A/N: I'm not quite sure yet, if this story is going to carry any ship, although there will be hints of relationships outside the workplace, I'm not really sure if I'm going to head down that road. . . We'll see. And for you time-line fanatics, this story started pre-series and now picks up between "Dispo Day" and "Double Cap". Disclaimers in full force and effect.
One.
He'd been rattled. And more than that, he'd been truly scared. Not much had the ability to scare the living shit out of him anymore, and the fact that this had, made him feel off-balance and unsure of himself and everything else. Now, on top of that, he was pissed. Tim knew he was acting like an ass, knew his behavior was setting off flares and warnings with not just IAB, but with his boss. He couldn't help it. He was beyond pissed.
And all his anger was self-directed. Should've cleaned my gun. Should've been the one driving. I should be dead. Not Hollis. Man had everything to live for, wife, kids. Me? I'm nearly thirty years old and all I've got is this job. . . .
Yanking open the door to his locker, Speed slammed it against the adjacent one. Then, when it sprang back at him, he slammed it closed once, twice and on the third slam, banged his head for good measure.
"Speed?" The soft voice of his colleague sounded in the quiet aftermath of his outburst, covering his harsh breathing.
"What?" He didn't bother looking at Laura, knowing the expression on her face would be one of friendly concern. "Have you come to lecture me also?"
"Ah, no. I just thought I'd let you know I finished the tests you wanted. Your results are in." Laura bit her lip, wondering if she should deliver the other message. Hesitating long enough for him to notice, she finally spoke again. "Alexx was looking for you."
"Okay. Thanks." Without looking at her, he blew past her, heading straight for the Trace lab and avoiding the morgue.
He couldn't deal with Alexx right now, or her motherly concern and caring. His guilt and self-recrimination were enough. She should be focusing on Hollis or another victim, not him. Tim winced when he pushed through the door, the pull of bruised chest muscles reminding him he'd been shot not that long ago. Like he needed the reminder.
Enclosing himself in the lab, Tim focused on the evidence Calleigh had found. A wry smile, the only one of the day, crossed his normally stoic features. She was still bouncing off the walls, the contact high from inhaling concentrated cocaine dust making it impossible for her to focus on anything.
At least thinking about her and her current predicament took his mind off what had happened the day before. It was bad enough he hadn't slept, he didn't need to dwell on it during his waking hours also.
Blocking out all external distractions, Tim Speedle focused on the evidence.
Evidence, after all, didn't require emotional engagement.
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Horatio had sent her home, amused concern in his expression at her condition. Calleigh was normally perky and fairly upbeat, but this was Calleigh hyped up on cocaine and frankly, Horatio was hard-pressed not to laugh at her. If the situation hadn't been so important, he might have. He also knew nothing productive was going to be forthcoming from his ballistics expert and when she finally crashed, she was going to crash hard. So he metaphorically patted her on the head and sent her home.
If she'd been more herself, Calleigh would've balked, but she knew that wasn't happening today. Her brain was sizzling, unable to remain focused on any one single thought, random revelations careening round and round in circles until one popped out of her mouth. She was mortified when she told the polygraph tech her father called her "lampchop," but she couldn't keep her mouth from blurting it out.
Calleigh realized, with an air of embarrassment, that she couldn't keep her mouth shut about anything. Couldn't stop talking. Or moving. It was like her brain and body were buzzing madly with electricity and everything was happening around her in fast forward and slow motion at the same time. One moment she was standing in front of Horatio, hearing him tell her to go and the next she was standing in the locker room, staring at the contents of her locker.
Oh, God. What's happening to me? This is crazy. I can't concentrate. . . can't focus on anything. Calleigh belatedly realized she was hyperventilating. And though she tried, she couldn't control it. Yoga is supposed to help. Why isn't it helping? I need to breathe. I am breathing. Too fast.
"Cal? How long you gonna stand there talking to yourself?" Tim's voice broke through her rambling monologue and Calleigh nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Ah! Don't sneak up on me!" Her hands fluttered between her chest and the locker, the only outward sign of her complete agitation.
"Sneak? Pretty hard for someone my size to sneak." Tim shook his head, moving past her toward his own locker.
"Oh, God. My brain is. . . how do they stand this?" Calleigh turned to watch him put his off-duty gun and badge on the top shelf, then start to unbutton his shirt. "How can they function like this? Every thought I ever had is itching to come out of my mouth and I . . . I feel like a . . . I told Horatio I felt like a hummingbird on caffeine, but that didn't really come close. And you need to tell me to shush."
He'd turned slightly to face her, watching her flitter and fluster. Amusement played about his mouth for a brief moment, but was quickly gone, replaced with a more familiar blank expression. "They don't function, Cal. They meltdown after a while."
"Oh." She paused, her body deflating for a second. "What are you doing?"
In the time she'd stopped rambling, he'd slipped out of his dress shirt and pulled a dark tee-shirt over his head. His usually unruly hair stood up almost straight from his head, and Calleigh couldn't suppress the giggles. "Fix your hair."
Frowning, he ran a hand through it quickly. "Need to get out for a bit. I'll be back later."
He snagged his back-up gun, badge and helmet, preparing to leave her alone again, but the sound of her voice stopped him before he got to the door. "Tim? Be careful."
Tim sighed, impatience with himself and not Calleigh making his leg twitch. "You too, Cal."
And he left her alone, with her acid butterfly thoughts.
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She'd gotten better at reading him; his moods, and the agitation signaling his need to move, change location. The one thing she could rely on, after all this time, was his intense paranoia. Gonzalvo Enriques was quite possibly the most superstitious man she'd ever met, and that was saying something.
In the beginning, she'd been too scared to make note of his quirks and habits, but with the passage of time her fear had dulled. Now, she made use of his superstitious nature, playing on his idiosyncrasies to protect herself. She had no idea exactly how long she'd been with Gonzalvo – if that was even his real name – the time before was blurred in a haze of fear. But now, at least lately, she'd been keeping track of time.
Sometimes she wondered if anyone was still looking for her. If anyone still cared. She knew her parents wouldn't ever give up, would keep looking and keep the pressure on the authorities, but she wondered if the authorities even cared. Sorcha wasn't even sure of where they were currently, he'd moved them so many times she'd lost count of the number of places. He rarely let her out of his sight, either, and in the beginning he'd drugged her every time they'd moved.
But that had stopped a couple of months ago, when he found out she was pregnant. The drugs and the occasional beatings had all stopped. Something she was grateful for, but Sorcha knew it was only a matter of time before he resumed them. His daughter was four weeks old.
Four weeks.
Added to the nine months before.
Added onto the lost time.
Sorcha had no idea how long she'd been missing.
But maybe it was time to be found.
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Everyone had finished their depositions for IAB, and Horatio had the preliminary statements on the shooting in his hands. He'd read and re-read everything more than once, trying to wrap his head around the whys and wherefores of the whole thing. He couldn't understand what Speedle had been thinking, or rather hadn't been thinking. First and foremost a scientist, there were times when Speed forgot he was also a police officer. Unfortunately, it appeared the shooting was the wake up call he needed. Or at least that's what Horatio was banking on.
He knew Calleigh was concerned about it also. And if her reaction was anything to go by, she'd either already said something to Speedle about it, or was intending to tell him. Horatio wracked his brain, trying to come up with some way to let Speedle know, without being too heavy handed. He'd leave that to Calleigh.
Staring down at the statements, Horatio smiled slightly when he realized he had the answer right in his hands. Adding his initials, he checked his watch and headed for the door. He'd have just enough time to get what he needed and be back in time for the shift change.
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It was another week and one plane flight before Sorcha could actually start on her plan. She found out accidentally, when Gonzalvo was planning their move, his intention to return to Miami. Taking that as a good omen, since it was Miami where she'd gone missing, Sorcha feigned sleep when Gonzalvo's men came to get her and the baby.
They still didn't drug her, but she stayed still while Hector tied her hands and feet. It was easier to not fight, easier for both her and the baby. Using the carrier he'd strapped to her before tying her up, Hector deposited the tiny infant inside, laying her against her mother's belly. He knew she was awake, could feel the minute tension in her limbs relax the instant the baby was back in her arms. There was nothing he could, or would, do to help her. His loyalty was to his boss, El Comadreja, the man she knew as Gonzalvo.
Sorcha stayed quiet, her arms tied tightly around the bundle of her daughter. Most of the time she thought of the baby as not hers, but times like this, when there was the threat of separating the two of them, that she realized while she wasn't entirely happy about the circumstances, she didn't want to lose her daughter.
The car ride was short, and though she was tempted to peek from beneath her closed eyes, Sorcha had learned not to take the chance unless she knew exactly where everyone around her was located. It was a harsh lesson, and it had taken her a long time to recover from the beating. Thinking back, she realized it was also the last beating he'd administered, since not long after he discovered her pregnancy. Now, she kept her eyes closed whenever they moved.
Once more Hector lifted her up, carrying them up the steps into the plane's cabin. It was a small private jet, a Cessna Citation, with the interior customized for all Gonzalvo's needs. This one was strictly for his use; the working planes were much different. Despite his lifestyle and his profession and compared to others of his kind, Gonzalvo was low-key and practically non-existent. He was a shadow among shadows, living in the gray world that peopled the drug and arms trafficking between the States and South America. Reviled in one country and lauded in the others, Gonzalvo was king of his own small fiefdom.
And he'd wanted Sorcha.
She hadn't known that day, in the hotel, what was in store for her. Had there been any inkling, any foresight, she never would have read his cards. He'd caught her eye, and she couldn't help herself. The sight came upon her so suddenly – that alone should have been a warning. But her visions rarely concerned herself. Or if they did, it was obscurely, in round about ways.
He'd sat at the bar, watching her with hawk-like intensity, his eyes rarely leaving her form. She'd blushed and flustered, mentioned it to her companions, and foolishly not hesitated when he'd asked her for a reading.
That had been her first mistake.
Her second had been turning down his invitation for dinner. Women never turned him down.
So he'd had her snatched from her hotel room.
And now he was bringing her back to Miami.
Maybe this was his first mistake.