Chapter 44

Desperation

Author's note: These chapters were really hard to write because I love these characters, especially Mick and Beth. But it's where the story took me…

Intro song: Way Down We Go, Kaleo

"Who authorized this?!"

The words were a low, threatening rumble, punctuated by the slamming of a thick file on the desktop. From his seat on the other side of the desk, John Giles jerked his head up but said nothing, afraid of the repercussions of blurting the wrong response.

Christophe Durand glared at his subordinate, waiting for an answer. When none was forthcoming, he asked again, his voice an even lower growl. "Who authorized this action, John?!"

"No one, Christophe, I promise you. McGowan took it upon himself to do this. I talked with him right before he and his partner met with Davis and St. John. I made it very clear what our objective was and specifically told him not to use the munitions we've been developing. He said he understood!"

"So what happened?" Durand asked icily.

"I have no fucking idea. You know he was our mole in the San Diego police department, so he was privy to Davis and St. John's plans. I've talked to everyone else in that part of the state and no one seemed to be aware of what David was going to do. The two men who survived both swear they were told that this was an operation just to reveal a vampire to the cops."

"What exactly would cause him to think that it as a good idea to take matters into his own hands and attack St. John like this?" Durand was biting off the words as they left his mouth as if each were a piece of meat he was tearing into. "His job was to expose St. John, not kill him! At least, not yet!"

"Like I said, I have no idea. Maybe he was under the impression that killing St. John, getting him out of the way, would be a good thing, show initiative."

"Yet, by his actions, he may have endangered the entire North American operation. We have to depend on secrecy while we get everything in place. You know that. We infiltrate, place operatives in key positions, then prepare for the assassinations. Without secrecy, without time to prepare, we have no chance for success."

"I understand that, but I'm not sure McGowan did. I explained it to him but he's an impatient young man. He's ambitious, wants to get ahead in the organization."

"Making sure these operatives understand the importance of following orders is your responsibility, John. And, as for ambition!" Durand spat the word in Giles' general direction. "Faber est quisque fortunae suae! 'Every man is the architect of his own future', John. Never forget that."

His second-in-command stiffened in his chair. Was this some sort of warning to him? With Durand, it was often difficult to tell. "I did my job, Christophe. I couldn't be there in person, especially not since St. John met me in New York. You have to recognize though that, just by the nature of our mission, we attract a certain level of... fanaticism... that is difficult to control." Folding his arms, Giles glared at his superior for long moments, but finally shifted uncomfortably and dropped his gaze when there was no response. He added hesitantly, "What do you want me to do?"

Durand walked over to contemplate the exquisite example of Raphael art displayed prominently on the wall of his office. Studying the painting closely, he remarked, "You perhaps think I overreact to setbacks to our mission. That I'm even…irrational." It was not a question. When no response was forthcoming from his companion, he pivoted slightly, looking over his shoulder at Giles, who was shifting uneasily in his chair.

With a slight smile, Durand added, "It's all right, John. I know that is the consensus within the organization. That is my cross to bear and I do so willingly. It's not anyone's fault. They just don't understand."

Turning back to the masterpiece in front of him, he continued in his soft voice, "Take this painting, for example. St. George and the Dragon, painted in 1506. It's an original Raphael, worth millions. I, ah, came by it some years ago. I thought it was...symbolic...of our struggle. Yet, even it is tainted by the pestilence of vampires. Did you know that?" He answered his own question. "No, of course you didn't. Not many do. Raphael was the apprentice of a great Umbrian master, Pietro Perugino, one of the fathers of the High Renaissance period of painting. The age of Da Vinci and Michelangelo. Raphael was his most famous pupil. Do you know what became of Perugino, this master painter?"

It took Giles a moment to realize that a question had been directed at him. "Ah - no. No, I don't, Christophe." What the hell does this have to do with Crucis?

"Perugino was buried in a pauper's field, in unconsecrated ground. Doesn't that seem like an odd end to such an illustrious life?" Durand remained facing the painting, his back to Giles, large hands clasped behind him. There was a long silence that seemed to darken and become heavy with implied threat until, finally, Durand spoke again, his voice even softer. Giles had to lean forward, straining to hear him.

"It was because Perugino was a vampire, John."

"I had no idea!" Giles' face reflected his astonishment at this revelation.

"No, how could you? The history books say he died of the plague, but the reality is that he was a vampire. Once this bête noire was discovered, he was staked, forced to drink molten silver, then buried in an unmarked grave."

Durand abruptly turned and made his way back to his desk, sitting down heavily in his chair. He picked up a heavy, silver stake letter opener and studied it for a long moment before adding, "That was over five hundred years ago, John. For even longer than that, these monsters have walked the earth, contaminating, hunting, and killing mankind, and everything we hold dear."

He placed the stake carefully on the wooden desktop, his words and movements as controlled as ever. "As a young man - before I knew about all the evil in the world - I loved the works of the great Renaissance masters. But vampires have touched even that. Now, when I look at Raphael's work, all I see is corruption and abomination, a symbol of this scourge."

"The only reason I still keep this at all..." he gestured toward the wall with an expression of distaste, "is as a reminder of the importance of the Crucis mission. I will not let this continue, at least not here. I cannot. And... when the last vampire is gone, I will destroy that painting."

"I understand, Christophe."

"I hope you do, John." The big man leaned forward toward his underling, his dark blue eyes glittering with madness. "Because, I will not let anyone - or anything - get in the way. Now, send for McGowan. Use our jet. I want him standing in my office tomorrow." And, you, John, will have to pay a price for this incompetence...

Guillermo shook his head, and straightened painfully up from the position he had held for long, tense minutes, hunched over his badly-injured friend.

Beth raised her head apprehensively from her spot next to Mick on the table. "What's wrong?!"

The last hour had been a slow, steady - but agonizing - process of retrieving silver fragments from the vampire's body, painful not only to Mick, who had to endure the cutting and probing, but also to his friends, who were forced to subject him to it in their efforts to save his life. The operation had been an interminable test of their resolve, with both of them doing their best to ignore Mick's cries as Gasol worked on the injured man, dropping more and more silver slivers into the stainless steel bowl.

Beth had to grit her teeth to keep from losing her composure at the sharp metallic sound each fragment made as it hit the bowl. She should have been comforted by the amount of silver they had already retrieved, but, instead, the half-filled bowl seemed to her to be a symbol of just how badly Mick was injured. Despite all they had retrieved, he was still being poisoned by what remained. Irrationally, she wanted to reach out and knock the container over, scattering the evidence of the severity of his injuries.

The unrelenting strain had exhausted her and she had finally surrendered to her weariness, sitting down on a stool by the the table and resting her head next to Mick's so that she could continue to talk to him as Guillermo worked. His hand remained clutched in hers as the long minutes ticked by. She had been unsuccessful in her attempts to get him to swallow any more blood and he was no longer answering her when she spoke to him, but she refused to give up, somehow sure he could still hear her.

In fact, there had been no response at all from the vampire during their latest efforts to remove silver from his body after a few minutes' rest. It was as if his system had gone into overload and shut down, refusing to register any more pain. Beth had panicked, but Guillermo had assured her he could still hear Mick's heart beating, explaining the phenomenon to her. "It's survival mechanism for vamps, Beth. Nobody knows why, but we go into a kind of a trance to conserve resources when we're really weak."

Thinking back to Mick's oddly unresponsive state when she found him, near death, in the tub of ice water in the desert, she had nodded and said. "I saw him like that once before. I understand." But, would she ever really understand these strange, beautiful creatures? She had once called Mick a 'delicate flower', teasing him about his sensitivity to sunlight and heat. The reality, however, was that no human could have survived the injuries he had sustained. For the first time, she was wholeheartedly glad that he was a vampire, and resolved to remind him of that fact if he recovered. She caught herself. Not if - when!

Guillermo's next words brought her back to the present with a jolt.

"Beth, I don't like his heartbeat now - it's not as strong as it was and it's been getting more and more erratic. I don't think I should do any more unless we can anesthetize him. It's just too much for him."

"Guillermo, he isn't..." She swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat, but couldn't force the words out around it.

The Latino rushed to reassure her. "No! No, he's not dying, Beth. I mean, he's not any worse off than he has been. But, all this..." his gloved hand swept over the table, gesturing at the gaping wound, the blood-soaked gauze pads, the bowl full of silver fragments, "...all this is taking a toll on him. It's a tightrope walk between getting the silver out and injuring him more with surgery, especially since we haven't been able to get him to swallow much blood." Guillermo snorted disgustedly at himself as he peeled off the latest pair of latex gloves with short, seething gestures. "Not that what I'm doing could ever be called surgery. Controlled butchery is more like it." He tossed the gloves in a gleaming stainless trashcan, grimacing as he glanced at the young woman's face and saw the impact his words had. "I'm sorry, Beth. I'm not good at watching what I say."

"It's all right. I don't care what you call it - you're keeping him alive, Guillermo." Her tired eyes filled with tears again and she angrily dashed them away. "I'm sorry, I've never cried this much in my entire life." Not even when my mom died…

The vampire walked over to Beth and put his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "Cut yourself some slack, okay? You're beat and you've been through a lot. You want me to have Josef's housekeeper fix you something to eat?" Seeing her face turn almost green at the mention of food, he tried something else. "How about if I have Logan or Ryder come in for a while so you can take a break?"

She shook her head firmly, her blond hair shimmering in the recessed lighting overhead. "No, I'm not leaving him. Not until I know for sure that he's going to be all right."

"Beth..." Guillermo hesitated. He had little faith that Mick St. John would survive his injuries, unless this Dr. Spector was more conjurer than physician. He would fight for his friend as long and as hard as he could, but, with a heavy heart, he admitted to himself that the outcome of all these efforts was likely to be Mick's death. Was it cruel to keep putting him through this torture with so little chance of success? Cruel to allow Beth to hold out hope for his recovery? Yes, he conceded to himself, while at the same time also acknowledging that he did not have the courage to be realistic with her. Instead, he dodged the truth.

"I just want you to know that I'll do everything I can for Mick for as long as I can. He's helped me a lot over the years; I– I owe him." That much is true, you coward.

Beth tried to smile, unconsciously continuing to stroke Mick's head as they talked. "Thank you. I know you will. Mick likes you a lot, you know. He knows he can count on you."

The words struck at Guillermo like daggers. Dammit! There has to be something else I can do... He cast about for what he might be missing, chewing on his lip. An idea began to take shape…

"Listen, Beth. Spector requisitioned some pretty unusual stuff he said he can use as anesthetic agents - Ryder, Logan and Simone have been trying to get everything together. I'm going to go see if we have any of it here yet. Maybe there's something I can use so we can keep working on Mick until this guy gets here."

He glanced at his watch. "We've still got almost an hour before they touch down. I don't want to sit around, twiddling my thumbs, while the rest of this silver keeps poisoning him."

Exhausted, Beth nodded and laid her head back down next to the unresponsive vampire's, watching as Guillermo ran out. "Please hurry," she whispered aloud. He's running out of time.

"What do you mean, no one knows where he is?!" Talbot let loose with a string of expletives to vent his frustration as he slammed Mick St. John's file on his desktop. "How can the hospital not know where he is?!"

"Fuck, Ben, I don't know." Carl slumped down in the chair just inside the door of the assistant D.A.'s office. He was exhausted from the long, difficult night and the guilt he carried with him over the events in the desert. "I assumed the Lifeline chopper responded because of my call. The paramedic on board told me they were taking him to Hearst Medical Center. I didn't have any reason to question it!"

"But the Med Center has no idea where he is?"

Davis scrubbed tiredly at his face. When he pulled his hands away, he noticed the stains from Mick's blood that were still visible on the cuffs of his shirt, despite the fact that he had washed them repeatedly. Splashes of the P.I.'s blood were also on his pants and jacket; they had soaked in when he helped the paramedics load the injured man onto the stretcher. As he replayed the scene in his mind, hearing again Mick's cries of pain as they tried to move him, his hands began to shake. He closed them into tight fists to hide their trembling.

"The hospital says that he was brought in and treated in the emergency room - and the Lifeline records concur with that. Then, according to the hospital administration, they stabilized him as best they could, and he was transported to a private facility with a physician's assistant and a nurse accompanying him. With HIPAA laws, we won't find out anything more without a warrant."

"A private facility! I mean, in that kind of shape? What the hell, Carl?! Who took him? What's going on?! And how is it going to look to the press when we can't even answer a simple question about where this civilian is, when he was hurt as part of a police operation?! This is not going to look good."

As Talbot's words hung in the air, the detective felt the first stirrings of anger. "You know, quite honestly, Ben, I think we should be focusing on Mick instead of being pissed off over the lack of information. I really don't give a rat's ass how it looks or where he is as long as he is going to be all right – which, given what I saw, isn't very damn likely! If I could just find out that he's still alive, I'd feel a lot better."

"Well, if he was well enough to be moved to a 'private facility', I'm sure he'll be just fine, Carl," Talbot responded sarcastically.

That was more than Davis could stand. All the frustration, worry, and fear from the terrible night boiled over, and he shot out of his chair. He was shouting in Talbot's face before the assistant district attorney had a chance to react.

"What the fuck is your problem, Ben?! If you'd been there, if you'd seen him, you'd know he isn't going to be 'just fine'! He was holding his guts in with both hands!"

The detective tried to get himself under control, grabbing hard at his emotions. "That could have been me - hell, it should have been me! Mick took bullets for me! He saved my life - and he's probably going to die as a result! And, all you can think about is how you don't know every tiny detail and it might make you look bad for thefucking cameras?!" Carl's voice rose even louder on the last words, his whole body shaking with fury and outrage. He curled his fists even tighter to keep from using them on his colleague, who had backed away from the irate detective, putting the desk and chair in between them.

Talbot held a placating hand out toward Davis. "Calm down! I didn't mean anything by it! I'm as frustrated as you are, Carl. I know we owe this guy - that's why I'm upset that we can't locate him!"

Yeah, right, Davis thought sarcastically. He turned away, however, realizing that he needed to get himself under control before he threw a punch at Talbot. Throwing up his arms in disgust as he bent to retrieve the chair he had knocked over in his fury, placing it carefully back in its spot. He took a deep breath, struggling to calm himself before facing the ADA again.

"I'm sorry. I'm tired and... strung out. I guess this has gotten to me more than I thought. You - you didn't see him." He closed his eyes, as if, by doing so, he could block out the images in his mind. "And has anyone thought about Beth? We have to get hold of her. Tell her..." He stopped. Tell her that another man she loves has been killed?

Talbot walked back around his desk and gingerly placed a hand on the detective's shoulder. "Look, Carl. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll work on trying to find out where St. John is and get an update on his condition. Just so that we have something to tell Beth!" he hastened to add when Davis raised his head to glare at him. "And I'll get hold of Beth, tell her what's going on. You need rest."

"Maybe you're right." The detective ran his hand over his short, wiry hair. He couldn't remember when he'd been this tired, this...disheartened.

"Go home, Carl."

Davis pushed himself up out of the chair, fighting the sudden feeling of heaviness in his bones. In the doorway, he paused and turned back to the ADA. "I'll be back in a few hours. In the meantime, call me if you find out anything, Ben. Anything at all. And, when you talk to Beth, tell her...tell her I'm sorry." Without waiting for an answer, he left, letting the door close behind him while he felt through his pockets for his car keys. As he headed toward the parking garage, Carl's thoughts were a tired jumble. The details of the ambush in the desert - for that was surely what it was, an ambush - mixing in with the sight and sound of Mick St. John as he came out of nowhere to jump in front of him, just in time to take the bullets that would otherwise have found their mark with him. He wasn't sure if he felt more gratitude for the sacrifice or wrath at the P.I. for risking – and probably sacrificing - his life for him.

Davis shook his head to clear it. The list of questions that took the place of those images, however, quickly filled his mind. Who set them up? Why? He couldn't imagine why a drug cartel would seek out an opportunity to attack and kill border agents and officers of the law when there was no sign of any drug deal going on. Why bring on that much heat? Had there been something more sinister going on?

The trip to the desert had really just been for the file; he had never expected to find much of anything in the way of evidence there. So, why turn a fairly routine investigation into a manhunt for the killers of federal agents... and a civilian P.I.

The detective finally reached his car, fumbling with the keys as his hands shook with exhaustion. He tried desperately to think of something...anything...other than the sight of Mick St. John on the ground in front of him, almost sliced in two by the vicious firepower. Davis was a realist and had no illusions that his rescuer would be able to survive those injuries. One question, however, nagged at him over and over.

How did Mick get to me so fast?

End Song: This Night, Black Lab