DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing, ready and able to stage a coup.
NOTES: I've only been working on this for six months now. The upcoming premiere motivated me to get it done! Oh and the police work and forensics is incredibly unrealistic, I know. Call it creative license which, were I being paid for this, I wouldn't do, but given I'm not…well, do the math.
DEDICATION: Those of you who so kindly feedback my stories. I appreciate it tons and tons. J/W fans will like the way this one turns out – after a lot of twists. Scout's honor!
I Know You're Out There Somewhere: Somewhere You Can Hear My Voice
The night Jordan had left Staunton, she'd hiked to the truck stop on the interstate, about three miles away. The walk had been long and cold, but worth it in the end, when she managed to hitch a ride with a trucker heading west. Her luck held out long enough for the trucker to prove to be the silent type. He didn't ask questions, beyond "Where ya' headin'?" and he didn't even seem inclined to ask for any sort of favor in return for the ride.
She let herself get a little sleep, waking up as the sun was beginning to paint the sky behind them. She bit back a sigh, remembering where she was. And why. She cursed herself for getting too comfortable, for staying way too long in one place. The false sense of security had been ripped away like that proverbial band-aid covering some wound. She refused to be lulled again, even by the silence of the man doggedly driving the big rig. He didn't protest when she decided to leave his taciturn company in Indianapolis.
The Crossroads of America.
Jordan smiled sourly to herself. Her options were wide open. North, south, west… not east, of course, but she could box all the other compass points. Maybe north… maybe Kewaunee, Wisconsin. Learn something about the small town that had made Woody Hoyt who he was. Maybe south, into the heart of Dixie. She could adopt a Southern accent and go walking in Memphis. Maybe west. So many choices there. The dry, desert southwest. It would be warm and hell, if she went to Arizona, maybe none of the retirees would be able to see or hear well enough to realize she was the fugitive with her picture on the post office wall. Or she could head out along the Pacific coast. Northern California, Oregon. Even Idaho. Maybe she could find a nice little commune where they'd think it was cool she was defying authority. She even let her thoughts run to Alaska. The moose wouldn't turn her in, right? What was the ratio of single women to men up there? She could find some guy, get married, have a few kids. No one, but no one, would ever look for Jordan Cavanaugh to be the soccer mom in the Christmas card photo. Great cover.
Two weeks of this? Of being inside her own head, unable to e-mail Nigel, not knowing what, if any, progress was being made. Of having no one to talk to, to trust, even in the littlest bit. She wondered when – not if - the moose would start looking like a good option.
With a sigh, she stuck her thumb out again. She'd head further west. Somewhere big enough to blend in, but small enough people wouldn't think to look for her. Hopefully.
XXXXX
"Was your friend able to help you?"
Nigel looked up at Bug. "Yeah. Yeah, he really was."
"Plan on telling any of the rest of us?"
"Not yet." The Brit raised a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "Look, right now I'm the only one with all the pieces. I'm the only one Walcott or Detective Simmons can touch. It's better for everyone if it stays that way."
Bug shook his head slowly, not in disagreement, but frustrated acknowledgment. "Well, I've got another piece for you."
Nigel's face lit up. "The dress?"
His colleague nodded. "That new technique is a bit tricky, but quite useful."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I was able to analyze the blood on the dress and determine that there was no splatter at all." He arched one eyebrow. "Also, no tissue or anything else you should find if she'd been close enough to shoot him."
"I knew it!"
"Nigel, you don't even know if this new procedure will stand up in court," Bug admonished.
"Court? It's not going to get that far." The criminologist turned back to his laptop screen. No one had said hacking into the Pentagon's website would be easy. Vital, yes; a walk in the park, no. But he needed the names of men – they would probably all be men – who would have the kind of security clearance to be able to get their hands on Thor's Hammer. He had the how and it was going to lead him to the who. After that, he didn't know how much he cared about the why, just so that Jordan could come home.
XXXXX
Woody hunched over Jordan's desk, reading Bug's report on the dress. Re-reading it, really. Re-re-reading it. He sighed. He knew the information was good news for Jordan, but he wasn't sure he understood the technology behind it and he wanted to. He wanted to be able to explain at least a part of it for the inevitable confrontation with Lu, with Renee, with his own captain. He took a deep breath and began again.
"Want a translation?" Garret stood in the doorway.
Woody shook his head. "How do you guys make sense of all this?"
Macy shrugged. "It's kind of like learning another language. After a while, it doesn't seem difficult."
"Yeah? Well, right now I feel like one of those dumb tourists who go around speaking louder when they're in some foreign country thinking that might do the trick, you know?" He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Is it really going to help her?"
The M.E. walked into Jordan's office and closed the door. He sat down. "Yeah, Woody. It's going to help."
"What if – What if you have to take it – you know…?"
Garret arched an eyebrow. "Into court?" He shook his head quickly. "It's a new process. We probably wouldn't have much chance of getting it in, but that's not what we're aiming for here, Woody."
"I know." His eyes clouded. "I'm just – I'm trying to be realistic, Dr. Macy. Everything we – Lu and the D.A. – everything they have is circumstantial, but from what I can tell, everything you guys have is, too. They don't always cancel each other out."
"No." Macy nodded. "No, they don't. We know the best way to clear Jordan is to find out who really did it. We're just following every little piece of evidence we can find."
His brows still knit together, Woody straightened up. He tapped the report. "Okay. Bug explained this to me, but… well… you know, he got kind of – well, a lot – technical."
The older man smiled. "The English version?"
"That'd be great."
Garret thought for a moment, trying to come up with a suitable analogy. "Have you ever done any painting or, maybe, I don't know, wallpapering?"
"Yeah. When we lived with my aunt and uncle. My aunt decided she wanted to repaper her kitchen. Man. That was a bitch. Pulling wallpaper off in little strips." He shook his head with the memory.
"Find anything under those little strips."
"Sure. Another layer of paper. And a third actually." Woody stopped. "What's that got to do with the dress?"
Macy smiled. "Each layer of wallpaper told its own story, right? Kind of when it was put up. How well it was put up. That sort of thing."
"I guess." Woody added a shrug.
"Well, what Bug did with the dress was like that. He took a section of the dress and used a chemical compound to bind the blood molecules in the stains. Only the compound he used was one that can be calculated to show different… layers. I don't want to get too technical-" he smiled "-but basically once Bug had established an age for the blood, he could adjust the solution he used to reveal an order as to how the staining occurred."
Woody narrowed his eyes, digesting this information.
Macy had another idea. He drew a pad of paper toward him and grabbed a thick, permanent marker. He made several splotchy marks on the surface. He then added a few wild streaks. He finished by coating the page with ink. Then he looked up.
Woody was nodding now. "The blotches…at first. That would be splatter. The streaks would be blood smears as maybe they fought a bit more… and the …the way you finished it…."
"That would be Pollack, bleeding out on her."
"Only, looking at that, all you see is the bleeding out."
"Right, Woody."
"But if we could – essentially – lift up the layers of ink you added…." He raised his eyes to Jordan's mentor.
"We'd see those things – the smears, the splatters, all of it."
Woody nodded. "They're not there."
Macy shook his head. "She didn't shoot him, Woody. She fired a gun, probably that bullet we found, but she was nowhere near him and we know the killer was pretty close to Pollack."
Woody allowed himself a smile. "It's good. You're right. It is good."
"It's not enough. We're working on it though. We've got a lot of pieces to the puzzle right now. We'll figure out what the picture is, Woody."
XXXXX
Jordan's eyes snapped open. She sat up, gulping air, heart thudding in dull fear. She pushed herself out of bed and hurried to the shower, turning it on full blast. She stepped under the hot stream, trying desperately to wash away the chill, slimy sweat coating her body, souring her hair. Only as the water began to run cold did she begin to feel clean – or cleaner.
Out of the shower, she paced, her immediate, visceral reaction attended to, she now needed her mind to go back, to show her again the images that had so shaken her. She needed to coax out last night's dream.
Five minutes later she already knew it was futile cooped up in the BelAire Motor Court in Thisbe, Kansas. She threw on running clothes, grabbed her room key and headed for the town park to run. She'd spent the last three days waiting tables at the local greasy spoon. They hadn't asked too many questions and she hadn't given away too much information, just accepted the pittance they offered. She knew she wouldn't be staying anyway. But for now it gave her a little right to be there. She was "Bill Wilson's new counter girl" and not a stranger possibly looking for a kid to abduct or a good place to stash drugs.
She ran around the park eight times, a distance of two miles. Her legs protested and her lungs burned as she slowed to a walk and eventually sat down on one of the benches. She rested her elbows on her knees and put her head in her hands, taking deep breaths, letting her pulse slow.
Time to leave the party. Time to … to whatever. Talk. More. Maybe.
In the corridor. Elevator's not here yet. But I ask.
Why are you really here, Pollack?
A smile, a finger brushing away hair from her cheek. Missed you, Cavanaugh.
Snort. Yeah. What's the real reason?
That is the real reason. Gazes locking, implacable, pleading on both sides. A sigh. All right. I'm also working on a story. I – I could use your help.
A nod, the small kind, the one that says I knew this was coming and I'm not hurt by it, I was ready for it. Except that's not true.
Cavanaugh! Come on.
You need my help.
I need you, if that matters.
Nothing. Trying to speak. Head buzzing. He reaches out and… I slap his hands away, angry, my pride hurt.
He keeps at it. Then we are in the elevator. The world is gray. There's a sound. Some creature is … what… sounds ill.
God. Me. It's me.
Come on, Cavanaugh. This isn't good.
Arm at my waist, holding me, half carrying me to the suite.
Door opens, already is open - ajar. No key.
Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrun!
See his eyes. Flash.
Hands pull at my shoulders, pull me back, pull me away. Stumble as heel breaks.
Eyes wide. Mine. His. Don't know. My name. He shouts my name.
Another sound and she dies, Pollack. Got that?
Nod.
Dragged back, almost to the wall. Barely standing. Can't see.
Pollack is behind the other one. They move. Toward the hall. Into. He blocks Pollack from me. Taller.
I hear it lowly. I see the man's arms… catch. He turns. Pollack, slumped.
That sound again. Mewling. Whimpering. God. Me.
I can't move. Not just – not just coz the other one…shake my head…clear damn you. Clear….what?
Gun. In my hand. Wrap my fingers around it.
I pull away but nothing happens. Muscles not taking orders from brain. Help. God. Help.
Trigger. I feel my finger around it. I feel the second man wrap his finger over mine. Pull.
Soft whistle. Silencer. Of course.
The first man has Pollack on the bed.
The second one… drags me…puts me…oh God. No. Pollack. No.
They are talking. Words don't – don't mean….
Water. Runs.
God. They're going to clean it all up.
It'll look like….
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo
She took steady breaths, shaking all over again. Yeah, that was it; that was the dream. Being awake and having it all come back to her didn't do much to improve her reactions. But it could improve her chances of returning home. She stood up on trembling legs and headed for the convenience store on the corner.
Back in her room, she made quick notes, as if the images might flee or as if she could write out the horror, bleed it onto the paper, the faster the better. Whatever else it did, writing did calm her. She read over her notes and began to draw out what she believed had happened. Then she did something she hadn't planned on. It meant moving on from Thisbe, after four days when she'd hoped to get a week, but she didn't think anyone would see it coming and she had to do something.
She turned the page in the notebook and began writing anew.
END Part Five