Fractured Mirth
part 1
"Well, if it looks like a demon, and it walks like a demon, talks like a demon, smells like a demon, it probably is a demon," Paige Matthews retorted, as she plopped down onto the sofa, two very green cucumbers slices complementing the matching shade of green spread out neatly over the features of her pretty face, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun. "There's no other way around it."
"Cole said they've been reeking havoc all over town. Mostly....acts of vandalism and the like. But it bugs me, you know? We're out there, patrolling our asses off, and we can't do a damn thing. I mean, why doesn't it surprise me that the Elders are sitting this one out? It's certainly nothing compared to the thousands of others they've refused to help us with."
"Because maybe they're invisible stinky demons?" Paige suggested hopefully, her head tilted all the way back, as she gestured briefly with her hands in the dark, a faint smile creeping up around her complexion.
"I'm serious," Phoebe insisted, glaring at her above the bright illuminated glow of the television set, her hand enclosing itself protectively over the remote.
"And so am I. You can sniff out some of those guys from a mile away, if you're lucky."
"Okay, eww. You know, while you're ever so happily engaging yourself in the free pleasures of a makeover, there are probably people out there that need our help, and first case scenario, we don't even know where to begin to look. Doesn't that make you even a little nervous?"
"No," she replied simply, shrugging, as she adjusted the slices with careful precision on her part, wringing out her damp hands upon the fabric of her satin pajama pants.
"No?"
"You would have gotten a premonition by now," she concluded. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but you haven't exactly been the bearer or any inside info lately, have you?"
"And just what is that supposed to mean?"
"Look, relax, okay?"
"In earlier news today, the FBI may have experienced a revealing breakthrough in their case against murder suspect Duane R. Robertson, the alleged killer from the Bronx, whose victims are believed to include small children and young women, ranging from fifteen to twenty-eight years of age. On assignment from Atlanta, Mr. Bailey Malone has issued....the following comment in regards to their progress." The scene flashed to another segment then, having been previously taped sometime during the afternoon hours of the day. A man with dark brown hair and big brown eyes stood front and center, his expression denoting a rare intensity that froze her in place, as his hand reached up to quickly loosen his black tie with a fairly relaxed grip, his line of vision trailing the media that had gathered around him. He cleared his throat. "We will take all measures necessary to ensure that Mr. Robertson is caught and tried for the hurt he has presumably caused the grieving families of his victims. You have my solemn promise in that. Prior to our expected return to Atlanta, we discovered one of our agents was nearly left for dead in a local allyway not far from this location. He was barely able to make it to Belmont, where he was later admitted to the critical ward. You can rest assured-"
"Do you have the name of the agent?" a voice asked, as a long microphone was gently extended to him.
"And how do you know it's Robertson?" another voice pleaded, awarding Bailey an equal amount of airtime, as the young woman lent him her device as well. He calmly waved them away, as he recollected his composure, running a hand rapidly through his hair. "Nothing further," he added softly.
"That's just it. We don't," a redhead spoke up, her soft eyes squinting against the glare of the sun, as she took the opportunity to step forward. Shielding her gaze with a slender hand to her forehead, she offered a prolonged sigh to the audience about her. "I realize that this is the biggest, and probably the most inconvenient series of crimes that San Francisco has seen in a long time. But we have fellow agents working around the clock to find Robertson, and who he intends to target as his next victim. It's merely assumption on behalf of my colleague that he would or could have harmed Agent Grant."
"Hey, she looks familiar," Phoebe offered casually, her brown eyes trained on the picture before her, slowly reading the title that appeared at the very bottom.
"Who looks familiar?" Paige interjected, as she fought to glance about her through the roughly devised shapes.
"Well, if you'd take those stupid things off your eyes, maybe you wouldn't be so indifferent to what's happening around you," she commented, throwing her sister a smirk. "Rachel Burke. She's a profiler for the...VCTF, apparently."
"Rachel....Rachel...Burke...hmm, no. Not ringing any bells that I can hear."
"She said there were crimes here, horrible acts of violence or something..."
"Point being? I mean, that happens all over the world. We take care of the supernatural part of it, and they deal with the reality."
"Yes, Paige, but we still have to live in this reality."
"Phoebe-"
"As for your point...this Robertson guy should already be in the slammer. I heard about him a few weeks ago. Authorities were supposed to be hot on his trail." She paused a moment, biting her lower lip. "It's so obvious he did it, too. All of it. Guilty as sin, and they can't even book him and read him his rights."
"That's what I've been saying about Cole, but does anybody listen?"
"Paige, c'mon. Cole has nothing to do with this, and you know it. This is purely off the record, alright?"
"So you want my opinion, do you?"
"He's been leading them on a wild goose chase," she sided. "Turning up clues that aren't really there, following close calls- you know, it's really too bad we can't apply a little personal gain to that guy to properly put him in his place. I think the magic is just calling his name."
"And what exactly would be your idea of properly putting him in his place?"
"A little force never hurt anyone."
"Phoebe, you can't just- you heard that woman. She doesn't agree with that Malone dude at all. She still doesn't believe Robertson has it in him. And maybe he doesn't. Either way, this is still out of our league. We can't do anything about it."
"Anything about what?" Piper Halliwell inquired, as she almost tripped on the carpeting in the family room, a hand immediately rising to freeze the bag of groceries in her grasp, as she heaved a sense of pure relief, letting out the breath she'd been holding prior to her near fatal crash. Frowning, she broke it free, easily catching it as she continued to the kitchen, gently kicking off her heels in the hallway. "Did you know that new band refused to show today? I had all of these little twelve year old girls screaming their name, and they could not come. Cancelled last minute, too. I am beyond upset right now, because despite the fact that I could not pronounce their name, I was really depending on them to further promote my business." She abruptly stopped then, her eyes curiously searching the contents of the bag with a renwed interest, her hand pawing through it with a feigned sense of disappointment, as she offered a slight puff through her lips, sending a few loose strands of hair about the air. "Oh, crap."
"What is it?" Phoebe called back.
"Dammit, I forgot the eggs."
"Rough day?"
"Heh. Yeah, funny you should mention that, really. Because it just shows me how much you weren't paying attention to a thing I've said right now...at this very moment, in this house," she accused hopelessly, throwing up her hands in a pile of defeat. "I've only been talking for the last five minutes....seconds- whatever. I can't do this. I won't do this. Little Courtney is just going to have to settle for a pre-made design at the local bakery. Because this just isn't going to work."
"Courtney?" Paige questioned. "The little brat who tried to steal our garden hose on Monday?"
"Her mother asked me if I wouldn't mind helping her out for her surprise birthday party. This was a week before the incident, mind you, so I happily said yes. Little did I know, it's now coming back to bite me in the behind."
"What are you going to tell the tiny wench?"
"Paige, she's not-"
"Well, speaking of crimes committed against the unsuspecting innocents, Phoebe's become obsessed with bringing the latest serial killer to justice," Paige retorted, rolling her eyes, as she directed a finger to the television set, pursing her lips. "Some task force guys are in the area, because they think he's still here, or was reported to be here, or...something."
"The guy with the kids?" she returned. "Didn't they throw away the key on that one?"
"Worse. They don't even know if they should convict him," Paige muttered, shaking her head.
"So this is not related to what we do in any way?" Piper responded, her hands finding her hips, as she let out a rather loud groan, her foot tapping listlessly across the floorboards. "I mean, because clearly there are more pressing matters at hand here. I'm about to lose a fist full of cash at P3, and I can't even find the time to contemplate baking a cake for the little girl down the street. My life as I know it is over."
Phoebe raised her eyebrows, as she gave her older sister a bright smile, offering a single pat to the sofa, as she promptly got to her feet, slipping casually into a pair of nearby sandals. "Piper, it's never the end of the world until we say it is. Remember that."
"Well, considering the fate of it is basically lying right in our hands," Paige sided thoughtfully, shrugging.
"Yeah, and this stuff with Leo and his new charge? It's killing me. I know he never did a lot around here before, but this is a time of pure and utter scrambling chaos, when I could actually use his help. But no, you know? They love to keep him from me whatever possible way they can devise to make it look like a perfectly natural accident, or...or misunderstanding."
"Turn up the volume," Phoebe instructed.
"Excuse me?" she quipped, crossing her arms over her chest. "Here I am, literally pouring my heart out to you, and all you can finally muster is-"
"Turn it up," Phoebe repeated, her face contorted with a profound layer of fear, as she reluctantly concentrated on the picture that flashed across the screen. The characteristics bore a recognition throughout every bone in her body, never choosing to hesitate for a moment, her entire being caught up in the overwhelming sense of pain that tore at her, threatening to pull her apart. The photograph was as clear as day, holding itself in place, while a monotonous explanation that she could no longer hear, drifted into the background, replacing the words with a long stretch of unwinding silence that penetrated the space around her. She couldn't move, couldn't open her mouth. She saw those familiar blue eyes gazing back at her, their intensity almost too much to bear. No.
"Oh my God. Is that..." Piper started.
"Cole," Phoebe finally whispered.
"Phoebe, Phoebe, wait-"
But she had allowed herself to take that next step, already making her way halfway out the front door, her coat still hanging about the rack, shifting slightly upon the faint breeze that seeped inside the manor, throwing a chill upon its surface. Piper hugged herself tighter, as she shut it, sighing, as she pulled her longer ensemble from a nearby hook, throwing it protectively over her shoulders, as she shivered suddenly. "She had to pick tonight of nights to go out of here crazy," she muttered quietly.
"Hmm. Killer on the loose, Cole's been beat up by some unknown boogyman, the winds are kicking up, lightning's probably going to strike.... Yep. Just call it another insane weekend for the three most powerful witches in San Francisco," she mulled over, as she sprang up from her seat, making a mad dash for the stairwell. "Start the car, I'll be right there."
___________
"Well, how amusing. Unless you know somebody who's a celebrity, or you happen to be a celebrity yourself, your news coverage automatically gets pushed to the backburner. Have to love these guys." She turned to her co-worker then, as she glanced up at him rather curiously. "How is he?"
"He's....making progress. At least, that's what the nurses say. I haven't spoken to the doctor in charge yet. He's broken a few ribs, but he's resting comfortably now. With luck-"
"Which we need a hell of a lot of at this point," Rachel countered, frowning, her expression hardening rather quickly.
"Robertson's picture is posted all over the city. He's practically become Mr. America's Most Wanted overnight with all the publicity. So his capability as a threat just went up a notch from possibly armed to extremely dangerous."
"Yes, but John had nothing on him to provoke a brawl-"
"Isn't a weapon enough? He was most likely found out," Bailey countered, shrugging.
"He hadn't reached the school and he was alone. There would be no-"
"Maybe Duane saw just how close he was. We can't rule out the possibility. Not at this stage."
"We've been over this already," she noted. "I'm not going to take it as fact, Bailey. I can't. Not until we know more. If he can recall any of it, even a few mindless details, it'll be all we need."
"I'm afraid it's not that simple."
"What's not that simple? He witnessed it firsthand. He was the punching bag- the unsuspecting victim."
"The detective that found his gun said it resembled the work of a pro. Chances are, that pro-"
"Wait. What was wrong with his gun?"
"You haven't-"
She immediately shook her head.
"It was bent in half," he explained quietly. "Naturally, whoever did this, had him beat in terms of physical strength, hands down. He shouldn't have even tried to fight back. It was a useless cause right from the very beginning."
"Which now clearly rules out Robertson, hands down."
"Rachel, I don't-"
"Think about it," she went on. "Duane never had that in him. He was five seven, Bailey. Five seven, with a fairly small build. It's not possible."
"And why are you suddenly working so hard to prove this son of a bitch innocent? People have suffered along the way. And not the kind of suffering you can just bring yourself out of."
"I know that."
"And putting that into play, I also know that we still have some doubts yet. This puts the investigation in jeopardy, and it's something I've been well aware of from day one."
"I don't understand," she reasoned, her expression honestly perplexed, as she studied him with a faint hesitance, her arms falling helplessly to her sides.
"While Robertson isn't out of the doghouse yet, maybe this is just what we need to pursue our alternative."
"The other guy," she added.
He nodded. "They're checking the weapon for prints as we speak, and I'm almost positive we'll have an ID on it soon. Maybe even enough to put Duane away or find out where his little friends have been hiding out lately."
"And there's John," she reminded him. "He has to-"
"It could take time," he surmised carefully. "You can't assume in this case that he'll be of much help to us in that hospital bed. He's in a lot of pain. The last thing on his mind is remembering the events that led to his injuries."
"And you know him better than I do," she concluded softly.
"He's in shock, Rachel. If he's going to say anything, it'll be thanking everything he's still alive."
"Either way, he's still the key, whether he likes it or not. He's the only one standing between a man's freedom, and a sentencing of life in prison. I'd say that's a pretty big deal, all risks taken into consideration."
"And I'm not disputing his importance to this case."
"So who's the girl?"
"Girl?" Bailey questioned.
"The girl in his room," she indicated with a slender finger. "I thought visiting hours were over."
Bailey followed her direction, his brown eyes landing upon the young woman who resided near the foot of the bed, her step lingering, as he caught a short series of tears begin to slide down her pretty face- a shaky hand finding its way to her mouth. She looked to be in her mid to late twenties, her complexion revealing no signs of visible age, her long brown hair pulled back with a single clip, a few strands laying limp upon their escape, framing her soft features in a rather delicate manner. She was clothed in a pair of plaid pajamas that proved to be just a tad too big for her, a worn pair of damp sandals seated atop her feet. "I don't know," he stated honestly. "He shouldn't even be ready for anyone in that condition."
"She seems desperate," Rachel noted.
"A new girlfriend?" he suggested. "Though I find it hard to believe he's mentioned anyone significant since Kate."
"One night stand?" she put forth, immediately regretting it.
"Rachel."
"Sorry, that was out of line."
"Regardless of who she is, I just don't think he's ready yet," Bailey emphasized.
"Either way, he's got a fan," she murmured. "But...point taken. I'll go talk to her."
"Talk?"
"Also known as getting her out of there as soon as possible?"
"Mmm. I'm going to give George a call. If we get that ID, I'm going to need a little background check."
"So how long are we planning on roughing it for the long haul?"
"At this rate, you may want to send for a few sleeping bags," he concluded, smiling. "It's gonna be awhile."
"Great," she uttered quietly, sighing. "Just....great."