Fractured Mirth
prologue
24 hours earlier Groaning from the unwavering effort to maintain his breathing, as well as his dignity, he started to slowly edge his bruised body off the ground, fighting against the current that continued in its attempt to hold him to the earth against his will. His shaky fingers touched the rough stone with a brief hesitance, as he felt the wet pieces of loose dirt cloud his fingernails, burying themselves deep within the crevices.
His gun. Located to his far right, the weapon lay undisturbed, its shape distorted, literally bent in half from the force exerted upon it. He stared with wide eyes, his crumbled visage in complete awe at the damage that had taken it without any trouble at all. There had been two of them, as he somewhat strangely recalled their presence. They were fairly large in build, and clothed in black attire, their swarthy complexions striking fear into the heart of the grotesque itself, entering into the laughing face of madness. He could only ponder why they never killed him.
The hospital was less than a block away. And how very convenient of them to play it just that way, he muttered to himself. But if he could make it on foot, he could alert the VCTF to his findings. Clearly, he had to have been pretty close tonight to end up in the condition he had, and maybe it would even be worth all of the countless pain, should they experience a breakthrough in the case. He vaguely recalled leaving Rachel at the local Mom and Pops, not quite knowing why he'd decided to pursue a lead all the way across town to begin with, his memory faltering once again, leaving his mind in a total state of utter blankness. There had to be a reason. And if he hadn't gotten the wind knocked out of him so damn much, he might be able to realize what that reason was, and if he'd ever had any hope of fully restoring it to his brain again. His feet dragged themselves listlessly through the mud, as his hand caught his ribcage, the hurt straining his countenance, as he began to contemplate that fact that individual ribs might very well be broken, if not already halfway there. "Dammit," he muttered absentmindedly under his breath, his composure threatening to toss him to the ground.
He could see it coming into view now, the tall structure invading his sight, its lights shedding their glow through the night, seeping through the great dampness that remained alive and well among the fog-stained air. Not long now.
His blood-stained hand touched the automatic doors, the vibrant red penetrating from the emergency sign above, its color beckoning him inside. The mechanism finally pulled itself apart of its own accord, and he limped through them with all he had left, his exhausted form collapsing in the entryway. He heaved a tired sigh, as he felt himself drift off to a peacefulness he'd never experienced before, as a warm hand brought itself to his neck, checking for a pulse. "This man's still alive," she called back. "Get me a stretcher. Hurry."
"Agent...." He started, his voice failing him, as he choked slightly. He was too weak. "John Grant," he managed. "Agent John Grant."
The woman smiled painfully. "Stay with me, alright? Stay with me, Agent John Grant."
But he couldn't hear her any longer, his blues battling with the newfound brightness, his eyes straining to make out her features, his body surrendering itself to the deep blackness that overshadowed him. "Help me," he whispered.
present day "New lead?" Bailey Malone surmised quietly. "George said our guy was focusing his attention on the school not far from this location. If that's fairly accurate, I'd say John probably found the evidence to pinpoint Robertson as the killer."
"It's too easy," Rachel Burke concluded, shaking her head. "He still has no motive."
"Robertson's motive comes into play by deliberately throwing us off track. We've been to every address on that map, and every time we get closer, he politely sends us another message in the bottle, saying we're not quite close enough. So when he suddnenly just decides to turn the game around without our prior knowledge, I'd say that's grounds for-"
"So this still begs the question....where is he?"
"John can take-"
"No, I mean Robertson. He's not trying to dodge us, and he's not leaving behind any bread crumbs to follow. I mean, you're right about one thing. Something is definitely up..." She paused a moment. "But whether we like it or not, there's probably another player in our midst. He never did say he worked alone."
"Well, that's his problem," Bailey mused, calmly tilting the hat upon his head, as he gently took it into his grasp. "He never says much of anything, does he?"
"Dammit," she hissed.
"Our first priority would be to locate John's whereabouts," he stated, his face covered in a mask of tight seriousness. "We'll deal with Robertson later."
"But we're expected back in Atlanta by five tomorrow," she noted. "That's not nearly enough time to continue with this investigation. It would be almost impossible to even try."
"And either he was playing copycat to those murders or he has an accomplice."
"What do you mean?"
He sighed. His brown eyes grew dim, as he forced himself to meet her unrelenting stare. Quietly, he reached up to place the hat back atop his head. "He's targeted almost all of us now, hasn't he?"
"Save for George and Grace," she offered, shrugging. "But that doesn't say anything."
"The way I see it, it damn well does. He's been after us for months, trying to separate the part from the whole.... Because this way, if we're not together, he can-"
Take us out one by one," she finished. "But Bailey, that's ridiculous. It's...it's almost like saying we've got another-"
"It's been awhile," he sided, nodding. "Maybe too long. He was infamous for his tactics in regards to the well being of the task force."
"But Robertson goes after children. He doesn't-"
"And young women. Point being, to still think he's innocent and has all of those ideas coming from his own twisted mind, would be the first mistake in assuming what's not obvious."
"And what's that?" she asked curiously.
"He's going to kill whoever gets in the way of allowing him to make his mark."
"You mean like an identity? A false personification of oneself?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"No," she whispered then, as a profound series of images entered her mind with the vaguest effort, the colors running together to create a distorted and rather blurred appearance, as a pair of small hands came into her line of vision. They fidgeted hopelessly, the fingernails digging into the fresh cushions of a nearby sofa, taking on a claw-like viciousness, from what seemed like a sense of fairly startled impatience. A series of yells followed in the background, as the tiny figure reached out to strike a block of thin air with his fist. She flashed back to reality, her eyes calmly searching his. "No," she said again. The periods of violence have to extend beyond a personality already perceived. Robertson made it known that Daddy used to hit Mommy. If you consider the brutality left upon his younger victims, it's-"
"Malone? We found him," a deep voice interrupted, as a young man came up to them, cell phone in hand. "Agent Grant is in critical condition at Belmont Hills Hospital. One of the nurses found the number stuffed in his coat pocket. Said he's been damn near beat unconscious."
Bailey immediately turned to the fellow agent, his visage remaining completely expressionless, as his composure literally froze in a state of pure shock, the color in his face starting to drain itself. "I'm on my way."
"Almost like he's trying to save them...."
"Save?" he returned, as he quickly exited the corner lot, his fingers hurriedly finding his keys, as he kept his gaze trained solely to the ground, the sudden jolt of rage finally spreading throughout his entire body, his thoughts no longer willing to confine it. "And what exactly was he doing to John- saving him too?"
"Well....no....but we don't even know that he's crossed paths with John. At this point, it's speculation."
"Rachel, by the time this thing is over, I'm going to see that son of a bitch hang for what he's done. One of our agents is down at his expense. And if we-"
"But we can't be sure," she protested. "Not yet."
"Maybe not. But as of right now, he's still the prime suspect."
John Grant lay on his back upon the wet pavement, the fresh drops of rain seeping through his tattered clothes, directly carving themselves into the fresh cuts of his faded complexion wuth a prolonged sense of pain, stinging him right to the core. His muscles were profoundly indifferent to his surroundings, aching with each ounce of remaining strength they still possessed, and it was then that he began to wonder if he was truly even the slightest bit conscious at all...that death hadn't already warmed over, and claimed its rightful place inside him, taking his life without so much as a struggle. His blue eyes could see the hazy sky above him, but it bore no resemblance on his current state of being, his legs swollen and failing him entirely at that moment. The allyway was deserted now, a mere victim of its prior appearance, and it hadn't seen the faintest sign of any company for hours. He could feel the darkness closing in, his lids beginning to flutter ever so briefly, his vision threatening to become entirely blurred. His loss of blood was rapidly allowing his system to decline even further, adhering to the fallen puddles of water around him.
"There's been no sign of him, Bailey. I've been everywhere. When we split up, I thought he'd already checked in with you."