T Minus 4 Days, cont'd

T Minus 4 Days, cont'd

It actually wound up taking a series of four phone calls to Tom, as well as two to Kathy before Elliot was finally assured that Joe Mackey was on his way to the precinct with the additional photos, including what Mackey claimed were several pictures of Olivia taken, naturally, for investigative purposes only. It was beyond embarrassing to have everyone knowing the true low his marriage had sunk to. Although, he decided in the silent, stunned stare of his boss, Elliot also thought he saw some recognition or understanding regarding why he'd found Olivia's straight-forward, honest-to-a-fault way of dealing with relationships so appealing. Olivia's personality was like a breath of fresh air amid the torture of his divorce. Anyone who tried to divorce Olivia might get the shit kicked out of him, but he wouldn't have to worry about her inventing things to hate him over.

Luckily, Elliot was so hopeful about finding something useful in the PI's pictures that he didn't react too badly to learning that, as much as the man personally despised Avery, the boss was actually able to corroborate Avery's statements regarding touching the dumpsters and provided information that Avery was just in Olivia's neighborhood the afternoon she was abducted. Despite the rational explanation, Elliot decided that Avery could have seen Olivia and planned the attack with the cover his job would provide. He hoped that Mackey's pictures would provide perfect evidence to arrest someone. It would just be exceptionally satisfying if that someone was Mark Avery.

While Elliot was waiting for Mackey to arrive with the pictures, Munch split some more of the fingerprint names with Cragen and continued to work them. Cragen had suggested that Elliot and Munch continue questioning their suspects, but Elliot argued that he didn't want to lose a moment of searching through the pictures, making the unspoken declaration that he was sure Mackey would be providing a huge piece of evidence that would crack the case right open.

Around noon, as Elliot was refusing at least three offers to buy him lunch, the front desk sergeant brought a hand-delivered box to Elliot. The sergeant hadn't seen who dropped it off; it seemed to magically appear on the ledge when his head was turned. It hadn't been mailed, simply left off, addressed to "Detective Benson's partner" in carefully printed letters. Elliot didn't think to call anyone's attention to the package. He hadn't thought to open it. He hadn't thought anything.

Instead a deep, dark, terrible dread filled his empty stomach, leaving him anxious and shaking in its wake.

Had he bothered to look up, he would have realized there wasn't even a need to call anyone's attention. Everyone in the room was staring at him, at the box. And all of them were filled with the same sickening feeling, total apprehension as to the contents.

It was Cragen who finally moved, turning to a random officer in the room to contact the bomb squad. There hadn't been any threats, but there was an angle that Cragen hated to admit he hadn't even considered. They'd been working the case based on the idea that someone was out to get even with Olivia. But with another one of his detectives rendered useless and terrified and damn near broken, staring at a box as though its contents were going to be the death of him, Cragen had to take into account that the kidnapper might have been trying to torture Elliot. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Cragen knew, short of his kids, there was no worse way to strike at Elliot.

The building was evacuated in just under seven minutes, half of the officers opting to head out in the cruisers as opposed to hanging around and awaiting the all-clear. Elliot wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. Suicidal as the idea probably was, he would have preferred to sit there with the box. It had Olivia's name on it, after all, even if it was only by way of identifying him. It was addressed to him as well. It wasn't entirely irrational to hope there was a clue of some sort in or on it. But Cragen had been talking to him, was talking to him, informing him that he was going to request additional detectives to work the case, to more thoroughly investigate, to check into Elliot's past for suspects. Elliot wasn't entirely sure what the man was saying.

Elliot was going crazy, waiting over a half hour for them to clear the package. At Cragen's insistence, Crime Scene was called in to open the box after they'd been assured it wasn't going to blow up. Elliot could only look on as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Cragen, while O'Halloran took a penknife to the heavily taped edges.

His heart was racing, working harder than it ever had on a chase, forcing him to fight to hide that he was hyperventilating again. Clues or not, Elliot knew it was more likely that the box contained something horrible, something devastating, something that would destroy him. Just to assure himself, he unsnapped his holster, promising himself that if it was truly hideous, he wouldn't live long enough to fully comprehend it. If anyone noticed his action, they didn't comment on it. Elliot decided it wasn't lack of concern over him. They were all focused on the box and its possible contents.

As O'Halloran worked the tape loose, various techs were snatching it up, carting if off to investigate. Elliot knew taking such care was important. He'd been on investigations where something as small as specks of dirt held important clues. Still, he was on the edge of his seat to know what had been sent to him.

Nearly an hour after it had been placed on Elliot's desk, the top was opened, the contents displayed. There was a gun, complete with its holster. Quiet whispers began to fill the room, a group of soft voices becoming loud as they blended together into a group. As the pondered what it mean, what inherent threat lay in, Elliot looked at Cragen.

"That's Liv's." He knew it as well as he knew his own. He'd handled it, carried it, used it on one occasion after he'd lost his own gun in a struggle. Like with her badge, he couldn't think about what a fight she would have put up to keep it on her. Of course, he knew that she certainly hadn't had access to it in the days she'd been gone, but still, he would have liked to think maybe the person who'd taken her hadn't known she had it. He wanted to pretend she'd been hiding it, waiting for the right moment to free herself.

O'Halloran lifted it from the box, slid it out of the holster and pulled the clip. He looked up and offered a smile. "No rounds are missing." It could be good news, knowing that she hadn't been shot with her own gun, but Elliot instead chose to ruminate on the fact that she hadn't had the opportunity to shoot her attacker either.

Under the gun, which had already been whisked off to some lab for further study, lay a white envelope. O'Halloran opened it, withdrawing a letter, and handing the envelope off to another tech. He offered Elliot a pair of gloves, catching the older man's confusion. "The box was addressed to you, right?"

Elliot nodded, slipping on the gloves, accepting the proffered letter with a heavy heart. He didn't want to know what it said. He was afraid, not only that it held some terrible details of what Olivia had endured, but also that it might reveal somthing secret, something private, something Olivia would object to anyone knowing, including him. He hated to unfold it, hated to shed light on something that might embarrass her.

And as he prepared to read it, he feared there would be an incriminating detail in its contents, something that would inform the whole room of the tryst that so far, only Huang had been invited to share, and only then out of desperation. Cragen seemed to be the only one who understood Elliot's hesitation, staying far enough away that he couldn't read the words himself. The others, however, crowded in, as curious to know intimate details as they were eager to rescue one of their own.

The letter was short and to the point, typed in larger than average letters. The words weren't particularly frightening, but Elliot found them threatening all the same. It simply read: "Maggie does not need this. I will protect her from you. She is safe now. Leave us alone."

Elliot didn't know what to say. He read the words several times, burning them into his memory. Then he handed the letter to O'Halloran, who'd been standing by, awaiting the top prize for his own inspection. Unsettled and confused, Elliot looked to Cragen for guidance, for support, for something like the reassurance his partner normally would have provided when he was upset.

Cragen searched for words, maybe trying to find something optimistic, maybe trying to soothe his own nerves. "It doesn't sound like she's injured or dead."

The words weren't enough and Elliot shook his head, refusing to let them comfort him. "She no longer needs her gun? She's safe now? That could mean she's buried in a shallow grave in Jersey." He motioned vaguely in the direction O'Halloran had taken the letter. "And who the fuck is Maggie?" He didn't dare mention the other statement, the one that condemned him for hurting her, the one that aired their dirty laundry to the whole group, the one that seemed to know the secret he'd tried to keep. Well aware that the room full of his coworkers was staring at him, waiting for something else, he stormed away.

He didn't want to consider the possibility that it was a case of mistaken identity. Because that would mean all their time had been wasted. Because that would mean they were no closer to finding the man who'd taken her. Because that would mean they had no leads at all. Because that would mean they were at the mercy of someone who'd grabbed the wrong woman. Because that would mean he was completely unable to help Olivia.

Frustrated and angry, Elliot returned to his desk. Everything he'd done so far, every attempt he'd made to find out what had happened to her had been futile. Blind with fury, he cleared his desk with one forceful swing of his arm. He wanted to take comfort in the sound of things falling, crashing, breaking, his computer monitor shattering. He wanted to find peace in the quiet of other dumbfounded detectives.

Instead, he found invasive noise and prying eyes. The accusing stares of people he barely knew got to him. He needed to get away. But rather than running for cover, he had to think first. Because he wanted to be close when Mackey showed up with the pictures. But still he didn't want to hear the rumors, the people discussing the package, the eventual cleaning of the possessions he scattered across the floor, the disappointed sighs of people who might have hoped for better, but expected exactly what they got.

And he couldn't face the crib, the room where he'd connected physically and mentally with Olivia. Even the idea of hiding out in her apartment didn't appeal to him. Rather than being with her ghost, he wanted to be alone. He waited at his empty desk until everyone gave up waiting for an encore and then, when he was relatively sure no one was looking, he slunk off to the back interrogation room. It was almost never used because it was too tiny and claustrophobia-inducing for most of the cops in the precinct. He figured it was a good spot to hide out.

As he passed through the door, his hand automatically reached for the light switch. He thought better of it though, letting his hand fall to his side, leaving the room in darkness. There was some light coming through the window, but the frosted, scratched, stained plexi-glass and the steel bars kept most of the day's sun from bothering him.

He pulled an old, broken metal chair out from under the table and sank into it without even hearing the whine of protest from the worn hinges. His initial fear of the box and its contents had faded into confusion and anger, seeing her gun, the weapon she'd used to protect him, to defend him, so many times, seeing it cast aside, as though that part of her, the part that seemed so very inherent to her existence, meant nothing anymore. He couldn't take it. He couldn't stand to see her end her career. It wasn't just that working Special Victims meant so much to her, although he was sure that his claims to Cragen had been accurate, it wasn't just that leaving the job would mean something devastating had happened to her.

It was that all Elliot knew of Olivia was wrapped up in her identity as a cop, as his partner. If she wasn't a cop any longer, if he couldn't identify with her on that level, he couldn't identify with her at all. He wouldn't have anything in common with her. It wasn't something he could deal with. He couldn't stomach the thought that after so much, there might actually come a day when they parted ways.

He pushed the idea away, telling himself that he needed to look into having someone hold his gun until Olivia was back. It was the only way he could be sure he wouldn't wind up using it on himself.

He wondered if Olivia had ever had the same thought. Not in reference to losing him of course, he'd never be so presumptuous of her feelings for him, but the idea of using her gun to end her suffering. He knew she'd been through plenty in her life, so much that he always wondered how she survived and turned out as selfless as she had whenever he let himself consider it. He wondered if she'd ever had those days, when the idea of getting up and facing the world seemed like too much to handle. He wanted to think it wasn't possible, that even she understood the amazing difference she made in people's lives. He even tried to assure himself that she certainly hadn't because she wasn't the sort to toy with such a decision; if Olivia Benson ever faced the day she didn't want to go on, then surely that would be the last day of her life. But he couldn't convince himself of that. He'd seen her pain, the pain she never, or exceptionally rarely, dared even voice to him, the pain he didn't think the average person could quite fathom the depths of. He'd witnessed so many days over the years when she had locked up so much excruciating, agonizing hurt inside herself that words failed her, leaving her trapped inside herself with the demons, thinking no one could help. And he knew, with the bits and pieces she'd allowed him to glimpse over the years of her life before he'd known her, that she'd likely pondered the idea of suicide countless times then too.

He thought about the fact that he knew, with her mother's abuse, with his own understanding of the fear of physical violence in the one place a child should have felt safe, with an insight he'd never been able to reveal to her, she'd probably come face to face with death more than a few times as a child. He'd been there, he'd had those bruises and broken bones and torn skin and intentional accidents, when one more millimeter, when one more blow, when one more bit of pressure would have ended a life that never seemed worth living in those early years. He wondered if he might actually find the courage to confess it to her.

It actually made him smile, inventing various reactions she might have to hearing him admit to the one thing they shared that no one knew, that probably no one suspected, that even if they suspected, no one would dare voice. Whether she'd be shocked or disbelieving or quietly accepting or maybe flat refuse to listen to it because she wanted to think he was too strong for such a secret. But he suspected she already knew, that the idea had at least occurred to her, the same way he'd always known that her childhood had been horrible, in the short time he'd known her before she'd told him about her conception. He'd known before that confession had eventually included her mother's drinking and verbal abuse. He'd known before that night, the anniversary of some event that she'd never bothered to explain, when she'd called him for a ride, only a short time into their relationship, when her quiet, somber voice had admitted that the unplanned, unwanted, unloved child of the verbally abusive alcoholic had suffered physical punishment for crimes her father had committed. She'd been so damn drunk at the time he had never quite worked out if she even remembered telling him. A decade later and he still didn't know if she was aware he knew – because she referred to her mother's emotional abuse more than once, but had yet to voice the rest to him again.

He decided she deserved to know about his childhood, about the weakness he'd never gotten strong enough to overcome, about the visible scars he'd learned to cover with tattoos so that people would stop asking questions, about the invisible scars he was always trying to hide behind strong muscles and a short temper. It was the only thing left she didn't know, besides the fact that he loved her.

And he had every intention of remedying both of those oversights the first chance he got.