Disclaimer: See previous chapters.
Author's Notes: Figured tonight would be a better night than season premiere night. :) Thanks as always to all of my readers, and to all of my reviewers. Your comments are always taken into consideration.
Just as you asked for Simanis, we are getting there. ;) This song by Bob Seger used to be the Beverly Hills themesong at one point, and boy is it ever awesome.
"It's a given L.A. law… No matter what you do I'm gonna take you down… Breakdown, Takedown, You're busted"
-Bob Seger-
281 South Gila Street
Yuma Amtrak Station
Yuma, Arizona
5:22 p.m.
Damn was it ever hot. The brown haired man lifted a hand to his brow, wiping the sweat for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, the salty liquid sticky on his fingers. He wiped the moisture on the thighs of his jeans, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Sometimes he wondered why he continued to live in the city with the nickname of 'the place is hot'. Somehow it didn't add up, but after having his first assignment in Phoenix, he had never quite gotten around to moving back north.
Laurence Martinez, the lead agent from the Phoenix field office, shifted his stance next to a magazine rack in the train station of Yuma and looked down at his wrist. 5:23. They had another thirty minutes until the one thirty-two train from Palm Springs was due in. Time enough for him to make sure his team was in place and ready to go.
After enjoying his lengthy lunch break, for all of fifteen minutes, Laurence had been called upstairs to the boss of the whole office, Special Agent Lewis. All thoughts of his tuna roll had been thrown out as he had read over the fax that had been slid across the desk to him. To have said that this was the most exciting case that had crossed his path in months would have been an understatement; nothing this exciting had happened in Arizona since Sadie Thomas had embezzled money from the little kids at the White Mountain Apache daycare and led them all on a wild goose chase.
The lack of details on the eight by eleven sheet of white paper had left much to guess at and many questions for his supervisor. Lewis had filled him in, giving away the story that some type of crazy serial killer had been plaguing their brothers over at the L.A. branch and had hopped a train after kidnapping one of their employees. Clearly Los Angeles was where he should have moved; the big cities always seemed to have the most fun.
Assigned the job because of his experience in fugitive recovery situations, Laurence had suited up and headed out with a team of five on their one and only chopper. Yuma wasn't too far away from Phoenix and the ride had been made shorter by the usage of the helicopter.
Touching down at around three, he had met up with the local police chief, an old man who looked like he belonged in an old John Wayne movie. Maps had been dug out from whatever old hiding places, and a plan had been formulated after an hour of arguing in this oppressive weather.
Their fugitive, Meinhard Ackerman, had been briefly spotted by cameras at the Palm Springs station, meaning he was still there. Further investigation- speeded up by some very well placed calls and sharp words from the L.A. office- had revealed that he had bought a one thirty-two ticket to Yuma, Arizona. Figuring in the time and distance, and adding in the time table at the ticket counter, placed the serial killer arriving around six, give or take fifteen minutes. Further confirmation from the conductor and his staff- sponsored by the use of a cell phone line- had affirmed that their man was indeed on course to arrive at Platform four.
The suicide drop of a woman's carry on bag and the scattering of its contents, snapped him back to attention. Bending down, Laurence quickly stuffed her belongings back into the leather bag, pushing it pleasantly but roughly back into her hands. He watched as she walked away, scanning the crowd and looking back down at his wrist. 5:38.
It was show time. Stepping out from his position by the magazine rack, he gave a small but perceptible nod to the average looking business man over by the lone drink vendor; the business man was actually a buddy of his and a member of his team.
The hot air of the dusty station blasted into his face, kicking his sweat glands into overdrive. Platform four was only modestly filled. It would be better if no one was around. He didn't exactly know how this man was going to react, but he was pretty damn sure he wasn't going to make it easy on them. The plan had involved the five members of his team and ten of the local police departments. Their objective was to trail the man after he left the train, hoping that he would move away from the busy station. The next train to the next stop was not due for another forty minutes so the guy wasn't going anywhere for the moment. His own men were stationed around the platform, half of the officers on the other side of the track and the other half back inside.
A shrill whistle blew, echoing down the wooden planks and through the glass of the station's windows. The ground began to shake and from four hundred yards away the light from the one thirty-two train from Palm Springs peeked its way around the corner.
Laurence gave one last look to his wrist. 5:42. Right on schedule. His neck muscles popped as he rolled to the left and right, one hand subtly patting the bulge that was his gun under his jacket.
The train was three hundred yards out now, the brakes checking its forward movement and slowing it down to come to a full stop. Time to shine, Laurence. Something like this only blew into town every once in a while, and now was the time to act. Time to bring a little action out to Yuma.
---------------------------------------------
The stench of tightly packed bodies and limited space was imbedded in his clothes and skin now. He would more than likely never be rid of it. He had never been happier to see another station than right now. The ride from Palm Springs and Yuma had been a full one, unlike his previous stretch from Ontario where the four seats had belonged only to him.
His lip curled in distaste as the line finally cleared, his turn coming to step down onto the wooden planks. There were fewer people at this stop, probably due to the lateness of the day. Unless something had changed, he had roughly three quarters of an hour until it was time for the next stretch. He didn't have much farther to go, and soon he would be on a one way flight to Munich.
Meinhard side stepped a small child, curving his body inward to avoid any contact. The thought of touching any one of these people made his skin crawl. The air was fetid and hot here, more so than California had been. The relief of the air conditioning inside the station was only minute. Stuffy drafts circulated, making it only slightly less grueling inside the building than out.
His eyes surveyed left and right as he approached the ticket counter. Wary of anything that stood out, he joined the line, taking his place as third. He would speedily pay and collect his next ticket and then find a secluded area to wait out the next train; the one he had just exited was changing tracks to head north.
The line moved forward, the person in front of him stepping up and moving him into second. He glanced at the large bronze clock over the entrance way, checking the time out of habit. Being out in open for too long still made him nervous. He was always cautious, trying to put an end to anything that could possibly be detrimental to him before it even got the chance to happen.
The man was taking an inordinate amount of time to purchase just one ticket. Sighing in frustration, Meinhard shuffled his feet. Glancing back up at the bronze clock, a man caught his attention.
Subtly to confirm his suspicion, he made a move to rub his forehead, peering over his arm to get a closer look. It was probably nothing. There was no way anyone in Los Angeles could have tracked him here. It just wasn't possible-
Except that the man was coming closer and seemed to have a purpose in his walk and way that he kept staring him down. Something wasn't right. He turned his face forward, towards the ticket booth, looking sideways out of his eyes to watch the man.
The man in front of him left and his feet moved to the counter.
"How can I help you today?" The teller smiled out at him.
The shift of her eyes to the man coming closer confirmed what his brain was trying to tell him. He cursed under his breath in his native language, looking away from the woman as she shrank back in the booth and towards the man. He was moving faster now, and his eyes were drawn to the shiny gold badge at his belt.
The police officer halted as he too saw what Meinhard was looking at. A moment passed between the two of them, one where there eyes connected and held, time coming to a stop. And then the spell was broken.
Cursing the two men back in Los Angeles for messing everything up, Meinhard turned the other way, running opposite from the officer and around the ticket booth. His pace quickened, his long legs lengthening their stride. Shouts of "desist" and "stop" came from behind him and from more than one source. As he ran, dodging people and twisting, he saw other officers moving towards him.
Seeing one step out a hundred feet in front of him, Meinhard swerved, changing directions. He jumped over a suitcase, pushing the woman out of the way. He looked over his shoulder, not caring that she fell but more concerned about the seven or so men chasing him through the train station.
More people were pushed out of his way, some falling, others cursing and protesting. The doors to the entrance of the station loomed ahead, the sidewalk and road calling to him, salvation near. If he could make it out of here, he could head towards the wooded area that he had seen coming in. That area would offer plenty of coverage until he could get his hands onto a vehicle.
A cart crashed in his wake, his hands twisting and pushing it over as he passed by. His pursuers fell, their feet tangling over the mess and tripping over one another. Stupid fools. As if they could get him.
He was close. The double doors were only two hundred feet away now. He glanced over his shoulder again, grinning as he surveyed his damage to the place and officers. He was almost there. He was free—
Turning his head back around, ready to push through the doors and back out into the hot air, he saw the arm too late. It was impossible for him to stop, even though his brain sent the signal to his feet to turn or to do something.
The arm slammed into his neck, catching him right below his chin and across his windpipe, the force flipping him over and onto his back. His lungs screamed in protest, oxygen rushing out of them and not coming back no matter how hard he tried to suck the air in.
Blinking the dots from his eyes, the black fading from the corners of his vision, the face of the arm's owner came into view. He was of average height, with brown hair and hazel eyes. Over the front corner of his breast pocket were the letters, F, B, and I, staring down at him in a bold yellow color.
The federal agent peered down at him and Meinhard could do nothing as he squatted down and pulled his hands together, cuffing the wrists. Blinking heavily, he stared, dazed up at him as the man whistled and said, "Thought you were gonna get away didn't 'ya? Not this time, buddy."
Meinhard was yanked roughly to his feet, and he swayed forward. The agent pushed back on his chest, keeping him from leaning against him. His mouth opened and he tried to speak, finding himself still winded.
Again he could do nothing as the brown haired man grinned at him, holding his cuffed hands and motioning over his fellow agents. Passing him on to another set of hands, Meinhard cursed mentally at the grinning agent's words as he realized he was trying to say something,
"Don't worry. You've got some people back in L.A. that are just dying to talk to you."
Huntzberger and Nost residence
Brentwood, Los Angeles
Living Room
8:46 p.m.
Her eyes popped open, the oxygen in her lungs coming out in pants, the beat of her heart irregular; the muscle was currently jack hammering away behind her ribcage. Something had startled her from her sleeping position, jolting her awake.
Peyton glanced around the living room, taking a minute to gain her bearings. Thoughts lingered in the back of her mind, fleeing and slipping farther away as the seconds ticked by. She had been dreaming, of what she didn't know, but it had terrified her and left her with that residual fear upon waking.
Recognizing she had simply fallen asleep on the couch downstairs, she swung her legs out from underneath the heavy afghan and pulled herself up from the pillows now morphed to her body shape, and into a sitting position on the edge of the cushion.
Her head dropped into her cupped palms, the fingers grasping and relaxing her hair and scalp, massaging the roots and skin. The soothing feeling eased the tension in her head, a lingering side effect of the left over ketamine in her brain. Hushed voices from whatever Kathryn and she had been watching came from the illuminated television screen.
The fingers stopped their ministrations as another sound joined the muted voices of the television actors. The mournful voice of Stevie Nicks crooned from the stereo above the collection of Steven King's, increasing in volume until it was the only thing to be heard.
That was odd. She didn't remember turning on the stereo or putting in her Fleetwood Mac CD. And Kathryn had never been a huge fan of Fleetwood, never mind the fact that she had gone to bed after Peyton had finally snapped at her to finally get some sleep and to quit watching her like she was going to fall apart at any moment. There was nothing for her to remember to fall apart about.
A light was suddenly turned on, brightening the room and blinding her. Burrowing her face back down into her hands, she cursed loudly, "What the hell?"
"Language, Peyton. I know your father didn't raise you to talk like that."
Her head shot up and she blinked in the light, trying to see and adjust her eyes. She slowly sat up upon recognizing the woman in front of her shelves, fiddling and examining the stereo system.
The woman was of moderate height and slim build. Dressed in jeans and an old faded blue polo, she looked as if she could be heading anywhere at the moment. Under normal circumstances, Peyton would have been afraid of a random stranger appearing in her living room and deciding to play her collection of late seventies music. Except for the recognizable brown hair that curled down her back, and the dark blue eyes that gleamed and shined in the light. And the slightly upturned nose that was the only thing she had given her.
"Mom," her guest for the night paused from her perusing and turned to her, smiling. "You're looking a little old."
Cordelia Welsh, her mother, frowned at her statement and placed her hands on her hips, before saying exasperatedly, "Don't you know it's rude to comment about a woman's age?"
She laughed softly, "You died when you were nineteen." And it was true. Peyton had never met her mother, except for the odd random dreams where she liked to pretend that the woman, who so strongly resembled the teenager in her grandparent's photos, was indeed her mother. Cordelia Welsh had died of an amniotic fluid embolism, where the fluid had traveled to her heart, killing her instantly, in 1975.
Her dream mother- because this most assuredly had to be another dream, just like the ones she had had after her first serial killer case- shrugged her shoulders and left the shelves. Peyton shifted around on the couch, watching her as she moved behind her and over onto the other side, coming to sit on the couch's matching chair.
"This is your thing, darling. I'm just here. Besides, somehow I don't think you would take to listening to a nineteen year old's advice."
She shook her head. "What do you mean? Why are you here?"
"I'm here to help you."
A laugh escaped her lips, finding the situation funny. "What do you mean help? I don't need any help. I'm perfectly fine."
Just like she probably would have done had she of been around for the thirty two years of her life, her mother gave a dramatic sigh, and rolled her eyes. "Typical Huntzberger response. Believing that you can always take care of yourself and you don't need anyone else. So like your father there."
Done with this dream, Peyton pulled the afghan back up around her chest; closing her eyes in hopes of ending the idea that her and her subconscious would hash out what was plaguing her. After a moment of silence except for Stevie Nicks singing, she slit one eye open.
"You're still here," she stated, sitting back up and looking at her mother.
The woman in the chair sighed again- that was really starting to annoy her-. "Of course I'm still here. You need my help."
"What? What could I possibly need your help for? You haven't been here for thirty two years. I don't think that allows for you to waltz back into my mind or dream, or whatever this is, and play shrink with me. So, tell me, mother, what could I possibly need your help for?"
She stared at her sadly, blue eyes searching her face, looking inside her. The dream conjured woman joined her on the couch and it felt very real when she reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Did it ever feel so real; she shivered slightly.
"You need me because you don't know, yourself, what's wrong with you," she took in the confused look Peyton gave her and continued on, "Oh, you know what's bothering you. You always have been very good at that. But, you're blocking that from yourself, keeping it locked inside and hidden away. And that is not going to fix anything."
Peyton stared into her mother's eyes, finding it hard to look away once she had stated what she had been trying to hide. She opened her mouth, but stopped as the woman went on.
"And I know you're scared and that that fear scares you the most. But it's okay to be scared sometimes. It really is."
"Then what's wrong with me? What am I hiding?" she heard herself ask softly, the words rushing out as a mere whisper.
She smiled sadly at her. "I can't tell you that, sweetie. I wish I could. But it has to be something that comes from you or someone here. And it will only come out when you want it to, and when you are willing to face it yourself. You need to talk to someone."
Peyton was confused again, and her mind wandered, hearing the music in the background and focusing on the television screen. "Someone? Like who?"
The older version of what Cordelia Welsh might have been stood and kissed her forehead, moving away from her. "You'll know."
This was the part that was always the hardest of her dreams: the leaving and saying goodbye. Despite her assurances to everyone that she had always been fine with never having a mother, it still hurt somewhere inside. "What do you mean 'I'll know'? How is that supposed to help? How did you help me at all?"
Her mother pressed the button to change the disc, flipping forward to the track 'Dreams'. Turning back she said, "You'll know. Just trust me. And listen to him. He's good for you. I've already helped you more than you know; just listen to him and talk to him."
"What…" The woman faded, the room turning dark, Stevie Nicks dying…
Her eyes popped open, the oxygen in her lungs coming out in pants, the beat of her heart irregular; the muscle was currently jack hammering away behind her ribcage. Something had startled her from her sleeping position, jolting her awake.
The sound of her doorbell ringing, sounding loudly throughout the house, made her jump. Wondering how she had gone from sleeping to sitting on the edge of the couch, Peyton stood, letting the afghan fall from her lap.
The doorbell came again, and she quickened her pace, giving the stairs a look as she passed by, hoping the noise hadn't woken her tired friend. Judging by the lack of footsteps or any sounds from the floor above, it hadn't.
Digital red numbers on the side table told her it was 9:13 and she wondered who could be ringing their doorbell at this hour. Normally, if they wanted her, they just called. Cautiously, she undid the deadlock and opened the door.
Visions and snippets of her dream, rushed to her head as she looked at the person who had come to pay at visit at nine o'clock at night, ringing the usually disused doorbell. Her mother's voice played out in her memory. "…And listen to him. He's good for you…talk to him."
'Sheesh, Mom, could you have been any clearer in whom you meant?' She sent her thought upward to wherever her deceased mother was.
Pushing the door fully open, Peyton side stepped to allow the man room. 'Alright, Mom, I'll take your advice.' After all mothers did know best.
Taking the invitation, he stepped into her doorway, running a hand through his hair. "Hey, Peyton."
"Hey yourself." She murmured back.
He turned to look at her, deep brown eyes full of concern in her hallway. "How are you doing?"
What a silly question that was. And he knew it too, judging by the awkward expression on his face. But, she reminded herself of her mother's parting words, and instead of lying like she had been with Kathryn, Peyton told the truth.
"Not so good, Don. Not good at all."
Alrighty. Small cliffhanger there. No one's in any immediate danger, except for some dishes. Comments for the chapter are most appreciated. Only four more to go... Roughly four.
Background Information:
Yuma scene: Lewis is the real Special Agent in Charge of the entire Phoenix field office, the only FBI office in Arizona. The Apache case is real, that lady really did steal the money from the day care. Laurence is made up. The train station at Yuma does exist at that address and the times for the train I did the math for and worked out. Charlie would be so proud.
Peyton's Mother: Cordelia Welsh was always supposed to be dead. The backdrop is that her parents were never married, they got pregnant at 19, her mother died from an amniotic fluid embolism (in which the amniotic fluid travels from the womb to the heart and you die instantly)
The Dream sequence: This was a theme from Season Two that I thought was wonderfully put together in that episode. So, I put one in for myself. The emergence of her mother, can be whatever you interpret it to be. Whether, it is her from Heaven or Peyton's subconcious taking a form that she would listen to. But, I can say, that after my grandfather passed away, I had a dream of him one night and in my dream he appeared in the form of a younger man of himself. That is where the idea of an older Cordelia Welsh comes from.