Chapter 57

The World Spins Madly On

Author's note: Ah, the beginning of 2 weeks off! I hope to post another chapter early this week. I love the end song of this chapter, an old favorite - and I decided it was the best title for this chapter! I hope you all are looking forward to your holidays with family and friends. Stay well!

Intro Song: Lunatic Fringe, Red Rider

The charter jet had barely taken off from California before Gabrielle and John had words.

Spector was not young and he was exhausted and short-tempered after the pressure-filled, marathon days he had put in at Temecula, coupled with the bi-coastal flights and time zone changes. After a heated exchange with Gabby, during which he had called her a sharp-toothed witch, he apologized.

"I'm so sorry, Gabrielle, I shouldn't have said that! This has been very tiring - and stressful. I- I just need to get some sleep." His hands shook slightly as he lifted a cup of coffee to his lips.

Gabrielle unbuckled her seat belt and moved over to the physician, crouching down next to his seat. She put a hand on his arm, noticing that he flinched when she did. He really is a mess. Her touch and voice gentle, she said comfortingly, "It's already forgotten, John. I was being testy as well. I'm all tied up in knots over everything that's happened. After everything you've done for V and for Mick..." She paused, blinking rapidly to hold back tears. "There's nothing you could say or do that would make me angry at you. You are a rock star." Impulsively, she reached up to hug him, frowning as Spector stiffened and pulled away. Gabby sat back on her heels, pinning him with her dark eyes. "What's going on?"

"I- I'm sorry, Gabrielle. It's not you. I'm just so on edge after all this. You must have noticed how Josef Kostan treated me. Obviously, the man didn't trust me. I felt threatened the whole time I was there, and for the first time, it occurred to me..." He hesitated.

"What, John? What is it?"

"It occurred to me how much danger I'm in," he blurted out.

"Go on."

"Gabrielle, you're smart and savvy. Don't pretend that you don't realize that my place in Victoria's organization is precarious. I'm working with vampires, most of whom, like Mr. Kostan, don't trust humans, and have a tendency to be quite...volatile." Not quite sure how his comment would land, he eyed her uneasily before continuing. "And when you think about it, with what appears to be happening, I am being called into ever more difficult situations. Even though I did absolutely everything I could, I was not at all sure Mr. St. John would survive. And if he hadn't, I'm sure Mr. Kostan would have blamed me - and probably would have tried to kill me."

The physician scrubbed at his beard in frustration. "Look, I want to do this...but, I'm just not sure I can keep on with it. I do understand the suspicion and hostility. I'm not sure I wouldn't feel the same if I were in their…your…place. The irony of it is that I know I can learn things and be of help. But, while I'm obviously willing to go to great lengths to help the vampire race, I'm not so altruistic as to want to die for it. "

"John, I would never let anything happen to you!" Gabby didn't bother trying to dissuade him from his opinion of Josef. After her conversation with the elder vampire before they left Temecula, she wasn't sure that Spector's assessment was all that inaccurate. She took both of his hands in hers. "I want you to listen to me very carefully. I can never fully repay you for what you've done - saving Victoria and Mick. They are both very dear to me. I can promise you this though - I will never let any harm come to you from vampires. Never," she repeated firmly. "You have my word on it. Okay?"

"All right, Gabrielle. I trust you." His tired eyes stared unblinkingly into hers as she squeezed his hands gently.

"Good. You should. Now, get some sleep. I'm sure there will be a lot to do when we get to New York." With a final pat on the physician's shoulder, Gabby returned to her seat.

Spector reclined his seat and settled back with a sigh, closing his eyes. He was not at all convinced that Gabrielle could provide the protection she had promised, but the fact that he now had a guardian gave him some measure of peace.

Carl Davis studied the file contents strewn about his dining table, as if they formed some great enigma he was now tasked with solving - in this case, one Mick St. John.

Since the fateful morning when Ben Talbot had met with him and shown him the contents of that damn file, Carl had been uneasy. He knew a witch hunt when he saw one. You mean when you smell one… He was also well-aware of the ADA's intolerance for anything that didn't fit his vision of how the universe should operate, particularly with respect to the private investigator. He suspected that the primary reason for this fixation was Talbot's past friendship with Josh Lindsay, and the growing resentment Josh had appeared to have harbored towards Mick because of the man's increasingly close ties to Beth. But did he know that for sure? No. You don't. His training as a detective told him not to make assumptions he couldn't prove. He'd been taught this could lead to blindness toward evidence that didn't fit those suppositions and he'd seen that very thing happen over and over during his career.

The detective leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. The strain of trying to make sense of the papers from the file for several hours straight, coupled with several nights of very little sleep, were taking their toll on him. Common sense would dictate that he should attempt to get some rest, since he was on paid leave anyway. But how could he, with the fate of his recent companion still unknown? There had been no word on the injured man's condition beyond the statements put out by Mick's billionaire friend and the physician apparently caring for him. There was scant information in those press releases and there had been nothing more since then. It was driving him crazy. Carl stubbornly held out a faint hope that the investigator would pull through, despite his horrible injuries. Yeah, right. And, you have a fairy godmother too.

He couldn't suppress the image that abruptly flashed through his mind - Mick, his body torn open from the volley of hollow points…pale and drenched in his own blood…lips parched and chapped...with those eerie blue eyes, rimmed in red, fixed on him…

"Fuck!" Carl exploded, jumping out of his chair so fast that it fell behind him, landing with a thud that brought him back to the present. The detective pressed the heels of his hands as hard as he could against his temples to fight off the sudden headache that accompanied his vision and chided himself. "Calm down - you'll never come off administrative leave this way!" Maybe it was better if he didn't. He had his own personal investigation going on here - with the advantage of not having to deal with Ben Talbot, or anyone else, looking over his shoulder. And after what the San Diego medical examiner had shown him yesterday on the dead bodies, that was perhaps just as well...

The trip out to the site of the ambush had also been unsettling, but for a very different reason. Stepping out of the car - his personal one, this time - onto the rocky sand surface at Campo had unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He could vividly recall how certain he had been that was going to die when the red laser light zeroed in on him that night.

Shaking himself all over like a large dog that had just hopped out of a lake, he went over to the coffee pot, which had been his sole source of sustenance thus far today and poured his umpteenth cup. Probably has something to do with that headache you have... Davis decided to ignore that small voice of reason. He didn't even bother to sweeten or flavor it – unlike a certain someone who, as he had observed dryly, liked a little coffee with her sugar and creamer.

The thought of Jamie distracted him. The details of her visit to his house that pivotal night were sketchy – but, considering the amount of Maker's Mark he'd ingested, Carl was amazed he recalled any of it at all. What mattered most was that she'd come to him when he'd really needed someone. And then she came back to look at this file when you asked her to, he reminded himself.

He stared blankly at the mug in his hands. In short order, it seemed, this woman he barely knew had become his friend, confidant, and, when he had most needed it, a shoulder to cry on. Without asking for anything in return. Nothing is all you've given her, too.. Sure, they'd had lunch, an almost dinner date which he'd had to cancel when a case came up, coffee on a Sunday morning… always what had worked for him, what suited his needs and his schedule. Never once had she complained - not even about coming over to nurse a drunken, distraught cop at a particularly ungodly hour.

He frowned, trying to remember what they had talked about in those early morning hours. He did manage to extract some bits of conversation from the haze that was most of that night, mainly of Jamie doing her best to assuage his guilt over the incident and give him hope that the private investigator might somehow pull through. He remembered rejecting her line of thinking.

It was damn near impossible not to feel responsible for his role, however reluctant, in helping Talbot get St. John to agree to go with him. He'd known it was emotional blackmail and he could have stopped it. So why didn't you? Because he was as curious as Ben, he admitted to himself, albeit for different reasons. He'd wanted the opportunity to spend time with the P.I., try to figure him out. What he had failed to anticipate was the danger - the suddenness of the attack had caught him completely off-guard. Then it had all gone horribly wrong, leading to the images he couldn't shake. Mick covered in blood, the urgency and grim faces of the rescue personnel, him trying to help the injured man hold his intestines in place as they worked to load him into the Lifeline chopper...and the certainty that his new-found friend would not – could not - survive.

He was pretty sure he'd described most of that to her in unfortunately gory detail. It hadn't seemed to faze her. The resourceful young woman had even cooked him a 'hangover breakfast,' as she called it. How she'd foraged through his sparse refrigerator and pantry, and concocted something that delicious, was beyond him. She'd also managed to make him feel better about almost decking Talbot. "It's okay. I respect you more because you did get upset over Mick. We both know Dickbot had it coming. I'm so glad you called me, Carl. Everyone needs someone they can count on... even you. Even me. No one can get through life totally alone."

Then, to his surprise, she'd leaned over her coffee to kiss him - a tender kiss, sweet and full of promise. And he'd returned it, enjoying the warmth of her soft mouth on his, the feel of her fingers gently stroking his cheek, wishing her hand would find its way to other places…Shame gripped him. But it'd been – what – the better part of a year since he'd been with anyone? Seriously - a year?! The calculation shocked him. Geez when did you become a monk? Having such a beautiful, caring woman there for him, someone who gave every indication of being attracted to him… well, he was only human after all. He grinned; that kiss was nice, and if he were being honest with himself, he wanted a repeat performance.

But how had he repaid her kindness? By being a dick. "Because that's your way, isn't it?" he growled aloud, disgusted by his behavior earlier that day, when he'd taken Mick St. John's file back to Talbot. He'd seen Jamie there, looking at him with those lovely brown eyes, obviously worried. He had just brushed right by her, not even stopping to talk. At the time, he'd just wanted - needed - to get out of there. Being in Ben's presence for too long at this point actually made him cold with fury, and he'd already come within a hair of "dotting his eyes," as his grandfather called it.

Maybe I should call her. He could explain to her that he just couldn't stand to be around Talbot right now, that he still had not yet come to grips with what had happened in the desert, that he had a lot of things on his mind... Chief among those concerns was that he had not yet heard from Beth and so had no idea if Mick was still alive.

Then there were the other emotional issues, the unfortunate residue of a toxic, failed marriage, that were causing him to pull away when he really wanted to move closer… there was so much he needed to voice, but his faults and flaws – including the fear of appearing weak in her eyes – kept him silent…

Not now! Work!

As was his way when confronted with his emotions, Carl shut down, switching gears to something that took his mind off uncomfortable personal matters. Something like the case file he was examining. He'd concluded that the best way to help Mick was for him to do his job - investigate and find out why Ben Talbot had specifically targeted the P.I. and put him in such a dangerous situation in the first place. He told himself that he was doing this to help the injured man, to protect him from whatever darker motivation drove the ADA. To hold Ben accountable. I'll make him pay, Mick.

Determinedly ignoring the inner voice that scolded him for rooting around in another man's life, even for a good reason, Davis started inventorying the file contents again, with a growing sense that something was really amiss. First were the photos where Mick was struck by a speeding car…. that looked like a vicious hit, but any good stuntman could survive it. Just have to know when to "tuck and roll" so to speak, how to move one's body towards the oncoming object and use motion to ride it out. There was evidence of just such a reaction on St. John's part when the sequence of photos was laid out. Physics, physical prowess and luck saved him, in Carl's estimation. The only curiosity about it was that, as far as he knew, the P.I. had not reported the incident. Curious, but not illegal. One down. He ticked the pictures off his list as he carefully collected them and stacked them neatly on the far edge of his table.

Next up were some background investigations. As a private investigator in the State of California, these types of screenings were mandatory in order to be licensed - and standard protocol for anyone formally working for the DA's Office in any capacity. Carl thumbed through them just to be thorough, and, as expected, just as quickly checked them off. Again, besides the fact that Mick St. John had an almost impeccably clean record, his agile detective's mind could come up with nothing particularly worthy of attention.

His eyebrows knit at the next item. School records?! What the hell?! Why would Talbot even need that, given the screenings Mick had on file? Still, Carl had a job to do, and he scanned the curious documents. Again, he scribbled on his note pad, checked the items off, and turned the sheets face down, next to the other two neat piles.

Over the next hour or so, Davis repeated this action, document after document, switching from coffee to water, meticulously taking note of each item within the stack, until he was done.

Wait… he wasn't done… something was missing!

Feverishly, Carl examined his notes again. When he'd first confiscated the file from Ben, the lieutenant had made a beeline to his house and started going through it, taking stock of the various items and noting ones he thought could be particularly important. One of the more curious items had been a long list of names – some outlandish, others all too familiar, like Coroner's Assistant Guillermo Gasol, billionaire businessman Josef Kostan…

And the last name on the list… Mick St. John. The man who was now - at best - fighting for his life somewhere. Appearing on a list - along with the crossed-out names of Emma and Jackson Monaghan, and Dr. Pierce Anders - was far too odd for the detective to ignore. In fact, the peculiar list had been at the very top of his roster of items.

And now, that list was missing.

There were only two likely explanations. Either Jamie had somehow overlooked it when copying the file for him - which was possible, since she probably was rushing to get the job done before she could be discovered - or… He didn't want to complete the thought, but his logical mind forced him to consider the far more ominous second option – that Jamie had given him what was effectively a redacted copy of the official file, with some items purposefully omitted. The possible implications were disturbing, to say the least. Could she actually be in league with Talbot? This time, his gut instinct shot that idea down. Though their professional relationship appeared cordial enough, he knew there was no love lost between those two. Despite her ever-present Southern politeness, Carl had noted Jamie's growing dislike of the man – it would have been hard to fake her level of disdain and disgust. Plus, he'd tested her by confiding some of his thoughts about Talbot and what was, at that time, the upcoming San Diego situation. Nothing untoward had gotten back to him.

That left another scenario, one he'd entertained before – that Jamie was a woman in a 'situation'...

His thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his cell phone, signaling a new text message. Carl grabbed the phone off the table… it was the one he'd been waiting for…from Beth…

Mick is alive. Badly injured but he'll make it. I'll update you when I have more info – Beth

Carl let out a loud whoop, jumping up from the table to plop himself onto the sofa, suddenly exhausted from the emotional turmoil. Those horrid hours of worry, the twisted fear in his stomach that he'd witnessed the brutal murder of a new friend, all dissipated in the light of good news. Carl sent a quick return message to Beth, thanking her for the update, firing off a number of questions, and ending with an acknowledgement that Mick was in his prayers.

Yes, he did, indeed, pray for Mick's recovery. Because it was the right thing to do. Because the man did not deserve what had happened to him. And, because he sincerely wanted St. John to meet up with Talbot at some point - preferably somewhere without witnesses - and personally communicate his gratitude to the ADA by giving said asshole the beat-down he so richly deserved.

Great news aside, he still had two unresolved matters – namely, Talbot's file on Mick, and Jamie's involvement in all this. "No time to stop," he muttered, stretching to shake off the sudden drowsiness. Eyeing the notebook on his coffee table, he reached over to snag it, balancing the compact laptop on his knees. He logged in through his usual profile and was contemplating switching back to coffee when…

NOTICE: ACTIVITY RECORDED UNDER PROFILE "GUEST"

"What the fuck?!" the startled man exclaimed. His machine was equipped with an activity logger, a customized solution courtesy of his contact in the IT department – a very convenient tool for tracking some online sleazeball like a pedophile or catfisher. He didn't often think about it, and typically only used the guest ID when working such operations…So, who had used his laptop recently? There was only one person who would have had the opportunity...

Carl clicked the button to continue and the computer obediently called up the activity log. The lieutenant's curious expression turned to shock once he began to read.

Me: Sorry for the unexpected contact, but I have important news... need advice... it's bad...St. John has been attacked.

Slack-jawed, he read the conversation, between his computer and an unknown party, only noted as "Other". That meant that the individual's real identity was masked in such a way that even law enforcement-grade software could not draw out that information. Who the hell was Jamie talking to who would have - let alone require - that level of deception? More and more questions crowded into his head as he continued scanning the conversation, his clenched jaw resurrecting his headache.

Other: Details… what happened?

Guest: Davis told me he and St. John were ambushed in SD.

Other: Where is St. John now?

Guest: IDK. From what he told me, Davis doesn't know either, in fact he's very worried that he might have died.

Other: Does he know about St. John?

Guest: No, but he's seen quite a bit - enough to have him asking questions

Other: Like what?

Guest: He described St. John after he was shot, said he was pale, eyes were blue

Other: Anything else?

Guest: Don't think so but can't say for sure. He's certainly seen the pictures in Talbot's file of St. John being hit by a car and walking away. What should I do?

Other: Your other contact, can you reach her?

Guest: I left messages on her cell phone, but nothing yet. Talbot is probably trying to find her too. What about the leader? Could we establish contact with him?

Other: That would never work. With what you've described that happened to St. John, he'd be all but impossible to get to now. Too much suspicion.

Guest: So there's nothing?

Other: Hope like hell St. John pulls through... he is still our best chance.

Guest: My fault... I should have talked to him before this...

Other: There is no way for you to have known. We didn't know. My guess is this was unsanctioned, or something got seriously fouled up... But no matter why it

happened, this was a hit, pure and simple. You couldn't have stopped that.

Guest: But we knew there was danger. We owed it to St. John to at least warn him, didn't we? Aren't we supposed to be the good guys here?

Other: WE ARE! We can't protect them from all this, though. You did the right thing. It wasn't the time or place to discuss.

Guest: So what is my next action? Please advise.

Other: Keep trying to contact Turner. Call Talbot and do what you must to get an update - on him, as much as on St. John. Don't trust him.

Guest: And what about Davis? He's taking this hard. I'm worried about him.

Other: He's seen too much... he needs to be brought in.

Chat ended.

Unnerved, Carl used the logger's administrative screen to see what other actions had been taken. The activity summary outlined the attempts that were made to delete cache, cookies, session data, history and other typical system trackers. There was also evidence of additional advanced commands, generating more aggressive scrubbing. All of that further proved the intent - and the sophistication - of the user. In fact, had the logger not been active, there would have been virtually no chance of detecting that there had been any unauthorized use of his machine.

Davis closed his laptop with a snap. Leaning forward, both elbows on top of the computer, he rested his head in his hands, rubbing at his short hair as if he could somehow scrub the conversation he had just read from his mind. His worst fears had not only been realized, they exceeded anything his meager powers of paranoia could have conjured up.

The fact that he, Beth, Mick and Talbot were all mentioned - as well as the context in which they were discussed - filled him with dread. There was now direct evidence of unseen parties in this situation, all of whom seemed keenly interested in them. They, like Talbot, were also focused on St. John… and appeared to have known that he could have been in danger. So, why hadn't Jamie warned anyone as she fretted about in the text exchange?!

You mean, why didn't she at least warn you!

The detective's jaw clenched as he trembled with rage. He felt like they were all pawns in some larger game he hadn't even known they were playing. More personally, he felt betrayed because the first woman he'd trusted in a long while apparently had ulterior motives. Motives which had nothing to do with his happiness or welfare.

His thoughts were interrupted yet again by his phone. A quick glance at the caller ID let him know right away who was trying to get in touch with him. Quelling his anger, Carl answered, fighting to keep his voice level. "Hey, Jamie."

Silence, then... "Carl, what's wrong? Are you all right?"

No, I'm not, you liar! "Yeah... just tired."

"I just got a text from Beth - she says Mick is going to pull through! See, I told you not to believe the worst!"

Goddammit, why does she have to sound so genuine?! "I know, I got the same message."

"Isn't it great?! Um... listen... speaking of good news, Talbot had an attack of conscience and told me I could leave at noon. I'm headed out now... want me to stop by?"

Davis froze. He was furious, and...hurt. Yet, some part of him just could not believe Jamie would do anything bad to him. Yeah, like you believed your wife would never cheat on you… He bit his lower lip, alarmed at his indecision. He was an officer, a seasoned veteran. Nothing should cloud his judgment like this. She was involved in something, pure and simple - and hadn't been forthcoming. Surely, she knew he would do everything in his power to help her if she were in trouble.

No, there was one very clear, salient point in all this - Jamie was a key component in this mystery, and he would do whatever it took to solve it. The detective thought quickly. "No, this isn't a good time, Jamie. I promised my mom I'd come by to see her and Dad. And I'm beat. Haven't been sleeping well."

"I'm so sorry, Carl. I didn't think." Jamie's tone was contrite.

Damn, she sounds sincere. "That's okay, I'm glad you want to see me. Look, I need to get some sleep and then look over all these notes I'm putting together about Campo, but I should be ready to take a break by tomorrow afternoon. How about a late lunch - or early dinner?" He forced himself to smile, remembering his training. A smile or a frown, even when unseen by the listener, altered the sound of one's voice. He wanted Jamie to suspect nothing when he saw her.

"That sounds great, Carl. Call me tomorrow then?"

Once he hung up, Carl marched to his bathroom, stripping off his T-shirt, jeans and underwear as he went. The naked man hopped into the shower, ignoring the initial blast of cold water as he focused on other matters. Sure, can't wait... you got a lot of explaining to do, Jamie Sommers, a LOT of explaining to do.

End Song: The World Spins Madly On, The Weepies