Soulless
Chapter Nine: Time Heals All Wounds
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Word Count: 2,351
Disclaimer: I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Wait, I do... I can only claim season 1, though. Pity.
Summary: A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan
Author's Note: While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.
Ending stories has never been my strong point. Starting them is fun, and I have a lot of starts and very few ends. Still, I worked hard to make this chapter a fitting end with pretty good closure, at least I think so. :) Well, it is kind of sappy...
Time Heals All Wounds
"Detective Hoyt, do you really expect us to believe that this woman—this petite lady—was able to incapacitate you, a man who outweighs her by at least fifty pounds, a trained police officer, and that she took you hostage and held you for over three weeks?" the high priced defense attorney demanded. His voice was full of disdain and his insinuations caused snickers in the courtroom.
Woody cleared his throat. Even now, months after his release, he found talking difficult, painful. His therapist insisted that it was psychosomatic, but Woody didn't care. He still felt it. She had forced a tube down his throat and restrained him so that every time he spoke or screamed—and she had made sure he screamed—it hurt. She had wanted him to scream; she just didn't want anyone to hear him, didn't want him found. His original statement had been written, had to be written, not spoken.
He wished he didn't have to speak right now.
"She used a tire iron," Woody said softly. "I was unarmed. The first time she hit me, it knocked th wind out of me. The second time, I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up, she had my hands cuffed around a metal pipe. A separate chain held my ankle to the floor. She also gave me drugs. And she wasn't very regular when it came to feeding me."
"So you've claimed, Detective," Batten pretended to agree. He was a master of courtroom theatrics, a smooth talker and dresser, distinguished yet still in his prime. "But I still have trouble seeing this little woman here doing all that to a strong, young man such as yourself"
Woody glared at him. He knew what Jordan would say to the bastard, but he couldn't summon the same anger. "Maybe looks are deceiving, Mr. Batten. Or maybe that was what your client was counting on all along. I know I didn't believe it when I first saw her. The tire iron changed my mind."
He heard laughter at that comment. The judge hit his gravel, calling for order. Batten reddened, but he continued on. "Detective Hoyt, did you know my client before your alleged abduction?"
"No."
"And my client has no ties to anyone else in your life, does she?"
Woody looked over the defendant. He had a hard time thinking of her as a person and not a monster. In his less lucid moments, she had seemed like a demon, a formless evil. Now she looked... normal. Human. Yet he knew that she wasn't. She had no soul. "She didn't know any of her victims except her husband and his girlfriend. The others... She didn't know them. She didn't know me or anyone I knew. That was what she told me."
"So, why, Detective Hoyt, would she kill these men? Why would she abduct you?"
"I asked her that," Woody answered quietly. "I don't know how many times I asked her why. I never got an answer. Probably because there isn't one. I know she doesn't have a real motive, Mr. Batten. She just did it. She wanted to, so she did."
"That's not a good reason," Batten said. "My client had no reason to commit the crimes that she is accused of, Detective. Yet you would have these twelve people believe that she did these things without any reason for them?"
"Why?" he repeated desperately, talking around despite the tube. He wasn't sure he made any intelligible sound, but he knew that she knew what he was saying.
She smiled evilly. "Do you really want an answer? Pity. I have none for you. Perhaps you think that it would be best if I held some grudge against you or your girlfriend. I don't. I thought nothing of your girlfriend at first. She was cynical. You were wholesome. I hate wholesome people. But it turns out that she cares. That is her misfortune."
He closed his eyes. He had stopped asking for deliverance a long time ago. He should stop asking her why as well. She leaned down and cupped his cheek in her hand. "I think it's time to bring you another friend. Don't you agree?"
He shook his head violently. Not another one. He couldn't stop her. She was going to kill another man, and he couldn't do anything to stop it.
"Detective Hoyt?"
Woody looked up at Batten. The man was waiting for an answer. He looked over at Jordan, who smiled encouragingly. She had been nothing but supportive since she found him. She had been there everyday through the weeks he spent in the hospital, had been there for him during his physical therapy, and she'd forced him to stick with the counseling when he had just wanted to ignore everything, pretend that none of it had happened. A large part of him had been numb, and he had wanted it to stay that way. Her anger, her strength, and her love had gotten him through it.
"What you are asking, Mr. Batten, is really whether they should believe me or you. When it comes to that, I am a police detective, sworn to uphold the law. You are a lawyer, willing to argue a case for whoever pays you enough," Woody found his answer at last. "I told the truth. I can't do anything more than that."
Batten turned towards the jury. After assessing them for a moment, he turned back to Woody. "Thank you, Detective. I have no further questions."
"Ding dong the witch is dead," Nigel chanted as he set the glasses down in front of everyone. Woody stared at his and pushed it away. Jordan grabbed it, took a gulp, and swallowed it down with a smile. He rolled his eyes as she put it back in front of him. He didn't need a drink taster, but she insisted on putting his fears to rest.
"Can we really say that?" Lily asked, a slight frown of disapproval on her face. "She was sentenced to life in prison, not given the death penalty."
"The point is, love, her reign of terror is finally over," Nigel said, taking his seat. He nudged Woody's shoulder, and Woody forced a smile.
"Good triumphed over evil and their scummy, high priced lawyers," Jordan agreed, wrapping her hand through Woody's. He squeezed it back. His therapist kept promising him that in time this would be behind him, that he would no longer hate talking or look at every drink with suspicion. The nightmares and flashbacks would come less frequently, no longer waking Jordan every night. He wouldn't need her touch and words to feel safe.
His confidence in his abilities as a detective would return, he would no longer push himself too hard physically, trying to prove that he wasn't weak. He wouldn't have to prove it, not to anyone, not even to himself. Eventually, it would all be over, practically forgotten.
But never completely. Too much had changed.
"A toast," Macy said, lifting his club soda. "To Woody, who has been through hell and back."
"To Jordan, for bringing him back," Lily added, looking pointedly at their hands. He almost pulled his from Jordan's, but she gripped it tighter. "Even if he was kicking and screaming."
There were a few snickers at that, for various reasons. He forced another smile he didn't feel. Jordan downed her drink and kissed him. That was their version of a toast, one she had invented to get them past the overeager well-wishers at their wedding reception. He had just been bewildered by her insistence that they not elope, which he would have preferred after what Quince put him through. Nigel had found Max, Jordan wore white, and Father Paul officiated.
It was the kind of wedding that Woody had imagined for them before he was shot, before everything got so confused. Somehow, Jordan was convinced that it was what he still wanted, and she made sure that he got it. He would have been happy with a justice of peace or even a tacky Vegas chapel. He didn't need the fanfare. Almost couldn't stand it.
"I never thought you'd be the one to get cold feet," Jordan teased him as she straightened his tie. He had pulled it out and unbuttoned his collar, his hair sticking in every direction after all the times he had run his hands through it. He would admit it. He was ready to run. "We're not dealing with the pity thing again, are we? Woody, I love you. These past three months were not and have never been about pity. I thought I lost you. I never want to lose you again."
"So you said when you proposed," Woody agreed. "Jordan, are you sure about this? Maybe we were wrong to try—"
"Woody, just trust me. It is my turn to hold you tighter," she said, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. He closed his eyes. It was his turn to let her have the faith, to let her believe despite his doubts.
Six months and counting. Miss Fear-of-Commitment Jordan Cavanaugh was now Mrs. House-in-the-Suburbs Jordan Hoyt. She had grown up. She was ready for that picket fence and the two-point-five kids. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. Still, she had given him enough hints lately that she was open to the idea of kids. He was trying to adjust to the idea of the picket fence.
"You sure you're okay, Woody?" Jordan asked softly. The others had fallen into conversations of their own, smiling and laughing. He nodded. He was used to being on the outside like this.
She leaned against him. "You don't have to lie to me, you know. Or to them. None of us thinks less of you. This was hard for you, and I happen to think you're the bravest damn man in the world."
He looked at her, a sly smile overtaking him. "I did marry you, didn't I?"
She hit him playfully. "That's not why, and you know it."
He nodded again. He lifted the drink, brought it to his lips and set it down again. His therapist called that an improvement. She touched his face gently. 'I love you."
He kissed her forehead. "I love you, too, Jordan."
"You want to leave, don't you?"
He shrugged. "You know me too well."
"Why did you bring me here—force me from my very comfortable—our—very comfortable bed—for this crap?" Jordan asked, poking her fork at a dismal piece of overcooked bacon and wondering if her eggs qualified as a biological hazard. "I was sleeping quite peacefully. And so were you."
"You agreed to have breakfast with me," he reminded her with a smile, a genuine Farm Boy smile, one that she had being missing over the last few months.
"I agreed to breakfast when I thought you meant it in bed," she answered, shaking her head in disgust. She hated this place. Woody knew that. He used to grumble all the time about her decision to come here.
He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "When did I ever say I was giving you breakfast in bed? And why would I?"
"I did it for you," she said defensively.
"Please. That blackened piece of toast does not count as breakfast," he insisted, grinning. Two smiles. She couldn't help one of her own. Today was a good day. They'd made it through the night without a nightmare, and he was joking and smiling again.
She shrugged, feeling some color in her cheeks. "It was an honest mistake."
He laughed. Her "honest mistake" had been his toaster's fault. He had a nice one someone got him insisting a single man needed it to survive, and it had more bells and whistles than her refrigerator. He had not bothered to explain how the damn thing worked, and next thing she knew, she had an entire loaf of overcooked bread.
"I don't care if you cook, Jordan. I told you that before," he said as he gathered up her plate, cleaning up their unfinished dishes and taking the tray to the trash.
"And if you really don't care, why do you keep bringing it up?" she asked, joining him near the door. He helped her into her coat, and she pulled his scarf even around his neck.
He held open the door for another couple coming in, and she waited impatiently until she finally realized what this was. It had nothing to do with breakfast, which had been undeniably bad. No, this was about taking back his life.
This had been their ritual, before Quince, before she came into their lives and nearly destroyed them. The woman's evil shadow had hung over them for months. Woody had been her prisoner, had endured a hell he still wouldn't speak of unless he was forced to, had lost so much to the Bleeding Heart Killer.
Not anymore. This was Jordan's Farm Boy, and he was back. He was not going to let that bitch stop him anymore. Not from laughing or smiling, from enjoying his life. He had finally shed the last of her hold on him, and he was ready to move on.
Jordan wrapped her hand in his, ready to take that step with him. She pictured Quince off in her cell, screaming at the loss of her power and smiled.
Woody looked over at her. "What's that?"
"I'm just glad I have you back, Farm Boy."
He shook his head. "I'm not back, Jordan. But I am getting there."
"We have today off, you know," she reminded him. "And there's this very big, very comfortable bed that has our names on it..."
"You want to go back to bed?" he asked with a frown, clearly enjoying the sun on his face and the brace of the cool air through the trees.
"I didn't exactly say that, either," she said with a grin of her own. She was rewarded with another genuine smile and laugh.
And so much more.