Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
A/N: Thank you again to all who are reading and reviewing. Your response to this story has been incredible: thank you for playing along in my universe!
Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles.
It's A Long Journey Home
Chapter 59: Nobody Ever Hears Him
Well on his way, his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices, talking perfectly loud.
But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make.
And he never seems to notice
But the fool on the hill,
Sees the sun going down.
A figure moved silently across the white landscape, arms and legs moving in perfect synchronicity. One with the equipment. One with the wilderness. That's what he had been taught. That's what he had learned.
He stopped, checked his bearings. He wasn't worried about being seen: the dull silvery gray of his ski-suit camouflaged him no matter whether he was in shadow under the trees or in the clearing against the snow. Not that he intended to be in the clearing. You didn't hunt your prey in the open. McKim had taught him that.
Of course, he didn't know he'd been teaching anything. After all, if you never see someone, how can you teach him?
But the invisible can learn. Have to learn. Otherwise, there is hell to pay.
The figure moved again smoothly, quickly setting and keeping a rhythm, a pace that would seem impossible to someone who knew him in his regular life. He didn't slow down as he entered the woods on the edge of the park; he knew how to find a pathway through the trees. Some would have been lost off the track, but not him. He'd gone off the track most of his life.
He breathed in the silence and the solitude of the backcountry; it was his only refuge. Everywhere else there was too much noise: people chattering like magpies, asking him questions, giving him orders. Never looking at him. Never seeing him.
Out here there was nothing: just the wind and the soft sound of snow moving like a living creature, falling from an overladen branch, settling into a hollow place. The winter cold filled his head until he could only hear the beat of his own heart, the purposeful rasp of his own breath.
Listening. That was what he did best. Listening when no one was paying any attention to him. That was easy. No one ever paid attention to him.
That was safer too. It was better not to draw attention to yourself. Attention was not always welcome.
He had heard the nurses gossiping about Lindsay Monroe and her New York cop when he was sent in to gather up her clothes. How romantic. How sweet. To be swept off to a cabin in the woods to wait out the case.
He laughed, a harsh bark of sound, breaking the silence under the trees. A clump of snow fell just after him, obscuring the tracks of his skis.
Wait out the case? He'd made sure they would never work it out. It was easy to be ever so slightly incompetent: never completely trusted, but never, ever completely blamed either. No one expected much of him. He made sure that was exactly what they got.
Like the clothes. It was so easy to just say they had been gone when he got there. Like the bullets. "Sorry sir, not where Detective Monroe said they should be."
He changed records, lost or mislabeled evidence, screwed up tests. Evans would roll his eyes and call him an idiot who only got the job because someone pulled some strings. Olafsen would look worried.
McKim, though. McKim had been suspicious. He'd taken care of that.
Stupid bitch. She'd had to come back, start asking questions. She'd owed him, damn it. He'd saved her. It wasn't his fault she'd come back.
The truck had been a good plan. He ground his teeth as he dug his poles into the snow to move a little faster. That should have worked. Just his luck that she looked up as he hit the accelerator. He'd flinched when she had looked straight at him. As if she'd remember.
She should have been dead. Who survives being hit by a truck?
The morphine drip was a stroke of genius. Too easy to do: she'd been zoning out; he'd simply pulled his sleeve over his fingers and spun the little wheel that opened the drip.
It should have worked. It was all the fault of that New York bastard. Why couldn't he have just stayed out of the way for a few minutes longer? It should have worked.
Now she was shacking up with that asshole from the city. Thinking she was safe. Thinking she'd get away with it.
He'd let her get away with it for too long. It was time to take care of business.
He stopped for a drink from the pack under his ski-suit, held against his skin to keep it from freezing. Just water; that was all he needed to keep going. He knew biathletes who carried whole packs full of stores, weighing themselves down; he carried his rifle, his ammo, his water. That was all.
Live small. Live another day.
Effortlessly, he started again. He knew he was getting near. It hadn't been hard to figure it out. He knew lots of people, had kept tabs on the Monroes for years, had access to all the information he needed. Find a family friend, one with a cabin not in use, plot out a trail. Took him less than a day. He knew he was right. He always knew.
"Think you're so smart?" He ducked; the voice in his head so loud he swore he could hear the heavy fall of footsteps coming up behind him. "Think you know anything? You're an idiot. Stupid little asshole. You know nothing."
He whimpered and swerved as he skied. It was no good; the voice was behind him. Always an arm's reach behind him. Hard hands. Harsh words.
He was almost there. Once he took care of this one last thing, then the voice would have to stop, wouldn't it? There wouldn't be anything else for it to say. It would have to stop.
There it was. The small cabin was covered in snow: lights were on and smoke was pouring out of the little metal chimney. He dropped to prone position and observed the cabin carefully. He was ready.
-CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY- CSI:NY-CSI:NY-
Slamming the yearbook closed on the picture of Ross Adams sitting cross-legged on the floor in the Biathlon team photo, Danny jumped up from the couch. "We need to get back to town. We can tell them who it is. They'll pick him up. Case closed."
Lindsay stared at him, "His eyes. I saw them. When he pointed the gun at Tricia. I didn't know it was him; I thought it was Forbes. Justin's eyes were blue, though."
Danny sat down beside her again, taking her hands in his. "Lindsay, it wouldn't have mattered. Not at all. Nothing would have changed."
"And again, in the truck. I saw his face, just for a moment – his eyes. That's what I remembered when we were driving here, Danny. I did see him. He ran me over. And then," she had started to tremble, "In my dream. He was standing over me, saying that no one saw him, that it was his turn."
"Tell me. In the Science lab. You saw him? You recognized him?" Danny tried to keep his voice relaxed and easy.
"He came in from the back, from the supply room. It was in the middle of all the labs – they kept the equipment and stuff there. He – Forbes, it must have been Forbes – came through there. He was yelling."
"Did you hear anyone else?"
"Not then. He yelled at us all to get down on the floor." Lindsay had picked up the schematic Stella had created on the computer and was tracing the figures with her fingers. "I was almost behind the lab counter. See, Danny? If Stella is right, then Ross Adams came through this door," she shuddered as she said his name, "He couldn't have seen me clearly. But he had a clear shot at Tricia."
"You said Forbes yelled 'Don't!' Who to? Who did he yell it at, Lindsay?" Danny was focused on her face.
For years, she had done everything humanly possible to avoid ever seeing it again. Now, willingly, she closed her eyes as if to see it all again.
"If Forbes didn't shoot Tricia, but Adams did, then he must have yelled it at Adams. Forbes turned and shot at Laura – yes, after yelling 'Don't'. That means he didn't want Adams to shoot? Or he didn't want Tricia dead? I don't know.' She sounded like a little girl, her voice getting softer and lighter as she continued to speak.
Danny pulled her into his arms again. He couldn't listen to any more. "Okay. Okay, sweetheart. Look, Lindsay, we need to get back to Bozeman. Even Olafsen can't screw this up. And John will help us. Lindsay, we need to go." Danny couldn't say why he felt such an urgency; he just knew he couldn't sit here waiting for someone else to figure this out.
Lindsay looked up at him, eyes still a little blinded with panic and the lingering slick of nightmares. He pulled to her feet, and she seemed to come to.
"What about the phone?' she said practically,
He lifted it to his ear, "Dead. Maybe the storm?"
She nodded, her eyes not leaving his.
"Can we get out, do you think?" He looked out the window at the snow that was still coming softly down.
"You need to go try starting the truck. It may have frozen up."
"Didn't I plug it in to keep it from freezing up?" Danny ground his teeth. Stupid mountains.
"Doesn't always work. Go, see if it will start; I'm just going to wash the dishes and pack up our clothes."
Danny opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Some things were really not worth the energy.
As Lindsay limped over to the sink and heated up the water again, Danny struggled into the layers of clothing he knew he would need to brave the storm again. Although the snow was lighter than the day before, the wind was high, and he wouldn't have a handy rope to guide him to the truck.
"Use the extension cord," Lindsay said casually, as if she had read his mind.
"Sorry?"
"To stay on track. Hold onto the wall until you get to the plug-in; then follow the extension cord to the truck. That way you can't get lost." She turned to face him, and he saw the banked panic in her eyes.
"Hey. Hey, Montana?" He put his arms around her, and hugged her, dripping hands and all. "It's okay. Siete calmi. We'll be okay."
She hugged him back, hard, and raised her face to him. "Go," she kissed him, "Come back."
He took her face in his hands, smoothing his fingers through her hair, and brought his mouth to hers softly, lingeringly.
"Now," he muttered, "I'll go. Be back in a minute."
She heard the door slam behind him, propelled by the wind. She saw him following the wall of the cabin, hand down low against the wall as he stomped through the snowdrifts piled up by the wind. She saw him pick up the electrical cord and follow it out to the truck she could barely see through the driving snow. She watched him as he climbed into the driver's seat and tried to turn over the engine.
"Come on. Come on," she whispered under her breath. "Come on, baby. Start!"
As she said the words, the engine caught and she cheered quietly as she put the last dish into the drying rack. She was just turning from the window to grab their clothes and bags – everything else could wait – when she saw Danny climb out of the truck and wave to her. As she waved back, she saw him suddenly lurch forward, a crimson stain spreading from his prone body across the pristine snow.
Then she heard the crack of a rifle.