OUT THERE

Chapter Twenty Four

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold." (William Butler Yeats, 'The Second Coming')

For a few seconds, Adam basked in the warmth of his absolute relief. They're coming, he thought, as he allowed himself to conjure up a glorious, fleeting image of Flack bursting onto the scene, making everything right.

Then he looked at Kyle and relief became absolute terror. Control was slipping away from the young man like water through an open hand. What lay beneath was a frightened, irrational person with the power to kill.

This was bad. Very bad.

One rash act of violence had severed the bond between siblings. Kyle's face showed that he knew it all too well. Staring up at him, Beth-Anne's eyes were wretched. Adam hated to see her like that, full of pain and confusion - and loss. Her brother had gone. In his place, there was only a strange man standing before her, pointing a gun. Beth-Anne forced her trembling fingers to obey her will as she lifted the phone to her mouth and spoke into it, quite deliberately. Was she daring Kyle to shoot her and be done with it? Or did she think, even now, that he wouldn't be able to do it?

If so, was she right?

"There's an armed man in my apartment. He's tryin' to rob me. My name is Elma..."

Bursting into motion, Kyle lunged towards her like a snake and tried to snatch the phone before she could say any more. Beth-Anne clung to it tightly, squealing in distress. Fear made her strong and they tussled. Adam knew from the start that her efforts were doomed, and he cast a worried glance in the direction of the apartment door. Should he use this opportunity to make a run for it and fetch help? Would that be an act of cowardice, or something Mac himself would do?

Adam took a tiny, hesitant step towards the door, keeping one eye on Kyle and Beth-Anne - but something unexpected held him back; the overwhelming power of his own conscience. It was then that he recognised the truth.

With a crashing sense of certainty, he knew that he would never be able to leave his boss behind - or Elma, for that matter. He glanced back at the couch. As he did so, his eyes grew wide.

Mac was slipping his own cell back in his pocket - and it was active. Catching Adam's eye, he gave a tiny nod of silent confirmation, but the awkward task had jarred his wounds and caused him too much pain, far too quickly. His strength fled, taking his consciousness with it. Tilting sideways, he slumped against Elma, who barely managed to hold him up with her bony shoulder and her thin arms. "David," she cried. "Oh, no!" Adam flinched at the sound and gathered his resolve. In less than a second, he was halfway across the room and reaching for his boss...

... but his hand never got there.

Kyle stood up. Beth-Anne's cell was in one fist, the gun was in the other and his face was triumphant. The young girl was sobbing, her head bent low and her arms hanging loosely in a mournful posture of defeat. With a flourish, Kyle turned off the cell. The brave little notes that it sang as it died were unbearably cheerful. Casting it down, he rounded on Adam, who stumbled to a halt.

"Can they trace it?" Kyle demanded.

Adam pressed his lips together stubbornly. He kept his eyes averted from the couch; unwilling to draw too much attention to his vulnerable boss, who was now in Elma's arms - a strange reversal.

"Tell me or I'll shoot you." The gun rose, aiming across the room. Adam was starting to wonder if Kyle really did have it in him to murder a man in cold blood. He was violent and unpredictable, yes - but there in the corner was Beth-Anne; still alive, even after betraying him. People had killed for less. A dangerous gamble, to base his reaction on such flimsy evidence. Adam was no psychologist, and his own mind was badly scrambled right now. Yet he clung to hope.

"I don't know, okay?" he mumbled, risking a shrug. "Why would I?"

Kyle studied him darkly. There were beads of sweat on the young man's brow, as though the last of his coolness had melted away in the heat of the struggle. His voice was rough when he spoke again. "Liar."

"Takes one to know one." And where did that come from, Adam thought, full of dismay at his careless response. Now was not the time to be snappy. Now was the time for intelligence and he fought for it, schooling his haphazard thoughts into some kind of order. "I told you - I'm not a cop. I work in a lab, that's all." He held up his hands in a gesture of peace, just like the good guys did in the movies when they were trying to reason with the crazy, gun-wielding villain. The madman who held all the cards. In the movies, it worked. In real life... Adam shook his head and prayed for a miracle.

Kyle looked shifty. Seeking out the cell, which lay on the floor near the kitchen, he slammed his heel on top of it; once, twice, three times until it was nothing but a sorry pile of scrap. "Well I'm guessin' they can't now," he growled. For good measure, he followed that up by striding across to Elma's landline and yanking the cord from its socket.

"No, they can't," Adam agreed, watching Kyle's paranoia at work and knowing all the while that there was an active cell phone in Mac's pocket. He wondered who could be listening. He hoped that someone was. Time to give them a little information... "Look, Kyle, you can't hold us here for ever. Sooner or later, someone's gonna notice that Mac's missing. Like I told you before, he's the Head of the New York Crime Lab. Which means you can't kill him either. You get that, right? It'd be suicide, in the end, and you don't strike me as a suicidal kind of guy. As for me, well, I'm just a lab rat and there's no way I can stop you - not when you're waving Mac's gun in my face. So why not just leave? Mrs Bryce has no money. You made a mistake. Cut your losses and leave... okay?"

"Oh, I'm gonna leave - when I find something worth taking." Kyle cast a glance towards Mac, as though weighing his options. Adam's blood ran cold.

"No! I mean... he's injured. You wouldn't get far..." he whispered. "B-but... you could take me instead."

"You?" Kyle's voice was full of scorn and it cut Adam deeply, in spite of his relief. Too many echoes... "Why would I want you? I need money, not a burden. Who'd pay to get you back?"

For a moment, Adam's brain was stunned and could not think straight. Who would pay? Good question. Maybe no one. Maybe someone... He glanced at the man on the couch, wrapped in Elma's thin arms, and he knew. Mac would. So would Stella. Danny, Lindsay, Sid. Even Hawkes - no, Sheldon - and Detective Flack.

His friends.

Adam kept the knowledge to himself but it gave him strength. "So what are you going to do, then?" he asked simply.

"What I came here to do," Kyle said. With his free hand, he reached out and snagged a large cushion from a nearby chair. Then he threw it at Adam, who caught it clumsily. "Cover off. You can ditch the filling." As Adam forced his trembling fingers to obey, Kyle picked up a silver pill pot from the coffee table. "Nice," he said, sneering at Elma. "Good for a start." Tossing the pot to Adam, he gestured for him to drop it into the makeshift cushion-bag. "So, what else have you got here, old lady?" he asked. As if to back his demand with a silent promise, he studied his line of fire, closing one eye and peering along the barrel at Adam's chest. A tear ran down Elma's cheek and she shook her head. Adam swallowed. He couldn't help but wonder which meant more to her - a well-meaning neighbour or the sentimental treasures of her past...

As it turned out, the answer was simple.

"Take what you want," she said breathlessly. "You're right - I don't need it. It's certainly not worth a life." Your life, her brown eyes added, shifting to hold Adam's frightened gaze safely in her own. With Elma before him, and Mac, he could almost - almost - forget about the gun.

"Stay there, then," Kyle demanded. "Don't cry out and don't move. I'll be watching." Then he stepped up and curled his fist tightly in the folds of Adam's shirt. The barrel of the Glock returned to Adam's cheek and he whimpered, unable to stop himself. So much for his hopeful theory. Right now, his death seemed inevitable.

"Wha...?" Mac said, trying to lift his head.

"Hey, no, it's okay," Adam told him quickly. "Stay put, boss. I'm just..."

"We're just browsing. One-stop shopping," Kyle said, yanking him towards Elma's bedroom. Head down and heart pounding, Adam stumbled, yet somehow he managed to keep going. Anything to get this man away from Elma and his boss. As for poor Beth-Anne, Adam tried in vain to catch her eye as he went past, but she was a broken child, unwilling to stir in her corner, or even look up. No hope there.

Kyle stopped in the doorway, master of both rooms, and released his grip on Adam. "You're a smart guy - look around," he said. "Only the good stuff, mind. When the bag's full, you can come out. Check under the bed first," he added. "And the mattress. Just in case..." He shoved him out into the middle of the floor. Adam stood there, clutching the cushion cover to his chest and staring around in confusion.

To go through Elma's personal belongings - to steal from an old lady - felt wrong even at gunpoint. How could he do such a thing? And yet, if he didn't... "It's just stuff," he whispered. "Not worth a life. Mine or theirs..."

"Hurry up," Kyle urged. Clearly, he was still nervous that someone had traced Beth-Anne's call.

And so you should be, Adam thought grimly. A quick search proved beyond all doubt that there was nothing under the mattress or the bed, so he sat down at Elma's dresser and stared at the items in front of him. Facets of her daily life, set out so neatly. He lifted a finger and stroked the back of her hairbrush, which was inlaid with different shades of green enamel, set between twisting gold wires and forming a delicate pattern of knots. Cloisonné, his brain supplied helpfully, ever-alert to random details. Biting his lip, he picked up the brush and dropped it into the cushion-bag, followed by the matching comb and mirror set. The act made him feel like a traitor. Opening her jewellery box, the feeling intensified. Each piece was charming and no doubt significant. Adam took a sharp breath to strengthen his resolve and scooped them all into the bag.

"Box too," Kyle said from the door. He was still watching, then. Adam obeyed. If he could go slowly enough... Maybe help was already on the way.

And if it wasn't?

He pushed the insidious thought to the back of his mind and stood up, moving over to the bookshelf - the very same one that had fallen on Beth-Anne and pinned her to the floor. I should have known, he thought ruefully. Elma had been sleeping, due to the drugs, no doubt - and the girl had tried to search the room. For what - a hidden safe? "Serves her right," he muttered, thinking of her sore wrist - until he pictured her as she was now, and felt bad. He knew better than anyone; people were never straightforward. Was Beth-Anne a victim or a villain? He couldn't decide but his kind heart leaned towards compassion.

A picture sat on top of the bookshelf, placed there by his own hands after the accident. The frame was silver. Inside was an old snapshot of Elma with her husband. Both appeared to be in their forties. Strangely, David did look a little like Mac, now Adam came to study him. He flipped open the frame and released the picture, setting it down on the top shelf with care. There was writing on the back in a faded script but he did not choose to read it. Instead, he popped the frame into his bag.

"You're stalling," Kyle hissed.

"No. No, I'm not," Adam reassured him swiftly. Diving across to the closet, he pulled it open and started to rifle through boxes and bags. "Look - there's nothing else here," he told the young man at last. "Just letters and cuttings and cheap souvenirs... all sentimental, like she said. What do you want me to do? I don't understand."

"Ugh. Just give that to me." When Adam edged towards him, Kyle grabbed the cushion cover and propelled his hostage back into the main room. Adam stood and shivered as the young man swept around like a hurricane, snatching up item after item and dropping it into his bag. When it was full, and Elma's weeping was loud enough to irritate him, Kyle moved to the front door and turned to face them all. "It's been a blast," he said. "But I'm leaving now. Thank you for ruining everything. Goodbye."

He raised the gun one more time - and fired.

Adam saw the flash and felt the pull as his body spun - but he could not feel the pain; at least, not for the first few seconds. Already, Mac had dropped from the sofa down to the floor and was crawling closer, fear and dizziness warring on his face. Behind him, Elma tottered, wailing like a child in distress.

Wait...

Why am I on the floor? Adam wondered.

As the realisation hit him, so did the blossoming pain, from his left arm right through his chest, racing urgently along a complex pathway of nerves until it hammered on his brain. Adam's ears began to sing and the world turned white. But not before he heard a scuffle in the corridor outside, followed by an exchange that left an unexpected smile on his lips as he drifted away.

"Hey! Let go!" shrieked Kyle.

And then, in Don Flack's blessed, wonderful, sarcastic New York drawl came a wry comment. "Goin' somewhere?"

-xx-

A/N: Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this chapter - I'd love to know! Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last one, and also Mahala, who is catching up! I'm still stunned by the number of reviews I've had for this story. It makes me very happy to know that other people like it too, as I'm having such a great time writing it.

More soon...