Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan.
Note: First, I was soo lazy. Then, when I sat down, this just didn't want to be written. In the end, I won. Hopefully.
Thanks a million to:BugFan4Ever, Velms, NCCJFAN, Sakura kaze fuku, Mexwojo, ruth609 and Pandorea! Thanks to creativequeen and TVholic29, as well, but I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me why you liked it.
"Here it is." Seely pulled out a sheet from his rather thick folder filled with missing persons reports. "Judith Thomas, thirty-nine," he parroted what Garret had already told them a minute ago, when he got a dental match. "She went missing in February. But get this," he couldn't resist making a brief dramatic pause, even in the given circumstances, "she was a secretary at Boston Tribune."
"That's it," Woody said more to himself than to anybody else, "I'm bringing that guy in. Got the address yet, Nige?"
"In a sec," feverishly, the Brit pressed enter a few more times. As a result, the personal data of a William Patrick Douglas appeared on the screen and the detective wrote the address down to his ever-present pad.
"Okay, Nigel and Bug, go with Seely and process Jordan's car, four hands work faster than two." Woody started organizing their little group. "Dr. Macy," he turned to Garret, "you could call Ms. Wolcott and see if she could help us with the warrant. I doubt we'll get one since we don't have much 'real' evidence and since it's Sunday night and, frankly, I couldn't care less. I'm not gonna waste any more time. I'm going to visit Douglas."
As he strode decisively to the door, Matt Seely stopped him in his tracks.
"No." He was resolute, as well. "You go with Nigel and Bug," he said, ignoring Woody's glare. "I'll go to the suspect. You're far too involved and you losing your temper is the last thing we need."
"I'm beginning to lose my temper right now," Woody retorted, daggers flying from his eyes. "Get out of my way, Seely. Now. Or, I swear-" he started menacingly.
The redhead detective didn't seem affected at all, so Macy intervened.
"I agree with Seely," he told them. The statement earned him the looks of disbelief on both men's faces. "But I know that you'll go anyway," he addressed Woody, "so I'll come with you." He turned to Matt, whose half-smug facial expression was rapidly fading away: "Seely, you go with Bug and Nigel, so that everything is done by the book."
"You are a medical examiner," Matt Seely retorted matter-of-factly. "You don't conduct police investigations. If you wanna be a cop, do the test. Till then-"
"I don't give a crap what you'll do, Seely," Woody spat out. "If you don't want to go with them – fine. But don't waste any more of my time." He walked determinately past the other detective, his shoulder brushing against the unprepared Matt, who lost his balance for a moment. Dr. Macy closely followed.
"Fine," Seely said to the door. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He then turned to Bug and Nigel, who joined him after they packed their bags: "C'mon. Let's find something 'cause I've got the feeling that Hoyt won't get far with that guy."
Half an hour later, Woody pulled over in front of a nice pseudo-Georgian house in an upper-middle class neighborhood. Then he changed his mind and parked in front of the opposite house. As he and Garret hurriedly got out of the car, the older man snapped his phone shut.
"Renee says she'll make a couple of calls, but she's not very optimistic," Macy said while Woody rang the doorbell for the third time.
Finally, a woman in her late thirties opened the door, staring at them questioningly.
"Good evening," Woody addressed her, employing his friendly detective look. "I'm Det. Hoyt and this is Dr. Macy. He's with the ME's Office." He flashed his badge. "We're looking for Mr. Douglas. Is he at home?" He made his way into the hall, past the bewildered woman.
"My husband isn't here," Mrs. Douglas replied, looking from one man to another.
"But you won't mind us looking around a little, will you?" Woody asked casually, heading towards a door.
"Well, actually,…" the woman started, but the sound of a car stopped her. "It seems that Billy has arrived," she ran a nervous hand through her blonde hair.
"Swell," was the detective's reaction.
"By the way," Garret finally spoke, "I couldn't help but notice all those lovely flowers on your lawn. You're an avid gardener, Mrs. Douglas?"
"What?" She seemed distracted. "Oh, no, my husband is," she finally said with a smile.
At that moment, the front door opened and a tall, lean man let himself in. The question was written all over his face.
"Billy, they're from police," his wife hurried.
"Yes," Woody cut in, "we just have a couple of questions for you," the dimples appeared. "Like: how many have you killed?" he approached him threateningly. "Or: where's Jordan Cavanaugh?" he had him pinned to the wall now. "If you start talking right now, maybe they won't fry you. Would some friendly persuasion help?" he hissed in his face.
Garret, whose cell went off a few moments before, placed a soothing hand to the detective's shoulder.
"Woody, we've got the warrant," he said, almost inaudibly.
"I've been thinking about it," Seely said, getting into the car and slamming the door behind him. "Why change the MO? He left Moore's and Cohen's car where they were when he snatched them, right?"
"Because," Nigel retorted, "somebody would have noticed, wouldn't they? I mean, if Jordan's car had been parked here for two days. Just like they noticed Moore's."
"Yes," Matt agreed somewhat wearily, "I was asking for the sake of conversation."
Because of that sentence, he had to endure the shocked looks both his companions gave him. Seely had never been the one to make small talk. Nor to feel the urge to explain himself to others, for that matter. However, that was exactly what he started doing:
"It's weird, you know, when it's one of ours." He paused for a moment. "She is a piece of work, definitely. But she has spunk. You gotta respect that."
"Yes, you do," Nigel said quietly, feeling Bug's hand on his shoulder. The entomologist wanted to say something comforting like: "We'll find her," but he choked on the words. He wasn't in the least bit certain they would find anything in Jordan's car.
The rest of the drive passed in an oppressive silence. Maybe it would have been easier had they talked, occupied their minds with trivialities. However, none of them was able to gather enough strength to break free from the claws of the grim thoughts that had possessed them.
It took them good forty-five minutes to get to the auto graveyard. For some time, Nigel and Bug worked in silence, with Seely watching them. They found some bright red paint chips on the lock, but nothing else. Then Bug said - not exclaimed, because Bug didn't do such things - but the excitement in his voice was obvious, "I've got something." He showed them a short sand-colored hair before putting it in an envelope.
Woody was contemplating his next move. His quick search of Douglas's house hadn't given any results. He had sent the CSU there, but he didn't hold much hope, keeping their track record in mind. Bug and Nigel hadn't called yet. And this bastard who was sitting opposite him in the box seemed mildly amused and completely unwilling to talk. Woody was certain that was his man - his cop instinct and experience were screaming: guilty, and he was indiscriminate about the means he was going to use to make him confess where Jordan was.
"Okay…" he started, when his cell rang. "This is Hoyt," glaring at the suspect, he went out.
As he listened to Nigel, he was getting angrier and angrier, looking at the photographer's sand-colored hair and wondering how many sadistic ways to kill the son of a bitch he could think of. "But not before he talks," he reminded himself.
"Thanks, Nige," he managed to utter.
"Woody, wait!" the criminologist practically yelled, afraid that the detective was going to snap his phone shut. "There's more. We found something that resembled bright red paint. The mass spectrometer showed it was some fancy nail polish."
Now Woody indeed snapped his phone shut as it hit him: the image of Mrs. Douglas running her blood red nails through her hair.
"Oh my God, they're in this together," he gasped out before rushing towards the exit. He only stopped by Det. Chandler, telling him a few words. Then he raced to his car, his heart in his mouth, dialing Nigel's number along the way.
Jordan took another swig from the paper cup beside the bed. Water was all she had tasted for the long two and a half days. She was trying hard not to think about what malnutrition could do to their baby.
"Macy is a fighter," she said, rubbing small circles across her belly, "aren't you, honey?"
During her captivity, Jordan had developed two routines. Talking to the baby when she was alone in the room was one of them. She had figured out that it might both distract her and do her child, of which she thought as of a baby girl with her hair and Woody's eyes and dimples, some good. She even named their girl.
"Well, your daddy will have to agree," she had told her then. "I mean, in the given circumstances… Though I've always been a big fan of Millie Hoyt." She chuckled, visiting the past for a moment. "We can name your sis Millie. But, so help me God, I'm not naming any of your brothers after presidents… Ooh, you see, Macy? A few days ago I thought I'd never have any kids and here I am now, planning a soccer team. You sure know how to cast spell on people, kiddo… Anyway, your uncle Garret will be… Wait: uncle Garret or grandpa Garret?" She smiled, musing over the question for a couple of moments. "Hm, let's sweep his feelings under the rug and call him your grandpa. For, God knows it won't be easy to find your grandpa Max. But your uncle Nigel will eventually find him. He's like a wizard. Only with a computer… Have I told you about uncle Nige yet? Yes? Then, what about your cousin Maddie, huh?"
The second routine was something that she had been practicing when she was a little girl, still a bit afraid of her dentist. Whenever he would drill or do God knows what else, she'd think of something nice. Now she was trying to do the same. Whenever her torturer, a beautiful woman with a cruel smile and a cold voice, would slap her across the face or put out another cigarette on her arm, she would close her eyes, going back to baking cookies with her grandma, singing with her mom, cheering at Fenway with her dad, sharing a drink with Garret after their shift, laughing with Bug and Nigel at Beef 'n' Brew, kissing Woody in the Mojave Desert. Occasionally, she would sneak into the future: Woody's I-just-got-all-I-ever-wanted-for-Christmas face upon finding out about the baby, shopping with Lily for baby supplies, her dad's return.
Jordan was both grateful and confused after reaching the conclusion that she had been using the first trick – talking to the baby – much more often than the second one. The woman would come rarely – only two times a day, and she wouldn't be as violent as expected – Jordan had only earned a couple of bruises, a torn lip (thanks to the woman's disgusting ring) and quite a number of burn marks.
However, the last time the golden-haired had paid her a visit, Jordan learned the reason behind her behavior.
"Don't worry, bitch." She gently brushed off the hair from Jordan's face, the hair that had ended there when she hit her. "Billy is coming from Atlanta tonight. We'll have a real fun tomorrow," she put her cigarette to Jordan's shoulder. "I can promise you that," Jordan heard her say, as she was doing her best to swallow tears and think about her and Woody in the Pogue, dancing to 'Devil or Angel.' With that, the woman untied Jordan's right arm so that she could reach the cup, and headed for the ladder, leaving her more apprehensive than ever.
Now, on Sunday night, slumber was claiming Jordan. She embraced it. It was a more than welcome relief. For the last couple of hours, she couldn't even talk to Macy. She couldn't bring herself to do it. All she could think about was the following morning. That Billy, whoever he was, was coming. And, in all probability, he was going to come before Woody. She dozed off with a prayer on her lips.
As soon as she closed her eyes, or so it seemed, something that sounded like opening of the little ceiling door startled her. Her heart started beating wildly.
"No! No, it's not morning yet! It can't be." She tried to encourage herself.
Nevertheless, the ominous sound was repeated and she saw a shadow climbing down the ladder. When the person in question turned on the light, she saw it wasn't Billy. It was the woman again. It was the strangest feeling, but relief flooded her.
It didn't last long, though. For, the woman approached her and cuffed her, untying her left arm from the bed afterwards. Then she unceremoniously pulled her from the bed. Jordan stumbled and fell to her knees. After more than two days of lying on that bed, her legs weren't listening. The woman pulled her up using her hair.
"C'mon, bitch," she whispered threateningly. "We're going for a ride."
Jordan didn't miss the fact that she was holding a gun. Although her body wouldn't listen, her mind was racing. There were two possibilities: either Billy had decided not to come here, so the woman was taking her to him, or – her heart jumped – somebody was coming, so she needed to get her out. Either way, she was not going to make it easy. She wouldn't go like some lamb to the slaughter. And, in case that somebody was indeed coming, she was going to stay here as long as she could.
More hair pulling and slapping ensued, but Jordan wouldn't give in. She was giving as much resistance as she could. Most of the time, she was on her knees and the woman was dragging her across the floor. She felt her blood soaking her jeans and her skinned knees hurt so bad she wanted to scream, but she wouldn't surrender. After a time, the golden-haired got bored with her disobedience. She was in a hurry and needed to get over with this as soon as possible. She raised her hand, the one with the gun. Jordan wasn't quick enough. Before her head hit the floor, she felt the warm blood from her broken nose fill her mouth. She also heard something that her exhausted mind classified as a gunshot.
When he would later think about it, he couldn't remember anything clearly. Everything that followed the moment when he aimed at and shot Mrs. Douglas's arm was blur. He was holding Jordan, whose body felt limp in his arms. His shirt was drenched in her blood. A voice in his head was telling him she was dead and another one was screaming that all this was a big fat nightmare.
At some point he became aware of the people who had crowded the room. He saw a paramedic attending the blonde monster while some big guy (detective Chandler, as he later found out) was eyeing them. Then two paramedics approached him, pulling Jordan – gently, but decisively – from his embrace.
"You need to let her go, sir," one of them said. "We'll take care of her."
"Let go, Hoyt," a familiar voice said. And he obeyed, not grasping why.
When he made a move like he was going to follow the paramedics, one of them said firmly,"No." Just a 'no' and nothing else. And he again obeyed, again not grasping why.
Everything was so out of the freaking joint. He wasn't able to do anything but sit there, on the floor, in Jordan's blood, tears slowly forming in his eyes, somebody patting his back. When, after a time, he turned around to see who that was, he couldn't help himself. He chuckled hysterically. It was Matt Seely. The world had really gone round the bend.
And another note... : Further explanations will ensue.