Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original.
A/N: Although I happily acknowledge creation of the cast of OC thousands that keep showing up in this story, there is one character I cannot take credit for: Natalie Chance properly belongs to Prefect Rachel, and the CSI:NY story "His Boys". Thanks for the loan, sweetie!
Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
Love is a Burden
At the heart of every life
Runs a rhythm strong and deep.
In times of joy or strife
That's the beat that we must keep,
And the lessons that we learn
Form the core of what we know:
Knives will cut, fire burn,
Lies will find you, quick or slow.
At the heart of every song
Is a burden soft and low,
Ayres in harmony move along
But the drone remains below.
And for some, that drone is love,
But for some, that drone is fear,
And the tune that plays above
Reflects the drone we barely hear.
Chapter 18: Taking the Blame
"So, you figured she'd been stepping out on you? That it, Jason? You follow her to the clinic, you hear the rumours about what they do there, and you – what? Follow her into the park and strangle her?"
"No, no, that's not how it happened. I loved her. She was my whole life. I loved her."
Flack looked with distant pity at the pathetic boy slumped in the chair, bent over with his head on the table. He hadn't been hard to find after all; once they had tracked the medical insurance number the girl had automatically filled in on the forms, it had been a simple process, although it had taken him a day to get through protective family members, reluctant at first even to admit the girl was missing, or that she had a boyfriend. Just the usual plod-and-dig policework, he thought.
Caitlin Marie O'Leary – didn't get much more Catholic than that, he thought with a sigh. And boyfriend Jason Johnson, head altar boy at St Augustine's, head boy at St Joseph's Academy his last year, only two years ago, was cut from the same altar cloth.
"You knew she had gone to the clinic?"
"No," the muffled voice rose from the table.
"You were seen, Jason. You stand out in that neighbourhood, you know. We found several people who recognized your picture. You followed Caitlin, fought with her."
"No, no. That's not true. I loved her. I could never hurt her."
"You can keep saying that, Jason," Stella said as she came around the side of the table and put a crime scene photo gently down beside him. "But we can put you at the clinic. We can put you in the park. See – these are your shoe prints. And we can put your hands around her throat. You may have loved her, but you killed her anyway."
"No! No!" The boy sat up and went to shove the picture away, but stopped as he got a good look at the photo. "What's that all over her face? Why did you do that to her? What's that all over her?" His voice rose to a scream.
"It's not what we did, Jason. It's what you did. Were you trying to purify her? Heal her? Why bee pollen?" Flack watched the boy carefully as he snapped the questions at him. He would be prepared to swear that Jason's shock at seeing the pollen-covered face of his girl was genuine.
Stella dropped another picture down on the table, this one with Caitlin's face clean, the livid marks of fingers standing out strongly on her skin.
"Tell me that's not your hand print."
"Caitlin. Caitlin. Why did you do it?" The broken whisper squeezed out of him, and Stella and Flack shared a look of sad satisfaction.
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-
"May I speak with Detective Taylor, please?" The young girl stood in front of the desk sergeant, looking scared but determined.
"I'm sorry, miss, he's not in at the moment. Can I leave him a message?" The desk sergeant barely looked at her, although if asked, he could have given a perfect physical description of her: 5'5", brown hair shoulder length, brown eyes, slim build, black yoga pants low on narow hips, short pink hooded sweatshirt with Chelsea U emblazoned across her chest, late 'teens or early 20s.
"Yes... No… I don't know." She turned to leave, then seemed to steel herself to try again. "Is Detective Bonasera in?"
Now the sergeant did look up, an inquisitive light in his eyes. "Is this about the Central Park case? Caitlin O'Leary?"
The girl nodded firmly, and was ushered through the intimidating rabbit warren that led to the lab.
"Detective Bonasera? This is Natalie Chance. She has some information about the O'Leary case."
"Thanks, Juarez." The detective turned from the board where she had been filling in information. "You have some information for us?"
"No." Natalie dropped into a chair, uncomfortably averting her face from the detective's sudden attention. "I lied. I wanted to see Detective Taylor, but he wasn't here and I remembered your name from Reed and I had to talk to someone so when the sergeant asked if it was about the O'Leary case, I said yes and I just don't know what to do!"
"Well, you could breathe for starters," Stella said, the beginnings of a smile touching her eyes, though her face remained serious. "Wait a minute, did you say Reed? You mean Reed Garrett? You know Reed? Natalie, was it?"
The girl nodded miserably, "Yes. He's my boyfriend. I know he sees Detective Taylor sometimes, so I thought he might be able to help me… But he isn't here." Her lip quivered a minute, but she bit down on it, breathing for a minute before looking up at Stella with drowned brown eyes. "Could you get a message to him for me? To Detective Taylor, I mean?"
"Look, Natalie, tell me what you're worried about, and I'll see if I can help you."
Natalie stood up and shook her head firmly, "No. I shouldn't have come. It's just… Reed. Detective, could you tell Detective Taylor that Reed is… investigating… the construction going on at Chelsea? He seems to think… I don't know. I don't know what he's thinking, but I'm worried. He's freaking me out. Just… ask Detective Taylor to talk to him about it? I mean, really talk about it. Please? I don't want anything to happen to him."
Stella nodded, "You got it, Natalie. I'll let him know right away, okay? Wait," she put out a hand to stop her as she turned to go, "Give me a number or a way to get in touch with you."
Natalie grabbed the paper and pen Stella handed her and scribbled down a cell number. In return, Stella handed her a card.
"Call me if you need to, Natalie. Any time, okay?"
Stella asked a tech to show the girl out, and frowned as she watched her leave. By the time all the evidence had been processed, it had taken four days to crack the O'Leary case, and she was already working on five other cases. Mac had dumped another two on her desk that morning, apologizing as he left for the next crime scene. She hadn't slept in her own bed since Friday night: Saturday she had stayed at Don's (a fact she still had not dealt with), Sunday she had been on the night shift, Monday she had been finishing up a double and ended up sleeping a couple of hours in the break room.
Now it was Tuesday morning; she felt stupid and gritty-eyed. She decided to send Mac a message now before she forgot she had even seen Natalie.
Text message: S Bonasera to M Taylor
Natalie Chance nEdz 2C u - worid bout Reed. Cll
She pushed send on the phone, and, putting Natalie in the back of her mind, turned with a sigh back to the O'Leary board.
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-
Danny lay blinking in the bed he was starting to think of as his. The sun was streaming in through the window and he could hear the sounds of the busy ranch life starting up around him. He recognized the sound of Ted's truck driving out of the yard to go check on fences before going into town; it seemed to Danny ranchers could talk for endless hours about fences.
He stretched cautiously; although the wounds still hurt like a son of a bitch, he could at least take in a full breath without wanting to whimper. He tried not to move too much; Lindsay was curled up against him, still sleeping, her face calm and peaceful as he had not seen it for days, her hand clutching his t-shirt.
They had come back from the hospital Monday afternoon, wrung out, only to find the whole family had shown up to goodbye to John. Lindsay had seemed better with all her family around, so Danny had ignored his growing exhaustion. Eventually the impromptu family party had slowed down when John had laughingly complained they were going to make him miss his plane.
He had said goodbye to his brothers and Jamie's family, hugging his parents and teasing his mother for crying. He had hugged Lindsay hard, whispering in her ear something that made her blush and blink back tears.
Then he had turned to go, saying casually, "Walk me out, Messer?"
When the two other brothers had joined in the procession, Danny had felt a clutch of fear in the pit of his stomach, not helped by the panic that had flashed over Lindsay's face.
"Hey, look, guys," he had tried feebly, "I'm happy to take you on one at a time, but I don't think three against one is very sporting."
"Shut up, Messer," Mick had growled, and Danny had obediently shut up until they reached the car, where the three Monroe boys had ranged up, cutting off sight of the smaller man from the house.
"You in love with Lindsay?" Jamie had started first, as eldest.
Not trusting himself to speak, Danny had simply nodded.
"You going to do right by her?" Mick had added.
Danny had crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows. "Whatever she wants," he had said, putting emphasis on the word 'she'.
"You going to protect her?" John had said.
Danny had shaken his head that time, "She's got my back. I got hers. No matter what else happens or don't happen, that don't change."
Three pairs of brown Monroe eyes had measured the man in front of them, eyes fogged with pain, face drawn with fatigue, but rolling up on his toes, ready to take them all on if necessary. Then they had looked at each other before breaking into identical Monroe grins. Jamie had clapped him on the shoulder, gently, and said, "Welcome to the family!"
Danny had gaped at him a minute, then a matching grin had slowly moved over his face. "Shit, man," he had sighed, as he shook hands with each of Lindsay's brothers, "I thought for sure you were going to kill me."
Mick had shaken his head, eyes dancing devilishly, "Can't be bothered to break a sweat, boyo. You hurt Lindsay, she'll take care of you all by herself."
Danny had looked at the front porch of the Monroe house, where Lindsay was standing staring at them all with a frown on her face. He had waved to her and was rewarded with the sweetness of her smile.
"You got that right," he had said under his breath.
And now here he was, sleeping in one brother's bed, with Lindsay warm and soft in his arms. She had snuck in after her parents had gone to bed, sliding in beside him, wrapping her arms around him and holding on. He had slept the night through without a single nightmare.
So had she.
He watched her breathing, and hurt with love. It was too big, too much. He didn't know what to do with it all. Where to put it all. He had never known anything like this. It was like trying to play a song he didn't know on an instrument he had never seen in front of a crowd used to perfection.
He pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, his hand tracing the curve of her cheek. It wasn't enough that he wanted her, fiercely, could taste her in his mouth, could feel her body writhing under his. It wasn't enough that he wanted to look after her, be with her, protect her. No, he had to want something more, had to see her with a baby in her arms, one with her soft brown hair and his blue eyes. He had to see a house with children's toys in the yard, a baseball bat leaning up against the porch, kids' bikes on the lawn. He had to see a bright kitchen like Diane's with sunlight streaming in through the window…
He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
"Che cosa state facendo per il pranzo, Nonna?" A little boy sat on the counter, a single shaft of bright sunlight from the small window turning his brown hair golden.
"Vitello del Parmigiano e tagliatelle, con le carote ed il broccolo, mio bambino."
"I don't like broccoli, Nonna. Can we have peas instead?"
"Broccoli better – is fresh. Frozen food no good." The older woman rubbed her hands dry on the apron always tied around her waist.
"Nonna?"
"Si, il mio Daniel piccolo?"
"Why does Mama want you to speak English? You're not very good at it," The boy's blue guileless eyes stared into his grandmother's brown ones.
Lucia Messer sighed, "She wish me to be American, little one. Ritiene la vergogna."
"Che cosa fa la media di vergogna?" Danny's brow was furrowed with confusion.
"Vergogna means shame, il mio figlio." His father's heavy voice filled the room, and Lucia watched in resignation as the little boy's eyes mirrored the fear she felt in her own.
"Sia calmo, Antony. Lascilo essere."
Danny woke with a shock to Lindsay calling his name softly, a hand to his cheek. He blinked groggily; the dream had been so vivid he could smell his nonna's veal parmigiano cooking for a minute, before the scent morphed into Lindsay's lighter citrus and floral scent. He tightened his arms around her and lowered his mouth to hers.
She stiffened a moment, then melted into the kiss. For a minute, he was able to keep it sweet, comforting. Then, just as it had in the hospital, a wave of yearning engulfed them both, and they were floundering, drowning in heat and longing.
Lindsay pulled away with a squeak of surprise, and sat up, running her hand through her hair unsteadily. "I better … um … I have to … I'll just get you some coffee, okay?"
Danny didn't even try to stop her, just turned over and curled both hands into the pillow he placed over his face to scream quietly into.
Damn it, if he didn't touch her soon, have her soon, he was going to die.
A/N2 In music, the burden is the drone or bass in some musical instruments (wikipedia)