notes/warnings
+ language, as always.
+ I don't think the religious themes are any more offensive than the canon itself, so I guess I don't really need to warn for those. right?
+ I have nothing against psychics and clairvoyants in general. it just so happens that this particular character is, in a word, a knob.
Grace
Raye feels strange. He's used to suit-shirts, dark dress slacks, and ties. Right now, he's clad in casual jeans, black boots with too much heel, and a tight yellow shirt with a big red pentacle inked onto the back. He has thick pewter rings on all of his fingers, and a realistic-looking fake tattoo around his wrist. Additionally, Naomi has applied some sort of strange purple mascara to his hair.
He feels like he's become someone he'd probably like to arrest. It's not a pleasant sensation.
Now, we've dressed you to appear as if you're an amateur psychic. You are not to attempt to rival Holland in apparent skill or knowledge. Play stupid, be fascinated by every word he says, and smile a lot.
He gets it. He's got a large, old-fashioned voice recorder sitting on the table in front of him, and an even larger plastic clipboard resting on his lap.
Nothing too new or modern, L had told him. We don't want to scare Holland, and we certainly don't want him thinking that we might be suspicious of his strange new technology.
They don't know for sure that it's a new technology, but what else could it be? Sleight of hand only goes so far, and Mail and L themselves saw the blur. It must be something to do with computers.
Unless it's just a trick of the light. Is that even possible?
Raye doesn't understand enough about optical illusions to really theorise properly. He sucks in a deep breath and wills himself to focus. Holland had been only too happy to set up a meeting with such an enthusiastic young reporter. Naomi chose this particular café because it has a reputation for being dimly-lit, somewhat occult, and not particularly busy. Instead of chairs, there are enormous cushy sofas crowded around tiny coffee tables. The ceiling has been decorated with tiny lights, arranged to resemble constellations. There are windows, but they've been heavily tinted, possibly to give the illusion of seclusion from the street outside. The air is thick and dank with incense.
The whole place makes his skin crawl. His coffee is bitter and unpleasant. He desperately wants Holland to show up so that he can get this over with.
A familiar blue Ford pulls up outside. Raye can make out the number plate even through the heavily-tinted glass.
Right, he orders himself. Kooky and fanatic. Kooky and fanatic. Act stupid and hang on every word he says. You don't think he's Steve, you just think he's God.
Got it.
It's times like these that he really, really misses Matsuda. The man would have been perfect for this task. He had a smile that could disarm a tank.
Holland strides into the room. He's dressed even more eccentrically than usual, wearing some sort of green velvet cape draped over his shoulders and an oversized hat on his bald head. The number of rings on his fingers has doubled, as well, some of them adorned with diamonds and other precious jewels.
So this is how you like to look when meeting a fan, huh?
Raye makes a note of that, too, and grins.
This man is a downright, outright douchebag.
He plasters his most boyish smile on his face and gets to his feet. He manages to force his hands to tremble a little, to complete the look.
"Sir," he says brightly, and waves one hand over his head. "Over here!"
Holland smiles at him benignly, and approaches his table with utmost confidence. Raye's gaze is drawn to the fanged worm-head pendant dangling from the other man's neck. It's both grotesque and disturbing, but his smile doesn't falter.
"I can't believe it's actually you," he gushes, holding out one slightly-vibrating hand. "I've waited for this moment for years!"
He wonders if he's overdone it, but Holland's grin only broadens and he touches Raye's hand briefly, as royalty would.
I can't even think of words to describe how much of a tool you are.
"My son," Holland croons, with a voice like chocolate. "I have forseen this meeting for many months. Rest assured that it was always meant to be."
Must not laugh.
"That's amazing," he says effusively. "Bellalover said you could see the future of every single person in the world, just by reading their name or seeing their face. I always knew it was true!"
'Bellalover' is the handle of an extremely well-known follower of Holland. She is also the founder of the obsessive internet fan-site of which Raye is claiming to be a member. Raye knows that mentioning her name is essential to establishing himself as a valid – and avid – supporter.
"My third eye tells me you have also contacted 'Makidesu' and 'asudem68'," Holland says slowly, wiggling the fingers of one hand in the air. He has a green jewel stuck to the middle of his forehead.
Since they're the only two moderators of the fan-site, there's a very high statistical probability that I've spoken to them as well.
Raye finds himself strangely relieved to be faced with proof that Holland is nothing but a fraudster. Not that he had ever really believed all that nonsense about having a 'demon creature', of course.
"That's…that's incredible," he burbles. "You…you really can see."
"I can do more than just see, my child," Holland explains kindly. "I can heal, I can wound, I can move things without being in the room. That's all part and parcel of being the chosen one."
He lowers himself into the armchair opposite Raye, chuckling indulgently.
"Of course," Raye replies, acting as if that statement makes perfect sense. "I'd…I'd love to publish an article about you, if you'd consent, sir. I don't know if Bella told you, but I work for the Northwest Times, and I just think…the world needs to know."
Holland reaches out and touches his hand.
"Well now, my son," he drawls. "Your purple aura suits you perfectly. You're kind, considerate, and mindful of others. I bet you're good at cricket, too."
Raye's never played a game of cricket in his life. He can barely tell the sport apart from the musical insect.
"How on earth did you know?" he asks dramatically.
"I always know," Holland says smugly. "But what you say, sadly, is still the truth. There are a lot of non-believers out there. Many a big, successful company don't want someone like me making too much noise, if you know what I mean."
"What do you mean?" Raye asks, in his best puzzled voice.
"Still so naïve. How old are you, Cooper?"
His present alias is Lance Cooper. Professional fanatic and part-time wannabe psychic.
"Twenty-eight."
"Well, my child, let me tell you something. All these big hospitals and pharmacies, they make their money from charging sick citizens a fortune to buy poisons that purportedly make them better. Now, along comes someone like me with a gift – a divine gift – to heal cleanly and safely with the touch of a hand. Imagine how kindly they'll take to that."
"Gosh, so they're actually suppressing you?" Raye asks, horrified. "That's…that's…"
"That's the way of the world, my son," Holland says, shaking one finger in his direction. "But don't you worry, my time will come. I have seen it."
"I'll help! My paper, my editor, they're not associated with any big companies! I'll make sure this article gets to print without any changes. I'll help to show people how great you are, sir!"
"Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. I'm so pleased Bella introduced you."
The 'Bella' who recommended him was actually Mail, who'd seamlessly hacked into the real Bella's computer. But neither Holland nor Bella would ever know that. Hopefully.
"Now, next on the agenda," Holland continues. "Please, child, stop calling me 'sir'. Such a coarse term has terrible ramifications on my chi."
Raye presses one hand over his mouth, the way Naomi does when she's exceptionally stressed.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"No need to apologise, but it's a false title. 'Sir' is for knights, schoolteachers, and customers. My proper title is 'Lord'. Or 'Father', if you will."
"I understand," Raye replies meekly. "Father. Does this mean, spiritually, that our souls are related?"
He tries to look as excited as possible about the prospect. Of course, he knows exactly what Holland is implying. He's deliberately misunderstanding.
"What I am about to tell you is of the utmost secret," Holland says mystically. "However, I am telling you today because I have seen that you will publish my secret and make it known to the world. I cannot go against my own predictions, of course."
"Of course. Do go on," Raye says, leaning forward expectantly.
Let it never be said that he isn't a good actor.
"I am…the incarnation of God."
Raye gasps appreciatively, and sits back in his seat. Holland looks immensely satisfied.
"That's…that's amazing! Impossible! How?"
You're touched in the head, you are.
"How else could any one man have such incredible power?" Holland asks, voice low and dramatic. "How could I see the future? Forgive the damned? Bring disaster down upon the homes of my enemies? No, I am God. It must be so. Yes."
"Incredible!" Raye says, and dips his head in a low bow as an afterthought.
Holland seems to be thrilled to have such an obliging audience.
"Yes indeed, my son," he continues eagerly. "As God, I have always walked amongst my people, reincarnated time after time. Always, I appear as a powerful man, tremendously gifted, unwaveringly benevolent. And every time, I bring joy and peace to the world, thwarting evil and vanquishing disease. But this time, this time, I have been insulted, disregarded and incapacitated by corporate infidels. Can you imagine how that feels, young Lance?"
Raye simply shakes his head, his face contorted into an appropriately-miserable-yet-completely-awed expression.
"These people…my people, I gave them life, and this is how they repay me?"
Holland slams his jewellery-encrusted fist on the coffee table, making Raye jump.
"It's awful," he agrees wholeheartedly. "Really, truly awful."
Holland regards him keenly for a long time. He doesn't fight down the urge to squirm. It's in character, after all.
"Fear not, my son," is the eventual reply. "I have powers beyond your comprehension. I will make them believe."
"Oh, but how? Is there anything I can do to help?"
"You must leave it all to me," Holland says, a brave note of hope in his voice. "It is up to me to teach, and I will show the world who I am. I will prove to them that they must bow to my requests and be guided by my instruction."
Oh fuck. Another fucking Kira. L is going to be a mess over this.
"You'll strike them all with lightning? So they'll never forget!"
Holland laughs fondly.
"Child, no. I have…companions that will do my bidding. I have summoned something great. Something dark. Something to show them the way."
"You really do have a demon?" Raye asks.
Holland smiles comfortably.
"All in good time, my son. All in good time."
Naomi arrives back at base before her husband.
"Ms Wainwright," she says, without preamble, "seems to be a previously intelligent and sensible woman who has recently become intermittently hysterical because of the media hype. I suspect the reporter twisted her words a little for the sake of the article. They're loving this ridiculous 'supernatural' vibe."
"Hiiiii, N! Can I put your hair in bows after I'm done with L?"
"Then, the sooner we can disprove that theory, the better," L says succinctly. His head hurts. He's never had eight pigtails before.
"She maintains that the creature she saw was real, and that the image was far too finely detailed to simply be a trick of the light."
"Was that particular mirror computerised, at all, or was it simply painted glass?" L enquires.
"Er, glass," Naomi replies, sounding a little confused. "Is there some significance?"
"It would be possible, I suppose, to transmit some sort of pulse that affected computerised images. But not, I believe, a simple mirror."
Naomi folds her arms.
"Hm. It's possible someone had set the whole thing up, and fitted a concealed computer screen over her regular mirror without her noticing, but there was certainly no evidence of tampering."
L touches his lower lip.
"If that is true, Holland is going to quite some effort to appear ethereal."
"I'm an ethereel! I wonder if Boney will let me put ribbons in his hair?"
"Boney?" Naomi questions, smiling slightly.
"The invisible skellington friend," L says, with dignity. "It has a name, now. I think she may have also named the invisible monster living under my bed."
"She's adorable," Naomi says affectionately, and L congratulates himself on normalising the situation. Eventually, he ought to be able to create a situation where anything Grace says will be automatically presumed to be part of a game of make-believe, no matter what.
The next step is to accidentally mention – in Grace's hearing – all of the strange words Rae could possibly teach her to try and reveal that L has a Shinigami. Starting with 'Shinigami', and then 'death note'.
Of course, right now the god of death is simply using Grace as a means to frighten L. It's sitting in the corner of the room, but whenever she approaches it and tries to grab it, it becomes immaterial.
It keeps grinning at him nastily, but he's used to that.
You don't need to point it out to me. I know exactly what you can do, Shinigami.
Why don't you stop playing around and do it, then?
"I have found the link," he informs Naomi. "The 'Gold Coast Sleep Clinic'. It's an establishment with an ongoing program for children with recurrent nightmares, which seems to double as a remedy for children who were excessively convinced of the existence of monsters."
"I did wonder about that," Naomi says thoughtfully. "All of Steve's abductees attended it?"
"Every single one, at some point over the past five years," L says. "Most of the records state that the child in question was either particularly frightened or particularly interested in 'nonexistant creatures'."
"Great. So the link is 'monsters', essentially."
"Essentially, yes."
"Holland is targeting children who believe in monsters. L, do you have any idea just how strange this is? Why?"
L shrugs.
"Because he's a psychopath? We could never find an accurate motive for Kira's actions. Why should Steve be any different?"
"Because Steve is not Light," Naomi says firmly. "I know what the Kira case did to you, L. You need to put more distance between then and now. Light is never coming back, you know."
"Are you telling me to be less emotional?" L asks, incredulously.
She's right, damnit. She's right. He needs to be more detached. This case is closing in on him, crowding him up against the wall. He needs to solve it, and beat Steve, and then he'll be fine.
"Maybe a little."
"Good luck with that," Rae calls, waving a hand loftily. "He doesn't even have a heart to start with."
"I like hearts!" Grace announces.
Naomi looks at her strangely, but she doesn't say anything.
The non-sequiters and strange comments will have to happen a few times before anyone questions him.
By the grin on Rae's face, it knows that, too.
Raye returns with information. Holland is every bit as mentally unstable as he appears, hints at having some sort of monster-thing under his control, and believes he is destined to be great. He has no family of his own at present, and 'wants to protect children and other innocents from evil and heathens'.
"So, essentially," L surmises, without emotion, "he is Light."
Light the second. Light lite. Ha ha.
"He might be just as psychotic, but he doesn't have the intellect," Raye informs him sternly. "I believe we can outsmart him."
"Did you manage to establish the location of his place of work?"
"No, but I'm sure I'll be calling him in a few days to discuss how unfair it is that my editor won't let me publish the article. He'll like that. He already thinks 'the man' is trying to keep him down."
"A typical excuse for those who practice pseudo-science, unfortunately," L says sadly.
"I expressed a particular interest in seeing his workplace, so maybe he'll give me more hints next time."
"Well done," L says. Raye is improving. Everyone is improving.
Except him.
It's late. Grace is quiet, mostly because she has a giant plastic bowl of lukewarm potato soup and is happily eating it and distributing it all over the floor. Rae is sitting next to L, watching his computer screen over his shoulder.
L cannot remember how it feels to be alone for any significant period of time. It's as if Shinigami have become a normal part of his life.
If Rae is going to kill him in the end, then they'll essentially be together for the rest of L's life.
What an unhappy thought.
Raye leaves quickly after that, presumably to wash the gunk out of his hair. L's own hair is still various shades of purple and pink. Naomi keeps laughing every time she comes to see him. He fails to see the joke. It's just colour. And non-toxic paint. Nothing funny at all.
Tomorrow, she'll go and investigate the Gold Coast clinic. Raye will be busy maintaining his enthusiastic online contact with Holland's supporters.
And L...L is going to work this out.
A few hours creep by. Naomi comes back and brushes Grace's teeth, and orders L that she needs to be in bed within the hour. L locks the door after that. He'll be awake for the next three or four nights. He plans to feign sleep for at least two of them, in case that lulls Steve into a false sense of security.
Of course, it could be that Steve is waiting for all of the adults in the building to be in the same room, and more or less facing the same direction. He makes a mental note to test that theory, too.
No-one has actually seen this creature, have they?
Don't you think that's strange?
He wishes he had a more concrete conclusion than 'yes, that is strange'. He always feels somewhat consolidated when Rae shares his suspicions, or his unease. The Shinigami has tremendous powers of deduction, and L cannot disregard that, no matter how much it misuses its gift.
In fact, he suspects that if he pulled on a pair of shoes, Rae would immediately overtake him in intellect. Which is a fairly terrifying concept in itself.
Holland is similarly terrifying. He certainly appeared to be an idiotic, self-obsessed guru during the meeting with Raye, but even that persona is a far cry from the mad, manic one-sided dialogue he'd spouted yesterday. He's definitely concealing something, even if he isn't Steve.
This one is stronger than the others.
What does that mean? Could it be simply that Grace believes more strongly in monsters than the other children? Why on earth would that be a desirable trait?
What do you want, Steve?
He realises belatedly that the space next to him is empty. Rae has moved across the room, and is reading softly to a drowsing Grace.
L doesn't trust the Shinigami as far as he can throw it. But he's becoming more and more certain that there are far, far worse things out there than Rae.
Watari gets up at dawn, just as he always does, and fills his kettle with precisely three-and-a-half cups of water. His mug has a distinct brown ring around the inside, because he always fills it to exactly the same level. He checks the feed from the monitors. Once he can accurately predict Holland's behaviour, they're going to plant another bug in his car. Or a microchip, if he seems to be excessively perceptive, so that they can track the movements of the vehicle.
L believes that Holland has another base somewhere, probably well-hidden and elaborate. If they can locate it, they may well find the kidnapped children, as well important clues as to what equipment he's using to murder the adults.
L should solve this case without too much difficulty. It's supernatural and strange, but the young detective isn't spent yet.
One day, however. One day, Watari wants to see L finish. Wants to see him complete his last case and hand the title over to someone else. Naomi, maybe, since L has been deprived of his favourite successor.
One day, he wants to see L give up.
Because one day, he wants to see L have a life. Sleep normal hours, and put on weight when he doesn't exercise. Acquire pets, forge friendships, read novels. Meet some impossibly amazing young woman and fall hopelessly.
One day, he wants L to have the things he's earned.
But not today. Today, they must catch Steve, or at least try.
L has no immediate instructions for him, so he opens up his rifle-range simulator on the computer and gets in a few hours of target practice. Then he researches new cake recipes (nothing with chocolate, never with chocolate), all the while keeping an eye on the monitors. So far, there's been no real conclusive pattern to when Holland leaves the house, or even when he checks the mailbox. He seems to keep strange hours, almost as if he's operating on a thirty or forty-hour day.
And he's careful. He's exquisitely careful. He checks the underside of his car every morning. Just in case.
They're going to have to be good. L is capable. They ought to win.
Watari selects the mango-and-frangipani torte, mostly because both of the main ingredients are in abundance in this country at this time of year. He bakes it perfectly, without even paying much attention to what he's doing. Years of practice have made him an expert.
L shambles in at a quarter past four, with the same forlorn expression he's been wearing all week. Watari is reminded of the way he looked the day Light killed him, ragged and broken.
"Is something wrong, L?" he asks, hiding his concern behind a thick veil of politeness.
"I am fine," L lies, rocking back and forth on the balls of his bare feet.
He doesn't even glance in the direction of Watari's kitchen, which in itself is a testimony to how distracted he has become.
There is nothing else to be said. Watari turns back to his computer screen and waits for his young employer to request something. L eventually pads across the polished floor and crouches down next to his chair.
"There are certain types of people," he says quietly, "that should never exist."
He doesn't usually pass judgement like this unless he's exhausted.
Exhausted, but not spent, perhaps.
Is it time yet, L?
Watari doesn't reach out to him. Even as a child, L almost never responded to physical contact. In fact, if anything, he's become more receptive with age. Trust L to do everything backwards.
"Perhaps there are other types of people placed in the world to balance them out," he suggests.
L presses his whole fist to his lips, staring into the middle distance with a tremendous sort of intensity.
Dying isn't the only way out, L. In fact, it isn't a way out at all. It needs to be a conscious decision. No one else can throw on the brakes for you.
Is this about Mihael?
"Perhaps they can't," L says finally, reaching out as if he means to snag some invisible thing from mid-air. He sounds a little annoyed. Which means he must be incredibly upset, for it's rare that any emotion leaks into L's voice at all.
Silence descends once more, punctuated only by the gentle click of Watari's keyboard. Someone else shuffles into the room, and crouches down next to L.
"Good afternoon," L says wearily. "I thought you were playing with N."
"I missed you," Grace says, with child-like honesty. "Can we play?"
"No."
"Okay."
Her presence might even be good for him. Make him think about one of his own. Force him to behave like a normal human being, if only for a little while.
"I like sitting like you do, but it hurts my legs."
"Please be quiet."
"Okay," Grace whispers.
She presses her thumb inexpertly to her lips. Watari hides a smile.
"Can I have some cake?"
"Grace. Please."
The little girl gets to her feet, determined.
"Why do you look so sad?" she demands, pointing one stubby finger at L's face. "You're making me sad!"
L regards her for a long moment, then drops his head and stares at the floor.
"I'm sorry," he says, so very softly. "I'm sorry."
Grace frowns and approaches him, forcing her way closer until she's pressed up against his thin chest. She wraps her arms around his neck, and for a moment, L stops breathing.
"It's okay," Grace says, as if she actually knows what is going on. "It's okay, L."
L hugs her back. He holds on for a long time. Watari thinks he might have learned something, after all.
L gathers everyone together, in the office, and has all of his employees turn their backs to the same wall. For half an hour they work that way, in silence. Grace takes a nap in one of the armchairs.
Come on, Steve. How can you resist an opportunity like this?
Of course, even for a gunman with spectacular reflexes, it would only be possible to shoot a maximum of two people dead without allowing time for reaction. A third person would almost inevitably get enough warning to at least turn around.
And for some reason, you don't want that, do you?
And yet, Steve never comes when it's just him alone upstairs. Does that mean that Steve is waiting until there's a maximum of two adults in the building? Then all children in the country would be safe as long as they were staying in hotels and apartment blocks.
In the end, L even has Mail switch off all of the cameras in the room.
And still, nothing happens.
"Boney, will you play hide an' seek with me?" Grace whines.
Naomi is still up the coast investigating the clinic, and Raye is orchestrating a phone meeting with Holland. Which means that once again, L is stuck trying to research in his room, surrounded by small child and vengeful god.
"Only if you say it," Rae says in a singsong voice.
"Aww, I don't wanna," Grace sulks, and then seems to be struck with further inspiration. "Hey, you wanna eat my vegetables for me? They're really tasty!"
"I'll have the potato, I guess."
"And the asparagus?"
"No. Why don't you see if L wants the asparagus?" Rae suggests nastily.
L glares at both of them stonily, his fingers still moving expertly over his laptop keyboard.
Some people have better things to do than play petty little mind games, Shinigami.
It's the first time he's ever seen Rae eat, and although one would generally expect that a god would defy the laws of physics and biology, it's still strange to see the potato disappearing into its mouth and not re-appearing inside its empty rib cage. Instead, the starchy vegetable simply vanishes.
Like those children.
"Rae?"
"Oh, you're talking to me now?"
"For a moment," L says, a little haughtily. "Do you have any idea what this thing might be? Could you list for me all of the other supernatural creatures that exist?"
It's not a monster, and it's not a demon. He knows that. But still, it pays to be absolutely thorough in his research. And it's possible that if Holland truly is Steve, he's designing the murders to emulate the actions of some mythical monster so he can frighten people.
"Sorry, can't help you," Rae says flippantly, and turns away from him. "Come on Grace, one more time. 'L is evil'. It's easy!"
"But I like L. He's nice!"
"He's pretending to be nice, like the bad lady in the story we read this morning. Remember?"
"Uh uh," Grace scolds. "L is my friend."
Rae sighs.
"Ah well, I guess you'll just have to play hide and seek with someone else then, won't you?"
L grits his teeth and keeps working. Focusing on the Shinigami is only going to make him angry, and anger decreases his deductive powers by around seven percent.
They're going to have to take a risk if they want to tamper with Holland's car again, but L needs to know where the man is going. He's having Watari design a very, very small and specially-camouflaged microchip for that very purpose, and somehow, they must apply it to the vehicle without being seen.
Naturally, they're going to make an attempt during Raye's phone meeting. Based on Watari's photographs, the home phone isn't cordless, and it's stationed in the middle of the house. Holland will have to put the phone down if he wants to check on the car, even visually, so they ought to have some warning.
It's not a perfect plan, but it's the best L can engineer with so few resources.
So few resources. Just like the Kira case. Clutching at straws, and eventually clutching at nothing.
And then, finally, the bells.
"But no one else will play with me! Please, Boney, I'm so bored!"
"Come on then, say it."
"Nuh uh!"
"Say 'evil'."
"Eeeee-vil."
"Good girl! You're so clever, aren't you?"
"I…I guess."
"Did L help you eat your asparagus?"
"N…no."
The scariest thing is, Kira wasn't the only person to prove himself smarter than L. He wasn't even the first person.
She's dead, she's gone, she's in hell. She's not coming back, either.
Generator to skin. The electric chair doesn't miss.
And he'd done the right thing. Hadn't he?
Had he?
Is there any justification at all for those who act solely out of anger?
Not enough emotion and he'll be Light. Too much emotion, and he'll be the same person he was back then. The one who was worse – a thousand times worse – than the criminal they had stopped.
It's such a fine line, and he's losing his balance. Over Holland. Over Mail. Over Boney. Over all of it.
He thinks maybe there isn't enough sugar in the whole world to get him through this case.
"Okay, fine! If I say it, can we play?"
"Yes."
"L is evil. There! Now are you happy?"
"Yes."
"Lance Cooper. You're seven minutes late, my child."
"I'm so sorry, my Lord."
A phone meeting is much easier than meeting in person. Raye is free to roll his eyes whenever he needs to, for a start. But he still needs to sound the part, and Lance is a fairly difficult character to play. He forces himself to focus.
"No need to apologise. I knew you'd call at this time, of course," Holland replies breezily.
"It's…it's not just that," Raye continues, sounding as pitiful as he can manage. "I need to apologise for something else. My editor –"
"Won't run the story?"
"How did you know?" he squeaks. Naomi grins broadly and flashes him a thumbs-up from the doorway. He taps his own forehead and points at the phone in response.
"Even without my sixth sense, I'd know that," Holland says distastefully. "Newspapers are all the same, my child. They bow to the big businesses and corporations. Their advertisers won't let them print the truth about someone as talented as myself."
"That's bullshit!" Raye says vehemently. "Er, I mean, I'm sorry. It's just…"
"It's unpleasant, my child, I know."
"In any case, I'm sure you already know that the problem with the Northwest Times is slightly different," he adds reverently.
There's a pause during which he can almost hear Holland's mind changing gear.
"Of course, the reverberations I'm sensing from this particular rejection are a little different to the ones before. What's happened, my son?"
"My editor believes that publishing the article as it stands will sound like too much of an advertisement for you," Raye says, sounding convincingly ashamed. "She refuses to publish a story solely on how great someone is, no matter how truthful."
"Oh?" Holland says, tone turning predatory. "What more does she want, then?"
"She says the subject material is fascinating, it's just that she wants more. She agrees psychics are an undervalued part of modern society, but she wants something that really shows people what they're like, to try and raise awareness."
"What a divinely open-minded soul she must be. What more can I do to help the publication of this article?"
Raye breathes deeply.
Okay, here goes.
"She wants to do, like, a day in the life of a professional psychic. She wants me to follow you for twenty-four hours. What you eat, what you do at work, witness you healing people, that sort of thing."
"Oh-"
"I know, I know," Raye ploughs on, miserably. "It would be a gross invasion of your privacy, my Lord. I already told her it probably wouldn't be possible!"
There is another long silence on the other end of the line. Raye crosses his fingers in his lap. As much as he despises the thought of spending more time with this asswipe, they need to find those kids. All of them, and still alive.
"I'm afraid I…not yet," Holland replies, finally. "It's true that you have a glowing reference from Bellalover, but The Man has his spies everywhere. I need to know that I can trust you, first."
"I understand," Raye says, disappointed. "What can I do to earn your trust?"
"Being a journalist means you would have police contacts, am I correct?"
Raye narrows his eyes.
What are you after, you bastard?
"Nothing overly influential, I'm afraid," he replies carefully.
"I see. You have to understand that as the Lord God, I am more troubled than anyone else during dark times such as these."
"Dark times?"
"This Steve character," Holland explains. "Those poor little children. I can't even bear to think of it. I'm getting such terrible vibes from the whole incident, and there's nothing I can do."
"I hadn't even thought of that," Raye burbles. "Couldn't you help the police? You must know where those children are being kept!"
"I cannot work with nothing, my son," Holland explains. "The confines of my human form forbid it. If the police weren't so coy with their leads, I could undoubtedly help them select the correct perpetrator with just a little evidence. But that coward Steve is so secretive that I have nothing at all the work on. And the police, bringing in foreign detectives, when all they really need is to be a little less closed-minded. It's a crying shame, my son."
Wow. You're a lot cleverer than I estimated.
"Oh god, of course," Raye says. "Look, no promises, but I dated a police officer for a little while. I'll see if she can find me anything."
"Thank you, my son. For now, I must put my own needs aside. There are more pressing things to be done."
"Of course, my Lord. If you could solve this, you'd be instantly famous and respected! I'll definitely try as hard as I can."
"I hadn't even thought of that," Holland lies. "All I want is to protect those tortured young ones, and restore the reputations of all respectable and honest psychics. Honestly, that bastard pretending to use supernatural means. He just makes me sick."
"Absolutely, I agree," Raye says. "When should I call you next?"
"In twenty-four hours," Holland suggests. "Only next time, you will be two minutes early."
"He knows who you are," L says immediately, when Raye reports to him. "He knows you work for either myself or the police, and he's trying to prove his innocence. We moved too quickly."
"You miscalculated?" Raye demands angrily.
"I did not," L corrects, taking a sip of his tea. Next to him, Grace drinks from her cup of water. She's been aping him for the past three hours. He dreads to think what will happen when she decides to start mimicking Rae. "This is exactly the outcome I was hoping for. We've forced his hand. Only a guilty man who thinks he is suspected would try so hard to prove his innocence. He will also suspect any evidence you give him, and will investigate it carefully. We can use this."
"Whatever," Rae sighs. "This war of the geniuses is beyond me."
"He believed you initially, I think," L says. "You were quite convincing. But now he does not."
"So we have no way in with him?"
"Ah," L says. "Right now, we still control Bellalover. The real Bellalover – a Miss Amanda Clarke – has mysteriously had her internet connection cancelled, which will take a few days for her service provider to sort out."
"At which point she'll know she's been hacked, and tell Holland."
"I intend to have caught Holland before that time," L says. "But we can extend her incapacitation, if need be."
Raye curls one hand into a fist.
"I wish you'd consult with the rest of us before taking risks like this, you know."
"I thought I was your employer," L says diffidently.
And once again, you doubt me, Raye.
They all doubt him. He knows they do. Naomi doubts him subtly. Raye is obvious with his frustrations and fears. Watari is quiet and respectful in his uncertainty. Mail thinks he might fail but really doesn't give a damn
If he defeats this Light-like murderer, then perhaps they will be more convinced. He glances at the clock.
Only a matter of time.
Will Steve strike again, while Grace is still safe? Or will he go after her first? After all, she is 'the strongest'.
"Of course," Raye says tersely.
"Watari has successfully placed the microchip, which was our primary objective," L continues. "Your conversation with Holland today has not been wasted. We can trace the car."
Which is important, because Holland has strangely started to park out of view of their camera. The man is either overly suspicious or inconceivably perceptive. Either way, L is going to have to be excruciatingly careful.
"I see. That's good, then."
L stares up at him. Beside him, Grace is messing up her hair, presumably in an effort to make it more like his.
"Go on," Rae says quietly. "Say it. Tell R what you said to me yesterday, about L."
"No," Grace says stubbornly.
Raye frowns at her.
"No what? Hey, are you okay? L, is she having nightmares? She keeps staring off into space."
L touches her head.
"We'll take her to a doctor as soon as this is over," he promises. "You'll be all right, won't you, Grace?"
"Tell him," Raye urges. "Tell him."
"You're not evil, L," Grace wails, and buries her face in his shirt.
"Where the fuck did that come from?" Raye wonders.
"No more scary bedtime stories for you," L informs her.
"There's no way he'll buy that," Rae jeers.
Raye frowns at the scene, clearly trying to decipher what Grace is thinking, and what possibly could have happened to bring her to that particular sentence.
The man is no idiot.
"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," he says finally. "You really shouldn't use words like 'evil' around her, L. She's frightened, she's all alone, and she's bound to get some weird ideas if she has too much knowledge of what you do for a living. Remember that she can't always stay with you. She needs to trust other people, as well."
"Oh, come on," Rae says. "Who are you, Matsuda? She's clearly talking to someone other than L!"
He thinks I've been telling her that other people are evil, L realises. He glances at his Shinigami. Well, perhaps I have been, a little. But there are things she ought to know.
"Yes, I am aware of that," he says softly, stroking Grace's hair awkwardly. "I am trying to look after her, you know."
"I know," Raye says. "You're doing a pretty good job, all things considered."
L smiles a little.
"You ought to go and get some rest," he says. "You're emotionally exhausted, and I want everyone in absolutely perfect health for this case."
"Right," Raye agrees. "Thanks. You too."
"Thank you," L replies.
There are two more articles on Steve in two different regional newspapers, and a short segment on one of the commercial television channels. All of them liberally abuse the phrase 'ungodly demon', and two of them imply that the police and private detectives are 'completely baffled' and 'desperate for leads'.
L sighs. He's only been operating in the second world for eight years, so naturally he hasn't yet achieved the same sort of fame and respect that he had before he died. Still, it would be nice if the media could be a little more cooperative.
They just don't have enough information yet. He's frustrated. This case should not be so difficult.
Haven't I thought that before?
Naomi's visit to the sleep clinic proved to be almost completely useless, although one of the nurses confirmed that the senior paediatric doctor had once described Grace as 'having the greatest belief in monsters he'd ever seen in a child her age'.
So what does that mean? She's got the strongest belief in monsters, but she isn't frightened of them. So how is that beneficial? Someone like Holland ought to have targeted children he could scare, not ones that would take it all in their stride.
The shooting in the back, the fear of monsters, the blur on the screen, Holland's obscure remarks. It's starting to feel like there's some huge entity that he's missing.
Like a death note, only different.
But that makes no sense. Why would something supernatural suddenly begin committing crimes?
And…Holland was arguing with something in the car. Either that was for show, or he honestly thinks he has a demon. In which case, we may not be able to find evidence to the contrary solely by analysing his behaviour.
Or he honestly does have a demon. But if it's so reluctant, why is it doing his bidding?
Holland said something about being all alone. Is this some sort of lonely Shinigami? Something akin to Rem, who falls too easily, or who is just looking for company, at any cost? Or is it something like Misa, looking for a justice it cannot comprehend?
Or is it simply evil, and the first of its kind?
Or have there been many evil and supernatural things, and this one is simply not as clever as the others, and therefore does not commit crimes seamlessly.
Which is a deeply disturbing thought, because that means that they've essentially been framing innocent people. And he's fallen for it.
"Your team really sucks, L," Rae says darkly, and pokes Grace. "Come on, let's go and play a game."
"I miss my daddy," Grace sniffles, and buries closer to L. "I don't want to play with you no more, Boney."
"It's all right," L says. "You can stay with me for a little while."
Sometimes he thinks she's incredibly insightful, for a five-year-old. And then he remembers what he was like at five. And, six.
Six and second-best in the class.
But god, the things he'd seen.
Raye is right. He needs to protect Grace from as much as he can. Because she can't ever go back to her parents, and she can't ever go back home, and she's effectively all alone.
And she's doing so, so well.
Sadly, Grace does not continue to do well. She clings to L for another half an hour, refuses to eat any dinner, and starts screaming when Naomi takes her for her usual nightly bath. She then proceeds to spend the next three hours howling relentlessly, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and staining her yellow pyjamas.
"I waaaaaant m-my muuuuummyyyeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE!"
L presses his hands to his ears. She's not hurt. According to Naomi, tantrums are a normal coping mechanism of young children who've recently been through difficult times.
Perfectly normal.
"AAAaaaaaaAAAAAAaahhhhhhh! W-wanna go home n-now!"
His head might explode.
She has to stop sometime, right?
He needs to think. He's just eaten his own weight in gobstoppers, and he's still functioning at barely half his normal capacity. He's trying to research mythical creatures – of all things – in an attempt to work out what exactly it is that Holland is pretending to command. So far nothing seems to have a penchant for small children, and he's so exhausted he wants to drop off his chair.
"Grace, please," he says, to no avail. It's like she can't even hear him. She's just rolling around on the floor, sobbing like her life depends on it.
He'll only hold out another twenty-four hours. He'll need to sleep again tomorrow. Another chance. Another opportunity.
When will you make your attempt, Steve?
"Useless," Rae says bitingly.
Sometimes, L worries about the things it says more than he ought to. It takes a significant amount of strength to withstand constant insults and put-downs and remain completely unaffected.
L tries to think of Rae as a lesson in self-control. Sometimes the death note strapped to his bare chest feels like it weighs half a tonne.
"I DON'T WANT TO…D-DON'T…d—d-ooooooooooooooooon't…"
"Hey," Rae says, touching her shoulder. "Come on. That's enough."
"GO AWAY!"
Rae folds its arms, equally petulant.
"I'm not going away."
"GO AWAY!"
"No."
"Go awaaaaay, Boney!" Grace sniffles.
"I'm staying right here," Rae says firmly.
Grace stares up at the towering skeleton with liquid eyes.
"I'm scared," she admits, finally.
The Shinigami bends over and picks her up. L watches silently as the little girl drops her head against its pointy clavicle. There's no way she can be comfortable, cradled against a pile of bones and fire, but she seems strangely mollified, all the same.
L turns back to his research. Certain myths state that Harpies – strange bird-woman creatures – have a preference for children, but aside from that, all the literature only supports modern-day monsters as being child-oriented.
This is ridiculous, Holland, he thinks irritably. We are running around in circles trying to understand your twisted mind.
Just another Kira, really.
When he looks up again, over an hour later, Rae is standing near him, rocking slightly, with Grace asleep in its arms. Its eyes are rust-coloured, and L thinks it must be just as fatigued as he is.
For all he dislikes the Shinigami, it's never shown any intention to harm small children. Rae probably makes Grace a little bit safer, even. L can only hope it will defend her when the time comes.
Because that time will come. That much, he knows for sure.
The marriage between the king and queen isn't really a romantic affair. It's more like a business arrangement. The position of king changes every few millennia or so, but as far as he knows, there has only ever been one queen. The same queen.
She is either completely mad, or abhorrently sadistic.
Or human.
Usually she lives in her dinky little cottage up high in the mountains, and he rules his Shinigami, and that's that. He hates it when she comes down here. He hates dealing with her. Sometimes he hates the fact that she exists.
"What's wrong, Jas?" he asks eventually, when it becomes clear she's not just going to go away. All of his loyal subjects have found other places to be, the scumbags. No one likes being near her. She doesn't have any friends at all, not since she got rid of her pet, Remira.
"Sometimes I think I spend too much time around humans," she says quietly. Her voice sounds like raindrops falling softly onto fresh spring flowers. It makes him want to punch her in the face.
"I could have told you that," he says, with an arrogant shrug. He doesn't go to her, preferring to remain firmly seated on his throne.
She doesn't have a throne. Or a crown. Or jewellery.
All she has, really, is the ability to bend time and space, and trap people inside false realities.
Clearly he's the more powerful of the two of them.
"How's your new blonde pet going?" he drawls. "You going to make him into a Shinigami too? You know how much I hate you using my realm for your games."
"They're not games," she says, without even the merest hint of anger. Disappointing.
Of course, he knows they're not games. What she does is of immense importance to the human worlds. She keeps the human realms from becoming as rotten as their own.
She won't use her power to help her own damn people, but she'll use it to make the human world a better place.
He hates her for that.
"I want to let him go," she murmurs. "As soon as possible. But I can't. He has to make the right decision at the right time."
I don't understand you at all.
"And your other little project?" he prompts.
She glares at him sideways, the tips of her ridiculous feathered wings flopping almost to the ground.
"I wish I could just throw away the key," she admits. "I've can't remember ever wanting to hang on to someone so much."
The king shrugs.
"It's not bothering me, my dear. In fact, you've been providing me with a great source of amusement. Sometimes I even stop playing craps, just to watch."
"I'm glad you find my charges so droll," she says sardonically.
The king drums his fingers against the side of his throne. The fabric is rotting off one of the arms, and he's certain there's a nest of termites living somewhere inside.
"You don't like it either," she insists. "I know you don't."
"I don't go bellyaching about it," he snarls. "Look, I've said it before, and I'll say it again. If you really are trying to protect those sweet pathetic little humans from darkness and evil, then there are certain people who shouldn't even have a chance at redemption. Simple."
"I can't do that, either," she replies softly. "I'm not perfect. There must be a failsafe. Even if I'm sure, that's not enough."
"Well then, it's your own fault if the piranha gets out of your net," the king quips lightly. "And after you've gone to so much effort, too. Why the concern now, anyways? You're still cut up about Wakefield, aren't you? You're still not sure whether one of your toys might have pulled one over on you."
"There's not a human who ever existed who could possibly be smarter than me," she snaps, finally angry. "That's why I do what I do."
"Good. Then go and do it, and leave me alone."
"Fine," she says, and bows her head. "All…all the same, I am worried."
Grace comes rushing into L's office-slash-bedroom at five o'clock. She has grass in her hair from her morning trip to the park, and sugary cereal stuck to her face from her lunch. Apparently, L's eating habits are contagious.
Naomi will be so impressed.
She also has tears on her cheeks, which is never a good sign. L sets aside his research. It's not as if he was really making any sort of progress. Right now, winning seems to be largely a matter of waiting for Steve to make a move, and then responding.
By his estimations, Steve is impatient. They shouldn't have to wait too long.
"What is it, Grace?" he asks, as kindly as he possibly can. She's spent most of the day firmly attached to Boney, who apparently became her new hero after comforting her last night.
Children are so easily won.
He wonders if that's what Steve is after.
Even Light never targeted children. Doesn't that make you worse than Kira?
"B-B-Boney was m-mean to me."
How unsurprising.
He holds out one arm in her direction, because that's what she seems to want. She immediately curls up at his side. Sometimes she reminds L of a pouch-dwelling animal, tiny and heat-seeking. He rests his forearm loosely over her shoulders.
"What did he do? Did he say I was a bad person?"
"You're not bad," Grace says, and L feels somewhat justified by the fierceness in her tone.
At least someone has faith in him.
"What was it, then?"
Grace draws back just enough so she can look up at L's face.
"He said my name was blurry. He was really angry."
What?
"Were you practicing your writing?"
"No! We were playing with blocks and he asked me why my name was blurry and he sounded really angry so I cried and ran in here!"
L frowns.
"I don't understand. What were you looking at?"
"There you are," Rae says, bursting through the wall. "Should have known you'd come back to hang out with this tool."
The god of death looks deeply unnerved. Grace howls and tries to become one with L's ribcage.
"What happened?" he demands. He wants a straight, logical answer from someone.
Rae shakes its head.
"I…I don't even know what it is," it tells L, sounding improbably young. "I don't…I've never seen anything like this. Her name is going fuzzy."
"Fuzzy?"
Rae rolls its horrible eyes.
"Look, you know all about death god vision, right? For example, I can see the thumping great 'L Lawliet' over your head. And for ordinary people who don't own death notes, I can see their name and the rest of their natural life-span."
"Don't say my name in front of her," L hisses. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"Her name and life-span are out of focus," Rae says, sounding both bemused and frightened.
"Because she touched the note?"
"The note wouldn't do that. Nothing does that. That's what I'm saying, this doesn't make sense. It's as if Holland's tampered with her, somehow."
"Or that's what drew him to her in the first place," L says. "Did any of the other children have blurred names?"
"I don't know," Rae snaps. "I didn't see them, did I? But Grace's was definitely normal when I first saw her. In fact, I know it was normal yesterday. At first I thought I was just exhausted, but it's not that either."
"How do you know it's not you?" L argues. "There's no reason for anything to change in Grace. Maybe you're just aging, or going mad. Maybe this is a test from the king."
Rae regards Grace for a moment.
"I can't read her life-span at all any more," it says urgently. "Something's happened."
"But you know how long it is anyway, right?" L asks. "Are you not just as tired as you were first thing this morning? Why don't you sleep, and see if it improves."
"Death gods don't need sleep. We recharge automatically. I'm telling you, he's done something to her-"
"Holland does not have supernatural powers!" L barks.
Grace starts to wail against his chest.
"Am I going to die, L?"
"No!"
"Then why has this happened?" Rae demands of him.
"I don't know," L says, touching his thumb to his lips. How on earth is he supposed to know how a Shinigami works, if even the Shinigami itself does not know?
Where is Rem when they need her?
"Do you care for Grace?" L asks suddenly, a thought striking him.
Rae looks distinctly uncomfortable, like it's been caught doing something wrong. A second later it's back to its usual smug self, grinning unpleasantly.
L blinks.
I actually saw the mask come down that time. You must be off your game, Rae.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"I don't care about anybody especially," Rae informs him nastily.
"If you dislike people especially – namely myself – then you are also capable of favouring. Shinigami are impaired when they have feelings for humans, yes?"
Although Rem never seemed to lose any of her Shinigami abilities. Does that mean that this is another test, specifically for the future king?
"I don't care for her."
"Do Shinigami have children?"
Children are all much the same, after all. If Rae is very old, and it's been stuck with only him for the past three and a half years, maybe it is craving company.
"I'm not sacrificing my cause for some snot-nosed toddler," the death god says darkly.
L stares at it.
"Sacrificing your cause? Does that mean the king isn't allowed to ever favour a human?"
"Not if you are suggesting I'd die for her," Rae informs him haughtily. "If the king – or anyone in line for the throne – dies for a human, that weakness is unforgivable. Punishable only by obliteration. Dead. Gone. From all worlds and all realms. Forever."
How unusually harsh, L thinks, with interest. I suppose that is to keep the king strong and impartial.
How many tests have been set for you, Rae?
Note and log.
"I see. But liking her a little is okay?"
"That's irrelevant. I don't like her, and the problem doesn't lie with me," Rae says with finality, crossing its arms. "Everyone else's names and dates are perfectly clear. I just went to check."
"Fine," L says heavily, now bobbing back and forth in an effort to calm Grace's hysterics. "What should we do, then?"
"Investigate Holland!"
"How am I supposed to about investigating a supposed ability that I can't even detect?" L enquires. "Be reasonable. It would be more useful for you to go to the king and find out what could possibly have caused this condition, if you don't know yourself."
Rae nods, fidgeting a little.
This is such strange behaviour for you. Either you suspect that it is your own eyes failing, or you care about Grace at least somewhat and are concerned for her future.
Either way, I am not entirely wrong.
"Fine. You keep watch over her until I get back, do you hear me? I don't want anything happening while I'm gone."
"You want to see how this plays out?" L asks. "Yes, I can imagine that would be important. The room will be under surveillance tonight. She'll be perfectly fine."
"Bet your life?"
"I always bet my life," L says, with dignity.
"I miss Boneyyy."
"Do you have to complain all the time?" L admonishes. Dealing with Grace all by himself is incapacitating. She's practically glued herself to his side, and refuses to consort with anyone else. She's been antsy since Rae left, and it's almost nine o'clock.
"I'm hungry, L."
"You ought to have eaten your dinner, then."
"I wasn't hungry then!"
"It was only ten minutes ago."
There is silence while Grace considers her next move. L wishes he hadn't developed such a clear insight in the workings of her mind.
"I want a story, L!"
L groans, and pushes his computer away. He can't sleep until she is safely locked into her bed. Which means that he needs to wear her out before he collapses unconscious on the floor.
"Are you not even a little tired? Naomi said you would be tired by now."
"Story story story!" she repeats, slapping her knees in time to her chant.
L props his chin up in his hands.
"I'll make you a hot chocolate, too," he says, finally. "And a story. Then bed, okay?"
Grace looks like she's just won the lotto.
"Okay!" she says enthusiastically. "With marshmallows!"
"Of course."
Grace finally nods off around midnight, with her book on her chest and her head resting heavily on L's left foot.
He tucks her in and double-checks the taps. Rae still isn't back, which is convenient, because as far as L knows it's still trying to make Grace tell the world that L is evil.
Of course, the Shinigami has only been trying half-heartedly, and it's no more likely to do anything on camera than it is when someone else is in the room. He ought to be safe.
Anyway, Rae is evidently only angling to expose him as supposedly evil. It's not actually trying to make him use the note. He suspects it doesn't realise how damaged he'd be if he were isolated from his team. He's become so dependent, so ingrained in the need for company. Obviously he's still doing a fairly successful job of hiding that particular weakness.
So far.
"Everything is in order," Mail informs him over the intercom. "No blind spots."
"Thank you," L says. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, yeah," Mail replies indifferently. "You know, I can't actually remember what he looked like any more."
L closes his eyes. He had intended for his last question to mean 'are you prepared to monitor this room intensively for the next six-and-a-half hours'. Obviously Mail had read into it on a slightly more personal level.
"I'm sorry," he offers.
I will get him back. Somehow. I can't tell you, but I will.
Just…just hang on. Do what you're doing. I'll pull you both through this. I'll put you back together again.
If Rae alienates him from his team, if this case breaks his spirit as a detective, then he'll just devote his entire life and resources towards saving Mello. The first step would be finding Rem again, he imagines.
"Eh, it's not your problem," Mail replies. "I just hate everything."
"Regardless of that, please watch us closely tonight," L informs him.
My back-up plan isn't here, and I must sleep.
"Got it," Mail says, and the intercom crackles and flickers off.
L pulls on his bullet-proof vest again. Just to be certain.
Bernard Holland knows two things.
One, they've got nothing. Absolutely nothing to convict him, and no idea how he's doing it.
And two, they know his vehicle. And where he lives. It's laughable, the fact that they actually placed a microchip on his car. As if he wouldn't check under the rim around the tyres. And there was no camera built in, either, so he just glued it to the same spot on the road. They won't know he's moved. Not since he started parking just outside of range of that camera fixed across the street.
Oh, and if they think he fell for that ridiculous reporter act, well, they're more stupid than he gave them credit for. He's already chastised Bella twice for trusting them, but she insists Lance Cooper is clean.
Stupid girl.
He really just wants to be rid of them all. Filthy, stinking, corporation-fuelled filth, cluttering up his planet and ignorantly standing between him and the respect he deserves.
He'd like to smite them all, one-two-three, dead right where they stand. On television, preferably. The greatest detective in the world.
But not yet. He's only got one. He needs more. There must be more. Once the world realises what he can do, there will be lynch mobs after him. Police squadrons. Maybe entire armies. All singling him out just because he wants to reclaim his world. Infidels.
And he needs to be able to cut them all down, one fell swoop, so that there can be no argument. So that the world finally realises, and accepts, that he is the one true god. And then there will be peace, and harmony, and safety for all the good citizens and their little children.
His world will be perfect. So perfect.
There will be nothing to link him to what is about to happen.
There is a third thing that he knows, which might surprise Mr L. He knows exactly where they are. Oh yes. He couldn't have located them or hacked their systems alone, but he doesn't need to, not as long as he has his pendant.
Holland touches the worm's head dangling from his neck. He recently had it encased in glass, because it was getting old and rotten. It's his gift. He can do anything, as long as he has this.
And right now, he needs an army. His holy army. Soldiers who will become his angels when peace has finally reigned, all perfectly under his control. Hundreds, maybe thousands of worm-heads, one from each of them. That's all he needs.
So. It is waiting for his instruction. All that needs to be done is getting rid of that infernal detective sleeping soundly in his room. With so much surveillance, how very clever. And that sweet little girl, right there beside him.
All he needs. She's strong enough to make it happen. She must be. If she isn't, he'll have to go after the Smythes.
But she should be. She ought to be. Doctor's reports don't lie.
The thing about surveillance is that usually the very rich make presumptions, because they are used to having everything handed to them on a plate.
The power pole is a few buildings away from L's hotel. There are no cameras or witnesses. Surveillance needs electricity. He doesn't need this car.
Two birds with one stone.
He presses his foot to the pedal and braces himself for the impact.
L wakes up with a jolt because everything is wrong. It's too dark, he'd just heard gunshot so loud it must be right outside his room, and he's suddenly in tremendous pain, and –
Grace.
He spins in his bed. Something has happened. This is…this isn't nothing. He's been shot. He's been shot in the back.
Her bed is still locked, but she isn't in it. She's nowhere to be seen, but he can hear her crying L, L, L, her little voice muffled because there's someone in his room. He's up, he's on his feet. The intruder is wearing a grey cloak and hood, and it has its back to him. There's a child-sized bulge to one side of what is probably its legs.
It's got her.
L grabs his own gun from its position right under his bed.
"Don't you dare move," he says.
Where are the others? Where's the goddamned backup?
His gaze is briefly drawn to the ceiling. The lights are all off. The cameras are dead.
There's no fucking power. Backup isn't coming.
It doesn't matter. Mail will come in a moment anyway, because things have gone wrong. L scans the room. There is no way out except the door. The intruder isn't going anywhere.
"It's all right, Grace," he says, but she doesn't reply. L looks at where she was standing not two seconds ago.
The room is empty.
tbc
a/n:
+ ugh, I'm going to apologise (again) for how long and complicated this arc is. I don't know if I made it obvious, but I kept throwing in other POVs just to detract from L and his epic angst. I promise this particular case should be wrapped up in the next chapter or two. thanks for sticking with me through this.
+ thank you for your reviews, they make my life. I wish I ffn would let me draw you all some hearts, but alas, it will not.