Chapter Fifteen: Stockholm Syndrome (from the song by Muse)

When Callie exited the yacht, the only thing she had in hand was a plastic bag containing the wet jeans and T-shirt she had attempted to wash earlier. It had been foolish, what she tried to do, but she had desperately needed some kind of distraction, and it had been the only thing that occurred to her. She figured that, wherever they were going, there would be a bathroom, and she'd just hang them up when they reached it.

Peter told her to keep the clothes she wore and not worry about it. He even encouraged her to take anything else she wanted, but she didn't. She especially didn't want that cashmere lounging outfit – she'd never be able to wear cashmere again without thinking of…

Dammit, she thought.

Vincent was pissed at her. He didn't scowl at her or treat her rudely, but it was apparent that he had shut her out. Only as they got off the yacht and into the waiting car did she realize that this had also been unwise. She needed Vincent. As much as she didn't want to admit it, he was the only familiar thing in this crazy world, at the moment.

She considered, briefly, asking Peter to help her. But she doubted that he would. She had never imagined Vincent having friends of any kind, but it seemed that if he had ever had a single friend in the world, it was Peter. There was a brotherly way between them, twisted but noticeable, and she didn't think she had a chance of cracking it.

Vincent shook Peter's hand, his only farewell, before heading for the second of two black, unmarked vehicles. Callie followed, not having been directed to do so but also not having anything else to do. Vincent tossed his bag into the back seat, but didn't get in – instead, he turned around and headed back toward Cathy, who had emerged, looking mildly confused, from the boarding ramp.

Callie, who had gotten into the back and stayed silent, watched through hooded eyes. It seemed that Vincent was taking his farewell. It was rather obvious, from the remarks made by both him and Peter the night before, that Cathy was paid entertainment, but she didn't want to assume. Still, it was satisfying to see the disappointment on the woman's face when Vincent turned away from her and headed back to the car, alone.

Callie contemplated this turn of events. She had managed to irk Vincent, but how justified was she? Her rational doctor's mind attempted to analyze the events – she had frustrated him, sexually. Kissing him like that on the plane and then telling him not to touch her anymore? He'd taken it too well, and why not? Vincent had no ability to communicate his frustrations in any other way. As violence was how he handled stress, sex was the obvious release for thwarted emotions. Of course he was going to sleep with Cathy. Cathy demanded nothing from him emotionally. She was safe.

She tried not to stare at Vincent as they drove away from the landing dock. She had been drunk the night before, and illogical. Now, she was feeling rather forgiving, which felt equally ridiculous. But there was no alcohol to blame this time.

Still, her natural instincts told her she had made the right call. Being close to Vincent blocked her ability to think straight. At least, in a romantic way. Oh hell, in all ways, it was the truth, and if she was going to survive this, she had to deal with the truth. Vincent had to keep his hands to himself. Otherwise, something bad was going to happen. Very bad.

She wasn't as mesmerized by the drive this time, but still, it was quite scenic and interesting. It provided her eyes with some distraction, even if the wheels in her head refused to stop turning. When they finally reached their destination, she was a bit relieved to see that the hotel, exceedingly luxurious and clearly designed for American tourists, was a touch of home.

Inside, it felt like she was back in familiar territory. Although much, much more posh than she would ever had been able to indulge in, it was at least recognizable in this unfamiliar setting. There was a beautiful bar set in the middle, with plenty of plush chairs around and heavy wooden tables. The bar itself was sunk a bit into the floor, a few steps down, so that it was sectioned off without anything as cumbersome as walls to divide it. Around them were various hotel shops, many of them for clothing, clearly designer and extremely expensive.

"All our shops," said the woman at the desk, in perfect English, to Vincent as he checked them in, "are attached to the hotel, so any purchases you wish to make can be charged to the room."

Vincent nodded, uninterested. Callie, unable to help herself, wondered what she might be able to get away with, if she could get away from Vincent for just a few minutes. After all, with a bag of soggy clothes was not the way a woman wanted to enjoy her stay at a place like this.

When he turned away, both keys in hand, he didn't even tell her to follow, and Callie was starting to get annoyed. She felt like a lost dog, following around a memorable stranger. But still, the elevator doors opened long enough for her to get inside behind him, and they rode up to their floor in silence.

It was room 13457. A combination of good luck and bad, she noted. Thirteen and seven…but she didn't think of herself as a superstitious person, and let it go. It was only when she was in the room, saw how it was much smaller than she would have guessed… and that there was only one of them…that her mouth opened before she could stop herself.

"We're sharing?"

Finally, he turned his eyes to her. Green flint. He smirked, his jaw hard. "Yes," he said, his tone almost mocking. "We're sharing."

She shook her head. This was too much. She had asked him and he had complied! But how in the world could they share a room like this and not wind up falling all over each other? Her mouth opened again, but she couldn't figure out what to say that didn't sound completely wrong.

"Relax," he said, reading her mind. He tossed his bag into a chair. "I'll keep to what I said before. But this is safer. If we had two rooms, I'd have too much space to guard. This way, you can see trouble coming. And I can keep you close." He turned away.

The room had one bed. A king size, which meant it was easily accessible for five people to sleep in, but still. Thick, embossed comforters and a pile of pillows…she had the urge to sink herself in them. She felt exhausted, like she hadn't gotten a single drop of rest from being in that stupid deck chair all night. But she couldn't even sit on the damn thing. Instead, she went to one of the chairs beside the small two-person table and sat down in it. It was very comfortable…it had one of those extended seats so her legs could stretch out. She could almost sleep in it. She considered it.

Because there were some things she was not going to share with Vincent. One of them was a bed.

Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. If she took a moment to appreciate this situation from Vincent's perspective, she was seeing that he was going through a lot of trouble for a woman he didn't have any reason to protect outside from some personal feeling he couldn't even quite identify. What was his payoff from this? Sooner or later, he might see it was net zero. She was really walking on thin ice.

But still, her other half argued, she hadn't asked him for any of this. She didn't want to be here. Whatever twisted reasons Vincent had, she couldn't take responsibility for any of them because she had no say in them at all.

"You look tired," Vincent said, coming out of the bathroom. "You want to get some sleep?"

She looked down at the bag of soggy clothes. She couldn't go to sleep, not yet, she had to hang them up. As much as she didn't want them, they were the only things she had.

Vincent followed her eyes and picked up the bag. "You can go downstairs later and get yourself something from one of the shops," he said, in a tone that was dangerously close to generous. "I'm tossing this out. They have a spa, or a salon or something like that, too. We might want to consider changing your hair color." He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. "Can't say I like that idea much, but it may help."

She frowned, grasping her dark auburn locks. "Why?" she asked.

He looked at her like she was an idiot. "To make it a bit harder for Rochester to find you when you're not with me," he said.

"You're pretty sure he'll find us? We're in Thailand."

"He'll find us," Vincent said plainly. "It's just a matter of time."

"So what's the plan then?" she asked, grateful for a reason to talk. "Do we just wait for him? I mean, you have a plan, don't you, Vincent?"

He had turned and walked away from her, pacing the length of the room. He had folded his arms, and she had a sudden fear that he didn't have a plan, that he was playing all of this as a giant improvisation exercise. Wasn't that Vincent? Darwin, I-Ching, roll with it.

She opened her mouth to press him, unsure exactly how, but then he started to speak, in a quiet tone.

"The only way to do it is to kill him," he said, as if more to himself than to her. "And the only way to do that is to lure him into a position where he thinks he's won." His back was to her, all she could see were the muscles of his neck as he stretched them lightly, a nervous habit he did when he was thinking. "Which means we have to bait him." Then he turned and looked at her.

"You want me to play bait?" she said, disbelieving.

"We should still change your hair color. Don't want to make it too obvious."

She frowned. "So what do you know about this Rochester guy? Other than the terrible things he does to his victims?"

Vincent shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. There isn't anything to know. No family, no ties, like me. No personal attachments. Nothing to exploit." Then he frowned, a worried frown, as he looked at her.

"Until now," she said, unable to help herself. "Until me."

His eyes…how strange they turned. That unfocused look she had seen a few times during that night, as if he were gazing inside himself and was horrified at what he saw, but didn't dare show it.

"It's a double play," he said, even softer. "Rochester wants to take me out, too. Probably either Peter has let him think that's what he wants, or else he's got a separate contract with Felix. Either way, doesn't matter. So he's waiting to do you until after he kills me. That way, he feels he can take his time. With me alive, there's too much of a risk of being interrupted. Some guys might think of that as part of the thrill, but he doesn't. He doesn't like to be hurried."

Callie shuddered. Yet another reminder of the hell that awaited her if this didn't work. Still…"You have a lot of faith in Peter. You really trust him?"

Vincent blinked, as if just seeing her. "Yes," he said, bluntly.

"And how do you know…that you can?" It seemed very, very odd that Vincent, of all people, would have blind faith in anyone, no matter how special that person might be. More than odd, it seemed an outright aberration.

"Because I do." Candid. No room for argument.

She couldn't let it go. "But…I mean…doesn't it seem…risky? I mean, how can you afford to do what you do and trust…anyone?"

He gave her a little smile. "You won't understand it, Callie. Don't try."

"Oh, what, is it a guy thing?" she said, a bit derisively.

"No," he said. "It just is."

No luck. He wasn't cracking. Switch tactics. "So Rochester, he doesn't trust anyone? And he won't kill me until he's killed you? You're sure?"

"It's too much of a risk for me to be alive," Vincent said. "I'm the bigger threat, so logic says you take out the bigger threat and then the smaller ones are much easier."

"So you mean, that's how you'd do it." Funny, how he knew how people would react to situations, and yet he had no emotional tie to how they felt. He had no empathy, no ability to connect to anyone, and yet he could still predict their actions spot-on. "So until you're dead, I'm safe?"

He shrugged his shoulder again. "No, you're not safe. He may wait to kill you, but he'll use you to get to me. It's a classic tactic. So we have to establish a few rules.

"You have to stay inside the hotel, unless I tell you otherwise. I'm sure this is going to chafe your ass, having to do everything I tell you, from what I read of your memoir, but it's necessary. I need to know where you're going at all times. If I can't watch you, I'll get someone from hotel security to do it."

She frowned. "They'll do that?"

"If you have enough money, they'll do a lot worse," Vincent said casually. "Anyway, you also need to stay in public places at all times, where there are a lot of people. A lull in the crowd will give him the chance to approach you. People around will discourage him."

"Why? He seems to like an audience." She thought of meeting him in the bar. God, what if she'd joined him? What would have happened? She didn't continue the thought.

"True, but having too many people around risks drawing too much attention to yourself. He may be a showboat but he's not stupid. Trust me, Callie."

She bit back a snort. Trust me. But what choice did she have? Then the words slid from her mouth before she could think about them. "I'm tired. This is all making me tired."

"Then sleep," he said, heading towards the bathroom. "Go on, take the bed." He gave her a look over his shoulder, a look that made her insides give a strange little roll. "I'll keep my word. You're safe."

She frowned in his wake, where he'd disappeared into the bathroom. The thing must be huge, she pondered, but right now, it was the hugeness of the bed that beckoned her. She felt herself standing up, kicking off her shoes, shaking off the hoodie so that she was only in the tank top underneath it, and yanked off the heavy comforter. She settled herself into the nest of pillows and was asleep before she knew it.

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Ray woke up.

He hadn't even been aware of the fact that he was asleep. He remembered talking to Lupe… man, he'd talked himself hoarse.

"How is he?" he heard the familiar, gruff voice of Dr. Gregg, Laurie, saying. They were just outside his room. He was in one of the temporary lodgings for the overnight doctors, like a dormitory. Had this been Callie's room? He hesitated to ask.

Lupe answered. Her voice was sweet and husky, like raw honey. "He's…better. He's calmer. This news isn't going to help that."

Ray sat up, clearing his throat loudly. "What news?" he called through the partially opened door. "Hey out there, what news?"

Lupe reached in and pushed the door the rest of the way open. She was in her doctor's clothes – dressy slacks, sleek shirt, and of course the traditional white lab coat. Around her neck hung her identification, and her hair was pulled back in a dark bun. Her glasses perched on top of her head, but he was sure, when she put them on, it completed her professional look. An attractive woman was a neon sign in a mental institution, and she had to play it down. Somehow, it just seemed that much more alluring to him.

Laurie followed. He looked like hell. Ray was used to Dr. Gregg looking rough around the edges, but this was above and beyond. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark bags underneath them. It was obvious that he was running on empty but had no intention of refueling.

"There haven't been any leads on Callie," Lupe said gently, sitting down in the small chair beside his bed as he pulled himself upright, swinging his legs over the side. "The police are talking about the trail going cold."

"And if she's left the country, there's nothing they can do. It's being turned over to the FBI," Laurie chimed in, his voice sounding even worse than his face looked. "Which is very comforting, considering their workload."

"So," Ray said, trying to process this, "so what do we do?"

The two doctors just exchanged looks.

Ray snorted. "Fine." He stood up, his head feeling a little woozy from the drugs, but otherwise, feeling much more like himself. "What about Bill? Anything on him?"

"We can't get him on any of his phones," Lupe said. "We're pretty sure he's left town."

Ray shook his head. "Of course he's not answering his phones…what's he going to say? 'Oh, yeah, Callie? Yeah, I helped her get kidnapped. Sorry, gotta run, more bad deeds to do today.' What about family – Dr. Gregg, you have Bill's work file, don't you? Next of kin, anything?"

"Already been turned over to the police as our first suspect," Laurie replied. "If they've found him they haven't told us."

"They'll tell me," Ray said, reaching for his coat. He'd slept in his clothes, but he didn't care. "Anything else either of you has to say before I go?" he added, turning to them.

"One more thing," Laurie said, clearing his throat. "There was a guy named Rippner. He was trying to get Callie to drop the book she and I were working on. He tried to get to me, too…" He paused, hesitating.

"And?" Ray pressed, knowing there was more.

"He called before," Laurie pressed on. "After Callie disappeared. Implied he knew where she was. Said we'd get her back safe as long as I buried the book."

"Which line did he call?" Ray asked, straining for calm. Doctors…so smart, with all that school, and not a brain between them.

"My personal line," Laurie said, frowning. "What does…"

"I'm going to get the call traced. What time did it come in? It's important that we know so we can pinpoint the origin of the call. Come on, Laurie, you want to find Callie too, I know you do." He snapped his fingers as he turned and headed out the door.

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Bill sat in the molded plastic chair. They were holding him for questioning, and hadn't formally charged him with anything, but he knew it was coming.

After leaving Callie at the airport, he had refused to ride back with Rippner. He couldn't be around that man for more than two minutes alone, for fear of wanting to strangle him. He had walked from the private gates to the main hangar of the airport and hailed himself a cab. It had taken a couple of hours. A few more to get home, considering traffic.

He was surprised to find that there weren't cops waiting for him at his house. And the thick brown envelope containing the pictures was still sitting on his kitchen table. Nothing had been touched. It felt like a stranger's house, now.

What had he done?

He sat down at his kitchen table, feeling the wash of guilt becoming painful, sharp. He reached for the pictures. The pictures were the reason he had done it. Rippner had convinced him that Callie was in more danger from Rochester than from Vincent. Going with Vincent was her only option of safety. Rochester had gotten to her right underneath their noses, and could go back at any time, no matter what they did. He already had proof of that, from the commotion at the hospital. But with Vincent…with Vincent she was safe.

That thought really bugged him. He had seen how terrified she was of Vincent. He had heard her scream, watched her run. He had been helpless to save her then, too. He was out of his league.

He picked up the pack of pictures and pulled them out of the envelope. This was what awaited Callie, if Rochester got her. And it was more than visual graphics, it was medical reports of the victims. That was worse, the cold, clinical descriptions of despicable acts.

This was why he had done it. To save her from this. As gruesome as the images were, they helped soothed his conscience. So many great, heroic acts in this world went completely misunderstood. He could live with that. As long as Callie was safe, he could live with it.

But he knew they were coming for him. And he was no criminal. So he had gone straight to them.

They put him in this room about five hours ago. They hadn't fed him much more than a few candy bars from the vending machines, and given him a couple of cans of Mountain Dew to keep him awake. They didn't put him in the holding cell because he was being so well behaved. He had turned himself in, after all. And they were waiting for the brother, Callie's brother, to have his crack at him.

Except Callie's brother wasn't there.

Bill didn't mind. It was better being here than anywhere else. At least here, he knew he was in the right place. And they had left the pictures with him, so that he could comfort himself, every now and again, that he had done the right thing by Callie, even if she hadn't liked it.

Sometime, early in the morning, there was a commotion outside, and suddenly the door to his room burst open. It was Ray, and he looked furious.

Bill knew what was coming. He took it calmly, expecting worse. He anticipated Ray punching him, at the very least. But instead, the man lunged at him and grabbed him by his shoulders, hauling him up. Bill took it. He knew Ray had every right, and just went limp.

"You son of a bitch!" the cop roared into his face. Bill winced a bit under the bad breath – he smelled like he'd just woken up. Morning breath fumes. "We trusted you! What the hell did you do!"

Bill's back slammed the wall, pushing some wind from him. But he didn't resist. He waited until a few other cops came in and pulled Ray off of him, and then slid to the floor. He wanted to tell them to stop, to let Ray have at, he deserved it. But he kept silent.

There was a lot of yelling, and talk of throwing Ray out of the room, but he prevailed. He went to the other end of the table, glaring down at Bill, sitting on the floor so that only his head was in sight. "Get up!" Ray snapped at him. "Get on your fucking feet!"

Bill turned his eyes to him and slowly got to his feet. He took the chair he had been knocked from and set it upright, then sat down. He met Ray's eyes, unashamed.

"They told me," Ray said, his voice lower but no less intense, "that you took her to the airport. That you put her on a private jet. Where was the jet going? Who was on it?"

"I don't know where it was going for sure," Bill said calmly. "I think someone said Bangkok, but I'm not sure."

"Bangkok," one of the other cops murmured behind Ray. "Fucking Thailand?"

"And who was on it?" Ray asked again.

Bill knew Ray was going to explode when he heard the answer. He had to play this carefully. No sense in getting Ray exiled from his holding room; that would defeat the entire purpose of this humiliation. He wanted Ray to understand, like he had been made to understand, that Callie was safer where she was. He reached across and picked up the envelope, grabbed it by the bottom, and yanked up.

The pictures spilled out.

Ray saw them. It was impossible not to see. The blood, the horror. His face had been red with suppressed rage, but the blood drained out, leaving him pale. Then, his eyes rose again to meet Bill's, indiscernible.

"What are you telling me?" he asked in a near whisper.

"This is what Rochester is going to do to Callie," Bill said. "You remember Rochester, right? The guy who got to Callie in her secured room in the middle of the hospital? The only reason she's not like this right now is because of Vincent."

Ray flinched at the mention of that name. "How do you figure that?"

Bill sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Haven't you asked yourself," he said slowly, "why Callie even lived through that night with Vincent? He should have killed her – you know it, Ray. You're a cop. Assassins don't leave witnesses."

Ray gave a twitchy shrug, but Bill could tell that the thought had occurred to him, several times. Unpleasantly.

"But Rochester is the one who murdered your father," Bill said.

Ray shook his head. "Vincent did it," he said stubbornly. "As a warning to Callie."

Bill shook his head back, "No, he didn't. Look at the pictures, Ray! This is Rochester's work! Even Callie told you that she didn't believe –"

Ray made a sweeping motion with his hand. "Don't," he said. "Callie's not in her right mind when it comes to Vincent. She could have Stockholm Syndrome for all we know."

"Well, she's with him," Bill said, playing the card. "That's who was on the plane. He wants to protect her. I don't know why, but it's got to be safer than…" He looked down at the pictures, letting his voice trail off ominously.

Ray just stared at him. Bill waited for the eruption, but instead, Ray turned away, putting his hand up, palm out.

"Get this guy out of here," he said, his voice shaking with fury. "Get him in a cell. Charge him with aiding and abetting a kidnapping."

"Wait!" Bill called.

Ray paused, looking at him over his shoulder, eyes bright with wrath.

"The guy who arranged it, his name is Jackson Rippner," Bill said, finishing what he'd originally intended to do. "I saw him, met him. I can give you a description. He's the one who gave me this envelope. We can try to get prints--"

"Get a sketch artist, then," Ray said to another cop, turning away from Bill. "That's two that have identified this Rippner. He's our link. Find out what gate they went to, find out who owns the jet she got on, LAX has got to keep records."

"That was the first thing we did, Fanning," said the other cop, who had helped pull Ray off of Bill. "Nothing's come back yet."

"All right," Ray grunted. "I need a phone call traced from Dr. Laurence Gregg's office at St. Anthony's. And get that envelope down to forensics for latent prints. Come on people, I can't believe this hasn't been done already! Daylight is burning!"

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Jackson: I thought you said I'd be in the upcoming chapter!

Me: First of all, I didn't say which chapter. And Second, we did mention you. You were very important in this chapter.

Vincent: You're whining about not being in my fanfic?

Me: Don't worry, Vincent. If-when I write his fanfic, I'll make sure that you make an appearance.

Vincent: (perking up) Seriously?

Me: Seriously.

Vincent: You promise?

Me: Absolutely.

Jackson: Wait, that's not fair!

Me: What? How do you get that?

Jackson: Well, you've written Vincent a bunch of fanfics. Me, I'm only getting my tiny one. And my tiddly little part in this one.

Me: First of all, you have over five hundred fanfics! Vincent has a measly 20 or so! And second, when is anything I've ever written been tiny?

Jackson: Um, let's see…"More Like His Mother," and "Untouchable." Which was a brilliant fic, by the way…

Vincent: Oh, hush. You big ass-kissing crybaby.

Jackson: You should talk!

Me: Neither of you should talk! Shut up! Let the readers go review! – Please?