A/N: Apologies for the long wait! I was traveling all summer, including an amazing week in Paris and a ballet at the Garnier! This is a bit of a filler chapter, but I thought we could get a little more of Christine's inner world here...especially because we will likely be making a shift...
Thank you all for the reviews so far!
Christine answered her cell phone still half asleep, dizzied by her spine's jolt upright and the daylight cracking around a door why was a white door at the foot of her bed and the angles of the shadows were all wrong and the shock of air conditioning against her naked chest, but not completely naked, why had she slept in her bra? She jerked the sheets to her throat before realizing that she was alone, alone in a hotel room with two queen-sized beds, and the person talking to her was miles away, at the hospital, tending to one of the girls, Hannah, the second one, the second baby, she was in the hotel room because of the babies, and now Hannah was in labor.
"Does the fetus have a heartbeat?" Christine heard herself ask as her body threw itself out of bed. She needed to get to the hospital. She needed to put on her clothes.
"She's just checked in. We don't know yet," the nurse said.
Slacks and blazer hung up in the closet. Good. Where was her shirt? Christine remembered scrubbing the armpits of her blouse. The armpits of her camisole. She'd hung them over the shower rod to dry.
"I appreciate the call. We'll be there as soon as we can."
"Well, we can't let you into the delivery room. I just thought you'd want…"
"We're on our way. Thanks."
Christine yanked her camisole over her head. Of course her blouse had slipped and crumpled at the base of the tub. Gripping her cellphone between her teeth, she shoved her arms into her wrinkled sleeves, juggled her blazer and briefcase and shoes, and, one hand buttoning her blouse, lunged for the front door. Her forehead nearly collided with Destler's raised fist.
"Jesus!" She yelled, muffled by her phone.
"We have to go. Right now."
Christine abandoned her buttons and took the phone from her mouth. Destler had already turned toward the car. "I was about to tell you the same thing," she said, blinking at the rising sun.
"We'll find her in the woods, I'm sure of it," Destler said.
Christine swung into the passenger seat and let her things fall between her feet. "What? The hospital told me Hannah just checked in, just five minutes ago."
"Hannah? What are you talking about?"
"I just got a call. Hannah is in labor."
Destler swerved out of the parking lot. "I got a call, too. Natalie is missing."
"Shit," Christine hissed. She fastened a few more buttons and contorted to pull on her blazer without elbowing Destler in the temple.
"It's so obvious," Destler murmured. "At the same time. Of course. Doesn't sound like a coincidence, does it?"
"I don't know," Christine sighed as she bent over to open her briefcase. "Maybe Natalie is trying to sneak to the hospital, to her friend."
"Wouldn't that be charming."
"Right, how absurd of me to not jump straight to coordinated abduction."
"But you got there now. Good work. Did you sleep in? Don't forget to pack your gun."
Christine grit her teeth. She made a show of slipping her gun into place. "It's six in the morning. I don't sleep in a suit. Or armed." She glanced at his stiff shift, his pristine tie. "But maybe you do."
She watched Destler's shoulders tense. "I don't sleep," he said.
Christine stifled a laugh. "Of course you don't."
But, he wasn't laughing. Again, the air between them had grown taut, and Christine felt the pinch of fear at the nape of her neck. It was a bright, blue day outside, and his mask looked somehow blacker, as though he'd dipped it in ink. Or polished it. Christine mentally scolded herself for her dramatics. It made sense that he would polish it. In fact, every garment on his body looked freshly pressed and shined, even the black gloves on the steering wheel. There wasn't a trace of stubble on his expose, pale chin. She watched a vein pulse in his neck.
She knew he was right to go after the missing girl first. There was little they could do in the hospital. She was a doctor, certainly, but birth and neonatal care weren't far up on her list. Although she'd felt a pang of sorrow for the dead, deformed infant, she wasn't normally moved by newborns and toddlers. It was one of the things she and Raoul couldn't ever agree on. He seemed so convinced that she would change her mind. She did her best to avoid the topic. Not that they'd talked this past week. More than a week, now. She'd forgotten to call. And, even when she remembered, it never seemed like the right time.
Christine realized the car was slowing to a crawl, then a near silent stop. They'd pulled off the road, onto a shaded patch of dry, brown grass. Further ahead, the grass gave way to rich brown soil, ferns, and trees. Dense, protective trees.
"We'll have to walk," Destler said. "Based on what's happened this morning, I think we might be expected."
"Agent Destler, I agree that we should take precautions. But, if we really are approaching aliens, how is tip-toeing going to help us?" Christine said.
Destler looked at her, eyes narrowed. She thought she saw a smirk. "You never know."
"If Natalie is in these woods, I'm afraid she's in very human danger. So tip-toeing it is."
Destler moved to open his door, but hesitated. "I'm not used to working with a partner."
"So you've said."
"If I disappear, don't call for me. I promise, even when you can't see me, I'm right there."
"You have to be kidding me. What, are you a ghost now? Transparent at will?"
"I'll try to keep you informed. But I can't promise I won't forget."
"But what if I need your help? Or you need mine?"
"If you find yourself in need of me, try humming something."
Christine pinched the bridge of her noise. "Humming."
"Yes." Destler swung his door open. "I'll hear you. As for the other thing, I don't need help."
Christine sat for a moment, containing her desire to simultaneously laugh and roar. She watched Destler's thin frame move toward the trees. Contrary to what he'd insisted, she was growing more and more certain that he needed a lot of help.
"Your shirt is crooked," Destler called.
"Shit," Christine murmured. He was right. She'd placed all the wrong buttons in all the wrong holes. How had he known? Was he watching her as he drove? The thought of his yellow eyes following her fingers, resting on ribcage, her breastbone, twisted between her lungs.
"You could have warned me sooner," she snapped, trotting after him as she brought herself back into alignment. The dead grass crunched under her feet.
He brought one gloved finger to his thin lips. "Quiet now."
Christine rolled her eyes, trying to quell the blush rising up to her eyebrows. She hated that she blushed, even now, as an adult, as a doctor, as an FBI agent! How childish, this tell. He would think he knew her now. Or at least think her clumsy, a stranger to whatever cool control he managed to drape over his shoulders. Even when his excitement verged on mania, as it had yesterday in the car, still it seemed that he just knew better. He had confidence in his convictions. He had the follow through.
She wondered, with a start, if he'd somehow watched her earlier. If he had somehow known to wait until she was dressed before knocking on her door. If he hadn't trusted her enough to leave her alone. Did he know she'd slept with her bra on out of fear he would watch her? Had he seen her debate sleeping in her shirt, only to convince herself she was being ridiculous? Did he know that, for some inexplicable reason, sleeping so bare had felt daring? That the foreign sheets against her navel gave her a thrill?
Christine stopped herself, churning with shame. How embarrassing to admit she'd never slept alone in a hotel room before. That's all this was. Little girl on the big case – how foolish she seemed to herself. She was giving Destler too much credit. Too little credit. He didn't care what she slept in anymore than he cared what she thought about the case. Soon, she assured herself, she would be just as comfortable in the field. And, in some cases, the literal field. She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. Even her most sensible heels weren't exactly made for this.
They walked on for a while. Fifteen minutes, then twenty. As they journeyed into the cluster of trees, Christine felt her sense sharpen. The sound of her own breathing faded into the background. She could hear the swish of Destler's pants legs as they dragged along dried twigs and leaves. She could see the ants lining a tree trunk at her shoulder and the roots underneath her feet, both at once. Every movement had depth, significance, threat. She could feel Destler's tension radiating from him. His excitement. In the distance ahead, beyond an empty creek bed, the sunlight grew denser, brighter. She saw the light take shape – a clear circle of soil, a rim of withered trees. And, just a few feet away, the carcass of a burned redwood, with a charred cave for a trunk. Just as the girls had described. Destler turned over his shoulder and smiled, his top lip peeling up over four straight, white teeth. Christine suppressed a shudder. She'd almost forgotten what she was looking for. A human, certainly. Humans. She remembered, suddenly, to feel a little bit afraid.
