It was the last thing he wanted to do; stop and go to a supermarket.
He didn't think he'd been in a supermarket for years.
Thinking back to it, past the rush of memories of the last Christmas, back to the banal life of before. When everything was so much simpler. It would have been something small, a "Honey, I forgot…. Do you mind?"
It might have been something for his daughter, her favourite apples or pears. He doesn't remember now. He just remembers feeling bored, maybe even slightly frustrated, even though the whole trip would have taken a maximum of 10 minutes. He'd do it again a billion times, if it meant he could walk back through those doors without the events that came after. If he could have the floors not stained and slippery with blood. Have the happy sounds of a home back and not the cold silence of a crime scene. If only a supermarket trip could save lives.
'But, Life likes its little ironies' He thought. Past the fruit, the apples and pears. Past the Bakery, all the fairy cakes that his daughter may have oh'd and ah'd at. To the butchery section. Where he belonged now. To the meat, blood and cold metal knives. Dembe shouldered past in front and gathered up a couple of packages from the cold storage of the fridge. Red picked up even more, just in case. He'd buy the lot if it would help.
Then came the waiting, as usual in markets, with tapping of feet and tutting at people without their bags packed and money not ready. Waiting in line in order to not make a scene that the initialled authorities could trace.
FBI, CIA; all the kings' horses and all the kings' men wouldn't be able to put Agent Keen back together again.
Lizzie. Not Agent Keen. He was distancing himself from the incident. Just in case. He wouldn't survive it again.
Finally the line shifted, the packages were scanned through and money exchanged hands, though how much he thrust at the cashier was anyone's guess. All but ran out of the store, so much for not making a scene.
Into the car and were back on track following the GPS co-ordinates, before his dizzying mind could grasp it. Dembe knew what this could do to him.
So many winding roads.
Surely they had to be getting close.
The cabin. Standing shyly in the tree line. Front door wide open. Kornish doesn't expect anyone to find him here. He's arrogant; or maybe he just doesn't think anyone would be resolved enough to find him or have the power to do so. In this Raymond Reddington is unparalleled. An Avenging Angel: ready and willing to strike down the unworthy.
The signals to Luli and Dembe are unspoken and obvious. Get the meat to the dog.
He'd deal with Kornish.
He walks into that cabin, ready to see a writhing tub of chemicals devouring and stripping flesh from bone, and dissolving bone into sticky nothingness. Or maybe he expects Agent Keen, to be sitting in that wheelchair, waiting for help from an organisation whose motto may as well be "We'll get there eventually!" What he doesn't expect is there to be a gapingly empty room. The chemicals are ready, but there's no sign of Victim or Murderer. Then he's sure. He's far, far too late. The deed was done hours ago, and this bath is for the next lucky customer. He's failed someone again. This time, he should have known. He was so stupid to think of leaving when she was out on the streets without help. Ressler doesn't count. The man never counts. How could he have forgotten that?
He stumbles through on auto-pilot to the surgically sterile back room and gazes down into the roiling tub. He looks up to see Luli and Dembe in the doorway, with meat in their hands and blood running down their arms. The dog is not here, nether is Kornish. Lizzie is….gone.
The forest shifts around them and the unmistakeable sound of a dog running and panting flows into the room from the outside. Dembe tugs Luli out of the cabin and back down the road away from the noise to the car, leaving a large hunk of meat on the side. This is Red's Time with Kornish.
The door shifts and the naked figure of a man drags a soil stained, unresponsive body into the Cabin, with the dog lolloping happily beside him. Red shifts further back into the shadows of the sterile room, and waits. The body is dumped unceremoniously into the wheelchair. The shadow of Kornish passes, and Lizzie's upturned face is visible to all in the cabin. Red's heart gives a terrible thump, like it could stop from relief, and then he moves carefully out of the shadows in order to show Lizzie that she's not alone. That she'll be okay. That he didn't leave her to die in a bathtub full of caustic chemicals, like Ressler or Cooper. His jaw works with fury when The Stewmaker takes a photo of her, prone and helpless in that chair. Her eyes shift to him, and some part of her strengthens like steel, enough to relax her shoulders and attempt a last verbal attack on Kornish. Her eyes move back and forth from Red to Kornish, as Red picks up a heavy steel surgical bowl.
"You know I was wrong about you…. You're not perfect" With this last utterance her eyes roll back into her skull, and she hangs limply in the wheelchair.
The feeling of satisfaction, as Kornish turns around and is clouted with that bowl, is like none other.
Stanley Kornish will never hurt anyone ever again.
Red Leaves him lying on the floor, and gives the dog the hunk of meat which is still bleeding down the table legs onto the floor. He then checks Lizzie's pulse. Strong and even enough. She'll be fine as long as he can find what Kornish gave her. While looking throughout the cabin for the likely source of drugs, he finds several cable ties and makes short work of incapacitating Kornish. He tightens the ties around Kornish's wrists with savage pleasure at the prospect of visiting justice on the man. He finds the drugs. He knows what it's used for. He snaps. Lizzie was being tortured before he got here.
Kornish stirs, and the game is suddenly on. He kicks and drags him to the side of the tub, and at gunpoint, he forces him to stand upright against it. In a sibilant whisper, "Had you have killed her, I would have made this last for days. You're lucky. She'll come round soon and I won't let her be damaged even more by you. Even mentally."
And she would be damaged mentally, at this stage in this relationship. To see him break this man down to a puddle on the floor, unable to do more than sob. She's not ready to see that side of him. She may never be ready. If that is the price he pays, for making sure she had a happy childhood away from his world then so be it.
Lizzie stirs in the wheelchair. She's still limp, and her legs are trailing on the floor. He moves to her, and shifts them into a more comfortable position. As he does so he sees her eyelids flicker and open. The blue of oceans gazing down blearily at him; confused, hurt, relieved and scared. All at the same time. He knows that she can't see this. What he's about to do.
"Hello Lizzie….The effects will dissipate soon. You're going to be fine." He wants more than anything to kiss her forehead. To give her some comfort, but he knows that wouldn't be well received. So he settles for laying his hand on her hair, after he's wheeled her away from Kornish, facing away from what he's about to do.
"Okay…Shall We get Started?"