Chapter 20
A Painful Welcome
Lane thought she'd been dreaming, when she'd gotten the call. She wasn't a childish person by any stretch of the imagination, but she'd come this close to pinching herself to make absolutely sure that she wasn't. Nobody in her situation would've blamed her. How could they, when eight months had passed and faith that C.C. Babcock would ever be found alive was starting to fade away?
To be told – and have it confirmed, through a sergeant in her department who'd taken the call from the hospital – that she was and that that hope hadn't been in vain was more sobering than an entire pot full of coffee. She'd had to see the producer for herself. Of course, she had to be there as the head of the investigation, but also because she just had to see the woman who'd clearly managed to survive eight months being held captive somewhere!
She'd see her. Then they could ask her everything she knew, and (once and for all) they'd catch that bastard like a rat in a trap...
The thought of finally bringing the pig to justice was probably what made her speed up a little as she approached and pushed her way through the hospital doors, marching with purpose towards the receptionist's desk and flashing her badge.
It was so hard to believe that under an hour ago she'd been fast asleep in her husband's arms. He'd insisted on running her a bath, setting out pyjamas and making her cocoa, before they curled up in bed, warm, safe and protected from the awful weather outside...
She also thought he might've done it to make sure what had happened at Christmas didn't happen again. He didn't want her burning herself out, or feeling like a failure. He wanted her to feel appreciated, and she adored him for that.
She'd adore him even more, once this case was over and done with. And the next part of that was a mere stop at the reception away.
"Chief Detective Christine Lane, NYPD. I'm here to see Miss C.C. Babcock."
The young woman didn't even question her – by that stage, every member of staff knew about the missing producer having crawled into the hospital, half-dead and only in her pyjamas. Practically everyone had wanted to get a glimpse of the woman most of New York had believed dead.
Upon arrival, her injuries had been treated with outmost care – all of her doctors had agreed that, had she arrived a few minutes later, she wouldn't have survived. They had stabilised her and left her to rest, keeping a close eye on her. The call to the police hadn't come long after that.
As such, when Lane walked through the doors and demanded to see the producer, the receptionist could only oblige.
"Of course, Detective," said the receptionist, reaching over for the phone, picking it up and quickly dialling in an inside number, "I'll let Dr Langston know you are here. Please, head over to the ICU, the doctor will be expecting you there."
Lane nodded and thanked her, before spotting the sign that pointed in the direction of the ICU and following it down the corridor.
Intensive Care Unit. Even if for no other reason, being out for so long on a night like this one would be enough to see a person wind up in one...
If they weren't dead, that was. She had to give Miss Babcock credit, both for being brave enough to attempt making it to a hospital on foot, in order to get help, and for being strong enough to actually make it there. Lane just hoped she was strong enough to pull through the rest. As soon as she was well enough to give statements, they were going to get everything down that they could.
God, it would feel so satisfying for her to name the bastard...!
The thoughts of everything to come had to be put away, however, when she turned a corner to head to the ICU. A woman in a white coat was stood there, by the door, a chart in her hands and a look on her face as though she'd been waiting.
Lane searched her recent memory, pulling the name out that the nurse had mentioned, "Dr Langston?"
The doctor nodded in confirmation, and headed over to shake Lane's hand, "You must be Detective Lane. Here to see our patient?"
"If she's ready for it," Lane replied.
Her own words made her frown. It was all starting to hit home, really. Chances were, the producer wasn't ready to speak and wouldn't be for a long time.
Dr Langston's reply only confirmed what she'd thought.
"Well, she hasn't spoken much. She's too weak, between the hypothermia and a case of severe undernourishment," she said. Then her countenance changed, to one which looked...sort of uncomfortable. "She's also extremely bruised, all over. We only really got the basics out of her. Including that she was sexually assaulted...more than a handful of times. Probably regularly, over the last eight months. She's with a nurse examiner right now."
Lane felt a blow straight in her stomach.
No wonder the bastard had been laughing at them all this time! He thought he'd gotten his own little plaything that nobody else was going to find, or even find out about! For eight whole months!
Well, he'd been wrong, even if he'd thought he'd won. And as soon as Miss Babcock got those words out that confirmed everything she'd been through (endured, for that length of time!), there would be a warrant out for his arrest so fast, it'd set a new world record!
She couldn't wait to see that smug face crack as it was hauled away and thrown behind bars. She'd hated the man enough before, but after this, she couldn't think of that arrogant scumbag with anything less than loathing.
He'd pay. For all the times he'd lied to their faces by claiming to be innocent, and for all the ways he'd hurt that poor woman for what must've felt like a never-ending nightmare, he would pay.
"Is she doing the Rape Kit on Miss Babcock?" asked Lane, shuddering a little at the thought of Miss Babcock having to endure such an invasive procedure so shortly after having escaped her abuser.
It was, of course, a necessary evil. As inconvenient and as uncomfortable as it might be, they needed the biological evidence to present in court. When it was over, she'd ensure Miss Babcock was as comfortable as she could be – she'd make sure she got home safely and was surrounded by her friends, family and a certain butler.
He was the first person she'd call, once the routine procedures regarding Miss Babcock's case were over. That included an array of medical, psychiatric and psychological tests, an assessment of Miss Babcock's emotional state and having her tell them who and what had been done to her.
It was going to be a very difficult and trying time for the producer, but all of the pain and discomfort would be worth it, once that bastard was locked up in jail. Lane had chased plenty of criminals before, but she'd never loathed one of them as much as she loathed Thomas. He was pure evil, and his sick machinations had resulted in a poor woman having to live through what could only be described as a nightmare.
"She is," said the doctor, pursing her lips and glancing over at Miss Babcock's room's door. "I must say – the emotional and physical damage is extensive. I have never seen…such…such…brutality."
Seeing the doctor so affected by it told Lane everything she needed to know about how bad it was. Dr Langston had to have seen almost everything, from car accidents to assaults and attempted murders, and yet this was the most brutal thing she had ever witnessed?
That really only made her more determined to get the bastard.
Thomas couldn't be allowed to get away with it, and he wouldn't as soon as they had everything they needed to confirm the sick acts and crimes he'd committed on that poor woman. He probably still thought he'd gotten away with it, or could get away with it – if he wasn't asleep, he had to know by now that his captive was missing.
But he wouldn't think that for long, if Lane had anything to do with it.
"Well," she began, steeling her insides and burning with hatred for the pig they were going to find and take down. "Then we're going to have to see her as soon as possible. We can't waste time and let the perpetrator get on the run."
She'd seen plenty of people trying to make a break for it before, and there had been quite a number who'd made it. But if this one got away…
Lane didn't like to think about it. Not if it meant letting a survivor feel unsafe because her attacker wasn't behind bars.
Of course, she was also sure a certain butler would want to stick close to her from now on and would probably protect her with his life, but she'd prefer him to not have to do that.
It was nearly an hour before the nurse examiner emerged from Miss Babcock's room, looking pale and like she needed a drink; it was easy to tell she was the bearer of terrible news .
"So, what have you found?" Dr Langston said to the nurse, fidgeting in her place. Then she gestured over at Lane, "This is Chief Detective Lane, by the way – she's in charge of Miss Babcock's case."
The nurse shook her head.
"We need to sit down – I need to sit down before sharing any of this with you."
Both Lane and Dr Langston shared a worried look – it really was that bad. Nurse Joanne was one of their most experienced Sexual Assault Nurse Examiners; she'd dealt with hundreds of rape cases over the years, overseen numerous tests performed on victims and carried out even more tests herself. She was, by general rule, someone capable of approaching a crisis situation with a sound mind. It took something truly horrible to faze her – as a matter of fact, Dr Langston couldn't remember the last time she'd seen the nurse so affected – and by the look of things she was shaken to the core.
Dr Langston quickly went and put an arm around Joanne. "The room next to this one's empty. Let's go there."
Joanne nodded faintly, letting her friend and co-worker guide her to the nearest flat surface, which happened to be an empty hospital bed. She was then given a small cup of instant hot chocolate (courtesy of the vending machine nearest to the entrance to the ICU) by Langston, before she and Lane sat on the two empty chairs directly in front of Nurse Joanne.
They didn't pressure her into speaking – it didn't take a genius to see that what she'd heard had clearly affected her – but eventually (and after taking a few good gulps of sweet, hot chocolate), she felt strong enough to recount what she'd heard from that poor woman.
"Miss Babcock was kept in an underground cell," began the nurse, trying hard not to let nausea overtake her (it had nearly happened while she'd listened to Miss Babcock retell the horror she'd been through), "She was starved, beaten regularly for what her captor considered misdemeanours, and, eventually, he started sexually abusing her. She'd be forced to clean, cook, iron – do every house chore imaginable with little to no food given to her! She was beaten into complete and total submission. She...she also told me that he last forced himself on her tonight, right before she escaped – she actually jumped off the roof to get away…"
Lane hadn't thought that she could feel any sicker than when she'd learned the vague outline of what Thomas had done. It turned out that she couldn't have been more wrong if she'd tried. It was taking the effort of every cell she had in her body to not throw up upon hearing the things that that bastard had done to Miss Babcock...
When she caught that... thing (he didn't deserve the status of "man"), it was going to take that amount of effort and several times more not to put a bullet through his skull!
No wonder the poor woman had jumped off the roof – the amount of desperation she must've felt had to be staggering. Anything to get away from that scumbag and all the things he probably would've ended up forcing her to do, as well as the things he was already making her do...
That was the wrong thing to think, really, because she started to feel the acidic bile making its way up her throat. Part of her wished that she could spit it all at Thomas – to show him just how awful he was, and how disgusted he made her feel. But they had to find him, before any of that could happen. And that was going to take talking to Miss Babcock.
And that, in turn, made Lane put her head in her hands. Interviewing survivors like this was never easy, but somehow this one felt even worse. Obviously, these things weren't a competition of who had the more nightmarish experience, but for once in her life, Lane wondered if she could actually go in there, sit down and talk with Miss Babcock without bursting into angry tears.
Or throwing up, which was still a distinct possibility.
"He never used any protection," continued the nurse, her voice cracking for just a second before she cleared her throat and forced herself to continue, "That's why I asked for a full panel of STD's to be performed on her. Luckily, she'd had an IUD fitted a few months before being…being abducted. That, and sheer darn luck kept her from falling pregnant."
Lane felt her stomach twisting into tight knots again – that utter bastard…
She could swear to God that, if it were up to her, that man would be dead before morning came. She'd do it personally, and she'd enjoy pulling the trigger and watching the life drain out of him. Regrettably, that was not something she was allowed to do, even if he more than deserved it.
Their priority was Miss Babcock – she had to be.
"Anything else I should know?" Lane rasped, head still in her hands.
"Her emotional state is fragile," replied the nurse, feeling just as shaken and as disgusted as both the detective and the doctor, "I want her to be seen by a counsellor as soon as possible, and it is my recommendation that she is given medication to help her sleep and cope with her anxiety. For the time being, at least."
That goes without saying, Lane would have liked to say – she doubted sleep would come easy to Miss Babcock in the immediate future after having endured the horrors that she had. She needed emotional and medical support. Urgently.
"Have you got the report ready?" Lane asked the nurse, finally looking up – she'd planned on interviewing Miss Babcock, but she would not make her recount any of what had happened to her again. It was unnecessary, and she wanted to let her rest.
"I…I have written everything down for you, Detective Lane," replied the nurse, handing over her notes to the police officer, "All the biological evidence has already been labelled and was sent to be analysed – I believe you will be able to get the results and the evidence in just a few short hours."
Lane nearly scoffed out loud at that. The next few hours were going to feel anything but short. And it would all be made worse by knowing that Thomas would eventually wake up, notice how long Miss Babcock had been gone, and realise that he had to get out of there before anybody came after him.
If it were up to Lane, she'd hunt him all her days and nights unto the ends of the Earth, but unfortunately her jurisdiction only covered New York. But they'd pass the information on to every department in every state that they could, just in case the bastard tried to skip more than just town. He wouldn't get away forever. It was something she kept telling herself. And if it came down to the real possibility that the scumbag had taken off, she'd tell it to Miss Babcock, too.
The woman deserved to know that she was safe, and that nobody was ever going to touch her like that again. Too many people were on her side, and would protect her before it could happen.
"Fair enough," said the detective, getting to her feet – she had heard enough as it was, and now she had to go and actually meet the woman she'd looked for during eight whole months. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I will see to Miss Babcock."
She turned on her heel with that, crossing the room in two big strides. But, just as she arrived at the door, she heard the nurse calling after her.
"Detective, wait!" said Joanne, getting to her feet as well.
"What is it?" replied Lane, her foot tapping impatiently against the ground. She really hoped that the nurse had something valuable to add, otherwise she'd have wasted precious seconds that could have been spent getting to Miss Babcock. She needed to hear her name the bastard who'd hurt her – only then would she be able to send her men chasing after him.
"Look, I…I gave Miss Babcock a sedative," said the nurse, pursing her lips, "She…she needed to rest, and as I said, given her emotional state it was more than obvious that sleep wouldn't come without a little help. I'd suggest you don't try to ask her any big questions right now; she won't be able to answer them coherently."
Lane groaned – well, that was just perfect, wasn't it? She didn't blame the nurse for having given C.C. a little help to fall asleep, but it had come at an inconvenient time! She had to pray to any and every deity out there for her to have the strength to tell her the name of the culprit, if nothing else.
"I won't," Lane said, "But now, I must hurry – thank you for all you've done!"
She rushed out without waiting for a reply, covering the short meters that separated her from Miss Babcock's room in mere seconds. She only slowed her pace to knock at Miss Babcock's door, which she gently opened, trying hard not to startle the producer.
"Miss Babcock, this is Chief Detective Christine La–"
The words skidded to a halt with her feet.
Oh, dear God…
If it hadn't been for having the right name, and the right room number, Lane would've sworn blind that the woman in the bed wasn't the woman she'd been looking for. Wasn't who'd she'd come to see, wasn't Miss Chastity-Claire Babcock. There must have been a thousand ways the woman in the bed didn't resemble the pictures she'd seen of C.C. during the case, and taking them all in at once staggered Lane mind, body, and soul.
Blankets and a new set of pyjamas were practically burying the C.C. she was seeing there in the room, and "buried" was exactly the word to use. There wasn't any other word to use when the woman in front of her could've been mistaken for a corpse! Her deathly pale and sunken face must've been complementing a skeletal frame underneath all that stuff they'd put on her and on her bed to stop her from freezing to death…
Practically the only reason, apart from extremely shallow breathing, that Lane knew she hadn't already gone was the fact that doctors didn't bother putting casts on the broken wrists of dead people.
Lane wouldn't throw up. Not this time. But she did swallow something unpleasant making its way up the back of her throat, and something in her mind told her if she'd been younger or had had less training, they would've been dealing with a puddle of that something on the floor as well as a horribly sick and abused patient.
The poor woman – what was there of her – was too weak to even sit up in bed...
Not that Lane really wanted her to sit up. The producer needed all the rest she could get, so as long as they could conduct the interview and get the bastard's name confirmed, Lane would be satisfied enough to let her get some sleep.
But first she had to swallow that hesitation she'd first had when she'd seen the condition Miss Babcock was in.
So, she cleared her throat and tried again, "I'm Chief Detective Lane. I'd like to ask you a few short questions, if you're feeling up to it?"
She wouldn't blame the woman if she wasn't – she couldn't tell if she'd even fully understood, given the sedative. But she knew she had to give it a shot.
They couldn't afford to waste time, if it could be spared.
"...'m sorry…?" mumbled the producer, lightly screwing her tired face, "Wha…who are you?"
"Chief Detective Christine Lane," repeated the officer, "I have been looking for you for the past eight months, Miss Babcock."
Lane held her breath as the producer's drugged (if tired) mind tried to make sense of what was being said to her. It almost felt like a losing battle, given how close she was to nodding off, but Lane had to keep trying. Again, she would not pressure her (she knew it would be counterproductive and could upset the producer, which was the last thing she wanted to do), but she would insist a little.
"…lookin' for me…?" slurred C.C., squinting in Lane's direction.
"Yes, we looked for you for a long, long time," said Lane, itching to come a few steps closer to Miss Babcock but deciding against it – she didn't know how comfortable she'd be with being in close proximity to another human being, considering what had happened. "Can you tell me where were you? Who took you?"
Again, silence. A long, tense silence. So much so Lane briefly wondered if Miss Babcock had finally fallen asleep. It was a more than frustrating notion, but one she had no choice but to accept, if that was the ca–
A sudden, anguished cry from Miss Babcock interrupted Lane´s train of thought and sent her into a panic – something was wrong with Miss Babcock, and most likely she'd caused it!
The feeling only worsened when the producer attempted to kick her covers off and to sit up.
"I…I gotta…gotta hide!" C.C. mumbled, frantically fussing with the sheets, which had tangled around her legs, "He's…he's comin' – he'll get me!"
A feeling quite like terror and guilt mixed together surfaced and spread in Lane's chest. She hadn't meant to make Miss Babcock upset, she'd just needed to ask!
But she couldn't let herself get into a panic, not when Miss Babcock was already in one! No matter what, she was still the priority!
She had to be, when that bastard was still out there somewhere, and the thought was clearly terrifying to the producer.
Lane had to do something, and fast.
She didn't want to try and grab at the producer – between her moving so quickly the detective could end up accidentally grabbing her broken wrist, and the fact that the producer was on the point of being so out of it that she could think somebody else was trying to restrain her. Getting it right was going to require more gentle tactics than just that, but it would still have to be done to stop her from getting up and ripping out her IV line...
Lane also spotted an opportunity to ask a very important question at the same time, which she was going to try and take.
"No one's coming right now, Miss Babcock," she said calmly and firmly, taking her as best she could by the shoulders to make sure the woman stayed in bed, before adding the question that could end it, once and for all. "Who do you think is coming?"
If she could just get her to say it – just to let the name out, even once, that would be enough to get on the phone and get her men moving out. They already knew where the bastard lived, they just had to go and pick him up...!
As long as he was still there. If not, they'd patrol the streets until they caught him. Lane didn't care how long it took, just as long as it got done! And all it would take were the correct two words from the producer's tired and drugged lips.
Tired and drugged lips that were rapidly becoming part of a completely tearful face...
"He's comin'! He'll be here and then...then he'll get me...!"
Trying not to groan with any amount of frustration (she'd gritted her teeth to stop it from happening), Lane tried again.
"Who is coming, Miss Babcock?" she asked. It was more productive than simply getting impatient with the producer for not answering.
The poor woman had been through enough already. But they were so close to finding out everything...!
"Who is coming?" she insisted. "If you tell me, I could help you find him before he finds you…"
Not that the detective would allow it – no, no one was going to get to this woman if she had anything to do with it. The only ones who would, were her family and friends. No more harm would come Miss Babcock's way, and that was a promise. She'd been through enough pain as it was, and Lane still felt incredibly guilty for what had been done to Miss Babcock. She'd beaten herself up over the fact that she hadn't been able to find her in all that time. It had taken the woman jumping off the roof in the middle of a snowstorm for her to come back home, and it was not thanks to Lane.
Miss Babcock had shown true nerve and an ironclad will to survive, and for that (and many more things) Lane had a deep admiration for the producer. She'd met formidable individuals before, but this one…
This one took the cake.
Still, Lane was not naïve – the road to recovery would be a long and difficult one, but she trusted Miss Babcock would be provided with all the support and resources she'd need to heal. And there was a very special butler who'd wanted nothing more than to find her again. He'd be the first person she'd call, once Miss Babcock had named the culprit. If she knew the man, he'd be there like a shot. But again, she first needed to say those ever so important words – two words that would allow her to apprehend the monster that had done this to her.
"Please, Miss Babcock!" insisted the detective, trying hard not to scream – Miss Babcock had already dissolved into tears; she didn't want her to be any more upset. "Tell me who did thi––"
"Thomas Jones!"
The noise – the name, finally spoken aloud – was followed a near-straight silence, broken only lightly by C.C.'s continuous sobs.
Lane had been hit by the name like she might've been hit by a car if she'd walked outside onto the street. But she'd done it. She'd finally gotten her to say the name! They'd done it, and they had their culprit! The bastard had finally been named, and Lane was looking forward to seeing that asshole standing up in court in front of a judge and jury like a little kid looked forward to Christmas morning.
But there were priorities, obviously – they had to catch him first. Now that they'd named him, all Lane had to do was make a call to get proceedings rolling. That would hopefully snowball into an arrest, the trial she longed to see and give evidence in, and a jail sentence that saw the bastard rot.
But she had to be patient for that. They all did.
And even before she could even get up to leave the room, she had to help C.C.. The producer was still sobbing, and that was the last way she wanted to leave her. Even if it did mean going to pick up the bastard who'd left her like this…
"It's good, Miss Babcock," Lane stopped holding onto her as quite as hard as she had been, and her voice got gentler. "It's all good – it's okay. I promise, it's okay…"
C.C. continued to sob, and Lane started to tuck the sheets around her.
"You did it; you told us who he is," she said. "That was really brave of you."
You wouldn't have had to have been in the room for more than a few seconds to know that the last thing C.C. clearly felt right then was "brave". But it didn't matter how or what she felt she was. She'd done a good job, and they weren't going to let her down by not doing a good job and not getting Thomas.
"And now it means that my men and I have to go do a brave thing," Lane continued. "And you're gonna stay here and get some rest. So why don't we just get you lying back down here and all tucked in…?"
She gestured and nodded a little towards where C.C. could lie down comfortably, and hopefully get the sleep she deserved and desperately needed.
The cogs visibly turned over in C.C.'s head, and Lane waited as she made a great effort to suppress the sobbing. It started to quieten down into sniffs and whimpers that fell out of her mouth, and eventually all of her must have decided that it was indeed safe to go. The sedative probably helped make up her mind a little.
Lane didn't let it show that that made her relieved. She just helped C.C. to get settled back in her bed, reassuring her all the way.
"That's it, Miss Babcock. You don't need to worry about a thing," she put the blankets up around C.C. the further she sank back down onto the bed. "You're safe here, there's people outside watching out at all times, so get some rest and we'll talk more about this when you're feeling up to it."
The producer didn't look entirely convinced, but between the sedative and having sobbed herself into exhaustion there weren't any other options. Her sniffing and whimpering had sighed away into nothing but ragged breathing now, and she set her head on the pillow and – with some worrying hesitation – closed her eyes.
Lane didn't stop watching until the breathing started to even out, becoming deep and slow. It was the last great relief when it finally did.
She had to take a moment to sit down – she perched on the side of Miss Babcock's bed and let her head hang down, arms resting comfortably on her thigs. She had a thick skin – ironclad, some would say – but this case had gotten under it. She was drained – emotionally so. But Miss Babcock was back. That's what mattered. She only had two more phone calls to make: to her men and to Niles.
Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back, delved into her pocket for her phone and quickly dialled in her lieutenant numbers – the moment she'd been informed about Miss Babcock having been found, she'd told him to have everything ready to dash to Thomas' house the moment C.C. said his name.
"Jeffords?" she barked into the phone, "Get moving – it was him."
Having set all that up already turned out to be a fantastic plan. Jeffords and the others waiting were raring to go get the bastard just as much as she was, and the conversation didn't have to last much longer after that.
The next call, Lane thought, was going to have a very different feel to it. But it would be a beautiful thing, to see Niles and Miss Babcock finally reunited, both safe and one recovering well. Not that she could sit there thinking about it. So, she looked back at her phone and dialled in a new number.