Chapter Nineteen: I Love You To Death

Nothing. It had only been hours, true enough, but Jackson Rippner did not exist.

There was no criminal record on him in their database and nothing was getting any hits anywhere else. Ray remembered with despair that it had taken a little over two weeks to get any hits on Vincent. But Callie's trail was getting colder and two weeks would be a death sentence.

"Ray, you're going to dig a trench in my carpet."

He looked at Laurie, and then toward Lupe. She gave him a gentle smile, and he felt the urge to go sit next to her. Being close to her was comforting.

It was maddening, that this was all they could do. Laurie had told him all about Jackson Rippner's call to the hospital, and while they had checked the telephone records, it had come up to an untraceable cellular phone line – Ray had a hard time believing that there were such things, but sure enough, there was no name, nothing on the records that could even give them a hint of a trail.

The airport hangar's logs were not much better. The jet they had used to smuggle Callie out of the country belonged to a company that existed only on paper. There were no names, nothing. A ghost owned that plane.

It occurred to him that Vincent obviously had had help from very clever resources. The kind of resources that had enough pull to make themselves invisible. It would take weeks to get a single name from either the invisible company or the cellular phone, weeks they didn't have.

Now all they had was the thin possibility that when Rippner called back, they might be able to use their fancy equipment to locate him. The line itself may be untraceable, but cellular phones still needed satellites to work, and satellites could be used to triangulate a position. It was a very long shot, and he only had himself to rely on. Laurie and Lupe were doctors, not cops.

All the could do was wait, and pray.

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Jackson Rippner had learned during the course of his tenure as a manager to not ask too many questions. At least, not the kind of questions that put the boss in a spot. But he had played a lot of games in his day, and this one didn't make too much sense to him.

There were the facts as he had laid them out for himself. Fact: Peter had given the job of killing Calliope Fanning to both Rochester and Vincent. Fact: Vincent had decided to protect Fanning instead of kill her. Fact: Peter had assisted Vincent in this very effort. Fact: Peter had directly ordered him to aid Rochester in his mission. Fact: He had also ordered him to assist Vincent in getting the girl out of the country. Fact: Rochester knew where they were going, because Peter had told him to tell him. So he had logically followed.

So what the hell was Peter doing? Playing both sides? Playing against himself?

These were exactly the kind of questions he shouldn't ask. What Peter did was Peter's business. But the conversation with Rochester in the back of his cab kept playing over and over in his head. Whose side was Peter on? Could it possibly be both?

His phone rang. Speak of the devil. "Jackson."

"They're looking for you, you know."

"I figured," he replied to Peter's smooth baritone. "They won't find me."

"There is a slim chance. You told Dr. Gregg you would call him back on his cellular phone. They could be setting up a trap. But there's a bigger problem."

"Which is?"

"They've been attempting to find me using the records at the hangar in L.A.X. Even after they have Ms. Fanning back, I doubt that Detective Fanning is going to let the whole thing drop."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to prepare to leave L.A. I need you in Miami. There's another job."

"But what about this one?"

"Don't worry. I'll handle it. I just would hate to see Ms. Fanning lose her brother so soon after she's lost her father. But I think there's another way."

Jackson felt the questions bubbling in his throat. He struggled with them, forcing them back. Instead, he said, "So when do you want me to leave for Florida?"

"There will be a package delivered to the condo in a few hours. It will contain your assignment. Study it. I'll call you when I have further instructions."

Closer and closer. Peter sounded…unsure of himself. As if he didn't have everything planned ten steps ahead. "Peter," he said, slipping.

"Yes, Jackson?"

"What's…" Don't say it, you'll regret it. "What's the job?"

"Everything is in the package." He could hear Peter smiling. "Don't worry yourself, Jackson. You're better when you aren't distracted. Don't think, just do. It's what you're best at." And he hung up.

Jackson bit his lip. This wasn't good. The suspicions that had been rumbling around in his guts were starting to manifest themselves in words. Vincent had some…hold, it seemed, on Peter. Peter was helping him, but at the same time, he was lining up Rochester to take him out. As if it were a game. Like he was playing chess against himself.

Jackson felt a chill. He would go back to the condo. He would not call Dr. Gregg as planned. He would do as he was told.

That was what he was best at.

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Callie's words had caught Rochester's attention. She could almost hear the struggle -- either believe her that it was a trap, cut and run, or ignore it because it was too obviously bait and continue tormenting her as he had planned.

Option B, at the moment, seemed to be in the lead, because his other hand had pushed the collar of her sleep shirt far enough over to expose her injured shoulder. He suddenly gave a hard tug on her bandage and ripped the cloth away.

"If you lived long enough," he told her, his voice still that low, sleek rumble of dark velvet, "this would leave a scar. Your children would ask you if you'd been bitten by a vampire. You can already see the teeth marks."

"If I lived long enough," she sighed. "Then again, there's also plastic surgery."

He chuckled. "I love how quick you are. We'll see how long it lasts, though." Without warning, he pulled up the shirt, and it gathered around her neck and then covered her face. He pressed down, and she was suffocating again, but worse, so much worse, was the fact that she was now very much naked. The humiliation hit her harshly, like a punch in the stomach. She wanted to curl up, try to shield herself, but he had her spread eagle.

"Mmmm…well, Vincent has better taste than I thought." His touched was gentle now, like a lover, and she tried to shut it out, tried to push it away. Then he grasped her to flip her over, and she couldn't stand it anymore. She grasped at the sheets, digging her hands in, pressing hard into the covers. She wasn't going to turn. She wasn't going to let him humiliate her any farther.

"Callie," he said with feigned patience, "you're only going to make it worse for yourself. Come on, don't piss me off."

She clung harder. Yes, she wanted to piss him off. Make him so mad that he shoved her so hard she would go rolling to the floor. On the floor, she had a chance. On the floor, she had the slightest possibility of getting to the gun.

A sudden plan flooded her brain like a spotlight. "Take this damn shirt off my head and I'll turn!"

He paused. Then, he made a gesture that might have been a shrug – she could only feel the vibration of the mattress, because her head was still enclosed in her stupid sleep shirt. "Fair enough." He yanked and it came off, and now she wore not a stitch of clothing.

She looked at him for a moment, and then threw her arms around his neck, bringing his face down to hers and kissing him passionately.

It was easier than she thought it would be. Rochester was physically attractive, and if she just shut her mind off to the knowledge of what he was, if she just looked at the shell and concentrated on the shell, she could do it. She could do this.

It threw him off. He was not expecting the sudden turn like this. For her to suddenly be eager for his advances only meant one thing – she was trying something. What, exactly, he couldn't imagine, but it was something.

He clamped his hands around her wrists and forced her back, pinning her to the bed. It put some air between them, and for the first time Callie could see he was dressed in one of his expensive silk suits. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What, you can dish it out but you can't take it?" she asked, wiggling her body suggestively. She pulled her legs up – he had his hands on her wrists and couldn't push them away – and wrapped them around his waist, linking her ankles at the small of his back. "Come on, baby, are you all talk and no show? Can't you get it up when a woman is willing?"

He gave her a look as if she were insane. Then, a very disturbing look came into his eyes. "Oh, you want to play it that way, huh, dirty girl?" He yanked her wrists, pulling her up and into him, so that she was now sitting on his lap in a very intimate position. He didn't let go of her wrists, however, but pinned them behind her back. "I should have expected this. You did fuck Vincent. Sometimes I'm thinking you're sicker in the head than him and me combined."

His lowered his head, and Callie fought a floodgate of sensation to keep her mind focused. She tugged at her wrists. "You going to let me go?"

He leered up at her. "I don't trust you that much, honey."

She smirked down at him. "Then how are we going to get your pants off?"

He chuckled darkly. "Still so quick. Fair point."

Callie gave him an equally twisted smile. She pulled back her ankles, trying to ignore the fact that this put some very private parts of hers very close to his. She was getting them under her to make it easier to leap. "So what are we going to do about it, sugar? You can't leave me hanging all night."

He shifted her wrists, keeping one over the other in an X, so that they were in one of his hands. He had very supple hands, muscular but with sleek, quick fingers. However, the concentration required to undo his fly took just a bit of slack out of his grip, and she was able to pull one hand free. Then, with all the energy she could muster, she slapped him hard across the jaw.

He took it. The flinch from the sharp sting was a gut reaction, but as he was bouncing back, she realized with horror that he was smiling. The flinch had caused his other hand to go slack for just a second, and she pulled her other wrist free quickly, and brought it forward to slap him in the other direction, almost as much to get the smile from his face as to free herself.

Then she dove. She tossed her weight over the side of the bed, grazing the blankets as she hit the carpeted floor. She got her foot into his gut and pressed, and managed to break free, getting on the floor and almost crawling clear, but she had to turn, and she knew that the second her hand went to the mattress, he would know she was going for a weapon.

He was a professional, like Vincent, after all.

He was very quick. On his feet, between her and the bed, now, and he was laughing. It was light, delighted laughter. It was harder to concentrate on the shell now, when the slime of a human soul that resided inside it was so clearly longing for damnation. And the fact that she was buck naked was not helping things.

"Oh Callie," he said, "I could love you, I swear I could. I could love you to death." He reached for her, but she kicked at him, enticing more giggles. She scrambled to her feet, realizing now that her last chance lay somehow in antagonizing him enough into throwing her toward the bed.

But how did one piss off a man who was this perverted?

He came toward her, and she slapped him again. He grabbed at her, dragging her into him, and managed to kiss her, good and hard, before letting her go, and laughing. She slapped him again, more angrily, but while it cut off the sound it did not stop his Joker-esque smile. He rubbed his cheeks, as if savoring the sensation.

"You know, I'd forgotten that one," he said, more to himself than to her. "It's one thing to let them fight, another to let them fight back."

She struck a third time, putting all her might behind it. This one got his lip pressed against his lower canine, and a trickle of blood appeared. He licked at it, and then, with just a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, he walloped her. Hard.

She rolled into it. It was easy to exaggerate because not much was required. Her head spun and her vision blurred, but she threw out her hands and grasped the edge of the mattress, and while her knees burned as they scuffed the carpeted floor, she struggled to hold onto her senses.

She groaned, doubling over against the side of the bed. She couldn't let him see what she was doing. She moved her head from side to side, as if delirious.

He approached, knelt down. His hands spread across her back, and she cringed at his touch. "Enough foreplay," he said, his voice clipped. "Time to get down to business."

"Some business," came Vincent's voice from behind them, and just then Callie heard several things hit the floor. It sounded like a pile of object being toppled over. One of them came flying in their direction, as if aimed, and it clipped off of Rochester's head, rolling onto the bed in front of them.

Callie looked over her shoulder. Somehow, Vincent had gotten the door open, although how, she had no clue, and had knocked over what Rochester had put in front of it as a safety precaution.

"What kind of stupid hotel puts the hinges on the outside?" Rochester snarled, and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her in front of him. He got his arm around her and held her flush against him, using her as a human shield. With his other hand, he reached behind him for something Callie couldn't see.

Vincent had his gun drawn. He looked -- Callie lost her breath upon realizing this -- exactly as he had looked that first night. The suit was almost the same light silvery shade of grey, and there was a terrible glint in Vincent's eyes, as he had both hands on his gun, aimed right at them.

"Well, I guess the party is just going to have to start early," Rochester said, lightly, as if the whole thing were a casual encounter and not the worst nightmare of Callie's life. Vincent was not looking at her, however. His eyes were tight on Rochester. His mouth had curled up into his contemptuous sneer, which told her how much he was concentrating on the moment.

"You always hide behind little girls?" Vincent taunted.

Rochester laughed, full and robust. "That's cute. Really. Like I'm going to believe for a second that the only reason I'm not dead is because I have my own personal shield." He pulled Callie's closer, and Callie attempted to slap at his arm with her hands, trying to distract him for even a second – Vincent was a crack shot. A second would be all he needed.

But Rochester did not fall for it for even that little second. Instead, he grabbed Callie's hands and pinned them against her own chest with his arm, tightening his hold so that her feet were nearly ready to leave the carpet. She could feel his mouth against the back of her ear as he spoke.

"You're not going to risk it," Rochester said in a conversational tone. "You might be able to get me in the forehead, but the chance that you'll get her instead is just too big. And you're not going to take that chance, not even for a second."

"I did use her as bait," Vincent said, deadpan. "I'm feeling a little reckless tonight."

"Ha ha," Rochester said, bitingly. "As if I don't know I've got the most valuable thing in Vincent's world exactly where you don't want her. Don't play me, old man, I'm too far ahead of you." He raised his hand and a very ugly knife came into view, a switchblade that glinted in the morning light. Callie drew in her breath as it seemed to float closer to her. "Put it down."

It was Vincent's turn to smile, although in his current state it was much more of a leer. "You won't kill her. Not like that. It'd spoil your fun. And if she dies, you do to."

"Oh, I don't have to kill her, Vincent," Rochester returned coolly. "I just have to hurt her." Without warning, he brought the knife up and ran it along her shoulder. The edge was so sharp she almost didn't feel it, but a few seconds later she felt a strange tickling, and then a burning as her own blood started to run down her skin. She stifled her scream – screaming would not help her. Rochester wanted her to scream and if she did, who knew what Vincent would do? He might fire, and hit her instead. He might put the gun down, and then they were both dead.

"Cute," Vincent said, his face getting more rigid. "Won't work."

"Won't it?" Rochester mocked. "Right now she's trying hard not to scream. She's brave, I'll give her that." The knife moved again, pushing deeper, just below the first cut. This time she made a grunt before she caught herself. "She'll break. They always break."

Vincent's eyebrows were slowly merging together into one. "This is between us."

"Oh, that lame line," Rochester laughed. He paused the knife, this time on the curve of her upper arm, as if he were getting ready to slice a potato. "You're really not used to the whole talking thing, are you?"

He sliced. He sliced deep. Her screech was muffled in the back of her throat but her eyes closed and her face contorted. She looked and felt bile rise in her throat when she saw how dark and thick the blood was running, and could even see the layers of skin and fat and muscle he had cut through. Her arm trembled with shock and pain.

"If I put the gun down," Vincent said, "you let her go."

"This isn't a negotiation," Rochester said, as if Vincent were a stupid child. "You put the gun down. End of story."

"Why?" Vincent asked. "Give me a reason. What do I get out of it?"

Rochester seemed to consider this. True, men in their line of work did not negotiate. They simply did.

"I'll stop cutting her," Rochester said, offering a carrot. "But I'm going to count to five, Vincent. Each number and she loses a little more blood. At five, I go for the throat." He moved the knife up a few inches and pressed the tip hard. "One." Blood oozed out, and this time she couldn't muffle the screech enough.

Callie looked at Vincent. "Don't do it…ah…!"

"Two." He had moved higher, on the curve of her shoulder, and had pulled the knife back, making a very deep gash right across the front part of the joint.

Vincent seemed to be pulling back with the gun. Callie looked at his eyes, trying to read him. She didn't want him to put the gun down – it would make him…powerless. She had seen Vincent take out men, unarmed when they had their guns pointed in his face, but she had not seen this.

She had not seen him truly weak.

She realized, as Rochester said the word "three," and sliced across her clavicle, that she had done this. She had made Vincent weak. Her sin had not only been against herself and her self-serving pleasure, she had also damaged him. The mechanism that made him so dangerous had failed him, because he was not doing what the Vincent she had first met in the back of her cab would have done.

Her regret doubled, if not tripled. "Vincent," she said, meaning to encourage him, meaning to tell him to let Rochester take as many chunks out of her as he wanted, but don't put down your gun! Instead, she heard herself saying, "I'm sorry. God I'm so saaa--!"

The knife was slipping along the base of her throat, the point going into the hollow. As if he was tracing a line for her to be beheaded. Rochester was smiling against her ear. "Four."

Vincent turned the gun in his hand, showing it to Rochester before putting it on the carpet. "Fine," he said, his voice raw, straining against panic. "Just stop!"

The knife point had just been pressed against her jugular – she knew it because she could feel her pulse pounding against it. Then, gently, he took it away. He stepped forward, dragging Callie with him, and stepped on Vincent's gun, shoving it far behind him. She heard it hit the wall. Then, taking a step back, Rochester tossed her down, and she crumpled into a bloody heap right against the bed.

Against the mattress, where Vincent had put the other gun.