Cold. Hard. Rough. Pain. Sharp, then dull. Pounding. So cold. So very cold. Then it came back. The heat, the music, the rush—the dance. Ahhh! Agonizing. But there was nothing. Not a sound. Not even a coherent thought. Shit.
The sweater was gone, replaced by cold. Even in the dark, it was nowhere to be found. Instead she tried to wrap her arms around herself, realizing she couldn't move. The feeling of depression came back. She wanted someone, anyone, to just hold her—make her feel wanted. But no, now there wasn't even a boring grey sweater inherited from her grandmother to fend off the demands of isolation. She was by herself, completely alone. Now I know how Bobby feels when we part for the night. She shivered, understanding now why vacation time was a horror for her partner.
A creaking noise. A dim light floated in from another room casting shadows on the objects around her. A silhouette stepped forward, closing the door behind it, blocking the light. "Ahhh!" Escaped from her as she bowed her head to the light that had just been directed at her face. She prevented herself from showing any more signs of weakness. She would not give in to the situation. She would be saved soon. Bobby would know something was wrong, and Deakins wouldn't sit behind his desk either. She just had to deal with the now.
"This is how I knew you." A ruffling of papers was heard just before a dozen or so newspaper clippings ended their flight path by knocking into her face. Reluctantly she squinted to see what he was talking about. Headlines mentioned names and phrases like "Detectives Goren & Eames," "Major Case Squad," "Captain James Deakins." She was even able to glance at a picture of her and her partner standing by Deakins as he explained a case in a press conference before the light was too much to bear. "That was your partner, wasn't it?" She didn't respond, why give the enemy more information to use against her? He grabbed her chin, pulling her face close to his. "Hello again, Detective Alexandra Eames. You danced well last night. Was that your first time?" She resisted the urge to spit in his face. While she wouldn't comply with his demands, she didn't think it was wise to piss him off more. He threw her face away causing a painful sensation in her neck as her body couldn't follow. "It was last night for you anyway, three days ago for me." He let that sink in. Three days? It had been three days! Fuck! All the hope she had faded fast. After the first 48 hours, chances dropped dramatically for any case be it theft, murder, rape and especially kidnapping. He started laughing at her reaction—a crackling laugh, one that would cause young children to hide under the covers and grown adults to grab the phone in hopes that 911 would be pressed before the laugh could become anything more.
"I've asked you two questions Detective, answer me." She sat, stone cold. Unable to see from the light, she didn't notice the fist connecting with the right side of her jaw. She let out a gasp of pain. "Well? Are you going to answer now?" This time she did spit at him, only now it was blood. "No? Then we need to try a little more convincing." This time she saw his foot swing into her side, but for all her wriggling, she couldn't stop it. All the air her small frame could carry was shoved from her as pain rapidly took its place. "Hm, yes, it has been a few hours." He stood up and turned his back only to reappear with an injection needle. "This is quick and does the job. You don't move or struggle, and I have your complete attention. When laced with other plants, it will place anyone in a deep sleep. That, my dear Alex, is how you arrived here." She felt like gagging, Your dear Alex? Bite me! Again struggling against what was left of her "restraints" she tried to avoid the inevitable. But he was strong and not tied down with drugs. As the needle entered her arm, she could feel her body relax, and then grow numb while her mind seemed to rush with all the adrenaline her body could produce. "Are you going to fight now?" Receiving little more than a glare from his captive, the man went on. "For being such a good girl, both on the dance floor and right now, I will tell my story first. Then you can tell me what I want to know. I grew up in a small, poor family. We had emigrated from Panama when I was a young boy. We were lucky enough to find work in a small town in California working for a nursery. Year after year my family and I would plant seeds, tend the plants, harvest the goods and prepare them for sale.
"Five years after arriving in America, my mother ran off. Her 'passion,' as she called it, was not in flower arranging, but in opera. There, she claimed, she could finally be herself. Her selfishness hurt us financially. We couldn't afford our home so we moved, everywhere. But there was no work. We returned, little work was better than no work.
"My sister was in an accident just before our mother left. In fact, she was with our mother when it happened. They were crossing a highway to get to work one day and she got hit. That's when my mother ran off. I think it had more to do with the guilt of hurting her only daughter than it did with opera, but she was still gone. And so was her pay. Crystal died three weeks into her coma. We didn't have the money to pay for her hospital bills. My brother and I never forgave her.
"By the age of twelve I had started making drugs for the local kids hoping to gain more money for what was left of the family. First I grew marijuana in hidden places at the nursery. Then I learned how to make opium from the poppies. From there it grew. I left high school knowing not only the fine art of agriculture, but also the art of narcotics." Had Bobby only found this guy about seven years ago, he would have had a field day.
"I left California to seek my own life away from the disgust the nursery brought me. What farther place from California could I go but New York. That is how I arrived here. My brother followed. Soon we found out what our mother had been doing with her life—opera. Somehow she managed to make herself famous. It was all I could do from stalking her down to show her what she had left for her daughter. But Marcos had better plans. It wasn't just her, but the whole opera community, who had killed our sister. Without them, she would have had nowhere to run too.
"Marcos would build little bombs in the fields growing up. His fascination with pyrotechnics enticed him to help out with the fireworks committee. Soon he knew what damage gun powder, chemicals, and heat could do. He was the bomb expert of our group. Gabriella was our ticket in. She worked at several of the theaters as part of the crew and convinced her boss to give us jobs. In exchange, we became her partners. On both the dance floor and in bed. She had been so alone in life and she was aching for any and all human contact. And you feel that same ache, don't you?" He left her on that note.
What was he implying there? That I wanted to become his partner? No, thank you, one is enough. Shit Alex, get yourself together. Fight the drugs, you have to. You're not tied up, there are no cuffs on your wrists, you have to get out! You have to! Everyone's going to wonder what happened. Bobby— Oh shit, how is Bobby going to handle this? He barely got through the last time we were separated, and then at least we saw each other! Alex! Stay awake, for Bobby…for Bobby…