Karen's eyelids were heavy with fatigue. Her eyes burned and she knew that if she looked into a mirror, they would be bloodshot. Instead, she sat watching the restless form of one of her best detectives. She had slept in a chair she had pulled up beside Peter's bed, though it had not been a restful slumber.
The thin top sheet now lay in a wad on the bed, being used as a punching bag. As Peter had become more combative, Karen had given up on her repeated attempts to cover him with the sheet. She didn't want to put the handcuffs back on, theorizing he was too weak to do any damage.
Kermit had worried about Peter not eating or drinking much. Peter's skin was pulled taut over the bony prominence of his face and ribs. Peter had vomited the last time they had tried to feed him; the diarrhea also continued. Chills and perspiration alternated with hot flashes, causing Peter to lose more fluid and more color. His breathing had become labored, and his temperature rose due to the loss of fluid.
Peter's mind and body ached, and he vocalized the discomfort with continuous moaning. Dreams of fire, lonely halls, and death danced through his mind as his body shuddered involuntarily.
Picking up Peter's right hand, Karen removed the glove and dressing. She knew it had been a few hours since it had been treated. Clear serous drainage from the wound caused the dressing to stick.
Peter felt the pain, intensified by the drugs. He pulled back both hands, then swung out with his good arm. "NO!" he shouted as his left hand connected with Karen's cheek and nose. "No! Paul, make them stop."
Karen ignored the blood that spurted from her nose; instead she tried to grab Peter's left hand and cuff to the bed frame.
"Paul," Peter continued to shout, looking out the window. "Help me! Please!" The plea sounded so much like a child's that Karen's maternal instincts reacted.
She leaned into Peter's punches, ignoring the beating as the only part of her body he could reach was pummeled time and again. "Shhh, it's all right."
Kermit came running, aroused from his nightmares by the screaming. As he entered, he saw Peter's strikes to Karen's back become less forceful and heard his cries of pain and fear fade to whimpers and moans. Easing himself onto the bed, Kermit secured the padded handcuff to Peter's wrist, trying to ignore the tears that rolled down his friend's cheeks.
Minutes later, exhaustion overtook Peter, sending him into another fitful sleep. His body was covered in sweat, the smell of perspiration mingling with the sour odor of urine. The once thick, unruly hair was now plastered to his head. The combined odors became overwhelming in the stagnant air of the room, sending Karen to the window to raise it and let in fresh air.
"He saw someone out there." She hesitated at the window, looking out into the early morning hour. Karen closed her eyes as the pain in her head throbbed to the beat of her heart.
Kermit came to stand behind her, hesitating to put his arms around her. Why would she be interested in a man who could not protect those he cared for, those he promised to die for if need be - those who died from his negligence. "He's still having hallucinations. There's probably no one out there."
She turned toward him, the beginnings of a bruise forming around her eye and along the bridge of her nose. Swelling had set in, distorting her petite features. Karen leaned into Kermit's hand as he traced the outline of her jaw and touched her hair.
Kermit felt himself being pulled toward her, though not by her hand or his. "I can't do this," he muttered and turned to leave the room. He heard her sigh.
"Where are you going?"
"To make sure no one is out there. Larsen doesn't know about the cabin. At least I don't think he does. As long as he doesn't find out about Annie and the girls, then things should be OK. If he got to them, I'm sure he'd torture them into telling where we are."
The cool air wrapped around Kermit, making his breath white as he exhaled. The cabin was situated halfway up a mountain, allowing the human inhabitants a short walk to the lake that Peter and Paul fished in on every visit. Mist now hung over the lake, looking like steam over boiling water. Fog draped around the tops of trees, hiding the tree frogs and birds as they sang their morning songs.
Kermit listened intently for any unusual sounds. The gnawing of a squirrel on a nut echoed through the trees. Otherwise, the sounds of birds flying among the branches and ducks quacking on the water were the only noises he heard.
Looking around the brush that wrapped around the front porch, Kermit bent down, seeing the outline of shoe prints. He felt the soft moist earth give under his fingers. The prints were fresh, not more than twenty-four hours old. Looking at the cabin, he saw the window Peter had looked out when he screamed for his Paul.
He felt his steps weren't quick enough as he advanced the window of the bedroom Peter occupied. Seeing the same prints in the soil made the temperature feel at least ten degrees colder. Senses on alert, Kermit scanned the countryside, then the ground, looking for more prints.
The prints lasted for only a few feet before reaching the pine straw-covered ground, obscuring the steps the unknown man had made. The large size of the prints had Kermit ruling out Karen's footprints.
Entering the cabin again, Kermit found Karen on the other bed that shared Peter's room. Her eyes were closed. Her soft rhythmic breathing was a contrast to Peter's erratic respirations as he moaned and whimpered at the pain and nightmares that assaulted his mind.
Peter opened his eyes, looking around the room and at its inhabitants. The fog his mind had been in was slowly slipping away. He had recognized the room yesterday, but today he also remembered when he had caught the fish that was now mounted and hanging over his bed. He also remembered Paul showing him how to scale the other fish they were to have for supper - a thought that made Peter's currently queasy stomach rebel. Because he hadn't had anything to eat recently, there was no bile; only the hot clear liquid of stomach juices came to his mouth. "Ooohh, Kermit."
Kermit stood in the doorway, staring back at Peter. Then, with a slight grin on his face, he walked over to the side of the bed. Taking a damp cloth, he wiped Peter's mouth and face, feeling the warm skin and noting the haze missing from his friend's eyes. The fact that Peter recognized him gave Kermit hope that the end was in sight. "Want some soup?"
David had acted the same way when in withdrawal from drugs so many years ago. Those first thirty-six hours had been the worst hours Kermit had gone through with his brother. Experiencing it again was just as traumatic. Kermit silently wished the symptoms would hurry and leave, letting both him and Peter get back to normal.
"W-what's hap-happening to m-me?" Peter struggled with the words. His body felt like lead. He was barely able to keep his eyes open and talk at the same time.
"You remember anything? Who took you?"
Movement in the other bed caught Peter's eye. Trying to sit up, he noticed the gloves and handcuffs. Fear gripped him again as his mind raced back to his abduction; the memory of candles and needles flooded his mind. His breathing quickened and panic filled his eyes as he jerked against the restraints, no longer recognizing his friend or the room he was in.
Kermit moved onto the bed, sitting next to Peter, trying to grab the young man's hands without startling him more. "Peter, it's all right. Easy. It's me, Kermit. OK?" he soothed, then glanced over to the bed where Karen had been sleeping.
She looked back, afraid to move, afraid of scaring Peter even more.
Realization struck Peter; he recognized the man leaning over him. "Ker-mit. Wh-what's hap-happening?" A shiver went up Peter's spine; and goose bumps rose along his arms and chest. "Gonna b-be sick.."
Karen listened as Peter retched. It took more than a little concentration before she convinced her stomach not to react in sympathy to Peter's. Finally, she was able to focus on Kermit's words.
"You were given some drugs." Kermit kept his voice low and calm as he sat up, hoping Peter wouldn't pull any more on his restraints. "But you're going to be all right. I need you to eat something, OK? Karen's here and she'll sit with you, but I can't untie you. Not yet, anyway."
Taking her name as her cue to move, Karen scooted off the bed and sat in the chair next to Peter.
"G-guess I-I'll f-fail the drug t-test." Another shiver ran up Peter's body. "Cold. T-turn th-the heat on?"
Touching Peter's forehead again, Kermit noticed the rise in Peter's body temperature. Sweat beaded on Peter's face, a face that had gone from pale white to pink to red with fever. "We need to get some liquid into you. Karen, look in the medicine cabinet and find the thermometer. Check his temp while I get something for him to drink."
Kermit left the room as Karen searched the bathroom for a thermometer. Coming back into the room, Karen remembered what Peter had said. Placing the glass instrument into his mouth, she tried to reassure him. "We won't need a blood test, Peter. You have the flu. You have all the classic symptoms of the flu, and you're dehydrated." She then reached over to the other bed and pulled the coverlet off, spreading it over Peter.
Giving in to the heaviness of his eyelids, Peter closed his eyes, hoping the nightmare would be over soon.
***
Walking the halls of the morgue had left both Mary Margaret and TJ feeling as cold as the bodies stored in the cabinets lining the walls.
"I wonder if there is a law about walking the halls before 9 a.m.," TJ said, looking at his watch.
"As long as there are dead people, I wouldn't count on it," his partner replied sarcastically.
Nickie Elder exited his office, running into the two officers. He was engrossed in the report he was going to give to them. "Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized, bending over to pick up the report he had dropped.
"That's all right. At least you are a warm body," Mary Margaret quipped, trying not to look down upon the man who stood several inches shorter than her.
"Well, I wanted to show you something." He led the way down the hall toward the rooms where autopsies were performed. "You may not know this, bu-but there have been some advances in getting prints from bodies. We-we use a special compound, sort of like the powder used in dusting for prints on inanimate objects. But there's an added in-ingredient that makes the prints show up under ultraviolet light." Nickie's speech was becoming faster, his hands gesturing as fast as his words were spoken.
Looking downcast, Nickie stopped at the door behind which Maria lay. "Yeah, but," the excitement came back, "and here's the best part - we can film the prints as we go over them with the light. The camera is hooked up to the computer the FBI uses. We can usually get a match in a matter of hours. But this one…"
"You've got a match already?" Mary Margaret interrupted.
"Yeah, got a match with the print over the trachea. But, when the record came up, it said restricted access."
As Nickie explained what he had found, they maneuvered over to Maria's body and watched as Nickie pulled back the sheet that covered the young woman. The purple, almost black, bruising stood out against the pale white skin. "She has track marks up and down her arms with large amounts of illegal drugs in her system. She had sex not long before she was murdered. Cause of death would be the crushed windpipe."
"No other bruises or signs of a fight?" Mary Margaret asked.
"She had some trace skin under her nails. It'll be tomorrow before I'll have anything back on it and the body secretions from the vaginal area."
"Nickie Elder, line two," a disembodied voice called over the intercom.
The two detectives waited as Nickie answered the phone. Dead bodies and the morgue gave them eerie feelings, though by now they chided themselves silently for it. In their line of work, visiting the morgue was at least a once a month routine.
They tried to not listen in on the conversation, but Nickie's voice grew louder, as though signaling them to listen.
"I told you, the prints came from a dead woman found in an alley. Of course I told the police investigating. Matter of fact, Detectives Skalany and Kincaid are right here. You want to talk to them? Sure, sure I'll tell them," Nickie said before roughly replacing the handset back on its cradle.
"FBI. Wanted to know who was looking for Greg Larsen. That's who the print belongs to," Nickie answered, his anger quickly going away. "They are sending some people over to see the commissioner, and then you two."
"Great. What a way to start the morning. First with a dead woman, then with your father, and then with the FBI. Lovely." Sarcasm was evident in Skalany's voice and words as she led the way out of the building.
***
The 101st Precinct covered all of Chinatown, the old waterfront district, and several blocks of the Stem, an area that was noted as the red light district. More arrests were made there than in any other part of the district. Prostitutes, topless bars, and porno shops lined the streets, offering anyone any type of "entertainment" they would care to have.
George sat in the front row of the Regal All Girl Live Theater. Larsen's nose had not missed the sour aroma of sweat and sex that inhabited the room. Sitting next to George, Larsen wiped his hands on a clean handkerchief. "What have you found for me?"
George leered at the underaged girl standing on the stage. She stripped to the music of Mozart, her clothes coming off in minute layers. Neither man noticed her eyes, eyes that held little childhood happiness or hope.
"That cop has some sort of foster family. Caine's sister said Griffin took the cop to a cabin that the family owned. Blaisdell, as in Captain Paul Blaisdell, was the foster father." When Larsen didn't react to the name, George continued. "He was the Captain at the 101st Precinct, where Caine and Griffin work. From what I understand, he was one man you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. Anyway, a friend checked the land records. Blaisdell owns a cabin off County 43 near Tollison Lake."
Larsen nodded as the girl finished her display. He leaned forward and placed a fifty-dollar bill in her hand, along with a note with his address on it. Sitting back, he continued his conversation with George. "Find me some men who can handle weapons. I'll call you at the motel and tell you where to meet me." With that, Larsen stood, wiping his hands of the grime that saturated the air.
