P A S S A G E
Sequel to Privilege
(temporary title)
. - . - . - .
WARNING. THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS/REFERENCES TO EP 4.3, FROM THE ASHES. If you did not see the episode about Dina Kingston, the young prostitute trying to raise enough money to get off the streets and regain custody of her daughter, Kelly, you may miss certain minor references. Basically what you need to know is that when the episode ended, a hearing was coming up in which Dina would attempt to convince the court that she could be a good mother. Sam promised to be there for her, but then we never heard anything else.
. - . - . - .
A/N: And I'm back, people! The promised sequel! That is, assuming I have the time to write it.
I had so much fun last time, I'm doing it again. Reviews mean so much to me! I post each chapter as I write it, which is why updates take a while, but reviews are what encourage me to keep it going.
Yes, this will have a real name eventually.
My plan for this fic is to bring it up a notch. Make the heroes a little more confused, the bad guys a little more evil, the danger a little more personal. I'll try not to be over-the-top dramatic. But this story will have, I think, a more – sinister – mood.
I think. At least, it's supposed to. Granted, I haven't written it yet.
In advance, sorry if the legal stuff is off, there's only so much accurate information I can find online. If anyone reading is a lawyer or something, or at least just knows law – or psychology, for that matter – please, email me. Even if you just know of some good research web sites. I can't guarantee there'll be no creative license, but I'd appreciate the information. This whole fic's gonna need it.
C h a p t e r O n e
So-Called Normal
. - . - . - .
Sam climbed out of the taxi and shivered as the cold wind hit her. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat, she squinted up at the building in front of her as the taxi pulled away. Long strands of blonde hair blew across her face, further obscuring her vision. Head bent, she walked quickly to the door and pressed the button next to it.
The door buzzed and then clicked, and Samantha stepped inside.
The interior of the building had the feel of an old library: well-used and worn, but well-loved. Sam made her way up to the second floor, found the apartment she was looking for, and knocked. There was the sound of footsteps, then a pause. Good, thought Sam with a half-smile, she screens her visitors.
Then the chain was draw back and the door opened.
"Hey." Sam stepped into the apartment.
. - . - . - .
Dina shut the door behind Agent Spade and carefully replaced the lock. Turning, she hesitated, still slightly awkward around successful people. She smiled self-consciously and gestured to the couch. Agent Spade smiled back and sat on the very edge of the thrift shop sofa, obviously not entirely relaxed either, and Dina took the seat across from her.
The agent was tired, Dina could tell, and worried about something, but she appreciated the visit. She got precious little support as it was, and she could easily admit to herself that if Agent Spade hadn't stepped up to help, Kelly would be far away and Dina would be going mad back on the street, or else she would be…
"Thanks for stopping by, I… I really appreciate everything you've done for me."
Agent Spade smiled again. "How's Kelly?"
"She's… okay, I think. I'm not sure she quite knows what… what to make of me yet. She's at Emily's now, across the hall. Emily watches her when I get busy," Dina added, somewhat unnecessarily. She warned herself not to babble.
Agent Spade nodded. "And how are you doing?"
Dina looked down and tried not to fidget. How was she doing? She wished someone would tell her, because she had no idea what she was doing, let alone how. "Okay. I'm still a little new at this Mom stuff. The responsibilities… well, every girl grows up someday, right?" She gave a hopeless smile.
Agent Spade leaned forward. "You grew up before you should have, Dina, and I'm… I'm sorry about that." She paused, as if collecting her thoughts. "When it gets hard, remember that you're doing this for Kelly. So she won't grow up so fast, the way you did."
"I wouldn't have gotten custody if you hadn't believed in me."
"I wouldn't have believed in you if you hadn't given me reason to."
Pause. Neither of us is good at these things, thought Dina.
"I got a job – waitressing."
"That's good. Where?"
"Just a lousy diner across the street, but I like it." She glanced away, then looked back at the agent. "I don't hate myself so much anymore."
"That's good," Agent Spade repeated softly.
"And Kelly likes the juke box. She's big on music. She sings in the bath tub. I… I used to sing in the bath tub."
"She's a beautiful little girl."
"I love her so much."
"Then I think you're doing fine." Agent Spade stood up. "I have to get to work."
"Oh. Okay." Dina walked with her to the door.
. - . - . - .
Sam gazed absently out the window all the way to the office.
Dina seemed to be getting on all right. Easy parenting books stacked by the sofa. Empty cereal box in the trash can. Green crayon on the rug. It was all new to her, Sam could tell, but it was working.
She was glad. Someone ought to have a happy ending.
Six months since Jack had first put Carolynn Casper's picture up on the whiteboard. Six months since Sam had left the hospital. Five since she and Martin had started going out, and she'd gotten a new apartment. Five since Richard Hirsch had gotten out of the hospital and gone to prison, thirty year sentence, no parole. Only two months since Kelly had gone to live with Dina.
And eighteen days since Kylar Rose Sanford was born. Four pounds, eleven ounces. Small, but healthy, rosy-cheeked and bald, with wide brown eyes the color of her mother's. Cai was delighted in a way that made Sam smile and ache at the same time.
Happy endings. Yes, for some people.
She would arrive at the office. Maybe meet Martin's eyes, which would be on her when she walked passed his desk, for a brief moment. Sit at her work-cluttered, photo-less desk. Watch someone else's face get plastered up on the board. Jump into someone else's life, maybe save the day. Happy ending.
Maybe not.
But she was happy, maybe for the first time in a while. Boyfriend, job, life.
Of course, the nightmares were still there. She found that she no longer remembered what she dreamed. The images were never there when she woke. Instead, she woke most mornings with a sense of dread, foreboding. Once or twice she'd come awake reaching for her gun with no real idea as to why, or what exactly she'd seen that night. This, in her opinion, was worse. Better to face your fears, because how can you fight a feeling?
Mentally, she still flinched involuntarily when a man touched her, though she'd never admit as much to Martin. Partially because she was determined to pretend she didn't, and partially because sometimes she actually believed that she didn't.
On their first date, Martin had showed up with three white lilies edged in purple and tied with a pink ribbon. She'd laughed and acknowledged, silently, his thoughtfulness: she did not think she would have been able to take a red rose.
So yes, there were after effects of being victimized, and God, she should know; psychology had been one of her favorite classes in college. But she was dealing with them, and for the most part, she was happy.
Boyfriend, job, life.
Happy endings. Just maybe.
The taxi pulled up in front of the FBI building and Sam got out, resisting the urge to physically shake her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Two goals: focus. And find the missing person.
Sam went to work.
. - . - . - .
He would be careful, he knew. He had internet privileges - he'd been reading, online. It was all about control, self-control. Planning. Time. Thinking things through. Using the possibilities. Getting shot changed a man. No more rash actions – he did not intend to die any time soon. Have specific objectives. Know what you're doing. Predict the adversary's response, and you own the game.
He could do it.
She was always in his head, so much that it drove him mad. But in some ways that comforted him. She was trapped, imprisoned, caged in his mind. He'd put her there, and she couldn't get out. It was the one place in which she could never escape from him, and he liked having her there.
In his mind, he owned her. He was the director, choreographing his little games and watching her fear him. He found it ironic that the number one reason he was so determined to have her was the thought of her, herself. It really was true, the stuff on the internet that so-called normal people found rediculous – he was willing to bet that nine times out of ten, it really was the so-called victim's fault. If these normal women would just stay out of men's heads… It made him angry, that a woman could work her way inside the mind like that, taunting, inviting, begging, judging – and then call the police when he tried to do something about it!
Sometimes he thought he might be going a little crazy. Other times he just thought he was human. Either way, he knew he would have to do something about that damned blonde FBI agent – and of course it would take an agent to get into his head – or the images would never die. And then she would have won.
And he so hated losing.
. - . - . - .
So begins PrivII. What do you think?