Disclaimer I own very little, especially not CSI NY.
Notes Chapter 20: THANK YOU for all previous reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter. NB one instance of swearing. Please continue reviewing - I love to know what you think - welcome at any time, for any chapter, and always replied to if logged.
Thank you to: iluvcsi4ever and webdlfan for discussions and 'gentle pokes'; to Blue Shadowdancer, and Marialisa for reading and suggestions, and to Marialisa for sparking a thought on colours : ) Sorry again for delays in replies and posting - I have now finished my MA, so have more time to write this :D
Lost Letters: Chapter 20
4th August
…It's becoming clear to me that this is going to be one heck of a hot summer in the city; it's only the 4th day of August and already I'm finding it a chore to have to leave the apartment. Thank heavens for ice cream. A tub of the cheapest vanilla in the store (as my two favourite men, Ben and Jerry, were beyond my purse) has been keeping me company today whilst Joe's been out on his own private business. I'll find out soon enough about that though I guess…
………………………………...
It was the late of the afternoon, when the day was building to fever pitch; sucking itself in and holding the city hostage to humidity; trapping it in a tight, swollen solar balloon. Too bright; the sky caught itself on the tops of the skyscrapers; burning, bleeding silver-gilt stains down concrete walls and through glass.
Occupied with thoughts other than the heat, not all unpleasant, Sid entered the hospital; rode up in the elevator to the floor he wanted; then strolled along the corridor. Towards Stella's room first, he had decided on the journey from the lab; Danny he would call in on afterwards.
It would be a proper visit this time, he was determined; not as three days earlier when all he had been able to do was place the vase of flowers at Stella's side as she was sleeping and clasp her hand for a few moments before an undertone conversation with Mac was over too soon and he was outside the door again.
That had been the day when, returning home after his visit, he had managed to give his wife more than a hurried 'goodnight' and 'sleep well' as they passed on the stairs - the conversation pattern that had been cut for them following recent events. He had presented her with a spray of carnations almost timidly; but she had accepted them with an unexpected delight; and it led to them sharing the preparation and eating of dinner together for the first time in too long.
And he had finally been able to share the burden of troubles inflicted on the team; it had spilled out of him too rapidly, but she had listened, and as he finished speaking, his arms hanging helplessly down at his sides, had enfolded him in an embrace more welcome following its absence. They had stayed like that; he in his chair, his wife behind him, her chin nestled into the crook of his neck and her cheek soft against his, whilst the food grew cold and unwanted.
Her carnations still bloomed, frowsy pink and mauve, by the front door; their scent catching him as he passed in and out of the house, reminding him.
Today, as he ambled along the corridor, he smiled at his plan to surprise his wife with an opera performance tonight, front row tickets; and hoped to find Stella awake so he could share and discuss the proposal with her - the first words exchanged with her for more than a week. As he neared the door however, he saw the uniformed officers outside it bursting in and his heart tripped a beat before banging in his chest as his feet flew the rest of the way.
Chaos met them: Mac unconscious on the floor; a girl in a hospital overall sprawled face-down across Stella, and a storm of glass shards, dripping flower stems, and water scattered all around her and over the bed.
Someone ahead of him had already dropped down beside Mac; as an armed uniformed officer dragged the stunned girl off the bed and onto the floor. Sid found his place and saw to Stella; sliding his arm around her, lending his support, and at the same time, making a rapid assessment.
Her eyes were dazed, but met his and were alive; still alive.
White and pinched though, and with crescent moons of fingernail marks on it, her face clearly showed the conflict that had happened. Sid kept his hold on her as her breathing calmed and slowed, and she collected herself back to full awareness.
"Is… Mac… Is he okay?" She clutched Sid's hand.
He looked over; Mac was surrounded by medical staff, and had still not moved, but he could see that his face was beginning to flicker into life again.
The girl, whoever she was, was similarly regaining consciousness. A uniform stood to close attention, tensed for any movement, even as a doctor knelt next to her and applied a pad to the bleeding wound at her temple.
Sid turned back to Stella, "Mac's in good hands, he seems to be coming round. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you, Stella?"
Any more questions could wait for the moment.
Her other hand was pressed against her side, and he could hear the hitch as she breathed that belied her answer, "Not… not much… Think that was the intention though."
There was nothing he could say to deny that. Sid kept his presence close to Stella as the room filled, swirled and emptied round them.
………………………………...
It was still and quiet now; the door closing out the noise of the corridor and the passing bustle. But, as the three people inside it reflected, it could so easily have been filled with a different stillness.
Hawkes had joined Sid and Stella; and all of them sat absorbed in their own bewildered silence and thoughts for a few moments.
He had arrived with Lindsay following frantic phone calls from Flack; after being briefed by him, Lindsay had barely stopped to breathe before racing to join Danny's parents. Danny was in the Intensive Care Unit, his prognosis further uncertain; Flack suspected foul play after linking it with the attack on Stella, and they now had fingerprints and a contaminated IV line to confirm this.
They were minus Mac: the head of the lab, after much argument, and near brute force berating from Flack, was being checked over.
Entering just as Mac, groggily conscious, was being helped up off the floor, Hawkes had contributed his own voice to the persuasive fray. When Stella had added a word and a look, it sealed the decision; Mac left the room, assisted, after his and Sid's assurance that they would stay where they were. He had processed what he could of the scene, before returning to the human consequences of the crimes.
They had told neither Mac nor Stella yet about the deterioration in Danny's condition, and the blame attached to that. The moment would wait. And for the moment, Stella looked as if she had enough to think about: her eyes were dark and heavy, her hair drooping over her face, and Hawkes watched her anxiously as he finished tweezing the last splinters of glass out of her hand. She had been checked over and aside from tears in the back of her hand from where the IV had been pulled out and splinters of glass in her other hand, she was unharmed. The wound in her side from the gunshot was unaffected. She had been lucky, Hawkes knew.
Glancing at Sid, who nodded, he put a gentle question to her, "What happened, Stella?"
Stella raised her head to look at them both, "I don't… don't know entirely. It was so fast. I just - just had this feeling, you know, that something wasn't right when she handed me the medication. There… there were too many, so I questioned her and then… then she launched herself at Mac, and he was on the floor, and she grabbed…" She stopped, and took a deep breath, "She grabbed me."
"And then you stopped her. She didn't succeed, Stella, you did." Hawkes dabbed with care at her hand, "Sorry…" As she winced.
"It's okay." Wet red lines criss-crossed her palm.
Hawkes dropped the final sliver of glass into a dish, and repeated, "I'm sorry..."
There were still pieces over the floor, crunching under his feet as he moved; petals slimy and greasy underfoot too. The mess and chaos left behind. Stella caught his eye again as she clenched her hand. A thin drip of blood fell onto the bedclothes and expanded. Darkness was trapped in her eyes.
"So am I, Hawkes. Someone really… really doesn't want me alive do they?" She shook her head, her lips pressed into narrow lines, and her gaze turned beyond him to the window, "Someone out there." And back to the room again, out of the door, "Or someone in here."
Neither Hawkes nor Sid could reassure her to the contrary. Silence fell in the room as the pressure of so many unknown eyes and minds within and without the walls they sat between watched and thought beyond their knowing. Too many to comprehend.
………………………………...
It was rush hour across Manhattan, away from the insides of buildings; as people poured outside, underground and over-ground onto buses and trains and taxis; back to their own insides.
A young woman pushed her way through barging crowds of pedestrians in the fathoms of the subway station, wrinkling her nose at the familiar smell of hot tar and oil on the platform, and the odours off too much human traffic.
With one hand clutching her seven month old daughter, and the other an assortment of carrier bags and a large rucksack full of diapers, bottles and all the paraphernalia that a very small person demanded, she struggled up the escalator and out into the small station forecourt. There was no sign of her brother, despite his promise to meet her and help with Alisha and her luggage after she had been to stay with their parents in New Jersey. He had confirmed by text message two days ago; but as she was beginning to regret, she had not chased him up to make good on the promise since then.
There was no sign of Christopher as she scanned the faces in increasing frustration. Alisha started to wail, and Janie felt a sticky patch of dribble on her shoulder as the baby made her own disappointment known.
Bouncing her gently as best she could without dropping the precarious balance of bags, she swivelled in all directions and still saw no familiar face and spikes of blonde hair belonging to her younger, and unreliable brother.
But there was a face coming towards her. A face almost hidden beneath a dark baseball cap; and a body hidden beneath a football jersey.
The face smiled as it approached her, and overrode her perplexion and prudence, "You're Janie? Christopher's sister, right? He sent me to meet you. Kid got held up, so I said I'd do him a favour and come meet you. I got us a cab waiting out front. Christopher's been doing a little work for me, so I'm returning the favour."
Before she could think any more, or caution herself that she did not know this man, Janie found herself led out into the sunshine, her bags lifted away from her hands, and herself and Alisha settled into the back of a cab. The man climbed in next to them, tapped on the glass and they were soon absorbed into the mosaic mass of cabs and cars of the city.
………………………………...
"So why'd you do it, huh? 'Cause that's what's puzzling me, you know, Meg. Why someone like you, who's volunteered to work in a hospital, would do what you did. Help me out here, give me some reasons, because I'm telling you, unless you do, you're up for a long stretch away."
Flack could not sit down. As he threw out his questions to the girl sitting lumped in the chair, he paced the room, stopping as he finished the last sentence and pressing his hands down on the table. Anger could not even begin to describe the sensations of blood whistling through his body and the pins and needles of the furies under his skin and in every vein.
Caught in the act of attacking Stella, and suspected as the reason for Danny's relapse, Meg Stevens - twenty years old from Brooklyn, no previous convictions - was infuriating him more every time he could bring himself to look at her. She sat sullen and silent; slumped shoulders, with a bedraggled expression, compounded by the gauze dressing just visible beneath a wispy fringe. So far, after an hour in the interrogation room, she had told him nothing. He had garnered some information from her silence though, and from the evidence she had left behind her in the hospital: fingerprints; epinephrine in Danny's IV; the lethal combination of drugs handed to Stella.
A lawyer, called from the public defenders office, sat primly at her side, groomed to the last degree and regarding Flack with a look reserved for the dust he knew would be completely absent from her home. Navy blue trouser suit, white blouse, symmetrically parted hair. The file in front of her was lined up with the corners of the table. She tapped a pen on it; the sound muted by the folder and its contents. Irritating. Enraging.
Every word that was not forthcoming from his suspect, nibbled away at his professional control. Every minute that passed, that he did not have to spare, brought angry pulses of blood in front of his eyes.
"What happened?"
A shrug.
"What, you just decide you're going to try kill your patients? Why?"
Why? Why had Danny almost lost his life and been left with his recovery set back even further? Why had Flack had to see his parents shattered into their basic elements with the news that someone had deliberately harmed him? Why? Why had Stella had to fight for her life against someone who should have been helping her?
Wham.
His flat palm hit the table, and finally provoked a reaction. Meg jumped, eyes flashed towards him. The lawyer was out of her chair in seconds. Her pen clicking onto the floor.
"Detective…"
Flack ignored her, "Someone put you up to this? Boyfriend maybe? Someone you owe a favour to? Or did you just lose it and decide to play the angel of death, huh?"
Her posture sagged again. Another shrug. Her attention turned apathetically to the strip of window high up in the wall.
"You going to tell me? Or am I going to have to make my guesses? Way I see it, you saw an easy way to make some money. Can't be easy, being at school, working two jobs, volunteering…"
Another shrug.
He was trying to understand, and failing. Trying to figure out why even a hospital was not safe. And failing. Flack boiled and seethed inside as the lawyer sat down again and murmured something indistinct to the girl. He was losing it; his blood vessels were beginning to melt down into ebullition; his control effervescing and with every more moment that passed, evaporating. Detective Flack, the investigating officer into the further assault on Detectives Messer, Bonasera and Taylor was becoming subsumed by Don Flack incensed at more harm done to Danny, Stella and Mac. His colleagues. His friends.
You hurt my friends.
Why?
He realised he was pacing again, back and forth. Sputtering out impotent questions: what? why? who? Questions, no answers. 'Wh' sounds, useless, too soft, vague, breathless. The slow 'whump - whump' of the ceiling fan above them; blades of light falling round the room. And lightning bolts of anger incandescing inside him.
But he was seeing in violence now, seeing the curvilinear shapes of the girl and her lawyer and the watching uniformed officer, pull out and tauten to rectangles and lines, severe shapes, squares and cubes.
"So who was it? Who put you up to this? I ain't believing that you did this alone. You going to tell me, or you going to sit there all day? 'Cause I got the time, believe me. I got all the time I want to find out why you tried to kill three police officers."
Another indolent lift of shoulders. She did not even open her lips to confirm or deny or explain.
Beneath the hospital overall, the girl was wearing a baby pink shirt, pale pink shorts, powder pink flip-flops; blending into insipid peach-pink skin. Too much of it folding over the edges of the material. Her face was a rounded rosy moon, with undefined, overweight features; sandy eyebrows, drawn in doll-like; a smear of blusher across her cheeks and a faint sparkle of what he presumed was eye-shadow above pale lashes. He could barely see her eyes, disappearing as they were into hoods of skin. Cobra like. She looked out with lead grey irises. Blank expression. A face that could be written on with whatever you chose to see; or whatever she chose you to see.
Flack saw red. Rage red. Incarnadine blooms; clouds of magenta; spectrums of scarlet, deep cherry reds, carnation, iron, cardinal, claret, crimson lakes and scorching vermilion sunbursts in front of his eyes. His vision swam with the violence he had seen, that this girl had been part of.
Bang.
A fist hit the table this time; cracked satisfyingly down onto the wood. It brought eyes towards him again. The file fell to the floor, lay like broken backed wings on the floor. He ignored it.
"You haven't answered me, Meg, and I'm getting impatient here. I don't think maybe you realise the seriousness of this situation - the attempted murder of three police officers. We got the evidence against you, we got the witnesses."
Nothing. The girl sat impassively. Flack spun round and let a beat of time slip past, and cursed himself for his slip. He had said too much too her, contradicted himself.
He had to stop. Breathe. His friends hurt again. Danny saved only by the skills of the doctors, and his own stubborn self, he was certain of that; Stella saved only by herself and the tenacious grip on life she had. And the sheer good fortune that Hammerback had given her a bunch of dahlias in a heavy glass vase. He would thank the man heartily next time he saw him. Before then though, he had to continue.
"I'm going to ask you again, Meg. Real slow so you can understand me; a real easy question; real easy to answer… Why'd you do it, Meg?"
He waited. The ceiling fan turned. The girl shrugged and Flack felt the situation slipping away from his grasp and sliding into a red slough of despair.
………………………………...
Dusky evening softened the cut glass edge of the day as the heat dulled. Angell entered the precinct and looked around. A colleague stopped and indicated behind him with his thumb, "He's in there."
She quirked her eyebrows at him, but made no further comment on how he could have known who she was looking for. Was she becoming that obvious? It didn't matter at this point.
She found Flack sitting at his desk; less movement than petrified wood in him.
"Don?" She crossed the room in a few strides, laying her hand on his shoulder as she reached him, "You okay?" It was difficult to discern that he was even breathing, "Don?"
His head moved stiffly; dry and cracked lips parted, "No. No, Jess, I'm not."
He looked at her finally as she sat on the edge of the desk, and her hand was gently lifting his chin, ""Don, you can't go on like this… talk to me. What can I do to help?"
Flack opened the file in front of him, "Meg Stevens. She finally talked. Two hours in interrogation and I got one sentence out of her, Jess. One fucking sentence."
Angell's fingers traced the line of his jaw, "What did she say?"
A laugh burned dry of any mirth came from him, "She said, 'He knows who you all are and where to find you.'"
Any heat left in the room died away. The ceiling fan above them cut light and shadows over the two detectives.
Really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review and let me know either way, and I promise to have the next one up sooner! Thanks, Lily x