A/N: I'll be away from my computer for the next three days, but don't worry, I'll be back writing on Monday.
I own nothing.
Janey's mother arrived late on the second day of the investigation. Elliot picked her up at the Newark airport.
He had expected someone hysterical, furious, asking questions, laying blame. He was prepared to explain the situation coolly and professionally, to apologize when she began accusing him of endangering her baby, and to handle a sobbing breakdown. But the woman greeted him with a careless wave and a hug. She didn't ask about Janey. The first words out of her mouth after he introduced himself were, "I should be grateful for the trouble my daughter gets into, if it means I get to meet such handsome police officers."
Elliot immediately disliked her. "White trash" was the term that sprang to his mind, but he treated her with the respect she was due, as the parent of a victim.
She wasn't dressed for spring in New York; she wore a tight spaghetti-strap top, white jeans, and too much jewelry. Her nails were long and fake, her hair a crinkled bleach-blonde. After picking up her luggage, she insisted on taking ten minutes in the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. And on the way to the car she gripped Elliot's arm with both hands, smiling up at him and asking how he liked living in New York.
As soon as they were in the car he sharply stopped her chatter with, "Ms. Christopher, I'm not sure you've been told exactly how serious your daughter's situation is."
"It's Brandy, hon. And kids get into trouble, you know how they are. I'm sure she'll turn up."
"You…haven't been told that we know who has her?" Could Fin have left that much out?
"I heard, Mister Detective, that my brilliant college student daughter let a strange man into her room and was surprised when it didn't go well. I'm thinkin' Columbia maybe needs to raise their admission standards. Hey, you got a place for me to stay, right? Paid for?"
"Did you hear that the man is a serial rapist and murderer? That he tortures his victims to death?" He was angry now, lashing out for a reaction. He thought of those first terrible moments after he heard about the attack, how he had sped blindly through traffic toward the hospital. All the moments he and Maureen had ever shared had flashed before him, choking him with fear that this could be the moment it all ended. And for the past two days he had felt the same sick fear for Janey Christopher.
And this woman, her mother, for God's sake, was more interested in seeing Bloomingdale's than the horrific danger her daughter was in.
"Hey!" Brandy bit back, having caught the accusation in his voice. "I'm here, aren't I? Come across the freakin' country. I care. I'm concerned. And I don't need you judging me." She stuck a long cigarette in her mouth and fumbled for a lighter. He told her not to smoke in his car.
When they arrived at the station Elliot immediately knew there had been a development. Olivia, Munch, and Fin were gathered around his desk, talking in low voices.
The three rose simultaneously with nervous looks when they saw Ms. Christopher. Olivia casually intercepted her and drew her away by the arm with, "Ma'am, I'm Detective Benson, Detective Stabler's partner. Why don't you come with me, and I'll answer any questions you have about your daughter's case." She was all gentle concern. Elliot hated knowing it was wasted on the indifferent Brandy, who gave the three men a little long-fingernailed wave before allowing herself to be led out.
As the women walked away Olivia gave Elliot a significant look over her shoulder. He waited until they were out of the room before turning to Munch and Fin to see what they were hiding on his desk.
"News?"
"A homeless guy brought in an envelope for you this morning," said Fin. "Said a guy gave him twenty bucks to deliver it. Had these in it."
He handed Elliot two photographs. The first was of Janey Christopher, sitting on the ground with her arms chained to a brick wall. She looked frightened but fine.
Elliot's breath left him when he saw the second. "Christ." He threw the pictures onto his desk and sat down hard. He had to close his eyes and rub his forehead with both hands to keep from losing his temper and hitting something.
Munch told him coolly – he had been cool toward Elliot ever since Maureen was attacked – that the homeless man was in the interrogation room, waiting for him. He and Fin returned to their own duties, leaving Elliot to brood.
It was harder now, knowing that the SVU squad was all Janey had. Her mother was more bothered by the cost of the plane ticket than her daughter's endangered life, and there was no father listed on Janey's birth certificate, which made sense to Elliot after meeting Brandy. They knew of no other relatives. As for friends, she was only a freshman in college, and not very outgoing; Maureen and a few classmates were the only kids her age who really knew her well.
Elliot and Olivia, and possibly Maureen, were the only people in the world who couldn't sleep because this girl was in trouble. It didn't seem fair. All reports said she was a sweet, smart kid. Devoted to her religion and reading, paying her own way through a private university.
If they did manage to save her, he wasn't even sure she'd have a place to stay. Her mother didn't have a job; she was living with a boyfriend in a San Diego apartment. Even if the boyfriend would let Janey stay there it probably wouldn't be a healthy environment for a recovering torture victim.
Elliot felt irrationally guilty. If Janey's and Maureen's positions had been reversed, the whole city would have been searching. They probably would have found her by now.
Not that he wished Sachet had taken the right girl. God, what would he have done if it were his daughter in that picture, her nose and teeth covered in blood, screaming and crying…?
Brandy's smoker's voice entered his consciousness as Olivia led her back through the station, presumably to drive her to the hotel room NYPD was providing her with. The sight of that fake blonde hair made Elliot sick.
He would question the homeless man in a minute. Right after calling to check on his kids.
Janey couldn't stop shivering.
She now wore only a towel. After her nose stopped bleeding – and it had been hours – Lionel had impassively noted that her clothes were ruined. He had produced a large pair of scissors and efficiently cut off her shirt and bra, then removed her pants and underwear by hand. She had screamed and thrashed when he first came at her; he had had to hold the scissors to her throat in silence until she stilled.
When her underwear came off she couldn't help crying out, but Lionel was detached for the moment, apparently uninterested in her body. He wiped her face and neck clean gently, like a nurse, and brought her a bucket to pee in.
She had nearly been overcome with shame while he watched her go. The strength of adrenaline was gone; she felt boneless and shaky. She could barely raise herself off the bucket so he could remove it.
Then he had tied a towel around her torso, secured it with a safety pin, and left. To develop his pictures, Janey guessed.
Her face still burned with pain; she imagined she could feel a star pattern of fracture lines leading out from her nose. And she was swelling up, all the way to her eyes.
In her eighteen years of living with irresponsible parents – her free-spirit mother, two stepfathers, and a cadre of live-in boyfriends – no adult had ever, EVER hit her. She had never broken a bone. Though she had plenty of problems, extreme physical pain had simply not been a part of her reality. She didn't know how to deal with it now.
The worst part was that she now really understood what Lionel's strength meant: That if he wanted to, at any moment he could step on her leg and break it, crush her ribs with his fist, tear her arm off, snap her neck. She was absolutely in his power; if and when he decided to hurt her she wouldn't even have the strength to make him work for it.
Now she was nearly naked, freezing, curling up on herself to try to keep warm. She had to slacken her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, because closing her mouth hurt her injured upper palette. Her body began to rock in rhythm with the throbbing pain in her face.
She was almost unconscious when the edge of a glass bumped her lower lip. A little water splashed on her mouth, and it hit her just how thirsty she was, how chapped her lips were. She opened her bruised eyes slowly to see Lionel's face inches from her own. He put one hand on the back of her neck, tilting her head backward to help her drink. She drank greedily and only dimly noticed the water's slight soapy bitterness. She even managed to whisper "thank you" after draining the glass; she wasn't so drained that she forgot the need to keep Lionel happy.
When Lionel released her she slumped back, exhausted. He smiled.
Right away she knew something was wrong. The water…she had been sleepy before, but now she felt really sick, like she might throw up.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked as her stomach gave a kick that made her head reel.
He didn't answer, but as the basement began to spin around Janey she would have swornLionel's huge eyes began to glow with malice. As if through a wobbling, greasy window, she saw him pick up the scissors he had used to cut off her shirt.
It was just as she had feared: she didn't even have the strength to cry as he began to cut her hair. Thankfully, it wasn't long before she slipped into unconsciousness.