Fractured Mirth
part 15
"You have something for me?"
Rachel Burke held the large coffeepot steady, as she calmly poured herself a cup, taking a fairly light sip, the temperature disagreeing with her when it lightly stung her tongue, catching it offguard. Staring at him rather blankly, she gently shook her head. "Um...wasn't me."
"Are you sure? Because I was just pulled out of that interrogation, and slippery as that bastard was, I was actually starting to get some answers out of him outside of worshipping your nonexistent fan club."
She nearly smiled, carefully nodding. "Yeah, I know- while he was draining you of your past and your history with your mother, I kind of got the notion that he'd become a little too compulsively obsessed for his own good."
"I was told you had something concrete, something-"
She slowly held up a hand, as she gently set the cup down on the small makeshift table perched against the blank wall. "John, I only those conclusions based on what I heard, and trust me when I say it wasn't much. If you're playing your odds here, I'd say we've either got a man with disturbed intentions of creating his own fallen paradise, or two killers who possess those same drawn out intentions, alike. Believe me, I've got nothing substanial from that idiot. In all honesty, he's hopeless."
"You don't have anything more for me to go on?" he responded, his expression clearly torn between confusion and tiresome fatigue.
"No," she shook her head. "I guess I left when you were nearly done-"
"Interrupted," he finished.
She raised an eyebrow. "Interr- by who?"
"Inspector Morris. He just came by my room, and he said you had something to share. I figure it might give me some new directions to take this in, so I left. Probably wasn't even five minutes ago."
"Inspector Morris? Are you sure?"
"Uh...yeah. Tall guy? Police? Knows those sisters pretty well?"
"I know who you mean, and that's impossible, John."
"What? Why?"
She immediately threw herself out of the room, her heart already beginning to thud widly against her chest, as she raced down the hall, abruptly removing her weapon from its secure hold. "Because Inspector Morris is currently out in the field looking at another potential victim."
He tried his best to keep up with her, his eyes trained on her worried face, struggling to reach out a hand to her shoulder, as he found himself even more lost. "Wait, what the hell are you talking about? I saw him, Rachel. Damn it, he was right there and it looked just like him. It was him."
She didn't stop until she'd reached the closed door, her eyes quickly leaving him, as her shoe nonchalantly brushed itself clear into the red liquid that streamed out from beneath the crack, encasing it in its slippery hue, as she nearly lost her balance, her gun cascading to the floor, his reflexes prompting him to reach out a quick hand to steady her. Heaving a breath, she shot him a fearful glance, slowly reaching down to retrieve it, as she tried to keep her balance.
His hand reached out hesitantly for the knob, finding it locked, just as rapidly drawing his own weapon, as he positioned it directly alongside hers, going in just a bit lower with his aim, as they prepared for the count of three.
"Oh hell," he whispered, as she gave it her full weight, kicking the door open with her newly coated shoe, moving in ahead of him, as he reluctantly followed, a part of him already knowing what they'd find.
Duane Robertson still sat in the same chair, his head now tilted uncomfortably back, his lifeless gaze directed toward the ceiling. His sunken eye sockets remained entirely bare, having been cleanly removed with what appeared to be careful precision on the part of another. His mouth hung open in a gaping toothless hole of nothingness, as his hands lay upon the table, palms facing upward, twin triquetras carved explicitly in their centers. A deep cut traced his jawline, and the skin was eerily removed, pulled back to reveal the disturbing mass underneath.
Rachel let out the breath she'd been holding, securing the gun, her hand reaching for a pulse, as she glanced briefly at John, her lips slightly pursed. "He's a goner."
"Yeah, I figured as much."
"Dammit!" she hissed. 'Everytime we get close!"
"Looks like whoever did it, did a pretty nice job, too. Robbie's not going to be spilling his guts anytime soon."
"Worse," she offered. "He's already spilled them...literally."
"Good point."
"Yeah, well, we better get somebody in here to clean up the mess. The room's covered in....I don't...."
"What?" he asked, following her gaze. "What is it?"
"The unworthy seek violence," she read, easily scrawled randomly in the same blood, "and truth of any kind. But what they shall find, will undoubtably be mine."
"Gee, somehow it tops all those notes mom used to leave before dinner," he mumbled, rolling his eyes.
"You're telling me."
"Guess he confessed just a little too-"
"John, he's trying to tell us something. Whoever is, look- denying what you know is out there, is the only thing keeping you from seeing what has to be seen- what needs to be seen...for that matter. And if Robertson told you anything that might trigger something here, you need to say something now."
"He wants an Eden," he replied simply, as he began to exit the room, his nose taking in all it could with the heavy stench that continued to linger, his handsome complexion crumbling. "And if I'm to believe I never saw Morris, then who the hell did I see standing there? I mean, c'mon. You can't tell me shapeshifting really exists. And even if it did, why the hell would he take on a-"
"Form we're so familiar with?" she concluded. "Trust. He wants it, we've got it."
"Trust....great...yeah, that explains everything, thanks."
"I'm serious, John."
"So am I!" he uttered, only half realizing his voice had rose an octave.
"Then you might want to start paying attention."
"If he can take any form, if he can so much as take on the actual characteristics in personality, who's to say we'll even know if any of us..."
"It's a risk we're going to have to be willing to take."
"Yeah, and you might want to check to see if they offer shock therapy at the VCTF," a voice quipped behind them, the sight never phasing him, as he quietly took another step, a hand lightly running across his scruffy chin.
Rachel turned around, nearly colliding head on with Cole Turner, a frown falling over her pretty face. "This isn't the place for demons," she snapped, her voice nearly faltering.
"Yeah, so I've heard. But contrary to what you may or may not be thinking, I'd honestly beg to differ in this case."
"And if you were really doing all you could do to help us, he might still be alive right now."
"Actually....he wouldn't. And if you don't mind me saying, I think he wanted it to go just this way."
"Did you see anyone?" she cut in, ignoring him.
"Anyone, meaning anyone in...demonic form?"
"Look, you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I think I do, and no, I haven't. But I'll tell you something else. Phoebe's been down there getting premonitions like you wouldn't believe, and none of them seem to add up to a damn thing. After you report this, I suggest you come back and see what George's got. Might just interest you."
"How can you be so- forget it...." John sided, clearly giving up, as his profile failed to waive a mask of puzzlement, nervously running a hand through his dark hair, his other hand still holding his weapon.
Cole smiled. "Practice. I mean, c'mon. Agent Burke had to see this one coming. If she didn't, then maybe she's not as quick as I thought she was."
"Excuse me?" she inquired, a soft mass of anger threatening to overtake her.
"No matter what you do now, he's still going to be dead. Mulling over it for hours won't change that. He knows his targets well, and he doesn't need Duane anymore to reach them. He's become strong enough to acquire them by his own means."
"So what are we going to do? Hmm? I mean, we've got two people unaccounted for, and for all we know they could be-"
"Piper and Paige are different. He doesn't want them for the reasons you think. They're...important to him, if anything."
"For what?" John quipped. "Goddamn trophies?"
"I see you've apparently still thrown yourself in left field," he added, clearly amused.
"Yeah, and if you think you've got the power to stop him, do it," Rachel challenged him, her anger slowly boiling to a slim dose of rage. "You use your magic, and you stop him. If you think you've got the nerve to confront him face to face, by all mwans, this case is yours, Cole. If you so much as believe-"
"What I believe, no longer matters in the way I'd like it to."
"He became Morris," John sided, his voice low. "He turned himself into an authority figure to promote his own authority. Given the investigation we've been swamped with already, I really don't think his next move is going to be an exact repetition. If anything, he favors the diversity and he enjoys scheming to the best of his advantage."
"Bingo," Rachel murmured. "Guess you're not so bad afterall, because that's going to be exactly what we'll use to bring him down. He may think he's fond of the system, but we're going to have to beat him at it." She considered a moment, as her gaze drifted to the bad print once again, a flash of images finding their way into the deepest of her thoughts, weaving their way in. She saw a shape of red, surrounded by laughing, smiling faces, their happiness deceiving them, as each let out a piercing scream for help, bringing the group closer together, as fear fought to bring itself between them. A bright blue light interceded, and greeted her with a portrait of finely decorated scenery.
"Yes, and Duane was only half responsible- a quarter, if you count back a few decades," Cole murmured.
"Does he know your other form?" she asked him then, flashing back to reality.
"My other form....I-" He stumbled a moment. "I'm not sure."
"Would you bet your life on it?"
"Okay, hold on a minute-"
"You and John are going under together. End of story."
"Wait, I'm what?"
"You'll switch places if the situation calls for it, and you'll take this guy down together. With backup," she then added.
"Wait, does this mean I have to shave?"
"The horror of it all," John threw in. "You'll have to look exactly like me now."
"You're growing facial hair," he recited simply, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Okay, look. Spare me the childish immaturity for once, alright? I have to have you guys on this."
"Yeah, and seeing as you don't even know when he'll strike again, much less the where of it, how do you even know this'll work? Not to mention the fact that the stength he already has, could just crush you like a bug."
"I've got one dead body in there that could have fed us double the info he did. Because he failed to be under the proper surveillance, I'll likely be held responisble for those actions."
"And you can't keep on blaming yourself for the way things turn out," John told her. "You don't have the right."
"I make it my right to own up to that responsibility, don't I?"
"Rachel."
"Duane was under our supervision. If he really did deliberately turn himself in, there had to be a reason for it."
"And it's just like I said before. He wants what couldn't be achieved in biblical times, so he's taking it to his own personal level."
"And he knows we're on his turf," she murmured.
"You take those that can't seem to become worthy," John surmised, indicating the blood on the walls again. "You take them, and you use them to better yourself, because in all honesty, they don't really matter anyway."
"Exactly." She pulled out her cell, quickly shoving it into his grasp. "Bailey's probably still in with Albert yet- but I want you to contact the police department and get me some men down here. We've still got one who's very much alive right now, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm going down a floor, see what they're up to. I'm praying he's at least gotten somewhere with him by this time. We need all we can get. What's the verdict on Grace's findings, Cole?"
He nearly smirked. "Suddenly all business and official air?"
John added one of his own. "She's kind of like a temporary Bailey replacement when she's up to it, isn't she?"
Rachel decidedly shot them a cruel glare. "Yeah, well, it's my job. This isn't just some small case that can be brushed aside anymore. We need assistance, and...Cole, the findings?"
"Oh. Right. That's actually what I came to tell you about. Because God knows I'd never willingly seek you out on my own, if I could help it- unlike some people I know." He paused a moment, lightly clearing his throat. A hand immediately came up to run itself through his hair as he tossed his options back and forth, desperately trying to relax the bones in his face.
"So...."
He took a deep breath, considered it some more. "It's the devil's numerical signature," he added rather abruptly, calmly squinting, as he braced himself for impact.
"Come again?"
"Yeah, because it isn't possible," John added. "Someone is obviously messing around with the real deal- and you....you've seriously got to be kidding me. You expect us to really think he's trying to destroy the world and we've become tiny little pawns in his games? Because that's damn farfetched. It borders on insanity."
"Looked pretty real to me," he confirmed with a nod of his head, as he took another look into the room at Duane, a slight wince falling over his gorgeous countenance. "We've either got a pretty damn good copycat, or this is the works of the man himself, ladies and gentleman. Take your pick. Personally, I'd go with door number two, because it provides us a historic outlet, no questions asked. He's got background, and we've got books."
Rachel just sent him a look of pure horror that nearly gave her away, her eyes never faltering as her entire body tensed.
___________
"Okay. Alright," George Fraley quietly mumbled, striking a few mindless keystrokes onto the comfort of his laptop, as he lazily scratched his chin, slowly reaching for the coffee mug Phoebe Halliwell graciously offered him, smiling as she took a seat beside him. "What we've got here, is something that's referred to as daguerreotyping. Took me a bit of time to narrow down our search, but I think I might actually have something good here."
Phoebe gently popped an aspirin tablet into her mouth, as she quickly brought her cup of water to her lips. Her slender fingers pressed themselves against the side of her head, as she tightly shut her eyes. "Ugh. Do I even want to know?"
He looked at her, concern washing over his brow. "You sure you're okay? Because I know Grace can probably find a place for you to rest, if-"
She held up a hand, silencing him. "Fine. Please continue."
He hesitated a moment, as he quietly pointed to the screen, his attention once again drawn in and becoming entirely preoccupied. "Daguerreotyping," he repeated. "It was a pretty big invention, according to this. Kind of redefined the times. But it's also passé, which kind of limits it, so to speak. What's more, the real kicker is that it's not nearly as well preserved as it should be, which...also limits us in a sense."
She nearly laughed. "Hate to break it to you, but those pictures look pretty darn well preserved to me."
"Yeah, I'm getting to that," he explained. "Truth of it is, you guys probably landed yourselves right on a gold mine with those shots."
"Really? Where's the gold?"
He smiled. "Anyway, the plates necessary to obtain the process, required they be made of copper with a silver edge. Metal was rolled, and the plates themselves had a flat surface and were nicely polished. Basically, the plates were eventually secured with clips and put onto the table to officially-"
"Something I understand?" she suggested hopefully.
"The inventor was French," he tried. "His name was Louis Jacques Mande Daguerre, and he was born in Paris in 1787."
"I really need to brush up on my trivia more often," she softly commented, as she offered him a firm nod.
"It makes pictures more real," he added. "In other words, something that's drawn up and vague to the human eye, could easily be given realistic qualities under this kind of artistic ability. The guy was probably a genius in his day, and he didn't even know it. Though, I'm still not entirely sure how the triquetra fits in. Unless of course it was somehow branded into the photos upon completion."
She shooked her head. "That's impossible. It wouldn't fit his pattern. It still says we're looking for someone who hasn't yet met his death, and has been alive for over fifty years."
"Yes, and my problem with that would be...." He shot her a look of helplessness, as his sarcasm kicked into high gear, "all of it."
"George, it's not so hard to take into account. If you would have seen-"
"You said Cole is over the one hundred mark, right? That he supposedly fits this age bracket?"
"Yes, and if you ask him his real age, chances are he's going to get cranky, and we'll have a lot more on our hands than a series of photos."
"Point taken. I'm still trying to bypass the fact that Rachel is actually on board with it."
She sighed. "She wants to help me find my sisters. They all do. And right now, I thought our best guess would be to try and get these things analyzed more vividly. Can't hurt, right?"
"And you're the one who sees things as they come to you?"
"Yeah, and everytime I get a premonition, I just hear the screaming, and I can't help or stop it now. How bad is that? I mean, it's like they're reaching out to me, and I can't do anything about it. I've never had them all at once like this. Something's not right," she murmured. "Besides that, they shouldn't be striking out at me in the first place. I wasn't the one who put them there."
"You can't hope to change that now," he agreed, as his eyes continued to roam the screen. "Seems that daguerreotyping is in all actuality just another word for truth."
"Huh?"
"My guess, if I had to make one, was that this guy of yours wants people to see, and he wants them to really see it. That signature Grace found on Paulina's body is just another way for him to-"
"Communicate," she finished quietly.
He nodded. "Yeah. It fits pretty well."
"So then why does Agent Grant have to be so uptight about it?"
He turned to her, as he offered a slight laugh. "John's a good cop. You've just gotta see him work to know that. He's just...had it hard."
"Yeah, so I've heard."
"In any case, I think what's going on in your photos, may have something to do with taking care of youth, and doing the best you can to make it last. See, a photo can last a lifetime, but it's not to say the figure behind it will, or that they won't escape into death without any scars to talk about in the final battle." He indicated the remaining few out of those Bailey and John hadn't taken along with them on interrogative purposes, as he lightly examined a dark-haired girl who had one shoe off and one on, the room around her covered in grisly portraits that surprisingly matched her own state of lifeless health. "Something seems to have been taken from all of these, replaced by the triquetra in hopes that tracks could be covered, while motive is still up in the air. Seems complicated."
"So he feeds on what he gets from the women and children, and he uses it to postpone his own health? What kind of sick-"
"It takes all kinds, believe me."
"No problem there."
"And if you take even a brief glimpse at the ones listed on this site, you'll also notice the expressions never seem to be smiling. They're intricate, intense. I don't think this kind of truth sees rejoicing in it."
"Yeah," she agreed. "You're telling me."
"They're somewhat enhanced, but they all say the same message," he concluded.
"Death, youth, unhappiness, fear...it all connects," she sided. "But how? I mean, it may seem obvious, but it's got to be bigger than this. It has to be."
"You've lost me there."
"Maybe it's because they go somewhere else."
George's eyes narrowed. "Somewhere else?"
"Yeah," she reasoned. "Maybe they still can't find their peace."
"Trapped?"
"Kind of." She nodded. "Lost souls, right? And this probably isn't even the half of them. It means he probably did young women, too."