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Notes Chapter 23: THANK YOU for all previous reviews! Hope you enjoy this chapter. Please continue reviewing - I love to know what you think - welcome at any time, for any chapter, and always replied to if logged.
Thanks to Shadow Fox and Fat Kat for your reviews, sorry I couldn't send a proper review reply.
Many thanks to Marialisa for help with plot points. Thanks to Blue Shadowdancer and iluvCSI4ever for reading, and Shining Zephyr for her tribute story 'Lost Love' - recommended read!
Lost Letters: Chapter 23
1st August
… August already, and it doesn't seem long since we were celebrating new year together, right before I left for here. Seven months of the year gone. I can't help looking back over them, kind of assessing what I've done, where I've been. And I don't know what to make of myself and what I've done, whether I can justify it all. I guess some people could make a harsh judgement on me, but I didn't have much of a choice, did I?…
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Angell stuffed her phone back in her pocket, and manoeuvred Zee behind her, meeting resistance as she did so in the form of a volley of questions.
"What we doing, detective? We came back inside pretty quick there. You get spooked by something? Who you just call then? You got a problem?"
Zee was irrepressible, but unfazed as Angell pushed him forward down the hallway, "Something frighten you?"
She was not afraid. Jessica Angell did not give time or space to fear, except when it was necessary, and when she needed a catalyst of adrenaline: in pursuit of a suspect; or at the moment of entering a room, not knowing who or what was behind the door; then she used a heart beat of fear to clarify and cut a scalpel sharpness to her reactions. Using the vibration of her nerve endings as the signal of danger.
There was danger now; a tremor in the air and a crawling of anticipation under her scalp and skin. She had caught only a glimpse of the man sitting in a battered red Chevrolet in the parking lot, but she had recognised and known instantly who it was - one of the men who had been in the hospital, who had shot at Flack and Lindsay Monroe. After the rapid conversation with Flack, she now also knew he was their prime suspect for all the crimes visited upon the team and the other victims. And she had a sudden intuition that he knew who she was. Any threat to herself she could handle; but she had an innocent civilian with her, and possibly others inside the building. A threat from one man. One very dangerous man.
"Where's everyone else, Zee?" Her hand closed around her holster, not stopping their harried progress, "Who else is here apart from us?"
Zee stopped dead. Angell bit back a sigh of exasperation, and poked him forward, "You're going to have to walk and talk… Where are the rest of the staff and residents?"
"Out. Gone out for the day, taken themselves off to the park."
"You sure about that? All of them?"
They turned into another passageway off the main hallway, rapid footsteps.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. I stayed to meet you. You don't trust me?"
He stopped again, a look of hurt across his face as he huffed.
"I trust you, I just need to be sure, okay?"
"Okay. Yeah, they're out, no one here but us."
"Good."
They kept on down the passage, feet tip-tapping on the tiles. No other sounds. No sounds of pursuit. Yet.
It was difficult for Zee to walk in a straight line, he kept turning and whirling round to Angell, feet in a forwards and backwards dance as they moved, "What's up with this? Why'd you push me inside so fast?" He stopped again and Angell bumped up against his shoulder, her face colliding painfully with it, "You see someone out there?"
"Got it in one." Rubbing at her cheek, she got him moving, "Someone you don't want to meet."
They continued.
It was a large building, deceptively so: a small front from the outside; four storeys high; six broad sash windows across; but it went back and back, and the corridor they were now on stretched ahead of them. Slate-grey floor tiles underfoot, plastic surface buffed to a sheen, and Angell felt her shoes in danger of slipping. Zee's sneakers squeaked in his jerky rhythm onwards. The air was bristling with heat; prickling and jabbing at her, even with the light blouse and pants she wore. The air conditioning, under city budget controls, was obviously at a minimum, and she wriggled her back as perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades.
They turned a corner, down another stretch of corridor. Even at the risk of offending him, Angell was determined to make sure Zee was not mistaken; she could not risk any more civilians caught up in what she knew could become a lethal situation. After what the man she had seen in the car park had done, she was well aware of the precarious situation they were in. She had the advantage of preparation, and back-up on the way, but also a hunch that this was a desperate attempt. He had been lured out into the open. A desperate man meant desperate actions. Her hand flipped open her holster and gripped the top of her weapon as she checked each room they passed.
Still no sound. No sound of the man she had seen, and no sound yet of her back-up.
"Keep moving, Zee."
Hand to his back, giving no chance to argue, she nudged him on and he picked up his pace. Past pale green washed walls, un-enlivened every few feet by faded and wrinkled posters; cheap reproductions of art works. Even in the urgency of the situation, Angell couldn't stop herself seeing, noticing. They turned another corner, and reached a dead end. Looking out onto a brick wall, a low window of reinforced glass was in front of them. It brought them to an abrupt halt, as the sound of the front door rattling became audible, followed by a splintering shatter of glass and wood banging against wood.
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He had been watching for her, the dark haired detective, since the first silver cracks had appeared in the grey night city sky; sitting outside the police precinct, watching and waiting for any of the faces he wanted. Hers was the first that had emerged, and he had taken hold of the memory from the brief glimpse eight days ago; peeling the scab away from his mind, revealing the scraped raw wound of humiliation she had been a part of causing him. She and the others; the other lives he had failed to remove from his life.
It was his own mission now, devoid of any ruling and control, broken away alone for a last chance, wanting his own deaths, for his own reasons. No one else's rules. The rules didn't matter any more now; what mattered now was the day, the time, the hour of his choosing. Time was up for them, maybe for him, nothing mattered now any more. Only the inevitable.
Today was a good day for dying.
There was something of finality in the air; the last day of August, a final chance to finish some of what he had started. So he had sat and waited, and watched as she left the building and drove away. And he had driven close behind, pulling up minutes later in a non-descript parking lot opposite a brownstone.
The trapped heat of the fake leather upholstery, stale smelling, scorched through the denim he wore. The detective sat on the porch with a stranger; he watched, unfastened his seatbelt and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, staring dead ahead through the fly-blown windscreen. Even between the dust smears, he saw everything. The person with her did not matter; he had a full clip of bullets with him; one more would not count. He watched as she talked to the man and a fat, blue-backed fly wandered across the dashboard. The woman talked on, gazed over the parking lot, did not see him. The fly rubbed its back legs and lifted a few centimetres in flight, landing above the steering wheel.
The detective, sweeping long hair over her shoulder, looked out again, and he felt her eyes pass over him this time. And he knew. She had seen him. Heat and flies droned in his ear, the skin on his hands stretched as he strangled the steering wheel. Then she disappeared, suddenly, out of sight, into the building.
He moved, without thinking; his fist slammed down and a dying mass of pulverized fly oozed underneath the side of his hand.
He flung the car door open, kicked it shut and stood. No one else around, no other cops, no other people. The day, waiting in the first musky hint of summer's end, was his alone.
Chips of gravel underfoot, he strode across the lot, reaching for his piece and hefting it in his hand. Solid touch, real, something he could trust. He was ready, determined. This time he would not hesitate. He would not fail.
Leaping up the steps to the porch, he brought the butt of his gun cracking into the corner of the glass. It shattered in seconds and he grasped and undid the bolt. Rich stepped through into the house.
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"What now, Doc?"
Caught in the breath of the moment, Adam, on hands and knees in the confined space of the basement, looked at Hawkes, sharing the excitement of success, "You think we should open it here?"
Hawkes, clearly reluctantly, shook his head and withdrew the key, "No, we'll take it back to the lab, see if we can get any prints off of it. Doubt we'll find much success there though, seeing as all these have probably been handled by whoever brought them down here, but it's worth a try, see if anyone's tampered with it…"
"Whatever's inside, I gotta tell you, doc, the anticipation's killing me here."
Hawkes grinned, "Well hold up for a little longer, until we get back to the lab."
They unbent themselves slowly, and eased the box into a large evidence bag, before gathering the vestiges of their refreshments, both conscientious of not leaving a mess.
"Let's go." Hawkes led the way, Adam picking up the last coffee cup on their way out.
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After Flack's departure, nothing more was said for a moment. Stella stared straight ahead; Mac waited for her to speak. Her last words to Flack hung in the air between them, until she turned to him again.
"I know we've been here before, Mac, after Frankie, but this time, it's not just about me, I wasn't the only one attacked. Don't make me have to be just a victim again, I need to be a CSI as well in this. Let me do what I can to help, please don't make me any more of a victim than I already am."
Her eyes confronted him; a confrontation Mac knew he could not win, and despite his training and cold head of protocol, did not want to win. The effect the picture of the man who had attacked her had just had on Stella, made him realise that there was more healing that needed to happen than simply a wound in the flesh. But it was always so. The deepest wound he had suffered, cut into his bones and soul, unhealed, was the one that had left no physical mark on him.
Mac laid his hand on the bed, just a fingertip away from her. Her hands were clasped round each other, but not still, "Stella, you are not just a victim. You know that. No one ever is, it's the person behind the victim. That's who matters, who we care about."
Her head was bowed, then she raised her eyes to Mac, anger sparking in them, "He made me feel like a victim. Seeing his face again, remembering. Damn Mac, I was afraid…"
"I'd have been more concerned if you hadn't have been. Stella, you're one of the bravest people I know, and part of that bravery is knowing when to be afraid, not letting it break you, and it hasn't."
His eyes searched her face, trying to find some way, some words to help begin the internal healing, if he could. If she could. As she had done for him.
"Damn right." Stella leaned back, and pushed her hair away from her face. The spark became a blaze as she looked at Mac, "I can get through this. Danny can get through this…"
Her words inflamed and revived some of the him that had been lying cold and dormant, "We can."
Two hands: one rougher-skinned, older, the other smaller, with no less strength; hands that were no strangers, held to each others friendship, loyalty and care.
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TJ knew where Rich had gone, and he did not stop him, preferring now to let him flounder in his own alchemical brew of murder and violence. Hands clean, out of sight, out of reach, always his mantra.
But all around him, all those he had set up in serried ranks in front of him were beginning to fall, and it was with a mind seething and broiling with impatience that he sat in his apartment and contemplated the scissures in his defence system. The failures of those around him were becoming harder to repair.
Cold coffee in his hands, its aroma past bitter, TJ considered the day, and the people that moved around him. Rich was out of his hands, for now, Christopher also; but because of his failure, he had his sister and his niece. What he was going to do with them, was still uncertain.
Time to decide. The last inch of coffee swirled and gurgled away down the sink, followed by the sound of porcelain crashing onto steel in a shower of shards.
A door slammed shut, a sound lost amongst the hottest, heaviest hours of the day. A man in a baseball cap merged into the swaying sidewalk crowds; polished shoes hitting the slabs as he went; hands curled into fists at his side.
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Almost there. So close, so close. Janie could see the daylight through the louvre blinds; feel the organza warmth of filtered sun across her face. She blinked and wobbled on her perch of two stools, a table and a rocking chair.
Several feet below, Alisha turned, whimpering in her sleep and Janie held her breath, teetering on the edge of the top stool. The man who had put them both here, whoever he was, could be anywhere: miles away; a street away; a room away. No way to tell. Her ears strained for any sound. Nothing so far. She was almost, almost there. Just one stretch away…
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The only way to turn was back, back the way they came. Angell spun on her heel and yanked Zee's arm, eliciting an affronted exclamation. But there was no time for apologies.
"Move it!"
She pulled him along, back through the yards of corridor, trying to ignore the sounds of breaking glass as their intruder smashed his way in.
"What…?"
"Zee, you got to trust me here, okay? Do exactly as I tell you, and we'll be okay, you got that?"
Momentarily, he stopped and Angell put as much conviction into her voice as she could muster, "Trust me. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
"Okay… I trust you." He got out breathlessly as she pulled him along again.
"Good. Thanks. Now come on!"
Not stopping; her heels clattering, his sneakers pattering behind. Stairs at the end of the corridor. She made a grab for the banister and hauled them both up as not far enough away, the door crashed open and someone entered the building.
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Flack jumped another red light and heard with grim satisfaction the babel of car horns as he hurtled along the streets, a fleet of patrol cars before and aft. Myriads of thoughts and memories jostling in his mind as he drove; mind on the road; mind on the past. He saw Danny, white and still, not joining him for the latest game; he saw Stella and the strength in her pushed almost beyond what he thought was limitless; he saw Lindsay and the bullet that had shed her blood. He did not want to see any more damage done. The man responsible was almost in sight; another chance. No hesitation this time. He would not fail.
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They placed the box on the table with some ceremony and began the painstaking work of dusting for prints. A few partials, two usable whole prints which Hawkes put aside for the moment. Both he and Adam knew what was their priority; not least to satisfy the curiosity that was causing Adam's limbs to twitch as he hung onto the edge of the table, watching the other man, waiting.
"Almost done?"
"Yeah, we'll get these prints into AFIS soon as."
Hawkes took a deep breath, gloved hands gripping the key tightly, and then he paused, a small grin playing over his face, "You want to do the honours?"
Adam's grin lit his face, "Sure I'm not depriving you, doc?"
"Go right ahead."
He took the key from Hawkes, turned the key and opened the box; revealing a bulky envelope, a photograph and a hundred dollar bill.
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Mr and Mrs Messer sat, still sitting, absorbed after eight days, nearly nine, into the routine of a life changed. A life of hospital wards, the same routes along the corridors to the restrooms, the dining rooms and the rarely used exit. Home, with its personal and individual atmosphere, unnoticed when they were always there in their cheerful bickering and comfortable conversations and silences, was becoming a memory.
When she last walked into her home two days ago, Mrs Messer felt the air inside foreign; and had noticed for the first time the faint smell of herbs that lingered in the kitchen, and the scent of lavender polish, cool in the hallway when she forced open the front door against the heap of mail that had gathered.
Without a second glance, she had added it to the stack on the stairs, picked up what she needed and gone straight back to the hospital. She had not left since.
Her husband, heaving a sigh, pulled himself up from his chair suddenly, dropping a hand onto his wife's shoulder and asked, "You want some water?"
"Sure." She didn't really, the taste of hospital water was sour in her mouth, it set her teeth on edge. But it passed the time.
When her husband returned, she took the cup and swallowed a freezing mouthful, eyes never leaving Danny. His hand was in hers. In adulthood not so easily grasped, her fingers did not quite reach round, but she held on…
"Danny?"
The cup bounced and ping-ponged across the floor, water splashing everywhere, "Danny? Danny! Baby, I'm here, I'm here…"
She flailed wildly for her husband's arm, "He moved! His fingers moved!"
Three hands, blood and family bound, held on.
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Rich stepped into the hallway, kicked the glass out of his way and listened. He heard his own breathing. He heard the squeal of glass crushed between the soles of his shoes and the tiles. He heard footsteps on the stairs above him. A smile curled across his lips, he licked his teeth; a trick of light falling across him cast a shade and the shadow of a wolf along the floor as he walked on.
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She heard her breath heaving and her pulse piston-pumping. She heard the footsteps below.
"Up! Keep going, come on!"
Zee stumbled along and up the next flight. Angell spared a rapid glance over her shoulder, and darted up behind him.
From outside, she heard the welcome sound of sirens howling and tyres bumping and screeching across the parking lot. She also heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. Thrusting Zee sideways through an open door, she pulled her gun out and hid herself. And waited.
Sorry this is a little late. I hope you liked it, please review and let me know what you think, it really helps me write! Thanks, Lily x