The Lies We Tell (13/15)
Title: The Lies We Tell (13/15)
Pairing: gen, possible C/G
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: LtM not mine. Donnell is property of David E Kelley (DEK).
Summary: When Zoe brings a new case and a new partner to the Lightman Group, long-buried truths will be revealed as they work to defend an innocent man, while a side investigation could also place one partner in mortal peril.
A/N: NOTE THAT CAL AND GILLIAN'S POVs ARE NOT IN SYNC, OR IN REAL TIME WITH THE OTHER.
DISCLAIMER: DARK THEMATIC ELEMENTS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
.::.::.::.
Poke.
Poke-poke.
"Oi! What're you doin'?"
"Dad. It's past noon. Are you getting up or not?"
Cal sighed loudly and turned over in bed, pushing away the covers. Scrubbing his face with his palms, he sat up. "What are you wearing?"
"Snow pants. We're building a snow fort."
"How old are you?"
"Old enough to know the physics required to accomplish such a feat."
"Ugh." Cal flopped back in bed. His head was pounding and his tongue felt like he'd licked a salty floorboard. "When'd you get here?"
"Last night. I fell asleep waiting for you to get home… Which you didn't do until three in the morning." She took a step closer and sniffed. "Dad? You smell... Bad."
"Em. Love. Can you get me some water? And the entire bottle of motrin?"
"Yeah, sure."
Blessed silence. Cal could hardly see straight. Thinking was out of the question. Nodding off, he woke to find the pills and water sitting beside him. Lovely girl, that Emily. Swallow. Chug. Sleep.
Cal awoke an hour and a half later. Stretching, he exhaled and sat up, suddenly ravenous. To the kitchen. He set the pot to boil for tea and toasted some bread. It wasn't until he was well into his second bite that he looked outside.
Bloody hell.
There must've been at least a foot, maybe more. No wonder Em was making a snow fort. He thought they were only supposed to get a dusting. Damn meteorologist. Idiots, the lot of 'em. Draining his cup, he rinsed his plate then headed upstairs to take a shower. He wanted to see how far this snow fort had progressed.
.::.::.
Cold. It was very cold.
Gillian awoke to find that everything ached, even her hair. A wave of nausea hit and without warning, she vomited. She must've done that several times already, as she was lying in a pile of sick.
Once the world stopped spinning, Gillian tried to orient herself. She was in complete darkness, not a trace of light. She was on cold, concrete floor. Her hands were tied to what felt like a wooden post.
Taking a deep breath, Gillian tried to quash the fear that was begging to escape. She needed to remain calm.
Rolling to her back, she found that she was naked. Not only that, but she seemed to have lost sensation from the waist down. Great. That was just… she swallowed hard. She would not panic. She would not freak out.
There was a wealth odors permeating the space. Feces, urine, iron, mildew, unshowered bodies. She began dry heaving, but her stomach had nothing left to offer. With the last heave of fetid breath, her meager energy escaped her.
And just like that, all was black once again.
.::..::.
"Fort's not too shabby, Em." It even had a slide, which he enjoyed immensely. Nothing like resorting to youthful antics to forget adulthood woes.
Emily smiled then peaked over the edge and slid back down, finger to her lips. Capture the flag was serious business. A noise to Cal's left brought his attention. Armed to the teeth, Cal shot upward and started pelting the little maggot. A girlish squeal erupted then a red-jacketed blob retreated to safety.
"Strong work," Emily whispered. "He got way too close that time."
"That was a boy? Oh…"
"Dad…" They resumed their positions and held their ground, whispering back and forth. She had yet to bring up his late return. He had yet to ask why she spent the night at his house when it wasn't his weekend with her. No matter.
"Cal?" It was Zoe. "CAL? EMILY?"
"You did tell your mum that you were staying over. Right?" Cal glanced over his shoulder to where Zoe stood on his front porch, squinting out over the expanse of gleaming snow.
"Of course. I'm not uncommunicative like you." They retreated to the porch and a very displeased Zoe. Or furious. Or nervous. He couldn't tell - she kept waffling back and forth. Her gaze moved past him to another figure. He turned and saw Donnell coming up the walk. Blast.
"Why the hell won't you answer your phone? ANY of them?"
"Good afternoon to you too." Cal unzipped his coat and let them inside. Well, he closed the door on Donnell. That man had weaseled his way into the good graces of the three most important women in Cal's life and for that he must pay. Petty acts of vengeance weren't out of the question.
"What crawled up your arse?"
"Where's your cell? I tried calling you five times. BOTH of you," Zoe said as she unbuttoned her coat and placed her hand on her hips. "Why didn't you answer?"
"Did you miss the giant fort, Mom? It's kind of hard to miss. Dad was helping secure our stronghold," said Emily.
"Whatever." Zoe glanced at Donnell, who was behind Cal and had yet to speak. Something was going on. Something beyond garden-variety anger. "Can you just… find your phone?"
"Not 'til you tell me what's goin' on."
Zoe looked away and swallowed hard. "Have you spoken with GIllian today?"
"Nah," Cal relied sorely. "She's not my keeper, you know."
She arched her eyebrows at his reply and looked to Donnell again. This time he spoke. "Lightman, we need to know if she called you."
"Why?" Cal was moving from irritated to worried. "What happened?"
A long tortuous moment passed in which the doubt and fear and anxiety overwhelmed their features.
"Gillian's missing."
.::.::.
Damn. Her head. She had no idea what Le Fort injected her with, but it was… unpleasant.
It was still absolute blackness. She couldn't hear anything. She had no idea if she was in a cellar, in a warehouse, or left for dead somewhere. Nothing. It was the not knowing that was starting to wear on her.
Good news was that she had regained sensation below her waist. She figured he'd used some type of paralytic. Not like she could go anywhere, her legs were also restrained at the ankle.
Outrageously bright floodlights flashed on, blinding her momentarily. Footsteps. Boots on wooden stairs; creaking all the way down. He took his time, enjoying the fear that must accumulate with every step. Reaching the bottom, he walked in a wide sweeping circle, slowly closing in as he surveyed her.
"Bienvenue Gillian."
.::.
Everyone had their macbooks set up around Cal's kitchen table. He'd called Torres and Loker and told them to get to his house, to walk if they had to.
"Run me through this one more time, Donnell. Don't skip a step."
Bobby gave Cal a disparaging look and took a seat on one of the stools.
"I got a call around noon from Linds. She said that Henri Toussaint was sitting in her living room, saying that Gillian was in danger."
"How does she know Toussaint?"
"No idea. Anyway, he told her everything that was going on. She called me. I called you, you didn't pick up, I called Zoe. I picked her up and we went to Gillian's. Her car wasn't there and none of her lights were on."
"I need to get over there."
"Cal. The roads -" Zoe started. She hated driving in the snow.
"Just because some bloke says she's in danger doesn't mean it's true. Until I have proof to the contrary, I'm going to believe that Foster is just fine." He had to. "Now. You comin' or not?"
"I am," Emily replied stubbornly.
"Not you."
Emily pulled on her coat and opened the door. "I'll meet you in the car."
.::.::.
Le Fort held up a large combat knife. Gillian frowned as she squinted through the blinding light.
"Here's how this works. You talk, I cut out your tongue. You try to run, I cut off your feet. You untie yourself, I cut off your hands. If you doubt me, just look at Ivana." Gillian's eyes widened as he walked over to the other side of the room where Ivana was shackled to the wall. He yanked up her head by her hair and forced open her bloodied mouth.
"I don't cut out tongues often, it's far too messy and blood," he motioned to her front where dried blood had coagulated to her chest and neck, "gets everywhere."
Gillian looked away. She did that. It was her fault Ivana was chained to that wall. She shut her eyes tight and ignored his words as he continued.
"Hey," Le Fort stood over her, foot on either side of her. He grabbed her jaw and squeezed tight, pointing the tip of the knife into her nose. "You're going to want to pay attention to this."
.::.::.
"Gillian has a lot of locks." No signs of forced entry. Good.
"No kiddin'." Cal would have to replace the panes of glass from her front door. Emily walked into the living room and took a seat on the couch. She poked around on the coffee table, popping open a tin. Cal kept moving, calling: "Foster?" The silence in her house was the type that only empty rooms could create.
No signs of a struggle in the kitchen. Not like last time. He stopped just outside her bedroom. He'd never been in there and was terrified at what he might find. He crept to the doorway and peaked around it quickly. Her bed was made neatly. No signs of a struggle, anywhere. No missing clothing. Bathroom was spotless.
"Dad, you should take a look at this."
Cal followed his daughter's voice into Gillian's study. It was packed with books upon books. He shouldn't have been surprised, but the sheer volume caught him off guard. Emily was staring at the longest wall and could see where her alarm came from.
The pictures of over twenty women were posted - their last known whereabouts, their hometowns, their common identifiers. All unsolved cases. Some were American; others were Belgian, Dutch, French, or German. Post-its galore. At the bottom of the wall were images of their mutilated bodies. Cal quickly dropped to the ground and started pulling the pictures off the wall.
"I already saw them," she sounded distraught. "How… how did… How did you not know about any of this?"
"I knew... sort of," he had no idea it had gotten this far. Foster was meticulous by nature, but this was borderline excessive. All those times he'd watched her, looking for cracks that weren't there. He wasn't sure if she was just that good or if he was too preoccupied. Probably both. Regardless, he was alarmed.
His phone started buzzing. There was news.
.::.::.
Le Fort moved to her side and squatted beside her. He traced the plane of her abdomen with the tip of his knife.
"There is more than a foot of snow outside. The roads are blocked. No one is going to find you."
She exhaled slowly. So this was what it was like. She had been captured and now he was playing with his prey. He slid the knife up to between her breasts as though deciding which one he wanted to lop off first. She watched his eyes the whole time, the way they dilated, the way he scrutinized her with such clinical efficiency.
This wasn't a game to him. This was art. This was science. This was curiosity. She was flesh encapsulating muscles and bones and organs. When he looked at her, he didn'tt see a person. He did not recognize the presence of something more.
"See, Gillian," the blade moved up her arm and stopped at her wrist. "I have a thing for hands. Especially your hands."
.::.::.
When he arrived an hour later, Em retreated upstairs with the tin she'd collected at Gillian's. Cal entered the kitchen with some of Foster's things as well as several files and her laptop.
Loker was talking to someone on his computer. Cal moved past Zoe and nudged Loker out of the way.
Before him sat Lindsay Dole. She wore a faded Harvard sweatshirt. Her hair was long and layered, no make-up. Beautiful. Tired, but beautiful. He ignored the twinge in his chest as she gave Cal an impatient look, frowning. It was the same as Foster's impatient look. Fantastic.
"I guess I'll talk to you later… Eli," she stated. "You must be Cal." She said it in the same manner one refers to a piece of unfavorable luggage.
"Guilty. So," Cal clapped his hands together and rubbed. "Where's Toussaint? I have questions."
"He's on the phone talking to… Agent Reynolds, I think? They're trying to get a local unit to check out Le Fort's property."
"I thought that happened yesterday," Torres interjected.
"A great many things were supposed to happen yesterday that didn't," Lindsay replied sharply. "According to Agent Reynolds, this is where everything stands: Le Fort booked a flight out of Dulles for this upcoming Tuesday; he's withdrawn all funds from his bank account and canceled all credit cards."
"Right. Hold that thought." Cal turned to Zoe and Donnell, both leaning against the counter. "Where are the rest of the discs? The ones you refused to hand over?"
Zoe glanced at Donnell, nervous. "We gave Gillian all the discs."
Cal stared at Donnell, watching as he worked his jaw. He pushed off from the table and stood in front of him, leveling him with unmitigated intensity. "I don't give a shite about attorney-client privilege. Where are they?"
The quickest flicker, but Cal knew where they were. He yanked the keys out of Donnell's jacket and retrieved them from his Land Rover. Rushing inside, Cal brushed past Zoe and Donnell and slid the first disc into his computer.
It wasn't until he was a minute in that he realized they had company. Sitting beside Lindsay was Henri Toussaint. He was leaning forward with his hand propped on his chin, listening intently over the feed. He must've been Foster's age, with light brown hair, tired dark brown eyes and one of those stupid jaws that was all chiseled. Cal imagined some women would find him attractive enough. Whatever.
Cal paused the disc. "What made you come over here?"
Henri's brow pinched as he pulled back. "Excuse me?" He had a British accent to his English, instead of American. Not completely unheard of, but amusing nonetheless.
"You showed up on Lindsay's doorstep this morning. Why?"
"Boston is the only place my plane would land. Mylab gave me the evidence I needed to lock the bastard away and the last time Gill and I spoke, she said the verdict came in. I told her to get a tail on him since he was a flight risk, but apparently she lacked the support to accomplish that."
Cal ignored the dig and continued. "Why didn't you just call?"
"I did." Impatience. Anger. "Last night. She never answered which is unlike her."
"And you assumed the worst?"
"Yes. She and I have linked him to the disappearance of over twenty women. By participating in human trafficking, he's been able to pick whomever he wants without consequence. Considering the length of time this has been going on, we estimated around fifty victims. What surprises me is that no one seems to have done much yesterday."
Cal saw Torres stiffen out of the corner of his eye. His gaze flicked back to Toussaint who was giving him a look that made it clear that he held Cal responsible for what happened. Get in line.
"Can you push play, please?" Toussaint requested. "I'd like to ensure her safety as quickly as possible."
Cal frowned. Toussaint had the nerve to be logical when all this was going on. He pushed play and they sat back and listened. Cal got a headache from listening to the French, while Henri just motioned for the next disc.
It wasn't until five minutes into the third that he perked up. He jotted something down and glanced up at the screen, mild relief evident. "How far is Appomattox?I think he's located twenty miles west of there. Not his original address. Can we get some officers in the area to check it out?"
"Worth a shot," Cal replied. He rang Reynolds who replied with some devastating news.
"What do you mean we can't do anything?"
.::.::.
Waiting. That was the definition of torture. Le Fort had expressed what he wanted. To begin the festivities, he found a manacle with sharp points lining it and fastened it around her neck. Forget talking, she'd have difficulty breathing. The barbs pierced her skin and warm blood oozed out. He swiped his finger through it and licked, then rose, turned off the lights and retreated upstairs.
Ivana moaned. At this point, Gillian wasn't even sure the young woman was conscious. "Ivana?" Even whispering was out of the question.
Nothing.
All Gillian could do was lie in dreadful silence and try to think about anything but what she was about to go through.
It didn't work.
.::.::.
"A white out?"
"It's when snow conditions are so bad that roads are too hazardous to drive on," Lindsay offered to Henri. "The Governor declared a state of emergency because the snow has gotten so severe. The two main routes to get to Gill's area have been closed."
Cal watched Henri closely. He seemed to be working very hard to keep his cool. "So, we can't do… anything until this state of emergency is lifted?"
Lindsay, her voice soft: "Yes."
Henri bit his lip and nodded, overwhelmed with helplessness and anger. He stood abruptly and left the frame. Lindsay's eyes traced his movements through her home. Cal saw the guilt on her features, the sorrow. There was something there, between them.
Before Cal could pester, his cell rang again. "Reynolds, tell me you have good news."
"Yes and no. Larry MacKenzie placed a call around one thirty in the morning to Alexandria PD. He reported that Gillian hadn't returned home last night after attending a Georgetown basketball game. He and his wife last saw Gillian on the metro. I got the tapes pulled and have a team reviewing them as we speak."
"Good. Were you able to get a local unit out?"
"Trying. It's difficult because they don't have the necessary equipment to get out there."
Frowning, Cal ended the call.
.::..::.
Ivana kept moaning. After a few hours, it began to wear Gillian down. She didn't think much about anyone or about escaping or what ifs or could-have-beens. Those were for people who had hope and she knew that was useless. No one had ever escaped Jean Le Fort. Ever.
She thought about breathing. About the excruciating barbs pricking her neck with every inhalation. About the way her leg wouldn't stop itching.
Suddenly the lights flashed on again, but he didn't return. Instead, it allowed her a chance to survey her surroundings without Le Fort as a distraction.
Glancing around, she wished he'd kept the lights off.
.::.::.
It was an endless litany running through his mind. It made it hard to focus on what the others were saying. Made it hard to think. Hard to breathe.
Cal stepped inside the loo and shut the door. Bracing his hands on the sink, he leaned over and stared at the white porcelain.
It had been hours since Reynolds said they had a positive I.D. on Le Fort with Foster. They reasoned he'd used a gun to get her out of the metro. Now there was no doubt that she was in danger; that she hadn't just taken a ride somewhere.
They had Toussaint to thank for the brief history of Le Fort. Foster believed that he was obsessive compulsive, which added to his ability to keep his crime scenes absolutely spotless and near impossible to trace. It wasn't until early that week that Toussaint actually had any concrete evidence against Le Fort. Before, he'd always just been a possibility.
All they could do was study all the information Foster had gathered and ignore their consciences at the overwhelming evidence in her favor.
Cal tried to assuage his guilt so he could focus on the matter at hand. Nothing worked. They were grasping at straws and spinning their wheels at the same time. Hopeless. Everything about her filled his mind. Her scent, her one-sided grin when she was up to something, the way she ate her bread rolls. It was driving him insane.
Cal pulled open the door and headed upstairs. Emily's door was cracked a bit and he took a moment to stick his head inside.
"What's all this?" he motioned to the many pictures positioned around Emily sitting
on her bedroom floor.
She glanced at him, frowning. She didn't want him around either. No one did. "Pictures I got from Gillian's. How's everything coming downstairs?"
"Donnell is trying to play a card game with his son over the computer, your mum is glued to the news and Loker and Torres are working with Reynolds."
"How?"
Cal paused. "They're calling local hospitals."
"And you? What are you doing?"
Cal crossed his arms and straightened. "I'm reviewing the interviews…I… I'm finally listening to Gillian."
A flicker of approval. "About time."
.::..::.
Blood. It was all over the walls. New blood, old blood. There were various contraptions assuredly used for torture: whips, chains, hooks, a rudimentary iron maiden, something that looked like it could crush a jaw, even a home-made guillotine.
Not to mention the emaciated body dangling from the ceiling in the corner of the cellar. Hooks skewered into her back and legs kept her suspended in air like a ghastly angel. She looked long dead and forgotten.
And then there was Ivana. There were deep scratches along her arms and legs. Aside from the blood down her front, she looked relatively unharmed. Knowing that Le Fort liked to keep his victims for a while to make them weak and crazed with fear didn't help Gillian's mounting anxiety.
.::.::.
Cal retreated to his computer and pushed play. Soon Loker and Torres joined him. "Focus only on the camera that was on Foster," Cal said. "I spent all this time lookin' at the wrong person."
"What do you mean?" asked Torres.
"Foster's the one to watch. She already saw him for what he was. Everything she's doing here, it's to match up with something in her head. See that - her hands? He's just looked at them and it was what she wanted."
"Why?"
"Their hands," Cal picked up a stack of photos and waved them about. "He likes to cut off their hands."
.::.::.
Gillian turned her head into her arm and shut her eyes. She tried to calm herself but it wasn't working. Hyperventilating. She was breathing too much too fast.
She tried to think about what she'd say to Cal, to Emily, Loker… Torres. Lindsay. What she would say to Henri.
Then she heard footsteps overhead. Screw everyone else. They weren't about to get chopped into tiny pieces by a legitimate sociopath. She was certain of the last part. Most definitely.
.::.::.
"There. She leans in and he looks at her cleavage? He looks but doesn't linger. His pupils don't dilate. The victims were never sexually assaulted… only mutilated."
"What about after you left the cube. Everything seemed to change. He got a lot more personal."
"He was sizing her up and she gave him everything he wanted."
"Why?"
"To be his next victim."
"And she knew this?"
Cal sighed. He shook his head at the woman on the screen. "Of course she did. She was luring him out, reflecting his desires back on himself. Whatever it took to get the job done."
"That's insane."
Cal leaned in to the screen and examined his partner in awe. "That's brilliant… and I missed it."
.::.::.
Gillian awoke to a swift kick in the ribs. She cried out sharply, stopping quickly after feeling the sharp stabbing sensation around her neck.
"What'll it be Gillian? The Spanish horse? What about the rack? Haven't used that in ages." Le Fort walked to the woman hanging from the ceiling and cut her skin away from the hooks, letting her drop to the ground. The lifeless body screamed in agony as Gillian gasped in surprise. So much for quick and painless. He'd probably leave her to rot.
Stepping around the lump of skin-covered bones, he walked over to Gillian and took a seat on the floor. "I like to watch as their last breath leaves them. The way their eyes dull when they realize that death is the only freedom they will ever have from this nightmare. Then they welcome it."
Le Fort leaned over and looked in Gillian's eyes. "And so will you."
.::.::.
It was three a.m. and the snow had finally stopped. Unfortunately, there was another wave heading up their way. All was quiet in his house. Donnell was on the couch. Loker was in the chair. Zoe was sleeping with Emily. Torres was bundled up tight, sitting outside.
Cal paced back and forth, trying not to think about what may or may not be happening to Foster. He had plenty of images to give him examples of what the possibilities were. Burnt flesh. Knee splitting. Degloving. Crushed jaws. Evisceration. The list went on.
The man must've sat around, dreaming up ways to torture women. He viewed it as an art and the female body was simply his canvas.
.::.::.
Gillian was alone again, shivering from the cold. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
Angry. She was fuming mad. Why was it that when Cal got himself mixed up in some sort of trouble, he always got out with a punch in the gut and an even bigger ego? What if she'd spent more time convincing Cal and less time chatting with Henri? She knew Cal thought Le Fort to be dangerous and that Cal wanted him away from the woman in his life. Reasonable, yes. Conscionable, no.
No matter the danger, this man deserved to be caught. Someday. Still, she was going to die. Painfully. Slowly.
And it pissed her off.
.::.::.
Cal sat on his front porch as the sun rose, brooding. The door opened and out walked Torres, looking equally exhausted and holding two cups of coffee. He took the proffered mug and drank, ignoring the burn.
"I know you came back Friday, that you spoke to Foster in the lab. She only gets that pinch between her eyebrows after she's had an argument with you. What'd you say to her?"
"None of your business."
"Still angry about it? You regret whatever you said, just a little. What'd you do?"
"Torres -"
Torres shook her head, not having any of it. "What did you say to her?"
.::.
"Why him? Why now?" Cal stood at the entrance of the lab. Gillian sat before the computers, watching her first interview with Le Fort.
"What?"
"Out of no where, you contact this guy. I want to know why."
"Because the suspect is Belgian, and Henri is a Belgian officer."
"Not good enough." Cal shook his head and frowned. "You did it because you're lonely."
"Cal -"
"You eat alone. You go home to an empty house. You don't date anymore because you're horrible at it. You went to a damn shelter on Thanksgiving to 'help out.' The only people that do that are left-wing bleedin' hearts and single women with no family."
He stopped when she flinched, almost regretted it.
She cleared her throat and looked down. "That isn't relevant. Why can't you just help me?"
"He IS relevant and this has been bothering me for years. Why him?"
She clenched her jaw, fighting hard not to speak.
"Why'd you become a psychologist? Why specialize in post traumatic stress?"
She looked up, lips pursed. "You know why I became a psychologist."
"I know what you tell everyone else. I want to hear it from you."
Gillian sat a moment too long and he grew inpatient. Cal walked to the nearest computer and pulled up the file for her PTSD project, scanned the demos until he had the one in question. Then he pressed play.
"Kigali, Foster? Pretty sure that has nothing to do with Persian Gulf vets. Was he a Blue Helmet? Did he serve in the peacekeeping mission? Did he come back all messed up in the head?"
"Stop," her voice simmered with anger.
"Did you try to fix him?" Cal took a couple steps closer, until he was right in her face. "Didn't work, did it?"
"You're going too far, Cal. Stop."
"You had to leave sometime though, had to… give up. Good to know your loyalty only extends so far -"
Gillian shot up, her hand twitching at her side. She was literally shaking from anger. Pushing past him roughly, she didn't spare him another glance.
Cal was left with only the sounds of chaos behind him. He turned to see a bunch of Hutus watching as a truck was loaded with Belgian officers wearing blue berets. Then he watched in silent awe as the massacre began and a bloodied teddy bear was strung up a flagpole.
.::.
"Nothin' Torres. I didn't say a thing."
She saw the blatant lie in the ripple of emotion across his face. She let it slide. "Do you think she's still alive?"
"I think we have until Tuesday. Le Fort liked to draw out the torture as long as possible."
"So you'd rather imagine her alive, being tortured, than dead and pain-free?"
"I prefer reality and that's it."
"What about the reality that we all let her down?"
"She knew what she was getting into when she started all of this. It's not our fault that she went for it anyway."
Torres scoffed. "You think she deserved this?"
"I think she was out of her league."
"Right," Torres stood, shaking her head. "Maybe that's why she asked us for help. Asked you for help. She knew her limitations, but at the time, she was banking on you backing her up. Stop ignoring the fact that you screwed up, Lightman."
Before he could reply, she walked back inside and shut the door. Cal sighed loudly. He'd enjoy his anger a little while longer.
A moment later the door opened and a frantic looking Torres held up his phone.
"It's Reynolds."
.::..::.
"Come on, scream. You know you want to." Gillian gritted her teeth out of sheer stubbornness. Her hands, still bound by rope behind her, were hooked on a chain. She dangled a half a foot off the ground.
"You know, I've had plenty like you. Quiet ones." He took a step closer and took a bite of his apple. An apple. He was eating a freaking apple as he decided what to do with her. He licked his index finger and ran a line down the center of her chest and abdomen, stopping at the apex of her legs.
"Still, they always scream. Always beg and plead -" There was movement up stairs. Creaking.
She contemplated calling out but his hand was still on a… sensitive spot and she didn't care to have him gut her right there. He tossed his apple in a corner and took the stairs two-by-two.
.::.::.
A dreadful looking Lindsay and Henri greeted them as Cal set the phone to speaker.
"A Jane Doe was brought to an E.D. in Richmond," said Reynolds. "I need any identifying features - birth marks, scars, broken bones, tattoos -"
"Foster? A tattoo?" said Cal.
"Actually, she has one," said Henri. "On her right hip. Two small stars." Cal's eyebrows shot upward. Always a surprise when it came to Foster.
"Huh. Anything else?"
"She has a birthmark on the bottom of her left foot and," Lindsay racked her brain. "She broke her right forearm when she was twelve. Back-handsprings will always be a bad idea."
"Good. That's great. Thanks." The line went dead. Cal crossed his arms and frowned at the two people looking back at him. Hopeful, yet cautious.
"You don't like me much, d'you?" Cal leaned forward on his elbows, waiting for Lindsay to respond. It was eye-opening, seeing her thoughts play across her face. This was what an open Gillian could be like. Fascinating.
"No," she replied bluntly. "You're reckless and manipulative. You drag her into shitty situations over and over again and always expect her to clean up your mess. You take her for granted and treat her horribly. And no matter what I say, she stays with you out of some distorted sense of loyalty she's developed over the years."
Cal sat back, wagged his eyebrows and flashed a sad smile. "True. On all accounts." He ran a hand through his hair and dropped the act for a moment. "I imagine that's the same way she felt about how Donnell treated you a few years back. Bet she gave you advice and you took it, broke off your marriage. And now," Cal glanced at Donnell who was slowly rising from the chair. "Now she regrets it. Because she likes him. She thinks he's a good guy. She thinks that maybe, maybe she misjudged everything and wishes she could take it back."
Lindsay didn't believe a word he said. Her doubt brought on full-force sarcasm. "Right, I bet she told you that over afternoon tea and biscuits. You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Yeah I do, it's all over your face. You still love him." Lindsay turned away and looked up at her ceiling, biting her lip. Henri watched her warily.
"Perhaps you should hold your fire," Henri stated firmly. "Let us know when Reynolds returns with any news."
.::.::.
There was a scuffle up above. Gillian wondered if that lackey of the White Haired Man actually came through. How? What about the blizzard?
She felt hands on her back and yelped in surprise. It was Ivana, holding up a badly deformed wrist.
"You should go. Get out of here." Immense pain. Ivana shook her head and tried to lift Gillian off the hook. She was too weak. "Over there, he used that lever to hoist me up."
Ivana bit her lip, looking absolutely pitiful as she tugged with all her body weight to pull down the lever. "Get out while you can," Gillian pleaded through the throbbing in her throat. Ivana shook her head fiercely and kept tugging until it slowly started to budge. Gillian fell to the ground with a hard thud. Too weak and still bound, they struggled to free her legs.
A loud crash from above caused them to freeze. Footsteps on the stairs.
Le Fort was holding a syringe, looking feral. It was the first true emotion Gillian had seen out of him.
"What'd I tell you about trying to escape?"
.::.::.
"It wasn't her." Cal felt like he'd gotten punched in the gut. "She was thirty-four and had a scar from a c-section on her abdomen, no tattoos," Reynolds reported. "Sorry to get your hopes up. We're still working. Also, you might want to catch the news. An editor from the Washington Post took the kidnapping public."
Cal swiveled around as Torres turned on the T.V. he watched as the local news interviewed a woman at their station while they flashed images of Gillian on the screen. Cal turned around and glanced at the computer screen, finding Toussaint's eyes trained on him. It wasn't a friendly look.
.::.::.
Le Fort grabbed them by the hair and drug them up the stairs, the syringe clamped between his teeth. Ivana looked petrified of that syringe and it's contents. Le Fort shoved them to the ground in a room lit only by a kerosene lamp. The Bald Man appeared to be unconscious.
"Kneel," Le Fort gritted out. Gillian wasn't too keen on that idea. No matter, Le Fort kicked her in the knee, bellowing, "KNEEL BEFORE ME YOU BITCH."
He grabbed her arm roughly and pierced her flesh with the syringe. As he did so, the Bald Man, who was never really unconscious, rose and kicked Le Fort's feet out from under him. Le Fort smacked his head on an end table before slamming into the ground. The Bald Man searched around on the floor for his gun. Not finding it, he settled for kicking Le Fort again. The two men struggled, forgetting about Gillian and Ivana.
Ever resourceful, Ivana kicked over the kerosene lamp and quickly, the room was alight with flames. She spotted the gun, discarded under a sofa. Gillian frowned as her vision started to blur and weakness over took her. She picked up the gun, turned, fired, then collapsed.
Her body was paralyzed, yet again.
.::.::.
The phone rang and Cal jumped up to grab it.
"Reynolds? What is it? What's happened?"
.::.::.::.
A/N: I apologize. But I said mortal peril in the summary. I DO NOT PLAY. Thanks for reading.