Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
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Chapter Ten: I Hate Everything About You (from the song by Three Days Grace)
Stupid, Vincent told himself. It had been stupid from second one. He'd gone in there half-cocked, half-crazy, like some idiot brash rookie.
But Callie had known. She'd known very well what was going to happen. And she'd saved her brother from him. He had to respect that.
He was screwed. There just was no other way to put it. He was completely, utterly screwed. He should cash in his chips and go home, just forget it. Callie's brother would protect her. He'd do anything to protect her, and she also had that doctor, and that bodyguard…
His mind flashed to the image of Callie's father. Something in him seemed to go dark at the very image of it being her. Although Rochester would do worse to her. Much, much worse.
He drew a breath, and his cellular phone. He started to dial the number. This was bad, he heard a reasonable voice telling him. He shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't be lowering himself like this. Peter had his limits, after all.
"You really screwed the pooch this time, didn't you?" came Peter's voice, before Vincent could identify himself. Of course Peter knew it was him. Modern technology and all that.
Vincent opened his mouth to reply and found nothing. He was getting out of hand. He was betraying his entire mode of life with this crazy endeavor…
"Oh, and next time you knock someone out, make sure that they're unconscious," Peter continued, in a casual tone.
"Jackson?" Vincent managed.
"You managed to bruise him but not break him. Thank you for not killing him, by the way. I know you wanted to."
"Does he suspect? You asked me to make sure—"
"Jackson does what he's told," Peter assured him. "No, you didn't give anything away. But I'm sure that Jackson is going to be quite confused by his next set of orders, which I've just given him. You are to report back to LAX and go through to private gate fifteen. I've set up the jet. Stay out of sight and just sit tight. I know that's difficult for you, but it can't be anywhere as difficult as it was to make this call." And the line went dead.
Vincent drew a breath. He felt a strange rush of feeling toward Peter, the closest thing he'd ever had in his life to brotherly love. Then it passed, and he caught a cab and headed to the airport.
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They had sedated her. Ray found her in Laurie's office, where they had moved to, where it was sure that there were no large vents leading in or out of the place, and she was lying on the couch, an ice bag over her head. She hadn't been injured, but she had felt like her skull was going to explode with all the stress, and cold seemed to help.
They held each other, took turns crying, and then just held hands. Ray dozed off, exhausted, his head on his sister's lap. Callie was too tense to sleep – every time she heard a noise she looked around for its source.
Bill and Laurie took turns coming in to check on them. The police patrol had moved to the office, and the grounds were being searched, but Callie knew that they wouldn't find either Vincent or Rochester. Men like them didn't get caught. They were ghosts. Demons.
Vincent…the thought of him was strange. He seemed pleasant, compared to the man who had threatened to not just rape her but degrade her in all manner of unseemly ways. Vincent seemed…safe.
Vincent had wanted to protect her. Why was that thought touching just now?
Ray had been convinced, when he'd come in, that Vincent was responsible for their father's death, but Callie had calmly told him she didn't think so. Ray didn't believe her, but neither of them had any heart to fight, so they let it drop. She wanted Ray to wake up, wanted to convince him of her side.
Rochester had frightened her. Frightened her in a way she hadn't known she was capable of feeling. It was a cold, sticky kind of fear, permeating her insides. The feel of him on her, the pressure of his legs, the touch of his breath, the vibration of his voice…she felt as if he still lingered on her, a stain, an odor.
But this was ridiculous. Vincent had done his share of damage. None of this would be happening if it hadn't been for him. And the way he had handled her in the closet….the way he had kissed her, as if marking his territory.
Oh, who the hell knew anymore…she'd been manhandled so much this night…
The door creaked open slightly. Bill and Laurie were together now, both of them looking haggard.
"What time is it?" she whispered.
"Don't remember…after midnight," Laurie managed in a sleepy tone.
"They wanted to take you to the county jail and put you in lockdown," Bill said. "To keep you safe. Not prison accommodations, a bit nicer, but still…bars. Dr. Gregg talked them out of it."
Callie grunted. "You sure that was wise?"
Laurie shrugged. "You want to be in a cage?" He noticed Ray dozing. "Well, I take it back—"
Callie chuckled – the first bit of humor in what felt like forever to her – and then gently shook Ray awake. He popped up with a bit of a start, shaking the couch for a moment. "What?" he said, his voice heavy with sleep.
"My legs were falling asleep," Callie said, smoothing back Ray's mussed hair. "We have to get some better sleep accommodations."
"No, I don't want to leave you," Ray murmured, rubbing his eyes. They were horribly bloodshot.
"We can put you together," Laurie said. "We just need to decide where."
Ray stood up, shaking himself the rest of the way awake. "All right, um…where do you suggest?"
"I've got a few places that I think might work, but then again…well, you'd better check them out."
Ray nodded and turned to Callie. Bill was sitting in the armchair closest to her. "Don't worry," he said, "I got her."
Her brother gave her one last look over his shoulder. She attempted a weak smile back, but when he was gone, she groaned and put her head in her hands. "I don't think I can take any more of this."
A few minutes passed, and then Bill sighed, deeply. "Callie," he said, "tell me what happened earlier tonight. Tell me about Vincent and this other guy, Rochester."
She looked at him, a bit startled. She hadn't expected that question from him, but the way he stared at her, the intensity of his bright blue eyes, threw her off guard. So it came sliding out…and not just the story, but her impressions of the whole thing, her confusion when it came to Vincent, his wanting to take her away to somewhere she'd be safe.
"After meeting Rochester, I'd almost take him up on it," she finished, mostly joking.
Bill looked thoughtful, and then, almost reluctantly, he stood up. "Come on," he said. "Laurie and Ray are waiting."
Callie frowned. "I thought they'd come back when they were ready."
"Just come on, Callie," Bill said. "I don't want you to be left alone. Just trust me. You trust me, don't you?"
Callie shrugged. Laurie had trusted him. That was good enough for her, so she followed him.
The hallway was not quiet. The whole building had been upset by the night's events and there were still rustlings and distant noises that Callie found distinctly unpleasant. She decided, then and there, that maybe she didn't want to work here. Sure, she adored Laurie, but this place was starting to give her memories that she didn't want. It might not work out, she realized.
Laurie…all through this he'd gone above and beyond the call of duty. He'd stuck his neck out for her and she hadn't even properly thanked him. Her father had been his friend…no doubt he too was shaken by the news. And that he'd had to hold it back from her…she wanted to be angry at him for that, but he'd done the right thing. It was Ray's place to tell her.
She heard a buzzing. Bill pulled his cellular phone out of his pocket. He grunted into it a few times, and then turned to her as he hung it up, saying, "Thanks."
"What is it?" she asked.
"That was your brother," Bill said. "He says it's a no go. In fact, they all want to pull out of here. He wants me to get you out of here, discretely, and take you to his precinct."
She almost sighed. "Well, I can't say I'm not happy to leave here, but still…what are they going to do, put me in a jail cell?"
"It might be the safest place for you," Bill said sagely. "And you'd be alone…the real threat in prison isn't the bars, it's the other prisoners."
"Great, solitary confinement. Wonderful." But still, she followed him down the stairs and toward a back exit. To her surprise, a taxi cab was waiting.
"That's…weird," Callie murmured. Bill pulled open the back door.
"Come on," he urged. "We have to hurry."
She let him push her in. She felt tired, malleable. Bill could have come onto her at that moment and she probably wouldn't have had either the energy or the inclination to fight him off. But as she rested her head against the back headrest in the taxi, and watched as the green-glowing sky of L.A. passed by, she started to realize that the route they were taking was lasting a bit too long.
She looked around. They were getting onto the 105 Freeway.
"Where are we going?" she finally asked, turning to Bill. Until now, she hadn't noticed how anxious he looked. "Ray's precinct isn't off the 105."
"I know," Bill said, and was now looking, almost resentfully, at the back of the driver's head. "We're going to the airport."
She jumped. "For what? Did the plan change? Are you going to get me out of town now?"
"Yeah," Bill said, looking at her. There was something strange about it…
"What's going on?" she asked, feeling a new surge of adrenaline. This one, however, felt much more hyper than the ones before it. It made her feel irrational, or more like she was going to crack up entirely. "Where are we going?"
"I told you," Bill said, tearing his eyes away. "The airport. We're getting you out of town."
She shook her head. "Does Ray know about this? I want to call my brother." She reached for her phone, and realized it wasn't there. When had she forgotten her phone? She never forgot her phone. "Hell…let me borrow yours." She reached across, toward his pocket. His hand clamped down across her wrist.
Now she was afraid.
"Bill, please," she said, her voice turning pleading. "I want to talk to my brother. He needs me. That monster Rochester just killed our father and—"
"I know," Bill said, his voice strained. "And he's going to do worse to you. Much worse. This is for your safety, Callie, trust me."
"Trust you?" she spat. She was on the full emotional spectrum now, shifting into defiance and hurt. "How can I trust you! You make these crazy choices for me…who gave you the right? You're not the boss of me! I want to talk to my brother now!"
Bill just stared at her, like stone.
Callie turned to the driver. "Excuse me," she said, her voice clearly indicating that it was an emergency, "could you please turn around? This man is trying to kidnap me!"
The driver turned his head. It was a familiar profile. One she'd seen in a restaurant, sitting across from her…
She gasped and pushed away, huddling in the corner between her seat and the door. "Jackson," she whispered.
"Good to see you too again, Cal," he said with a smirk before turning away.
She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Tears were forming with the raw rage and fear and panic. "No, no, no, this isn't happening…you are not doing this…" Her eyes flew open and she shot a fist out at Bill. "They trusted you!" she screamed at him, her voice ricocheting around the enclosed space. Her fist smacked him in the shoulder, not hard enough to hurt but enough to get his full attention. "How could you do this to them, to me!" She realized she was sobbing.
Bill looked awful. The guilt was all over him, and it seemed like her words had cut him. "I know," he said. "But it's for your safety, Callie. This is the right thing to do."
"LIAR!" she screamed, and lunged at him. Bill was a large man, and he caught her wrists in his hands, pinning them back against the other door of the cab. His face was very close to hers, so close she could see the different shades of blue through his irises.
"Listen to me," he said in a soft, calm voice, still laced with self-resentment. The intensity of it frightened her. "Listen very carefully. You are not safe here. I am not going to let Rochester cut you into pieces, Callie. But Dr. Gregg and your brother don't understand, not like you and I do."
"What do we understand, Bill?" she asked in a soft, tremulous voice.
"We're here," Jackson said, pulling through a gate. They had weaved their way, during Callie and Bill's exchange, through the back roads of the international airport, and found the private hangars. They had stopped, clearing only twenty feet away from a sleek jet that looked like it was owned by someone who had a lot more money than most Hollywood elite.
Bill did not let or go, or move to get out of the car. He looked at her, that intense gaze still there. "Are we going to have any more problems?" he asked in a low tone.
"How much did they have to pay you to do this?" she murmured.
"You don't believe me, that's fine," Bill said, although he couldn't look at her anymore. His eyes shifted away. "You'll see." He pulled back, but didn't let go. She was dragged with him, limp like a doll, through his side of the cab, the door of which Jackson was holding open.
Callie glared at him, and then at Bill. "So what now?" she asked, tone icy.
Bill let go of one wrist but held fast to the other as he walked her across the tarmac. There was a figure waiting for her. He was dressed in a darker suit, a charcoal gray, that off-set his silver-gray hair.
Vincent.
Callie stopped walking, point blank. Bill was jerked back a bit. She was going to hyperventilate – she could feel the oxygen leaving her lungs, and her chest started to heave. Gasping, she said, "Oh God, Bill, please, please don't do this…"
"Callie," Bill said gently, tenderly, "you said it yourself. You said he wasn't going to hurt you. He wants to protect you…he's the best chance you have against Rochester."
She blinked away tears, trying to maintain some of her dignity. "How do you know so much?" she asked.
"About Rochester?" Bill asked, then he shrugged. "They showed me the things he's done. I saw pictures." He shuddered, turning pale. "God, Callie…I would have made you see them, too, but there wasn't time. I'm sorry it had to be like this. But when it's over, you'll forgive me. At least I hope you will."
He really did sound regretful. It was hard to hold back the sobs and they came out as dry wheezing. She closed her eyes, and then felt him let go of her wrist.
"Go on, Callie," he cajoled.
She shook her head. "You don't know," she groaned. "You don't know what this man did to me."
"I know he took you hostage earlier tonight, and could have killed you," Bill said rationally. "He didn't. He should have killed you almost three weeks ago but he didn't. I know it doesn't make sense, but…you have to go."
Almost against her will, her legs started to move. She couldn't look at Bill anymore. The level of betrayal was enough to make her wretch. These horrible people…everyone around her was against her, and the people who loved her were far away, or dead…she choked on another sob.
Finally, she reached him. She kept a good distance, more than an arm's length, between them, but she couldn't look at him. She just stared down at his shoes. They were expensive, leather shoes. Foreign, from the design of them.
"Are you ready?" came Vincent's voice. It was exactly like she remembered. She, at his mercy.
Finally, she raised her eyes up to his. He was looking at her patiently, but it was edged with an urgency that she was familiar with. In the dark of the hallway and even greater dark of the closet, she hadn't gotten a good look at him. He seemed…different, somehow. More terrifying, and somehow less, at the same moment.
"Are you breathing?" Vincent asked, raising one eyebrow. "If you're stressed, you have to remember to –"
"Keep breathing," she finished for him. "I know." She shook her head, the despair finally reaching its ultimate, peaking in her throat and coming out in a high, whining voice. "Vincent…don't make me leave my brother, please. He needs me so much now, I mean, Dad is dead…you remember my dad, don't you?"
Vincent sighed, and something flickered across his face that she had never seen before. Was it…compassion? Was he capable of that? Or maybe it was something else, because he closed the distance between them, and very, very gently, took her hand in his.
"The best way to protect your brother," he said in an undertone that was nearly tender, although that familiar force was behind it, "is to get as far away from him as possible. You're a dangerous person to be around, Callie. And since I seem to be responsible for that…" and then he broke off, as if he had just forgotten what he was going to say. He looked confused, gave a brief shake of his head. "Come on," he said, tugging delicately at her fingers. "Come on."
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Jackson watched the exchange, not hearing the words, but understanding the body language. It was bizarre, for him, to stand and watched as the great and terrible Vincent was brought low before a little girl.
He was careful to make sure the sign above his taxi read "Not in Service," as he climbed back in and headed out. Traffic was always sticky around LAX, and it turned out that the 105 headed back into L.A. was out of commission from this end. The freeway entrance had a blockade over it, indicating it was closed.
Swearing softly, Jackson turned back into the airport traffic, which pushed him into even more congested traffic. He couldn't seem to merge far enough left to make his turn, and wound up in the main part of the airport. He had just paused in front of one of the many lights when suddenly the back door opened and someone slipped inside.
"Not for hire right now, buddy," Jackson said, resenting the temporary role of driver he'd been assigned. True, being a manager wasn't all glamour, but there were limits for any man—
"Spare me," came the familiar voice, tinged with that attitude that had become familiar over the last few days. "So did it work? Did she get on the plane?"
Jackson glanced at Rochester in the rearview mirror. He was watching him intensely, dark eyes large and round.
"Yeah, she's on it," Jackson said with a sigh. Usually, it was his business to know how everything operated, but there were times when he just had his own part to play, and moved on. Still, this job was making less and less sense as it went along.
"Good," Rochester said. "Now they're together. Isn't that sweet, though? Vincent thinks Peter is helping him. He's actually helping to corral him into the trap."
Jackson snorted. "You know, evil villain talk is pretty far beneath you," he remarked.
Rochester smiled and laughed. He had a very human sounding laugh, and his smile would have made any woman believe him to be a very handsome and even down-to-earth kind of man. But Jackson, too, had seen the scene after Rochester had done his favorite work, and knew better.
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," Rochester sighed. "Talk is cheap. It's results that cost the big bucks." He leaned forward so that his face loomed over Jackson's shoulder. "And Vincent is really naïve enough to fall for this? He actually trusts Peter that much?"
Jackson shrugged one shoulder. "Everyone has a weakness."
"Seems that old Vinny has two," Rochester murmured thoughtfully. Then he broke into another smile, this one almost like a shark. "You know, I can't decide which part will be more fun – when I finally get to do her, or making him watch as I do it."
Jackson had pulled up at another light. He was going to turn and say something scathing to Rochester, but reconsidered. He may have been Peter's mouthpiece, but that didn't always completely shield him from the stupidity of annoyed assassins. Sure, Peter would get mad at Rochester if he killed him, but Jackson would still be dead. And he'd heard a few unpleasant rumors about Rochester wanting to go into business for himself.
"Thanks for the lift, errand boy," Rochester said, tossing a twenty into the front seat. Jackson looked at it with contempt and would have given a derisive reply, but his passenger was already gone.
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(The writer enters with suitcases packed)
Jackson: Where are you going?
Me: Away. On a trip. I won't be able to update for the next week. Not until Sunday night, anyway.
Vincent: Who's going to look after us while you're gone?
Me: I can hear the fangirls jumping up and down with their hands raised as we speak.
(Vincent merely glowers as Rochester enters, looking extremely hot and muscle-ly in his wife-beater. He's carrying a pizza.)
Me: (under my breath) Boo-ya.
Rochester: What, me or the pizza?
Me: You brought pizza?
(Rochester motions for Jackson get up. Jackson does, looking peeved, but Rochester sits down beside the writer and flips open the pizza box)
Rochester: Hope you like Mediterranean Style.
Me: My God, I thought I was the only human being on Earth who liked that.
Jackson: (annoyed) What did you bring that for, anyway?
Rochester: Well, I figured that since we're all stuck here, we may as well get some munchies.
Me: Good thinking.
Vincent: (sulking) Look, don't you have some Iron Head fics to be in?
Rochester: (unfazed) Nope. (He and the writer start making googly-eyes at each other) And it's Man. Iron Man.
Me: And are you really an Iron Man?
Rochester: (suggestively) Wanna find out?
Vincent: All right, that's it! (He charges toward Rochester)
(Casually, Rochester lifts his hand and the Iron Man beam flies from the palm of his hand. Vincent is blown back.)
Me: (outraged) HEY!
Rochester: (innocent) What? He started it.
Me: That's my main guy! This is his fic! You're just tagalongs, the entourage! You can't do that! (The writer runs off after Vincent, who is smoking slightly.)
Rochester: Oh well. (shrugs) Guess all of you will just have to review if you want to complain about this week's entertainment.