notes/warnings
+ swearing.
+ possible insensitive use of some common christian prayers? you might want to skip this chapter if such things offend you.
Ghost
The next few cases are small, less-important crimes that probably could have all been solved by respective teams of sufficiently-talented police detectives.
But L takes them anyway. Just to prove the point.
His humanity is the one thing that stands between who he is, and who Light was. He absolutely cannot afford to lose it. All the same, it makes things harder. It blurs the edges of his cold, hard logic, sometimes. It makes him a little more vulnerable, a little more likely to doubt himself.
A little more like Matsuda, maybe.
Then, for about a month, he has to feign deafness because Rae decides to scream at him every time someone else speaks.
"I don't understand why you're doing this," L says one night. He's just come from a particularly exhausting team meeting where everyone had to repeat themselves several times to bypass L's sudden and refractory double ear infection.
"Because I'm bored?" Rae says, skull propped up on one bony arm. It sounds pleased with itself.
"You aren't going to break me like this," L says smugly. "You're barely passing as annoying right now. I'm not likely to disregard my own principles simply because I need to lip-read a little more often."
"Even you get tired eventually, Lawliet," Rae says, flopping onto its back.
"And you have, in the past, demonstrated that you have a very good brain," L says sleepily, applying toothpaste to his brush. "You could at least present me with some sort of challenge."
Rae shoves at him.
"You're not supposed to harm -"
"Listen," Rae snarls. "You think this is a game? You think this is funny? You think all of the things that I say mean nothing? You're not a good person, L Lawliet, no matter how lofty you pretend to be. You ignore the easiest ways to save people. Oh sure, you give wonderful little speeches about your life choices, but they're all just excuses you've made for yourself, so you can go on pretending to be the hero. And quite honestly, I'm through with you. I don't care about challenging you. I don't care what you want."
"Of course you don't," L intones. "You're running out of time, aren't you, Shinigami? Goodness, we must be past the three-year mark, now."
"All I want," the death god continues doggedly, "is for you to write down a name."
"Ah," L says around a mouthful of foam. "That is a problem. See, I have absolutely no desire to make you happy, and no desire to use the note. In fact, the only other Shinigami I've met also seems to be of the opinion that you are unfit to be king. Perhaps I am doing the world a favour."
Rae draws up to its full height, towering over L. He glances up briefly, just a quick look at its scalding, bright-red eyes.
Sometimes, he imagines Rae as the popular personification of the grim reaper. All it needs is a black robe and a scythe.
And maybe a more personable demeanour.
L grins at his own joke and spits into the sink. He hates the taste of toothpaste. It's never sweet enough. Maybe he ought to add some sugar cubes to it?
"You do understand that whether or not you oblige me and use the note, I'll be right here with you when the five years is up," it says coldly. "And when that time comes, well. These ridiculous rules that bind me won't be in place any more."
"You'll kill me immediately?" L queries. "Hm. How very predictable. You have been so disappointing recently."
"I won't kill you if you make me happy," Rae says unsubtly. "I give you my word on that. I think you should consider very carefully just what this world will be like if you're no longer in it."
L touches his lips, and then frowns at his paste-covered fingertips. He's certainly incapacitated a lot of harmful people.
"Why should I believe you?" he asks calmly. "You can say you won't kill me now, of course, but as soon as I give you what you want, what's to stop you?"
"You know I'm too proud to go back on my word," Rae says haughtily. "That ought to be enough."
L studies the Shinigami intently.
"I know you are a liar," he concludes, finally. "That is all I am certain of, at this present stage. However, you raise an interesting point. Will I use the note to save my own life?"
Rae leans in a little.
"And? What is the answer?"
L stifles a yawn.
"The answer is that I am going to bed," he says sleepily. "Good night."
"Strange," Rae says balefully. "I always thought evil didn't need to sleep."
Will I use the note to save my own life?
Is his own life worth more than anyone else's because of the people he's able to save? No, surely not. He'd decided that a long time ago, when Rae attempted to sleep-deprive him into submission.
He'll die when he's meant to die, whether that's when his lifespan runs out, or when a Shinigami cuts it short. He cannot afford to see himself as being above anyone else, not one single criminal, no matter what. No matter how likely they are to die anyway. If he sees himself in a position of privilege, of status, then...
Well, that's one less step again, isn't it? And he's staying well away from that slippery slope.
Nothing Rae says is true. That thing doesn't care for anyone, and it certainly sets no store by true justice. If it were human, he would think it the most evil creature in the world. But maybe death gods are just like that.
Some of them.
There's been no sign of Rem since she left, but L doesn't know if he should expect her. She could be gone for many months, even years. It all depends on what she left to do, and how she intends to do it.
A tiny little part of him desperately wants her to come back with Mello. Even if it costs her dearly.
Selfish? Oh yes, he is selfish. Weak, selfish, and maybe even a bad person.
But there's nothing in the world that can make him use the note. Nothing.
He's...ninety nine point two percent certain.
The water from the shower is too hot. Burning. It leaves thousands of little telltale red dots all over his white skin. He counts another bead, letting it slip through his fingers like water, drawing the next one into place.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thee amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Not that it matters. He lost the ability to feel pain three years ago. Three years, six months, eight days, ten hours, four minutes.
Another bead.
Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.
There's no point in dying again, so occasionally he makes a half-hearted effort to eat something, or scrape the filth from his skin. He's still wearing half his clothes, because he honestly doesn't care that much. Mello would have scowled and called him disgusting and primped his hair using the nearest reflective surface when nobody was looking.
Thy kingdom come, thy word be done, on earth, as it is in heaven.
He's still got the rosary on, too. It's all he has left. He prays all day, and all night. Through research. When he's talking to suspects. When he's dismantling bombs. When that lady who lives here screams at him that he needs to sleep sometimes or he's going to die. All the time. Always.
…amongst women, and blessed is…
He learned the words by rote when he first got here and cried all the fucking time because he was so alone. Mostly he just says them for something to do.
And because Mello can't, anymore, obviously.
Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us…
Forgive us…
Forgive us, you bastard, why won't you fucking forgive us?
WHY WON'T YOU? WHY WON'T YOU? WHY WON'T YOU? WHY DID YOU DO THIS?
He only breaks one of the taps. He's getting better at controlling his anger. Mello would have been…mildly impressed. He always wanted Mail to stop playing video games and pay attention.
He's stopped now. A little late, since Mello's heart isn't beating and never will again. The only precious thing in the world.
The beads are just made of wood. They're nothing. They'll just up and fucking break, one day. Or rot.
…and deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom…
Why did you go? All they needed was a name. It didn't have to be yours, you fucking, fucking, fucking bastard.
"I hate you," he says bitterly. To the shower. To the world. To Mello. He wants to rip out his own beating heart and stamp on it. He wants everything to stop. He wants a proper death, to go into the ground and never exist again.
…fruit of thy glory, forever and ever…
He slumps down in the cubicle, bony knees slamming against his chest. His hair touches the ground, wet and smelly and unpleasant. He can't actually remember what shade of blonde Mello's hair used to be.
Sometimes he can't remember Mello's face, either. There aren't any pictures here. No memento except the flimsy rosary beads.
Hail Mary, who art in heaven…
He winds up staring at the big black Keehl inked across his chest. He got it not long after L found him. When he stood in the tattoo parlour with needles being driven through his skin…yeah, that was the last time Mail remembers ever feeling okay. The ink is permanent. It'll last longer than anything else.
Mello would call him pathetic. Mello cared about him a little, but only as a brother. He'd be horrified by the intensity and infatuation behind Mail's grief. If he ever found out.
But he won't.
Mail would gladly go to hell and be tortured for the rest of his life, if he could have one more minute with Mello. Commit every feature to memory, and tell him. Well, not tell him the truth, but tell him that he is important, and the brightest thing in this world, and.
Sometimes, he can't actually believe that Mello's gone. Occasionally, he steps outside his bedroom and expects to find another young man in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with chocolate and scuffing his boots against the tiles.
Give us this day, our daily fruit of thy womb…
It's all he wants, all he wants, all he wants, all he wants.
He wouldn't say I love you, even if he had another chance. Even when they were alive, he never put his fingers in that dangerously blonde hair. He has no memory of the way it feels, because he never touched it.
It was yellow, wasn't it? Or darker than that?
As we forgive those who trespass against us, oh god, just bring him back.
Sometimes, he tells himself that this is hell, and that Mello's actually gone to heaven and is unsurpassably happy right now.
Sometimes, that's the only thing that keeps him going.
But really, what else is he going to do?
That woman is banging on the door, yelling at him that he's going to catch a cold if he doesn't get dried. Water is leaking out of the tap he broke, but he's not sure what temperature it's supposed to be.
"Fuck off," he yells back. He knows she won't come in. None of them fuck with him.
I'll give you anything, god. Anything. I don't even believe in you, and I'll give you anything. Just…just…
You're probably not even listening, are you?
Another bead. Another day. He writes Mello's name on the mirror with his finger, over and over, until the condensation dries and erases all of it. Gone. Dead. He counts another bead.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…
Just in case. Just in case. Just in case.
"There's something weird going on in Brisbane, Australia," Naomi comments. "I don't know if it's unsolvable-"
"Nothing is unsolvable," L interrupts resolutely. He has pecan pie. It is sticky. He wishes he had more.
"...but it's certainly unusual," she finishes, with a dignified glower.
They're doing research into potential cases. Again. These days, it seems like they spend just as much time finding the cases as they do solving them.
It's a challenge in itself. L smiles. He scrawls on the edge of his notepad.
'One and a half years left.'
"I know," Rae hisses.
And then it touches its teeth in an obvious mockery of L's own habit.
"Goodness me, do you suppose I'm out of aces?" it enquires nastily. "I must be. Right?"
L smiles wanly.
'Well, starting arguments with people who cannot reply is a sure sign of clutching at straws.'
"You keep telling yourself that."
"Unusual how?" L asks Naomi.
"Oh, nothing huge," she says, twirling her hair around her finger. "Just...you don't see a lot of serial murder-kidnaps, I guess."
"Murder-kidnaps?" Raye repeats, sounding a little shocked. "What, kill the parents and take the kid?"
"And repeatedly," Mail adds.
"So whoever it is, they are presumably acquiring a lot of children?" L wonders.
"There have been seven documented cases," Naomi tells them quietly. "Including one case where two children were taken at once."
"Specifics?" Mail asks her without emotion. L notices the way she glares at him, and then checks herself.
"No signs of forced entry. It's as if the perpetrator gets himself a key somehow, before every attack. No connection between the families, none of the victims seem to have common acquaintances or workplaces, and they're from a variety of socio-economic and religious backgrounds. All, however, had children under seven years old."
"Strange," L says, gazing at the roof.
"And terrifying," Raye snaps. "God, I don't even want to think about what sort of sicko would want eight kids. Oh god, what's he doing to them?"
"Clearly he isn't holding them for ransom if the parents are dead," L muses. "And if we are dealing with a paedophile, then they are going about things in a very unorthodox manner. N, how were the parents killed?"
"Shot through the heart. A single bullet wound, in every case. The attacker always seems to wait until the whole family gets home."
"You've done your research," L notes. Naomi shrugs, a little awkwardly.
"I thought this might be one for us. The police detectives can't find a damn thing. No fingerprints, no evidence, no nothing. They say it's as if a ghost had committed the crime. And the children just disappear."
"Police often blame ghosts for difficult crimes," L says dismissively. "That is simply another way of saying they, personally, have given up."
Of course, it would be irresponsible to claim that ghosts definitely do not exist, but he's never come across a single case that didn't have firm evidence leading to a solid and human criminal.
So it is safe to say that ghosts, if they do exist, rarely commit crime, and do not commit crime of the level that attracts L's attention.
Therefore, the murderer-kidnapper will also be human.
Really, his deductive processes were much less complicated before he knew Shinigami existed.
"We need to do this," Raye says forcefully. "We need to find this person and stop them, before any more children get taken."
"And before more adults get murdered," Naomi reminds her husband. "That's just as important."
"I need you to be a little less emotionally involved, R," L warns. "We will severely disadvantage ourselves if we charge in and make silly mistakes due to passion."
"I know that," Raye hisses. "Are we going, or not?"
The Penbers stare at L expectantly.
"It'll be spring down there," Rae murmurs. "Shouldn't be too hot yet."
Sometimes the Shinigami says strangely human things. L supposes it's been haunting various people for a long time. There's probably a long selection process for the future king.
"Yes," he says, decisively. "I think we ought to go and see for ourselves."
"Good," Raye says, obviously relieved.
L lets himself smile a little. He has a new case. It's a good day.
They wind up in a ritzy but sensibly-built hotel in the heart of Brisbane, in the middle of an uncharacteristically early heat wave.
"Apparently it's supposed to be raining," Raye says disgustedly. His fringe is already plastered to his forehead. "But I think anything that falls from the sky gets vaporised on the way down."
"Go and put your head in the sink, honey," Naomi tells him, somewhat sympathetically. She flips through the case notes she made during the flight, and selects a hand-drawn map of the area, placing it on the table in front of L."
"You're working already?" Raye asks, annoyed. "We haven't even put our things away. Aren't you hungry?"
"Watari is bringing trifle," L informs him serenely.
There is impending dessert. All is right with his world.
"I'm fine," Naomi replies offhandedly. "Besides, weren't you the one saying we needed to get this case solved right away?"
"Yes," L agrees, regarding him for a moment. "You did stipulate that quite clearly. I agree, by the way. This is important."
"I know, I just don't think we should be silly about it," Raye groans, rubbing his face. "You're turning my wife into another genius, L. Don't forget that people still need to eat and sleep to function."
L glances briefly at Mail, who has possibly not slept at all in the past four years, and whose meals consist of an annual cup of tea.
It would be useful to get by on such modest commodities, but L's not sure he has the emotional capacity to survive solely on pure, unyielding, all-consuming sorrow.
"Yes, I understand that," he murmurs. "Trifle is part of a balanced diet."
"Forget it," Raye mutters, and wanders off. Presumably to put his head into a sink. L turns back to the map.
"So these are the locations of all of the attacks so far," Rae ponders, hovering over the table. "Hm."
L can neither comprehend nor justify the Shinigami's interest in human cases.
"So, it seems like the cases are pretty evenly spread around," Naomi informs him, touching the map in several places. "Two in the city itself, two over the north side of town, and one each in the southern, eastern, and western suburbs."
"But still in the same district," L muses. "Clearly the variation would have done little to prevent the murderer from being caught."
"I think we should focus on trying to find where he's keeping the children," Naomi adds. "He obviously doesn't want them dead straight away, and eight kids will be difficult to hide."
"Hm. None of the victims were families that had older children. I wonder what he'd do if he found a child over the age of seven? Kill them or take them?"
"What a horrible thing to ask," Raye says, stomping back into the room, minus his jacket and tie.
"But necessary," L comments. "To catch a murderer, you must first think like a murderer."
"Can we give this guy a name?" Naomi asks, shuffling through her papers again. "It's irritating to refer to suspects as 'the murderer' or 'the attacker' all the time."
L shifts a little, uncomfortably.
"Uh, who's going to think of a name?" Raye asks sadly, and Naomi jerks her head, apparently realising what she's just requested.
The hole in their team has not closed over.
The silence that fills the room is sudden and awkward.
And perhaps, deserved.
The next day, he sends Raye and Naomi out to investigate the scenes of crime. L stays in their makeshift base with Mail and does a little research into large buildings that have been recently rented or bought.
He elects to stay inside twenty-two percent more frequently than he did before the Kira case. He needs to keep his face hidden, after all.
For as long as possible.
L pushes one hand through his messy hair. He went back to the Tracking Library last month, and discovered only one thing. Once someone has entered hell, the library does not record whether or not they've left.
'So, you know about redemption, huh?' had been the librarian's exact words. 'Not many people are aware of that. I wonder who you'll tell?'
Same woman as last time. Always the same woman. L wonders if she lives in the place.
Huh. At least she'll be safe from Shinigami.
The whole situation is a little troubling. If there is another world - a third world, identical to this one - then what will he find there? What happens if Misa Amane is redeemed? Or, heaven forbid, Light Yagami?
Or the Shyster.
Or countless other people L's offended in the past. People who know his face, if not his name. People who can broadcast that face, and finally say this is L, this is who he is. People who can track him down.
Eventually, he'll have to be a complete recluse. Eventually, he'll have to run forever.
Or else, to survive, he'll have to be worse than they are.
L shakes his head slowly. No time for that now. He has a murderer to capture. Steve. Mail's idea. Or rather, the name that Mail finally snarled at them after both Penbers burst into tears and L pressed his forehead against his knee.
It's just a reference, you fucking morons.
Mail is getting worse, too. L can sense it. He put his hand on a burning stove two days ago, and didn't notice until Naomi yelled at him. The only thing keeping him alive is the fact that he believes nothing will change if he dies. He spends hours upon hours staring out of the window with the rosary in his fingers and his lips moving slightly.
Sometimes, L fervently wishes he could find a way to erase Mello from Mail's mind. Chronic mourning is tremendously unhealthy and useless. And it's gone on far too long. Mail looks like more of a skeleton than Rae.
And there's nothing L can do. He cannot promise. He cannot order. He cannot protect them, these boys that he named and owned and loved. His almost-children. He can't do a damned thing for either of them.
L hates feeling powerless. He would give anything. He'd give just about anything.
Isn't that why he started catching criminals, after all? Because of that boy - whose name L has never been able to recall - standing at the edge of that filthy primary-school baseball field and bleeding tears into the sparsely-grassed dirt. Because of the way his shoulders heaved up and down, sobbing in the bleak sunlight, like he couldn't breathe and never would again. Because of the way everyone just walked on by, like they had nothing to say, like it wasn't happening, like nobody was dead.
I don't understand, Ryan. What did my dad ever do to that lady?
That lady.
That lady.
So long ago.
There are certain events that even L cannot handle, cannot bear to recall, so he keeps them buried deep in the past. Pushed behind everything else in his buzzing, overfull mind. Hidden by omission, made fuzzy by the passage of time. But lately, just lately, they memories have been...vivid. He wishes he could stop remembering. He's weaker now, maybe weaker than ever before. It's the grief, it's the stress. It's his own humanity seeping through.
No one else knows the story. The officers involved all hid the case, edited the details, and then rewrote them altogether. To protect the innocent, or so they said. No one knows, not even Watari. Only L.
It's his secret.
Sometimes he wants to tell someone else. He's not sure who. Someone moral, intelligent, and compassionate. Someone like Naomi, maybe. Or Matsuda.
Or…Mello?
Because sometimes, just sometimes, he wants to be judged. He wants someone else to define him as the things he's always claimed to be. He wants to know - because he's honestly not certain any more - if he did the right thing.
His whole life based on that one decision, so long ago, and now he's not certain.
L stomps hard on that thought, and shoves it back into its tiny, dark little box. He needs to focus. There are innocent lives that need to be protected, and that's his goddamned job.
The others come back with information. In every single incident, there is no evidence of anyone entering or leaving the building. Shots were fired, screams were heard, but no attacker was ever observed, even after the police had been and gone.
"And I don't need you to tell me that's crazy," Naomi adds, glancing up from her report. "One assailant and one child cannot simply vanish."
"I did some research with the top tech companies, just to be certain," Raye adds, sounding a little disgusted with himself. "There haven't been any advances that could make someone appear invisible."
"The lady who lived next to the Cunninghams said something strange, though," his wife says thoughtfully. "She said she saw a ghost in their backyard, right after the shots were fired. Immediately afterwards, apparently."
"She was home at the time?" L asks immediately. Best to focus on the useful details, after all.
Suspicious. Why would anyone make up something so very far-fetched? If she'd been doing something wrong, why not concoct a more plausible story?
"She was in her car, parked in her driveway, doing her makeup."
"Saw it in the mirror, apparently," Raye tells him.
"She described it as 'a hooded grey creature moving so fast it was just a blur'," Naomi clarifies.
L politely resists the urge to roll his eyes. Glass surfaces contain flaws, and glint where they're struck by light. Seeing a blur in glass is hardly noteworthy in a serious investigation.
"A hooded creature? A person, perhaps?" he says acidly.
"Funny how the more the media says something is physically impossible, the more people suddenly 'see' supernatural beings," Raye agrees crossly, wiggling his fingers in the air to illustrate his own quotation marks. "Honestly, I just want something concrete."
"We did get some concrete facts, baby."
"Then please," L implores. "Divulge them. No more useless information."
"Two things," Naomi informs him, maybe a little proudly. "One, every single victim was shot through the back."
"How cowardly," L says, propping his chin up on one hand. "So our Steve can't even face his victims."
"And two," Raye cuts in, "and may I add, it took me all day to confirm this-"
"You may not add," L says crisply. "We have wasted enough time."
"Fine. Judging by tyre prints in the local areas, the same car was parked about a block away from four of the affected houses."
L lifts his head.
"That is incredibly important information," he says calmly, and Raye fidgets a little.
"I'll say," Rae mutters.
"I can't confirm the times, of course," the older man mumbles. "It could be that this vehicle showed up as part of the investigation team, but the tyres aren't standard for a police vehicle, and it's strange to be parked so far away if you haven't done anything wrong, right?"
"Right, honey," Naomi says. She reaches for his hand, looking inexplicably smug. "It's strange, at the very least."
"We're lucky for all the dirt roads and driveways around here, or such an observation would never have been possible," L reminds them. "We need to try and get footage of this vehicle."
"Already got film from six different cameras," Naomi says brightly. "Three were from shops facing the Davis' house, one was from a security camera in the train station next to the Arnold's house, and the other two are from the first news crews on the scene at the Gordon's house. That particular attack had a big media impact, it was when people first realised something strange was going on."
"That's good," L says genuinely. He delicately retrieves a cherry from the bowl by his chair. "All right. M, I want you to go through the footage. All of it. Find me that reoccurring car. R, I want you to work with M on this one. And N, I want you to help me find the pattern."
"The pattern?" Naomi asks, momentarily confused.
L smiles.
"Even if we can link the murders and kidnappings to the owner of the car, we still have no motive right now. The only similarity between the families who were attacked were the ages of their children. I want to know what attracted Steve to those particular children."
"You don't think it was random?"
"Perhaps," L answers. "But it would be a silly thing to overlook. I have the case files from all eight children right here."
He reaches over the back of his chair and retrieves a giant file folder, emblazoned with the local police insignia. It's so heavy he can barely lift it with just two fingers.
"Ah," Naomi says. "You want me to process those for you?"
"Yes, please."
He's out of fruit. Perhaps he will get Watari to bring more.
"This case," Rae says, without moving from its position by the window. "Something's off about it."
L only raises his eyebrow, but he notes that observation, along with everything else.
About non death note related matters, the Shinigami is very rarely wrong.
The vehicle is blue Ford Falcon, and it's visible on two of the recordings at two separate houses. Raye uses his considerable observational talent to confirm that it has the exact same wearing in the tyres as the marks he'd found. A perfect match.
It is registered to a Mr Bernard Holland, a practicing psychic.
"Godamnit," Raye says, thumping his fist against the arm of his chair. "Is this whole case going to be weird?"
"You're overreacting," L informs him blandly. "Psychics have no real power, other than the power of suggestion and sleight of hand. Therefore, his occupation has no bearing on his possible methods of killing."
"Speaking of methods of killing," Naomi says uncomfortably. "L, it's not as if there haven't been cases in the past where people have killed without even being in the same country. Sitting in a car a block away is kind of a step down, don't you think?"
"If you're referring to the use of death notes, you should just say so," L says softly. "The more obscure the referral, the greater the fear. With regards to this case, why use a death note to shoot people in the back? Much more innocuous and accidental methods of death could be used, surely."
And that's bothering him. It's likely, based on accounts from various witnesses and circumstantial evidence, that no one enters the homes and no one leaves. Yet if the murderer is using a rigged gun, or some other remote device, why aim so precisely for the back? What does it matter? It's not as if a gun will be put off by the expression of terror on the face of the victim.
Shooting in the back, strictly speaking, is something that is only done when a human is killing another human in close proximity.
"It's possible," Naomi says stubbornly.
"It is certainly a possibility," L agrees. He presses one hand to his chest. His own note is safe. Nothing to worry about.
"So is it possible that the Cunninghams' neighbour recognised Holland, and therefore associated ghosts?" Mail asks boredly. "Because it's a pretty unusual coincidence, otherwise."
"Not necessarily," L says, pressing his thumb to his lower teeth. "A psychic would want to appear frightening, or at the very least, ethereal. It makes sense. However, there is only an eight percent chance that Holland is Steve. Our next move is to find that car and follow it. Up until now, an attack has occurred once every four days. Our odds of some movement over the next forty-eight hours are very good. Seventy-four percent likelihood."
"Already found it," Mail monotones, and hits a few keys. "Here. It's parked on Cornfield Street, in Ragtree Grove. Not fifteen minutes drive from here. Been there for at least a few hours. Can't tell you which house it belongs to."
"That is fine," L tells him quietly, reaching for the intercom button. "Watari, please fetch the tricolour station-wagon."
The station-wagon a custom-made and very expensive vehicle L commissioned a few years ago. The entire exterior is made of little pyramid-shaped panels, which can be rotated at the press of a button and essentially change the colour of the car in under ten seconds.
He turns to the Penbers.
"I want both of you to follow this car for the next two days," he tells them. "I also want N to place taps on the wheels and under the windows. Inside, too, if you can manage it without being seen. But under no circumstances are you to get caught doing this by anyone, do you understand?"
She salutes firmly.
"Got it."
"Me too," Raye adds.
"Oh, and L? Haven't found any real link between the children yet. Whatever it is, it's not obvious."
"Perhaps not yet," L says thoughtfully. "But all things, eventually, become obvious."
Naomi drums her fingers on the dashboard.
"You know, this is why I left the police force in the first place," Raye complains, stretching his arms over the back of this seat. "I hate stakeouts."
"That's just part of working for L, honey," she tells him distractedly. "This job has a little bit of everything."
"Yeah, well, there are some things I'd rather not do," he grumbles and folds his arms.
They've been sitting in this car for twelve hours already, positioned perfectly behind a few dense trees so that they can see the blue Falcon whilst remaining almost completely invisible. The tricolour station-wagon has cameras fitted to the lights and rear-view mirror, and the windows are tinted so dark they aren't even legal in most countries. It's a perfect vehicle for spy work.
He's already eaten all of the food in the car, and he's thoroughly bored. And cramping.
"I'm glad you're back, you know," Naomi says, focusing solely on him for a moment. She takes his hand and smiles. She's still so beautiful, after everything. She's stronger than he is. He's realised that.
"I'm glad I'm back too," he says, honestly. He felt so ineffectual, out there, sleuthing on his own. He'd lacked both resources and genius, nothing more than an average FBI detective, running in circles and chasing petty criminals.
It's L who really makes things happen. Who really saves people. Who has the big guns and brings down the big names.
Raye still hates him, a little. But he can live with that.
L is human too, apparently. Raye hopes he doesn't break.
"If I had to guess right now, I'd say it's the place four up and across the street," Naomi tells him softly. "It's subtly done, but the security is definitely far superior to that of any of the other houses in the area."
Raye follows her line of vision. He's been trying to train himself to see what the others see, to notice the insignificant but tremendously important little details.
"The front door is a ridiculously expensive brand, and would be difficult to kick down" he notes. "And…hmm…I can count at least three locks visible externally, although two of them are almost completely hidden. Ahh…are there bars on the other side of those pulled blinds? The shadows aren't right."
He trails off, still gesturing a little to make it look like he's thinking.
"Did you spot the tripwire in front of the door?"
"Damn, no," he groans. He can see it now she's pointed it out, glinting ever so slightly in the dappled light. "Did you see the pentacle glued underneath the mailbox?"
Naomi looks surprised, for once.
"No, actually. Good eye."
She leans in and kisses him on the lips. It's just a token gesture, standard affection, but he's so happy just to be with her. His wife is amazing.
One day, things are going to be better than this. That's all the promise she'll accept, but by god, he's going to make it happen. Somehow.
"Could you pay attention, please?" an unwelcome voice blurts over his headset. "Neither of you have noticed the fact that the gap under the door has been stuffed, the fact that the windows on the left side have been painted black, or the way the house has been designed so that there appears to be no cellar, even though there's clearly an underground level. It's obvious if you look just where the pseudo-foundations meet the ground."
Raye would dearly love to just shut off L's goddamned video and audio feed.
"We can do this, you know," he says tersely. "Besides, we'd already spotted the high security, what does it matter if we notice every detail?"
He's being petulant, he knows that.
"Strange, too," L says thoughtfully. "The garden seems to have unusually large earthworms. The holes in the soil are five times the size of every other house in the area. Yes, I think this should be your primary target."
"I really, really hope that we're not dealing with Holland himself," Raye mutters. "We already know that guy is crazy."
"Well, kidnapping eight children in a couple of weeks is pretty crazy," Naomi says ruefully. "I don't like our chances."
Raye examines the picture on the dashboard. It's a few years old, the only one M could dredge up from the internet. It depicts a tall, well-built young man clad in a velvet robe. He has a shaved head, and a large number of occult jewellery items draped all over his person. Adorning his left arm is a tattoo of a massive red snake, fangs bared.
"Whatever," he says, irritably. "I just want to get this over with."
They couldn't get bugs inside the car - the vehicle was hooked up to more alarms than a standard shopping centre - but they managed to place one small visual tap right at the top of the windscreen, so that they'll have a clear view of the face of the driver. Mail can lip-read astoundingly well, even better than L himself. He ought to be able to transcribe anything that Holland - or whoever it is - has to say.
And if all else fails, Raye is going to follow that car. He's going to find the house of the next set of victims, and he's going to get in there fast enough to save all of them.
Because he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't.
It's late by the time the door opens, but Naomi knows that time of day has varied greatly for all the other cases. A bald, heavily decorated man emerges from the depths of the high-security house, fiddles with something on the inner part of the door before closing it, and strides very carefully out to the front gate. He has a torch in his hand, and he shines it into the windows of the yellow car parked across the street. And then the white car behind it. And then the two cars beside that.
A moment later, bright light streams briefly into their car, and then stops. Apparently, the man found nothing out of the ordinary.
She exhales as she hears two car doors slam. Two. Interesting. Carefully, she sits back up and peers into the darkness.
"Did you get a decent visual on him?" she asks L softly.
"Yes, it's definitely Holland," L tells them. His voice sounds sleepy and relaxed, like it always does when he's thinking hard. "He's acquired a few new artifacts since the picture was taken, but other than that, he's barely changed. And now we know where he lives. Oh, and he also opened and closed a passenger door before he entered the car, yet he is undoubtedly alone, and did not put anything into the car during that time."
Strange, Naomi thinks. So far, everything about this case is strange.
"And he's carrying some sort of anti-camera device," Mail's deadpan voice adds. "The visual from your cameras went blurry for a second when he first got to his car and opened that door."
"Oh fuck," her husband laments. "You mean it really is-"
"An illusion," L cuts him off firmly. "Remember, this man wants to appear to be supernaturally powerful. "
Naomi knows that L will be able to see Holland's face, but not much else. Even with the tap, they still don't have much idea of what's going on in that car. The thought bothers her a little.
"Follow him, please," L instructs. "Keep a distance of at least one hundred metres until he pulls over."
She runs her finger over the button and changes the colour of the car from blue to black.
"No problem," she says dutifully.
Bernard Holland drives across town, making his way along various winding back-alleys and suburban streets. L perches in his chair, leaning forward a little to maximise his visual intake of the monitoring screen.
"He is certainly not behaving like someone who has nothing to hide," he comments, wiggling his toes against smooth office-chair leather.
Mail shrugs his bony shoulders.
"That blur we saw," he says flatly, replaying the image over and over again on his own laptop screen. "Just here. I could describe that flaw as 'something hooded and grey'."
L glances at it briefly.
"Yes, perhaps it does look a little ghostly. Tricks of light often do. That is probably how our early ancestors first came up with the concept of spirits, after all."
He wonders why Mail is bringing it up. He's hardly inclined to believe in such nonsense.
The younger man raises his head a little, his expression concealed by a curtain of greasy, dark-brown hair.
"I just wonder…is it possible that this guy has some sort of technology that enables him to automatically conceal something in any image that's taken?"
L cocks his head.
"Something that distorts an area on both mirrors and cameras, you mean? Fascinating. I don't even know how one would go about making such a device. And that means he's either using it to conceal another person or a weapon – which makes sense, given that he opened the passenger door – or he's using it simply fuel the fear surrounding his actions."
"What a douche," Mail pronounces. "Anyway, if he had a death god, there'd be no need to blot it out."
On cue, Rae waves one skeletal hand in front of Mail's face and grins broadly at L, who rolls his eyes.
Childish, you are.
"It's highly unlikely we're dealing with something supernatural," L agrees.
"We'd have a hard time finding a motive," Mail agrees. He's more talkative than usual. L doesn't dare to wonder whether he's coping a little bit better. With the way Mail has been acting recently, it's far more likely that he's simply entered the next stage of psychological degeneration.
It's been four years. So long. So long. L cannot imagine what it's like. He's never been in love. He guesses that his feelings towards chocolate-rippled strawberry-and-almond fudge don't really compare.
Not that he doesn't have a heart. He's not Rae, after all. He simply relegates it to a more helpful role, namely maintaining his function as an ethically-superior human being.
He only wishes he could be more certain the he is, in fact, ethically superior. Because, well.
Electric chair.
L forces his attention back to here and now. He scrawls a message over his notes.
'Is there anything that you can see that I can't?'
"Eh," Rae says stolidly. "The new charms around his neck seem to be a solid gold pentacle bracelet, something that looks like dice made out of bone on a piece of cord, and a pewter pendant of a giant worm's head with fangs."
'I know that. I do have a 'magnify' function on this computer.'
"To make up for your inadequate eyesight, you mean? Goodness, you're practically an old man. It almost won't be any fun to kill you when this is all over."
'Perhaps the queen will stop you.'
"Fuck," Mail says darkly, completely oblivious to their argument. "He's talking, but I can't make out what he's saying. Move your lips, you fuckhead!"
"Perhaps your time will be up anyway."
'Perhaps.'
Rae doesn't like the queen. L has recently taken great pleasure in bringing the unknown Shinigami up at every possible opportunity.
"But anyway, if you're asking whether I can see a giant monster lurking where that blob is, the answer is no. If there is something there, it's man-sized, hooded, and moving really fucking fast."
'I really ought to teach you better human words. I feel like I've let you down, somehow.'
"And now I'm ignoring you," Rae says haughtily, and floats off.
L has never had siblings. In all his life, he's never considered anyone to be a brother or sister to him. Not when he was very young, not when he was at the orphanage, not even now, with the strange pseudo-family he's created for himself. But sometimes, when it's a good day, when Rae isn't beating his head against a wall every second, when they just banter and squabble and insult, he thinks maybe that's what it must be like.
Great. He always wanted to be related to a Shinigami. Especially one that's either going to make him evil or kill him.
As if it can read his mind, Rae looks over its shoulder.
"You do realise any human with a functioning sense of morality would just write his name down, right now," it says callously. "Are you actually going to let him get to the house and take another two lives and add another kid to his underground porn ring first? You're sick."
"I understand the consequences of my actions," L mutters under his breath. They don't even have any sort of concrete evidence that Holland is involved in the crimes. If he were inclined to use the note, he wouldn't use it on someone with a six percent chance of guilt.
"And they're stopping," Mail announces. "Trajectory suggests he's going to pull over by number 22 on this street. Blue house. Red trimmings. Two cars in the driveway, I'd say everyone's home."
Adrenaline surges through L's veins, making him strong. Or maybe it's just the maple syrup he had for brunch. And afternoon tea. And dinner.
"Get me any other visuals you can on that house," L orders. "We need to see all parts of it."
He switches the communicator back on.
"N? R? You seeing this?"
"He's pulling over."
"He's probably going to look around again," L agrees. "Park out of sight and get ready to hide in the car. Wait for my signal to leave the vehicle."
"Right," Naomi says.
"Oh shit," Raye whispers, which is often as much confirmation as L gets from him.
"Tell Jeevas there's a security camera on the back neighbour's house," Rae says, suddenly by his side again. "These people seem to be really crime-aware. I wonder why he's targeting them?"
"We don't even know what he's going to do yet," L mutters, exasperated.
Honestly, are you going to jump to conclusions this much when you're king? Or is that something you're supposed to learn from me?
The thought jolts through him like so much electricity.
Good grief, am I supposed to be training the future king?
It's a bizarre thought, and he shakes it off vigorously.
"Most recent known occupants of this house are the Backstrums," Mail reports, hands moving furiously over the keypad. "Pretty nuclear family. Byron and Stacey and their little girl Grace. She's five. Goes to kindergarten. Fits the profile."
L stares at the screen.
"He's stopped," Naomi informs him unnecessarily.
"Yes," L tells her. "So why isn't he moving?"
He leans over even further. A lesser man would be in danger of falling. Holland is just sitting where he is. Smiling. Silent.
He had most definitely been talking to himself earlier, during the drive. His speech had been animated, but lacking in proper enunciation. Which means that Mail will need time to provide an accurate transcript.
Which means that right now, L is going to have to make an impromptu decision. Without that information. Without any information at all, really.
"Something moved," Rae says, jabbing one long finger at the screen.
"Hey, whoa, there's that blob again, right over the lawn."
"I don't get it," Naomi continues. "L, he's just sitting here."
"Did you see anything move in their yard just now?" L asks her.
"What? No. We were focusing on the car."
And from that angle, the yard won't even be in their peripheral vision, L thinks carefully. It's possible he's sent something up there.
L presses his thumb to his lower lip.
We already think he might be transporting a weapon to the victims' homes.
Or has the weapon been planted in there already?
"L! What do we do?"
It's his job to protect people, isn't it?
"Get inside!" he replies, decisively. "Now. Take your guns and go diagonally. Jump the neighbour's fence and cross through that yard. He shouldn't be able to see you."
"We're going to blow our fucking cover!" Raye says hysterically as he wrestles the door open. L watches them scramble across freshly-cut lawn.
Whatever it is, it either can't or doesn't kill immediately, or we'd be too late by now, L theorises. I wonder if Holland comes in later to take the child. It wouldn't be hard to go unnoticed, after something like this.
"The front door never opened," Mail informs him. "At least, not according to our footage."
"But we can't see all doors and windows," L says. "That doesn't mean nothing has gotten into the house."
Naomi reaches the front door just as the first shot rings out from inside.
"Shit," Mail says laconically, without any particular concern. "You're good, L."
Naomi runs when she hears gunshot. It's not a decision, it's just a reaction. She used to be trained to run away. Since she started working full-time with L, she runs towards. But she always runs.
Outside, she can hear nothing. No response from Holland. So even if they find it - the weapon, the murderer, whatever it is that's in here - he can play innocent.
Great.
Raye is somewhere behind her, and she desperately hopes he's not going to get hurt. Outside she hears a car engine start up, and goosebumps prickle down her arms. There's at least one other door leading out of the house. The thoretical accomplice could have used it to escape. Or Holland could have left them behind. Or they might not exist at all.
She makes it into the living room. Blood. Two bodies on the floor. A blonde woman and a dark-haired man. Bullet-wounds, one apiece, neatly between the shoulder blades.
No movement. No breathing. No pulse. Blood on her fingers when she checks.
"We're too late," she grits. She feels numb.
How could we be too late? We were seconds away! What is this thing?
"We're not too late," Raye counters, and she opens her mouth to protest that they're both so definitely dead that it's pointless even calling the paramedics, but then she realises where he's looking.
Huddled behind the sofa, silently crying.
"They didn't get the child," L's voice muses. Naomi starts. She had forgotten he was still with them on the headset.
"Are you okay?" Raye asks her softly. She stares at him with huge, watery brown eyes and then presses her face into the wall.
"N, check the house," L orders. "I've got M trying to keep visual on the car, and Watari's going to follow it. R, stay with the girl. I'll call the police. They need to know."
Naomi searches the house, top to bottom, and finds nothing. No one hidden in the closets, nothing under the bed, no gun-toting mechanism in the living room. No fingerprints, no footprints, no sign of forced anything.
"He certainly wants us to think it's a ghost," she whispers darkly. Downstairs, she can hear the little girl – Grace, wasn't it? – start to bawl. Her husband is talking to someone, evidently another adult. The police are here.
What she can see is a house that shows no signs of two-thirds of its occupants being violently murdered. There's leftover soup in the microwave, and toys in the middle of the rumpus room. The television is still blaring some ridiculous cartoon show. There are lilies in the master bedroom, with a little note that reads to my darling Stacey. In the smaller bedroom there are posters of smiling dumpy cyclops adorning the walls, and a book called Monster Stories lies open on the bed.
So fast, she thinks. So fast. Right under our noses.
"You want me to show them my face as well?" she asks. "Or will I get out of here?"
"The officers that just entered the building are the ones I've been liasing with," L says as an answer. "They are trustworthy. Go downstairs."
"Camera showed the same fault as last time, in a different spot in the garden," Mail says in the background. "It was just after they got to the door. You know, if people could move at, say, the speed of sound, I'd believe it was an accomplice."
Naomi smiles at the police officers as she flashes her fake ID.
"I'm Melinda Wilks," she says smoothly.
A frightened-looking sergeant with grey hair tips his hat to her.
"Then I'm sorry you had to see this. We've…we've been getting a lot of this lately. To tell you the truth, I don't know what to make of it."
"I hope, at the very least," adds a red-haired woman, "that your boss got some useful data out of it."
"Tell them yes, this has helped advance the investigation," L instructs. Naomi can hear that he's chewing on something.
"He says that it's regrettable, but their deaths won't go to waste," she assures them. "We will catch Steve."
"Steve?"
"The nickname for our culprit," the sergeant explains. "Aliases are far more simple than describing the crime every time."
"Promising big, Naomi?" L intones in her ear. "I did not ask you to say that."
"Well, you always win, don't you?" she hisses. "That's why we're here."
"Yes, of course," he says impatiently. "I need you both to leave now. We have further work to be done."
"Right," Naomi agrees. "Come on, Charlie. We've got to get back to base."
Raye nods and steps away from Grace. She's stopped crying. Now she's just staring at the floor, clammed up and confused, rocking back and forth.
They're halfway to the door before the sergeant calls out to them.
"Er, Detective Wilks? I don't mean to impose, but you have to understand that this case has evoked a lot of fear and superstition. There's no way the killing's being done by natural means, if you know what I mean."
"That remains to be seen," Naomi tells him stonily. She has little time for silliness.
The sergeant laughs and scratches his head.
"Fuck, he's taken the bug off the car," Mail growls into the headset. "We've lost him."
"He's very clever, then," L murmurs. "And he knows someone is after him. He won't make mistakes quite so easily again. We've lost an important chance."
"What is it?" she snaps. "What do you want to say, man?"
"There isn't a police station in town who'll take this girl right now, is what I'm saying," he tells her sadly. "Everyone knows Steve'll be coming back for her. I couldn't ask it of anyone."
Naomi hesitates.
"We could take her?" Raye asks, uncertainly.
"That'd be best, yes," the sergeant agrees hopefully.
"No," Naomi says.
"No," Mail agrees.
"Er, actually, we probably don't have the best environment for a child," her husband amends quickly.
"Tell them we'll take her," L says unexpectedly.
"What?" Naomi demands, turning away from the roomful of eager faces. "Who do you think is going to look after her?"
"Well, we think the link is something to do with the children," L reasons. "And yes. If they do seek her here, which I doubt, then we'll be able to witness Steve's methods firsthand."
"L says yes," Naomi tells them darkly.
God, she hopes he knows what he's doing.
Grace screams when they put her in the car. Then she screams all the way back to base. Then she screams through the elevator ride to their floor. Then she pounds Raye's shoulders and screams when he carries her up the hallway and into their suite.
Then she stands in the middle of the room and bursts into tears.
"It's a leaking midget," Mail remarks, and goes back to his computer.
"Thank you for your support," Naomi says through gritted teeth.
"I have better things to do," Mail monotones. "Our footage suggests Holland was talking to himself during the drive, and I'm trying to decode what he was saying."
"Great," Naomi says flippantly. They have something, then, at least. "L? L? Come here and deal with this!"
"I am here," L says, shuffling into the room. There's cherry sauce on the corner of his mouth. Naomi sighs.
One more child to add to my collection.
L squats down in front of the girl, examining her. She stares back at him with wide, tear-stained eyes.
"We can't keep her, and you know that," Naomi says briskly. "You wouldn't want to keep her, anyway."
L's not the sort of person who deals well with the very young. He tends to assume their intellectual and emotional age is a lot higher than it actually is.
"She can stay here until the case is finished," L decides. "Even if she is unhappy here, she will be safe, which is more important."
"Where will we put her?" Raye wonders. "Not that I mind having a kid around, but we really aren't prepared."
"They're just small people, aren't they?" L asks, and Naomi clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a groan. "She ought to sleep in the same room as one of us, under constant surveillance."
Grace picks up the hem of her dress, and uses it to hide her face from L.
"Hallo, Grace," he says serenely. "You'll be with us for a little while. Is that satisfactory?"
"Big bang," she whispers, the first words Naomi's heard her utter.
"The theory of the universe?" L says, astonished. "I didn't think her conversation topics would be so advance-"
"She's talking about gunshot, L!"
"Oh."
"I wanna wanna g-go home now," Grace mumbles. "Wanna go back to mummy and daddy."
"Ah, I'm afraid that's not possible," L says before Naomi can stop him. "They are dead, after all."
Grace dissolves into a fresh wave of hysterical sobbing. Raye slaps L across the back, hard enough to sting, by the sound of it.
"What did you tell her that for?" he snarls.
"It's not as if she doesn't know," L says diplomatically. "She saw it happen. Hey. Hey, stop that. Grace. Grace."
"I don't want them to be dead," Grace wails. In desperation, L grabs her hand.
"Well, you're in my charge now," he tells her. "You'll be safe here with me."
Grace appears to consider this. She doesn't really understand what happened to her parents, of course. L is an idiot for trying to explain it to her. He wants to study her because they've got next to nothing else to go on, but this project is too big for his social skills. Naomi's just not sure how to tell him.
"There aren't any toys," she says unhappily, her eyes reddening.
"Do you need toys?" L enquires. "We have food and amenities, and plenty of furniture."
"Why do you look like a panda?" Grace asks curiously.
"She seems to like him, if nothing else," Raye says dubiously. "I mean, at least she's doing things other than crying."
"I…don't. I'm neither hairy nor herbivorous."
"That's a funny word," Grace tells him, and cracks a smile.
"Great," Naomi says, rubbing her hands together. "She's all yours, L."
"What?" L asks, nonplussed.
"This is your project, and you seem to be the one she likes, so you're responsible for the small child, that's what," Naomi says curtly. "Raye and I will get you some supplies, and the rest is up to you."
"Ah, okay," L says awkwardly, and Grace attempts to crawl into his lap. "Er. How do I get her to stop this?"
"You can't. Consider this your motivation to beat Steve."
"You are being very unhelpful," he admonishes.
"Yes," Naomi agrees. She's rather enjoying it, actually.
tbc
a/n:
+ sorry about the late update (again). am really struggling with this plot-line, and I'm trying to make sure there aren't any huge gaping holes in it.
+ thank you