He woke to the scratch of pen against paper and the sight of bare curves; the way her shoulder blade shone in the early morning light, the wash of pale gold against her hip and thigh, the tangled curl of hair that lay against her cheek. Charlie was still, his face half in the light as he watched her pen come down, scribbling furiously, working because sleeping was impossible. She licked her lips, brow furrowed, as sunlight glinted through the large windows that let in Southern California light mixed with soft Southern California wind.
It washed through the room and raised goosebumps across her skin.
"We're working two cases," she said, rubbing a hand through her hair wearily. He heard the way she half sighed and smoothed his fingertips against her side, watching the light play against her skin as it broke through his fingers. Two cases. Ballantine and Blank, intertwined, with Tomas Harriman twisted into it, the dark red line that pulled at the threads of some invisible tapestry. Cop, Reese had said. A cop connected to Jack who was connected to Rayborn. Rayborn who was connected to him. "Two cases, Crews." Charlie. It was there, that note in her voice, but she was working the case. Not a shred of clothes on her and she was working the case, already switched over to Crews. It made him smile just a little.
"Two cases," he murmured. Charlie shifted, half curling around her to peer at her notes. There were doodles in the corners where she'd been thinking on paper, sketches here and there, and timelines, lists, evidence, theories. A list of potential suspects as well, people who could have seen something. He knew where she wanted to go, now, and it left him cold inside. He buried his lips just below her ear and felt her lean into him, her breath caught. "You want to go up to Crescent City."
"You don't have to come," Reese said, her voice quiet. "You don't have to go back there. I got people I need to talk to. Guards, the warden, the last people who saw him alive. I gotta know where he came from, what his moves were, what he was really thinking. You don't ha--"
He leaned and kissed her carefully, firmly, felt her stir.
"I'm coming with you," he said, detached, now, trying to keep it all at bay. Charlie could feel it, the sound of the prison doors rattling closed, the hum of the flickering florescent lights, the quiet of the yard when he was in solitary, the way that prison tee felt soaked with blood. His blood, theirs, twelve years of fight and Zen survival. He breathed in and relaxed as her palm cupped his cheek. He was sure and she saw it.
"I called the trip in," she said softly. "Tidwell was annoyed, but cleared it with Crescent City PD fifteen minutes ago. Texted the go-ahead." Her lips pursed wryly. "Get your pants on, Crews. It's a long, long drive." She pulled away and he drank in the sight of her as she moved across the room to pull on some clothes. He dressed quickly, packed a bag, made coffee. Ted sat downstairs half asleep with a sheaf of papers printed out for them.
"Charlie," he mumbled. "Your private investigator was definitely working for Joseph Blank and Blank had been paid by some corporation that was a shell for another shell for another shell that went on back threw a few more corporations and landed me, after far too long, at a Swiss bank account. That account is owned by a man named Victor Nabbas. He's a lawyer. He's a lawyer who works for Tomas Harriman."
Crews blinked and Ted grinned as Reese skirted past to grab a cup of coffee.
"Victor Nabbas bought a plane ticket from Switzerland, routed through Heathrow, to New York City. He never arrived. I found a smaller outgoing plane chartered to LAX that arrived and there was a twenty grand wire transfer to the owner of that plane. No flight list, private. I did some calling. Victor Nabbas is blond, over six feet, and thin. he would have arrived the day your cop friend was murdered."
Reese stopped midsip and stared at Ted for a very, very long time as Crews stood there, grinning.
"What?" Ted asked a little nervously and his eyes went wide. "I followed the money."
"Ted," Reese said, letting him have one of her rare genuine smiles, "I owe you huge. C'mon Crews, if we're gonna make it upstate, we need to book it." He flicked a glance at her and offered Ted a quick flash of a smile. Ted returned it and scotted his own cup of coffee closer, waving at them.
"Hope you catch this guy," he called after them.
"We will," Reese said firmly.
He hoped so. There was something off about the blond guy, though. Something that told him they needed to be very, very careful, and that whatever was in Crescent City, it wasn't going to be pleasant -- his issues aside. His gut said hurry, Charlie. They were going to need something faster than his car.
"Reese?" Crews said, "Reese, wait. Head to the airport." She blinked, throwing the idea around for a second and then nodded. "The faster we get up to Crescent City, the better."
"Department's not gonna like a charter plane," she muttered as she pulled her door shut, the dark cranberry of her shirt flashing warm in the weak light that filtered through the clouds. He arched his eyebrows at her meaningfully and buckled up. "Oh. You're just going to..." Reese waved, "just like that? Boom, plane tickets?"
"I have money," he reminded her quietly. "What good is it if I can't use it for things like this?"
"Point," she said. "Do I get more coffee?"
"There's a Starbucks at LAX," he said, smiling. "I'm sure we can spare a moment. Lemme just snag that flight." Crews watched her process how easy it was to do this. Normally, he'd have Ted do it, but Ted had done entirely too much for them at the moment and he was afraid the man was going to fall asleep at the counter if he asked anymore. So. Crews started dialing. Fifteen minutes later, they had a direct private flight into Del Norte County Airport out of LAX. They left Crews's car in Daily Parking and walked into the airport, stopping only briefly for heavily doctored coffee. They were met at the tarmac by a flight attendant named William who got them settled on Skylark, an executive jet that shone sleek black and glinting as the sun rose.
Reese cradled her coffee almost possessively and refused to give up her bag. The hatch closed behind them, leaving them staring at huge, plush, oversized chairs done in pristine ivory. One of the chairs rocked and turned before a very familiar face swung into view.
"Hello kiddo, have a seat. It's going to be a real nice flight." Rayborn grinned and Crews felt Reese stiffen beside him. "I thought you might like some company."
"Rayborn," Crews said right on top of Reese's hissed 'What the hell?'
"My plane. I get to stay," Rayborn said smoothly, his smile still bright and unwavering. "You see, I own Skylark, much like I own many, many things. More things than you probably think I own. Take a seat, we're about to taxi. Dani, nice to see you looking so well." He folded his hands, his face smooth and calculating and so very Mickey Rayborn as he waited. Reese, predictably, scowled.
"I was pretty sure you were fairly well occupied," Crews said, sinking into a seat and buckling in. Reese did the same, grudgingly.
"Oh, you know," Rayborn said, sipping a cup of what smelled like mint tea. "Sometimes things aren't as complicated as they seem. I have a good lawyer, good money. Good people."
"What do you want, Mickey?" Reese said in a low, hard voice.
"I'd really like to know what your interest in Tomas Harriman is," he said, his smile as tight as the look in his eyes. Dangerous ground, Crews thought, though the quick, polite smile directed at Rayborn was genial enough. "Yes, I know you tried to access his file and failed. He's a decent man and he was a decent cop. You would have gotten along well with him, Dani."
"I'm not crooked," she said very, very quietly.
"Now, now," Rayborn murmured. "Let's not go pointing fingers when there aren't any facts to establish any wrongdoing. What would your father say to such shoddy police work?"
"Jack," Reese said, her voice dropping to a dangerous growl, "is dead. Jack is dead because your Russian monster murdered him." Her eyes said more, they always did, even when she was shut up tight. He saw the pain flash through her features and forced himself not to move.
Mickey Rayborn leaned forward with a soft sigh, his elbows on his knees as he watched Reese glower at him. Crisp white shirt, dark suit, polished shoes with rubber soles, and a new addition, a deep burled wood cane. He canted his head slightly, peering from Crews to Reese and back again, thoughtful, analytical, then folded his hands.
"You father chose his own path," Rayborn said softly. "He had every means necessary to avoid his fate and, in the end, he walked straight into it anyway. There's only so much you can give a man before you can't give him any more." A smile tugged at Mickey's lips, one that was not particularly nice. "Roman told you he was dead, right?" She nodded just once, the motion more of a jerk than a nod. "Did it make you sad?"
"No," Reese said, her face hard, closed down, and her eyes glittering with held anger.
"No?" Rayborn's eyebrows arched. "Jack might be a little hurt by that statement. His own flesh and blood denying him mourning like that. Your mother was sad, though, wasn't she? I think she's been sad for a long while about that. Even after everything, all of those years, everything he'd done, your mother still loved him. Jack Reese was a hard man, a man who had heavy issues to deal with. You know that and, from what I gather, you know why." The plane gathered speed on the runway, pressed their bodies back into the soft seats, and shot them toward the sky. Crews watched Rayborn the way he watched a perp, waiting for his moment. There was always a moment.
Reese shifted, her jaw tight.
"I'm not going to talk about that," she said very quietly. "Tomas. Harriman. Where is he and what does he have to do with William Blank?"
"William Blank," Rayborn said, a slim smile lingering across his features, "was an escaped convict who murdered twenty nine women and six good cops. Tomas Harriman was a good friend of mine who lost a partner and a brother in that incident. Nothing more. Last I talked to him, he had no clue Blank had escaped."
"William Blank was murdered," Reese said. Her voice was dry, calm, and focused. "Two Correction guards, Anthony Raine and Donald Pullard were taped confessing to the murders. One died, the other went missing and is presumed dead. Three million dollars is in limbo as well. One more man, by the name of Jeff Callum, also a Corrections officer, is dead as well, though he appears to have committed suicide by hanging himself his closet. I have another dead cop related to the Blank case as well. His name is Patrick Ballantine. Someone killed him in my livingroom and Ballantine left me a note mentioning Tomas Harriman. Specifically that Tomas Harriman's men were coming for him. He came to me and he died before I could do a goddamn thing to help him. I got alotta dead bodies that are pissing me off pretty badly right now. And I want the man who killed Ballantine. I want Victor Nabbas."
"Going to Crescent City is going to put you both in jeopardy," Rayborn murmured, carefully stretching out.
"Why would that be?" Crews asked, glancing out the window.
"Kiddo, you don't want to walk this road." He held up a hand. "You walk this and people might keep dying. I can't make it all go away if you go hunting for Nabbas. He doesn't take kindly to being hunted down."
"I don't take kindly to people killing my goddamn friends," Reese snapped, at the end of her patience. "And I really, really don't take kindly to you fucking with me like I'm some sort of--"
"That's enough," Rayborn said, cutting Reese off with a sharp gesture. "I always liked you, Dani. Always. You did everything you could to survive, even after Roman. You had real spirit, serious guts, incredible cop instinct, still do, and I do admire that. But sometimes, complicated things go wrong and good people go down in the process. You're smart and you know that. Listen to your head, Dani. I don't know anything about Blank or the trouble he found himself in, but if Victor Nabbas is involved, I'd walk the other way. He's very, very good at what he does."
"What does he do, Mickey?" Reese hissed. "You wanna maybe enlighten me?"
"Victor is a watchdog," Rayborn said, closing his eyes as he leaned back. "He's a watchdog that will bite you in half and I'd hate to see Jack Reese's only kid get caught between that man's teeth. I'm here because I don't want to see either of you dead."
"Bullshit," Reese growled.
"I'm not the only one," Rayborn said, his smile a little wider. Silence settled for a long while until the landing gear went down in a whine of hydraulics. Crews glanced at his watch and grimaced. They'd been traveling fast to make it to Crecent City in just under two hours. Once they were taxied and still, Crews rose. The silence hung thick.
"We're going to get off the plane," Crews said quietly, "and we're going to find Victor Nabbas through every single connection he has, and then we're going to trace those back to Tomas Harriman and bring him down as well."
"C'mon, kiddo," Rayborn said. "It's not worth dying over. Going after Harriman will get you killed. I wouldn't be on this plane if I didn't think it was a possibility."
"Don't," Crews said, his voice flat, "call me kiddo. And no one is going to die."
Rayborn just sighed.
"Kids, you say don't do it and they do it anyway," he muttered. "Fine, but watch your back. And remember the lessons you've learned. They might save your life. Always protect your back, kiddo. Always."
Crews fixed Rayborn with a hard stare and then shared a look with Reese, who grimaced.
Crescent City smelled woodsy, like perpetual rainfall. It hit him when the hatch opened, pouring memory back over him like a downpour. Salt air and earth, the thick scent of redwood trees (rotting, caving in, and old), the humidity, the way a storm seemed forever threatening. He looked up to find the sun, but it was gone, lost in the clouds that were quickly thickening. He didn't bother to say goodbye to Rayborn, just turned and walked after Reese who was already heading into the airport to secure a rental car or a taxi. Something useful.
They'd find Nabbas. They'd find him and bring him home before Crescent City ate him alive again. They'd do that because they could and because Ballantine had asked them to do so.
He felt flat, now, flatter than he had with Rayborn, like he was being compressed into a thin line. The dull murkiness that was Crescent City felt manufactured and fake, right along with the heavy wind that blew by, sending a fresh wave of wrongness through his bones. Crews suppressed a shudder. He should never have come back. Not ever. This was a place of death and pain and shivs.
"Hey." Reese voice caught his ear and turned him away from those thoughts long enough for him to see she was holding keys. "I got keys to a Ford Taurus. It's beige, I think." They walked in silence to the parking lot and she pressed the alarm, probably to be obnoxious. He couldn't help but smile as she silenced the wailing and popped the trunk. "I got Pat's keys," Reese said. "Figured he wouldn't mind if we saved some money and crashed at his place. I always found it weird that he moved into some family sized home when it was just him."
"Maybe he was hoping for a family one day," Crews offered. It didn't sound right, not even to him, and he shrugged when her eyes caught his. She drove them into a circular driveway and parked in front of the long porch that went around the front of the house. A dead man's house. "Reese?"
"Yeah?" she got out and grabbed the bags, frowning as she unlocked the door.
"What went down in that motel?" He followed her in and watched the way her body stiffened. "You and Ballantine, the gang?"
"Shit got tense Crews," she said, still stiff. "We were locked in the walk-in closet for ten hours. Him and me and Hell outside. We got stupid, thinking we weren't gonna make it, that SWAT was gonna be late. I fucked him, okay? It was just once. He transferred, we didn't really talk. He blamed himself and I was just screwed up. That's all. We thought we were gonna die right there." She tossed the bags on the crappy couch and leaned against the back of it. "You maybe thinking he made me into a junkie?"
"No," Crews said, his shrug light. "Fendine was spouting shit, that's all." Old shit that meant nothing. It also meant Fendine was just trying to make trouble. The thing about Charlie Crews was, he didn't care about that. All that mattered was now. Fendine would never get that, not the way Reese did.
"Fendine's an asshole with his panties up his--" She stopped. He glanced up at her sharply and found her staring out the back window, squinting at the woods.
"The fuck is that?" Reese murmured. Crews moved up next to her, peering along her line of sight. Leaves rustled in the rising wind and he could feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise with it. There was someone out there. Reese drew her gun and unlocked the deck door, the hinges squeaking as she darted through it.
"Reese," he called after her, cursing softly under his breath.
He heard her nine millimeter go off twice and then there was silence.
"Reese!"