Fic: "Seven Days : Prologue" R (Profiler, Sam/Jack)
...wow. I think I started this sucker before the series actually ended. *boggles* It's amazing what you can find when cleaning out your .docs files.
This is basically a re-write of "Otis, CA," from a more skewed perspective. It's less romance than angst, I'd say, but it gets an "R" rating for smatterings of sex and violence.
...and because I'm such a big old music ho-bag, it gets its own oddball Otis-flavored roadhouse fanmix here. *G*
Seven Days: Prologue
Author: Robin Nance
Fandom: Profiler, Sam/Jack, Drama/Angst/Romance
Rating: R (sex/violence/language)
Feedback: Wanted, needed and appreciated - here or at digital_doc_01@yahoo.com
Synopsis: Perspectives, geography, and entire lives can change in seven days.
Prologue
*****
The waiting was the hard part.
He was patient because he had to be, but he hated it, every hour that passed apart from her, every day that had stretched into weeks and months while she drifted through her life, unaware. He'd monitored her movements, kept track of her as always, but it wasn't the same. He'd had to keep things impersonal, staying in the background while the bit players did their jobs. And all the while he'd felt strangely empty, like some vast essential piece of himself had melted away, leaving him more alone than ever even though his plans were working to perfection.
She felt the same loss -- he knew it, even if she didn't understand it yet. Or, more likely, wouldn't yet admit it to herself. It was one of the many things he loved about her, that determination, the flintiness of spirit that manifested in such a stubborn clinging to her beliefs in the shoulds and oughts, the rights and wrongs of life. But he could see it in her face, even through the filter of the surveillance cameras that had been his poor substitute for intimacy for so many months. A piece of her was gone, too, and she noticed, she mourned the absence that she wouldn't acknowledge. He trembled to think of how she would channel that beautiful energy once he'd opened her eyes and shown her all of her true potential.
How he'd missed her.
But it was finally time. The stage was set, and he could step out of the shadows at last.
*****
"You really should cut back on the visits, Sam -- people will say we’re in love."
Samantha Waters stared into the soft china blue eyes of the multiple murderer behind the Plexiglas wall. Donald Lucas gave as good as he got for the better part of five minutes, but finally lost the match; flinching under the steadiness of her gaze, he sat back down on the prison cot with hands primly folded.
"Much as I'm enjoying your company, Sam, I assume you came to do more than just stare at me."
"We know about these." She dangled a pair of thick black-framed reading glasses from one finger.
He shrugged. "So I'm near-sighted. Other than that, dear, you really have to admit I'm pure perfection."
She bit back an angry response. Behind her, Bailey Malone rested a calming hand on her arm, and she took a deep breath before continuing. "We know these allow you to see holographic images when you’re online. And we know you're communicating with someone on the outside."
"By the way, Sam, how's your dad these days?"
Sam faltered, taken off guard by the rapid subject shift. Malone stepped up beside her, still ready to protect her from the monster behind the Plexiglas even though he'd long ceased being a direct threat.
"Who are you communicating with over the Internet, Lucas?" he snapped.
Lucas turned the mockery of his blue eyes toward the other man. "What's wrong, Agent Malone? Jealous that I have a fan club and you don't?" He chuckled at the epithet thrown in his direction. "Oh, now that's a voice of reason and authority. I must say, Sam, that it took your little play group long enough to figure things out. What finally turned that switch? Did you decide I was spending an inordinate amount of time on filing the perfect appeal?"
"We're going to find out who you're communicating with, you know," growled Bailey.
"And what makes you so sure of that?"
"Because you want us to." Sam's voice was flat. "It's all part of the game, right? It's no fun without pawns to move about at your will."
Lucas shook his head in amusement. "Nice thought. But even with pawns -- and you all play that role so well -- a game is meaningless without a purpose. C'mon, Sam, tell me -- what purpose is served here? Why would I be trying to contact the outside world?"
She stepped closer to the wall, daring him to try to stare her down again. "Look around at what passes for the rest of your life. Maybe you're lonely."
She had the satisfaction of seeing the suave mask crumple in surprise for a moment. Then the expression quickly faded, to be replaced with the self-assured smugness that had greeted her regularly over the past months.
Lucas smiled tightly, obviously irked that she'd gotten to him even for that brief moment. "You know, Sam, if you were as good a daughter as you are a profiler, you'd forego the treasure hunt and spend a little more time with dear old Dad. I suspect he's feeling a bit of stress these days, and one never knows how long one's loved ones have left on this earth - do they?"
The words hurt her and he knew it; the smug smile widened, only to be replaced by an expression of mild alarm as Bailey smacked an open palm against the Plexiglas with a resounding crack.
"Shut up, you bastard!"
It was Sam's turn to be the voice of calm and reason. "Come on, he's not worth it," she muttered as she tugged Bailey back from the wall. Turning sharply, she walked out of the cell area, never looking back at the blue eyes that she knew were burning into her back.
"Miserable waste of time," Malone growled as they left the prison compound for the comparative warmth of an Atlanta February morning. "I'm sorry to have put you through that for nothing."
"I'm not sure it was altogether a waste." Sam sighed and stretched as they approached their cars. "He knows we're on to him, and it might affect how he deals with his contact. It might even help us flush the contact out."
"Somehow I was hoping we'd get more of a reaction from the cocky bastard. He took the news a little too well."
Sam shook her head. "Actually, it was more of a reaction than I thought he'd let us see, which is what's confusing me. He's still proud of playing his games and dangling information in front of us, just like always, only...." Her voice trailed off, and Malone glanced over to see her frowning into the distance.
"Only what, Sam?"
"It's just -- there was something else today. Something new." She paused as she tried to organize her thoughts into the appropriate words. "When he challenged me to discover the purpose of his actions, I got the feeling that he didn't quite know the purpose himself. It was almost like he was asking me in the hope of discovering the answer. And when I said he was lonely, he actually looked like he was."
"Maybe the reality of the situation is finally catching up to him. Hell, maybe he really is just using the Internet to find a chat room for some company."
“Yeah, but Bail, today was unusual for him. He used to revel in the fact that he didn't need anyone else, he flaunted that he was a solitary genius who could defeat all of us single-handedly. Even Sharon Lesher wasn't anything more than just an extension of himself, he never saw her as a separate person. Today it was almost like Ja -- like Lucas was revealing a whole new side of himself."
Malone smiled grimly. "Well, he's going to have a lot more quality time with that cell before his appointment with the gas chamber, he can try out a million new sides for all it matters." He turned toward his car, then glanced back. "Sam, I'm putting two agents on your father at all times until we find this Internet contact. I don't think Lucas can orchestrate anything that serious from behind bars, but given his history I don’t want to take chances."
She smiled gratefully and squeezed his arm. "Thanks, Bail. I appreciate the extra attention to Chloe and Angel too."
"Well, it made it convenient that Angel would be staying with Chloe in your house while we're in California. Otherwise I suspect she would’ve had some choice words for being under the FBI microscope again. Look, I'm going to head back to the office to do a last-minute wrap-up with George. Are you heading that way?"
Samantha hesitated. "I wasn't planning to, unless you need me. I'd like to pick up a couple of things at home and say good-bye to Chloe. Can I meet you at the airport?"
"No problem, John and I will be on board at two.” Bailey paused with his hand on the sedan’s door, fixing her with a steady gaze. “Sam, this is all going to be over soon, you know. The end is in sight."
She smiled tightly. "You and Paul keep saying the same thing to me, I swear you're rehearsing together. I know it's winding down -- I'll just be glad when it's actually finished."
She sat in her car with the motor idling, watching until Malone had pulled out of the prison parking lot. Once his sedan disappeared she pulled out herself, turning in a direction opposite to Buckhead and her new home. It was easier to do certain things without giving Bailey any details; he'd just worry, and that translated into more lengthy explanations required on her part.
Worrying about her was something that Malone had been doing a lot lately, even before they'd discovered Donald Lucas' newest little techno-toy. She could feel her friend's concern every time she'd insisted that she had to visit Lucas, that she was the only one who could profile him correctly, the only one who had a right to profile him after all she'd been through. So far Bailey had acquiesced, allowing her unlimited access to Lucas in the hope of putting together adequate information to achieve a conviction and put an official, if not a personal, end to the Jack Of All Trades saga that had dogged them for the past seven years.
A wan smile twitched at her mouth as she recalled the anxious look Malone had given her today when she'd almost called Lucas "Jack." He'd tried to break her of that habit right after the capture, insisting that the only way she could achieve true closure was by firmly attaching a name and face to the shadow man who was in the shadows no more. Paul Sterling was in full agreement; he’d prosecuted more than his share of high-profile cases, and he was convinced that repetition of the real name would remove any mystique and give a jury a stronger sense of the killer's identity. And stronger association equaled a much stronger chance of conviction.
So Sam went along with their demands. Every time she thought of Jack, she forced herself to say the name "Donald Lucas," to fix his face and voice firmly in her mind, even though they didn't quite fit with the face and voice in her dreams.
And she waited for that closure they spoke of, but it didn't come.
What she did feel was hard to describe, a vague sort of dissatisfaction that chafed at her. It made her feel silly at best, and guilty at worst when she thought of all she had to be thankful for in her new life. She couldn't explain the feelings to anyone at work for fear of worrying them even more; she didn't feel like listening to Melinda's lengthy professional interpretations, and she was afraid that Angel would consider her crazy or selfish for dwelling too much in a past that was better left behind.
So Samantha Waters presented a normal face to a normal world, day after day, resigning herself to a life where her most important feelings were buried in a deep, lonely little place. And buried they stayed, quietly simmering and patiently waiting, until she could finally talk to the one person who would understand. And even if it meant she’d be late to the airport, she absolutely had to see him before she hit the West Coast and the next chapter of Lucas’ little game.
*****
Dry, long-dead grass crunched under her feet as Samantha walked the grounds of the Ketterley Psychiatric Institute. The gardens were a focal point of color and group therapy gatherings in the summer, but this time of year found them largely deserted, with most of the residents and visitors preferring to stay inside rather than brave the February winds.
Of course, even by institutional standards Elliott Wyckoff wasn't like most people.
She traversed a small incline and caught sight of the large oblong koi pond in the center of the gardens. Some landscape architect had obviously been well paid to recreate a trendy feng shui environment that would appeal to Institute board members; Japanese grasses and lily pads dotted the water in the summertime, and ornate iron benches with matching Asian-motif lanterns were sprinkled around the pond's edge. On one bench, nearest the water and a next to a clump of spiky dead beach-grass, was perched a slender, fragile-appearing man in a battered brown coat and old felt hat. An open sketchbook lay forgotten in his lap as he peered intently into the depths of the half-frozen pond. He looked as if a strong enough gust of wind could send him toppling headfirst through the ice, but beneath the brim of his hat glittered eyes of almost fierce intelligence, hinting at the strength of spirit that inhabited the frail body. Samantha broke into a broad smile at the sight of him; it was the first time she'd felt truly happy in weeks.
"Elliott!"
Her voice punctured his ruminations; Elliott Wyckoff broke into a similar radiant smile and jumped up to embrace her tightly.
"Samantha! I missed you. I was beginning to worry something had happened."
"I'm sorry, Elliott. I should have called, at least. Things have been really busy."
"No matter, no matter," he responded, patting her hand. "Do you mind sitting outside with me? If you're cold we can brave the crowds indoors."
His nose wrinkled in the slightest gesture of distaste as he spoke, and Samantha chuckled. Elliott was a consummate gentleman, and they replayed the same conversation every time she visited him. While he'd gladly sacrifice his comfort for the sake of her own, he certainly hadn't lost the more reclusive aspects of his personality in the year and a half he'd lived at Ketterley; she knew how much he detested being around large groups of people and she'd rather shiver a little than watch him be miserable inside. Besides, Elliott was something of a minor celebrity at the institution; he tended to attract an audience during his rare public appearances, and she'd rather have her friend all to herself today.
"I wouldn't think of going in," she replied, sitting beside him on the bench. "It's lovely out here -- you can almost feel a little bit of spring in the air.” She indicated the sketchbook with a slight nod. “It looks like you've been busy this morning."
With a few deftly rendered charcoal scratches, Wyckoff had recreated the frozen koi pond. An observer's casual glance at the sketch revealed only a still winter landscape; a closer look, however, suggested something sinister and foreboding hovering just beneath the icy surface, as if some force of evil were waiting to lay claim to anyone who got too close. Sam hesitated, not sure whether to admire the work or be alarmed. It seemed that Elliott was still fascinated with his Abyss.
Wyckoff saw the concern flash across her face as she stared at the sketch. He grinned wryly. "My doctors think I have too much doom and gloom in my sketches. Personally, I've always believed that art should imitate life, but I'm thinking of pleasing them for once. Maybe I'll draw a fluffy bunny on one corner -- or better yet, I'll draw myself with a big smile. I'll call it 'Still Life with Mental Patient.'"
"Oh, stop that!" Sam scolded, swatting him affectionately on the arm. "How are things with you, really?"
"Better." He tested the word, rolling it around on his tongue with an introspective expression. "I'm really starting to feel better. They -- that ubiquitous 'they' -- think I've made significant progress over the past month. Rumors are even circulating that I'm to be allowed to go home for a weekend."
"And how do you feel about that prospect?"
"My, don't we sound like the proper professional psychologist?" He winked at her, then turned pensive. "I feel...like it's time. I know if I ever hope to have a life beyond these gardens that I have to rejoin the world. Of course, if you'll recall, joining the world is what got me in trouble in the first place, but I -- I'll never know unless I try, will I?"
His tone was light, but he deliberately looked away from her as he spoke, and Sam knew it was because he didn't want her to see the fear in his eyes. She squeezed his hand encouragingly, and they sat in silence for several minutes, lost in separate thoughts.
Of all the people that Samantha counted among her circle of friends, Elliott Wyckoff was the one who was closest to a comrade in arms. She had met him almost two years ago under the most somber of circumstances, when the well-known psychic ("empathic," he’d be quick to correct) who had devoted years to helping families of murder victims suddenly stood accused himself, suspected in the ritual murders of five people, including his own wife. The real killer had been apprehended by the VCTF and Elliott had been vindicated, but not before he’d been completely consumed by the immensity of the evil that surrounded him. He had fallen headfirst into the Abyss, the private inner hell about which he had written and painted and dreamed so much, and into a complete catatonia.
She’d visited him often at Ketterley over the past eighteen months. Initially it was out of a sense of guilt; one of the last things Wyckoff had done before his breakdown was discuss Jack with her, and she felt somehow responsible for pushing the final button, as though she'd once again delivered an unwitting victim to the evil presence that grinned up at her from her own private Abyss. Sometimes she would talk gently to the broken little man, reassuring him that the murders weren't his fault, reminding him that he had done good and meaningful things and he had to get better because he was needed and missed. Other times she would simply sit quietly and hold his hand to let him know he wasn't alone. One day Elliott had squeezed the fingers that clasped his; a few days later he'd turned his head and smiled at her. Within a week he was speaking in halting sentences. He had progressed from there, initially speaking only to her but gradually opening up to the other inhabitants of his sequestered environment. And somewhere along the way, the frail psychiatric patient had metamorphosed back into a warm, humorous, accepting man who came to mean the world to her.
She'd kept her visits a secret from the others. Part of her simply didn't feel like having to explain why she felt more in common with an institutionalized empathic author than with the people she lived and worked with on a daily basis; she could just imagine the concerned theories and hurt feelings that little revelation would generate.
But there was another, jealous part of her that wanted to protect her private time with Elliott from outside influences. Her life was one defined by barriers, some self-imposed, others forced on her by circumstances beyond her control. She could shed those barriers, mostly, when she spent time here; they might be waiting for her at the gates, but here and now, sitting in the feng shui garden with Elliott, she was safe, comfortable in her skin. She was almost Samantha again. And that was too precious to jeopardize.
“So, you’ve been busy,” Elliott began lightly. “It’s a good kind of busy, I hope? Your house, your daughter - everything’s fine?”
Sam nodded. “Chlo couldn’t be better. She loves her new school, she’s after me to have sleepover parties for her new friends every weekend. I’m still not used to Angel not being there, but she needed to take her life back. She deserved it after all this time. You should hear how excited she is when she talks about being back in the farmhouse, she just lights up. Paul’s newest theory is that hay and solitude are an artist’s best friends. I’m not so sure her dog would be happy with the comparison.”
Elliott chuckled, then looked at her pointedly. “You get a little glow when you mention this Paul - I’ve noticed it before. Is he someone special?”
She wasn’t sure about the glow, but his question definitely provoked a blush. “I’m - not sure yet, honestly. He’s a really great person, Elliott, he’s kind and he’s funny and Chloe thinks he’s great. But going beyond that to - more - it’s a huge step. I’m not sure I’m ready to risk that again, not with everything coming up.”
Wyckoff nodded in understanding. “The trial.”
Sam hesitated. “It starts in three months. Paul says it’s already an airtight case and we have nothing to worry about. He should know, I guess. It’s just….”
Elliott shook his head, twirling the charcoal pencil in his fingers as he’d once twirled Jack’s rose. “It’s been a long process for you, coming through these dark times.”
“God, yes. It’s still a hard concept to grasp - for him as well, actually, we’re on our way to California today to track down --” Elliott’s expression indicated that he’d understood exactly which “him” she was referring to, and Samantha bit back the rest of the words, mentally flogging herself. Her friend really didn’t need to have any more darkness foisted on him at this stage. “Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is it’s over, he’s in jail.” She tested the words carefully, just as Elliott had done earlier. “I’m almost afraid to say it too loudly, you know? Like I’ll wake myself up and realize it was all just a dream.”
“But it’s not a dream, Samantha.”
“I know, on some level I do realize it’s true. I guess I have my life back.”
“And if you’ll pardon my borrowing your phrase, how do you feel about that?”
Sam looked away. “I’ve thought about it a lot -- what that day will be like. When they sentence him to death and I’m not running anymore, when I’m the one walking out of there free, not him. I must have played it over in my mind a million times by now.”
“I’m sure you have, Samantha, but that didn’t really answer my question.”
“I know.” She blushed and laughed, guilty at being caught. “Damned empathics, you know just how to cut to the chase, don’t you?” Elliott smiled kindly and squeezed her hand, and she plunged on, quickly before she lost her nerve. “Oh God, I’m scared, Elliott. I finally have the chance to help Tom and Coop and all the others rest in peace, I can stop looking over my shoulder and worrying every time the phone rings that he finally got to Chloe or Angel. I can dump seven years of fear and second thoughts and learn how to just live again, and I’m scared to death because I don’t know if I can. Isn’t that silly?” Her voice caught on the last words and the little laugh she’d tried to add came out as a strangled sob. Elliott squeezed her hand harder.
“You’re preaching to the choir, my dear. I’d be the last person to deny the terrifying nature of everyday life, I’d worry if you weren’t a little scared. You have a lot to re-learn after seven years.”
“I think that’s the part that scares me most of all. What if I can’t adjust to normal life? What if I’m not normal enough to be normal again?” She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “I guess I sound ridiculous.”
Wyckoff made a dismissive sound. “Not ridiculous - like someone who’s been through incomprehensible experiences. Evil marks us, you know. Once we’re exposed to it it changes us, leaves a scar that never really fades. It might not be visible, but it’s there, internal. And the evil that you’ve faced….” He broke off, shaking his head and gesturing at the koi pond as though searching for words. “Most people live in ignorance of the ugliness surrounding them, unless it draws them in and touches them. And for them, that ignorance is normal. For you and me, Samantha, normal changed a long time ago. If it ever does return to us, it will hold another meaning altogether.”
“The voice of reason in my life, as always.” Sam sighed and leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have any brilliant ideas as to how we find out exactly what that meaning is?”
Elliott smiled and threw an arm around her, drawing her near in a fatherly hug. “All I can do is tell you what works for a half-crazed old man, my dear: hold tight to your friends, and take one little step at a time."
*****
This is basically a re-write of "Otis, CA," from a more skewed perspective. It's less romance than angst, I'd say, but it gets an "R" rating for smatterings of sex and violence.
...and because I'm such a big old music ho-bag, it gets its own oddball Otis-flavored roadhouse fanmix here. *G*
Seven Days: Prologue
Author: Robin Nance
Fandom: Profiler, Sam/Jack, Drama/Angst/Romance
Rating: R (sex/violence/language)
Feedback: Wanted, needed and appreciated - here or at digital_doc_01@yahoo.com
Synopsis: Perspectives, geography, and entire lives can change in seven days.
Prologue
*****
The waiting was the hard part.
He was patient because he had to be, but he hated it, every hour that passed apart from her, every day that had stretched into weeks and months while she drifted through her life, unaware. He'd monitored her movements, kept track of her as always, but it wasn't the same. He'd had to keep things impersonal, staying in the background while the bit players did their jobs. And all the while he'd felt strangely empty, like some vast essential piece of himself had melted away, leaving him more alone than ever even though his plans were working to perfection.
She felt the same loss -- he knew it, even if she didn't understand it yet. Or, more likely, wouldn't yet admit it to herself. It was one of the many things he loved about her, that determination, the flintiness of spirit that manifested in such a stubborn clinging to her beliefs in the shoulds and oughts, the rights and wrongs of life. But he could see it in her face, even through the filter of the surveillance cameras that had been his poor substitute for intimacy for so many months. A piece of her was gone, too, and she noticed, she mourned the absence that she wouldn't acknowledge. He trembled to think of how she would channel that beautiful energy once he'd opened her eyes and shown her all of her true potential.
How he'd missed her.
But it was finally time. The stage was set, and he could step out of the shadows at last.
*****
"You really should cut back on the visits, Sam -- people will say we’re in love."
Samantha Waters stared into the soft china blue eyes of the multiple murderer behind the Plexiglas wall. Donald Lucas gave as good as he got for the better part of five minutes, but finally lost the match; flinching under the steadiness of her gaze, he sat back down on the prison cot with hands primly folded.
"Much as I'm enjoying your company, Sam, I assume you came to do more than just stare at me."
"We know about these." She dangled a pair of thick black-framed reading glasses from one finger.
He shrugged. "So I'm near-sighted. Other than that, dear, you really have to admit I'm pure perfection."
She bit back an angry response. Behind her, Bailey Malone rested a calming hand on her arm, and she took a deep breath before continuing. "We know these allow you to see holographic images when you’re online. And we know you're communicating with someone on the outside."
"By the way, Sam, how's your dad these days?"
Sam faltered, taken off guard by the rapid subject shift. Malone stepped up beside her, still ready to protect her from the monster behind the Plexiglas even though he'd long ceased being a direct threat.
"Who are you communicating with over the Internet, Lucas?" he snapped.
Lucas turned the mockery of his blue eyes toward the other man. "What's wrong, Agent Malone? Jealous that I have a fan club and you don't?" He chuckled at the epithet thrown in his direction. "Oh, now that's a voice of reason and authority. I must say, Sam, that it took your little play group long enough to figure things out. What finally turned that switch? Did you decide I was spending an inordinate amount of time on filing the perfect appeal?"
"We're going to find out who you're communicating with, you know," growled Bailey.
"And what makes you so sure of that?"
"Because you want us to." Sam's voice was flat. "It's all part of the game, right? It's no fun without pawns to move about at your will."
Lucas shook his head in amusement. "Nice thought. But even with pawns -- and you all play that role so well -- a game is meaningless without a purpose. C'mon, Sam, tell me -- what purpose is served here? Why would I be trying to contact the outside world?"
She stepped closer to the wall, daring him to try to stare her down again. "Look around at what passes for the rest of your life. Maybe you're lonely."
She had the satisfaction of seeing the suave mask crumple in surprise for a moment. Then the expression quickly faded, to be replaced with the self-assured smugness that had greeted her regularly over the past months.
Lucas smiled tightly, obviously irked that she'd gotten to him even for that brief moment. "You know, Sam, if you were as good a daughter as you are a profiler, you'd forego the treasure hunt and spend a little more time with dear old Dad. I suspect he's feeling a bit of stress these days, and one never knows how long one's loved ones have left on this earth - do they?"
The words hurt her and he knew it; the smug smile widened, only to be replaced by an expression of mild alarm as Bailey smacked an open palm against the Plexiglas with a resounding crack.
"Shut up, you bastard!"
It was Sam's turn to be the voice of calm and reason. "Come on, he's not worth it," she muttered as she tugged Bailey back from the wall. Turning sharply, she walked out of the cell area, never looking back at the blue eyes that she knew were burning into her back.
"Miserable waste of time," Malone growled as they left the prison compound for the comparative warmth of an Atlanta February morning. "I'm sorry to have put you through that for nothing."
"I'm not sure it was altogether a waste." Sam sighed and stretched as they approached their cars. "He knows we're on to him, and it might affect how he deals with his contact. It might even help us flush the contact out."
"Somehow I was hoping we'd get more of a reaction from the cocky bastard. He took the news a little too well."
Sam shook her head. "Actually, it was more of a reaction than I thought he'd let us see, which is what's confusing me. He's still proud of playing his games and dangling information in front of us, just like always, only...." Her voice trailed off, and Malone glanced over to see her frowning into the distance.
"Only what, Sam?"
"It's just -- there was something else today. Something new." She paused as she tried to organize her thoughts into the appropriate words. "When he challenged me to discover the purpose of his actions, I got the feeling that he didn't quite know the purpose himself. It was almost like he was asking me in the hope of discovering the answer. And when I said he was lonely, he actually looked like he was."
"Maybe the reality of the situation is finally catching up to him. Hell, maybe he really is just using the Internet to find a chat room for some company."
“Yeah, but Bail, today was unusual for him. He used to revel in the fact that he didn't need anyone else, he flaunted that he was a solitary genius who could defeat all of us single-handedly. Even Sharon Lesher wasn't anything more than just an extension of himself, he never saw her as a separate person. Today it was almost like Ja -- like Lucas was revealing a whole new side of himself."
Malone smiled grimly. "Well, he's going to have a lot more quality time with that cell before his appointment with the gas chamber, he can try out a million new sides for all it matters." He turned toward his car, then glanced back. "Sam, I'm putting two agents on your father at all times until we find this Internet contact. I don't think Lucas can orchestrate anything that serious from behind bars, but given his history I don’t want to take chances."
She smiled gratefully and squeezed his arm. "Thanks, Bail. I appreciate the extra attention to Chloe and Angel too."
"Well, it made it convenient that Angel would be staying with Chloe in your house while we're in California. Otherwise I suspect she would’ve had some choice words for being under the FBI microscope again. Look, I'm going to head back to the office to do a last-minute wrap-up with George. Are you heading that way?"
Samantha hesitated. "I wasn't planning to, unless you need me. I'd like to pick up a couple of things at home and say good-bye to Chloe. Can I meet you at the airport?"
"No problem, John and I will be on board at two.” Bailey paused with his hand on the sedan’s door, fixing her with a steady gaze. “Sam, this is all going to be over soon, you know. The end is in sight."
She smiled tightly. "You and Paul keep saying the same thing to me, I swear you're rehearsing together. I know it's winding down -- I'll just be glad when it's actually finished."
She sat in her car with the motor idling, watching until Malone had pulled out of the prison parking lot. Once his sedan disappeared she pulled out herself, turning in a direction opposite to Buckhead and her new home. It was easier to do certain things without giving Bailey any details; he'd just worry, and that translated into more lengthy explanations required on her part.
Worrying about her was something that Malone had been doing a lot lately, even before they'd discovered Donald Lucas' newest little techno-toy. She could feel her friend's concern every time she'd insisted that she had to visit Lucas, that she was the only one who could profile him correctly, the only one who had a right to profile him after all she'd been through. So far Bailey had acquiesced, allowing her unlimited access to Lucas in the hope of putting together adequate information to achieve a conviction and put an official, if not a personal, end to the Jack Of All Trades saga that had dogged them for the past seven years.
A wan smile twitched at her mouth as she recalled the anxious look Malone had given her today when she'd almost called Lucas "Jack." He'd tried to break her of that habit right after the capture, insisting that the only way she could achieve true closure was by firmly attaching a name and face to the shadow man who was in the shadows no more. Paul Sterling was in full agreement; he’d prosecuted more than his share of high-profile cases, and he was convinced that repetition of the real name would remove any mystique and give a jury a stronger sense of the killer's identity. And stronger association equaled a much stronger chance of conviction.
So Sam went along with their demands. Every time she thought of Jack, she forced herself to say the name "Donald Lucas," to fix his face and voice firmly in her mind, even though they didn't quite fit with the face and voice in her dreams.
And she waited for that closure they spoke of, but it didn't come.
What she did feel was hard to describe, a vague sort of dissatisfaction that chafed at her. It made her feel silly at best, and guilty at worst when she thought of all she had to be thankful for in her new life. She couldn't explain the feelings to anyone at work for fear of worrying them even more; she didn't feel like listening to Melinda's lengthy professional interpretations, and she was afraid that Angel would consider her crazy or selfish for dwelling too much in a past that was better left behind.
So Samantha Waters presented a normal face to a normal world, day after day, resigning herself to a life where her most important feelings were buried in a deep, lonely little place. And buried they stayed, quietly simmering and patiently waiting, until she could finally talk to the one person who would understand. And even if it meant she’d be late to the airport, she absolutely had to see him before she hit the West Coast and the next chapter of Lucas’ little game.
*****
Dry, long-dead grass crunched under her feet as Samantha walked the grounds of the Ketterley Psychiatric Institute. The gardens were a focal point of color and group therapy gatherings in the summer, but this time of year found them largely deserted, with most of the residents and visitors preferring to stay inside rather than brave the February winds.
Of course, even by institutional standards Elliott Wyckoff wasn't like most people.
She traversed a small incline and caught sight of the large oblong koi pond in the center of the gardens. Some landscape architect had obviously been well paid to recreate a trendy feng shui environment that would appeal to Institute board members; Japanese grasses and lily pads dotted the water in the summertime, and ornate iron benches with matching Asian-motif lanterns were sprinkled around the pond's edge. On one bench, nearest the water and a next to a clump of spiky dead beach-grass, was perched a slender, fragile-appearing man in a battered brown coat and old felt hat. An open sketchbook lay forgotten in his lap as he peered intently into the depths of the half-frozen pond. He looked as if a strong enough gust of wind could send him toppling headfirst through the ice, but beneath the brim of his hat glittered eyes of almost fierce intelligence, hinting at the strength of spirit that inhabited the frail body. Samantha broke into a broad smile at the sight of him; it was the first time she'd felt truly happy in weeks.
"Elliott!"
Her voice punctured his ruminations; Elliott Wyckoff broke into a similar radiant smile and jumped up to embrace her tightly.
"Samantha! I missed you. I was beginning to worry something had happened."
"I'm sorry, Elliott. I should have called, at least. Things have been really busy."
"No matter, no matter," he responded, patting her hand. "Do you mind sitting outside with me? If you're cold we can brave the crowds indoors."
His nose wrinkled in the slightest gesture of distaste as he spoke, and Samantha chuckled. Elliott was a consummate gentleman, and they replayed the same conversation every time she visited him. While he'd gladly sacrifice his comfort for the sake of her own, he certainly hadn't lost the more reclusive aspects of his personality in the year and a half he'd lived at Ketterley; she knew how much he detested being around large groups of people and she'd rather shiver a little than watch him be miserable inside. Besides, Elliott was something of a minor celebrity at the institution; he tended to attract an audience during his rare public appearances, and she'd rather have her friend all to herself today.
"I wouldn't think of going in," she replied, sitting beside him on the bench. "It's lovely out here -- you can almost feel a little bit of spring in the air.” She indicated the sketchbook with a slight nod. “It looks like you've been busy this morning."
With a few deftly rendered charcoal scratches, Wyckoff had recreated the frozen koi pond. An observer's casual glance at the sketch revealed only a still winter landscape; a closer look, however, suggested something sinister and foreboding hovering just beneath the icy surface, as if some force of evil were waiting to lay claim to anyone who got too close. Sam hesitated, not sure whether to admire the work or be alarmed. It seemed that Elliott was still fascinated with his Abyss.
Wyckoff saw the concern flash across her face as she stared at the sketch. He grinned wryly. "My doctors think I have too much doom and gloom in my sketches. Personally, I've always believed that art should imitate life, but I'm thinking of pleasing them for once. Maybe I'll draw a fluffy bunny on one corner -- or better yet, I'll draw myself with a big smile. I'll call it 'Still Life with Mental Patient.'"
"Oh, stop that!" Sam scolded, swatting him affectionately on the arm. "How are things with you, really?"
"Better." He tested the word, rolling it around on his tongue with an introspective expression. "I'm really starting to feel better. They -- that ubiquitous 'they' -- think I've made significant progress over the past month. Rumors are even circulating that I'm to be allowed to go home for a weekend."
"And how do you feel about that prospect?"
"My, don't we sound like the proper professional psychologist?" He winked at her, then turned pensive. "I feel...like it's time. I know if I ever hope to have a life beyond these gardens that I have to rejoin the world. Of course, if you'll recall, joining the world is what got me in trouble in the first place, but I -- I'll never know unless I try, will I?"
His tone was light, but he deliberately looked away from her as he spoke, and Sam knew it was because he didn't want her to see the fear in his eyes. She squeezed his hand encouragingly, and they sat in silence for several minutes, lost in separate thoughts.
Of all the people that Samantha counted among her circle of friends, Elliott Wyckoff was the one who was closest to a comrade in arms. She had met him almost two years ago under the most somber of circumstances, when the well-known psychic ("empathic," he’d be quick to correct) who had devoted years to helping families of murder victims suddenly stood accused himself, suspected in the ritual murders of five people, including his own wife. The real killer had been apprehended by the VCTF and Elliott had been vindicated, but not before he’d been completely consumed by the immensity of the evil that surrounded him. He had fallen headfirst into the Abyss, the private inner hell about which he had written and painted and dreamed so much, and into a complete catatonia.
She’d visited him often at Ketterley over the past eighteen months. Initially it was out of a sense of guilt; one of the last things Wyckoff had done before his breakdown was discuss Jack with her, and she felt somehow responsible for pushing the final button, as though she'd once again delivered an unwitting victim to the evil presence that grinned up at her from her own private Abyss. Sometimes she would talk gently to the broken little man, reassuring him that the murders weren't his fault, reminding him that he had done good and meaningful things and he had to get better because he was needed and missed. Other times she would simply sit quietly and hold his hand to let him know he wasn't alone. One day Elliott had squeezed the fingers that clasped his; a few days later he'd turned his head and smiled at her. Within a week he was speaking in halting sentences. He had progressed from there, initially speaking only to her but gradually opening up to the other inhabitants of his sequestered environment. And somewhere along the way, the frail psychiatric patient had metamorphosed back into a warm, humorous, accepting man who came to mean the world to her.
She'd kept her visits a secret from the others. Part of her simply didn't feel like having to explain why she felt more in common with an institutionalized empathic author than with the people she lived and worked with on a daily basis; she could just imagine the concerned theories and hurt feelings that little revelation would generate.
But there was another, jealous part of her that wanted to protect her private time with Elliott from outside influences. Her life was one defined by barriers, some self-imposed, others forced on her by circumstances beyond her control. She could shed those barriers, mostly, when she spent time here; they might be waiting for her at the gates, but here and now, sitting in the feng shui garden with Elliott, she was safe, comfortable in her skin. She was almost Samantha again. And that was too precious to jeopardize.
“So, you’ve been busy,” Elliott began lightly. “It’s a good kind of busy, I hope? Your house, your daughter - everything’s fine?”
Sam nodded. “Chlo couldn’t be better. She loves her new school, she’s after me to have sleepover parties for her new friends every weekend. I’m still not used to Angel not being there, but she needed to take her life back. She deserved it after all this time. You should hear how excited she is when she talks about being back in the farmhouse, she just lights up. Paul’s newest theory is that hay and solitude are an artist’s best friends. I’m not so sure her dog would be happy with the comparison.”
Elliott chuckled, then looked at her pointedly. “You get a little glow when you mention this Paul - I’ve noticed it before. Is he someone special?”
She wasn’t sure about the glow, but his question definitely provoked a blush. “I’m - not sure yet, honestly. He’s a really great person, Elliott, he’s kind and he’s funny and Chloe thinks he’s great. But going beyond that to - more - it’s a huge step. I’m not sure I’m ready to risk that again, not with everything coming up.”
Wyckoff nodded in understanding. “The trial.”
Sam hesitated. “It starts in three months. Paul says it’s already an airtight case and we have nothing to worry about. He should know, I guess. It’s just….”
Elliott shook his head, twirling the charcoal pencil in his fingers as he’d once twirled Jack’s rose. “It’s been a long process for you, coming through these dark times.”
“God, yes. It’s still a hard concept to grasp - for him as well, actually, we’re on our way to California today to track down --” Elliott’s expression indicated that he’d understood exactly which “him” she was referring to, and Samantha bit back the rest of the words, mentally flogging herself. Her friend really didn’t need to have any more darkness foisted on him at this stage. “Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is it’s over, he’s in jail.” She tested the words carefully, just as Elliott had done earlier. “I’m almost afraid to say it too loudly, you know? Like I’ll wake myself up and realize it was all just a dream.”
“But it’s not a dream, Samantha.”
“I know, on some level I do realize it’s true. I guess I have my life back.”
“And if you’ll pardon my borrowing your phrase, how do you feel about that?”
Sam looked away. “I’ve thought about it a lot -- what that day will be like. When they sentence him to death and I’m not running anymore, when I’m the one walking out of there free, not him. I must have played it over in my mind a million times by now.”
“I’m sure you have, Samantha, but that didn’t really answer my question.”
“I know.” She blushed and laughed, guilty at being caught. “Damned empathics, you know just how to cut to the chase, don’t you?” Elliott smiled kindly and squeezed her hand, and she plunged on, quickly before she lost her nerve. “Oh God, I’m scared, Elliott. I finally have the chance to help Tom and Coop and all the others rest in peace, I can stop looking over my shoulder and worrying every time the phone rings that he finally got to Chloe or Angel. I can dump seven years of fear and second thoughts and learn how to just live again, and I’m scared to death because I don’t know if I can. Isn’t that silly?” Her voice caught on the last words and the little laugh she’d tried to add came out as a strangled sob. Elliott squeezed her hand harder.
“You’re preaching to the choir, my dear. I’d be the last person to deny the terrifying nature of everyday life, I’d worry if you weren’t a little scared. You have a lot to re-learn after seven years.”
“I think that’s the part that scares me most of all. What if I can’t adjust to normal life? What if I’m not normal enough to be normal again?” She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “I guess I sound ridiculous.”
Wyckoff made a dismissive sound. “Not ridiculous - like someone who’s been through incomprehensible experiences. Evil marks us, you know. Once we’re exposed to it it changes us, leaves a scar that never really fades. It might not be visible, but it’s there, internal. And the evil that you’ve faced….” He broke off, shaking his head and gesturing at the koi pond as though searching for words. “Most people live in ignorance of the ugliness surrounding them, unless it draws them in and touches them. And for them, that ignorance is normal. For you and me, Samantha, normal changed a long time ago. If it ever does return to us, it will hold another meaning altogether.”
“The voice of reason in my life, as always.” Sam sighed and leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have any brilliant ideas as to how we find out exactly what that meaning is?”
Elliott smiled and threw an arm around her, drawing her near in a fatherly hug. “All I can do is tell you what works for a half-crazed old man, my dear: hold tight to your friends, and take one little step at a time."
*****