Disclaimer: See previous chapters.
Author's notes: I apologize for the lateness in this chapter. A mild sinus infection has been kind enough to grace me with its presence and I figured that you would rather me what until I wasn't falling asleep every thirty minutes due to my medicine to proof read and adjust this chapter. :) But, I'm getting better, despite the cough, and am ready to roll. Simanis: thanks as always, and hopefully this satisfies you for now. :)
This song, by Rascal Flatts, has helped me through some trying times.
"Cause when push comes to shove, You taste what you're made of… Decide you've had enough, You get mad, you get strong"
-Rascal Flatts-
Huntzberger and Nost residence
Brentwood, Los Angeles
Bottom Level
9:37 p.m.
"Do you want something to drink?"
Don blinked, coming out of the trance like state he had been in, staring off into the space four feet above the Riviera painting on the wall positioned diagonally from the muted television. He slowly looked back down at the source of the question, feet uncurled from the chaise, hands placed on either side of her thighs, ready to push her upward and to the floor. His head nodded of its own accord and she sprang up; he noticed her wince slightly, thinking the pain more than likely came from the bruises hidden from sight beneath the oversized sweatshirt, grey with the large seal and letters spelling out Yale University.
As Peyton moved through the living room and crossed the imaginary line in the open space that separated this room from the kitchen, Don rotated his head, surveying the bottom floor of the townhouse. It was different than the first night he had been here. Then it had been trashed, a living example from a crime scene brought fresh into the home of one of their own. Then the floor had been littered with glass and splintered wood, the cushions of the couch underneath him upturned, pictures lining the hallway twisted or fallen.
Now it was perfectly normal, Kathryn probably having cleaned the left behind debris after the CSA's had run through it. No glass littered the floor. The couch was in perfect order beneath him. Pictures were immaculately straight. The only thing missing were the two wooden end tables that had previously taken residence on either sides of the couch; they had met the fate of the trash can, after having been thrown against the Riviera wall and splintering under the force.
"Damn it!"
He was on his feet at the sound of her swearing and the loud bang that followed right after, worried she had done something damaging. His mind was put at ease, the anxiousness dissipating when he found her. Standing in the apex of the counter where the two pieces came together at a point, Peyton was gingerly rubbing her wrist. Don looked to the left, seeing the open door to the refrigerator, and deduced that she had hit something while opening the door.
The offer of a drink forgotten between the two of them, Don closed the door, waiting patiently for her to say something. The past thirty minutes had seen only a few words and phrases exchanged between the two of them. She was drawn into herself, not at all like her normal character, lost in her own thoughts and he didn't exactly want to try and force anything out of her just yet.
Still massaging the skin above and below the cast, Peyton looked over at him, eyes luminescent in the dull lighting, and said, "Thanks. I forget that it's there sometimes. Stupid of me, I know."
He retreated backwards to lean and adopt the same stance as her against the counters. "Does it hurt much?"
Her tiny, slender fingers traced over the rough material, pale skin blending into the white of the plaster. Her head remained down as she answered quietly, "Yes and no. Sometimes it hurts worse than others. The pain killers take most of the edge away. Unless I hit it against something."
Silence stretched across the space between them, widening the gulf to yards instead of the mere five feet. This was how the conversation had been going, more effort on his part than anything else.
"You said you weren't doing too well," he tried, attempting to lead her into something.
Shoulders lifted in a noncommittal shrug, and she turned her face to look at something on the other wall, continuing her game of refusing to look him straight on. Dancing around the subject was proving to be a hidden talent of hers. "I…I don't know."
The answer to his lead in was delivered flat, without a trace of any emotion. It was then, watching her in the dimly lighted room that he discovered what was truly wrong with her. Bruises retreated to lighter skin, scars eventually faded, and pain retreated after some time. But things hidden deep inside never left; they only became bearable after acceptance. And that was her problem.
Not only was the woman in front of him dancing around the subject with him, she was dancing around the subject with herself. There was a reason why there were no emotions of any kind to be found in her responses. It was because she wasn't feeling anything. Peyton was refusing to evaluate her situation and instead of facing them head on, she was burying them down inside of herself.
"I get it. You're just feeling sorry for yourself," he said, forcing his tone to be slightly harsher than before.
That garnered a response. Her head snapped around to stare at him, eyes wide at his statement. "What did you say?"
"You heard me. You're sitting around here, moping and pitying yourself, while there are others who weren't as lucky as you were." Don continued to raise his voice, crossing his arms over his chest and curling the corners of his mouth into a slight sneer. If he could make her angry, then maybe—
Peyton's eyes narrowed at him, but they remained devoid of the fire that he knew she possessed. "How dare you—?"
He laughed, pressing on. "How dare I? I'm not the one sitting around wanting everyone to feel sorry for myself."
"I do not feel sorry for myself," she hissed out, her tone rising to match his.
"Really? 'Cause, I got to tell you Peyton, it's a little hard to tell."
Don watched her left hand clench, pleased at that movement. "You have no idea what I'm feeling, or what I went through. So, don't you dare stand there and tell me how I feel or that I'm feeling sorry for myself. You don't know."
"Then why don't you tell me." 'Come on, Peyton. Give me something here. Show me part of you is still in there.'
"I don't know," Don growled, thinking she was going back to that same line. But she continued on, "I don't know anything that happened. Nothing. The last thing I remember is that news reporter and the press meeting. And then I woke up and found that I'm in a hospital with numerous injuries that I have no idea as to how they got there. And…I just feel so useless."
"Useless?" he asked, doubt and confusion at the meaning replacing the harshness.
Her chin shot upward, and she stared at him for a moment. Swallowing once, Peyton took a breath and then burst out, saying, "Useless. Yes, useless. Worth absolutely nothing. I can't even remember what happened to myself, and why, I have no idea. But, the only thing I do know is that somehow I ended up with a nice neat row of stitches on my chin, several cuts on my hands, various bruises on my body, oh, and don't forget the broken wrist," she held it out to him as if he had somehow missed that fact, "What good am I if can't remember what happened to my own body? To me!"
"Peyton, you're anything but useless,"
Don began, wanting to reassure her, but she cut him off, continuing on without hearing him.
"And I don't even have anybody to be angry at. I don't have a face or a name to put these injuries to. For all I know, it could have been you who did this, Don."
She let out a sigh, her tirade finished. Her cheeks were flushed, the white stitches standing out against her chin. His brown eyes locked onto her green ones, shining with the depth and passion of her declaration. Finally, he had gotten her somewhere, albeit after the use of different tactics.
"I can assure you that it wasn't me," he teased, giving her a smile.
"Good to know."
It was silent once more in the townhouse, the air conditioning the only thing his ears could detect. Don took a step towards her, reducing the gap.
Her eyes shifted back to his face, and her next sentence made him stop. "And I'm scared," she whispered, biting her bottom lip and looking at a point over his shoulder, continuing on to say, "I have nightmares when I sleep. Ones that leave me frightened and with the urge to run. To run as far away as I can possibly get. But once I wake up and open my eyes, I can't remember what the nightmare was about or what or who I'm running from. I don't know what to be afraid of. And that scares me more than anything."
He found himself wanting to tell her that the man who was responsible for everything was in their hands now. Don wanted to tell her that the two men who had kidnapped her were in federal lockup as well. But he couldn't. Because she would be a witness to the trial once she regained her memories- if she ever did regain them- they were forbidden from telling her anything about the case that she didn't already know. A defense attorney would jump on the idea that by telling her what had transpired over those three days, they had planted ideas in her mind rather than Peyton's own experiences coming forth.
Instead he settled for laying a hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze despite her muscles stiffening at his touch, and meaning every word as he said, "You don't have anything to be afraid of anymore, Peyton. I promise."
She nodded, shoulder muscles slowly relaxing. "Thank you."
He stepped back, his hand falling away. The light jacket he had worn in was somewhere back over in the living room, and he turned around to retrace his steps and retrieve it.
Peyton's footsteps followed him, faint but detectable against the tile and carpet. He stooped down, fingers grasping the material.
"Don?"
He paused, jacket half raised, and turned around to face her. Peyton stood next to the arm of the couch, rubbing the skin above and below her cast again. Blinking, he waited.
She didn't keep him waiting or having to lead again. "Do you mind staying for a little while? I could use someone to talk to and you seem to be good at it. That is if you don't have anywhere you have to be."
In truth he had nowhere else to be. He had sent the rest of the team home; Meinhard Ackerman wasn't due in the office until tomorrow morning and they would have to wait for the chance at cracking the man until then. He could leave and drive over to his childhood home, now his brother's house, and spend time with its owner and other occupant, but somehow he figured that she needed him a little more than they did, and Don could hear his father and Charlie agreeing silently in his head.
The jacket fell back to where it had been and Don straightened back up.
"No. I don't."
Huntzberger and Nost residence
Brentwood, Los Angeles
Living Room
8:45 a.m.
The first thing he became aware of was two voices. Judging by the sounds of them, they were both female and were somewhere in the general area above him. He wished they would go away and he squeezed his eyes tighter. They didn't stop and he gave up on attempting to block them out.
"Peyton, there's a man on our couch."
"Yes, there is." That voice and name was familiar.
A pause and then,
"And why is there a man on our couch? No, why is the head of our FBI team on our couch?"
"Well, Kathryn," He knew that name too. "Don came over last night after you went to sleep. Don't look at me like that. Nothing happened. We talked and that was it. He helped me through some things. Well, forced is more appropriate. And it was late by the time we were done. What did you want me to do? Stick him behind the wheel of his SUV and let him run somebody over because he was half asleep?"
"How thoughtful of you. I thought I heard raised voices last night."
"And you didn't think to come downstairs and see what it was? There could have been a murderer in here and I would have died all because you didn't come downstairs. Some friend you are." Her tone was light despite the words.
Waking up slowly, he continued to listen to their hushed playful banter.
"I was tired. You would have screamed if it had of been anything threatening. So what do we do with him now? Poke him and see if he wakes up?"
He mentally snorted; neither one of them had better even think about poking him. He hadn't liked that twenty some years ago when Charlie had done that.
"No. Maybe the aroma of coffee will wake him up. Besides, I could use another cup."
"Un-hunh. It's worth a shot. That always seems to wake you up. Although, I don't think Dr. Funk had caffeine in his mind when he said you were supposed to be drinking plenty of fluids."
Footsteps brushed against the floor, and her reply came from far away. "Yeah, I'm sure that's not what he meant either."
He heard Kathryn snort, aloud instead of in her mind, and the television turned on, the volume instantly going down to a low level.
The sudden pressure of something really heavy dropping onto his chest jolted him wide awake and Don opened his eyes, blinking down at his chest. It was difficult to breathe. The sound of laughter came from the woman looking over at him next to the couch.
Kathryn immediately closed her mouth, stifling her laughter at the expression on his face. "You are in his spot," she said pointedly.
"Yeah, well, that wasn't the nicest way of telling me," he gasped out.
Caesar, Peyton's very large Maine Coon cat, stared down at him, tail lashing the air above his arched back. The cat kneaded his claws, yowling down and then butting his head against his face, clearly wanting some attention.
Don frowned up at Kathryn as she laughed again, watching him struggle to sit up and also give the cat what he wanted as well. Satisfied after a few rubs, Caesar left Don to push himself up and take in where he was.
"You missed it, Peyton. Caesar didn't take too kindly to finding Don in his morning spot," Kathryn called out.
No answer came and they both turned around. Peyton stood behind them, stock still, two steaming mugs of what was undoubtedly the aforementioned coffee in her hands. It wasn't that that had both of them calling to her in alarm. It was the way her breathing had changed to a slow pant and the way her eyes remained transfixed on something around the two of them.
"Sweetie?"
"Peyton?" Don didn't have any luck in a response either.
Following her gaze, he turned and saw that she was fixated upon the television screen. Kathryn had turned it on to the local morning news, words flying out of the reporter's mouth, the same woman that had reported on the case to begin with.
Don looked back at her, seeing that she was still enthralled and turned back to listen to what the woman was saying.
"…And confirmation from another source reveals that the man behind the murders in the Bay area has been caught and fixed behind bars. No word yet on…"
The two coffee cups slipped from her grip, falling to the white carpet, dark brown pooling to stain the purity of the fibers.
Peyton blinked once and then twice. Slowly, her eyes shifted back and forth between the two of them.
"Fix things. There was a man and he wanted me to fix a boy. His eyes… That was the problem with the boy. He wanted them blue. Just like…his eyes. So blue and cold. And blonde. He wanted me to fix them. The man knew German… I think… I think he was German."
Los Angeles F.B.I. Field Office
Fourteenth Floor
Interrogation Room 3
9:54 a.m.
To say that the man behind the glass wall had no affect on her would be a complete and utter lie. He repulsed her to no end. The man was disgusting, making her skin crawl as he sat there in the metal chair, ankles crossed, hands kneaded together on one knee, head cocked at an angle and blue eyes as cold as the silver glint from the table as he kept them directly locked on Colby's face.
She would have liked nothing better than to march through the door into the room opposite the separating glass wall and punch the German so hard that it knocked that smug smirk off his face. But Megan was far too well trained to allow her emotions to rule over logic, and no matter how hard she wanted to do it, she refrained herself. Instead she settled for watching Colby's attempts to crack the man and gain a confession from those lips. That and mentally envisioning herself smashing his face down and letting him get up close and personal with the table.
"So you're telling me that you don't recognize any of these four people? Aaron McCullogh, Sofia Friedman, David Elium, Keith Kelli? Not one of them?" Colby slid the numerous photo shots across the table, punctuating each person with a stab and a flex of his forearm.
Megan shook her head, gun holster shifting under her arm as she rubbed her face, amazed how the arrogance of his face was conveyed even more so in his words.
Meinhard Ackerman made a show of taking his time in leaning forward and examining every face. Once done, he sat back and resumed his position. Sighing and shaking his head, he said, "I'm afraid not. I've never seen any of them. Though their injuries look very extensive and…so full of rage. Sad, really. Where did you say you found them, Agent Granger?" Those blue eyes gleamed, not fooling either her or Colby about the psychopath hidden behind them.
'Sad that you didn't achieve your idealized goal, maybe,' she thought. Megan shook her head, waiting for his next response as Colby said, "In an old fishing factory built in 1912 down in Wilmington. You're telling me you don't know anything about that either?"
A slow grin broke out over his face, and Meinhard answered slowly, shrugging his shoulders, "Agent Granger, you said this building was built in 1912. By all means it must be abandoned by now. Anyone could have access to it. Drug addicts, the homeless, teenagers. Your country is so full of them these days."
Megan swore, doing a full lap around the small room and then leaning against the monitor table, palms braced outward. He was playing them like a fool. Meinhard knew they had no evidence that linked him directly to the crime. The money exchanged between Ricky Garza, Jose Garcia and Meinhard had been in cash only. The only prints had been found on the sleeve of Peyton's shirt and the syringe. Peyton's sleeve only tied him to her and wasn't nearly enough. Garcia's prints were on the syringe, connecting only him to the kidnapping. And now, both of the two lackeys had clammed up, refusing to affirm that Meinhard Ackerman had been their boss and contracted them out to kidnap four college students and one doctor. The two were obviously afraid and Megan couldn't blame them.
Thinking along the same frequency as her, Meinhard shifted in his seat again. "Agent Granger, you haven't told me exactly why I'm here. Is there something that I've done? I'm not quite clear on that subject."
Colby slammed both of his hands down on the table, sending some of the photos flying in different directions. To his credit, Meinhard didn't even flinch as the tall agent growled out, "Listen here, you son of a bitch. We know exactly what you did. To those students. To Peyton Huntzberger. We know everything. We even have Ricky Garza and Jose Garcia—"
"Ahh. So you do. But has either of them mentioned my name?"
Colby sat back, at a loss for the moment. Megan was at a loss too. They needed something against this guy. Some type of leverage. Titus hadn't found anything, and was reviewing every angle to the evidence and scene downstairs.
Seizing upon the moment and his victory, Meinhard leaned forward until he was right in front of Colby's face. In a chilling tone that belayed his smile he said, "I didn't think so. You say you know exactly what I did, but I see no proof in front of me. Where is it, Agent Granger? Not here. There in lies your problem. You have nothing. Don't you get it? It doesn't matter what you know. It doesn't matter what you do. You can't touch me."
David's arrival in the outer room saved her from doing something that she would have surely regretted later. Megan turned to him, waiting for the information shining in his face.
"Megan, that was Don. It seems that Peyton regained a partial memory this morning due to a news cast. She remembers this guy."
Should they dare to hope? "Are you sure?"
David nodded. "Positive. Don said she described the guy perfectly."
This was what she needed to wipe that smirk off the man's face. A tap on the glass and a jerk of her head brought Colby out, and she quickly passed on David's good news.
Megan watched in anticipation as Colby reentered the interrogation room, sitting back down and picking one photo out of the many. He placed the hospital picture of Peyton down in front of the man and asked, "Do you recognize her?"
Meinhard sighed again. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"Agent Granger, I am positive that I have never seen this woman before in my life. Should I recognize her?"
Colby copied his move from earlier, leaning forward until he was in front of Meinhard's face and saying, "You should. She remembers you perfectly. Even matched up those blue eyes of yours."
Meinhard swallowed, tongue darting out to lick at his lips.
"What's wrong? You don't look too excited that Dr. Huntzberger remembers you," Colby paused before finishing with, "There was something you said. What was it? Something about not being able to touch you?"
Megan let out a small triumphant sound. She relished in Colby's tone and gained immense satisfaction from Meinhard's changed demeanor. Gone was the arrogance of a man who couldn't be blamed. Gone were the folded legs and tucked hands.
Beaten at his own game, Meinhard gripped the edge of the table, knuckles clenched, eyes narrowed at the single glossy photograph in front of him.
The curl of his lips in a feral sneer at her face revealed more than any of his cleverly guarded words had. Megan stared, remembering the psychopath that lurked just behind those gleaming eyes, and thought that Peyton was extremely lucky to have been found when had been.
Extremely lucky.
Ah, so I was waiting with immense satisfaction for Meinhard to get his just desserts. :) Now, there's leverage for the lackeys as well.
Next time: Keith Kelli gets a visitor in the hospital, Megan takes the time out to go to lunch, and Meinhard finds himself with his own visitor.
Background:
Peyton's resurgance of memory: To state clearly, she did not remember everything that happened. Only a small snippet, from the part where the word 'fix' came into play (the one where CreepyMan! wanted her to tell him how to fix the dye for Keith Kelli's eyes). It takes therapy and other things to regain full memories of what was lost, and that will come into play as well before we close this story. However, a single word or phrase can trigger a lost memory, just as it is done in our own memories. Strong emotional events are still encoded in this type of amnesia, meaning they are still there, just hiding for the time being.