Fic: In the Weeds (2 of 3) | WMC | Lindsay/Cindy | R
Title: In the Weeds (2 of 3)
Author: liz_estrada
Fandom & Pairing: Women’s Murder Club, Lindsay/Cindy
Summary: KMN claims more victims and strikes directly at the club. Last in a series of six loosely related WMC stories. (six? cripes.)
Rating: R for sex, language and violence (though the violence is merely on par with the average thriller novel, it’s fair to call this a long, dark ride.)
Author’s Note: I did up an outline and started pecking away on this before learning that WMC would get three more episodes this spring, so this near 22k word rambler was originally conceived as a show-wrapper tailored to my peculiar, self-indulgent predilections. No plot spoilers here, just fannish speculation.
******
By sundown, everyone in the Hall knew Heather Hogan was dead. Word spread fast after the Lieutenant destroyed his office, after Boxer and Jacobi left to take the broken man home. Even the janitor sweeping shattered glass from the squad room stairs knew, and called his own wife to commiserate. It’s just terrible, he said. I’ll be here all night cleaning this up.
Jill Bernhardt sat in the medical examiner’s office, sipping coffee and waiting for Claire Washburn to finish some paperwork. Their armed escorts, Officers Rankin and Bass, waited within earshot of the morgue doors. She tried Lindsay’s cell again and got routed straight to voicemail.
“I don’t understand why she hasn’t called me back.” Jill sounded irate. Claire decided to hear it as ‘worried’ instead.
“Jacobi said she didn’t want to leave Tom alone, so leave her alone. She’s probably trying to keep him busy.”
In theory, that seemed kind and protective. In reality, Jill felt it was a bad choice. If Tom, in blind grief, reached out to ease the pain, would Lindsay’s outsized sense of responsibility and guilt allow her to reject him? “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she confessed.
Claire raised her brows and her glasses slipped halfway down her nose. She gave Jill a rather prim stare. “Are you always thinking about sex?”
“It wouldn’t even be about sex, and you know it!”
“Don’t tell me what I know. And don’t try to predict how Tom or Lindsay will deal with this.”
“As a friend, I’m thinking about potential repercussions and how best to minimize them, thank you,” Jill sourly explained. “Providing we all survive this nightmare intact, Lindsay will carve herself up for years if she loses Cindy.”
“Not gonna happen,” said Cindy Thomas, breezing into the office and throwing eye-daggers at Claire. “Cindy didn’t take the L.A. job - the one she told Claire about in confidence.”
“What L.A. job?” Jill flicked her attention from one woman to the other. “Are you looking to leave town?”
It took a second for Cindy to grasp the misunderstanding. She shifted her feet, softly laid her bag and a sheaf of files on Claire’s couch. “You weren’t talking about the job.”
“The one Cindy told Claire about in confidence? No,” Claire sharply noted. She moved on quickly, before Cindy could ask what they were talking about. “So you turned him down, officially.”
“I did. At lunch. Right after Jill called. I went to the scene for a while, then left to raid Pelham Rehab.”
“Turned who down officially?” Jill persisted. “Raided what?”
“It was way, way too easy. The turn-down more than the raid - Mr. Kipp was really nice,” Cindy continued. “I’m sorry for assuming you squealed.”
“Would someone please answer me?”
Claire waved a hand of grace at the young reporter. “Today, I forgive all petty offenses. I’m just glad you’re here and safe.”
“Fine. Ignore me.” Jill stood and dramatically twirled her coat over her shoulders. “Keep discussing your secret Dharma Initiative job raid whatevers. I’m going home.”
That got their attention, and both Claire and Cindy proceeded to state the obvious, that it wasn’t safe for any of them to be alone tonight. “You could stay with us,” Cindy offered, “if you don’t mind the couch.”
“Last time I tried to sleep on that couch, we all wound up in bed together and, frankly, I don’t need that particular confusion right now. I’ll just pack a few things and have Officer Bass drive me to Claire’s,” Jill reasonably countered. “Is your guest room still available?”
Claire nodded. “For as long as you want.”
“Good deal. See you in a bit.”
“Be quick.”
“Be careful.”
Jill smiled at her friends, giving a little wave as she backed through the morgue double doors. “Love you guys.”
“We love you too, sweetie.” As the doors snicked shut, Claire said to Cindy Thomas: “Three in a bed, huh?”
Despite the fact that nothing nakey happened on that winter night, when Kiss-Me-Not’s yuletide threat compressed the three women into a warm, anxious knot, Cindy colored and shrugged. “It was Christmas,” she said, like that explained everything.
“Quite a gift, Cindy Claus.” Grinning, Claire signed another form and shook her cramping wrist. “I didn’t think Lindsay was that good last year.”
“Claire!” the redhead squeaked, blushing brighter still. “God! It so wasn’t like that!”
******
In the hallway, Officers Rankin and Cho heard sounds of merriment from inside the morgue and looked to each other, one amused, one puzzled. The Lieutenant’s wife was dead, Washburn and Thomas were under guard because of threats from the same serial killer… and they were laughing?
“Is it a woman thing?” young Cho asked Stella Rankin, a handsome, thirty-ish member of the distaff set.
Rankin shook her head at the kid. “It’s a sanity thing.”
******
At dusk, Lindsay Boxer gasped herself awake. She opened her eyes and felt an awful flash of panic, unsure where she was. The dark room and the too-soft mattress were strange; the presence of Tom Hogan, passed out and breathing shallow beside her, was too familiar. The notion of time slipping five years backward might have played, had everything not felt so scraped and raw, so deathly wrong. She raised up and her head did an ugly, emotional hangover swim. Her legs eased over the bed’s edge and she tiptoed away.
The Hogan house was quiet, empty, and so foreign to her that she couldn’t find a bathroom. She went to the kitchen instead and splashed cold water over her face, rinsed her sour, swollen mouth. Dim light from the range hood gave up a few details, like granite counters and stainless steel appliances, all the mod cons for the modern homemaker. In the refrigerator, she found a bottle of orange juice and drank greedily with the door open. The cold air and brighter light braced her further awake. When she noticed the family photos and the drawings by Heather’s adoring students, magnet-pinned to the freezer door, she looked guiltily away, looked higher.
And saw the bottles. At first, the fact of them did not register and her eyes simply bounced off, like they couldn’t gain purchase. Second time, she tried harder and they became real. Plump bottles filled with floating lemon circles and svelte ones packed with cayenne peppers lined the front row, with less attractive others behind. Lindsay reached up for one of these ugly sisters and examined it by the icebox light. The slim body, narrow neck, the scrollwork - all the same as Skeeter’s bottle, even the brown liquid swirling with dark bits of flotsam. She pried out the cork and drew in a sweet, potent hit of vanilla - milder and cleaner than Skeeter’s, likely due to the absence of strychnine.
He was here, she realized, as a chill pushed through her veins. A theory quickly formed: He came here scouting Heather, stole the bottle, dosed it with rat poison, left it at Guererro Street for Skeeter.
The two murders were linked - and Skeeter’s death was definitely murder. The last call before Lindsay shut her ringer off came from Dr. Luke Bowen, who confirmed strychnine in the blood and sent Stepan Litvak’s body to the M.E. for autopsy. There was no way to know whether Kiss-Me-Not had killed before simply to cover his tracks, but this was the first non-pattern murder they could possibly tie to the serials. It made sense, except for the part where the crimes linked so obviously. It read like a whimsical mistake, perhaps his first. Why would he risk stealing that specific bottle of booze from Heather and Tom’s house when any old rotgut fifth would do to poison a homeless alcoholic?
This has to mean something, there must be a connection. Think, think…
Tom padded into the kitchen, bare-chested and rubbing his bleary eyes. He blanched when he saw the bottle in Lindsay’s hands. “What are you doing with that?”
“Tell me about these.” Gone was the comforting voice of earlier hours; Lindsay’s command bit at his ears, a cop’s hostile bark. “Did they have any special meaning?”
“What? No. It’s just something she likes to do. Making extracts, stuff like that.” He took the bottle and carefully replaced it atop the refrigerator, lining it up just so. “Heather gives them out, like for a hostess gift or thank-you present.”
Lindsay reconsidered the idea of breaking and entering, of theft. The other victims trusted their killer, let him get close. Did you trust him, Heather? “Did she give any away recently? Vanilla, like that one.”
He caught on that this was no idle inquiry, that Lindsay was in pursuit mode. “I don’t know… dammit.” Tom pushed hard against his skull, as if trying to squeeze an answer from the tarred, aching brain within. “A week ago, when she showed me that new will, with the thing about the baby. She would’ve given something to the lawyer, maybe.”
“Maybe.” This means something. There must be a connection. “Who did she use?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t read it. Heather said she met him at the Hall, but when she told me what the will was really for, I shut down,” Tom admitted. “It’s in the unfiled papers drawer, right by you.” He pointed and turned on the overhead lights while Lindsay reached for the will.
She shook the papers open and riffled through for a name. In a mercury moment, the connection was made: beside Heather Hogan’s own mark was the broad, looping signature of her executing attorney, Hanson North. Christ. Could it really be that simple?
Then came the next quicksilver synaptic spark, linking the lawyer and the liquor and that bizarre Christmastime threat issued by the Kiss-Me-Not killer, where he likened his potential targets to ice cream flavors: strawberry for Cindy Thomas, chocolate for Claire Washburn… and vanilla for Jill Bernhardt.
“The bottle… it’s not a coincidence,” Lindsay whispered. “It’s a message.”
Feeling gutshot and praying to be wrong again, Lindsay shouldered past Tom and ran for the bedroom and her phone.
******
Jill tossed her bulging overnight bag onto the bed. She donned her coat and checked her pockets for cell phone, keys and TASER. When the doorbell rang, she already knew who it was because Officer Bass had instructions to admit only one particular guest. Under the current circumstances, Jill didn’t intend to keep her final ‘booty call’ date, but she was courteous enough the let them break things off in person, in private.
She opened the front door and didn’t even get to speak before Hanson North stepped in and kissed her.
He kicked the door shut and pulled her close with one hand; in the other, he held a slim, oblong box. When she finally got her mouth free, Jill said no. Twice.
“It’s okay,” he assured her, nibbling at her neck. “Denise broke up with me today.”
Stunned, Jill forced him back with both hands. “What did you say?”
“Denise Kwon, your bitchy, possessive, domineering boss? She dumped me.” North wolfishly licked his lips. “We’re free and clear now, baby.”
“Free and clear?” Jill retreated until she bumped against the hall table. “Hanson, stop. We’re not going down this road again.”
“Can’t we at least talk about it?”
“I don’t have time for this tonight!” She waved her hands and pointed to the door. “You know what? You need to go.”
He leaned in, pinning her against the table with his body. “I don’t need to go.”
Jill’s annoyance level rose a couple of notches. “Then I need you to go.”
“Ohhh.” He nodded, gave her the naughty boy grin that used to push all her buttons. “You’ve got another date lined up.”
“You shouldn’t be here. That’s all you need to know.”
“Come on, who is it? Doctor? Lawyer? Indian chief?” As he took a step back, his smile turned flat, smug. “A Boxer, perhaps.”
Her patience dead-ended; Jill’s tone became pure disdain. “You’re wrong.”
North laughed softly. “I know. Just teasing.” With a flourish, he presented the slender box. “I brought you a present.”
“I don’t care. It’s not gonna change my mind.”
“I think it might.” North opened the box. From a tissue paper cocoon, he carefully withdrew a breathtakingly delicate objet d’art - a rose made of patina-green copper and dark crimson glass. “I tried working with real flowers and sizing, but they just didn’t hold up. I saw this one and immediately thought of you.”
Jill saw it and thought of Jacobi’s crime scene description - dead Heather Hogan holding a glass flower. She felt nauseous and her breath wouldn’t come, but she skipped right past the disbelief, the feelings of foolishness and betrayal, and thought about surviving. It took all her courage to maintain composure, to keep their eyes locked together while her hand crept into her coat pocket to arm the TASER.
“You should go. Officer Bass will be looking for me.”
Her voice trembled and North heard it. Her pupils swelled and North saw it. The fear, the dawning awareness… it was delicious. “No. He won’t.”
She jerked her knee hard toward his groin and pulled the TASER free. North shifted his hips away from the attack and slapped her wrist aside just as she fired. The probes tore into her trouser leg and grazed Jill’s thigh, close enough to deliver a high-voltage overload. She whimpered only once, then clenched her teeth and crumpled to the floor with every nerve blazing.
“You’re taking this very well.” North stood over her, twirling the flower, appreciating the beauty of gracefully borne anguish. “You expect pain. I always liked that about you.” He took a syringe from his pocket and crouched beside his former lover, a woman - one of many - who had once viewed the handsome, crusading attorney as her Prince Charming. After the thirty second stun gun pulse ended, he injected her with a sedative and tenderly stroked her hair. Defiant even then, Jill stared him down while fighting tears and the encroaching fog of sleep.
“When you wake up, I’ll tell you the story of Sweetheart Nicholas,” he promised. “It’s a ripper.”
******
Tom was fast on Lindsay’s heels, demanding answers.
“It’s a set-up! He found Skeeter cooping at Guerrero Street and he lured me there to show what he was planning, to show me that goddamned bottle! He’s been doling out clues, and I just didn’t see ‘em in time,” she explained, despite knowing he wouldn’t fully understand. She told Tom she was leaving soon, that if he wanted to come, he should dress quickly and arm himself. The widower’s eyes lit with a hard, nasty fire; his jaw firmed and he moved with purpose.
Lindsay opened her phone, saw three missed calls and one text. The first call came from John Ashe, while the text message and the two other calls were from Jill Bernhardt’s cell. The second missed call came fifteen short minutes ago. There was a moment or two where she knew relief, believed that Jill was under guard - annoyed at Lindsay and trying hard to tell her so - but fine. She was fine.
Then Lindsay read the text message, sent only three minutes back:
hey, pound-for-pound -
the who and the how are set, but when? and where??
can you come out and play?
:-x
A burning backdraft of fright and adrenaline washed over her. Inspector Boxer closed her eyes, breathed deep and counted five, letting it burn. Then she exhaled hard to starve the fire and went straight to work.
In rapid succession:
Lindsay called Jill’s cell and home, received no answer.
Called the M.E.’s office; on speaker, Claire and Cindy told of Jill’s quick trip home. Lindsay warned them about Hanson North, then begged them to sit tight and got off the line before they asked the terrifying question she couldn’t yet answer.
She called dispatch and asked them to raise Officer Bass on the radio - Bass failed to respond. She asked for a patrol unit to check Jill’s address, and dispatch confirmed.
Tom Hogan emerged from his dark bedroom wearing jeans and sweatshirt, his lanyard badge, and his gun. “Ready.”
Lindsay nodded and threw him her Jeep keys. “We’ll head for Jill’s place first, but that might change fast.” With charging steps and a haze of tire smoke, they were gone.
From the road, she told Warren Jacobi of her working theory, and he made it his mission to locate Hanson North.
On the pre-paid cell, she asked Georgia Folsom to recon the Guererro Street tenement. Folsom’s agents confirmed no new activity at the scene, adding that John Ashe was currently in the basement lab going over trace reports with his forensics team.
“I was wrong about Ashe,” Lindsay told her.
Folsom generously took a share in the error. “We were wrong on the serials, but Griffin Paar is a different story.”
“That doesn’t matter right now. If North has Jill, we don’t have much time. We need everybody looking.”
“Agreed, all else can wait. I’ll bring Ashe up to speed for you, get his team mobilized.”
“Thank you.” This time, Lindsay hung up without saying goodbye.
There was too much ground to cover with too few officers, all working off indirect evidence. What they needed was a police blanket thrown over the whole goddamned city, pronto. In the space of a heartbeat, Lindsay decided to tell a very dangerous lie, because there was no time to explain the truth. She called Captain Harvey Rand and requested an APB for ADA Jill Bernhardt and Public Defender Hanson North, saying she had conclusive proof linking North to the Kiss-Me-Not murders and the possible abduction of Bernhardt.
A small guerilla cell of hope kept blasting her with the idea that North was merely Jill’s secret rendezvous - the one she mentioned at lunch - and maybe they were just off screwing somewhere. Maybe the killer only had Jill’s phone, he was bluffing or he missed them entirely. Dumbass Boxer could be misinterpreting the text message, the clues, everything. If she was wrong and lost her badge over this… well, fuck it. If Jill turned up safe and sound, Lindsay getting fired and sued would be a small price to pay.
That hope died with a phone call; the SFPD dispatch sergeant advised that responding units found ADA Bernhardt’s apartment empty, and found Officer Paul Bass garroted in the building stairwell. She slammed her fist against the console. Another damning link was added to the circumstantial case against North. Paul Bass was a veteran officer and wouldn’t have let a stranger get the drop on him, but a known lawyer from the PD’s office was hardly a threat. Jill in particular had no reason to distrust him, especially when her best friend the police inspector chanted It’s Ashe… it’s Ashe… it’s Ashe until that suspicion became their club’s mantra.
“Have the officers work the hell outta that building,” Lindsay ordered. “Tell ‘em to move fast, check every unit. Someone saw something.” She thought for a second and snapped onto a possible lead. “The security camera at the garage entrance - get the manager and pull the footage. We’re on route.”
Lights blazing and siren blaring, doing seventy on a city street, the trip across town played like a fever dream.
“He’s done,” Tom said, his first words since they left the house. “No more.”
Lindsay knew he wasn’t thinking of arrest and prison for Hanson North. In that moment, neither was she.
******
Cindy Thomas stood at Claire Washburn’s desk, poring over copies of pending work orders for seven properties owned by Pelham Rehab. One was an interior demo order for the Guererro Street tenement, where Skeeter Litvak stumbled onto Kiss-Me-Not’s staging area. “If that wasn’t a lucky break, it was definitely a decoy,” Cindy declared. “My thinking is, maybe he got access to Pelham’s scheduling, so he knows exactly when their buildings are empty. If not Guererro, then he might use one of the other sites.”
“It’s worth a shot.” Claire pulled up a city map on her computer. “He’d want privacy, something isolated.”
“That knocks out the last three Mission jobs. Jenny said their other buildings are packed full of techie parvenu jerks who complain non-stop about construction noise,” Cindy recalled, quoting the gabby, gullible Pelham office manager. “There’s two in the Presidio, both single-family homes.”
Cindy gave out addresses and Claire looked them up, finding both houses had elbow room, but were set on lively, well-trafficked streets. “Better, but not ideal. Put a tab on those.”
The reporter paper clipped the addresses together and set them aside. She and Claire had no real expectation of finding a needle in a city-sized haystack, but in these sick, empty minutes, working eased their sense of helplessness. “Try this one - it’s a duplex on Scott Street, across from Alamo Square. ”
Claire typed in the new address and zoomed in on a photo of the actual property - a dumpy white two-story in need of a facelift, jammed between two elegant row houses. “I don’t know. There’s tons of foot traffic for the park, and the next door neighbor is eight feet away.”
“Well, then… last one.” Cindy lifted the final address slip and wiped her eyes. She wasn’t exactly sure how the tears sneaked out, but she hoped Claire hadn’t noticed. It was way too soon to cry. “A cottage on Lincoln Boulevard, nearly under Doyle.”
“Just ahead of Merchant Road, easy access to 101 and the Golden Gate. Perfect for sinking evidence.” Claire checked the property pics and saw no neighbors, no businesses, nothing but sparse woods and overgrown fields. She nodded, getting the feeling someone could do dirt out there and not be heard or seen. “Could be. Now here’s the question, Nancy Drew - who do we call?”
Tucking her tongue against her teeth, Cindy thought it over and came up with names of two people who might listen to her: Warren Jacobi and Lindsay Boxer. “They’re following their own leads, which are probably way better than mine. The only cops who aren’t already looking for Jill and Hanson are guarding your office door.” She shut her eyes and prepared to get yelled at. “You know… it’s not smart to waste that manpower.”
Claire turned around, very slowly. “If you’re suggesting we check this place ourselves - ”
“Why not?? Cho and Rankin have guns and you have a gun and I know I only have a TASER, but I’m pretty damned good with it, and he just might be there! For god’s sake, Jill might be there!” Cindy took a breath and lowered her voice. “We can go look, Claire, we can just look, we don’t have to go in.”
“You didn’t let me finish.” Claire stood and checked her purse, made sure Ed’s old reliable .38 was present and loaded. “I was gonna say we should take my van. Your little red Maggie can’t seat five.”
Cindy’s face registered shock, then joy, then bewilderment due to Claire’s passenger count. “Four. You, me, Cho and Rankin.”
“Think positive,” said Claire, braving a smile. “Jill might need a ride back, too.”
******
In the office of Jill’s building manager, the security camera footage zipped forward at triple speed, blurring images of residents coming and going. The manager identified each car, recognized each driver, until the tape clock hit 19:48. Lindsay hit play and the tape slowed. An unmarked white Chevrolet panel van pulled into the lot, driven by someone in a hooded painter’s jumpsuit. The image froze onscreen.
“This, I don’t know,” said the manager. “No painting or work doing here. Not since Gray Davis go.”
“Thank you, Mr. Babajanian.” Lindsay prodded the little man until he stood up. “If you’ll step outside, Officer Miller will take your statement. Thanks again for coming down.” She immediately took his seat and stared into the monitor. Over her shoulder, Tom Hogan squinted at the little screen, trying to discern the face of his wife’s killer.
The driver wore large goggles and a dust mask, but enough skin showed to make him as a white male. He sat high in the seat, and his arms were long.
“Big guy,” said Tom. “How tall is North?”
“About six-foot-five. Skeeter said the guy at Guererro was pretty big.” Lindsay pressed play and the van rolled out of frame. She forwarded to the vehicle’s exit, ten minutes later. The driver was again well-covered, and the passenger seat remained empty; she inferred that if he had company, they didn’t leave with him willingly. As the van pulled away, the license plate’s right edge just barely came into view. “5B? Is that a B?”
Tom leaned closer, nodded. “Looks like it to me.”
For an instant, in her mind’s eye, Lindsay saw Jill bound and gagged on the van floor. In that instant, a strangely cold feeling came over her, made her want to curl into a ball and wait for rescue. Recognizing the crippling impulse as fear, and knowing the only cure was action, she bolted up and out of the manager’s office. In the hallway, the first face she saw was that of Inspector Kenny Fong.
“Kenny, bag that tape and get it to the Hall. Tell Technical Services to blow up and enhance the footage of the van and driver, see if they can get a full plate number or any usable details.” Fong hesitated, looking from Inspector Boxer to Lieutenant Hogan, until Lindsay slapped him on the arm - really, really hard. “Go, dammit! Go!” Fong stepped-to, and Lindsay summoned the nearest uniformed officer. She took his radio and called in the van description and partial plate, adding them to the APB. The uni stepped outside and left them alone in the quiet hall.
Tom, just shy of falling down, leaned against the painted brick wall. “You’re good at this,” he said.
Lindsay thought he was joking, until she saw at his watery eyes and foundering grin, and was brought up short. “What?”
“Running things. Keeping your head straight.” He gazed down at nothing, laughed from his spleen. “I’ve never felt so useless.”
“You’re not useless. You’re hurt.” She remembered walking into his bedroom, after Jacobi had gone, to find Tom training a gun on his heart. Despite her best efforts, Lindsay knew her intervention merely splinted his shattered bones; this manhunt was the only thing keeping him upright. “You gotta cowboy up, now. Jill needs us.”
“I won’t quit, boss. Not tonight.” He nodded, but kept his eyes low. “When it’s all finished, you should think about moving upstairs.”
“Hey. Look at me.” Lindsay stared hard until he finally lifted his head. “I already have a Lieutenant.”
“Linz… ” he said, and couldn’t finish, had no more words. Tom’s expression was practically a written resignation - from the job, the town, the second chance life that barely got started.
The hall doors burst open and Officer Miller ran toward them, waving his notepad. “Highway Patrol spotted the van! They’re in pursuit down 280 near Ingleside!”
******
Jill Bernhardt woke inside a nightmare - standing in darkness, trapped within a knot of cold, unyielding ropes. The bare metal floor chilled her naked feet. She tried to move a leg, an arm, and cried out as needle-like fangs bit her skin at various points, from ankles to scalp.
Barbed wire, she realized, carefully exploring her bonds with a fingertip. He wrapped me in barbed wire.
There was no light in the world, no sound but her ragged breathing, and no respite from pain without perfect stillness.
Stillness is hard when you’re shaking. When you’re cold and alone, standing nude in a bramble of steel thorns, when you’re waiting to die… stillness is very hard.
She decided to cry then, while she was alone, to cry herself dry and leave the son of a bitch thirsty. Warmth trailed down her face, dripped onto her chest; whether tears or blood, she wasn’t sure. Taking stock, she felt other sticky trickles along her legs and back, running freely from the worst barb stings. Running… it’s not clotting. I’m bleeding too fast. Oh, god… Hyperventilation wouldn’t help, so Jill made a conscious effort to breathe slow and shallow. She had no choice but to hold on, be strong.
I know they’re looking for me… please… please be looking for me.
Out in the darkness, she heard a door open, then the soft putter of a small engine, and the door closed. A single set of footsteps descended creaking wooden stairs. A tinny click sounded, like the cord pull on an hanging light bulb, then a weak wash of yellow illuminated the sad, filthy basement where she would die, and revealed the twisted shitpile who would kill her.
“How about that. You’re already awake.” Hanson North wore a white jumpsuit, a hood and dust mask cowling his neck. “I miscalculated your dose.”
“That’s comforting,” Jill said, her tears already drying. “You do make mistakes.”
“Not enough to get a conviction, madam prosecutor.” He uncoiled a long orange power cord and linked it through a black converter box to an outlet strip, which in turn coupled to another orange line snaking up the stairs. To a generator, Jill guessed, recalling the briefly heard small engine. A third cord ran from the strip to the overhead bulb, hung from a moldering floor joist.
Jill gritted her teeth and tried to make sense of his actions, her surroundings. Underfoot was a square of copper-colored metal, nailed to the wooden floor. The thick knots of barbed wire, woven around and between her limbs, were eye bolted to a triangle of basement support posts. The metal and glass flower Hanson taunted her with earlier hung inside her wire cocoon, about two feet from her left hand. Strangely, it was suspended from a length of bare copper wire, which tied to a large plumbing pipe overhead - the house’s main service line. Whatever he was planning, she knew it wouldn’t go quickly. As her body trembled at the thought of deeper pain, her mind saw the silver lining: They’re looking for me… every minute I last, they get closer… she’s getting closer. Get him talking.
“You’re right. You won’t be convicted.” Jill tried hard to wring the tremors from her voice. “Because Lindsay’s gonna kill you.”
North gave a derisive snort. “She won’t find you.” With a wire stripper, he clipped the female end from the dropcord and stripped away six inches of insulation, then plugged the cord into the strip. “I feel confident saying this because I’ve been waiting five years for that bitch to find me.” He squatted down by one of the basement supports and waved the shiny copper wire side to side. “I debated for a while, you know. It had to be either you or the reporter. Who makes for a better victim - the plucky new puppy, or the slut with a heart of gold?”
She closed her eyes. Keep him talking. “Shut up.”
“Fact is, I think losing you will hurt more. You’re a far more tragic figure, Jilly-bean, what with the foster homes, the hard knocks, the empty sex with strangers. A couple of shallow, not-quite relationships with me and Doctor Boring.” North snickered a bit. “By the way, I knew Denise was in her office that day, listening while I fucked you on your desk. It surprised me how long she waited to tell the poor bastard.”
Jill found her fear easier to manage with a little hatred to grip onto. “Evil and petty. You’re a real catch.”
North shrugged it off. “You never really tried to catch me. Or the doctor, truth be told. You’ve made one genuine emotional connection your whole life, yet you remain too cowardly to claim it. And that. Is. Revolting.” Almost casually, he brushed the live wire against the modestly insulated metal below her feet, sending a searing jolt of electricity into her body. She cried out only once, when her knee spasmed against the barbs, then set to loudly cursing him while new blood flowed. North waved the wire closer, in warning, and shushed her. “The current is dampened to about a dozen milliamperes, so it’s not lethal, just painful. Like chronic indecision.”
Hanson North sat back on his heels and cleared his throat. “Story time. Listen closely, there may be a quiz after.”
******
“I’ll be home as soon as I finish approving these reports.” Claire Washburn hated lying to her husband, but there were times when the truth was simply too much to lay on the man. “I love you, too. Kiss the boys for me - and make sure Nate brushes his teeth for real. Sometimes he just runs water over the toothbrush… how? Gosh, I don’t know, Ed. Check his breath; if it stinks like Doritos, that’s a tip-off.” She pulled a face for Cindy Thomas, seated beside her in the van’s front. “Yes, honey, home soon.”
Claire hung up and kept driving, carefully picking her way through cross-town traffic, toward the cottage on Lincoln. The van’s four occupants remained silent for long moments, until everyone defaulted to a state of disquiet. Uncomfortable being so uncomfortable, Officer Michael Cho piped up from the backseat.
“This house is supposed to be empty, right? So, if we see a light on or hear anything - ”
“Then we call for backup and go in,” said Officer Stella Rankin, who had voiced numerous objections to this so-called “recon mission” - the last of which resulted in Thomas and Washburn offering to drop their police escort at the nearest Krispy Kreme. “You two are gonna stay in the car with the engine running.”
“No way!” Cindy yelped; Claire only made a ‘hmph’ sound.
“That’s not up for debate,” Rankin firmly declared. “If Mike and I go up there and find trouble, you hit the gas and get to safety. Let the other responding officers worry about helping your friend.”
“This is bull,” muttered Cindy. “You wouldn’t even have a lead to pursue if not for me.”
“Yeah, but you’re a reporter, not a cop.” Cho parroted Cindy’s words back to her, complete with sly inflections.
“Shut-up, you.” She slumped down in her seat, intending to sulk… then her phone buzzed and Lindsay blazed on the ID screen. She almost finished the word “Hello?” before the dulcet vox of her beloved exploded from the tiny speaker.
“Where the friggin’ hell are you?!?”
Cindy decided to inveigle first, then wiggle her way toward the truth. “Taking a drive, with Claire and Cho and Rankin.”
“Taking a drive!? I thought I told you to stay at the morgue!”
Knowing Lindsay’s nerves were taut as piano wire, she let the I told you slide. “I know, but we were going crazy in there, Linz. You gotta understand that.”
The inspector gathered the shreds of her patience and exhaled her stress through the phone. Yelling never worked with Cindy; bartering produced better results. “Yeah, well… We thought we had something. We’re looking for a white Chevy panel van with plate partial of 5B. Troopers stopped one on 280, but it didn’t pan out. Ashe and the feds are checking vacants near the Mission tenement and the Richmond loft. Jacobi and I talked, and we’re starting to check other vacant Pelham properties, in case there’s a link with the Guererro site. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Lindsay fell silent for a beat. “Now that you know what we’re doing, please, tell me what you’re up to.”
The pale redhead paled further, stunned by this proof of their synchronized instincts. Huh. Great minds, and all that… which doesn’t mean she won’t yell at me. She stared out the window as the dark landscape of woods and fields whizzed by. “What makes you think I’m up to something?”
“Because you’re you,” Lindsay plainly stated, sounding almost affectionate. “You can’t not look for Jill, no more than I could. Just tell me where you are.”
The phrasing was so calm and rational, it lulled Cindy into spilling the whole story, including the cottage address. “It’s probably nothing,” she said, downplaying too late.
“It’s worth checking. Tonight, everything’s worth checking,” Lindsay said, her tone perceptibly tenser. “I can get there in ten, maybe eight minutes. I want you to break off and go home with Claire. Please.”
The van pulled onto the road shoulder and parked beneath the overpass. They sat roughly a football field away from the innocent little white house with broken cement steps, set deep in a heavily weeded lot. Claire cut her headlights and the van passengers went quiet as stones. On the phone, miles away and losing her cool, Lindsay Boxer called for an answer.
“Lindsay, now don’t freak out,” Cindy meekly requested. “We’re already here.”
“You - no. No! Stay in the car. Cindy? Are you listening to me? Stay in the car! I’ll be right there!”
The line went dead and Cindy turned toward Claire. “I guess you heard that.”
Claire nodded, and Michael Cho chimed in, adding, “We all did, but she didn’t say anything about me and Stella.”
Rankin caught a whiff of insubordination. She hoped to make Inspector this year, and didn’t want to make an enemy of Boxer. “I think it was implied, Mike.”
“I’m not a mind-reader,” Cho said, opening his door, stepping out, “I’m just a cop following a lead.”
“No, come on!” Rankin’s hissed words were smothered by the soft click of the closing van door. “Dammit.” She made eye contact with Claire and Cindy, reminding them of their deal to stay put, then Stella Rankin sped off after Cho.
******
“In a village by the river lived a maiden of surpassing beauty. She had two suitors: one jolly and blithe, the other reserved and shy. Both loved her well and equal, and she could not decide which to marry. She went to the witch’s cave at the foot of the mountain and asked the wise woman to prove which love was stronger, and would last her whole life through. Saying that no real love is without pain, and love cannot long survive in a fearful heart, the witch devised a test for each.
“The jolly suitor, a strong and hale fellow called Nicholas, was fishing on the banks one late afternoon when he saw the world’s most beautiful rose, trapped in an eddying pool. He thought of his love and reached down for the flower, which pricked his palm with its thorns. He held tight to the stem and was suddenly pulled into the cold, rushing river, which carried him away from home and dashed him against sharp rocks - yet he held the rose ever more tightly. Thinking only to see his love again, and unashamed to be thought helpless or foolish, he raised the flower high and called out for help. A fellow fisherman downstream heard his cries and pulled him ashore.
“The shy suitor, fair-faced and given to dreaming, watched the sunset from his garden, when the world’s most beautiful rose found his eye. It grew far from reach, trapped inside a thicket of thorns. Thinking of his love, he forged into the briars, which ripped his clothes and set him to bleeding. Soon, his mind turned from the hope of pleasing his love, and he thought of his own torn garments and scraped skin. He nearly decided to abandon the rose, to leave such pain - and beauty - to others. Then he thought of how the flower would please and inspire the fair maiden, and he turned back. Again came his fear of the painful trap, then again his desire, rushing him to and fro in a panic until he was hopelessly ensnared. Struggling blindly amid the knifing thorns, he bled out his heart by nightfall.
“The cheerful suitor returned to the village, shivering and battered, but holding the rose in his bleeding hand. The maiden found him and walked him home. She cleaned his wounds and reached for the lovely flower he offered. Although her hand, too, was pierced by thorns, she held the rose ever more tightly, knowing this to be her true love. As they held the pain and beauty of love in their joined hands, she kissed him. Before the season turned, they were wed.”
Hanson North waited a beat, and looked up at Jill Bernhardt to make sure she was listening. “And they lived happily ever after.”
Jill cast her eyes sideways at the dangling copper and glass rose, trapped, like her, within a thicket of barbed wire. Not precisely literal, she thought, but it’ll do. With every passing minute, she lost more blood from small wounds that failed to clot, and her hope of rescue lessened. The combined result seemed to be a lightheaded fatalism; as North eagerly waited for her response to his story, she gave him a patronizing smile. “I don’t get it.”
He smiled right back, even laughed a little as he brushed the live wire across the sheet metal. Jill tensed and jumped as the current bit and the barbs dug in again. Her muscles twitched and heart raced, even after the shock faded. New runs of red coursed down her back. She swallowed hard, determined to play out the hand. “Aren’t your crime scenes supposed to be all perfect and anal? You’re making a real mess this time.”
North sneered, losing his tolerance for her mouth, longing to close it with a surgeon’s knot. “I’ll clean up. When it’s quiet.” He lowered the wire again, and she scrambled for something to say, something to delay what now seemed inevitable.
“So you got me - I’m an indecisive coward. But why make an object lesson of Heather? She wasn’t afraid to be happy.”
He hesitated, thought to answer with a screed against desperate housewives and their lab-engineered spawn, then he remembered who he was dealing with. Jill, the lawyer, was stalling for time, hoping for a reprieve. North gave her a ‘nice try’ smile, and a partial explanation. “You can’t will yourself into happily ever after.”
A beeper sounded from somewhere behind him, and Jill’s focus zipped toward the source. On a work bench in the corner, bracketed by a hammer and bolt cutters, lay a small white plastic square with a flashing red light; it chirped a few more times, and was silent. North’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Perimeter alarm,” he said, standing up. “Don’t get excited. It’s probably a dog.” He looked Jill over carefully, appraising her wounds and accelerated blood loss. “I may have botched the sedative, but I think I got the Heparin just about perfect.”
From behind a wide support post, he produced a twelve-gauge pump shotgun and racked a shell into the chamber. “If you’re dead before I get back… well. That’s probably for the best. Thanks for the memories.” With that, he dropped the live wire onto the metal sheet and ran upstairs.
With no one left to defy, Jill gave in and let out a scream that was half agony and half rage. The unceasing current jerked her body into tremors, her hands into fists, and her teeth clenched like a vise. She looked at the metal-crafted flower, wired to the plumbing; if true to the story, it was a ground and might disperse the current. If a trap, it might feed her a fatal dose. From the only sliver of her fine mind unoccupied by primal howls, came a peaceful realization: Try. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.
Jill pushed her shaking arm through the vines, across the thorns, and grabbed for the rose.
In the Weeds (3 of 3)