Right, again with the hiatus, this time due to technical difficulties, for which I apologise profusely. Thank you for sticking it through. Here is your fourth chap.
Standard disclaimers, etc.
~ W
[Washington Post, Wednesday, morning edition]
THE HUNT FOR TRUTH
Investigative forces have discovered the perpetrator of the Lightman bombing a week ago, and upon further enquiry have unearthed that Guy Ward is not a terrorist, but in fact a former client of the Lightman Group. Three years ago, the Group was hired by local law enforcement to determine whether a key witness in an undisclosed case was cooperating fully with the police. Further into the case, Guy Ward and his team were ambushed by an unknown party, and his partner was killed. The link between her death and the Lightman Group's findings is presently unknown.
Though Ward has been found out, police have been unable to make the arrest; Ward, insiders report, is missing in action. 'We suspect he's left DC, possibly even the country.' Says one informant, 'We've uncovered evidence in his place of residence that substantiates premeditation; when we do catch him, he's in for it.'
While investigators continue the hunt, the Lightman Group tends to its wounds. The three survivors, Ria Torres, Andrew Black and Christopher Dudek, are in recovery. The families and friends of the three casualties, Martin Phelps, Eden Roy and Cal Lightman, mourn. Law enforcement assures them swift justice.
'Guy Ward.' Gillian said when Torres finished reading. Her heart was pounding. Were her ears ringing? Or was that just her? Guy Ward. She remembered him. She and Cal had taken the case together, or it started out that way. In the middle of the investigation he'd begun telling her to stay behind, she had loads more important things to do, this one was easy, he already had it figured out. She hadn't even noticed when the little changes started cropping up -- he was right, she really was bogged down with work -- didn't realise he was behaving oddly until it was way too late. Not until she got the call from the hospital, saying he'd been shot.
But she remembered Ward. She hadn't liked him. He seemed a good enough guy, but she could tell the cop didn't like Cal. And besides, he had looked at her, Gillian, despite his lady friend, that other cop Hallowell. His partner.
Cal had never told her Hallowell died. He never talked about the case at all, ever again.
'When is this supposed to be printed?' She asked.
'Tomorrow morning.'
'Tell them to hold it. We can't let him know we're onto him.'
'They don't even think he's in the country.'
'I know. Just in case. Pull strings, Rea, we can't afford to risk it.'
'Okay.'
'Thank you. I'll call Eli. Once you've done all you can about the story, see what you can do about finding Ward.'
Cal, senior year at university
'Richie, where's all your stuff?' Cal paused in the door of the dorm they shared, blinking. 'I can actually see the walls in here, it's fuckin' eerie.'
Richie stood up from the desk, apparently in the middle of writing a letter. The notebook and pen were the only objects still not carried out to some waiting van to be carted off to New York. He glanced once between Cal and the notebook before the edges of his brown eyes crinkled in a minute grimace.
'I was hoping you wouldn't be back before nine.' Cal frowned at his roommate. Richie looked odd. It was the hair. He'd tamed it out of the John Oates hedge it usually bore, greased it back, making his brow stand out more and his eyes more serious. And then there were the clothes. No Dukes of Hazzard t-shirt or blue jeans. Instead he sported clean, pressed black slacks and a dark red Oxford, complete with silver watch and a couple of rings.
'Scratch.' Cal commented sombrely. He leaned against the doorframe, not really keen on entering a room where his were the only belongings, and said, 'you're going back.'
'I have to, Cal. Uncle Gino died.'
Cal inhaled sharply. Richie had invited him to dinner just the other week, with the entire clan. Gino had been real wizard, with a shitload of stories and a laugh gravely from decades of smoking. He'd taken Cal aside in the little hall between the kitchen and the dining room, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
'I hear a lotta good things about you, Cal. Seems like you're the best friend my nephew's got, and that means a lot to this family. You're a good kid, Cal. Take care of him.'
Take care of him. It was like a movie, an action flick where the best friend's dad takes the hero aside and charges him to protect and avenge.
Cal had loved the old, portly man instantly.
'I'm sorry.' He said quietly. Richie nodded, expression blank. He looked down at his shoes, new ones, shiny black.
'I'm glad I caught you, though.' Cal continued. He shrugged, half smiling when his roommate looked up again. 'This way I can tell you to your face, you bloody Tinkerbilly, that I'll personally kick your ass if you don't write.'
Richie returned his sad grin.
Three years ago
Paolo!' Cal roared when Hallowell crumpled. He shouldn't have shouted, not when Ricci had just shot someone else, but it was instinctive. Ricci's reaction was instinctive also. The second shot seemed quieter than the first, but only because the eruption of fire in his shoulder rather overshadowed it. Cal stumbled with a grunt, his momentum nearly carrying him into the concrete. He took an instant to reorient himself, panting and gasping.
Don't kill her, Richie.' he wheezed, bent double. 'She's a woman - killing women's against your rules, isn't it?' He heard Ricci breathing almost as hard as him, heard his shoes scuff a little as he moved furtively.
'How did you get involved with this bitch, Cal.' Stiff, furious, defensive. Predator turned prey.
'Police hired me to interrogate Donato.' Cal straightened a little, pressing against a spot over the wound to keep the flow down. Ricci's face bore so many emotions it was hard to distinguish them all, but his gun arm was steady. It pointed unwaveringly at Hallowell's prone form.
'And you did?' Voice like rock. Gun steady. Poised. Crouched.
'Course.' Cal said.
'Then why the message?'
'We're friends. You and me. Had to warn you.'
'And her?'
'Dirty cop. That's all.' Don't kill the dirty cop, Richie, don't. Just a dirty cop, plenty of those, not something worth murdering…
'She lied to me.' For a split second the rage eclipsed all the rest, and Ricci's trigger finger twitched. Cal let out a wordless noise in an attempt to give him pause. It worked; Ricci jerked at the unexpected noise. Cal capitalized on the split second he'd won.
'She's a woman.' He said, would-be calm. 'You can't kill her, the Family'll punish you for sure.'
'But -' There, he could use that --
'Listen to me, Richie. Get out of here. Run. If the cops nab the wrong guy, one that'll talk, Donato's going to prison. Your Family will need an acting boss. Leave the girl. I'll take care of her.'
Ricci was torn. Half of him was outraged, bloodthirsty, betrayed. Another part of him wanted to listen to Cal, listen to his old friend, trust his old friend, and still another demanded escape, survival, was hunting desperately for an out. In the end, whether it was loyalty or self-preservation that won out, Ricci ran. Cal watched vigilantly until he disappeared into the night, and then sank to the ground.
He checked Hallowell first. Unconscious, blood everywhere, pulse thready. But breathing. Pupils responded. The shot had gone right through her, right through the heart, Cal was stunned she was still alive.
Too late, help swarmed around them. Cal was carried away from Hallowell's prone body. Hands fluttered around him, touching, retreating, pressing and prodding. He started to drift.
Ward's face. Enraged. 'What the fuck happened, Lightman?'
'Runner. Saw us coming.' Cal said, staring up at the black sky. Ward swore.
'Us? Us? You stupid son of a bitch, you got her killed!'
He got a good punch in before a couple of medics restrained him, dragged him off. Cal spat blood.
'Told him not to kill her.' He muttered. 'She won't die.'
And he knew nothing.
Present, location unknown
'Guy, NO!'
He lunged, but too late; the picture froze in his mind before his feet carried him to the pyre: the ravenous flames spreading out away from the cigarette, up Lightman's legs, Lightman's face contorted in a silent scream, eyes wide open --
Dallas didn't remember snatching the blanket from his brother's armchair, didn't remember sprinting. He was just there, abruptly, half of him paralysed with horror as something more primal took over. His hands beat at the inferno with the blanket, striking a writhing human body. Dallas's own skin was beginning to burn from the exposure, a flame or two licking at his hands, but he couldn't stop seeing Lightman's face, jaw stretched in that terrible soundless roar, pupils dilated to nothing. Later he would see that face again, only with detail he couldn't grasp at the time. Later he would see the skin peeling, swelling, cracking. Later he would wake in cold sweats in the middle of the night, screaming, having dreamed of that face.
When the blaze was finally extinguished Dallas didn't pause. He flipped his switchblade open and hacked the ropes in two, just the wrists -- the binding at Lightman's ankles had been singed off already. He put his hands under the injured man's arms and lifted him out of the chair. Cal let out a gargled sort of cry as his back connected with the cold concrete, his eyes wild. He was still smoking. Dallas fought a gag, focussing hard on cutting open the shirt to get it away from the burns, assess the damage.
The trauma was extensive. Burns to the left region of the neck and chest, less severe where clothes had protected the flesh before Dallas was able to get to him, but all second and third degree. He would guess -- forty percent of the body -- needed water, needed to flood it --
'Doesn't hurt anymore.' Dallas jerked back in disbelief. Lightman had his eyes open again, though one of them was burnt. Dallas saw that eternal moment again; the hazel eyes wide with pain and fear, open to any damage the fire deigned appropriate; but Lightman must have closed them at some point, because the one that was affected wasn't too bad. Bad enough, but not too bad.
'What' Dallas asked, mind still operating on an assess-heal-save level.
'Doesn't hurt. Why not?'
Dallas knew the answer to that. Because there were no nerve endings left to feel pain. How the fuck was this guy alive?
'Decker's telling us he's got two calls about possible gunshots down at 665 Taylor St, and another about suspicious persons at the same location. I cross-referenced the descriptions, and one fits Guy Ward. The other matches his brother Dallas.'
'How long have they been there?' Gillian demanded.
'The first call was made three days after the office got bombed; the informant said he'd been seeing the same two guys hanging around outside the warehouse for the past few days, coming out periodically and smoking cigarettes, sometimes together, sometimes just the one guy. He said it didn't look like they'd ever actually left.'
'That's them, that's got to be them.' Gillian was already out the door, leaving it wide open in her haste to get to the parking lot. Her ears were ringing again, but this time it was distant. A flood of emotion was being quelled by Action. She needed to get to Cal. All else could follow. 'Call Decker back and tell him to dispatch a team now.'
'But what if --'
'Now, Torres!' Gillian snapped the phone shut and threw it onto the passenger seat, pulling out onto the street with a squeal of burning rubber. They were close, they had a location now, Cal would be there, Cal would be safe. She would get him back safe.
She got to the warehouse in the wake of three or four police teams. Aside from the police activity the place seemed abandoned. There were no outward signs of the horrors that were supposed to be going on inside, no blood pouring from the walls, no thunderclaps echoing ominously overhead. It was just a warehouse, vacant, innocent, in broad daylight. For a second Gillian faltered. Cal's life was at stake. Had her gut instinct been wrong? If this turned out to be the wrong place, would there be enough time to try again?
No. He had to be here. She had to believe that.
She stood by the car as the teams split up and surrounded the building, watched as the ones at the closest door pounded on it and shouted, 'Police, open up!' As at the ruin of the Lightman Building, she was the only one standing still, with no help to give except to bear witness. But that was all right. It would be okay, Cal was in there and they were going to get him out.
Cal
'Don't call the police!' For the first time in a while, Guy's voice was cold with authority, actually making Dallas's hand falter in dialling. But the pause lasted only a moment; he pressed the last 1 and held the cell to his ear, staring his older brother down. Guy stepped forward to slap it away, and Dallas dealt him a fist to the gut. All the air whooshed out of Guy as he doubled over, looking stunned. And then pissed.
'What the fuck do you think you're doing?' He snapped, gasping, 'You want to save him? You want to save that fucking demon?'
'Demon?' Dallas bit off, so angry by now that he could barely pronounce the words. 'You want to pull the Bible shit again? All right. I'll play. What did he say?'
Guy seemed to be trying to forget. Face twisted, he leapt up again and struck the phone out of Dallas's fist. He heard a tiny voice answering before the plastic made contact with concrete several metres off. Dallas didn't try for it. Instead he hit Guy again.
'What did he say, Guy?' He repeated as his brother staggered, lost his balance and fell backward onto the floor. 'Huh? You heard him. "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." You're the Jesus-maniac, you're the one who threw the Bible at him like acid at a murderer, you know what it means. By your own fucked-up logic, you just lit the Messiah on fucking fire!"
'He's not,' Guy stuttered, scrabbling back like a crab as Dallas advanced, 'he can't be, he killed --'
'Shut up, you lunatic!' Dallas roared. 'He didn't kill her! You're the demon, Guy Ward, playing God like this for eleven fucking days, torturing a man who's been trying to repent, who's been saving lives and championing the truth since before you even met him! God help me, I stood here with you and watched it happen, and I'm going to Hell for that, but you, brother, are the demon. Now give me your cell phone. This man is dying and I'm calling an ambulance.'
That was when he heard the banging. Muffled voices, shouting, authoritative. Dallas froze for an instant. Then he relaxed.
'The police are here, Guy.' He said, not looking at the maniac on the floor. 'It's over.'
'POLICE, DROP YOUR WEAPON!'
Weapon? The bark of a gun, and Dallas knew nothing.
Well, obviously it's not over yet. Keep reading!
Reviews fuel my muse -- any takers?
