by CJ Lyons
"Almost forgot your tetanus booster, Agent Guardino."
The black spots in Lucy's vision returned along with a thundering in her ears. If the guys hadn't been there she would have treated herself to a nice case of the vapors—her usual reaction to needles. Damn it, why couldn't they have done it while she was out cold when they stuck her with the IV's?
"Wouldn't want to forget that," she mumbled. Her face was cold and clammy. From the looks on Burroughs and Walden's faces, they were in total sympathy.
She handed the papers and bottles to Walden, painfully slid one arm free of the windbreaker, swallowed hard and vowed not to faint.
The nurse didn't even move them into a patient space, instead she briskly dabbed some alcohol on Lucy's upper arm and jabbed the needle in before anyone could say "boo". Even smiled while she did it, Lucy saw as her vision swam out of focus for a moment. Both of the men looked away. Scaredy cats.
It was over fast and before she knew it, Lucy was boasting a Bugs Bunny band-aid and the nurse had helped her back into the jacket. "There. You're good to go."
"Where's Taylor? I want to see him before we leave."
Walden answered. "Over here."
She followed the men across the hall to the orthopedics room. Her back felt bruised and tight and swollen, like it was being held together by fishing line. Which, the surgeon had explained, was basically the truth of the matter. Nylon on the top of the skin and something called chromic, which he said was like old fashioned cat gut only better, in a few layers of muscle and connective tissue below the surface. One wrong move and his sewing project could pop wide open again.
Her skin felt stretched so tight that she wondered if it might not have been better just to let the metal remain. Weld it closed or something.
Then she saw Taylor and counted herself lucky.
"Hi, LT, did they get you too?" he said, his pupils constricted and dancing as he held a black rubber mask to his face and sucked on it greedily. His arm looked awful, fingers caught tight in a cage-like contraption straight out of a Fu Manchu movie, a weight pulling his elbow down, the "S" shaped curve of his broken arm bones slowly being straightened out by a surgeon covered with flecks of plaster and frayed bits of fibreglass.
"Wow, Taylor," she said, taking his good hand in hers. "You'll do anything for a few days off."
"Can't feel a thing. They numbed my whole arm up and gave me lotsa drugs. Goooood drugs."
"Nitrous oxide," the surgeon corrected as he re-aligned the bones with a grating noise that made Lucy's eyes bug wide in sympathy. "He wouldn't let us give him anything long-acting. Said he needed to get back to work."
"You catch the bastard yet?" Taylor's words were slurred and his eyelids drooped.
"Not yet. We're headed out now. You going to be okay?"
"Oh sure. I'm fine," he sang the last, his eyes now completely shut.
Lucy squeezed his hand and backed away. "He really going to be all right?" she asked the surgeon.
"Yeah, this looks awful, but they usually heal with no problems. He'll have a cast for the next two months. In fact, soon as I'm finished and get a follow-up X-ray, he'll be ready to go."
Satisfied that Taylor was in good hands, she followed Burroughs to where his car was parked in the no-parking zone closest to the ER doors. He'd left his wig-wags going, the blue and red lights flashing from behind the Impala's grille, bathing the brick wall in color.
"You sure you don't want me to take you home?" he asked, holding the passenger door open for her. "You should get some rest."
Resentment flared through her. No one would ever question one of the guys returning to work. Why did they assume she was any different? She'd rest when they found Ashley.
"Get me back to the office." She eased her weight down into the seat, wincing as she twisted to pull the seatbelt tight.
Burroughs pulled out of the hospital drive and turned onto Penn. He drove just like yesterday, relaxed, one wrist draped over the wheel, exuding confidence.
"That reporter, Ames. She broke up your marriage, didn't she?"
He slid one hand to fist the wheel at the eleven o'clock position as he slanted his gaze at her. "After that stunt with Danny and Mitch, yeah. She still hassling your daughter? I can handle that if you want."
Right. He'd love nothing more than to handle "tvgirl" again. "No, I meant your affair with her. That's what broke up your marriage, right?"
Now both hands gripped the wheel tight. But his face was expressionless as he stared at her. "You're kidding me. You think I—"
She was too tired to play this game. Flipping his phone open, she waved the text message in front of him. "Answer me one question, Burroughs. How badly have you fucked my case?"
The car swerved slightly. He started to smile, a phony, hey-this-is-all-a-joke, right? smile. She merely glared at him, refusing to look away. Then he gave a one-shouldered shrug of surrender and the boyish grin vanished.
"Cindy and I, we hooked up about a year ago, when the Olsen case came along and I was primary. I didn't give her what she wanted, so she pulled that stunt with my kids."
"Answer my question, Burroughs."
"I didn't tell her anything. That's what I'm trying to explain. This thing between us, it's some kind of warped chemistry, I don't know what—but I would never, ever jeopardize a case."
"You'd jeopardize your marriage but not the job?" She didn't try to bother to keep the scorn from her voice.
"Yes—no. Kim and I were having trouble long before I met Cindy. Look, this doesn't have to be a bad thing. We could use it to our advantage, leak a story to Cindy, use it to bait Fletcher."
Lucy was already way ahead of him there. "It might come to that. In the meantime, I'm going to ask one thing from you. If you can't do it, tell me now."
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "What is it?"
"You don't talk with Ames, you don't go near her, you don't fuck her again until we have Ashley safe."
Ignoring traffic for a moment, he swiveled his head to meet her eyes with an altar-boy-innocent gaze. He nodded solemnly. "Sure. The kid comes first."
She couldn't help but notice he had stopped using Ashley's name.
"Hey, wake up. You're safe now. Everything is going to be all right."
The worlds circled around her consciousness like fluffy summer clouds, thin and wispy and impossible to grasp. It was a man's voice, that much penetrated. He was holding her, rocking her like she was a baby.
"Here, drink this. Slowly now, slowly."
A trickle of fluid ran down her chin. More sloshed down her throat, gagging her. She jerked up, coughing, her eyes springing open. Dark spots danced before her eyes, everything was shadowy.
The man held her in his lap, she couldn't see his face. He held a water bottle back up to her lips and she drank. He started to pull it away and she grabbed it.
"No. Don't drink too fast, you'll get sick."
She didn't fight, instead lowered her hand to her lap. Waited for him to make the next move.
"I need to get some tools from my truck. To cut you loose." He slid her from his lap onto the hard ground. In the distance she saw a mound of snakes, dark, hovering around the periphery of her vision. Terrified, she grabbed his pant leg, not looking up at him, her gaze focused on the snakes.
"Don't worry, they won't hurt you. I'll be right back." She wrapped her arm around his leg, anchoring herself. He crouched low, gently loosening her grip. "It's all right. You're safe now. Trust me."
Then he was gone and she was alone again.
Trust him? The words were meaningless. The only things that had meaning in her universe were the threat of the snakes, the impending horror of being left in the darkness again, the headlong terror she felt with every breath. She drew her knees up, hugging her legs to her, making herself the smallest target possible.
Without moving her head, she glanced around her prison. It was a barn. Overturned buckets hung from hooks in the rafters above her—the source of the snakes, she guessed.
But where was the man who had put them there? Who had brought her here?
Snakes slithered around bales of hay stacked to make walls. The only light came from a door open at one end of the small barn. More bales obscured it, all she could see was the bright light framed at the top of the opening. On the other side of the barn the hay bales were stacked to make seats.
Her fingers spread out into claws, fighting terror as she saw her "audience". Three vaguely human forms sat there, snakes crawling over them, making the plastic they were encased in rustle as if they were alive.
They weren't alive.
Panic seized her, her heart speeding into a furious rhythm that threatened to strangle her. She scuttled back as far as the chain would stretch, kept going, not caring about the snakes or anything except getting far away from the three bodies.
She rolled over onto her belly, lunging for the doorway, the promise of freedom. The chain yanked her back, her ankle screaming for mercy. She stretched out, clawing her hands against the linoleum that extended only a few inches past her reach. Where was the man, her savior? He had promised…
As if in answer to her silent prayers, he appeared again, a tall shadow ringed by light.
"Miss me?" he said brightly, brandishing a large pair of bolt cutters. He immediately went to work on the cable restraining her. "This might hurt a bit."
She said nothing, simply lay there, face down, snakes slithering over her limp hands, ignoring the pain as he pried one jaw of the tool beneath the restraint. There was pressure, a lot of pressure, then a snapping sound.
His hands worked at her ankle. She lay still, waiting.
"You're free. Think you can walk?"
She said nothing, puzzling over his words. Waiting to see what happened next. What new torture was coming.
"Maybe I should carry you." With a grunt of effort he rolled her over and scooped her into his arms. He swayed beneath her weight and she saw that he really wasn't all that tall. He carried her through the maze of hay bales and out into the bright sunshine.
The light burnt her eyes. She almost cried out, but stopped herself in time. Instead, she closed her eyes tight and buried her face into his shoulder.
"Sorry I didn't get here sooner," he said, balancing her weight as he shut the barn door. "What's your name? I'm Jim."
She burrowed deeper into his shirt, trying to escape the harsh judgment of the sun. What was her name? Good question. The answer seemed meaningless. A name didn't matter, who she was didn't matter—just as long as she didn't have to return to the darkness.
Floating, she was a lazy cloud, floating. Unfettered, untethered, unleashed.
Free to float.
As if looking down from a great height, she saw the figure of a man carrying a dark-haired girl. Both strangers to her, but she felt sympathy for him as he stumbled, almost tripped and caught himself. Watched as the girl tightened her grip around his neck. Safe, she was safe in his arms.
Knowing that, seeing that, was more than enough. She didn't need answers, she only needed to float. Free…
"Vixen," she finally answered. "Call me Vixen."
For some reason, that made the man laugh. Not at her, more as if he'd won some prize. He hugged her tight, his laughter rippling through him, acting as if she were something special, precious.
"All right, then, Vixen," he finally said. "Let's get you some place safe and sound."
Chapter 28
Sunday 2:47 pm
Her Special Agent in Charge, John Greally, was waiting for Lucy when she limped into her office, now feeling every stitch and bruised muscle in technicolor waves of pain.
Greally smiled, a lop-sided grimace that crinkled his eyes. Not because he was happy she was injured, but because they both knew how easily things could have turned out differently. If Fletcher had wanted, Greally could right this minute be making death notifications to three families. Including hers.
She met his gaze with a small nod, assuring him she was all right. He left his seat and pulled a chair out from the conference table for her. Even though she usually preferred to stand, she sank down into it, leaning to one side to shield her back. It had been a hard day already and wasn't over, not by a long shot.
Greally perched on the edge of the table, motioning for Burroughs to wait outside. Lucy was glad her back was to the bullpen, it gave her the opportunity to close her eyes for a moment.
"Better or worse than Baltimore?" he asked. She and Greally had worked together on a RICO operation which had gone smoothly except for a five-car pile up in rush hour traffic on the Beltway. No fault of hers or Greally's, merely the wrong place at the wrong time.
She'd wrenched her neck and back, been stiff for a week, unable to turn her head. "Better," she lied.
"Hmpf. You don't look it."
"Just tired. This thing with Megan..."
"Yeah. I can only imagine. How is she?"
"Fine. Playing video games. But the waiting for answers—"
"It will drive you nuts. I'll bet Nick is glad to have you out of there, you were probably driving him crazy as well."
"Not so sure about that."
"We need to talk about the thing with the Canadians this morning."
"Ah hell." She sat up straight, jerking the stitches in her back. "Are we going to lose them 'cause of Fletcher? The guy held a gun to my face—"
He held up a hand, shutting her down. "I talked with the assistant US attorney. She thinks we're okay—especially as Ivan's partners are already rolling on him."
She slumped back, suddenly aware that the gnawing in her stomach was hunger, not nausea. "Think you could use some of that SAC clout of yours to get my team some food?"
"Now I know you're going to be all right. Back to the little Mother Theresa we all know and love."
"Hey, stop that." She looked around, made sure the door was closed. "Don't start calling me that around here. Besides, any good leader knows an army works better if you feed it to the enemy." She frowned, knowing she messed up the metaphor but not having enough energy to care. "Or something like that."
Greally was already using the phone at her desk arranging for a delivery from the CheeseCake Factory down on Carson Street. Lucy brightened. But then Greally squirmed, pulled a large rubber snake out from the seat of the chair, and dangled it over the desk. Worse, he only almost smiled.
That's when she knew she might be in real trouble.
A knock came on the door and Walden poked his head in. "ICE just sent Fletcher's jacket. Taylor called, he's being released and insists on coming back. I sent Burroughs after him. I've updated Lowery and Dunmar, they know it's now our jurisdiction. They'll call if anything breaks on their end."
"Thanks," Lucy said. Walden was proving himself a definite asset. "Let's try hard to keep them in the loop—I don't want any exclusive interviews proclaiming a federal cover up when word gets out that Fletcher is one of ours." Greally nodded his agreement. Lucy stood, she couldn't think straight sitting still. "Once everyone's here, we'll start cracking this nutcase."
Greally hung up the phone and stared long and hard at Walden. Lucy appreciated the fact that Walden didn't budge, instead crossed his arms over his chest. Nice to know where he stood after her recent fuck-ups. Maybe Nick was right? No, the misjudgment with the snake handlers had come before Megan got sick.
No excuses.
She couldn't let Walden take the fall for her mistakes. "Why don't you start breaking down Fletcher's file?"
He met her gaze, gave her a nod, and left. Greally kept his seat—her seat, really—behind her desk. At least she hoped it still was her desk.
"Want to give me some ideas about how to explain the last few days to HQ?" he asked. "Distraction over a sick child is nothing to be ashamed about."
Lucy stood up straighter, refused to let him see the effort it cost her. "Would you ask any of the guys that? Would you allow anyone to ask you that if the positions were reversed?"
"So it's stress? Is the job too much for you?"
"My team has only been on the job for three months and we've built two hundred cases," she protested. "I'd like to think I had some part of that."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah, that's what your team says."
"You've been talking to my team about my performance?" Christ, they'd never trust her again if they thought she had a screw loose.
"Routine ninety-day review. Or so they think." He paused, placing his palms flat on the desktop. "Highest marks I've ever seen—from your team."
"And from administration?"
"About the worst I've seen. Your paperwork is routinely late—"
"But never shoddy. I bring home the bacon, John. No AUSA has ever complained about any of my cases."
"No. But this is a huge organization. We can't function without someone staying on top of the administrative details—which is your job. Supervisory special agent. You're no longer a field agent."
"I can do both—"
"Without jeopardizing your team? Or putting innocent civilians in the cross fire?"
She had no answer to that.
"I need you on Fletcher. No one else could have gotten as far as fast as you have. But that's it. After we wrap it, you're confined to this office. Even if I have to chain you to this desk—" He twinkled a smile, the old Greally, the partner who had her back, had returned. "Although you might just enjoy that."
She had no choice but to play along. "Hey, at least there aren't any snakes."
He scrutinized her, knowing her too well to accept her concession so easily, but said nothing.
One of the few perks of being the boss was that Lucy's office had its own storage closet, a space she had transformed into a private changing room. Or "boudoir" as Taylor and a few of the guys put it. Usually she used it to change into casual wear for Megan's soccer games or from regular work clothes to a suit for court or meetings with brass.
Today, while Walden and John Greally were finishing lunch and filling the white board with everything they did and didn't know about James Fletcher, she used it to ditch the hospital scrubs and change into the khakis and sleeveless blouse she'd worn to work.