A/N: Thanks to everyone for the kind words and encouragement after my previous author's note. I'm hanging in, but man, am I tired. Helping care for a litter of newborn puppies is not for the faint of heart, I can tell you that. Anyway, I'm posting way off-schedule again, but tomorrow and Thursday at least will be super busy and I'm not confident I'll find the time to update then. So here's another long chapter that will hopefully tide you over. Hang in there with me, y'all. I know this part of the story has been going on for quite a while, but it's not something I felt I could or should rush. And it is nearing a different phase of the story... soonish. Honestly, I haven't read these chapters since I wrote them, which was about 2 1/2 years ago for this part, so I can't guarantee how many chapters it will be until we get to the next stuff, but trust that it's coming. Giving this one a mild trigger warning for mentions of sexual assault, just to be on the safe side. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the states who celebrates.
Chapter 18.
The Sixth Man
. . .
To Lindstrom's credit, he was appropriately taken aback when he caught a glimpse of his patient on the screen that Fin and the others were watching. His expression, initially wide-eyed shock (he put a hand over his heart), darkened almost to a glower the longer he stood back and observed. He had a creepy quality that Amanda wasn't fond of, though she couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was, and the glare didn't help. But his reaction made him seem human and proved that he cared for Olivia's welfare.
Amanda still didn't want to talk to him. If she wasn't glued to her seat and determined not to leave Olivia alone, she would have ducked into the captain's office, then continued on to interrogation, hopefully managing to slip out of the squad room entirely. She stayed in her chair, glancing from her wife to the man who was approaching the interview room, after Fin pointed him in the right direction.
"Fuck," Amanda whispered, foolishly, selfishly wishing that Olivia was here with her, to field the psychiatrist's questions and act as a buffer if the interaction got too heated. Ashamed to be putting her raped and battered wife in that position, even if it was an imaginary one, Amanda cast an apologetic look at the laptop. I'm sorry, she mouthed, and stroked Olivia's huddled form with the pad of her finger. The captain was quaking from head to toe again. Amanda longed to pick her up, place her gently on the mattress, cover her with warm—
"Amanda?" The voice from the doorway was level and pleasant, if a bit didactic. It was a voice intended for educational cartoons on PBS; not a Mr. Rogers drowse, but mellow enough for the part of an animated tortoise who carried around a doctor's bag and made house calls.
Amanda missed Hanover already.
"Hey, Doc," she said flatly. Without turning around, she beckoned him in with a salute-like flick of the fingers. "Come to see the show? I didn't figure you for the type to be into torture porn. Guess you never can tell about some folks, huh?"
The man didn't respond—the comments were rhetorical anyway—and when Amanda cast a sidelong glance at him, he was watching her with a solemn expression she took for disapproval. It silenced any other smartass remarks that might have followed. Not because Lindstrom intimidated her in the least, but because she knew Olivia would be upset with her for disrespecting the esteemed therapist. He had helped Olivia through some very dark times and probably thought he could do the same for Amanda.
Indeed, he rounded the table and gestured to the chair opposite her, asking her permission to be seated. She liked that he chose a chair across from her, where he wouldn't be able to see the laptop screen, and she tipped her head in assent. He took a seat somewhat fastidiously, as if he might pull out a handkerchief and dust off the chair first, then he placed the medical bag on the table with a discreet hand. He laced his fingers together on the tabletop and fixed another somber look on Amanda. This time she saw the concern etched into his features, along with the wrinkles.
"How are you?" he asked pointedly. Not just a passing question with a bottled response (I'm fine, wife's being held captive and brutalized, but other than that. You?), but one which anticipated a real answer.
"You saw her. How do you think I am?"
Close enough.
Lindstrom studied Amanda with a gaze so steady it was disconcerting. Sometimes Dr. Hanover did that too, although it felt like less of a violation with her, since she was getting paid. "You don't look well, Amanda. Your sergeant is very concerned about you. He said you would be angry that I'm here. I'm sorry to see that's the case, but I wanted to come, anyway. Olivia wouldn't want you to be alone right now."
Hearing her wife's name cut like a knife, particularly while Olivia was crying and hugging herself for warmth, and Amanda shot a hard look at the man, unmoved by his speech. "I'm not alone, in case you missed the room full of badges out there. And I talked to a couple of my friends on the phone a little while ago. Hell, I'm livin' it up compared to—" Her voice caught, and she had to clear her throat in order to continue. "Compared to what Liv's going through. She's the one who's all alone."
"She is," he agreed, sadness passing over his already weathered face. He obviously cared a great deal for Olivia. Amanda caught herself wondering if he harbored feelings for her wife—everyone seemed to—but she quickly snuffed out the idea. Now was not the time to let her jealousy rear its ugly head; no one was having amorous thoughts about Olivia right then (except maybe a few hundred sickos on the Internet).
The doctor canted his head thoughtfully. "But I don't think she would want you to suffer along with her. Olivia speaks of you often, and her greatest hope for you is that you're happy, safe, and cared for."
Yeah, that sounded like Olivia. Her Liv.
"Well, I'm not, okay? How the hell could I be happy right now? Fin tell you what they been doing to her?" Amanda's voice gave out on the final note, but she pressed on, angry tears in her eyes. It felt even better to rage at him than at Fin, one of her oldest friends since transferring to New York. She tried not to think about what her wife would say. "Right before you got here, one of them cold cocked her with a taser baton hard enough to crack her skull. Then he kicked her in the back and spat on her like she was . . ."
A lump formed in Amanda's throat, burning like hot stone. She swallowed laboriously, only able to choke it down after three attempts. "And the guy who stopped him from hurting her worse? He raped her on the filthy fucking floor 'bout twenty minutes before that. You wanna hear what they did to her yesterday? All five of them taking turns on her for hours until she was half dead and just lay there, letting them do whatever they wanted to her?
"So, no, Doc, I'm not fucking happy or safe or whatever bill of goods you came in here to sell me. I feel like my guts are being ripped out, fried up, and fed to me like motherfucking fried okra. And if you ask me to elaborate on that or some other shrinky-dink bullshit, I swear to God . . . "
Unflinching, Lindstrom listened to the whole rant (towards the end, it sounded frighteningly similar to one of Dean Rollins' drunken ramblings), his expression so passive it infuriated Amanda even more. How could he sit there with that blank look on his stupid cartoon tortoise face after she'd just described the horrors Olivia was being subjected to? He should be at least a little upset that years of hard work with his star patient were going down the drain. Maybe he was happy she would never get better after this. He could go on treating her, ad infinitum.
"Amanda, when is the last time you slept? Or ate something?" He was looking at Amanda as if he were examining her retinas with an ophthalmology tool. "Or took your eyes off that computer screen? Your pupils are dilated—"
"If you're suggesting I'm on something—"
"I'm not," Lindstrom interrupted, calmly but with a fatherly firmness that made Amanda want to scream. He was no father to her. "It can be a sign of extreme distress. PTSD, panic attacks, and the like. It's perfectly understandable in your situation, but it's also dangerous for you to keep operating at this level of anxiety. If you continue this way, I fear for your mental and physical health. How will you be able to care for Olivia if— when she comes home, if you yourself are unwell?"
Amanda didn't have an answer for that, sarcastic or otherwise. She snatched up the bag of mini Nutter Butters from the haul Fin had left on the table and tore the corner off too forcefully. The crinkly plastic split deep down the side, nearly dispersing the contents in every direction. "Fuck," she muttered, scooping up the escaped cookies at the last second. She threw too many of them in her mouth, but refused to spit them out while Lindstrom's eyes were on her.
It was better this way. He couldn't expect her to talk with her mouth full of peanut butter and shortbread. Unfortunately, he still expected her to listen. "Not only that, but you've your children to think of as well. The younger two might not be able to make sense of what's happening, but the older two are going to have questions and concerns. They'll be looking to you for reassurance, and if you continue to push yourself like this, it will be nearly impossible for you to provide that for them. Have you thought about what to say when they ask after Olivia?"
Amanda chewed until her jaw grew tired, avoiding an answer for as long as possible. She hated him for bringing her children into this. Logically she knew she would have to give them some kind of explanation for Mommy's absence—and her own—when she next saw them. It wasn't fair to saddle Lucy and Auntie Daph with lying to the kids for her.
And he was right about Noah and Jesse; Tilly and Sammie would just be happy to have their mommies to cuddle, but their older siblings would want to know why. Why had Mommy and Mama gone to work on the weekend and not come home for days? Why was Mama so sad and red? Why was Mommy in hospital again, and can we go see her, please oh please, Mama?
The peanut butter cookie mash went down Amanda's throat in a large painful lump. She coughed and took a sip of the coffee that had gone lukewarm since Fin delivered it in a mug she didn't recognize. If she got sick from drinking after someone else, so be it. She couldn't possibly feel any worse than she did right now, her eyes on Olivia, who hadn't gotten her morning coffee. Just her morning beating and sexual assault.
"I'm not telling them anything yet," Amanda said, and set the coffee down too hard, slopping some onto the table. She swiped at it briskly and swiped that on the leg of her pants. And that's that. "I don't even know if their mother is ever coming home, so—" She felt the admission like a gunshot, unable to actually hear it for the ringing in her ears. Of course she had known it before this (Oh God! Liv might never be coming home!), but to say it out loud gave it form, gave it life.
Had she just doomed her wife to die? She wanted to believe in God again so she could pray for a retraction. Grandmama Brooks would say the Good Lord wasn't a gumball machine you dropped a quarter into and got your prize, but Amanda was desperate enough to try it. Hell, she'd go into Olivia's office and pray to the little Buddha snow globe on the desk, if there was a chance he might hear and intervene on her behalf.
Please, she thought to anyone who might be listening.
Dr. Lindstrom was looking at her strangely, and she realized he was waiting for her to finish what she'd been saying. For the life of her, Amanda couldn't remember how she'd planned to conclude. "I'll figure something out when I see them," she said dully. "They're my kids, I know how to talk to them, okay?"
"I'm sure you do." Lindstrom nodded, sincerity in his wrinkled tortoise face. He offered a faint smile. "Olivia's mentioned how wonderful you are with them. It sounds as though you've really taken to the role of 'Mama,' and also become somewhat of the disciplinarian in the household."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Amanda demanded, his pronunciation of the words mama and disciplinarian putting her on alert. She had a pretty good idea of what he was driving at—she had indeed started correcting and punishing the kids, as needed, more frequently in the past several months—and she resented the implications that Olivia had discussed her parenting style with the man. "Liv tell you I'm too much of a hard-ass with them? 'Cause I ain't. She's just so—"
Breaking off there, Amanda bit her tongue before she could say the captain was too soft, too lenient. Too afraid to be cross with their children when they acted up, fearing it might cost her their love. And who could blame her? When you grew up trying your damnedest to win your mother's love, only to be rejected and made to feel intrinsically wrong at every turn, how could you not internalize the idea that you were unlovable? Or that scolding your children would make them feel as worthless and burdensome as you did at that age? It was the same reason Amanda couldn't stand it when the kids saw their mommy hurt or crying.
"It's just real hard for her to get after them for acting up," Amanda said, with less vehemence than before. She couldn't speak of Olivia in anger at the moment. Even if the anger was directed at someone else. (The captain appeared to have drifted into a light, fitful sleep, her body jerking violently each time her muscles began to relax.) "Because of how she was raised. So, it's my job and I do it the way I see fit. It's not like I'm mean to them. They're good kids, I barely even have to raise my voice for them to listen."
"Olivia didn't say you were mean, no. On the contrary, she's expressed great relief that she has someone to co-parent with, and she seems to admire your ease with the children." Lindstrom's gaze trailed toward the leather bag beside him, as if there were something inside it that might tell a different story from the big happy family tale Olivia had spun. "But we've also spoken of the difficulties you two have encountered in your relationship: PTSD, childhood abuse, anger issues, addiction . . . "
And there it was. He wanted to paint Amanda as the abusive, hotheaded spouse, just like everyone else did. Fine, okay, so she had a temper. She had crossed the line a few times with Olivia, but she would sooner cut off her hand than raise it to her wife.
Why couldn't people stay the hell out of their private life? It wasn't anybody else's business what went on behind the closed doors of her marriage, least of all this strange little man who probably had the hots for Olivia. Or did, before getting a look at her bruised, broken, barely dressed form crumpled on the floor like a used tissue.
The tattered underwear would haunt Amanda till her dying day.
"My concern is that this current trauma will reawaken some past behaviors which could prove . . . detrimental to you, to Olivia, and to your children."
Amanda wished he would just speak like a normal person, for Christ's sake. He had beady eyes, she noticed, as they gazed intently at her. Maybe he reminded her more of a rat than a mild-mannered tortoise. A tortoise kept to itself and didn't offer unsolicited marital advice. Rats poked their noses where they didn't belong, whiskers twitching.
"Why don't you say what you mean?" she asked sharply, narrowing her eyes to slits. She imagined they looked like snake eyes, the kind you spotted in the grass, seconds before a deadly strike—not the duds you rolled in a game of craps. Both were unlucky, but one was far more dangerous than the other. Especially for a curious, foraging rat. "You think my wife being abducted and ripped apart in front of me is going to push me over the edge, right? That I'm gonna go home and, what, beat the livin' snot out of my kids and dogs? Hit a few gambling clubs on my way to shoot up a mall or park or something?"
Lindstrom's mild expression never faltered, nor did his gaze stray from hers. Amanda was being sarcastic about the possibility of a violent outburst if she went off the deep end, but the longer he stared at her, the clearer it became that that was exactly what he insinuated.
"Christ A'mighty, I wasn't serious," she scoffed, slumping back heavily in her chair, arms crossed. It was the same posture that had gotten her through high school and all the lectures about abstinence, underage drinking and smoking, GPA, and inking obscene doodles into the margins of exam booklets. "I'm not a psychopath. I've only—"
She was about to say she'd only killed three people in the line of duty, and one—Esther Labott—had been an accidental shooting. Another was an intruder in her home, attacking her sister (or so she'd been led to believe when she pulled the trigger); and the last was Calvin Arliss, whose final act on earth was slashing a straight razor across Olivia's neck and almost taking her down with him. Not exactly "good shoots," least of all Esther, the biggest fuck-up of Amanda's career and forever a scar on her soul, but by no means a random killing spree, either.
"I wouldn't do something like that," she said flatly.
"But you do own a gun." Lindstrom spoke slowly, as if he were giving her time to catch up with a difficult concept. A cop with a gun—inconceivable. "And you've had to use it before. On someone who had hurt Olivia, and before that, on a man who was hurting your sister, yes?"
Amanda hated how much he knew about her. It made sense; she had told her therapist details about Olivia that she would never share with anyone else. And both of those shootings had taken place before they were a couple, so of course Olivia had discussed them with her psychiatrist at the time. Nevertheless, Amanda was unsettled having personal information recited back to her by someone who was little more than a stranger. Thankfully he didn't seem to know about Esther. She might not have been able to restrain herself if he'd brought that up in his measured, PBS voice.
"Yeah, so? You sayin' I should've let that freak go on slashing at Liv with a razor? Let him rape h— let Jeff rape my little sister right there on my living room rug?"
"No, I'm not suggesting you reacted inappropriately. You had every right to defend your loved ones—"
"Damn straight I did," Amanda said, but couldn't look at the Olivia-shaped heap on the screen just then. God, she had let her wife down so utterly and completely this time. She was supposed to be the brave white knight who protected Olivia from all the evil in the world—that was the lame-ass fairytale she'd told herself and been stupid enough to believe—and instead she had led Olivia straight to the gates of hell.
"But in both of those instances, you took the life of someone who was a threat. I'm concerned how you'll handle this situation, with no one you can immediately defend Olivia against." Dr. Lindstrom donned another of the thoughtful expressions from his repertoire. It was his tell, designed to coax the patient into considering his words and their response.
All it did was make Amanda want to punch him.
"You mean who'm I gonna kill to rescue her this time?" she asked, plucking a Nutter Butter from the pack and tossing it into her mouth like popcorn. It tasted of nothing. Of emptiness so profound she almost spat it back out. With effort, she choked it down after a few hasty crunches. "Because I'm such a trigger-happy hothead who kills anyone that looks at my wife funny?"
"Are you having suicidal thoughts, Amanda?"
Caught off guard, Amanda laughed out loud. She regretted it at once. There was nowhere for the sound to go, with the room's flat acoustics, and it died off quickly. But she cast an apologetic glance at Olivia, as if the captain might have heard. Honestly she didn't know if Olivia was able to hear much of anything, after all the abuse she had sustained; Amanda herself had to concentrate on words extra hard just to make them make sense. What had the doctor asked? Was she having suicidal thoughts?
Jesus.
"No. Why the hell would I kill myself?" she demanded, annoyed that he would even ask that question. She had never been suicidal in her life—not as a kid, growing up in an abusive household, where screamed curses and shattering glass were her nighttime lullabies; not as a teenager, being gossiped about by the whole school, including the teachers ("Easy-Ass Amanda" had not been invented by her peers); not as an adult, struggling with addiction, anger management issues, and sexual assault.
Truth be told, she liked living way too much to give it up. Suicide was a coward's way out, as far as she was concerned. It was something flaky housewives attempted, traumatizing the two little girls who discovered them in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor, as a lame last ditch effort to make their husbands notice them. Besides, Amanda had too much to lose these days, and she would never put that burden on her kids. Or her wife . . .
"I'm no good to Liv and the kids if I'm dead," she said, and thought better of the next cookie bite before it went into her mouth. She chucked it back into the bag, brushing her fingers together with finality. "I have no plans to eat my gun. I don't even have my gun on me right now. So, you can write that in your little psych eval and be on your way."
She had left out the part about her and Olivia's guns being locked up safe at home, where she could easily access them, but he was a smart guy who knew how cops operated. And she didn't want to bring up questions about when she would be returning home, mostly because she didn't have the answers. With Olivia gone, it was as though Amanda had lost her compass—her true north—and wandered alone beneath the stars. How had Olivia put it when she placed the lighthouse charm around Amanda's neck three birthdays ago?
I was unmoored. Drifting out there with nothing to hold onto . . .
Yeah, that pretty much summed it up. Except Amanda wasn't just unmoored, she was sinking beneath the dark, blank surface of the water, underneath all those directionless stars. It was filling her mouth and lungs, her eyes, nose, shoes. And there were no answers.
"Amanda?"
"What?" She'd heard Lindstrom ask her something, but it hadn't registered in her brain. Now she knew how Olivia felt during those times she zoned out and missed whole conversations, didn't see the light turn green, or had no clue what had happened in an episode of television they'd just watched. It seemed charmingly absentminded in those moments, but there was nothing charming about it, Amanda realized. It was like being dropped into a foreign country where you didn't speak the language.
"I said this isn't a psych eval, not in the official sense, anyway. I'm here as a favor to Fin, and to Olivia. I can't clear you for duty." Lindstrom's hand curved around the clasped doctor's bag, his index finger tapping at the soft leather. "And frankly, based on what I'm seeing so far, I wouldn't, even if I could. I think you're a danger to yourself and possibly to others, and I'd urge you strongly against carrying a firearm any time soon."
Amanda blinked at the man, mystified. And then, as his words sank in, in mounting rage. "What the fuck are you talking about? I'm literally just sitting here, watching my wife being raped over and over again. How the hell am I a danger to anyone? I can't even leave this room because I don't want her to be alone in that hellhole. You saw the shape she's in. You think it's so easy to see her like that, why don't you come around here and watch for five or ten minutes. That's pro'ly how long it'll be till they're raping her again. Come on over here and watch her cry, watch her cower and beg while they laugh and ram it in her some more. Then we'll see how much of a danger you think I am, doctor."
Not until she had finished did Amanda realize she was standing, balled fists planted on the table as she leaned forward menacingly, glaring at the slim little man and his unreadable face. Her breathing was rapid and heavy, as if she'd just gotten back from a long run in the bitter cold. She hadn't been for a proper run since Sammie's birth, and the nine months before that; she probably wouldn't make it more than a block without getting winded now. Why hadn't she kept in shape, beyond the occasional low-intensity jog? If she had, maybe she could have protected Olivia better.
"Are you aware of how many threats you've made in the short time that I've been here?" Dr. Lindstrom asked. He showed no signs of intimidation, but his hand hadn't left the safety and familiarity of his leather bag, either. For a moment, Amanda wondered if he had smuggled in a gun of his own for protection, then she remembered that he couldn't have made it past security with something like that in his bag. "This is at least the fourth or fifth. I understand that you're distraught and enraged by what's happening to Olivia, but if there's a chance you'll follow through on the violence you're alluding to, I can't in good conscience say you belong on this or any other case."
"Well, it's a good thing you're just my wife's therapist and have no say-so then, idn't it?" Amanda sneered at him and at the bag he held onto like a security blanket. Must be nice to have something to cling to for comfort when you needed it most. Hers was in a shipping container somewhere in Jersey, shivering on the cold hard ground. And any comfort item for Olivia had long ago been stripped away by the hands of vicious men.
"Everything all right in here?" Fin asked, poking his head into the room and eyeing Amanda's aggressive stance warily. "'Cause it sounds like you could use a break. Rollins, why don't you go splash some cold water on your face or something?"
Amanda snorted, refusing to budge, despite the burning in her shoulders from holding the stiff, hunched posture. "Why, so y'all can talk about what a loose cannon I am behind my back? What a dangerous whack job I am to myself and others? Hell no. Why'd you have to drag him into this anyway, Fin? He's a civilian and shouldn't even be here while all this is going on."
After a brief look over his shoulder, Fin stepped into the room and eased the door shut behind. He moved slowly, which wasn't unusual itself, but the excessive care he took with each gesture wasn't like him. He looked like a monk drifting about a monastery, upholding his vow of silence. Until:
"You shouldn't even be here, either, Amanda. I called him 'cause I thought he might talk some sense into you. Get you to go home and be with your kids. You can't do anything here. You're kind of— you're kind of a distraction for everybody else. Look, I ain't tryna be a dick, that's just how it is."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Amanda put on a pantomime of deep dismay, splaying a hand to her chest and drawing back in slack-jawed shock. "I'm so sorry that watching my wife get gang raped and sodomized is inconvenient for you. For them. Maybe if y'all did your fucking jobs 'stead of acting like a bunch of rookies on your first day out, Liv'd be safe in a hospital bed right now. And I'd be with her, instead of trapped in this goddamn glass box like a zoo animal."
As she ranted, Amanda paced, truly feeling as if she were caged against her will. She and Olivia had taken the kids to Central Park Zoo last summer, and the snow leopards had paced the perimeter of their enclosure in much the same manner. In fact, while the three munchkins were oohing and ahhing over the cubs, which were indeed adorable, Olivia had leaned in and murmured in Amanda's ear, "See that slinky one who looks like she wants to eat us? Keeps twitching her tail? Reminds me of you, my little snow leopard."
Then she had kissed the rim of Amanda's ear and, sneaking a glance around to make sure no other zoo-goers were about, patted her fondly on the rear.
The memory took Amanda's breath away, and she stopped short in front of Fin, momentarily teetering off balance as if she might faint. Her knees did start to give, her vision fading to gray
(the color of the city in daylight . . . the color of the box Olivia was trapped in . . . her city girl . . .)
but when Fin caught her and stood her upright, she shoved him by the shoulder, tearing herself from his grip.
"Keep off me! You fucking traitor." She slapped at his shoulder again, butting it with the heel of her palm. "You call some shrink on me because you can't kick me out yourself? Some sergeant you are. I don't know why Liv ever wanted you for the job in the first place. You mighta been tough shit in your day, but now you're just a weak old man who should've retired years ago. If I was sergeant, she'd be home by now."
It infuriated Amanda that, no matter the insults she hurled, no matter how hard she shoved, Fin did not budge or attempt to defend himself. He simply gazed at her with sorrowful amber eyes, taking the abuse—and worse, pitying her for it. She balled her hands into fists at her side, a hot pressure building up inside her, pushing to get out at the temples, behind the eyes. She was either going to explode into a million pieces or she was about to punch one of the best friends and partners she'd ever had.
"Someone's coming," said Lindstrom, the wary note in his voice snapping Amanda back to reality.
The heat that simmered just beneath her skin evaporated so abruptly, it left her feeling cold and empty, as if she'd had a vital organ removed, and awoke sliced open on the gurney. She glanced past Fin to see who was approaching, and indeed, Dana Lewis was out there in the bullpen, conferring with her fellow agents like she owned the place. But no one appeared to be headed for the interview room, and Amanda whipped around fiercely, ready to confront the psychiatrist for lying.
Dr. Lindstrom had slanted the laptop toward himself, keeping an eye on Olivia while Amanda's back was turned. He indicated the video display, which had brightened considerably, natural light pouring in on Olivia's crumpled body, revealing the caked-on blood and bruises that decorated her arms and legs in ugly, lurid shades. She looked like a piece of rotten fruit. And stretched across the floor at her back, an alien shadow fell, some giant, misshapen underworld creature come to claim its human bride.
When it slunk deeper inside the shipping container, drawing shut the doors and blotting out the sun, the creature proved not to be a hideous demon—at least not outwardly—but a man like all the others. Frightening enough on its own, but even more so because this one was new.
Amanda had never seen him before, at least as far as she could tell with his back to the camera and the baseball cap pulled low on his brow. He wasn't brawny enough for Riva, and much too muscular to be the younger Sandberg kid. He had Liam Sandberg's height, but the physique of an older man, probably in his fifties. It wasn't the Sandberg father, either—that man, who had preened like a cockroach after each time he fucked Olivia, wouldn't be caught dead in the dumpy jeans, denim jacket and dirty sneakers this guy was wearing. That only left Angelov, and there wasn't a fauxhawk, tattoo, or piercing in sight.
Another stranger, come to call on Olivia Benson. At this rate, the captain would be broken in in no time.
He sauntered up to Olivia and stood above her, surveying the length of her like he was lusting over a cherry red sports car. With the toe of his hangdog sneaker, he nudged lightly at her back. When that failed to get a reaction, he squatted next to her on his haunches and peered around her shoulder, dusting away strands of dark hair to reveal her face. He mumbled something that sounded like "still the same," then clasped Olivia's shoulder and shook it.
"Wake up, kitty cat," he said loudly, ducking his head closer to the woman prone at his feet. He trailed his fingers up and down her arm the way Amanda did while she held Olivia after they made love. Nearing Olivia's hip, he gave that a shake too, and glided his hand farther in to stroke something obscured by their positions. It didn't take a genius to figure it out, based on his bobbing elbow and the weak groan from Olivia. "Here kitty, kitty, kitty . . . "
Christ, what was the cat thing about? It made Amanda's skin crawl just listening to it, and with the added visual of his pumping arm, and the imagined one of what his hand was doing in front, her stomach lurched dangerously. The handful of crackers and sips of coffee were catching up with her. She was going to have to vomit again at some point, but this wasn't the time. Not with Olivia being violated by a sixth man who had yet to show his face. He must have been aware of the camera's placement, because he kept the back of his red cap to it the whole time.
"Dun . . . fram . . . " Olivia mumbled, several more unintelligible words following. She took a while to open her eyes and look up at the man crouched over her, and the reaction was just as delayed. At first she merely stared, trying to bring him into focus, her eyes rolling and widening, lids blinking, as if they weren't properly wired. Then, a moment of confusion as she got a better look at him. And finally, that pure and utter terror when it all came flooding back to her.
She tried to scramble away from him, but only managed to drag herself sideways on one elbow, her bare feet scuffing uselessly on the crude flooring. Panicking, she felt around in the rubbish beside the mattress, finding nothing more helpful than a remote control for some electronic device or another. She threw it at the man and missed, despite their close proximity. Olivia never missed.
"Don— don't touch," she husked, pushing at his arm where it encircled her hip. He let her shoo him away with little effort, and though his face still wasn't visible, something about his jaunty posture suggested he was grinning. Kitty cat was playing hard to get. "Leave me 'lone."
"Just as uppity as you ever were," said the man, too cheerful for the words he was speaking. He wiggled his fingers at Olivia, taunting her the way Amanda did with spidery movements, threatening tickle torture. He jerked his hand back, dodging the swipe she took at it, then playfully poked her side and upper thigh as she clawed the floor, squirming toward a freedom that didn't exist. "Filled out some since then, I see. Not that I'm complaining. Most of it's tit anyway, and that's A-okay by me."
"Who is this fucker?" Amanda asked, more to herself than anyone in the room. The man obviously knew Olivia from a previous encounter, at least a few years prior by the sound of it, but Amanda couldn't place the voice or the stature. It wasn't Murphy, thank God, although it might have been better if it was; surely Murphy wouldn't abuse Olivia himself, even if he had orchestrated the living nightmare she was in. (Right?) "Show your face, you fucking coward."
"Knows how to duck the camera," Fin observed. He started to say something else, but let it drift off without further explanation.
Amanda squinted at the bastard in the stupid red cap. A list of sports teams with red uniforms and logos ran through her brain like the crawl at the bottom of ESPN: Cincinnati Reds, Ohio State, Cardinals, Red Sox, Braves . . . . The more logos and titles she conjured, the more certain she became that she could identify this piece of shit if he would just: "Turn your goddamn head, you son of a bitch," she snarled.
When he suddenly obeyed, she started back in surprise, hand on her chest, and gasped. She knew who he was. Not a name, nor did she recognize the face that appeared in profile for no more than half a second, but the words above it—Make Americ—were impossible to forget. It was the man in the MAGA hat who had been filming her and Olivia yesterday.
"Fuck me, I've seen that guy before," she said, storming over to stab a finger to the screen, as if which guy she meant might be in question. "He was in the crowd after they grabbed Liv. Taking video. That's the hat I saw."
She looked eagerly to Fin, pointed adamantly. It wasn't like she had just cracked the case wide open, she knew that, but it had to be an important detail. For Olivia's sake, it had to be. When the sergeant gave her a dubious frown and said, "I don't know, Rollins. A lotta people have that hat. Means they're stupid, doesn't mean they're all in on this," she heaved a frustrated sigh. Why couldn't he see how significant this was? Why the hell didn't he do something?
"But . . . he does look kinda familiar," said Fin, rubbing his goatee in thought. Lips compressed, he shook his head, he squinted. He stepped forward for a closer look and rubbed his beard some more. "Feel like I seen him somewhere, I just can't place him."
"Well, maybe you should try harder." Amanda picked up the laptop and shoved the edge of the keyboard into Fin's chest. She hadn't intended to be that rough about it, but she didn't care if it hurt or not. Someone needed to take this situation as seriously as she did, and if she had to get physical—get mean—to get the point across, then so be it. "Seeing as how Liv's entire fucking life depends on it. Who the hell is he, Fin? Don't just stand there shrugging your shoulders. Look at him!"
"Amanda, perhaps you should—"
Fin put out his hand to Dr. Lindstrom, who had gotten to his feet as if he might be required to break up a fistfight at any moment. The doctor was still clutching his damn bag, resembling a scandalized old lady clutching her purse. He lowered it slowly, falling silent and fading into the background again, at Fin's behest. "I said he's familiar, not that I can ID him for sure," said Fin, carefully placing the MacBook back on the table. "But let me see if I can get a better look at him, okay?"
"Have you met him or do you just know him from a mugshot or a lineup?" Amanda asked, peering over his shoulder as he leaned in, studying the man in the cap. She didn't want to hear any excuses about not being able to make an ID; if Fin was at all worth his salt as a cop, he'd damn well figure it out.
But Red Hat wasn't cooperating this time, and he kept his face from view as he scooped up Olivia under the armpits and hefted her onto the mattress she was dragging herself toward, inch by agonizing inch. She cried out at being handled with little concern for her injuries, grunting as if she'd been gut punched when he dropped her unceremoniously onto the pad. It was too much to hope that his intentions weren't ignoble; head down, he circled Olivia and grabbed her wrists, pulling her fully onto the bedding, then returned to kick her ankles apart and stand between them.
"I don't know." Fin growled in frustration, swiping a dismissive gesture at Red Hat, like he was telling him to get lost. "This mofo won't show me his face. Can't tell nothing from the back of some dude's head. Come on, man, quit hiding behind your damn—"
"You," Olivia gasped, struggling to catch her breath. She sounded asthmatic, though Amanda had never known her to have such a problem. It would make sense, with all her focus on calming exercises and mindful breathing. Amanda had just never thought to ask. Maybe now she would never find out. "I-I know you. Who . . . wh-where?"
"What, when, why, how?" Red Hat laughed at the unamusing joke, and bunted Olivia's feet away each time one or the other tried to sneak around his legs to join its mate. It became a game for a moment, Olivia trying to close her legs, while he slung them open with the top of his sneakered foot. Eventually she gave up, panting and clutching her side as if she'd run a marathon, and tugged down on the hem of her t-shirt, trying to cover herself that way. The underwear was a loose flap between her legs.
"Not surprised you don't remember," said the man. He had grown tired of the game as well, and cocked his head to watch as Olivia struggled to maintain some modesty. Even after everything the other men had done to her, she still didn't want this one to see her body. "You were a bitch back then, too. Strutting around like you owned the place. Twitching your little tail at me just to see what I'd do. Thought you were too good for me, didn't you, kitty cat?"
"Dammit, Fin. Who the fuck is he?" Amanda brought her fist down on the table, commanding an answer. Her pulse was galloping faster than the race horses she used to bet on, and if she didn't find out this guy's name soon, her heart would probably explode in her chest. His ID might be just the break in the case they needed; Olivia's return hinged on Fin summoning up a single goddamn name, but by all means, take your time, Sergeant. No need for urgency whatsoever. "They know each other from somewhere. Is he someone she put away? A dirty cop? Why the hell's he calling her kitty cat?"
"I don't know, Amanda, can you just shut up and let me think?" Fin flicked an annoyed glance at her, the sudden appearance of his temper jarring. He seldom lost his cool with anyone, least of all Amanda. He knew it, too, his features softening quickly, his voice following suit. "If I have seen him, it's been a really long time ago. Liv doesn't even remember who he is, so—"
Blocking the rest out, Amanda zeroed in on Red Hat, aiming every ounce of hatred and fury she possessed—for him, for the other five rapist pigs, for the helplessness she felt, for everything she had watched her wife endure the past two days, for the weakness that prevented her from stopping it (probably inherited from her mama), for MAGA hats and motherfucking Donald J. Trump—at the back of his head.
Her eyes felt laser-hot, she stared so hard, and she momentarily entertained the image of blowing his skull to bits with the laser beams. Melting his brain to something that resembled cream of mushroom soup. Or just simply vaporizing the bastard in a puff of smoke. But fantasizing about killing him wasn't helping Olivia. His intentions were obvious, even to the dazed captain, who kept a wary eye on the vicinity of his waistband.
If something didn't give soon, if they just kept sitting here watching and upping the viewership of this hellacious reality show, Olivia was going to be raped by a sixth perpetrator.
"Give us a name, darlin'," Amanda whispered, trying to send as much love to Olivia as she had sent hate to the sixth man. "Please. Just something to go on. Just say his name so we can ID him and find you."
"How did y-you know wh-where I am?" Olivia asked. Propped on her elbows, she glanced at her surroundings, and Amanda could hear her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud: I don't even know where I am. "Are you the— the buyer?"
That was an excellent question, although unlikely—no way this guy had a million dollars to spare—and Amanda was silently commending her wife for trying to pump him for information when Dana Lewis' sharp twang filled the room, like the drone of cicadas in summertime. It was a pungent sound, overpowering, and it reminded Amanda of woodsmoke, permeating everything in its path.
"Y'all know who this horse's ass is? My guys can't get a good enough shot for facial recognition unless he turns that big nut on his shoulders and, hopefully, takes off the gimme cap. Think our girl can knock it off for him?" Just a head and a pair of shoulders poking through the doorway, Dana addressed the laptop screen as if Olivia herself were sitting right there at the table. "Whadda ya say, Cap'n? Help us out a little?"
Obviously the agent didn't really expect Olivia to aid in her own defense like that, but Dana's brassy entrance, not to mention calling Olivia "our girl" and speaking to her video image, irked Amanda deeply. There was no our about it—Olivia was hers, period—and Dana had no business talking to the captain while she was absent; that type of prayerful discourse should be reserved for Amanda alone.
The irreverence of it all was too much, and she shot a venomous glare at Dana, warning her not to open her big mouth again. "Shut the hell up and maybe we can hear who it is," Amanda growled, pointing at the man as he laughed at Olivia's question and claimed he was not the buyer. It annoyed her that Dana stepped into the room to listen, but at least she heeded the warning and kept her trap shut.
"I know the buyer, though," Red Hat went on, boastful. He grazed the back of Olivia's calf idly with the toe of his sneaker. "I'm a liaison for— them. That's how I got in here. You're pretty exclusive property, believe it or not. Real top-shelf stuff. I wasn't sure they'd let me have a taste, but I go way back with one of the guys and I was instrumental in getting you here, so—"
"Quit yapping, and do her already," boomed a voice from the doorway, which had cracked open, emitting a cone of sunlight into the shipping container. "I said you could have her for an hour, not all damn day. You're not even supposed to be here, so snap it up."
"All right, Nicky, geez—"
"No names, you fuck! And no more pillow talk. Screw the bitch or get the hell out." The slamming door resonated throughout the small space, rattling the walls and pixelating the onscreen image. For a moment, the entire room was a blur, with two human-shaped smears, one on the ground and one standing over her, in the top corner.
Of course that was when the smear in the red cap turned and yelled over his shoulder, "Fuck sakes, just cut the feed, man. It's not like they don't know what's happening to her by now. Goddamn."
The video resumed crystal-clear focus as Red Hat turned back to Olivia, shaking his head. "Nothing like rushing a guy and giving him performance anxiety, am I right? Just kidding. I can always get it up, especially with a ripe bitch like you. Been a long time coming." He bent down to tug at Olivia's ruined panties. "Let's get these off."
"The prison," Olivia said, her voice splintering like rotted wood, leaving only ragged edges. And barely any sound. She slapped at his hands, tried to scoot backward on the mattress, and mouthed something that might have been "roped" or "groped," but hadn't the clarity or volume to adequately decipher.
Just as she was about to say something else—Amanda felt certain it was a name, saw the flash of recognition in her wife's eyes—the man grabbed Olivia by the hips, yanking her toward him. The last thing Amanda saw before the livestream ended was Olivia's face, twisted in pain and fear, as the man climbed on top of her.
Two or three seconds of dead silence hung over the precinct before it burst into activity, officers and agents alike scrambling to get the lost captain back, even if it was only digitally. Shouting, cursing, calling out orders. But the silence stretched on for Amanda, the voices around her falling on deaf ears while she stared in disbelief at the browser window where Olivia had been, now plastered in banner ads for underage porn, hidden sex cams (Totally Live!), BDSM requests, and bestiality.
At first she couldn't comprehend what had happened, and then, when it sunk in that she'd lost Olivia again, their connection severed as swiftly as it had been yesterday morning, possibly forever this time, she became witness to her own damnation.
"No. No, no, no, no," she heard herself repeating, though she was unable to reconcile the voice inside her head with the one outside it. She might as well have been yelling into an echo chamber, no way to tell where one sound began and the other ended. No way to tell where she began or ended.
This felt like her ending.
"Oh Jesus, what did they do? Why did it cut off?" Amanda punched random keys on the laptop keyboard, no rhyme or reason to the combinations she chose. Amid her growing panic, she forgot everything she knew about ethical hacking. She tapped at the space bar like she was sending Morse code, and slammed her fist down on it when nothing happened. "We gotta get her back. I promised I wouldn't leave her alone. Fin, help me, we gotta get her back."
Fin's eyes were too wide for his face, giving him an almost gaunt appearance. For the first time Amanda could remember, she noticed they were golden in the light, and she thought of the Buddha in the snow globe on Olivia's desk. But her sergeant was no holy man or prophet. He only shook his head lamely, his gaze downcast, as useless as the little gold statue in its glass bubble. "I don't think we can, Amanda. We ain't even been able to trace the IP address on that thing. How can we bring it back on?"
Truthfully? Unless one of the Dreamland men restored the feed, there was no way to pull up the video, no matter how good the FBI white hats supposedly were. Amanda knew that, and it wasn't fair to blame Fin for something he had no control over, but her anger toward his resigned attitude, his acceptance that Olivia was just gone, flashed white-hot in her already feverish, sleep-deprived brain.
"That the best you can do? Shrug it off like she's nothing? Some guy you know but can't identify is raping her right now, and you just wanna go about your day until maybe they make contact again, maybe not. Jesus, you're fucking useless. All of you." Amanda had resumed pacing the length of the table, clenching and unclenching her fists, absently cracking her knuckles. "This is all so fucking useless."
She stopped beside the laptop, gave it a long hard look, then picked it up and heaved it at the wall beneath the one-way mirror. It arced past Lindstrom, who started back in surprise, and collided at one hinged corner, ricocheting onto the floor. It clapped shut like a clamshell. The result was rather anticlimactic—no shattering glass or plumes of smoke—but Fin yelled, "Hey!" and that was all the encouragement Amanda needed.
With a sweep of her arm, she sent the vending machine snacks hurtling off the table like lemmings over a cliff. She swiped the Dreamland rap sheets with a precision she could never duplicate, papers cascading in a perfect, airy spiral. The coffee mug cracked impressively against the one-way, displacing its handle and trailing a streamer of dark roast that hit the glass with an aromatic splat.
Not until she lifted her chair and threw it at the street-facing windows did a pair of strong arms wrap around her from behind, hemming her in like a straitjacket. "Let me go, goddammit! Liv needs me! We have to get her back," Amanda bellowed, grunting and writhing to get free. When that didn't work, she kicked out her feet, trying to throw her captor off balance. And when that didn't work either, she reverse headbutted them. Someone groaned, and then Amanda was loose and thrashing. She saw blood when she punched the person who ran at her.
More groaning.
"Child's done lost her mind," said a wet, nasally voice, muffled by a hand.
"Rollins, hey! You gotta chill. Come on, sit down before you hurt yourself," said another. A chair wheeled into view and Amanda grabbed the arms, preparing to send it the way of the first one, still hunched over by the file cabinets like a school kid during a tornado drill.
"I don't wanna fucking sit. I gotta get to Liv. Lemme go, I gotta get out of here. She needs me. Get the fuck off me, or I'll—" Amanda ended the sentence with a grunt, trying to wrench her arms out of the grasps that held her at both sides, forcing her down toward the chair.
Her mama loved to tell the story of four-year-old Mandy Rollins fighting like the dickens not to get a shot during a pediatric visit: It took three nurses and the doctor to hold her down. They said they'd never seen a child put up such a fuss over a little ol' needle before, especially such a tiny, angelic-looking thing like my Mandy. It was meant as a commentary on the trials and tribulations of raising a willful kid, but Amanda had always listened with pride. Even at four they hadn't been able to control her or keep her down.
They weren't going to at forty-two, either. She fought with every ounce of the irrational rage and recklessness that had seen her twisting and turning in impossible shapes, and at one point, kicking a nurse across the room, that day at the pediatrician. But in the end, she got the shot.
She looked down at her bicep, and up at Lindstrom as he retracted the syringe, its contents already disseminating into her bloodstream. Her muscles began to relax a second later, turning her limbs to limp spaghetti noodles. It was as if she'd been hit with the opposite effect of yesterday's taser blast. "What the hell did you do?" she asked, tongue thick and sluggish in her mouth. She sounded like a warped cassette tape played at a slow speed. "The fuck'd you gi' me?"
"I'm sorry," said Lindstrom, gazing down with a sad, benign expression. A religious painting of some lowly saint whose duty it was to minister to mere mortals. "This will help you rest. Try not to fight it."
My ass, Amanda thought, but no words came out. She couldn't have fought whatever drug he'd administered, even if she wanted to (God, she wanted to), because it was already pulling her under, into darkness. She made one last attempt to sit up and tell the psychiatrist that she would have his ass and his license for sedating her against her will; that she had never liked him anyway, and she didn't trust him with her wife; that she wanted to kill him for dragging her away from Olivia like this. But she remained slumped in the chair, chin drifting closer and closer to her chest.
Her last thought was that she finally knew what Dr. Lindstrom had in his medical bag.
. . .