Hey, it's a new chapter! Woo boy, is this one cruel. Fair warning, as soon as Samuels' part comes up, be on the look out for nightmare fuel, accidental or otherwise. You have been warned.
Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.
- o – o -
Chapter Thirteen: Up is Down
Vince had absolutely no idea why he was poking around the dump site. It had already been picked clean by the CSI's, and the mountain of dirt hiding the site had been pulled down and sifted for more clues. No one had found anything, but the site was still quarantined. The vigilante slipped under the yellow tape, feeling mildly guilty about breaking procedure. Of course, he hadn't operated with a badge in almost a year, so the guilt was only a mild twinge.
The vigilante paced around the very edge of the perimeter, scanning the ground in a grid. If the CSIs had missed anything, it would have been exceptionally small, or buried. The buried evidence theory was probably a crapshoot though, seeing as ARK had brought in a backhoe to dig up the entire area so they could sift the dirt down to six feet. Vince had heard rumors that the area was going to be turned into a community garden after Philips was recovered, dead or alive. (Despite his hatred of the man, Vince was honestly rooting for the man to come back alive.)
He sighed and began a spiral search pattern from the center of the site outwards. He honestly wasn't expecting to find anything—avoiding the cave was his primary motivation. Anarchy and Orwell were having what amounted to a virtual cock contest as they tried to find more data than the other that could relate to the killings. The Jackals' files hadn't produced much, and even contacting them directly hadn't done much. (Well, aside from Sergeant Hanson, who'd threatened to use them for target practice after he tracked them down. Corporal Hartman's psychiatrist had refused to let them speak to his patient.)
Vince stopped his search pattern and pulled a penlight out of his pocket. He could have sworn he'd seen something flash in what little light had filtered down into the alley from the moon. The vigilante moved the penlight slowly in an arc, hoping to spot whatever it was. It was probably spare change or a rat, or a lighter…
He froze as the light glanced off of something too big to be spare change or a small animal. It was a video camera, half buried in the dirt outside the search area. Vince pulled his gloves back on and picked the camera up, brushing dirt off the casing with trembling fingers. A video camera, if the CSIs hadn't forgotten it, was invaluable proof. He just hoped that Orwell, Anarchy, or even—God forbid—the ARK techs could get the video off of it.
He pulled the camera strap over his head and headed for the tape. This was the only thing he needed at the moment. If it belonged to the CSIs, he'd stick it in the mail for them.
Vince straddled his motorcycle and headed for the lair.
- o – o -
Orwell and Anarchy had finally abandoned their contest by the time Vince arrived back at the lair. The two hackers were staring at the coffeepot like a pair of cats, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Vince was half tempted to spike it with catnip some day to see what happened. Maybe they'd act like his sister-in-law's old cat and go into drugged-out comas or something.
"How are the two of you at data recovery?" Vince asked, breaking in on the hackers' coffeepot vigil. They glared at him, until the words "data recovery" registered with them. They grabbed the camera away from Vince and rushed over to their bank of computers, talking in terms that Vince couldn't even pretend he understood.
Twenty minutes later, a very pale Orwell came over.
"Vince…as much as I hate to say this, we need to send a copy of this to ARK."
If Orwell thought they needed to share information with ARK, then it was Bad with a capital B. Vince sighed and pulled his costume back on. He was heading back out again, and he didn't even know what was on the tape.
- o – o -
Peter was sitting at his desk when the vigilante appeared in front of him. The billionaire sat back in his chair, an expectant look on his face. This wasn't the first time the vigilante had come into his penthouse in the middle of the night, after all. He wondered what was going to be dropped in his lap this time.
"Hello Peter," the vigilante rasped. He held something out. "I found new evidence. It's bad." Judging by the man's tone, it was.
"Should I ask how bad it is?" Peter asked, looking at the package on his desk. He looked up when he received no answer. The only sign the vigilante had been there was a faint smell of smoke and the open window. He sighed. He hated it when the vigilante did that.
I want to figure out if he teleports or not, Chess muttered.
"Quiet," Peter replied, unwrapping the case. He'd have turned it over to forensics for prints, but he was more interested in evidence than catching the vigilante at the moment. His fingerprints were going to be all over this in a minute.
Peter pushed the play button as soon as the CD was in the disc player. Five minutes later, he was bending over the trashcan, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bin. The video continued playing in the background, rolling the gruesome statistics and information related to the footage of torture.
The Appraiser had filmed the torture of every single ARK man he'd abducted. Even though he'd muted the sound to keep his staff from coming in to check on him, Peter could hear each and every scream perfectly. Even taking his own sordid past into account, the billionaire couldn't imagine how depraved someone had to be to do something like that. Chess' kills had always been quick, even if they hadn't been clean.
Fifteen minutes later, Peter had finished rinsing his mouth. He'd also used half a bottle of Listerine to get rid of the foul taste of bile, but that wasn't important.
Peter, let me drive. You can't handle this, Chess murmured. It said something that the psychopath had such a soothing voice. It was also disturbing. Peter… Peter, you can't handle this. Let me drive until this is over.
"Not bloody likely," Peter snapped in reply. He looked over at the screen, which was finally winding down to the last minutes of film. He swore profusely as he finally caught sight of the psychopath.
"On second thought, Chess…"
Doctor Samuels was going to be a very, very dead man by the time Chess was finished with him…
- o – o -
Samuels was in a very bad mood. His video camera was missing—he'd documented all of his cases on that damn thing! His guest downstairs was beginning to crack, and he had no way to fucking document it. To say he was in a bad mood was an understatement. The doctor sighed and slumped down in his leather armchair, rubbing his face with one hand.
Perhaps he'd just misplaced it. He could find it later, after he checked on his guest. Samuels stood up and adjusted his coat; appearances were important, after all. The psychiatrist walked over to the basement door and undid the locks. He knew having that many locks on one door looked suspicious, but he'd always been able to pass it off as a safety measure for when he had patients in residence. It said something that the inspectors believed him. (Of course, he was also paying them not to look, but that wasn't the point.)
He descended the stairs at a sedate pace, mentally going over the places he might have put the camera so he could check them later. His guest, young Jacob Philips, was lying on his side. The young man's eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow. The bandages around his ankles were bloody again.
Samuels sighed as he took in the signs. It had been a week since he'd first brought this subject home. The others had lasted longer than this… Of course, the others hadn't been nearly as tenacious in their escape attempts. The majority of them had been under the impression that he'd let them go—or give them a mercy kill, in their last few days—once he was done with whatever he was doing. Philips, on the other hand…
He was special. Philips had something the others hadn't… He had a singular will to live. Even the men who'd been married, and had had children, hadn't been this obscenely dedicated to escaping. The psychiatrist had to wonder what made this latest man different from the others. What did he have to live for that the others hadn't?
"Philips," Samuels said gently, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. Philips moaned in pain. "Jacob, wake up." He shook the younger man, gently at first, and then grew more insistent when the security officer squeezed his eyes shut instead.
"Go 'way dad," Philips mumbled, almost inaudibly. "'s a Saturday…" He brushed Samuels' hands away, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Samuels sighed impatiently and grabbed the hose from its stand. Philips jerked away the second the jet of ice water blasted into his side.
"Good evening, Jacob," Samuels said pleasantly, turning the icy cold spray of water off. He hung the hose back up and sat down at the table. "How are you?"
"Piss off," Philips grumbled tiredly. The paralytic was still leaving his system, and seemed to have mutated into a sedative. Samuels smiled at him.
"I'm afraid our time together is coming to a close," the doctor said, sounding almost sad. Philips curled up instinctively, not even bothering to hide his whimper of pain as his ankles dragged against the cot. Samuels had done a decent job of slicing through the tendons and nerves, effectively crippling him. It would take surgery and a lot of therapy before he'd even be able to think about hobbling around with assistance, Philips knew.
"It's a pity to lose a specimen like you," the psychiatrist continued. "I was so sure I'd get what I needed with you, but… Well, that's what you get, I suppose." He smiled kindly at Philips, although the smile disappeared when Philips made a rude gesture. "But, I suppose you should know that your time here has been well spent. I've got several new theories now, and it's a pity you won't get to see them come into play."
"Bet you say that to all the guys," Philips slurred. He closed his eyes and tried not to cry as Samuels picked up a familiar bag of clear liquid. The paralytic dulled his senses somewhat, but not enough that he could ignore everything the psychotic doctor was doing to him. Philips prayed that Samuels would just get bored enough to kill him quickly, now, and knew the man wouldn't.
Samuels moved off him half an hour later. Oh so gently, he wiped the tears off Philips' face with a clean white hankerchief.
"Good boy," he murmured softly, rubbing Philips' cheek. He left the room, not bothering to disconnect the IV from Philips' arm.
Philips wished he could die.
- o – o -
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