Chapter 4 - Shattered Dreams

Mary staggered into her hotel room and dropped onto the bed, exhaustion seeping from every pore. The planned raid on Willington's motel room had turned into a clusterfuck and once again the little rat bastard had eluded her. He was becoming an obsession. Her need to catch him was tied up in a personal matter of pride and worth. Her eyes roved around the drab room with its neutral colors. God, she could use some cowboy about now, but was far too tired to go rustle one up. Plus there was the figment to consider.

Her eyes closed and she replayed the scene from earlier, the stake out of the motel, busting down the door, Willington standing there by the bathroom door. Right there. Surprise clear on his face. And then a lazy, smug grin crossed his face as he took in the two US Marshals leveling guns at him, the additional backup visible behind them. That grin. Mary took it as a personal slap in the face, a taunt, a mocking of her abilities.

A long shuddering groan escaped her. She was lead on this raid. The Philly office had extended her that courtesy since she had been after the asshole for so long. As her prey stood there so calmly contemplating the assorted firepower aimed at him, Mary started to feel slightly unnerved. He wasn't moving. The barked command to raise his arms was ignored. The infuriating half-smile continued to play across his lips.

And then he shrugged, started to raise his hands, turned slightly and then...Mary rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut even tighter. It all happened so fast. Blur of movement and a burst of smoke filled the room. Mary was moving towards Willington through the thick fog before the others even started coughing. She reached out blindly, grabbing a wrist that was easily wrenched free and then he was gone. By the time the room had cleared enough to see, the open window in the bathroom gave stark testimony to the location of their fugitive.

Her tired body insisted on rest and she reluctantly gave in, her breathing evening out.

The tall man reacted viscerally to her comment about needing to do some cowboy. He unfolded his lanky limbs from his desk and walked over, bracing his hands on the desk, getting in her face.

"You've done the cowboy. And when you weren't doing the cowboy you were the cowboy… like with Raph. You don't need to let off steam; what you need is –" He paused and took a breath. "I get that… you don't like… messy. But maybe messy is what you need. Maybe instead of just anyone… you should be looking for… someone. Someone who challenges you. Who calls you on your BS, 'n gets in your face,'n makes you think….What?"

She was staring at him. "What? I'm thinking." Her heart was pounding, trying to take in what he was implying. By 'someone' did he mean himself? All those statements he just made, they could apply to him. He challenged her. He called her on her BS. He got in her face, like he was doing now. He made her think...

Her heartbeat ratcheted up and her fight or flee response kicked in and she fled.

Mary woke with a gasp, her heart pounding. The tall man had come close to making a declaration to her. Mary sat up, placing her surroundings, reaching beside her, feeling an immense sense of relief as her hand encountered emptiness and not another body beside her. She flopped back down, trying to understand the sharp feeling of loss that was enveloping her.

She rubbed at her temples. Maybe she needed to talk to someone. She was beginning to believe she was falling in love with this imaginary dream man who didn't even have a name. This figment. Turning to look at the bedside clock, she grimaced. Six o'clock. May as well get up. They would need to start over today and find out where the hell Willington had gone this time.

The Philly team gathered in the conference room, a pervasive pall of gloom hanging over the five people seated at the large table. Mary watched sourly as Marshal Paul-Jean Micheaux gestured to get their attention and braced his arms against the table, surveying the accumulated styrofoam coffee cups, remnants of danish and notebooks. She had already delivered a terse recap of the previous days events, outlining each step of the op and giving her assessment of what had gone wrong.

"Okay folks," Micheaux said, the faint Quebecois accent giving a lilt to his words. "Yesterday was a disappointment, to put it mildly. Our fugitive, Monsieur Willington, has eluded us once again and appears to have picked up some new tricks. We have so far been unable to locate Mr. Yanovic. However, we have obtained some new information about our Mr. Houdini overnight. Seems he has a, uh, lady friend. One who is willing to talk if we can make a minor possession charge go away. After a quickie at her place, Willington intimated that he was leaving town, heading south, likely to Kentucky."

Mary listened without looking up. Kentucky. Great. She really wanted to go home and instead she was heading to...Kentucky. Home of horses and mint juleps and big hats. But if that is where that fucknut was, that is where she was going to be also.

"Do we have this narrowed down a bit," she asked wearily. "Kentucky is a big state."

Micheaux regarded her evenly, dismissing the rest of the team, while holding up a hand to detain her. Schwartz caught her eye as he walked out, a sympathetic smile on his face. She scowled back at him in return.

"Mary," Micheaux's accent almost caressed the word and Mary glanced down quickly at his left hand. Ring. Must just be the way those damn French talked. Her mind wandered briefly to the semester of Jacques in college. Jacques from Lyon. Jacques who was so skilled in so many ways. She abruptly brought her attention back as Paul-Jean snapped his fingers under her nose. "I need you here, with me," he said. "Move on from blaming yourself. No one could have reasonably foreseen the smoke bomb. Your man Willington always has a contingency plan in place. You," he wagged his finger at her, "you must crawl in his head and think like him."

The blonde snorted. "I'll drown in the muck if I crawl in his head. I'm not a profiler. What I'm good at is chasing people."

Paul-Jean was silent a moment, reviewing his conversation with Evan Nickels regarding the belligerent woman standing in front of him. His lips tightened. "Mary," not so much of a caress this time, "most law enforcement looks to the past, to where people have been. Marshals look to the future, to where people are going. Don't just chase Marshal Shannon. Look to the future. Get yourself to his destination before your fugitive does." He turned on his heel and left the shocked woman standing by herself in the empty room.

Marshall listened to Mrs. Seely with less than his usual full attention. She always prattled on about her grandchildren, her garden and her quilt making circle. He usually had endless patience for her. She was a sweet old lady who had been in the program for twenty-five years. Marshall's visits were perfunctory. He made his escape as quickly as was decently possible and returned to the office so he could quickly fill out the visitation form and clock out for the day.

Stopping to pick up Indian take out, Marshall headed home, glad to have the evening to himself. He was beginning to look forward to his nights, in a way he hadn't before. This was not the normal relief that the work day was done and he would have some time to himself. This was not wanting to spend time on his various hobbies. This was not wishing to flop in front of the TV with a beer and watch old Star Trek episodes. This was anticipating the dream he would have that night. Wondering what she would do, what taunts she would fling his way, if she would touch him.

Marshall uncomfortably shied away from the nagging thought that his behavior wasn't healthy. He had a real life girlfriend of a sort. One from whom he was distancing himself. All because of a dream girl. He would rather sleep by himself and dream of his blonde than have Beth next to him, ready and willing.

Marshall braced his elbows on his knees and held his head. What was wrong with him? This girl didn't exist. No matter how real she seemed in his dreams. He had actually done some surreptitious searches in the databases at work to see if by any off chance, someone in Albuquerque law enforcement matched her description. Of course he had come up empty.

He flipped the TV on and stretched out on the sofa, the remains of his dinner on the coffee table and his beer bottle resting on his belly. Drifting off to the muted sound of David Letterman, his receptive mind once again welcomed the mystery woman.

She had broken his heart. He could physically feel it cracking when he reached across the laminated table top of the diner to grasp her hand, holding it in a firm grasp that precluded escape, staring at the faint tan line of her ring finger, then staring at her face, shock leaving him immobile for a moment.

"Why is there a tan line on your finger?" Voice hoarse, stunned. The meaning of that line taunting him, torturing him.

"What? Where? I don't see anything. You're crazy." She wasn't looking at him, her eyes averted, clearly uncomfortable.

"Right there. Fourth finger, left hand. Like from a ring. But you don't wear rings". Slightly accusatory.

"Let go. Fine. It's from a ring. An engagement ring. Raph and I are engaged. There, I said it. You happy?"

She seemed embarrassed. When she finally admitted she was engaged, she only showed him the ring with great reluctance. He had put the ring on his own finger, more to cover an awkward moment than for any other reason. As soon as it slipped over his knuckle, he knew it wouldn't easily come back off. This was just great. He was wearing her symbol of commitment to another man. At her almost shy question 'so aren't you going to congratulate me', he stood up and enfolded her in his arms, unable to enjoy the moment because all the hope had gone out of his soul.

Marshall woke to an infomercial and tears rolling down his cheeks. The pain he felt was visceral, real. He sat up, wiping his cheeks and turned off the TV. Maybe he needed to talk to someone. He made his way down the hall to his bedroom. The depression he felt from the dream was going to carry over. He could feel it. This was not normal. He was upset that a woman who didn't exist was going to marry a man that didn't exist and he was left out in the cold.

He brushed his teeth, reflecting that even in his dreams the girl he wanted didn't pan out. Brief thoughts of Liliana distracted him. He had hopelessly longed for her through three years of college. She announced her engagement on graduation day. He had been crushed. More so because he had no idea her relationship with that piece of football playing beefcake was anything serious. And she hadn't told him. They were friends and she hadn't told him. He never spoke to her again. His heart became more guarded after that, less trusting.