Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
August 26th
14:23 EST
TV 18 Studios
Holden.
Angel.
Both lie broken and dead. I sit heavily on the hardwood floor, fighting a nauseating flow of images and pain. So much blood, so much blood the air is sickly, salty and sweet with its scent—
Gerald heaves a last sputtering breath. For nearly thirty seconds I stand, trembling in rage, chest heaving, heart racing breath hissing tears streaming—
Then I vomit, the knife clattering from my shaking fingers. I reel to my knees, adrenaline consuming me. Blood and urine soak the carpet, seeping out into the hall. Blood pours down the walls, blood is spattered across the ceiling. It greases my hands, drips warm and sticky down my face.
No regrets. No remorse. Only release…
In that moment I could never have guessed that this same dark victory would both haunt and carry me for the next thirteen years.
August 26th
14:27 EST
TV 18 Studios
Raised voices. Footsteps.
"Alright folks, you know the routine," a man's voice booms. "Tag 'em and bag 'em! Let's get goin'! God, what a mess."
I know that voice: Ronald Probson, MCU commander and world class asshole. "Jesus Christ!" His heavy, bumbling footsteps echo on the hardwood behind me. "What idiot let a woman in here? Great, just great. That's the last thing I need—"
Probson lays a greasy hand on my shoulder. "Ma'am, I'm gonna have one of these nice officers escort you out—"
I rip his hand off, flash him my badge, and flip him the bird.
August 26th
14:29 EST
TV 18 Studios
I stand slowly, stiff, weak…old.
I need help. Bleeding, battered, broken. Even now it is difficult to ask for.
Lawless crosses the floor, ignoring a sputtering, apologetic Probson. "Ready to go?" his hand is tight on my arm.
I nod. He leads me away. I take one final, backwards glance. Behind me, Holden and Baxter lie still and silent.
AngelAngel! He drops my Angel broken defiled dead blood pours from his small mouth I press my hands to the matte canvas screen, AngelAngelohgodohchristohfucknotAngel—!
The screen goes blank. He disappears. Lights flick on, silence sits heavily chairs scraping back Ramirez sobs Lawless stands the door swings open shut open shut open shut…I have no eyes for them, outstretched fingers still tracing the fading image of his perfect face, his impossible eyes…even in death he is so horribly, agonizingly beautiful—
Gordon's voice, sincere and mild. "I'm sorry, Paltron."
No tears. I am empty. I am spent. Gordon's footsteps echo down the hall. I am alone.
Angel is dead. No turning back. I made a promise and Memorial was nothing, nothing, it is death this time that calls to me. I caress the screen, one last time, eyes closed, his face still etched in my retinas.
I wrench away. Door. Hallway. Marble staircase. I blink in the heat and glory of the afternoon sun. It is fading and dying, a deep blood red, smoke pours over the horizon. Gotham. Alive. Angel dead. Hell is no longer the only realm where innocent angels are put cruelly to death.
The long, parched sidewalk, garbage and debris crunch under my unfeeling feet. I dare not raise my lidless eyes for hope, for understanding, for forgiveness…for peace. I know now there is none.
Gotham Memorial Hospital construction site. Dumpsters of wreckage, the whine of cranes the drone of drills the clatter of steel on steel the rent, gaping pits of bare earth flickering in the fading sun and rising, choking heat. Fumes rise, ash, and dust over a bloody sun tainting the whole world in blackened blood…
Angel. Dead.
I grip the rusty chain link perimeter fence, steel diamonds etching the skin of my forehead, fingers twisting tearing wrenching at my iron enemy, choking on rage, agony, bitterness. I release the fence, falling, face buried in chaffed hands rust like dried blood I stare, shaking. My guilt is ever before me.
A black, poisonous desire spreads through me like cancer: I would rather spend an eternity in Hell than one more moment in the presence of a deity who could do this….all this…and yet have gall to pretend Himself my saviour.
It is three blocks, three long blocks to my apartment, and only darkness awaits me. Yet I am Racheal. I will not be comforted. Call me Mara. God has dealt bitterly with me.
We round the corner, the hardwood floor disappearing again into tile. I tear my eyes away. I came here for closure.
I have found none.
August 19th
14:36 EST
TV 18 Studios
Lawless is a pillar, a rock. He steers me back down the long hallway, camera bulbs flashing, microphones thrust in our faces. "No comment!" Lawless barks, a steadfast answer in a tossing, tumultuous sea of Babel:
"Ma'amwereyouheredidyouseetheJokerwhathappenedcany outellusanythingofficerwhathappened?"
"No fucking comment!" Lawless' glare burns over my bowed head, silencing my tormenters.
We walk again the long hallway, and we leave them behind. The sound of rustling paper, upraised voices, and the crackling of microphones dies slowly down. I stagger back down the stairs, leaning heavily on Lawless' arm. I stop dead on the final step.
Gordon. Commissioner James Gordon. He is with the GCPD canine unit, a handler juggling the leashes of two yawning bloodhounds to point in my direction. My knee gives out. I sit heavily on the marble tile, the weight of my pain, my guilt, my shame pressing me down. I lower my gaze to the floor. My heart pounds in fear and doubt. I dare not look at him.
"James Gordon, do you swear to tell the truth, all whole truth and nothing but the truth?"
"I swear."
My face is in my handcuffed hands, laid against the table top. I raise my eyes slowly through my shaking fingers, glancing up through strings of sweaty hair. Gordon. I feel relief. Gordon. Gordon knows me. Gordon will vouch for me-
The prosecuting attorney walks him through December seventh, eighth and ninth. The interview lasts nearly an hour. The whole time, Dent scrawls notes and questions in rapid succession. My stomach is sinking, sinking down as the interview progresses. Gordon refuses to make eye contact. There can only be one reason: he believes me guilty. But Angel's secret must be silenced. I have locked it away behind my lips. Come what may, I must bear this burden, will pay any price—no matter how horrible—to love him…
Let me help you. Dent shoves a scrap of paper across the bench. I avert my eyes. I can't help you if you won't talk to me!
Surillo nods to Dent. "Are there any questions from the defense?"
"Yes, your honor." Dent stands, walking briskly in front of the judge's stand. "You told my colleague that my client's relationship to the boy was 'decidedly out of character,' " he checks his notes. "What did you mean by that?"
"Objection, your honor—"
"Overruled," Surillo states succinctly.
Jim sighs heavily, his mild tones barely amplified by the small microphone. "I'd never seen her like that before."
"Before the night of December the seventh, had you ever personally witnessed the defendant interact with children?"
"No."
"And just how then would you determine her relationship to be decidedly 'out of character' if you had no past experience to reference?"
"Objection, your honor—"
"Overruled," Surillo says coolly. "Mr. Gordon, please answer the question."
Jim blinks. "Her behavior was…most unusual."
"And by unusual, do you mean sexual?" Dent holds him in an intense stare, a grim smile on his face. "Those are the charges, are they not? Kidnapping, Forcible rape, Child rape, Sodomy of a minor by instrument—"
"Mr. Dent, we are all very much aware of the nature of your client's charges!" Prosecution barks, standing to her feet. "Now will you please continue examining the witness?"
Surillo raps the gavel, demanding silence. "You, sit down," she orders sternly. Prosecution glowers, lowering herself to the waiting bench with as much composure as she can muster. Surillo turns back to the Witness Stand. "Answer the question, Mr. Gordon."
"Yes," Jim whispers.
"Sorry," Dent says, stepping closer. "But which question were you answering?"
"The charges."
"And what about the defendant's relationship with the boy? What you witnessed? Would you—on the night of December the seventh, and December the eighth—have described it as sexual?"
"I—yes, possibly."
Dent paces in front of the stand, and I lower my face again to the table, it's cool, polished surface smooth against my skin. It reflects perfectly, a deep, rich darkness…liquid and light like my Angel's eyes…
"Mr. Gordon, you told my esteemed colleague that your partner's relationship to the boy in question was decidedly out of character. You have now amended that to 'ususual' and finally, 'possibly sexual.' What basis can you give us for making this determination? How long have you known the defendant?"
"Nearly four years."
Dent continues to pace. I have spent countless silent hours in his presence now, and know it is a sign not of nervousness but of thinking. The constant, steady tick of his feet permeates all my memories of our endless interviews.
"And in what capacity have you known the defendant?"
"We were partners. We worked together closely," Jim amends.
"And are you currently or have you ever been in any way romantically or sexually involved with the defendant," Dent stops again, directly in front of Gordon. "It might seem superfluous to remind you, Mr. Gordon, but you are under oath."
Jim's answer is indistinguishable. Even here, with the weight of this jury upon me, I cannot help but heave a bitter smile. Gordon is fiercely loyal to Barbara…and I? I was abandoned by the only man who ever claimed to love me. I love Angel relentlessly. But I will never do something so foolish as to let myself be loved again.
"Mr. Gordon, please answer the defense's question," Surillo's voice is cold.
"No," he states defiantly, leaning forward into the microphone, the first time his mild voice has risen to anything about a whisper.
"No?" Dent asks in mock surprise. "Then on what experiential basis do you judge her relationship with him to have been 'possibly' sexual?"
There are murmurs from the crowd, some angry, some amused. Prosecution looks affronted. "Objection, your honor!"
"Overruled!" Surillo barks.
Gordon is silent.
"And, if 'possibly' sexual, what apology can you offer as to why these suspicions were not reported immediately to Child Protective Services? You are, in fact, aware that State Law requires the documentation of suspected child abuse or neglect by any licensed teacher, social service worker, government employee, medical personnel…as well as every civilian adult? With negligence of performing these duties constituting complicity in any act of neglect or abuse/"
"Objection, your honor! Mr. Gordon has the right to deign self-incriminating information."
Surillo leans back in that uncomfortable wooden seat. "Objection noted."
"Then," Dent says, dark eyes boring into Surillo's, "I am positive that a separate investigation will be opened looking into possible negligence surrounding this case—" he has balls. And a mouth. If he isn't careful, he'll be called in contempt.
Surillo agrees. "Mr. Dent, you will resume questioning the witness, not me, and will refrain from making such assumptions again in this court."
A low murmur eats through the faceless crowd behind me.
"Yes, your honor," Dent acquiesces gracelessly, turning his attention back to Gordon. "So, Mr. Gordon, you did not immediately report suspicious activity to CPS. Could a possible explanation be that you had no such initial suspicions regarding a sexual relationship between my client and the boy in question?"
I raise my eyes to Gordon.
"Yes, no. I," Gordon stops, unable to look at me. Dent is dancing with his words, hoping to trip Gordon through syntax and style. He has nothing else to go by. I haven't pled, have offered him nothing…I respect him against my will. He is a court appointed attorney, he believes me guilty of a heinous act—an act so terrible and disgusting that I killed its perpetrators—yet he fights a losing battle…like Robert E. Lee, a cause for which he does not stand. Yet he still fights tenaciously with both poise and tact.
Gordon is no fool. He is silent a long, long time, mulling the question and his answer. Finally he speaks. " I had no such initial suspicions. I thought it was….odd. And out of—" Gordon stops, flushing. "I thought it was odd. Nothing more."
Dent nods, feet ticking anxiously at the hardwood flooring. "So you admit your initial impression was one of oddness, and that it is only in reflection that you see the defendant's relationship to have been 'possibly sexual?' "
"Yes."
"And when did these reflections begin, Mr. Gordon? Did you reach this 'possible' conclusion before, or after, you heard what charges the defendant was faced with?"
"I, I don't know."
"Then think. Did you believe the defendant to engage in predatory behavior, or exhibit pedophilic tendencies, before the night of December the seventh?"
"No."
"And on December the seventh?"
"No."
"And on December the eighth? You admittedly spent nearly twenty hours in close contact with both the defendant and the boy in question. Did you experience any suspicions then? Did you witness the defendant in any behaviors that may be compromising or 'possibly' sexual?"
"I, I didn't suspect anything then, no."
"Do you have reason to be suspicious now? Outside of the alleged accusation? I must remind you the defendant is innocent until proven guilty."
"I, yes. In retrospect, yes."
"And what, Mr. Gordon, was it about the defendant's behavior that you now consider incriminating?"
Gordon is silent. My heartbeats are loud in my ears, the echo of Dent's pacing footsteps. I know what Gordon will say: Angel's head against my breasts, my lips on his face, one hand in his hair…his tiny hands, cherubic smile, sleepy, contented eyes….tears well in my own, dripping fat and round onto the reflective surface of the polished table. Jim how could you think that—? How could anyone think it was anything but what it was—!
"Mr. Gordon, you said the defendant was 'holding' the boy in question. Is this the behavior to which you refer?"
Gordon nods. Surillo probes him. "Mr. Gordon, please answer the defense's question."
"Yes," Gordon states.
"Thank you, Mr. Gordon." Dent continues. "Describe for us what you mean by holding, please."
Gordon glances at me involuntarily, shuddering. "She, she—"
"Pardon, Your Honor, Mr. Gordon, but I want to set the record clear. By 'she' are you referring to the defendant?"
"Y-yes," Gordon says. "Detective Palt—yes. The defendant," he cannot even speak my name without swallowing, as though choking on both guilt and bile.
"Continue," Surillo orders.
"She—the defendant—had the boy sitting in her lap."
"And that behavior is…suspicious?" Dent queries. "How so?"
Gordon lowers his eyes, unable to look out at the crowd, unwilling to face the deluge of cameras. He finds himself as culpable as me. To stand by and do nothing, nothing. He has seen the pictures, the evidence…and it eats him like acid. If there is one thing Jim Gordon will do it is amend his mistake. He will see me charged, he will see me guilty, he will see me brought to justice. He is Honor. That is what he does.
"I had no reason to be suspicious then. But I had worked in SVU before Homicide."
"And under what circumstances did you leave SVU?"
"I was transferred-voluntarily," Gordon whispers. "I no longer wished to work with such cases."
"And do you believe your experience with SVU is what caused you to become suspicious of your partner's behavior?"
"Yes."
I know it bitterly and all too well. I have the perfect profile: Single. Good standing member of society. Community Service Worker. Respected. Rejected. Three psychologists analyzed my silence, my apartment, my medical history…. my husband left me and now I'm so fucking alone I MUST crave sexual attention in any manner that will make me powerful and dominant…I can't have kids will never have kids therefore I MUST be a sociopath, molesting child-hater…
Gordon relates this all to Dent, as succinctly and objectively as possible. He even calls for the physical evidence to be brought back in, pictures passed to the jury, slides of skin cells, hair, a bag of child's clothing… a bloody sheet, a scarlet soaked mattress, the medical findings of Angel's examination-
The audience sits, faces alternately stony or weeping. Barbara Gordon sobs openly, face twisted and buried in her trembling hands. Judge Surillo has turned a whiter shade of pale, prim lips pressed, jaw set. Every mother, every woman in this room is shaking in rage or sorrow. Or both.
Gordon goes through them carefully. Methodically. I recognize his style. I realize it was he who collected the data, he who swabbed my shower my sinks my counters, he who supervised the removal of my mattress, coating it in plastic, driving it to evidence, he who interviewed the ER personnel, he who collected the bloody sheet, he who traced my car….and all in a bitter and vain attempt to somehow find me innocent.
After fifteen minutes, Dent interrupts him. "With witnesses like you, Mr. Gordon, one hardly needs a prosecuting attorney." Prosecution glares, but Surillo silences her with one imperial glance. Dent resumes his pacing, thinking, contemplating, trapped. He has no more room in which to run, no space left to maneuver. "And you are convinced, are you not, Mr. Gordon, that there can be no alternative explanation?"
"I have looked for one," Jim whispers. "God as my witness I have looked for one."
Dent is silent, his conscience catching up with him. He can no more pretend that the details of my case do not bother him. Even the ever present scuffling sound of his shoes has finally and terribly ceased. He raises his eyes and speaks.
His next questions—and Gordon's answers—will seal my guilt.
"You purport to have known the defendant well?"
"I believe I may have been the closest person to her, yes."
"One final question, Mr. Gordon. Just one. Consider carefully-as a partner, your relationship with the defendant, and as an officer experienced in these mattes-the presented evidences and testimonies. Can you or do you both personally and professionally find the defendant to be guilty of the crimes she is charged with?"
Gordon removes his glasses, wiping his sweating face on his shirt. He reaches for a Styrofoam cup and drains it. He replaces the glasses with shaky hands and clears his throat. "The evidences are…undeniable." A sudden hush has fallen, a silence so grave even Jim's mild voice carries, loud enough for all to hear. It is a death knell in my heart. He looks directly into my eyes, piercing me, pinning me both silent and still. I dare not move, dare not blink, dare not breathe lest I betray myself here at the end. I am guilty—must be guilty—to silence Angel's secret. "Testimony of neighbors as well as GCPD vehicle tracking place her at the scene of the kidnapping. Testimony as well as hospital security again place her concretely at Gotham Memorial Hospital…and the, the overwhelming, the sheer….volume of physical evidence-the boy's skin cells, hair, and blood-collected both from her person and from the Philadelphia apartment—"
His voice breaks. He chokes back tears, removing his glasses again and wiping them away. "I am, convinced, in light of these evidences, that Officer…that she, that the defendant, my partner, Officer Guinevere Paltron, returned to the house on Decmember eighth, kidnapped the boy from his remaining parent, killed four eye-witnesses, then proceeded to take him back to her apartment where she…abused him, before delivering him to Emergency Services personnel at Gotham Memorial Hospital."
A long, trembling sigh shivers through my lips. Twin tears burn down my cheeks.
Dent closes his eyes, face lifted towards the ceiling. He had counted on friendship's weakness...had hoped for professionally, not personally. Had overlooked Jim Gordon's unbiased, unwavering, uncompromising justice. It is now too late to retract the question.
Dent sighs. "Mr. Gordon, answer the question, please. Do you find the defendant to be guilty as charged?"
"Beyond all shadow of doubt," Gordon whispers. "Either reasonable...or simply hoped for."
Now Gordon is again in front of me. I am silent, head bowed. I dare not raise my eyes to his face, to look at a man so fiercely loyal yet honorable beyond compromise or the shadow of suspicion. Gordon pities, yes. He understands.
But he can never condone.
I can stop this here. Confess, or forever remain silent, hoping in this chaos my crimes will go unnoticed…
But in my heart I know that Angel's killer cannot remain unpunished.
August 26th
14:40 EST
TV 18 Studios
Gordon surveys me closely, absorbing every detail from my haggard face to my bloodied knee. For a long moment he is speechless. Lawless lays a hand on his arm, pulling him away. "Jim, listen—"
I shudder as false relief eats through me. This is but the eye of the storm. I will still have to face unwavering justice of Jim Gordon.
"Miss, are you sure you're alright?" It's Fox's voice. I turn slowly, eyes refocusing on his dark face. He and Wayne have been here in the Atrium this entire time. Fleetingly I wonder what it is they are here for…
"You don't look…well, Miss…Paltron?" Wayne begins hesitantly, sitting next to me. "I'd really feel better if you saw a doctor-you're a police officer, you know? If I leave before EMS gets to you isn't that considered a hit and run? Or am I excused because you're the one who ran off?" It is a failed attempt at humor. I close my eyes, and lean against the banister. Exhaustion, like heavy, irresistible waves rolls slowly over me.
Wayne lowers his voice, all vestige of humor vanished. "You wouldn't have seen a young woman in there, twenty-five or twenty-six? Blonde? Cameron Shaw?"
I shake my head no, falling deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. I catch snatches of Lawless' conversation. I hear Lawless growling psychological leave, temporary leave of duty…depression, stress…for God's sake, Jim, suicidal—! Wayne hears the last word, I can tell. He tenses suddenly, shifting, an inadvertent, sidelong glance in the shrinking silence.
"…Connolly's death," Jim answers lowly, almost pitying.
Connolly. Jimmy. Angel—!
Gerald lies dead, I fall to my knees, the knife clattering from my hand. I am covered in urine and blood, chest heaving, throat burning, tears splashing. Destroy the evidence, Gerald had yelled. Blood drips off the bed covers, hot and heavy down my back—
Angel, not Angel no not dead not Angel too! I drag myself up the covers, staring across the bed frame—
That bastard lies there, pants-less and dead. Neck twisted unnaturally, all remnants of his laughter gone. I must blink several times before the truth finally sears into my unbelieving heart: my Angel isn't there.
"Angel?" I whisper anxiously. "Angel!"
Frantically I lift the bed skirt, peering under and across. I run to the other side, slipping on slick, red blood, saturated carpet squelching under my feet—
I shove the bed away from the wall. I rip the covers back, I tear my hair gone gone he is gone! Angel what did they do to you—!
Something hot splatters down my face. I start from my sleep, putting my hands hastily to my cheeks. It isn't blood. It's tears. My tears. For the second time today I find myself weeping.
August 19th
14:43 EST
TV 18 Studios
Weeping.
I rummage through my pocket, scrabbling fingers around the Tylenol. My forehead is flushed, eyes burning, room blackening. I am shaking. I have lost so much blood—so much blood!—and have only started with the antibiotics…Angel is crying, crying I can hear his soft, chirping voice, words unformed-my heart leaps, he is alive!
Hallucinating.
A hand is laid again on my arm as I pop four of the small white pills and swallow. I turn my head in surprise. It isn't Lawless.
It's Wayne.
"You sure I can't get you to see a doctor?"
A soft moaning sound. Small, tiny sobs, muffled and faint.
I try to speak, to say I appreciate his concern, I may even accept his offer…instead I face him in horror, nails digging into his hand, paling in shock-
Angel! Angel! Where are you? ANGEL—!
I hear it again. Faint, muffled sobs. So low I thought I was imagining them. "Can you hear that?" I hiss.
His concerned hazel eyes travel from my face to Fox's, his thin lips pressing together, his silence saying everything: psychological leave, temporary leave of duty…depression, stress…for God's sake, Jim, suicidal—!
Wayne and Fox believe I am having a mental break down, perhaps Lawless does as well. I am petrified by Angel's cries. And I am terrified they might be right.
Wayne's grip tightens on my arm. But that sobbing grows only louder, more insistent, like a newborn's cry…and that preterhuman, monstrous maternal instinct consumes me in a terrible rush of adrenaline and doubt.
Angel!
I jump off the step, hitting the floor in a desperate, staggering run. Angel is here I know Angel is here I can hear him, my aching, protesting body crying out sharply with every labored, bloody step—
"Hey, Hey!" Wayne has tightened his grip on my arm, he is so strong, so fucking strong he grabs me around the waist I bite, kick, scratch, shin-scrape, elbow him in the solar plexus with all my might, struggling loose and careening down the hall.
"Paltron!" Lawless shouts after me. "Paltron!"
I tear the mattress off the bed, rip the dresser from the wall. I open the closet-nothing! I run back to the hall, long shards of plaster and wood cut from the baseboards, dripping blood and bits of flesh, I find whole fingernails embedded in the doorframe—
But no Angel.
"Angel!" I shout,"Angel!"
I double back over the slick floor, wheeling left, sliding on my own blood. Doors pass open shut vents from the ceiling low moaning sounds—a janitor's closet, a staircase, a break room—the sobs are getting louder. I'm coming Angel, I'll find you, no matter what I'll find you—
Retracing my steps, swearing, cursing, praying God where is he what have you done with him—! I roll the mutilated corpses over, sprays of blood around my fingers dead faces flopping. They are heavy and pliable, soft and yielding…but Angel isn't among them.
"Angel!" I scream. "Angel!" But nothing greets me but horrible, horrible silence.
"Paltron, what the fuck!" Lawless and Gordon grab me from behind, I twist, tear, writhe. Their strong arms are under mine, lifting me, slamming me into the wall—
"Put me down—!" teeth gnashing, feet flailing Wayne joins them he is so fucking strong! "Please, please, oh God AngelAngelAngel! I can hear him I can hear him can't you hear him? Get the fuck off of me! Let me go to him—just let me go—!"
"Paltron, Paltron, look at me!" Jim orders sternly. "There's nothing there!"
I fall back on my knees, heart sinking, blood spattered, horribly spent, entirely lost, surrounded by the savagery of my sins. I rock slowly, lilting, hands to my horrified face. Angel…Angel….
That small, chirping sob. I crawl slowly, disbelieving, redeemed towards the open, cluttered closet…it comes again, faint and desperate. I begin to dig, knocking aside shoes and piles of clothes, hundreds upon hundreds of unlabeled DVD's…my hand finds something sticky in the darkness, warm and phlegmatic—
I shudder, shaking my hand in revulsion, wiping my fingers hurriedly on the nearest shirt, desperate to get the semen off-I stop short. I have reached the back of the closet. And still no Angel.
That tiny sob comes again. Muffled. Trapped. I run my sickened fingers over the seams of the walls, the door, the floor…I find a bulge. What feels like old, worn denim caught in the angle between the back wall and the right. The crack is so small, I cannot grasp it with my scrabbling nails. I crawl out, fingers searching for the familiar handle of the knife.
I wedge the blade in the crack, wiggling, wrestling, it grows wider and wider. "Angel!" I am screaming, sobbing. "Angel!" It cracks open I tear, claw scratch pull wrest open this heinous compartment, pneumatic seal pssssting—
A tiny, trembling foot withdraws into the yawning darkness. I am shaking with rage with release I peer in, my Angel lays curled and cramped in a tiny, sound proof cell only eighteen inches tall, his pants still twisted and shoved down over his feet, one ripped hem caught in the seal of the door. If it hadn't been for their haste and carelessness, I never would have found him.
"Paltron, Paltron, listen to me!" Jim says urgently. "Paltron, you're imagining things-"
"I heard him, Jim! I fucking heard him!" I stare desperately into his eyes his face searching praying begging for any other answer. His face is haggard, grey circles deep and dark under his drooping, dogged eyes. My lips part, face blanching.
Gordon—whatever he is, whatever he may think of me—would never lie. Not even now.
My lungs are aching I am coughing, I can't fucking breathe. My right knee buckles as they release the pressure on my arms. I tumble down the wall, collapsing to the floor. I am wretched, miserable. Footsore and heartsick.
Lawless, Wayne, and Fox exchange wondering glances. "He isn't here, Paltron," Jim says gently, sincerely, slowly kneeling beside me. "He's gone."
My heart falls again, sick and bitter. He's right: Angel is dead. And yet, yet I still feel his panting breath, his warmth, his tears…
Angel is sobbing, sobbing I slink into that horrifying space his face in my chest pull him closer kiss him harder safe in my arms they will never hurt you again no one will hurt you ever again, Angel, I promise.
Holden and Baxter lie upstairs, dead. Murdered by Angel's killer. I heave a laugh that is a sob, both black and bitter. So much for all my promises…
Wayne, Fox, and Lawless are all panting, resting hands on knees, wiping sweat across their foreheads. Gordon lays a timid, hesitant touch on my arm as Wayne grimaces and presses a hand against his aching stomach.
Then a soft, muffled sob echoes undeniably through the hallway.
August 19th
14:52 EST
TV 18 Studios
We bang open the bathroom door, Lawless whipping out his service pistol as I run to the second stall, shoving it open—
A young woman sits up, gasping in shock and surprise. I don't notice her tears her red rimmed eyes her pale and blotchy skin. I can realize only one thing: It isn't Angel.
Staggering, dazed. It is as though he has been ripped from my arms yet again. The room is spinning, spinning I am spent, tired, worn. I sit heavily on a sagging sink, soapy scum and water eating through the back of my pants, the haunting ghost of my barrenness. Vision blurry I rest my head in my hands. My knee throbs, pulsing and burning. It isn't him.
The four men squeeze towards the tiny stall, stepping over the tangle of my legs.
"Shaw!" Wayne whispers. "Jesus Christ, Shaw what happened?"
TV 18 Reporter Cameron Shaw lies sobbing on the floor, the reek of vomit rising from the open toilet.
Wayne climbs awkwardly to her, pulling her into his arms and soothing her tears.
"He, he was my fiancée and he left me for Natalie and so I said so I told him I said I wished he was dead!" She balls her fists into his Armani shirt, stretching the dark fabric.
"Hey, it's alright. Okay? You're fine. It's alright, Shaw. It's over—"
"I didn't want him to die—!" she chokes the last word, a sob and stomach acid escaping through her clenched and grinding teeth.
"Shaw, Shaw, Cameron," Wayne grips her shoulders in his huge hands. "It's over. Okay? It's all over—"
But he is wrong. It isn't over. It is far from being over…
His voice is calm and low, soothing her tears. One large, spidery hand gently rubbing her back. He helps her stand, supporting her tiny frame, looking to Gordon. "I'll take her back to the station, if that's acceptable."
Gordon nods his consent as Wayne and Fox leave the cramped restroom, the young reporter still sniffling in misery.
The door swings shut. I am trapped. Just Lawless, Gordon, and I…
August 26th
15:00 EST
TV 18 Studios
My silence can only condemn me. "Any word on the schools?" I finally whisper, raising my aching eyes to Gordon's. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
"No," he states, leaning against the opposite wall, breathing deeply and slowly, eyes shut, head rolling back. "We've got bomb squads out, searching what we believe to be his primary targets. Miller's got National Guard helping with that...and evacuations. But there's still fifteen minutes left until school gets out. We're not through this until then."
I remember the ferries. Lawless and I were with the Arkham inmates. I shudder. "BB and..." I can't say Jimmy. "and your son?"
He smiles grimly. "Home. Sick. Both caught strep from a birthday party."
Lawless stares at us, head cocked to the left, one brow raised. He is shrewd. So shrewd.
I sit, shaking in pain and doubt, my guilt again before me. Water drips, drips, drips in the sink behind me, punctuating the silence. Finally, mercifully, Lawless speaks. "What now?"
Gordon finally sighs, opening his eyes again, becoming brisk and businesslike. "In light of the..." he casts a glance at Lawless, "circumstances."
Thirteen years of bitterness, regret, anger, hatred, and resentment fall deep and heavy between us. I have long since stopped being Gordon's friend...and yet I had to have been blind not to see that he was still and always mine.
"In light of the circumstances, I'm granting you a temporary leave of absence for...health reasons." He could have terminated me, suspended me...written me up for psych. But he lets me walk, unscathed...yet more of his compassion I do not deserve. I feel guilty, horribly guilty, for accepting his mercy now when it should be judgment instead. But there will be time enough for that. When the Joker is dead, when Angel is avenged...I will turn myself in. I promise, Jim. I promise.
"Thank you," the words slip from my lips, twin tears leaking down my face. I slip further down the sink, burning face laid against the cool plastic of the paper towel dispenser. My eyes are shut. I am blind. Only sound can decipher what happens next. A ringing phone, a curse, the door bangs open and shut. I blink. Gordon is gone. In his place is a small boy with dark, lachrymose eyes, wet curls bleeding fat drops of water down his smooth, silken skin, so pale and eerie against the blackness of the oversized T-shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, his tiny feet bare, a slow puddle of water pooling around them, between his toes…
I blink again. The boy is gone. Lawless stands in front of me, surveying me cautiously. Fleetingly I wish he would take me in his arms and let me cry against him as weak and as wretched as Shaw.
But he does not.
He needs no answers. No explanations. He trusts Gordon. Trusts me-trusts me to be as strong and independent as I have always been. It is better this way. Lawless is strength, Gordon is honor. Yet there are times—desperate times—when even these best of virtues can seem both callous and cruel.