Waiting Game Chapter 28, a boondock saints fanfic

o()o

Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to everyone who is sitting at home on this fine Saturday afternoon, bored out of their skulls, wishing there was something good on TV. I feel you, guys, I really, really do.
Nifty Fact for the day: Yer wan (or yer one) is a term that means 'your woman'. It can also mean 'that woman over there', but for the sake of the story, Connor is calling Danae Murphy's woman.

o(28)o

Smecker just couldn't figure it out. He had spent the last day and a half harassing Townsend, only to have the detective tell him that he had never seen Croghan's report, that it had never come through the disposal area, but instead must have somehow slipped through the cracks.

But Smecker knew better. 47 kilos of cocaine didn't just slip through the cracks of anything. Something had happened to that drug shipment. When he told Townsend as much, using Croghan's report as added ammunition against the rookie's expected lies, Townsend had taken one look at the file and given it back to him.

"There's no stamp on this, which means that it was never filed with us." He dark haired man had said.

"So explain to me where 47 kilos of cocaine went, then wiseguy."

Townsend had shrugged dismissively. "Maybe there's another report somewhere that was done right."

But that was bullshit and they both knew it. Something had happened to those drugs between Croghan's perfectly detailed report and Townsend's desk at the incinerator. Shit like that didn't just disappear. But Townsend insisted that he was telling the truth and Smecker was back at square frigging one.

Now, sitting in bed, dark satin sheets puddling in his lap, Smecker frowned as the mystery nagged him, plaguing his mind and keeping him from drifting off to sleep. He hated it when things didn't make sense. One of the reasons he had become an agent was because he loved the feeling that came along with solving a case. Nothing was more satisfying than lining up the details and creating a perfect, rational, picture of exactly what happened.

Which sure as hell wasn't happening this time, no friggin' joke.

Beside him, Nigel slumbered soundly, having drifted off even before the sweat from their tryst had dried, and Smecker glanced over at the other man, debating on waking him for another bout, or as many as it took until he could sleep.

With a sigh he rejected the idea, Nigel was an artist in the sack, there was no doubt about it, but Smecker couldn't stand the look in the man's eyes, indifferent and detached, it reminded him too much of himself.

Untangling himself from bronzed limbs and satin sheets he reached for the remote, clicking the television to life and smiling when Pulp Fiction flickered onto the screen.

He would lick the floor of a gas station men's room before he admitted it, but Pulp Fiction was one of his favorite flicks. Oh, the things he would do to John Travolta given the chance.

Leaning back, he allowed the sight and sounds of the movie to wash over him in a soothing wave, distracting his beleaguered mind and easing the stress that he had come to identify with a difficult case. After several minutes, Jules' voice filled the bedroom.

"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee."

Nigel stirred slightly at the words, turning away from Smecker and making a sleepy noise of distress, Smecker watched him with mild interest, wondering what ghosts haunted the Asian man's dreams.

Reaching for a cigarette and the file resting on his nightstand, he took a deep drag and opened the file to where he had left off. Staring at Croghan's spiky handwriting, rereading words he almost knew by heart, he kept coming back to the same questions.

Where the hell could 47 kilos of cocaine disappear to? What were the Street Priests doing trafficking cocaine to begin with? 47 kilos was just shy of one million dollars worth of drugs, and while that was no paltry sum, it was hardly worth the amount of men that had been killed at the first scene or the Street Priest's violent retaliation toward the Saints. Now if it had been 47 kilos of Absolution . . .

Smecker blinked as the notion hit him full force, 47 kilos of Absolution would be worth a hell of a lot more on the street. It would easily merit everything that had happened, but Croghan had said it was cocaine, the report said it had been cocaine and so had the disposal report.

The disposal report that had never been filed, one that had somehow just slipped through the friggin' cracks.

Frowning, Smecker flipped back through the file, reading the dates of all the reports. The earliest one had been filed in late spring when Croghan had taken over the Street Priests case. A few months later there was a report describing how the detective's previous partner had died, gunned down by one of the gangmembers who just happened to escape, along with the rest of the gang.

Something was wrong here.

Croghan was a good cop: smart, detailed, thorough, capable, and meticulous about everything that he did. It was inconceivable that some thug could blow away his partner of 15 years without him getting even the slightest physical description, and yet that's just what appeared to have happened.

The more Smecker read the details of the file before him, the more things appeared that seemed slightly off. Everything kept coming back to Croghan.

Oh, yeah, something was very, very wrong here.

o()o

Connor was worried about Murphy.

It was ritual to have at least one smoke break during any movie they watched, usually when Murphy got so restless for a fag that Connor couldn't stand him anymore. But this time his twin had been uncannily still through the picture, eyes heavy. He had shaken his head when Connor had offered him a cigarette, opting instead to stretch out wearily across the sofa, filling the spot his brother had just vacated, a throw pillow held to his chest.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cold night sky, Connor turned and glanced back inside the apartment through the patio door. He could see his brother sprawled out on the sofa, sleeping again, and frowned.

For as long as Connor could remember, Murphy had never needed more than a few hours of sleep at a time. It was nothing for only three or four hours of rest to recharge his boundless energy, leaving him ready to face the day. Since their mission, however, Murphy had done little more than sleep. Add to that the constant headache he had, at times even bad enough to call a migraine and Connor had good reason for concern.

Murphy never complained, never said much about it actually, but Connor could see the pain in his brother's eyes and it worried him.

Stubbing out the last of his third cigarette, (or was it his fourth?) and stepping back inside, he paused in front of the TV, watching whatever was playing. He vaguely remembered the movie, but couldn't place the actor as his voice filled Danae's living room.

Shaking his head, Connor gave a derisive snort. "S'not even the real fuckin' passage, he murmured quietly. "Fuckin' Hollywood."

He walked over to the sofa, stopping to smooth his brother's hair back, torn between rousing him and letting him rest.

Murphy's brow furrowed and he stirred slightly. " Conn?"

"Hey. How're ye feeling?" asked Connor, softly.

Sitting up slowly, Murphy mashed a hand against his unbruised eye, rubbing. "Mmm . . . Do I have ta answer that right now?"

Seeing Connor's troubled look he recanted his words, offering his brother a crooked smile. "I could go fer a fuckin' smoke, but other than that I'm fine."

"Headache?" Connor asked, reaching for the aspirin bottle on the end table, an action he had repeated time and again over the last week.

Murphy reached out, placing a warm hand over his. "No, I'm okay."

"Yer head doesn't hurt?"

Rolling his shoulders and cocking his head from side to side, Murphy grinned at him, "Nope."

"Thank fuckin' God." Connor didn't mean for the words to slip out, or the sigh of relief, but somehow they escaped from him, making his brother chuckle.

"Ye're such a fuckin' worrywart."

"I am not!" Connor protested, feeling a grin of his own tugging at the corners of his mouth, maybe Murphy would be okay after all.

"Ye are so; if ye keep it up like ye are, I'm goin' ta have ta start callin' ye 'Ma'," Said Murphy, his eyes sparkling and mischievous.

"Fuck off, Murph."

Grinning, Murphy got to his feet, dipping into Connor's coat pocket for a cigarette. "What time is it anyway?"

Connor chuckled, picking up the meaning behind his brother's words. "It's not time for her ta be home yet, ye've got a couple more hours."

"If she'll fuckin' speak ta me." For a moment, Murphy looked so despondent that Connor couldn't help but reach out and pat his arm affectionately.

"Let's go and grab somethin' ta eat and see if she'll have her lunch with us, you know, ta celebrate yer brain bein' okay and all.

"There's never been anything wrong with me fuckin' brain, ye eejit," said Murphy, brightening as he rose to his brother's bait.

"That's fuckin' debatable." Connor muttered, grinning as he dodged his brother's hand.

"Fucker," Murphy said good-naturedly. "But it's a good idea ye have there, we can grab those sandwiches she likes at the all-night deli, the ones with the salami."

Despite his best intentions, Connor made a face at the thought. It was just one more thing Danae had in common with his brother, their love of disgusting food combinations. At least Danae's didn't involve pickles and onion, he thought grimacing.

Grabbing his brother's jacket, Connor tossed it to him. "C'mon, let's go see yer wan."

o()o

The emergency room was complete chaos. There were several police cars parked there and many of the night staff milled around outside with the quiet numbness that comes with being struck by tragedy.

Connor and Murphy exchanged a worried glance, turning as one to scan the crowd for Danae.

"She's not fuckin' out here." Murphy said, bringing his thumb to his mouth, eyes flicking from face to face, searching.

"Maybe inside."

Carefully weaving their way around the clusters of cops taking statements, they came to the front desk only to find someone that wasn't Danae sitting there.

"Can I help you?" she asked quietly, shooting a worried glance over toward the rooms.

"What happened here?" Connor asked and the girl shook her head, short blonde hair fluttering around her face.

"Someone attacked one of our nurses." She said succinctly and Connor got the impression that she wasn't supposed to talk about whatever had happened. "Do you need to be seen?" She asked, her tone softening a little, her expression apologetic.

"You're still seeing patients?" Murphy's voice was incredulous.

"The ER can't close; we have to be able to see patients no matter what. Can I get your name, please? I can't register you without it."

"We don't fuckin' need ta be seen." Murphy said, his voice rising, and Connor put a soothing hand on the back of his twin's neck.

"We're just looking for the night lass." He said, offering the girl an apologetic smile. "Danae."

The girl shook her head. "I just started and don't really know anybody by name yet. But there was nobody here when they called me in."

Exchanging a glance with his brother, Connor nodded, already turning away from the desk. "All right, thanks anyway."

"Sure." She said, smiling wanly at them. "Hey, wait! You said Danae right?"

They turned back to face her, "Yeah, so?" Murphy said.

"Are you her family?"

Murphy opened his mouth to speak, but Connor beat him to it. "Aye." He said. "We are."

"There's something here for you." She held up an orange manilla envelope. "Isn't that a funny coincidence?"

Taking the envelope, Murphy frowned as he read the hastily scribbled words on the front. Pressing a hand against his twin's lower back, Connor leaned in to read the words over his shoulder.

To the Family of Danae Pierce.

"We're the next best thing." Connor said softly to his brother.

Hands shaking, Murphy tore open the large envelope, looking inside. "Oh my god." He gasped, the blood draining from his face.

Connor barely had time to reach out, supporting his brother as Murphy took a stumbling step backwards, knees buckling, making a noise in the back of this throat like he might be sick.

"Murph?" when his brother didn't reply, Connor wrapped an arm around him, leading him away from the desk, feeling his twin trembling violently. "Murphy, what the fuck?"

Swallowing, running a hand through his hair, Murphy dropped into one of the waiting room chairs and held the envelope toward Connor, pressing his other hand against his lips.

As Connor reached to take the package, their fingers brushed and he noticed that Murphy's normally warm hands were cold as ice.

Looking inside the envelope, Connor felt his stomach constrict in a nauseating heave and understood his twin's reaction, certain he was doing something similar.

Inside was a huge chunk of long dark hair, coiling around itself like a sinister snake, and a bracelet he had seen several times around Danae's wrist.

The bracelet Murphy had lost the night of the mission.

"They've fuckin' got her." Murphy choked out, his voice muffled by his fingers. "Connor, they fuckin' took her."

Reigning in his turbulent emotions, Connor drew in a deep breath. He had to be the one to keep it together. He had to be strong for his brother. Had to be strong for Murphy.

"Aye." He whispered, blotting suddenly damp palms on his jeans. "But we'll find her and we'll get her back."

Looking inside the envelope again, fighting the sickening feeling twisting around his heart at the sight of her hair, Connor pulled out the bracelet and was surprised to see a small scrap of paper caught in the silver wire.

It took a moment to work up the nerve to unfold that scrap of paper, and as he did he was aware Murphy crying quietly behind him, Connor knew that to onlookers his brother appeared composed and stoic, but he could feel nearly imperceptible hitches in his twin's breathing and detect the tiny anguished noises Murphy was making under his breath.

Written on the scrap of paper there was a single word, scribbled in the same hasty handwriting as the envelope.

Wait.

o()o