Chapter Thirteen: Just A Ride (from the song by Jem – no, not Jem and the Holograms)
On her beside table, the telephone rang. "Dr. Martinez," she answered.
"Lupe?" The voice was familiar, but terribly strained. She squinted, trying to recognize it. "I hope you remember me, Ray Fanning, we had dinner earlier?"
She broke into a smile. "Of course, Ray. Are you all right? You sound…stressed."
He gave a bitter laugh. "Look, I know we just met, and this is asking a lot, but is there any way you could come to your office? Some things have happened and you probably need to know about them. Plus…I just need a friendly face."
She was already getting out of bed, pulling on her jeans. It was her day off, but she didn't care. "I'm on my way," she said.
When she got there, and Ray started recounting to her the events of the night, she was stunned. It was amazing how much could happen in a short period of time – all of this between when they'd finished their dinner and very early this morning?
He looked awful. His hair was bent in twenty different directions, and he had a mildly slurred speech pattern that indicated he was coming off a high dose of medication. Dr. Gregg had yet to make an appearance, but they were using his office at the moment.
"So what are the authorities doing?" she asked, using Laurie's personal coffee maker to brew up a pot of extra strong java.
"What they can," Ray said wearily. He was on the couch, hadn't moved from there since he'd plopped down after greeting her with a rather frantic hug. He was rubbing his forehead a lot, which she guessed was a nervous gesture. Also his lips. Both were mildly red from the abuse. "Filed a missing persons report, are searching all the most likely places…although they don't really have a clue. They said that they're going to question Felix Reyes Torrena because they have reason to suspect his involvement, but they don't expect it to go anywhere. And I've been pretty much walled out of the whole thing – they won't let me do anything because I'm her brother. Which frustrates the hell out of me."
"So there isn't anything else?" Lupe asked, pained.
Ray rubbed his forehead again. At this rate, he was going to take the skin off. "No," he said, with an uncharacteristic air of defeat.
Lupe recognized this. Ray was still in shock. The murder of his father and the disappearance of his sister were overloading his ability to be rational. He was sliding into despair. She'd seen it before. She'd treated victims of violent crimes on various occasions, and not all of them had to have something directly happen to them in order to qualify for that title. Ray was in a very bad place. He needed help.
"All right," Lupe said, leaning back in her chair. She liked Ray, a lot. She was surprised at how much she had grown to like him in just one evening, and she was never one to turn her back on someone in need. She had to do something to help him. She reached over and pulled a blank notepad from the edge of Laurie's desk – he always kept one handy, it was the habit of most doctors.
"What are you doing?" Ray asked, one eyebrow arching in puzzlement.
"We have to take stock of everything, Ray," she said. "Right now, you're all on your emotional side. You have no reasonable one, and that's valid. You're allowed to not be reasonable at this time, considering all the things that have happened to you." Validation of the patient's emotions was always first on the list. "So I'll be your reasonable side. We're going to work through this."
Ray scowled. "What the hell good will that do?" he asked. "Will that bring Callie back?"
"And you sitting there, stewing in despair, that's going to be more effective?" she asked gently.
He considered this. It seemed to connect to something in his brain. "Fair enough," he said.
"Ray, you have to accept at this moment, you are helpless," she said, keeping her tone smooth, professional. "You have no leads, no trail. Your sister is more than likely still alive and she will be recovered, given time."
"You can't know that," Ray said, shaking his head. There was a dull glint in his eyes.
"Fine," Lupe said. "You're right, I can't. So we have to face the possibility that she's gone, too. But we'll get to that later. Right now, you can't give up hope. So we have to work with what we have. All right?"
After a long moment's consideration, Ray gave a slight, if defeated, nod. So Lupe got to work.
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She took a lot longer in the lavatory than he would have expected, but when it came to women, Vincent was only familiar with peripheral habits. Like going to the bathroom in pairs, and always spending too much money on shoes, those sorts of irrelevant things. When she came back, after what was probably close to a half hour, she looked a bit more put together. Her hair had been smoothed down with some water, her face had been washed, and he suspected she had asked Mariko for a toothbrush. Her clothes were still wrinkled from sleeping in them, but how badly could a pair of jeans and a T-shirt get damaged, anyway? Still, she had somehow smoothed out a few of the heavier lines, and when she took her seat across from him, she seemed to be more herself.
Vincent had noticed at breakfast that she had been famished, but also heavily distracted. The need to think and the need to eat seemed to be running neck and neck with her. While he had no idea what was running through her head, he knew she wasn't happy with it from the continuous vertical lines between her eyebrows.
When she sat down, her body language seemed tense. She was sitting with her shoulders forward, her fingers twined together and hands pressed between her knees. He knew she wanted to say something, but the words weren't coming together.
Once again, this was one of the things about women he could do without. This incessant need to talk about things, rehash them over and over. Then again, she confused him like no other human being on earth. She had kissed him before, even advanced the passion of the kiss, and then had shoved back, like she'd forgotten herself. He knew that physically, she wanted him, but that her mind resisted. Women were so conflicted; he couldn't imagine continuously having to deal with a split between his head and his heart.
Still, he couldn't help himself, which bugged him even more. Trying to take her hand before had been a bad idea. The sting of the rejection was something he pushed aside. He was used to ignoring his pain. As difficult as that was becoming lately, he was determined to keep at it.
Finally, she cleared her throat. "Vincent," she said. The sound of her name on his lips was odd. Usually it was a plea, or an expression of fear, or anger. But this was simple, and he liked it. "I, uh…I wanted to tell you. I know that you've gone through a lot of trouble for me. And while I'm not completely sure why, you seem to want to protect me, and for that, I'm grateful. If I wasn't here with you, I'd probably already be like…my dad." She strained against the shudder in her voice. She couldn't break, yet. "So I want you to know, I'm thankful."
"You are." He didn't really buy it – or maybe he didn't want to buy it. She seemed sincere, but also placating. "Why am I hearing a 'but' coming?"
She shook her head. "No, it's not like that. I just…this is all extremely hard for me and I know I'm acting crazy, but you should just know that that isn't going to change. Right now I'm being rational, but that's how grief is. Grief makes you do things you wouldn't normally do. So…" she trailed off, and he could tell that this was the hard part, the part she'd been really unsure about. "I just wanted to make it clear that…that I'm not… comfortable with…I just, uh…" She looked away. He felt a smile tugging at his lips. It was almost fun, watching her squirm. Whatever she thought was so important, he couldn't imagine. But he didn't have the heart to tell her she was wasting her time. Instead, he just sat back and accepted the free entertainment.
"Okay," she said, getting a hold of herself. "I wanted to ask you. I don't think I'm being unreasonable about this. I just don't want you to…I'm worried about being taken advantage of."
Now he frowned. He saw the "oh shit" flicker in her eyes.
"I mean, before, when we…kissed. I know I kissed you back, and that was wrong. I know it's a lot to ask, but could we…could we please keep the physical stuff out of this? I mean, unless you expect me to…to, uh…in return for…" She was flicking her hand, a nervous gesture.
Finally, he'd had enough. "You're worried that in return for my saving your life, I'll expect sexual favors," he said plainly.
She flushed to the roots of her pretty auburn hair. "Yeah."
His face split into a wide, toothy smile, showing all his canines, and he laughed.
"Look, I'm sorry!" she said, her voice a bit louder, to be heard over him. "I know that you're not that…you're not that kind of guy—"
"Oh, that's big of you," he said, still smiling.
"I just wanted to get it out in the open," she said, spreading her hands wide, palms down. Her voice was taking an edge to it, now. "I just want you to know that I'd appreciate a little…a little distance."
"Distance," he echoed, the smile mellowing.
"Yes," she said, looking fearful and hopeful. "Do you…do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
"You're saying, thank you for helping me, just please don't touch me," he translated plainly.
She nodded, her eyes hesitant.
"Fine," he said, pulling out the half-finished newspaper.
"You sure?" she said, even as his attention clearly diverted from her. "I mean…I don't want to offend you."
"You haven't," he said, raising his eyes to meet hers, dead on.
"Okay, then," she said, leaning back in the chair. Slowly, so slowly, she looked like she was beginning to relax. He looked back at his newspaper, and after a few minutes, he heard her give a low, relieved sigh.
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Callie had never been out of the country once in her life. She wasn't sure what she expected when they landed in Bangkok. She had heard the old song from the 80's by the Pep Boys – at least, she thought it was the Pep Boys – about how dangerous it was, etc. But if Vincent lived here, or close to here, then it must have had something that afforded protection.
The airport wasn't that much smaller than LAX, but much less hectic. They exited the plane outdoors, and Callie was immediately struck by the humidity in the air. The stars, though--they were so bright, so brilliant. Being raised in L.A., she was used to the green sheen of the night sky, sometimes mixed with orange, and few stars. Here, it was like a black velvet blanket littered with diamonds.
Vincent, very carefully, took her by her upper arm and guided her. He seemed to have taken her words to heart. It had not been easy to say those things to him – the risk of humiliation had been alarmingly high, but still, it needed to be done. Worse, the risk of angering him had not appealed, but he'd taken it well. Too well, in her opinion, but she wasn't going to spend all her time second guessing everything. Vincent had proven relatively trustworthy so far, so she had to roll with it.
That was what he'd tell her, anyway.
There was a car waiting for them, a simple, nondiscriminatory black car with diplomatic plates. Vincent seemed to give a little groan when he saw it, but they climbed in back anyway.
Outside, the windows were heavily shaded, but she could see from the inside perfectly well. She couldn't stop staring out the windows, the front, the back, hers, the driver's side, Vincent's side, every way she could turn. It was exotic and strangely familiar. A tourist attraction, but like none she'd ever seen before. The city sparkled with its own unique charm, and she felt the inexplicable desire to have the driver stop somewhere, let her get out, and explore.
She had to remind herself, severely, that she was not on vacation. Denial was a step of the grieving process, she counseled herself. Nothing to be alarmed about, but nothing to run with, either.
They turned away from the lights of the city and passed through more obscure roads that were lined with almost jungle-like foliage. She swore she saw a few wild animals in the headlights of the car. Up ahead, she realized they were approaching a dock – she could tell by the tall sticks that stuck up into the night, the mainsails of various boats. The body of water behind them shone as black as the night sky.
The driver spoke. It was in a language she didn't understand. Callie's eyes went to Vincent, awaiting his reaction.
He replied, briefly, in the same language. The car made a right turn onto another road.
She sighed, muffling it, keeping it soft in the back of her throat, pressing her head against her hand. She wanted to ask and didn't dare. Vincent had told her before that they were going to be getting on a boat. He'd said they'd be on it for a while, traveling to…where again? She didn't have time to fret over whether she should ask – the car pulled up to a particular dock and stopped.
Vincent got out of the car and started to walk up the plank to a large boat that looked more like a yacht, or at least as close to a yacht as she'd ever seen. Callie hesitated for a moment, and then followed. The driver was moving toward the trunk, where Vincent had put his bag. She had no bag – she was here, in another country half-way across the world, with only the clothes on her back.
Callie looked at the boat. She hesitated, not sure what she should do, but looking back, into the wildness behind her, she knew she didn't want to stay. So with a deep breath, she walked up the plank and onto the boat. Just as she reached the top, she heard Vincent make a noise that was clearly surprise, but not alarm.
Vincent was talking to a man that he seemed familiar with. They were smiling, shaking hands, talking softly. The man, upon inspection, seemed nice enough, although she was hardly in a position to judge such things. He was a bit taller than Vincent, not much, with shaggy brown hair and large blue-green eyes that smiled easily. He seemed young, at least younger than Vincent, and had an innocent air about him that was throwing her off. She frowned a bit as she approached, and the man's eyes drifted to her, his eyebrow lifting. It gave him a rather dashing appearance.
"I see you brought your friend," the man said, and she was surprised to hear a British accent, although it was hardly the proper kind that one heard in movies.
"This is Peter," Vincent said softly, hardly looking at her as he gave the introduction. "The jet and the boat are both his."
Peter gave her a rather cocky grin, as if he was showing off and he knew it. "Welcome aboard the Jade Arrow, Miss," he said. He extended his hand, which she shook. He had rather soft hands, she noted, softer than the average man.
Then, Peter turned back to Vincent. "I brought someone who very much wanted to see you," he said, his voice taking on a mild strain that signaled to her something major was about to happen.
Vincent's eyes guarded but not dark. "Who?"
"Hello, Vincent," came a voice from the seating area behind them, and a woman appeared, her skin and hair dark like the natives, her eyes like almonds and her figure as lithe and slim as they came. She wore a black dress that was simple, but accentuated everything about her that was seductive and slinky. Her small breasts were pert and settled nicely in the strapless top, and one slit in the skirt revealed almost her entire thigh, right to her buttocks. Her hair was styled perfectly, jet black and straight against her jaw.
She smiled at Vincent. Then her eyes drifted to Callie.
Having undergone unprepared travel and not having bathed, Callie felt about as presentable as a wad of used Kleenex. She almost blushed, but bit it back, especially when she saw Vincent smile, slowly, wolfishly.
"Cathy," he said, setting down his bag and walking over to her. He took her hand, and kissed it. His eyes locked onto hers and saw nothing else. "Whatever are you doing here?"
"Peter was visiting a friend of mine," Cathy purred, her voice heavily accented, but her words easy to understand. "You know how Peter gets when he drinks. He saw me and told me he was coming here to get you. I invited myself along." She pouted, just fetchingly enough to soften the hardest man. "I hope I have not intruded?"
"Absolutely not," Callie heard a voice say, and then realized it was her own, so hard and cold she didn't recognize it. Her eyes flashed to Vincent, who darted her a quick, appraising glance, and then proceeded to completely ignore her again, going back to Cathy.
"Wonderful," Cathy said, giving her a charming smile. "Vincent, would you like to see your room?"
"Love to," Vincent said, his voice that low, soft purr Callie knew she'd heard a dozen times before. To hear it directed at another woman shot a flame of jealousy through her that scared her with its intensity. Turning herself in nearly military fashion, she looked up at her host, who had the courtesy to look bashful.
"Perhaps I may also be shown to a room…Peter?"
Peter took her arm like a gentleman, and led her away, and Callie made herself not look at Vincent and Cathy again.
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Vincent: (outraged) You're still reading that Red Eye fanfiction?
Me: (sheepish) Yes. Blame Angrw and NicolinaN. It's their fault.
Jackson: (sing song) Sure it is.
Vincent: You shut up! You've caused enough trouble! Why are you even still here?
Jackson: Hey, don't bitch at me because you can't control your Writer. And I'm here because I'm going to show up again. (to the writer) Right?
Me: (even more sheepish) Yeah.
Vincent: Where is Rochester? Maybe I can get him to blast you with one of this wrist thingies.
Me: He's off doing Tropic Thunder. Although he's still got work to do as well. You know, truth be told, nobody knows it, but I've already written and posted a Lisa/Jackson fic.
Vincent and Jackson: You have?
Me: Yep. You know all that Dukes of Hazzard stuff I've been writing?
Vincent: (annoyed) Yes.
Me: Well, Lisa and Jackson are in it.
Jackson: We are? Where?
Me: Right in the first one. You're reoccurring characters. Lisa plays Shelly, Henri-Mae's best friend. And you play her husband Lloyd. You two run the boarding house in Hazzard. Yeah, I based those two characters on you. Kinda sick, huh?
Jackson: (under his breath, aroused) Sick hot, yeah.
Vincent: Great, so now everybody is going to go running to that fic and…
Me: No, don't worry. My Dukes fiction was of more interest to me than anyone. I have an entire story from the Bad Reputation series that I haven't posted, and I've been working on a sixth one that's had more stops and starts than this one. So don't feel too bad, Vincent. You're not the only one on whose shit list I reside.
Vincent: I never said you were on my shit list…
Jackson: So let me get this straight. In your Dukes of Hazzard fanfic, the Bad Reputation series, you have Lisa playing Shelly, Henri-Mae's best friend.
Me: Yes, that's what I said. What, you can't re-read?
Jackson: And I'm her husband Lloyd? Where the hell did you get the name Lloyd? Do I look like a Lloyd?
Me: No, but it just sort of…stuck. I think I was using her more than you at first. I even named Henri-Mae after Lisa, did you know that?
Jackson: Uh—
Me: The main character is Henrietta Mae Locke. Henrietta, after Lisa's middle name. So really, deep down, I'm a closet Red Eye junkie.
Vincent: Um, hello! You were writing chapter 18, remember? You got through the big emotional climax and now you're working through the action climax? Want to get back to work?
Jackson: Why Henrietta?
Me: I thought it was a cool name. Henry for short, but that was too masculine, so I added the Mae. Henri-Mae. Yep, after Lisa.
Vincent: Hey! Come on, remember me? You wrote this fic about me, remember?
Jackson: He's so needy. Am I that needy?
Me: After reading NicolinaN's recent Red Eye fic, yes. You are. Very much so.
Jackson: (grumbles)
Vincent: (whines)
Me: Okay guys, go review! I'm sure I'll get some interesting responses this week! (wink)