Title: Visionary

By: Kara

Begun: November 22, 2004

Finished: Not yet finished (Parts 1-9 of 9 are finished. Epilogue needs to be written still…)

Rating: PG-13

Summary: After a businessman dies suddenly and unexpectedly, supposedly from committing suicide, not long after contacting Gabriel about taking an artifact, the case is handed to Sara. While Sara probes the victim's death, Jake and Danny suspect Gabriel's involvement in the crime. When Gabriel begins to exhibit some of the same symptoms the victim experienced before his death, Sara investigates, hoping to save her young friend's life before he meets the same end as his predecessor, but Nottingham's unsuspected offered aid causes her to wonder whether Irons is involved in the situation.

Prologue

Robert Torpe trudged up the stairs to his sizable New York loft slowly, in no particular rush to get home. It had been a long and trying day, and anyway, there would be no one at home waiting for him. Not even a dog, Torpe thought bitterly, wondering exactly how his life had come to be such a lonely existence. He used to be someone once…

When he reached the second floor, the businessman's mood was lightened significantly at the arrival of a package he'd been expecting, which his landlord had left for him by the door to his apartment on the complex's third floor. He didn't need to inspect the package; he already knew what it was, and his eyes lit up with the realization.

Raleigh's Box.

Perhaps there wasn't someone waiting for Torpe, but there was something worth coming home for. Robert rushed over and scooped up the box, fumbling with his door key to get the apartment open.

Torpe slammed the door shut behind him and sat down in his expensive, trendy leather couch. Everything in Torpe's apartment matched. He was a man who prided himself on his materialistic decorations – an obsession which cost him any manner of romantic or friendly social life.

If anyone ever saw the inside of Robert Torpe's apartment, they would have seen a wide range of ancient artifacts dealing with the mystical and the occult. They adorned the shelves of his living room, the table in his kitchen, and even the walls of his bedroom. The artifacts, an impressive collection Torpe had been diligently collecting for over half of his 46 years, were the primary reason he lived by himself in the loft, and the were most likely the result of not having a family to support. Robert Torpe was a collector, not a dealer.

That's where Raleigh's Box came in. Torpe had paid upwards from $20,000 for the relic, and he cursed the landlord for leaving such a priceless item standing in the open for anyone to walk up and steal, but in his excitement to examine the artifact, he let his anger slide. Besides, no one ever came by Torpe's apartment anyway. It was unlikely anyone would happen by, and even if they did, anyone who opened the package would likely be too ignorant to realize the Box was worth more than they made in a year.

Torpe pried the cardboard package open with a letter opener he kept laying on his trendy coffee table with the stylish lamp upon it. Removing the outside package as carefully as he could, Torpe pulled out the packaging and lifted the Box before his eyes. The businessman gazed at the artifact with silent awe as he examined its sharp, intricate designs etched into the surface. The Box was only about three inches square. The lid, which attached to the base with thin iron hinges, was adorned in its center with a fiery, red eye, which seemed to watch Torpe warily as the man ran his fingers over the Box, almost not believing its genuineness.

"It's mine." Robert Torpe's chuckle was one of amazement and awe, with only a hint of greed snuck in. The red eye observed him as Torpe's fingers found the latch, a small miniscule button, and hovered over it for the briefest of moments, as if hesitating, then Torpe pressed the button.

At once, Torpe's world exploded into a terrible blast of blinding white light. The explosion was followed immediately by a series of images, a blitzkrieg of awful, painful visions.

In his trendy New York loft, Robert Torpe gasped, almost choking on the intensity of the sudden terror. For the next few moments he was lost in his mind, assaulted by the terrible images which flashed through it, each lasting only a fraction of a second, but each leaving a distinct impression in his soul.

So much pain… visions of death, blood, pain, anguish, all in Torpe's memory… a woman being raped… a child screaming as he watched his parents die horribly… a gun being fired… a building exploding… screams, hateful eyes… and death – so much death… Would it ever end?

Even though Torpe felt miles away from reality, he knew, in his subconscious, that every one of these premonitions was real. Whether it had already happened, was happening at that moment, or was going to happen in the near future, Torpe knew it was all reality.

And like that, the vision ended.

Abruptly and without warning, the premonitions disappeared. Robert Torpe found himself still sitting on his trendy couch in his lonely New York loft, holding – no, gripping – Raliegh's Box in his clenched hands. He released his grip on the Box, careful not to let it fall to the ground, and set it down, suddenly becoming aware of the fact that he was sweating profusely. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his suit jacket and looked around the loft, as if trying to confirm that he was in his own home, and not out there, in the harsh streets where all the events he'd witnessed had no doubt taken place. Confirming his location, and trying to keep his sanity in check, Torpe swallowed once and stood up, taking one last glance at the Box before he left the room to lie down in his bedroom.

The red eye was still staring.

A shudder went through his system and impulsively, Torpe hastily placed the Box back into the package it had arrived in, covering it with packing paper so that none of it could be seen. He put the Box away in the cabinet under his television set and cleared off the table of all evidence that had remained of the artifact, but even as he was walking away down the hall toward his bedroom, he still could not shake the violent, inexplicable images he'd just experienced, and he still could not shake the feeling that somehow he was being watched…

Torpe stopped into his bathroom on the way, opening his medicine cabinet without glancing at the mirror. He reached for his depression medication and removed the lid. He was supposed to take two pills a day, one in the morning when he got up, and one when he got home from work. He had already taken the morning pill, but nonetheless he poured two out onto his palm and swallowed them with a glass of water, thinking that at the very least it couldn't hurt.

Slamming the cabinet door shut, Torpe was confronted with his own visage, shocked at how much more haggard he already appeared. Staring blankly at his reflection, Robert Torpe blinked and wiped both hands over his face, but the harsh edginess of his features did not lessen in the least.

Four days later, Robert Torpe was dead.

TBC…