Author's note:- OK apologies for the long absence but I've been concentrating on writing the auction story that I donated to the STAR for Brian appeal, so I hope you'll all forgive me for that. Secondly I'd like to thank MacGyver and its wonderful writers for getting me out of a minor plotting problem. Thirdly I couldn't resist the seventies/eighties TV show ransom drop location. You'll k now what I mean when you get to it- apologies, or maybe not. If you're writing this should you use the clichés or not? Sounds like a question on a Fan-fiction exam to me. (If you are writing fan fiction set in a different era should you use period clichés or not? - Discuss)
Chapter 9: Death
The gun was pressed against Mark's temple again so he had difficulty processing the sound when it came. His brain was expecting a click or a much louder explosion that would be the last sound he ever heard, that's if he heard it. Would there be time? Would it register? The musings that were occupying his panicked mind were interrupted by the sound.
Loud, sharp, he flinched and the muzzle of the gun dug further into the soft skin of his temple. He waited for the pain or for the oblivion, died a thousand more times in the time it took to take a breath, and then the sound, the sharp rapping sound, repeated, and his brain finally acknowledged that it wasn't a gunshot and it wasn't the click of an empty chamber, it was a knocking, like someone knocking on a door. The sounds changed to voices and he couldn't quite make them form into words, couldn't make them make sense.
Voices, that meant there was someone else there, someone who could help him, maybe? Possibly? He raised his head awkwardly, painfully from the pillow, twisting his injured shoulder, scraping abraded wrists in the cuffs, and now he could see the young man who stared down at him. Mark saw shock on the young man's face and he knew that he just had to ask for help, this nightmare was nearly over. He just needed to. . .
The explosion came now, and Mark flinched, pain rippling through his head, the sound so loud that it hurt. He watched in horror as the red blossomed on the young man's chest, watched the expression of shock and pain and the slow motion fall to the ground, twisted to see the body hit the floor, empty eyes staring across the frayed carpeting.
The soft muffled giggle from beside him made him turn to look at Melissa, the gun still in her hand, pointing down at the figure on the floor. "Now that's what I call luck," she said, "lucky for you, unlucky for him." She bent lower and smiled. "That was your bullet."
Mark could barely hear her, his head was still ringing from the shot that had been fired while the gun was too close to his head, but he didn't need to hear for the horror to register. He should be dead, he would be dead but someone else had arrived to die for him. He shifted his gaze back to the body, then back to Melissa. She was still smiling, watching him. Watching the mixture of emotion that crowded Mark's expression, guilt relief, horror, shock, pain, fear each a delicious part of an exuberant mix, that fed the heady power shot that accompanied taking a life.
Reluctantly she tore her gaze away to deal with the mess on the floor, pushing Kyle's feet out of the way she took a quick look out, scanning the rest of the motel and the parking lot for any signs of witnesses, for any movement, but, save for the odd streak of metal passing the trees as cars moved down the nearby interstate, there was nothing. Satisfied she closed the door and leant her back against it, closing her eyes for a moment as she savored the pleasure. Kyle's arrival had been untimely and unwelcome, interrupting her game; she had intended to just keep quiet until she was sure he had left. She hadn't expected him to use his pass key to come in, hadn't known that he'd had complaints about the sounds coming from the room.
He'd let another of the rooms on this block to another couple who didn't want to be seen by casual observers, although for entirely different reasons. The woman had been so freaked by McCormick's cries that she'd forced her partner to check them out again and he hadn't been entirely happy about missing out on his morning of fun. So he'd made sure that Kyle wasn't happy either.
So Kyle had come to find out what was going on. It was all quiet now but from the couple's description it had sounded like someone was being hurt. Kyle had considered just calling the police, if the lady's ex had caught up with them he didn't relish being caught in the middle. Then again he'd bought her story about being afraid of the police, and since it was all quiet now it wouldn't hurt to check it out first would it?
A bullet through the heart was his answer to that question.
Melissa stepped over the body as she made her way back to the bed and picked up the gun, well aware that McCormick was watching her every move she began to load the pistol, this time inserting a bullet into every chamber.
H&MCH&MC
The Judge was on a hair trigger and it didn't help that the agents in his house seemed both aware of that fact and afraid enough of him that they were tiptoeing around him like some kid trying to sneak out after curfew. He knew that he was making them nervous, hell he made people around him nervous on his best day and this wasn't his best day. He was well aware of the fact that he was growling and snapping at people, who didn't deserve either, and he did on occasion do that on purpose, it kept people on their toes kept them sharp, but that wasn't what was happening here. Here he could push people to make mistakes and he couldn't afford for them to make mistakes, not with McCormick's life on the line.
There was a sharp noise to his left and he turned in time to see one of the techs just managing to avoid spilling coffee all over the tape recorder. Dammit, if they weren't trying to sneak around him to avoid. . . He stood and several nervous pairs of eyes looked to him, clearly expecting some kind of admonishment. "I'll be outside, if you need me." He stated and headed for the door.
It was ten minutes before Frank caught up with him. He'd spent that time by the pool, standing on the far edge, looking out across the estate to the ocean beyond. The breeze tugging gently at his thin windbreaker as it sporadically cooled what the sun warmed.
"Don't you have any other cases that you're working today?" The Judge asked without turning to look at his friend. It was his way of acknowledging that he was grateful Frank was still there, although it would have sounded to anyone who didn't know them like he was trying to get rid of him.
Frank focused his own gaze on the magnificent view. "My office'll call me if anything comes up." Frank's version of 'you're welcome,' on a level of communication that only existed amongst those who knew each other very well.
"I told McCormick to get those hedges trimmed." He pointed off to the left. "They're the only ones that are spoiling the look of the place."
Frank looked at the offending row of hedge that was just starting to throw out branches that spoiled the neat line. There was nothing really wrong with it; it would be a good few weeks before it really needed work. "Yeah well he can get to it when we get him back." Frank stated.
Hardcastle finally turned to look at his friend, studying his face for the sincerity behind the remark, needing to draw strength from his friend's optimism. Frank did his best to oblige, did his best to believe that the kid was coming back because he knew Milt needed to believe that too.
The two men held each other's gaze for several long seconds before the Judge turned his gaze back to the view.
H&MCH&MC
Melissa brushed the hair gently back from his forehead, and she might as well have been torturing him some more, because to Mark that's what every touch of hers felt like. The pain was somehow easier to deal with than the gentle lover's caresses. He didn't really have anything left to fight her with, not any more, but he did need to fight. Her being nice to him, soothing him, giving him water to drink, gently cleaning the wounds she had inflicted. It was almost worse than the pain, almost worse than waiting to die, because at least those things gave him reason to fight, and fighting was the only way he was holding on to any semblance of sanity. This gentle kindness was killing him.
She undid the cuff on his injured shoulder, pulled his arm down slowly, stopping when he reacted to the pain of the movement.
"It's OK," she said softly. "It'll only hurt for a little more then it'll be much more comfortable." She rested his arm across his chest, lifting it through a makeshift sling before rubbing cool salve onto his chafed wrist. She moved on to his other wrist. "I'm sorry I can't undo the other handcuff," she said sounding truly regretful, "but if you keep it still I can wrap it and make it feel a whole lot better."
Mark finally found the voice to speak, finally recovered enough from the shock of watching this monster shoot an innocent man in cold blood and gain pleasure from it, from watching her reload the gun with glee, from being convinced that he would be next, from watching her transform from monster to gentle nurse for no apparent reason. She had loaded the gun, watched him for a moment, giggled softly again and then had disappeared to the bathroom, and an entirely different woman had come back into the room. One who seemed to feel sympathy rather than pleasure at his pain, one who tried to help him. Confusion had replaced shock, revulsion had replaced hatred, but there was something he needed to know. "Why?"
"Aw come on sugar, you know if I let off this cuff you'll just do something foolish like try to escape."
Mark shook his head, that wasn't what he needed to ask. "No, why are you being nice to me? Why are you helping me?"
Melissa smiled at him. "Well hadn't you figured that out?" She replied, using her hand to unnecessarily flick the same piece of hair out of the way. "Because I like you of course."
Mark was sweating but every part of him seemed to turn to ice at the comment. His sanity, his destiny was wrapped up in hers. He had thought he had known just how insane she was. He had been wrong. She had no links to reality at all.
Her fingers now ran down the length of his torso, tracing around his arm and then back past his navel and down to the top of his jeans. "When you and I get to Mexico, we're going to get on a lot better, you'll see."
No links to reality at all. He would have cried, except he didn't have the strength for tears.
She stood, "But first I need to get me my fifty thousand dollars. So you just rest, and when I get back we'll have some more fun." She moved to the phone and ripped the cord from the wall, pulling the wire out from the receiver too just to be sure. Then she snatched up her purse. Looking back from the door, she addressed Mark and the corpse in the same manner. "Now you boys be good while I'm gone won't you." She kicked Kyle's feet out of the way and left the room.
H&MCH&MC
The Judge was sitting back at his desk when the call came. He almost couldn't remember what it was like to have anything other than an empty pit where his intestines used to be. As his hand reached for the phone he felt as though that pit were about to swallow him whole. He flushed with a slight embarrassment as he realized that everyone in the room was watching him, watching how shaky his hand was as it reached for the receiver. "Hardcastle," he only got the word out by virtually grunting it into the phone.
"Have you got my money?" Melissa asked, there was the air of a lilting laugh in her voice. She was happy.
"Yes, Dammit now where's McCormick." Again the words were pushed out with a gravely growl as the judge attempted to control his anger.
"My, my we are sounding grumpy aren't we Judge, and I don't think I like that. Now ask nice and I'll tell you where to bring the money."
Hardcastle's grip tightened on the phone as he forced the emotion down. "Ok, Melissa, please," he managed to get the word out, just, "tell me. Where do you want me to bring the money?"
"That's better," Melissa smiled again, relishing the control, she could almost taste how he was fighting his own emotions, forcing himself to be nice despite hating her with every fibre of his being, and she was controlling that, just her. She gave him the address, it was a drive in movie theatre, deserted during the day and perfect for her to watch, to see if he followed her instruction to come alone or not. She hoped he did. She was looking forward to killing him, and she was looking forward even more to telling McCormick what she had done.
H&MCH&MC
Mark wanted to give up, wanted to retreat to a place in his head where the fear and the pain couldn't reach him, but he couldn't. He knew that he couldn't, not while the Judge was in danger, not while there was a chance, however slight, that he might be able to do something about it, but that chance depended on him being able to get out of here. He looked around, desperately searching for anything that he might be able to use to pick the lock. Think, McCormick, think, he willed his brain to ignore the churning emotions and random thoughts that kept trying to steal his concentration. Thoughts of kidnap and torture and pain, musings about the life of the man who now lay dead at the foot of his bed, the man who had taken his bullet, all of them tried to distract him, tried to stop him from. . .the light bulb! The irony of the imagery actually managed to penetrate. A cartoon image of himself with a light bulb appearing above his head, the breakthrough idea that he needed to get out of this and it was literally a light bulb.
His eyes fixed on the bedside lamp. With difficulty he pushed himself to a near sitting position so that he could reach for the lamp with minimum stress to his shoulder. Every move took an act of will to fight against the pain. It seemed to take forever, hoarse grunts escaping from him at almost every move, but eventually he had the lamp, had the bulb unscrewed, all he had to do now was break it. He hit it against the corner of the bedside table, and almost cried at his own weakness as the action did nothing, he couldn't even shatter a bulb. A well of despair opened up before him and he only narrowly avoided diving into it. Not falling, hell that would be too easy, denying his own culpability, something the Judge said he always did. No this would be a headlong dive because he was so worthless, so useless that he couldn't even. . . He managed to pull back from the brink of the spiral. No! He couldn't afford to go there, not now, he had to save the judge, had to stop Melissa. The thought of her was enough, injured shoulder or no, he cracked the light bulb down hard and the glass shattered. Then he shifted around struggling to move his injured shoulder so that he could reach his still handcuffed hand. He pulled out the piece of wire that he needed from the shattered remains of the bulb and went to work on the lock.
H&MCH&MC
The judge drove slowly to the middle of the lot, avoiding the speaker posts that stood out of the ground at regular intervals. Melissa was already there, waiting for him, McCormick's bright red car sitting ostentatiously in the middle of a row, right in front of the giant screen. He was thirty yards away before he confirmed that McCormick wasn't with her, she was standing by the driver's door, the passenger side was empty. One of the advantages or maybe disadvantages of the Coyote was that there was no room to conceal anything, what you saw was pretty much what you got. Of course that didn't mean she didn't have him somewhere close.
"Stay back for now, but she appears to be alone," Hardcastle spoke into the concealed microphone that was taped to his chest. He parked up and watched her for a few moments before climbing out of the car, regulation, bland, black FBI issue, but it served its purpose. He stood behind the open door, watching as Melissa continued to retouch her make-up, all but ignoring him. She came across as ridiculously dumb, and he had to keep reminding himself just how dangerous she was, how many people were dead because of her. Finally she turned.
"You got my money?" she asked, finishing off her lipstick before closing the compact and slowly twisting the lipstick back down into its holder.
"Where's McCormick?" he countered
She slipped the lid back on to the lipstick and dropped it into her purse. "Safe," she stated, "and as soon as I have my money and I'm clear of here I'll tell you where he's at."
Hardcastle had been a judge long enough that he could tell when someone was lying to him, even a psychotic killer, or maybe especially a psychotic killer, either way he knew Melissa was lying to him now. What he couldn't tell was whether the lie was because McCormick was already dead. He swallowed the bile that rose to the back of his throat. "It's in the back," he stated evenly, closing the driver's door and stepping backwards towards the rear of the car. He pulled open the rear door and reached for the bag, forcing his eyes not to meet Frank's, he couldn't afford to give the slightest indication that he was there, wedged behind the front seats waiting. He lifted the bag out and round, raising his free hand to show that it was empty.
"It's all here," he stated, moving forward and deliberately distracting her from the fact that he left the rear door open. "Fifty thousand dollars." He undid the zip, pulling out a banded wad of bills. "Now where's McCormick?"
Melissa's own hand had disappeared into her purse, reemerging with her gun which she pointed squarely at Hardcastle.
The judge bristled, it wasn't exactly an unexpected move on her part, but expecting to have a gun pointed at you and actually having one pointed at you were worlds apart, much like anything else, it wasn't real until it happened, and then it could be too real.
Hardcastle licked dry lips. "There's no need for the gun," he stated, for the benefit of Frank and the police marksmen who should have taken up their positions by now. "It's all yours." He dropped the pack of bills back into the bag and held it out for her.
"Bring it here," Melissa instructed, gesturing him forwards with her gun.
The judge walked slowly towards her, watching her, watching him.
"That's far enough," she stopped him about ten feet away, "Now drop the bag." He obliged. "Back up." Again she gestured with the gun.
Hardcastle reversed his steps, not taking his eyes from her face from the gun, even as she bent to check the contents of the bag. He could almost feel the excitement, the glee that radiated from her as she checked band after band, feeling with her hand for the next then the next, taking her eyes off him for just long enough each time to glance down at the bills and confirm that they were real. Each time her eyes left him he contemplated making his move, but she wasn't giving him enough time. If he did it would be a shootout pure and simple, and winning it could mean losing it too. While there was still a chance that she would give him McCormick, he had to play it straight.
Finally she stood, picking up the handles of the bag as she straightened.
"OK, you got what you wanted, now where's McCormick?"
Melissa smiled, "Well that's something you'll never know." She adjusted her aim and squeezed gently on the trigger, killing the Judge, the one who had caused her so much trouble, that was going to be sweeter than all the others. She wanted to savour the moment, she didn't get the chance. She was smiling when she felt the impacts, dull thuds against her torso, one, two; she didn't feel the third one, didn't hear it. The impact with her brain killed her instantly.
For the Judge everything happened too quickly. He saw the moment that her demeanor changed. The moment she was going to kill him and he pulled his own gun, dropping down so that Frank could get a clear shot from behind him. He went for a shoulder shot. He needed her alive so that she could tell him where McCormick was. Frank and the police marksman showed no such consideration, for them the priority was preventing her from killing the Judge and the only sure way to do that was to take her down.
Hardcastle watched her fall, knew that she was dead before she hit the ground, and he stared too stunned to move. Part of him knew that they didn't have a choice, that her death had been inevitable, maybe if they'd had more time to plan, maybe if he'd been in a better state of mind. He should never have let his emotions. . .
"Milt are you OK?"
He felt Frank's hand on his shoulder and realized he was still kneeling on the ground. With effort he pushed himself to his feet. "Yeah," he said, still not able to take his eyes from Melissa's corpse. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"I'm sorry Milt," Frank continued, "She was going to kill you, we didn't have a choice."
Hardcastle turned to look at his friend. "I know," he pinched at the bridge of his nose, as though that would stave off his burgeoning headache, "but that doesn't help us find McCormick."
Frank nodded, "I've got teams sweeping the local area. Why don't we see if she's got anything on her that will help?"
Both men knew that they should wait for the crime scene unit, wait for the coroner, before moving anything, especially since they had both been involved in the shooting, but Frank knew that at that precise moment in time, the Judge, who had hauled officers over the coals for even the most minor of transgressions, didn't give a damn about procedures. The only thing that mattered to him was finding Mark, and Frank couldn't find it in himself to disagree with that stance, so he helped him search.
It was the Judge who found the key, dumping the contents of Melissa's purse unceremoniously on the ground. The name of the motel was embossed in gold on the orange plastic along with the room number.
H&MCH&MC
Reluctantly Hardcastle had allowed Frank to drive. He had wanted the distraction of something to do, had wanted to drive himself, but distraction was the key word. He couldn't seem to hold his focus properly on the world around him; he kept seeing Melissa fall, kept hearing Mark's scream of pain, kept imagining the worst. No matter how he tried to cling on to the hope that his friend was still alive, he couldn't get away from that murderous glint of pleasure in Melissa's eye as she'd been about to kill him. She enjoyed killing. She had Mark. Putting two and two together always seemed to make four.
It took him a moment to realize that the car had stopped. Frank was already climbing out on the other side and a uniformed officer had moved up to speak to him. Hardcastle scrambled to catch up. He was out of the car and heading for the motel buildings when Frank blocked his path. He didn't want to stop, didn't want to hear what his friend had to say. He just wanted to find McCormick. He had to get past, had to find McCormick.
Frank grabbed his arms. "Milt," he said sharply. "Milt, stop."
Hardcastle felt the despair envelop him, felt the cold chill wash down over his skin. He knew that the words were coming but until he heard them there was a small amount of denial left. He knew that Frank was trying to protect him, trying to prepare him, before he went in, before he saw. . ."No," he shook his head giving voice to the denial that he wanted to scream.
Frank held his friend's gaze, managing it only because he knew that he had to, knew that he had to be the strong one here. Hardcastle needed him more now than ever to give it to him straight. "They found a body," he stated.
TO BE CONTINUED. . . . .