A/N: Thank you to all who have reviewed so far, especially those who return to previous chapters and review those! Thanks to all of you who have added this story to your favourites or alerts.

I love to know what you think, whether it be good or bad. All comments are useful in trying to improve what and how I write.

Thank you to Lily Moonlight for the read through.

Chapter 9 – The Moon, It Calls Your Name

Fingers graze across skin, learning every nuance, every scar, every inch. The half light of late evening slips in through the curtains, from behind blinds and watches unnoticed as hands read the words that are written on the body. For some, the act of love is a simple one; a chance to connect, to give and receive pleasure, to become lost in another. For others, it is a chance to escape; all thoughts can be lost in moments of physicality. And for a few, it is manipulation and power, the chance to possess, to dominate and control.

The old, dying sun crept across her face as the slight wind blew the curtains and she looked at the man next to her. His features were almost perfect; his hair dark and thick, his bare arms strong and muscular. She remembered being wrapped in them, enjoying the feeling of being taken, of letting him take her with his eyes on fire with lust. She smiled as he breathed deeply, inhaling the morning air in his sleep. His eyes moved behind his lids as he entered the part of sleep where dreams came most easily. If she woke him now, he would be able to tell her what those dreams were. But she would let him sleep, enjoy the dreams.

She lay back down, her lips against his neck, feeling the heat from his body. He began to stir, his hand reaching round to touch her, to feel her skin and to take possession of it. Then he turned around, pulling the covers off her, leaving her exposed. She didn't act shy, he already knew she wasn't. Instead she smiled at him as his eyes opened, denying sleep. And then she smiled at the camera, tucked away in the corner, watching the beginning of her torment of Maxwell Wilson III.

-&-

Mac looked at the unwrapped sandwich that Stella had brought several hours ago, sat next to the half-drank mug of coffee and wondered why he didn't feel hungry. His eyes transferred to the report Danny had just placed on his desk before leaving to head home. He shouldn't have been in work, but what Danny should and shouldn't do had never had any actual bearing on what he did. Mac picked up the papers and began to read. The report focused on the names found under Goddard's laptop, giving details of who they were, addresses, next of kin and then other information, information that Mac didn't want to have thrown into an investigation that was already too complex given the number of staff they were down to.

His door opened without making a sound and Stella appeared, eating what looked to be the remains of a chocolate éclair. For a millisecond, Mac was transported to another reality, where there was no murder, no strange books about sleep, no missing professors; there was just him and Stella.

"I saw Danny on the way back in," she said, wiping a bit of chocolate from the edge of her mouth with her finger. "He muttered something about a report on the names?"

Mac nodded. "I was just starting to read through it now. I've had too many people on the phone wanting to know why we now have four dead bodies and no one in custody," he said with a sigh.

"They're just doing their job, Mac, just like we're doing ours," she pulled up a chair a next to him and sat down on the arm, looking over him shoulder at Danny's scrawl. "He needs to be sent on a typing course. I can barely read that."

Mac gave a faint laugh. Danny's writing was almost unreadable, but Mac had read – or deciphered – enough of his reports to be a master decoder by now. "I'll read," he said to Stella. He cast his eye the words, some underlined, some double underlines, a few circled. Danny wrote like he talked – with great emphasis. ""Of the fifteen people listed, eight are accounted for and are students, or have been students at NYU Law. All were at sometime students of David Rostow. They are well and have no idea why their name would come up; although one person, Niall Wentworth, suggested that it might be because they were in the same class as Shoshanna Sullivan, the girl Rostow was accused of having an affair with.

"The seven remaining names are more of a problem. Six have been listed as messing persons, and one, Joel Jones, was found murdered seven months ago. Cause of death was asphyxiation and the case remains unsolved (see attached report),"" Mac skipped a couple of pages and found the case report, raising his eyebrows at Stella. "He's gone through each of the six missing persons and listed details about them, and included the reports on them. He's been thorough." Stella nodded and Mac took the non-verbal sign as a cue to keep reading.

""Deirdre Lamores,"" he began. "Aged 23. Born in Marinette, Wisconsin. Parents divorced. Began her degree at NYU Law in 2005. Missing persons report filed eight months ago by her roommate.

"Jack Causier. Aged 19. Worked as a janitor at NYU. Lived with parents in Queens. Mother filed mis per report ten months ago after he'd been missing for a week. Has learning difficulties.

"Helen Naviro. Aged 32. Mature student. Wife of Vitesh Naviro – owner of NavCell – first year law student. Husband filed a missing persons report two years ago. Helen has since sent three post cards, all hand delivered, saying she's fine and doing well.

"Damon Goodier. Aged 21. Third year law student from Redlands, California. Mis persons filed by parents after he failed to show up at home eighteen months ago.

"Jackie Simms. Aged 25. Studying for a post graduate degree in Holocaust litigation. Missing persons report filed ten months ago, but two months later her parents received a letter telling them that she had a 'new life' and did not want them the make contact with her. No further follow up.

"Jennifer Dunn. Aged 19. First year undergrad. Flatmate reported her as missing a year ago. Parents have since had contact from her asking them to consider her as being dead, but each month she withdraws around ten thousand dollars from her account."" Mac put the report down and looked at Stella. "Danny makes one final note at the bottom. Apart from Jack Causier, all of them had several thousand dollars in their bank accounts which have been accessed several times since they disappeared. Naturally, the families have taken this as a sign of them being alive and have kept on transferring money."

"Even though they have no way of knowing whether they're actually alive," Stella said. "We will need to speak with their families." Mac sensed her frustration and worry. They didn't have the man power.

"I think they're alive," Mac said. "I know we have one unsolved murder on the list, and one boy who made no contact at all, but don't think this is a serial killer. I think this is a cult."

Stella's eyes flamed with interest and the life that the day had sapped away returned. "It would fit. Colleges are prime hunting grounds for cults, and given what we know of David Rostow I'd say that was a good theory."

"The works of J.M. Fitzgerald have always had a cult following – I wonder if they are Rostow's smokescreen. College students always wish they didn't have to sleep, either because there aren't enough hours in the day to party, study and work, or because they are under so much pressure they can't sleep and start to become worried and depressed because of their lack of sleep – beginning a vicious circle," Mac said. "Women in particular are prone to depression caused by lack of sleep as they need an hour more than men per night on average. Four out of the six missing persons were women."

Stella looked at him knowingly. "You think Rostow was promising them a solution to their sleep problems?"

"Maybe not Rostow. He would be the big God-like figure that members rarely meet, only seeing them as a member of a large audience. Rostow – if he is the leader – would have other members doing the recruiting," Mac said. He felt as if something had finally broken the case, his second wind was emerging and he was awake, ready.

"Such as the girl in the Penny Black bar," Stella said. "Adam got an ID on her – Rachael McKinsey. Why go for Mare though? His issues weren't with sleeping."

Mac shook his head. "Mare was targeted. I imagine the girl was around Raimo's apartment when Mare and Lindsay were there. Mare left and she followed him. She may have wanted information about the case. This is obviously an underground cult. No one's mentioned it; we've heard nothing about it. Targets are pre-selected."

"Probably according to how rich they are. They become 'saved' by the group and are encouraged to donate money to further it. What details are there on the man who was found murdered?" Stella said, running her fingers through her hair. Mac became aware of the growing lateness of the day and the fact that they'd had very little sleep since the body of Brain Goddard had been deposited at the precinct. He wanted to say to her to go home, or suggest that they grabbed a meal together, but Flack was not yet back from searching for Paul Murphy and Mac still had lines he couldn't cross.

"According to the first page of the report he was missing for twelve weeks before turning up in Central Park. He had mild cerebral palsy which affected his right leg. A legal firm were sponsoring him through law school," Mac said, briefly skimming the attached report.

"So he had no money. Neither did the other boy who was disabled," Stella said. "Rostow's father was at Auschwitz-Birkenau, wasn't he? I don't like where this is leading, Mac. We get a body dumped at the precinct – why bring it to us? Did they want congratulating or want some attention? "

Mac nodded. "I think someone wanted our attention drawing to this. Goddard was clearly onto something, that's possibly what got him killed. Somewhere, Rostow has a base. Probably with cellars or somewhere that can keep the fumes of hydrogen cyanide inside. We need to find that base," he said, glancing at his watch. "I'm surprised that Flack isn't back yet, or at least called." He looked at the phone, willing it to ring. "I think I'll call him."

-&-

Diane Murphy was a tall, attractive woman who clearly liked nice things. The house she owned in Manhattan was filled with objects that Angell knew she would never be able to own, or even want to be able to own. She sat next to Flack on a leather sofa that looked brand new and debated becoming vegetarian.

Mrs Murphy sat opposite them, her nails manicured and hair looking as if it had been done in a salon. Which, Angell figured, it probably had. She was grateful at that moment for her genetics, the skin that looked smooth and unblemished even when her make-up had worn off and the hair that was thick enough to style itself. She smiled at the woman, and felt herself relax.

"When did you first become concerned about your husband, Mrs Murphy?" Flack said. The top button of his shirt was open and his tie had been removed. Angell wondered whether this was his way of asserting power over his surroundings, their formality a little too overwhelming.

"Yesterday evening when he wasn't home," she said. "We had dinner planned with friends and he didn't turn up. I thought he had been delayed with college work; quite often on a Saturday he catches up with paper work and students that have fallen behind, but if he's going to be late for an arrangement he calls. He always calls."

The façade of mascara and powder fell away as the tears came, and Angell found herself feeling sympathetic. She regarded the woman as she cried, the story about her husband's disappearance emerging from between tears and sobs. A note of recognition sprung into Angell's mind and she tried to place where she had seen the face before, wondering if it had been a photo at the university, or a publicity shop in the newspaper. Then it came to her. Diane Murphy was also known as Diana Merchant, an actress who had been in a couple of soap operas, one of which had been Angell's mother's favourite several years ago, one that Angell had abhorred.

"Do you mind if we take a look around?" Angell said, when the sobbed story allowed her room to speak.

Mrs Murphy looked shocked, as if it was the last thing she expected. "My husband's not here," she said. "And don't you need a warrant to search the place?"

Flack shook his head. "We only need a warrant if permission hasn't been granted," he said. "So unless you refuse?" He stood up. Diane Murphy looked confused, as if she wasn't sure what to do, and then finally nodded.

"Sure. Go ahead. Anything I can do to help you find him," she said, another soft sob punctuating her speech.

They left her on the sofa, making their way upstairs, out of earshot. "You know who she is?" Angell said, keeping her voice low.

Flack nodded. "Diana Merchant. And that was one big act," he said. "I'd put next month's salary on her husband not being missing at all."

"You think he's on the run?" Angell said as they found the master bedroom. She stood in front of the bed, looking at the covers. It hadn't been made. Both sides had been slept in.

"I think he's hiding. He knows something and he's trying to fake his disappearance," Flack pulled open wardrobes, the rails showing gaps where clothes should have been. Downstairs, Angell heard a door slam.

They both moved quickly, without speaking, Flack running to the back of the house and Angell towards the front door. She heard Diane call her husband, shouting to him to run and then she heard a bang as something was pushed to block Flack's path, or so she assumed.

She left the front door open, pulling out her radio as she ran, shouting instructions, calling any officers who were in the vicinity to assist. She headed around the back of the houses, knowing that was where the shout from Diane had been aimed. The sound of a bullet leaving a gun reverberated around her ears and she upped her pace, her heart pounding and the vision almost blinded with the adrenaline that was pumping through her.

Angell turned down an alleyway and saw Flack holding his leg, his face wincing and looking pale. "That way," he said, pointing down toward the main road. "He's armed. I'll call it in."

She began to run again, keeping her emotions under control. As she reached the road she heard the screech of tyres and saw a silver Mercedes SLK pull away from the sidewalk, causing another car to swerve and its driver to beep angrily. She called it in, knowing that Paul Murphy was now well on his way to whatever hideout he had arranged. She caught her breath, her head and heart pounding, waiting for the sound of sirens to descend.

Instead she heard a second shot.

The noise burnt the air and she felt herself choke on the smoke, the thoughts of what could have happened. She ran, instinctively, without thinking, to where she had left Flack. There was no sign of him. The alleyway was empty.

She pushed open the door to the back of the building, not speaking, needing to not alert anyone there, but her breathing giving her away.

"Jessie," she heard his voice. Her heart slowed. "It's okay."

She followed his words, pushing open the door to the living room, where she saw Mrs Murphy's body sat on the sofa, trails of red blood staining the leather, dripping down from hole she had put in her head.

A cell phone's ring broke the silence. Flack put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. "Mac," he answered. "This is turning into some Shakespearean tragedy."

-&-

By the time they reached her place it was midnight. The bullet had grazed the back of his left calf, taking off a bit of skin and tissue. It wasn't a pretty sight, and would certainly add to his growing collection of scars. Angell had stayed with him while he went through the laborious process of being in ER. She had waited outside while he was treated, her face expressionless, a colleague waiting for her injured partner. Never once did she give her concern away, except when she met his eyes and he read what she felt.

There was no news of Murphy's location. There was no news on a location for Rostow either. Mac had sat with them while they waited between treatments and for different doctors, updating them on his cult theory. It had all sounded too plausible.

He was led to the bed he had often fantasised about sleeping in with Jess next to him. He lay down, his leg throbbing with pain, the pain killers in Jess' purse, unopened. He heard her pouring liquid, probably whisky, and the kettle boiling. The smell of coffee filtered through, turning Irish before it reached him.

Her dressing gown was tied loosely; bare skin exposed that made him take his mind off the pain in his leg. She placed the drink down next to him and he sat up, the duvet slipping down to his waist, his chest bare and the scarring on show. She sat on the edge of the bed, next to him, and let her fingers trail over the scar, the only sound the ticking of the clock punctuating each sentence as she began to read his body.

Flack moved up his hand and cupped the side of her face, lifting it to look in her eyes. She was unsmiling, her eyes dark and as deep as a well.

And then the force came; the force that demanded touch, both painful and painless, pinches and caresses, a demand for feeling alive. He pulled the belt of the dressing gown open and the material uncovered her. He sat up and pulled her to his chest, feeling her skin against his, her hair brushing his shoulders as their lips met. He heard her cries mingle with his as she reached a peak he wished he could understand, and would spend however long she would let him trying to understand. Afterwards her curled around her, his eyes wide open, listening to her sleep, the clock ticking still, in the background, keeping time until dawn.

Covers are shed and we lie naked, our lover's touch forever ghosts upon our bodies, just as our fingers recall the paths they have smoothed. Acts of love are memorised by senses; a scent can take us back a decade to first kisses, a song can make us recall first heartbreaks, a familiar pair of eyes can make hearts beat until chests threatened to burst. A graze of fingers can cause cries of pleasure, and of pain.

Fingers graze across skin, learning every nuance, every scar, every inch.

Apologies for the slightly lengthier chapter. Please review and tell me how it went!