little tired."

Stella, her brow scrunched, nodded thoughtfully. " Oh. Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to know how things went, if you're caught up on the case... General stuff."

" You mean, how my day went?"

The corner of Stella's mouth twitched up into a smile and she folded her arms. " Yeah, exactly."

Danny shrugged. " Can't really complain. It's an interesting case, but it's kinda hard to be helpful when you've only got one arm workin' for you. But I can say that I'm pretty much caught up."

" Any theories?"

Danny sighed. " Yeah, the butler did it. Plus his mom, neighbors, some guy from Milwaukee... The man had enemy's coming out his A--. There's no wonder why the guy's dead."

Stella set her mouth in a straight line and nodded. " Sad, isn't it? Listen, I'll let you go. You're coming in tomorrow, right?"

If I can keep focused. " Yeah, probably. Beats sittin' around, watching everything except porn."

Stella grinned. " I like a man who has his limits." Her expression then softened. She looked about ready to say something, like she wanted to say something or ask something, but getting the words out was like trying to gather water in a colander. She just couldn't do it.

But Danny had a pretty good idea what it was. Or, at least, what it involved.

" I'm fine Stella," he said. Danny felt sick saying it. He was not fine. He was lying again, as though lying were a drug Jack always brought with him and force fed Danny.

He also knew Stella wasn't naïve or blind. The woman was a veteran CSI, able to spot a white hair on a white carpet from seven feet away. She could sniff out a lie like a bloodhound, and read expressions like a toddler's picture book. She knew the truth without having to hear the truth.

" You sure?" she asked.

Danny nodded. He wanted to tell, he really did. But even more, he didn't want her involved, not with Jack lurking around, watching and waiting.

Stella furrowed her brow, and Danny tensed in ready for more prodding questions. Stella opened her mouth, ready to speak, only to sigh and clap her jaw shut.

" Okay. Go home, get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

A bitter taste crawled into Danny's mouth. " Yeah, see ya, Stel."

She gave him a quick smile that did poorly at hiding the concern written in every line of her face. When she turned, walking away, the tightness returned wrapping around his chest and throat. He turned as well, and quickened his steps until he was out of the building. Once in the frozen evening air lit by street lamps and the warm, golden lights pouring from windows, Danny slowed and let out a shuddering breath.

He felt sick with guilt, sick with sorrow, sick with himself for lying to Stella's face like he had, and irritated by Stella's unfailing perception. Mac he probably could have handled better, even wanted to deal with. Mac would have forced the truth from him, then Danny could have told and gotten it all out...

No, he would have lied to him too. Mac would have been angry. But Stella... Everything she had said, her expression, even her stance, had spoken nothing but absolute worry. She had witnessed him get shredded by a freakin' car. Danny couldn't say for sure what that must have been like for her, but it sure as hell wasn't exactly something someone forgot over time. Stella was the strong able-to-handle-anything type, and for her to still have issues with this whole hit and run incident unsettled Danny.

I'm alive and she's still worried. So I lie to her?

Danny's heart began pounding out of fury, both because of Jack and because of himself. But the truth wasn't a luxury he could afford at the moment. No one else could get involved. Careers and lives would be at stake if they did. That would be worse than lying.

Danny kept his head down against the stinging flurries of snow that began to pelt the earth and everything on it. He made his way to the subway, too preoccupied to care about the discomfort milling crowds would cause. He barely noticed much heading down into the tunnels, paying his way then entering the crowded underground train. He stayed standing, too tense and agitated to sit. Once the train came to his stop, he moved with the crowds flowing methodically off the train, irritated by their proximity and the inability to move at the pace he wanted. Once out, he walked fast again, making his way out back into the cold and the flurries that had now become thick flakes of snow. The frigid air and tension made him shiver, but it was only a background annoyance to him.

His place was only two blocks away, too far in his opinion when all he wanted to do was get home, away from people and their uncanny ability of being secretly observant. He needed some alone time, a massive amount of space, and a lack of anybody to attack him with questions.

His building was the third down around the corner. He maneuvered around people heading home from their own places of work, anxious to get out of the cold but not as anxious as him. He had his keys ready, and nearly dropped them when he threw open the doors to his building, but caught them while catching the door with his foot. He walked in backwards, then spun around and hurried to the elevator before it shut. Much to his relief, it was empty, but he wasn't going to relax until he was in his own place.

He hit the third floor button, and the elevator started up with the usual unsettling lurch. Danny stared at the floor, tapping his foot in frustration at how slow elevators tended to be. When it came to a sluggish stop with a loud ding, Danny angled himself to slip through the doors before they had a chance to open all the way. An elderly lady let out a small cry of alarm at his sudden emergence, and he blurted out an apology without slowing or truly acknowledging her.

He finally came to his door, and shoved the key in, twisting it hard since the lock had the tendency to stick. He then shoved the door open and strode inside, dumping his bag to the floor by the door. He slammed the door behind him with a muttered curse and dropped back against it.

There was no relief. If anything, he felt even more constricted, more uncertain, worried, and scared. He had been trying so hard not to let what was happening get to him, to distract him, but so much for trying. He had to remind himself, over and over, that just because his father might go to jail didn't mean he would. This agent Stevenson could not be so cold as to lock his dad away with people bound to kill him. And even if he was, Calvin's family wouldn't let it happen. Whatever their feelings toward Danny, they shouldn't, wouldn't, hold it against Calvin, not after all he had done for them.

The more Danny thought this, the more the tightness eased up until his throat stopped aching and the moisture dancing on the edge of his eyelids dried up. They were placating thoughts mostly, nothing that was a certainty, but they were all he had to cling to for the time. Besides, they were plausible. No way could things turn out as badly as Calvin had said.

No way.

Danny pushed himself away from the door - unbuttoning his coat to let it fall to the floor - and headed into the kitchen. He had left his spaghetti back at work, but wasn't particularly hungry to begin with. Yet his stomach begged to differ, so he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured some milk, which was better than nothing. He took a few sips while heading to the living room where he could sit and remove his shoes. Halfway there, he stopped and downed the rest of the glass, wiped his mouth, then continued on. He lowered himself onto his couch, setting the glass on the wood coffee table next to a dog-eared sports magazine. With a moan of discomfort he leaned forward to untie his shoes, only to pause.

Nausea hit him like a sudden punch to the gut. His stomach churned, and bile shot burning into his throat.

" What the hell...?" he began, but talking had been a mistake. He pushed himself off the couch like a shot, and half ran/half stumbled into the kitchen. He was barely two steps in when it came up, splashing onto the floor and causing him to stagger to a stop and double over. When the vomiting paused, he faltered the rest of the way to the sink and leaned over it, panting and waiting. Nothing happened, then he gagged, and heaved, spewing up a little more. He closed his eyes, waited again, then gagged again and choked up a thin stream of liquid.

Then he felt better. Completely, undeniably better as though nausea had never even hit.

He gripped the edge of the sink, dropping his head with a muttered swear, clenching his jaw until it hurt. He then snapped his head back up and walked furiously to the fridge. Yanking it open, he pulled out the milk, snapping off the cap then sniffing the jug's contents. It smelled fine, but he wasn't taking any chances. Heading back to the sink, he poured it out and watched it slip down the drain along with the vomit, feeling it insufficient punishment even for a food.

Once the milk was gone he tossed the jug in the trash, then turned to lean with his lower back resting against the edge of the sink. He glared at the splattered white mess on the floor.

" Sucks to be you, Messer," he said, drumming his fingers against the sink. He turned and crouched to get the disinfected.

" On the plus side," he mumbled as he opened the cupboard beneath the sink, " at least you didn't get it on the carpet."

His mother had always told him to try and remain optimistic. He had yet to master keeping out the sarcasm.

CSINY

A/N: I really can't say if the characters have their own cars or not, but for the sake of this story, let's just say they don't. Vomiting sucks! So does ABC for canceling Night Stalker during a cliff-hanger episode. Grrr! A pox on them!

Jade Eclipse - You kind of freaked me out with the size of your comment. At first I thought it was going to be a list of major flaws that needed immediate correcting. But after reading it, I really appreciated it. Long comments are fun to read as long as they don't read "you've made the following errors" or something like that. I'm a bit of a perfectionist so mistakes drive me nuts.

As for my Night Stalker story, it would help a little if you knew the show, but it doesn't matter now because it was cancelled (Waaaaaaahhhhhhh!). Really, though, all you need to know is that the show was about a guy, a news reporter, whose wife was killed by a strange creature one night. The guy (Carl) was driving with his wife somewhere when it burst through the windsheild, dragged her off, and ripped out the fetus she was carrying. Carl was left with many questions and a strange mark on his wrist. My story is an exploration into what the creature might have done to him, a what-if story. The show itself was about him looking into strange occurences (like hauntings and demon posession) hoping to find answers to what happened the night his wife died. It was a really good show starring Stuart Townsend who I like because he is both hot and creepy, which made the character cool. It was canceled this week and I miss it already. (Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! Again.)