Fractured Mirth
part 7
"Don't suppose you'll finally be springing me from the joint?" John Grant asked his friend with a hopeful gaze, as he threw a shirt gently over his frame, fighting with the buttons, as he struggled to step into his shoes, his feet literally killing him. He carefully cracked his neck ever so slightly, draping the hospital gown randomly across the forgotten bed.
"Actually," Bailey Malone sided, "that's exactly what I'm doing. But not for the reasons you're probably thinking."
"Kind of suspected as much," he considered.
"How's that?"
"You didn't bring me back any food. But hey, I digress. I can walk, so I'll just go on over there and get it mysel-"
"John, this is serious. We may have the connection we're looking for, and it could just be a pretty big one."
"What connection?"
"I'll explain on the way," he offered, as the nurse handed him a form, easily etching his signature upon it, as he returned the woman's pen, giving her one last smile, as he placed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. "Rachel's currently MIA with Cole Turner right now, and if we don't-"
"Wait a minute." John put out a hand, trying to steady his balance, as he slowly helped himself to the doorway, wobbling for a few minutes, trying to reach for the wall to hold and secure his grasp. "Who's Cole, and what's Rachel doing with him? What have you been keeping from me, and why did I have to be here so long?"
Bailey smiled. "One question at a time."
"In that case, I'll start with Rachel."
"Rachel's working with a possible informant," he explained. "The address George led me to had some rather interesting consequences, and it appears we may be a step above Robertson on this case."
"Is Cole Turner a cop?"
Bailey shook his head. "Former lawyer. But according to Cole's girlfriend, Phoebe Halliwell, they've got some inside information, and they know the ropes of San Francisco."
"Hate to break it to you, Bailey, but I think we're still looking for two unknown assailants- probably somewhere around my age bracket."
"And what makes you so sure of that? We already established that Duane never really told us what he was up to, so it's only safe to assume he's been a little too busy lately."
"So what makes this Cole so valuable? What's he got on us?"
"Truthfully?" Bailey prodded.
"Yeah."
"He's a spitting image of you," he tossed over his shoulder, as he held the door open behind him, watching as John nearly missed it slamming shut in his face, his handsome visage never failing to reveal a mask of pure shock. Letting it close behind him after a moment's hesitation, he raced to catch up with his friend.
"What?" John tugged his coat over his well built frame, finally raising a slightly perplexed eyebrow, as he forced Bailey to halt in his tracks, placing a firm hand around his arm to keep him in place. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm not entirely open to putting a civilian in the line of fire, but this guy might be different."
"Yeah, and you're being a little too brief for my taste."
"I would advise you to get as much rest as you can, if you really want to be at your best to crack this thing."
"I feel fine."
"I've already made sure our stay's extended in San Francisco."
"Because?"
"John."
"Bailey, there's nothing here. Those guys were like driveby's. I don't think they're gonna be cruising by again anytime soon."
"Yeah, well, we've got some of our guys staked out just in case," he told him, his face expressionless, as he threw his hat back atop his head.
"And I think I might as well have just fallen asleep Rip Van Winkle style, because I still have no idea what the hell is going on."
"We'll explain everything as we go," another voice volunteered, as a young woman stepped into view. Her brown hair had since been drawn back into a mass of two braids surrounding a loose bun, and she offered him a friendly smile, as she beamed at him with considerable familiarity. Her eyes were wide with curiousity, as she looked him up and down, her gaze never ceasing to stray, as she stuck her hands into the back pockets of the pair of jeans she'd only recently thrown on her petite figure. "Phoebe Halliwell."
"John Grant."
"I know who you are," she said softly, her grin widening. "Well...actually, I almost didn't. I mean, I went here tonight thinking you were-"
"Let me guess- Cole Turner?"
She nodded, laughing nervously, as she rocked back upon her heel. "That would be a pretty good guess."
"Thanks to Phoebe and her sisters, we might have a possible location," Bailey offered, as he pulled out the keys to his rental.
"Wait. Wait a minute." John held a hand up, trying to steady himself as he blinked. "There are more of them? When was this part of the plan?"
"The address George provided over the phone turned out to be-"
"Okay, can I call George and tell him to forget he even said that?"
"Violates protocol," Bailey muttered, a slow smile revealing itself.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Phoebe asked him, her eyes shedding a bit of concern for him, as she took a step closer.
"Confused," he murmured. "But other than that, I'm ready for whatever we're doing next."
"Rachel and Cole should be on their way over, along with Piper and Paige. We're going to meet at the specified location, and-" Bailey started.
"And they also almost apprehended two guys who fled too," Phoebe finished, filling him in. "Can't leave that part out."
"Guys..."
"We don't think they match the description yet. Cole recovered a pair of keys from the-"
"And how do we know the location that's been pinpointed is accurate?" he threw out. "It could be leading us right into a trap, and I don't want Rachel to risk that, unless we know exactly what we're dealing with here."
"I'm afraid we're putting more lives on the line than just yours and Rachel's," Bailey confirmed. "We're using Cole as a cover to see if we can infiltrate their little hideaway."
"And I'm capable of it, Bailey. You've got no reason to doubt me. Put me on it."
"Your bruises might be a start," Phoebe said softly.
"Are you sure this is legal?"
"The bruises?"
He looked past her to Bailey, a frown creasing his countenance rather abruptly, as he slung his hands against his hips. "They're a liability. You know this."
"And you want to find out who did this to you, don't you?"
"Bailey-"
"You want to get to the bottom of Robertson's disappearing act, before he decides to knock one of us off?"
"Point taken," he mused, pausing a moment. "It's just that I honestly didn't expect this kind of reaction from you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing- if you're all set to go on it." He shrugged, getting into the passenger side, while Phoebe let herself into the back, seating herself directly behind him.
"He's only been out of the hospital for five minutes, and already he wants to take charge."
"And if we end up with a few innocent victims, it's going to be on your head."
"They really should've given him more jello."
Phoebe just offered a mere glance at the two men, while she eased herself back, her eyes casually darting from one to the other. "And if you guys are always like this, I'd say we have bigger problems."
"Did Rachel fill you in on the connection yet?" John prompted, his eyes trained on the rearview mirror, as he again latched his blues onto her. Reaching into the glove box, he calmly pulled out a map of California, grabbing a pen that had conveniently fallen underneath the seat. He carefully opened it in front of him, creasing over the top half so that it overlapped the remainder. "And I see Rachel took it upon herself to tear apart our stakeout points too," he observed, wincing. "Bailey, she drew all over this part."
Bailey merely rolled his eyes, as he turned the key in the ignition, edging his way out of the parking lot, as he flipped the headlights on.
"What connection?" Phoebe prodded.
"Some of the victims had a marking on them that seemed to symbolize a kind of peace, but their deaths had been initiated on the contrary. The symbol had been carved into their backs, and yet it was obvious they all suffered a terrible fate to get there."
"There?"
"To where we found them?"
"Did you recognize this symbol?" she pressed. "I mean, has it been used before, by other suspects?"
"That's just it. We couldn't pin it on anyone. Nothing came up on victims who could have been saved-"
"Which Rachel thinks is his primary intention," Bailey interrupted. "Which in turn leaves all the more cause for Robertson to step up to bat."
"But why would you kill someone, just to save them?" She shook her head. "I'm not following."
"There were marks that also indicated the use of a syringe-" John stopped himself a moment, closing his eyes. "Hey. How is it that I'm telling you everything this easily when you're not even a cop?"
"You trust me?"
He sighed. "It's not that simple."
"Then make it simple. Because whether you like it or not, I'm here to help. In case you're unaware, to help someone means-"
"Look, I know what it means, alright?"
"So the killer injected them with something," she mused carefully. "Something that would let him take easier advantage of them in their weakened state."
John mindlessly shrugged. "That's one way of putting it. But it still doesn't explain where the symbol comes in. He wanted to harm them, and he wanted to save them at the same time? It's like something out of a messed up horror film. Guy wants to preserve victims in their lifeless state- wishes them peace until the end. Almost as if they expect a higher power to step in."
"Maybe they did," Phoebe reasoned, her eyes focusing their attention on the material covering his seat, her lips pursed, as she lightly squinted her eyes.
"I'm sorry?"
"Maybe it was a form of ritual the autopsy reports were unaware of at the time."
"Let me get this straight." He turned around to face her, his gorgeous clean shaven expression weaving itself into her, as she nearly melted. She blinked a few times, trying to keep her composure steady. It was Cole all over again. Same trace of adamant behavior in his beautiful blue eyes, his voice carrying the same pronounced ring to it...same face, same lips...and those eyes- she abruptly let her gaze wander down to the floor rather suddenly, as she realized she was most likely gawking. The very fact of the matter scared her to death. "Not only do you think the victims were meant to be saviors, but you also think magic stepped in to free them?"
"You find that hard to believe."
"Naturally," he assumed, folding his hands neatly in front of him, as he gently tossed the map aside, laughing softly to himself. "What you're implying, Miss Halliwell, would mean this guy was into some form of...well, I don't really know what they call it now, but the point is-"
"Wicca," Bailey intervened. "And she's just the person to be talking to, John." He shot his friend a wink. "Trust me."
"Oh, and I suppose she's already been turned into a witch too?"
Phoebe threw him a blatant scowl. "As a matter of fact, Agent Grant, you're not too far off."
"I beg your pardon?" His visage trailed behind with the slightest hint of amusement, as he tossed a small half smile towards her.
"You're going to be doing a lot more than begging if I'm on the right track," she surmised, letting herself fall back against the cushioned rest behind her, tossing her arms clean across her chest.
"And if you think I'm anything like this boyfriend of yours, I suggest you think twice before you bring up witchcraft again." He paused. "So people practice. Big deal. It's not like anyone really gets what's coming to them without some help from a gun or a crowbar."
"You want to find out?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that threat?"
"This guy could have thought these people had some kind of defect he was thought to-"
"They did," John spoke up, cleverly cutting her off. "Each of them were thought to be the victims of abuse in some way or another."
"Abuse?"
He nodded. "Robertson found his way through life, at the expense of watching his father repeatedly striking his mother." John briefly shut his eyes then, as if the ground they'd reached had automatically disqualified him from decoding its content with a level head. He sighed, opened them, and let his gaze wander out the window with a faint absentmindedness.
"So he certainly fits the profile, one way or the other."
"Oh, there's always an other," Bailey remarked thoughtfully. "We just haven't gotten there yet."
"Do you think their behavior was similar to witchcraft, if only because the people around them couldn't tell what it was they were looking for?"
John smiled. "She's really something, isn't she?"
"Giles Cory died a torturous death in 1692, because he wouldn't supply any information in regards to suspcion of witchcraft in Salem. He thought he could save his family by being so stubborn about it, but it only led to more of a struggle. Had your guy been searching for others who match this...picture he's got in his head...maybe he also kills because the victims won't tell him anything- if he still continues to believe the insane notion that they need to be washed clean or purified."
"Interesting," Bailey confirmed, turning to John.
He looked back at his fellow agent, rolling his eyes, as he calmly threw up his hands in a defeated attempt. "Speaking from a guy who's in pain right now, I'll agree that the cleansing ritual is a possibility, but I'm not going to be the one out there ranting and raving to the media about Robertson's claim for demonic possession. It's nuts, Bailey. You know that."
"It might add flavor to your case," Phoebe pointed out. "And correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Grant- but it looks like you've all hit a really big dead end lately."
"And what do you think your testimony would do if the public got a hold of it? Make everything okay again?"
"You don't want to risk it, because you think it'll make you look stupid," she added, smirking.
"Rachel thought it was a direct mirroring of the Christian Bible," he told her quietly.
"The Bible?" Phoebe repeated, confused.
"The symbol represented the Trinity," he explained. "Life, death, rebirth. I mean, if this guy's as good as he thinks he is, maybe he's not that shy of taking on immortality himself."
"Then it would have to be demonically related," she concluded.
"Unless their heads spin around and they snap themselves back to rejuvenation, I hardly think your theory qualifies."
"And a demonic upbringing doesn't always allude to possession. If you did some research on it, you'd know that."
"Bailey, stop the car," he instructed.
"John, we're almost there. Just sit back and relax. You'll be able to-"
"I'm serious, Bailey, stop the car."
"You can argue when we get there," he assured him, offering him a slight pat to his shoulder, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the road.
"Do you smell that?" he persisted. "Bailey...."
"Son of a bitch," Bailey whispered.
"What's going on?" Phoebe stammered. "What is it?"
"When I count to three, I want you to jump," John told her, his voice steady and controlled, as he locked his gaze straight ahead, his blues growing tense.
"What? Wh- you want me to jump out of a moving car? Sorry pal, but they only manage that in the movies. You're crazy."
"We're going to die, if we don't get out of here in less than four seconds. You either listen to me, or we'll be pulling you out of this as a pile of ash."
"On three," Bailey mumured, his hands abandoning the wheel.
"Two, three," John uttered, as he threw himself out onto the pavement of the road before them in less than the alloted time slot, growing from the effort, as his ribs hit stone, his eyes wincing deeply with the maneuver, as he cried out.
Phoebe shut her eyes tightly, as she watched Bailey let himself out after John, her body now flying into the air, as she landed in a crumpled mound of grass occupied with a small heap of scattered gravel, the tiny specks digging roughly into the palms of her hands as she attempted to regain her footing. The car went a few extra feet, before it exploded into a billion shards, tall orange flames leaping up to cloud the vacant air, as it dove itself headfirst into a tight mound of solid rock, the smell of smoke filling her nostrils rather vividly. She heard John cough, as he watched with a profound intensity at the fire spilling out into the wilderness before them, the trees feeding the height, as it began to rise even higher, masked only by the clouds that had slowly been forming in the sky above them. She finally picked herself up, racing to the aid of the already injured agent, her heart thudding wildly in her chest, as she knelt down by his side, placing a hesitant hand upon his back. "Are you okay?"
He nodded, looking over at the spot where Bailey had since fallen from the wreck. "I'm good." He then surprised her by taking hold of her hand, latching his fingers through it, as he looked up at her. "Are you?"
"Few bruises here and there, but I'm good," she whispered, slowly nodding.
"That makes two of us," he managed, and offered a tired laugh. "Bailey?"
"They were expecting us," the other agent murmured, already up on his feet, as he began brushing the dirt stains off his long coat, casually shrugging himsef out of it, tossing it gently aside. His hands reached the sleeves of his shirt, unbottoning the cuffs and rolling them up to meet is elbows. "We need more backup."
The car sounded with a fairly loud explosion yet again, bigger than the first, as the trunk was tossed aside, its remaining parts lying in a heap to the vehicle's right, spreading the flames further onto the ground. "How far away were we from the-"
"About ten minutes," Bailey surmised, pulling out his cell phone.
"Don't," Phoebe advised him. "Chances are they've been tracking and listening to us the entire time. Calling Rachel is only going to alert them to her and Cole's whereabouts, not to mention my sisters."
"She's right," John added. "Cell phones are off limits now. We've got to make it there on foot."
"In your condition?" Bailey countered. "John, if anything, we should probably think about getting you back to the hospital."
"Bailey, nobody messes with me, and succeeds in detroying our only means of transportation without a good sized fight on their hands. I'm fed up, pissed off, and I'm not about to take this lightly. They want us to go after them, and we're going to."
"We're not prepared enough, John."
"Then we'll make ourselves prepared."
"Do they know about me?" Phoebe spoke up. "I mean, have you-"
"They don't have to know," John told her. "They just need to know we've got someone who knows how their mind works."
"Yeah, and that's Rachel," she countered.
He shook his head. "Not necessarily. They could have seen you coming to see me-"
"But how would they know what I was there for?"
He sighed, as she placed both hands around his arm, easing him up with careful precision, as he offered a slight groan. He placed a dirty hand upon her shoulder, limping a bit, as his other hand latched onto his back. "Because a triquetra dates back to use in the Wiccan timeline too," he said matter of factly, sounding out his words, as the pain deepened.
She blinked, her eyes growing wide. "It's a triquetra?" she hissed. "You can't be serious. Why didn't you say any-"
"I am. Whoever did this isn't just looking to catch us in a bind. They want us to stay there," he sided, frowning.