>CHARLESTON, WV
>GOLDSTAR MOTEL
>2019.JUL.6
>0600


The Yukon and the sedan Foster drove parked in the nearly empty lot of the Goldstar motel. It was a long narrow one story motel, wrapped around a small swimming pool with a rickety metal fence around it, the gate swinging in the breeze and clanging in the quiet morning. The facade of the motel was painted recently, a piss poor job by the look of it, Laine observed the edge of the trim where multiple past colors of paint peeked in the hard to reach seam. The current cream covered decades of orange, pink, and mustard yellow, a sunrise palette from the last five decades.

When she entered the lobby, she noticed the carpet might have been changed less than the paint, a foot worn path between the front desk and the door on the mottled blue coloring, making it gray with wear. Wood panel walls lined the lobby, hung with watercolor prints of mountain views.

A young woman sat there, applying heavy makeup but the three big zits on her chin were still visible under the layer of foundation. Just like the motel, the ugly couldn't be covered up with a coating. She finally looked up from her compact, one eye done up in heavy pink eye shadow. "Can I help y'all?"

Pari approached the counter as unassumingly as she could. As unassumingly as anyone could with the passengers that had gotten out of the vehicles. Call it instinct, but something told her this woman was not paying all that much attention to them anyway. She placed both palms flat on the counter, tilted her head, and smiled. “I’d like some rooms please. Preferably all next to each other if you have any available.” She was about to leave it there, but that was barely an efficient request, and so Pari followed up without giving the woman a chance to respond. “What [i]do[/i] you have available?” When she was done, she tapped her fingertips across the counter, waiting for the woman opposite to respond. 

The girl, who under the makeup could not have been more than twenty years old, stared at Pari for a moment then set down her compact. Her name tag was pinned crookedly over a heavy bosom, proclaiming "Hi I'm Paisley!" and she glanced past the well groomed woman to the late model Yukon sporting a few bullet holes in the parking lot.  A few strapping men stood around it and back in the lobby a woman in black, and the older man next to her looked grim. She looked puzzled for a moment then put her attention back on Pari, "Y'all on business or somethin'? Alright lemme see. Just a sec."

Her fingers typed surprising fast, the bright pink polish not quite hiding the bitten down condition of her nails. "Huh, well. We got three rooms next to each other with two of them havin' four double beds and one with two queens. Then we got a couple more that's scattered."

She sat up, shifting her thick frame on the small stool. "Cain't have more'n four folks in one of those rooms. Single and doubles is more popular...then again we don't get many groups. Mostly just...you know, men steppin' out on their wives or such."

Paisley the counter girl scratched delicately at her chin, the chewed nail hardly up to the task. She sniffed, "So which uns you want, Miss?"

While Pari sorted out the rooms, Laine stood aside with Foster, "I hope that credit card is warmed up. By the way I have some receipts do I turn those over to you?"

She crossed her arms, her gaze scanning the lobby, pausing at the taxidermied ten point buck's head on the wall, a brass plaque under it proclaiming Harold Clyne, November 1964, Big Buck Trophy Champion. Another framed photo showed the Clyne family in a group before a yellow painted brand new Goldstar Motel, a large big boned hill clan that had migrated to the city to escape the black lungs of the mines.

Laine  glanced at the extraordinarily ordinary looking middle-aged man. "How long do you think we'll be here?"

“However long it takes.” Foster shrugged, “Isn’t my first time staying in shitty roadside motels, won’t be the last.”

He had a tired smirk on him as he turned to Laine, “For the receipts, yes. The Program needs to know how much we spend so we can source it. Pennies skimmed from hundreds of different black budgets for different agencies and organizations.” He winked, before he took on a more business suited face, “How did the interrogation go?”

Laine dug into her purse to pull out the grocery and Dave's suit receipts when he asked about the interrogation. She paused and took in a deep breath. 

"He talked," she said flatly, "In the end it lead us back to the mines. He said the man he was working for was selling meth and whatever else to some 'Russians' that they met in some little shit shacks up in the hills near the mines."

Laine turned to look intently at Foster, dropping her voice a bit lower, but there was no one else in the lobby other than Pari and the desk clerk who was preoccupied with the room discussion.

"Ozone and electrical burning, does that mean anything to you?"

Foster sighed, nodding as he took his chin by thumb and forefinger, “It does.” He said, “And it worries me. We’ll talk when things are more private, get Donnelley here too.”

[hr]

>0720...///

The motel was just how he left it. Even just from a cursory glance Donnelley could see a bullet hole in a door. The same cracked concrete and faded parking lines in the lot from the hospital, the shitty sign, the woman at the front desk he could hear chew her gum even from inside the SUV. “Home sweet home, people.” He smirked. “Let’s go find out our rooms.”

He opened the door and stepped out, taking care to put weight on his leg slowly as he took his first few steps. He looked down at his dress shirt and brushed nugget crumbs from his chest. The early morning shadows may have lent this place an atmosphere but daylight laid its ugliness bare. He used his hand as a visor and then pointed down the street at a gray brick, windowless, multi-story  cube of a building. He called out to Dave, “Hey, self storage over there. Block down. Think you could set something up for yourself in there?”

Dave got out of the back seat and adjusted the pistol on his thigh. His concealed piece, as well as all of his clothing and gear, were still up in the cabin getting corpse-stink on them, but there was no way in hell he was going to go unarmed. Not after the night they'd had. He took in the motel with a wry smirk.

"Nice place," he said, half to himself. At Donnelley's question he shrugged. "I can set in anywhere, theoretically. Long as it's got power. Plenty of meth been cooked in storage units, no reason I can't mix up somethin' meant to explode on purpose."  

Ava slid out of the driver-seat and looked around at the motel with a grimace. She could smell the mildew and feel the bedbugs just standing in the parking lot. She already missed the cabin. She reached in to grab her latte from the cupholder and shut the door, figuring they could get the food they bought the others after they found out where they were.

She looked over to where Dave and Donnelley were talking about a storage space and perked up. “Can I keep my equipment there too?” She asked. “I...don’t really think we can trust the locks on these doors.” She said, looking over at the rows of motel room doors with their faded, cracked and peeling paint. She saw the Yukon in the parking lot, looking as out of place as their shot up SUV. Though maybe they blended in better in a parking lot like this.

“May as well.” Donnelley nodded, “We already got a shitload of equipment up in Blackriver we still gotta recover, don’t really want to have to put an APB out on million dollar equipment in Charleston.”

He snorted, turning back from the urban view to look at the hotel and Ava, “Not that they’d know what the fuck any of it is if they stole it.” He called back to Dave as he opened the backdoor of the Suburban to get at his gear, “We’ll check that facility out after we get settled in, you and me. Rent a storage space for your mad science and Ava’s drones. Sound good, partner?”

"Yeah, works for me." Dave grabbed his own gear left-handed, wincing at the pull in his wounded shoulder. His right was undamaged, but that was his gun hand. He wasn't about to risk being caught flat-footed. "So we bunkin' all of us boys in one room, I figure. If there's bunk beds I call top."  

“I doubt the beds are set up like that. Hopefully they’ve got two beds unless you’re prepared to get close.” He chuckled, lifting his duffel bag of tools and ammo and his other of clothes and armor.

Ava noticed Dave wince and she frowned, setting her drink on the hood before joining his side. “Need me to carry anything?” She offered with a small smile. “I made it out of the shooting better than you did, I can take a couple of things.” She said, injecting a light teasing note to her tone.

"I got it," Dave smiled at Ava. "Bag probably weighs more'n you. You can grab the food."

Ava’s smile slipped slightly, but she nodded. “Alright.” She agreed and turned to go back into the SUV to get the bags of lukewarm McDonalds.

[hr]

>GOLDSTAR MOTEL
>SOUTH CHARLESTON, WV
>2019.JUL.7
>0600...///

“Rise and shine, darlin’s.” Donnelley grumbled, slurping on a Starbucks as he tiredly watched his sleepy entourage filter through the door of his and Foster’s room. He and Foster had decided to treat the team to something that wasn’t instant coffee from a Keurig. They’d also swung by an IHOP and gotten a hell of a lot of pancakes as well. Their own continental breakfast, because the Goldstar sure as hell wasn’t putting one on.

Donnelley had also filled Foster in to what he, Dave, and Laine had found out from Michael the night before. He and Foster agreed that it was a very high probability that there was something more to this case than a lone lunatic skinning girls, and even stretched beyond cartels and Russian mobsters. “I’ll let everyone get settled in, help yourself to coffee and breakfast,” Donnelley pointed towards the boxes of food and coffee cups, “There’s some things we need to get all of us up to speed with, recap a couple things we forgot about, ya-“ Donnelley covered his yawning mouth, “Yadda, yadda.”

Laine had a pair of sunglasses on, the sun was rising and piercing the east side of the motel at eye level, not giving a shit that she was still tired. She had a pair of black jeans on with her Converse sneakers and a white tank top with a graphic print of a hissing black cat. Under her arm was a thick file folder and her notebook, a pen tucked into the short dark hair that was pulled into a clip haphazardly. Helping herself to a styrofoam platter that held a few pancakes and sausages, she dumped blueberry syrup on it and found a seat on the corner of one of the beds. Balancing the plate on her knee, she dug in, leaning over it so as not to drip onto her shirt. 

“The one day I don’t wear a black shirt,” she muttered and licked her lips, glancing up at Donnelley before looking away. Speaking up, Laine said, “I brought a map, I picked it up at a gas station, we need to track the bodies and the possible trails. It’s a hiking map for central West Virginia.” 

With one hand, she reached for the folder beside her, flipping it open and took out a folded paper map. “I’m a visual person, it’ll help.” 

Going back to the pancakes, she tried not to yawn, her sleep had been interrupted by nightmares of shattering glass and a hooded man begging her for help. Despite how exhausted she had been, her brain was still eager to keep her up with those images. 

Laine glanced over at Pari and Ava, remembering before all the chaos that they had visited Detective Roy. “Hey, after the briefing I’d love to hear about what Roy had to say. Anything interesting?” 

Ava came shuffling in with the others, her hair it’s normal puff ball of craziness she hadn’t even attempted to try to tame and her expression one of someone still half asleep. She had dressed herself in a pair of burgundy yoga pants, her brown UGGs and a grey t-shirt with a graphic of bright flowers with the word ‘wildflower’ printed in white cursive over the image. 

Her skin had returned to its healthy shade of ginger paleness, rather than the sheet white it had been the night before. Though she had the hardest time sleeping both due to the pain in her side and paranoia that any minute their motel room would be filled with a firestorm of bullets. She wagered she got enough sleep to function though, once she had some coffee in her.

She made a beeline for the cups of coffee, picked up the largest one available and dumped a good amount of creamer into the black liquid. She nodded at Foster, gave Donnelley a tired smile and then retreated to one of the worn down arm chairs in the corner. She sat down, tucked her legs up to her chest on the chair with her and sipped her coffee; her glasses fogging over with the steam.

Through the steam she saw Laine look at her and heard her speak to her. Ava flashed her a smile, Laine had seemed like she had a worse night sleeping than she did. There were only two beds in the women’s room so she had shared a bed with Laine. She remembered waking up every once in awhile due to the rocking of the bed from the psychologist’s tossing and turning; though Ava would be shocked if anyone got a restful night’s sleep.

“Yeah, we learned the identity of the Jane Doe and Detective Roy is going to compile a list of drug dealers for us. Pari has the case file, I think and I took notes.” She took another drink of her coffee to hide her frown. Learning the identity of the victim and her story wouldn’t help the group’s morale.

Laine paused, her fork dropping back down, "An identification, that's great. That's going to help a lot, plus we just name of an earlier victim."

Her wheels were already turning and she went to dump the last bits of pancake in the trash and went to grab a coffee. She glanced at Donnelley again, meeting his eyes as her sunglasses now were pushed up on her head. "We have an ID for our Jane Doe," Laine said, the first hint of a smile since before the shootout. Then she suddenly stopped, the memories of the last night of the cabin surged up and the guilt she felt looking at him made her uneasy.

"Anyway, yeah," she said, then turned away to grab her seat on the corner of the bed. 

Donnelley smiled in turn with Laine, and just as her smile faltered, so did his. He looked at her with concern as she trailed off, memories behind her eyes. “That’s,” he began lamely, coffee cup halfway to his lips, “That’s good.”

He looked away from her, the last to arrive was Dave, and Donnelley was patient enough to wait for the man. He’d arguably had the worst of the past few days, so being the last in could be forgiven, in Donnelley’s eyes.

Dave entered looking surprisingly chipper. He'd slept like the dead, and while he still felt a certain unease at the demise of their informant he hadn't been plagued with nightmares, and his outdoorsman lifestyle had him rising early out of habit. Good night's sleep aside, he still looked a mess. 

His hair was mussed, and the bruise on his face had moved further down as bruises tended to do. While his forehead was clearer his blackened eyes seemed more pronounced, the ice-blue standing out amidst the purple, the bruise beginning to yellow at the edges.

He wore the dress shirt they'd bought for his suit untucked, the top unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled to the elbows to show forearms torn by twigs and brambles in the desperate gunfight the night before. For mobility he still wore his cargo pants, his pistol riding on one hip. The unusual outfit was brought together by the enormous dip crammed into his lip.

Dave walked in and looked around at his compatriots. He took quick note of their bedraggled state, gave them a broad grin, and waved a hand.

"Mornin' y'all."  

Laine eyed Dave as he sauntered through the door, how he managed to look like the world's hottest beat up hobo and still be perky was beyond her. She lazily raised her coffee to him, "Nice outfit."

Donnelley pushed off from the wall he was leaning against, striding in front of the ancient TV to be center of attention. Foster nodded and he looked away from him to the rest of his team, “I know you’re all waiting with bated breath, so I’ll get right to it.” Donnelley frowned, sipped at his coffee, “We got fucked pretty hard last night.”

His expression did not change, serious as ever. “We have drastically underestimated the scope of this operation. What we at first thought was a manhunt for a lone wolf that’s ritualistically killin’ folk up in the hills has become…” He pursed his lips, “Well,  it’s a goddamn shit-show. The man who attacked us last night had no problem bringing some high-power weapons to the fight, because he makes his livin’ sellin’ ‘em.”

“We’ve learned his name is Jay, possibly a mid-level shot caller in the Aryan Brotherhood- go figure, Bumfuck, West Virginia- and he’s sellin’ to Russians.” Donnelley dipped at his coffee, “Mob or foreign intelligence, one’s bad and one’s a goddamn nightmare. Well, that’s my good news, what y’all got?”

"Well," Dave drawled, looking around the room. "I've got a couple questions."

He fixed his eyes on Foster. A cold anger burned in his blue eyes.

"Last night, I got shot. Twice. Thank Jesus only one hit meat, or I'd be dead right now. Ava got hit, too. She kept her cool, though. Held her shit together, an' helped Pari treat her. Pari ain't got any formal medical trainin', by the way. She just did what had to be done, under fire." He began pointing at people around the room as he named them. "Tom manned that machine gun after I gave it up, and Laine threw lead out and she didn't even have a vest on. Justin an' Jason put down fire from upstairs. Me an' Donnelley, we went out an' went into a full on gunfight in them woods despite both havin' holes in us."

He ended with his finger pointed directly at Foster, his voice growing in volume. "So I guess what I wanna know is, where the [i]fuck[/i] were you?"

He threw his hands up. He was yelling now, his frustrations making themselves known. "I ain't even seen you until now! Did you check on Ava once? You sure as shit didn't come talk to me. What, about when Donnelley an' Laine an' me were interviewin' that shooter? Where the fuck were you then? Way I see it, Donneley is doin' his job [i]and[/i] yours! So where were you, Foster?"  

Donnelley’s brows ticked up, eyes widening in surprise. Despite himself, he felt a quickening in his heartbeat and of his breath, his own body seemingly feeding off of Dave’s aggression. His expression was one of exasperation as he ducked his head with a poorly-hidden smirk when the volume of Dave’s voice grew, not expecting it to evolve into a shouting match. He busied himself with looking away and sipping his coffee, hoping to God that this didn’t come to blows and wondering who to root for if it did.

Foster took his hands out of his pockets and placed them on his hips, looking around the room before his eyes settled on Donnelley, then Dave. He spoke calmly, evenly, and without offense or malice or incredulity, “I [i]was[/i] doing my job. My job is not to throw myself in the path of a bullet, my job is connecting this Working Group with The Program in a network of other Working Groups. Some of them under my supervision.” Foster nodded, “I got it from Donnelley too. I’m not going to argue my case with you either, David. I was absent from your heroic gun battle.”

Foster’s chin turned upwards as he crossed his arms. “I was calling to finalize your transfer to UMBRA, and as soon as the first shots rang out, I was calling someone else.” He shrugged and held his hands to the side, inviting criticism where it would come, “I have a job like all of you, and I do it. We’ll have some help next time Jay comes around.”

He nodded to Dave, walking past him and gently closing the door behind him. “Alright.” Donnelley shrugged. “Anybody else?”

Dave nodded, only somewhat mollified. "Fine. But next time, maybe show some concern for your team. If you're gonna lead people, try bein' visible after shit hits the fan. If you ain't gonna lead with a weapon, at least help put on the bandaids. Christ, even my dad knew how to do that."  

Pari was stood with her eyes closed, a conscious decision after an aggressive finger had been pointed at her by MacCready during his diatribe. A deep breath in had been enough to add thoughts on that to the shelf. A shelf that was starting to feel full - holding books that needed nothing more than their spines to be cracked, contents devoured. So instead she had just listened, the sting at the tip of a tongue bitten. Too little sleep, too little time to decompress, a night of enemy fire created the perfect recipe for a gnawing feeling of her calm being shaken. 

The Agent in the corner just wished for the briefing to be over. She wanted to piece herself back up in peace. More meditation, prayer, asanas. Impatience was a tick only irritated by verbal tirades - but whatever she was thinking, she did not display on an impenetrable exterior. In any case, she wanted to turn the conversation from sitting in the adversarial to where it needed to be.

“Our Jane Doe was Maria Vasquez, seventeen years old” Pari began cooly. She pushed herself off the corner wall with a foot, opening her eyes to walk the length of the room to find herself a coffee, to occupy her hands perhaps. “Missing for five years, presumed trafficked into the sex industry between cartels.” She let her rich brown eyes travel over the faces in the room, before taking a sip from the coffee cup. 

“There are more girls missing. We requested the case files. We spoke to Detective Joe Dawant of the Washington State Police Department. He’s also working with the CMC - a non-profit organisation to assist law enforcement with cases surrounding exploited children. A fellow Seattleite, I was able to bond with him over that,” her gaze hit Donnelley square in his, “I gave him my generic Bureau card at his request. He may contact me directly with any new information.” She let her bullet points sit in the air, ready to answer any more questions, or let the others simply discuss it.

Ava looked down at her coffee as Dave chewed out Foster for his lack of involvement in the shootout and the aftermath. She flinched when he mentioned her, even though he meant well when he did so, it still twisted her gut to hear her name involved in an argument. It was hardly the first time and like those times before, she kept her head down and kept quiet.

Thankfully, Pari spoke up, directing attention away from the team’s inner squabbles and back on the case. Ava lifted her head and glanced around at the rest of the team to see their reactions to the information. Everyone already looked so exhausted and on edge.

Laine raised her brows at Dave, his anger understandable considering his experience. His team wiped out and then his new team facing a gun battle not a day after, his survival instincts running high. He was certainly not from a background of bureaucracy where responsibility could be so compartmentalized. Foster might have been more useless than herself in a gunfight but he was at least doing the job none of them could do. 

Her attention immediately went to Pari when she spoke up, her expression turning grim at her news. But it was a lead, and unexpected one at that. It was no local or even a hiker, but a kidnapped girl passed along an invisible trail of the sex slave trade. How had Maria Vasquez had ended up in the backwoods of West Virginia was the first step in finding who killed her. 

Cartels. Russians. Both ran sex trafficking rings along with drugs and weapons. She took the pen from her hair and began writing notes briskly. She looked up at Pari, "Did he have any other information, where she disappeared from or the names of gangs operating in the region?"

“Sinaloa,” Pari replied quickly, as if it had already been loaded - tone crisp. “Port of Tacoma, Seattle area. A child of immigrant parents. Detective Dawant mentioned a theory of the Sinaloa and possibly the Tamaulipas operating in West Virginia, that she was murdered as a result of Cartel rivalry.” She lifted the cup to her lips and took another long sip. “They’ve already arrested some cartel members, we requested the profiles of any who has been arrested to come through to us. You might find them useful. Ms Moore took notes of the details during the meeting, so they’ll provide useful also.” 

After a slow breath, Pari slipped a hand onto her hip and looked around the room again. “I have the details for Maria’s parents, and Dawant is having her body taken back to Washington when it’s possible where a proper burial will be arranged, for her family.”

"That's good, they'll at least have that closure," Laine said, "Hopefully we can give them the comfort of catching the man that killed her. It's been awhile since I've dealt with gangs and cartels, that was back in LA as a field agent. Between us and Dawant's help we'll find the connections."

She looked towards Donnelley expectantly, then added, "Like how she ended up butchered in the same hills as Russians buying guns and drugs from white trash. How are we going to look into Jay and his operation?"

"Well how 'bout checkin' prison records?" Dave looked around at the others. "Big Joe, he has dealin's with the Brotherhood. Hell, some of his [i]soldiers[/i] have dual membership. The AB's a prison gang, they don't recruit on the streets. So check convict lists."

His brow furrowed as he put things together. "If Jay is validated AB, he'd have served a real sentence. Prison, not just county. Look for guys around the right age, validated AB. Probably has drug or weapon priors, 'cuz you don't [i]run[/i] a meth and gun operation as an amateur." He nodded to himself and then shrugged. "Hell, criminals ain't creative. He mighta even used Jay as a nickname before." 

Laine perked up, looking over at Dave in his cobbled together outfit. She smiled slightly, then clicked her pen, "So we pull all known AB felons who served in the prisons in West Virginia and surrounding states. Then weed those down by estimated age, eye color, and nicknames. Frank can help with a description."

She glanced at Ava, "Maybe you can help with that, a program to sort through the records looking for keywords. It'll save us a lot of time."

“Y’all find out who he is,” Donnelley spoke up, smacking a new pack of cigarettes in his palm a few times before opening it, flipping the lucky one right side up, and shoving another one in his lips, “Me and Dave find that white thrash Nazi piece of shit, truss him up like a hog, ask him a few questions.”

Donnelley looked sidelong at Dave with a mischievous grin like that young punk giving kissy faces at White Power Skins in Texas again, “Sound like fun, partner?” He chuckled a dark little thing, “Meanwhile, I’ll touch base with this Dawant guy and see what he’s got for us. Who’s comin’ with?”

Laine tapped her pen giving a long look at Donnelley then turned a page of her notebook. Her jaw clenched, the muscles tightening as she made an internal decision. "I'd like to talk to Detective Dawant," she said, not looking up from her page. "There are a lot of follow up questions I have about Maria and who might have taken her."

“I’m a friendly face that he already knows,” Pari said, having made her way back to the corner of the room. “I’ll come with you. Besides, fresh air wouldn’t hurt.” She glanced down at her nails, running her thumb across them, remaining quiet for the time being, should anyone else desire to speak.

“I can look through prison records.” Ava confirmed after thinking it over for a moment. “I just need a physical description of him to work off of. I'll try to compile some mugshots for you all to look over.” She took a deep pull from her coffee before adding, “I also finished that Back Door virus and I'm almost done with Frank's new identity.” She frowned and furrowed her brow. “But he'll need a little seed money and a car to drive.”

“Easy peasy.” Donnelley shrugged, “Give him a slice of the budget on a card and send him on his way after we’re done with him. He’s been a good boy.”

“We’ve got an entourage now. We’ll roll en force to Roy and Dawant.” He nodded towards Laine, “You and me still need to get to Dulane in Beckwith so we can take him on a field trip. If Jay’s been there, maybe Dulane knew about him too.”

"I was thinking about that," Laine said, glancing up from her notes, first at Pari then Donnelley. "The mines are full of local superstition. I have a book on the history among the ones I brought, it might be some reading material us on the trip. But either Jay is local enough to have heard of the stories and knew people generally stayed away from that area which would make it ideal for him and his criminal activity. Or he heard about it, maybe in prison. It would probably be a place like Beckwith, something tells me even Blackriver criminals don't stray too far from home."

“How the Sheriff acts, the law ‘round there probably doesn’t do their jobs unless they have to. Can’t really cover up somethin’ like blowin’ up eighteen people to high hell and screamin’ about the devil.” Donnelley snorted.

Laine shook her head, "No that's a little harder to mask and if Dulane is running his mouth about it in prison it's certainly something that people know about outside Blackriver."

She looked at Donnelley thoughtfully, then clicked her pen, "Maybe the law is doing their job, just for who is what I wonder."

Donnelley shrugged, “Jay’s got Feds in his pocket. Frank’s supervisor, what’s-his-face, kept those hikers hush-hush for his sake. And money.”

Laine sighed then twirled the pen in her fingers, "Well, then I guess it's [I]Just Jay [/I]."

She flipped her notebook closed and sipped her coffee before standing, "Let's keep our minds open so we don't miss anything."

Donnelley’s lip ticked down to a fleeting frown, his lips drawn thin as he turned for the door, “Yes, Doctor. Of course.” He called over his shoulder before he closed the door behind him, “Shower, eat, whatever. Just get ready to move out, people.”

Laine tucked the pen back into her hair, she had already showered but she would need to change to be presentable as an Agent. Her gaze tracked Donnelley as he closed the door, and she waited for a few minutes to finish her coffee before exiting the room. 

Maybe she had been harsh, she thought as she dug out her lighter from her back pocket. Laine could be scathing in tone sometimes and she was well aware of it, but every time she looked at Donnelley mixed feelings of guilt, sorrow, and anxiety filled her. 

She lit up a clove cigarette, though it wasn't one of her signature black Djarums. It was incredible she found any at all but the smoke shop she had stopped at along the way had at least some slim pickings. Laine smoked, leaning against the brick wall of the motel, her sunglasses pulled down against the morning light. Her thoughts ran dark, the unbidden images of the hooded man screaming about Russians and ozone as pliers and a drill, a goddamn electric drill, had been used to terrify him into talking. 

But he had talked, he talked about the dealer Jay and the so called Russians and their strange sudden appearance. Laine blew a stream of fragrant smoke out, watching it dissipate into the pale blue summer sky. Jay. The mines. Cartel. Dulane. Prison. Aryan Brotherhood. All clues to drug and sex trafficking but her job, her concern was who was skinning women. It was rare for serial killers to work in pairs and almost unheard of in larger groups but everything about this case was strange and as she had told Donnelley, they had to keep open minds. 

Her mind was still going over the facts in the case as she inhaled the burning cloves, when she spotted movement from the corner of her eye. It was Ava, the wild red curls as immediately identifiable as her clothes were not. She was wearing what Laine would have called Starbucks camouflage. She tapped the ash, noticing Ava had still not looked up from her coffee and she called out, a teasing grin on her lips, "Don't worry, pumpkin spice season is only two months away. You'll make it."

Ava looked up from her coffee, her glasses steadily darkening into sunglasses in the light of day and obscuring her bright blue eyes. She blushed but smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “I know, I have it marked down on my calendar. Don't judge me, pumpkin spice is good.” She said with a soft chuckle. The movement pulled at her side and she gently rubbed it to stop the aching. 

She looked Laine over beneath her tinted lenses, trying to keep the worried frown off her face. “What class are you skipping?” She asked, her soft voice a gentle tease and a small grin on her face.

Laine chuckled in response, the cigarette between her fingers smoldering. "Math," she replied in an exaggerated SoCal accent, "Numbers are like for nerds."

She gave Ava a playful smile then it faded as she took a drag and her voice shifted back to the slightly raspy serious tone. "I'm just thinking about things before I go change, planning how I'm going to go at this guy Dulane."

Laine huffed a bitter laugh, smoke blowing from her nostrils, "Donnelley can't run this interrogation like he wants, we have to return Dulane in good condition. How's your stomach doing, by the way?"

“It's okay, it mostly just feels like I pulled a muscle.” She answered, though there was a confused frown on her lips at the phrase ‘return in good condition’. Dave had mentioned interviewing a shooter, likely one of the men that attacked them. From those bits of information and the tone in Laine’s voice, she was starting to put together how they got their latest intel…

She pushed that thought to the side, for now, and focused her attention back on Laine. She could tell something was wrong. The tossing and turning, the tense way Laine carried herself and the acid dripping from her words when she spoke to or in reference of Donnelley. 

She knew they were all on edge after the shooting and it was understandable, who wouldn't be upset or shaken by something like that? God knew she had been. But, Ava wasn't sure it was entirely the shootout that had Laine rattled. 

One of the last things she remembered before the fentanyl covered everything in a blurry haze; was Laine checking on her. Sitting next to her, stroking her hair and making sure she was okay. 

The least she could do was payback the kindness.

“So…How are you doing?” She asked Laine, her eyebrows arching above the rim of her glasses. “After everything?” 

Laine shrugged, raising the cigarette to her full lips, “I’m trying to deal with it, get my shit together. There’s too much work to do and now we’re compromised in Blackriver. I’ll be better once I’m focused on the case.”

She glanced at Ava, her dark glasses still in place that hid the expression in her eyes. “Sorry if I kept you up. I had a few bad dreams.” 

“You didn’t keep me up,” Ava assured her quickly, placing a smile back on her face. “I was doing a pretty good job of that on my own.” She let the smile slip off her face as she hesitated for a moment, thinking over how best to word what she’d say next. “I’m sorry about your bad dreams. If you’d like to talk about them, I’d be happy to listen.”

A soft sigh escaped with the smoke between her lips, Laine turning her head so she would not blow it in Ava’s face. Glancing back at her, she gave the small redhead a half smile, “That’s nice of you. It’ll pass, I’m sure. Things just...well you know, things just like went to hell very quickly. Something I’m sure neither of us are used to, but I just need to get back to the case.”

She pushed off the wall, flicking the cigarette onto the ground to grind it out with her sneaker, “I should get dressed, I need to make a good impression on these dudes at the prison. You got this with pulling the records? Frank can give you a good description. Ask for tattoos or scars, eye color. Hair color can be changed but doesn’t hurt.” 

Laine pushed her sunglasses up as she opened the door to the women’s shared room, dark bruise like circles under her eyes from the restless sleep. Her brow knit slightly, the dreams had not faded and the images kept rising up like the relentless tide. The hooded man begging her. The look in Donnelley’s eyes. She shook her head and grabbed her bag to find suitable clothing for the trip to talk to Duwant and to see Dulane.

“Oh, yeah, I can handle it no problem.” Ava answered as she walked past, her face falling slightly as she watched Laine walk into their shared room. She bit her lip for a moment and then edged over to nudge the door open and walked inside to get her laptop bag. 

She looked over to Laine as she picked up her bag and pulled the strap over her shoulder. She opened her mouth, shut it and took a few steps towards the door. She glanced at Laine for a moment and took in a deep breath as she stopped herself. “You know, when I have nightmares or wake up from a night terror, I do something that brings me comfort to make me feel better.”

Laine looked over at Ava, the earnest but nervous expression on her pretty face. She sighed then held up the pack of clove cigarettes. The Sampoerna pack she managed to find at a smoke store must have been on their shelf forever. They were old and tasted stale but it was still better than straight tobacco, "I do, too."

She picked out black slacks and a black button down blouse to go under the black blazer. She would wear her heels but the sneakers went into her bag just in case. Laine continued, feeling a little bad for her abrupt and certainly unsatisfactory answer. "Music is good, it brings me comfort, so there's that. What do you use?"

Ava perked up and she smiled. “I usually snuggle with my cat or I listen to music too. Or the sound of rain. Or I watch something that’s sweet or makes me laugh. I own a lot of Pixar and Disney movies.” She chuckled, walking over and sitting down on one of the beds. “What about you?” She asked curiously. “What do you like watching?”

Laine shrugged, then huffed a soft laugh, "Definitely not Disney, no offense. I don't know, just movies I like. Probably dark comedies, or my favorite movie. I've seen it so many times but I guess it's the familiarity that is comforting."

A slightly sheepish grin touched her lips then she moved the top of her tank top aside, showing the Death's Head moth tattooed above her left breast. The design was intricate black ink and it flowed into smoky tendrils that moved up to her shoulder and blended into clouds around a full moon. 

Ava’s eyes widened slightly as she saw the tattoo on Laine’s pale skin. “Oh wow! That’s beautiful!” She said, admiration in her eyes as she traced the clean and simple black lines that transitioned smoothly into smoke and clouds. “Is that from your favorite movie?”

"Uh, yeah," Laine said, releasing the shirt. "Silence of the Lambs."

She gave Ava a self effacing grin, "It's probably not surprising. But when I was a teen, I was enthralled with Clarice Starling. I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up."

Laine paused and said, then held up her bundle of black clothing, "It was her or Morticia Addams. I should get changed, I don't want to keep people waiting."

Ava grinned and stood up from the bed. “Hey, Morticia Addams had it made.” She chuckled, adjusting the strap of her laptop bag on her shoulder. “I’ll leave you to get dressed in peace, I should go talk to Frank about what Jay looks like anyway.” She took a few steps from the bed and offered Laine a small smile. “Maybe we can watch Silence of the Lambs later?”

Laine smiled slightly in return, then nodded, "Maybe."

She sat on the bed to untie her sneakers then admitted, "Or look at funny cat videos. Those are definitely a guilty pleasure."

“I have plenty of those on my phone.” Ava snorted. “All of them of my cat, Thor. He’s a giant, fluffy diva.” She said over her shoulder as she headed for the door and then left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Once Ava left, Laine pulled her casual clothes off and dressed for work, the monochromatic outfit broken up only by the silver skull earrings and the modest three layer black bead necklace that held a cameo pendant on the last strand. Once her hair and makeup were done, neat and conservative as she could stand as she had to talk to West Virginia prison authorities, Laine sat back and stared around the empty motel room. 

It reminded her of another room in another motel in Charleston. One where she had come so close to connecting with Donnelley on a level that was dangerous and exciting and she had wanted it. 

And now? Laine took a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly. The guilt and anxiety began it's serpentine coiling in her chest and she felt like crying but there was no time for that. Laine took a few more deep breaths and counted slowly to ten. She had to face him sometime and face what she had been complicit with, there was work to do. 

Laine put on her shoulder holster and the Glock tucked into it, put away her badge and her notebook into her blazer pockets then slung her purse over her shoulder as she walked out of the room into the morning light.

[hr]

Pari too, left the room. She shuffled across the wooden decking in delicate khussa slippers, their turquoise beading adding gentle percussion to her steps. Her hair once again sat atop her head in a voluminous bun, pinned in place with several jeweled hair clips. The gentle breeze of morning caught the loose crepe fabric of her culottes and made them billow, before she stopped, folding her arms with a sigh. “Another busy day,” she spoke quietly, her voice soft and less harsh around the edges than that in which she delivered her briefing. “I hope you’re holding up alright, Donnelley,” she said, casting a glance at him.

Donnelley rose a brow at the voice coming around his shoulder, that revealed itself to be Pari’s. He finished the drag of his cigarette, holding in the smoke for a beat as he nodded to her. “It’s definitely a day.” He sighed, “I’m fine.” Though the thoughts that played upon his troubled brow said otherwise. His poker face always slipped when his life wasn’t on the line. Holly always took full damn advantage, way back when, “You ever get somethin’ wrong and get angry at yourself?”

He frowned, “Your tire catches a nail in the road and you just think, I knew I shoulda fuckin’ walked to the store instead?”

“I don’t get things wrong,” she replied quickly - expression deadpan in the moment that she let those words hover, before smirking. “It sounds like you’re talking about intuition, gut feeling.” Pari’s eyes narrowed as she took in his body language, the creases, the tension. As if he was being held in a vice grip and it was draining everything from him, one drop at a time. 

Donnelley snorted. So, she was one of those, “Oh, you’re one of those.” He smirked, puffing on his cigarette again and nodding, “Intuition, sure. I get it, I didn’t have enough information when I decided to come into Blackriver the way I decided we should.”

“Insular, isolated place, distrustin’ of outsiders. What’s more outsider than a Fed?” He shook his head, eyes falling away from her as his mind already turned over its cogs to get into the root of the problem, “I can’t relate to you, because you’ve never failed, but I hope you can lower yourself to speak to the unwashed pauper.”

Again, he gave her his smirk. There was a fine line between them, the same fine line he and Foster shared, where two people so confident in their competence meet they immediately have to figure out which one was moreso. He knew he was going to like Pari. “How are you though? Ava’s alright, but you were the only one there when it happened.” He nodded, his eyes going over her clothes and accessories, “You’re not just a consultant in fancy clothes.”

Pari smirked back, shifting her gaze over to the horizon. The shitty, dull horizon of grey, grey, and more grey. Behind her, mustard on the turn. “We can do everything right and by the book, Donnelley, and still come out wrong. I’ve failed…” She stopped for a moment, bringing her fingers to her lips as her smile shrunk and her eyes joined them by narrowing. 

“I’m well, thank you. A wake up call to this case, that’s for certain. I try not to let things touch me personally, but this case might at least give me a nudge…” Her smile flickered back and she exhaled a long sigh. She eyed Donnelley up and down again, an eyebrow raised. “You could really do with a moment to relax, couldn’t you?”

“I get that a lot.” Donnelley chuckled, thinking back to his conversation with Laine about Mexico and France. He added quietly, “Maybe I could.”

He flicked his cigarette and nodded, letting his head hang before he looked back at Pari, “Talk about nudges…” he said, remembering what he saw on Clyde Baughman’s tapes, remembering his time in Washington getting rid of every picture with Holly’s face on it until he left the ones with only Tilly. “There’s a girl in Washington near Maria’s age that asks about me sometimes. Every step deeper into this shit, I think about her more and more.”

“I can deal with shitheads screamin’ about Jihads all goddamn day, but this homicide…” He shook his head, “I don’t have to wonder why I stopped bein’ a Sheriff deputy.”

“Something about this place…” she said quietly. “I’ve been here a day and it’s found its way under my skin, has me thinking about people… things I haven’t thought about in years - at least, not in the way that threatens to hurt me, you know?” Her arms wrapped tighter around herself as a cold breeze danced by - pulling a strand or two free from her bun to frame her face. “I’d be more surprised if you weren’t thinking like that, it’s normal.” Pari gave something of a shrug.

“I think we have to keep an eye out for one another here, more so than we might on a regular case. Shitheads screaming about Jihad’s and all…” She tried to smile, but faltered some. Truthfully, the thought of hunting down Aryans wasn’t sitting well with her, but she’d keep that to herself. “It probably sounds lame to a gun-toting hard-ass like yourself, but looking out for each other is probably the best thing we can do to keep it at bay, you know?”

“Lookin’ out for each other is the most important part of bein’ a gun-totin’ hard-ass like myself.” Donnelley said, drawing on his cigarette and flicking it still lit into the parking lot, “Can’t tote guns if someone shoots your face out through the back of your head when y’aint lookin’. Don’t matter how hard your ass is then.”

He chuckled, “Trust me, twenty years of doin’ it’ll teach you somethin’ ‘bout teamwork.”

"I'll have to take your word for it," Pari replied, dropping her arms to her sides. "Good team that we have here, between us all, there isn't much we can't get done. We'll solve this case.. " she continued, staring out against the empty horizon again, wondering if after they'd cleaned up the events and washed away the scum that colour might return. 

"We're in the shit now," she sighed, an eyebrow raising as she brought a finger to her chin, "somebody has to shovel it."

“Former Sheriff out in Dallam County used to say that. Sheriff Gracy, finest man I ever met, a real father figure to a pissed off, gung ho, hooah kid straight out the Army.” Donnelley said, some distance in his eyes as he recalled the man, “He used to say that a lot. Shit keeps pilin’ up, son, best get yourself a shovel. Lived my life by them words ever since.”

He frowned, sighed and looked out at the gray horizons beyond. The hills that stretched onwards to Blackriver loomed close, black against the gray. “Guess we’d better get to shovelin’. I’ll see you when we head out.”

[hr]

Laine found herself ready before the others so she chose the vehicle, grabbing the keys for the Suburban since it was armored and they would be driving in rural areas between Charleston and the prison. Places for ambushes would be more likely where no one was watching. 

She hiked herself up into the driver's seat and adjusted it, putting her disposable phone full of music in the cup holder and connecting the Bluetooth to the stereo. If Laine was driving then she was going to have her music and perhaps minimize the chance of anything other than talk about the case. Tapping the screen, she pulled up a playlist and selected a song, having it ready to go once she would start the truck. 

Pari was next into the car, instinctively taking the backseat - she figured that Donnelley would sit in the front. A respect for hierarchy. She’d changed only her shirt and shoes - slippers replaced with stilettos and the cropped tank replaced with a yellow chiffon blouse. Her ears had stones of a matching hue, and around her neck something beaded and opalesque. She gave Laine a smile after the click of her seatbelt. “Mr Donnelley is being the diva holding us up, I see…” she commented with a slight smirk on her painted lips.

Laine turned, resting her arm against the open window, then smiled slightly at her comment, "He does enjoy his entrances."

The smile faltered and she moved to start the truck, glancing towards the motel. The music came on and she turned it down, waiting on Donnelley. 

"That's a nice ensemble," she commented, glancing at the vivid sunny hue against olive skin, a vibrant contrast to her all black and pale countenance. "Is that Michael Kors? The blouse?"

“Oh, Donna Karan I think,” Pari answered, taking a look down at the shirt - trying to recall when she purchased it. “You look great too,” she smiled in response, “they suit you, those pants. The cut works for you.”

Laine nodded, "Thanks, I appreciate it. My mother would love your taste, she hates that I don't wear colors. I just find it easier to wear black. Plus..."

A half smile appeared on her lips, as she glanced at Pari in the rear view mirror, "It can be intimidating."

"Ahh," Pari scoffed, swinging one leg over the other. "It's a mama's job to hate some of the things we do," she chuckled under her breath, "Parinaaz, you're not this, you're not that…" she left again, meaning no malice in her words. It was something that daughters knew well. 

The back door of the Suburban came open to reveal Donnelley dressed in a white long-sleeve button up over gray slacks. If there was one thing Hank Gracy taught him was that a man’s belt always matched his shoes, so the brown leather oxfords went with the brown leather belt. Hank was also the man who taught him how to tie a tie and so Donnelley went the extra step of putting one on.

In his right hand though, was his plate carrier laden with magazines, his Badger in his right. He’d swapped the longer barrel for a 13.7 inch one in case he had to return fire from inside the Suburban. He sincerely hoped he did not. Both were stowed in the back, but his FN .40cal remained on his hip. He opened the passenger side front door, removed his wayfarer-style frames, “Thank you for waiting on lil’ ol’ me, ladies.” He climbed into the front seat next to Laine, feeling an electric current of tension at his mere appearance and ignored it, “Now, let us away.”

"Quite alright Sir," came the smooth voice of Pari from the backseat, currently occupying herself with the inside pages of a folder as if they were a magazine, eyes never abandoning the words to glance up. "Hair and makeup takes longer for some than others…" she added, turning a page nonchalantly. 

“And when you’re a perfectionist such as myself…” Donnelley smirked, miming flipping long hair from his shoulder.

Laine nodded again at Pari's comment, her mother did hate anything she did that was not part of [I]her[/I] plans. Before she could respond she spotted a well dressed Donnelley limping towards the truck. She frowned slightly, he probably should have a crutch or cane to take pressure off the wounded leg. But she said nothing as he stored his gear and came around to the passenger side. 

She looked side long at him as he got into the Suburban, feeling the tension start to knot inside her at the persistent memories. Cruel and angry things to say rose to her mind and she pushed them back with disgust. Laine was not her mother, she would not strike acid at every opportunity. They would soon have to talk about the issue that settled between them like a dark cloud. Thankfully Pari was in the car and it would not have to be now. 

Once he was buckled in, Laine put the truck in reverse to back out and once she got to the driveway she asked without looking over at him, "You're navigating, which way are we heading?"

Donnelley frowned as he leaned towards Laine, fishing his phone out of his pocket, “You know, I might be one of them Langley boys,” he unlocked his phone and set the GPS on it to Beckley, “But I don’t really gallivant ‘round these parts. Left. Highway.”

After a time of silent reflection and driving, Donnelley spoke up as the Suburban lurched to a stop at a red light. “Game plan. You and Pari, me and you, what?”

"Duwant and Dulane," Laine said shortly, "I'd like to find out more about the sex trafficking around the Washington area. How much I missed about this getting pulled off the Childress case before I dug in. Pari and I can handle that, she's already established a rapport.  And we'll go see Dulane, he's going to be very informative." 

She shot a glance at Donnelley then said quickly, "Let me have the lead with him."

Donnelley looked sidelong at her, pursed lips and furrowed brow at the unsaid insinuation that he would turn Dulane into a corpse if he didn’t absolutely need to. He felt like he’d been insulted, spit at. He broke off his stare and glanced at Pari in the rearview, looking off out the window as the light turned green and they were back on their way. “Of course you’ll have the lead.” He muttered, bitterness in his words.

Laine sighed inwardly, flexing her fingers against the steering wheel and she flicked a quick glance at him after he spoke. Her teeth clenched, the interrogation replaying in flashes of memory unbidden. Fists hitting flesh, pliers and that fucking drill. And she had stood there and let it all happen. Laine bit the inside of her lip then said, “Good. We’ll get what we need. Are we still going to try and take him to the mines after...well, after knowing what we know now?” 

The idea of going out there was less appealing now that Michael had told them about the sudden appearance of ‘Russians’ in a shack and the smell that accompanied it but there was an urge to go out there. Despite the danger, Laine wanted to see for herself these mines that were becoming a center of the darkness they faced. Dulane might also remember more faced with the place that had driven him to such madness. Or it might break him, she thought and frowned slightly. Laine was willing to risk it to find the killer or killers of the girl, Maria Vasquez. That she was willing to risk a man’s sanity without much thought made her uncomfortable. It was the same response she had when Dave and Donnelley had beat the man they had dragged in. She let it happen, for the greater good, she told herself but it did nothing to shake the guilt that curled in her stomach. 

She changed lanes to get around a slower moving old pick up and shot ahead of it. Apprehension about pulling up level with an unknown vehicle clear as she floored it until she was about a hundred yards ahead. Laine reached with one hand to try and find the pack of shitty stale cloves in her blazer’s pocket and when she grabbed it they slipped from her fingers and fell down under the pedals. “Fuck,” she snapped, then blew a sharp breath out. 

Pari observed expressions through the rear view, heard the tones in which they spoke to each other - sensing that there were things unsaid, and by the sudden exclamation of Laine, she folded away the papers, back into her bag, "Dawant is a good man, dedicated many years to the non-profit. He'll be reassured to meet someone of your skill, Laine."

Donnelley barely hid his concern for Laine’s demeanor. He’d forgotten, almost, how it was to be around those who weren’t used to tying up loose ends. Or even viewing it in that cold, distanced language. He retrieved his pack of cigarettes and offered the opened pack to her, “You can have one of mine.”

Laine glanced at Pari in the rear view mirror, and spoke in a slightly strained voice, the smokey rasp more noticeable, "I'm looking forward to meeting him."

Donnelley caught her attention when she looked back at the road. She did not look at him, instead focusing on the curve around the sloping mountain down towards another valley. After a moment she accepted his offer, "Yeah, I'll take one."

Reaching for the pack with only a quick side glance she pulled one out and put it between her lips. Laine debated internally with herself  to try to dig out her lighter but gave in and asked, "Do you mind giving me a light?"

“Sure, yeah.” Donnelley nodded, producing his lighter and holding it out lit for her. While she worked at getting her cigarette lit he took the chance to look at her. She looked frayed at the edges. He peeked at Pari in the rearview, “So, Dawant. What’s his story?”

“Don’t know much of it,” Pari replied with a light shrug - trying to recall any conversation beyond the briefing they’d had in the office. “We really just spoke about Maria, the missing children.” She brought her fingers up to her face to brush her hair back from her face. “Beyond that was just intuition. He seems weathered, affected by this case. I’ve heard of the CMC before, not that I’ve ever worked with them - but I’ve known officers in the WSP. Maria was a cold case from Seattle, it was the dental records that they matched up.”

Her eyes closed, and she took a sharp intake of breath in through her teeth. “Dawant doesn’t trust a lot of people - other law enforcement branches and arms - he mentioned quite abruptly something rather crass… hookers and drug dealers - his own personal biases…” Pari said, with a wave of her hand. “His emotions are high, he’ll need a gentler hand, in my opinion,” she finished, placing her hands into her lap.  

Laine took a deep drag of the cigarette, the taste not as pleasant but it would do the job. She had caught Donnelley's fleeting glance, expression not angry or guarded but something else. Her attention went back to the road as he spoke to Pari and she answered. 

As they passed a weathered billboard advertising the First Baptist Church of Charleston Laine ticked her head slightly at one of Pari's comments. 

"What did he say about 'hookers and drug dealers'? I'd find it odd for a man working with a nonprofit missing persons group to have a biased against sex workers, they go missing often enough. Of course it's not as concerning to some people especially compared to children."

Laine flicked her ashes. 

"Less dead," she said. "That's what they call it you know, when some asshole kills a sex worker or junky. Less dead, because no one's going to miss them right away."

She blew out a stream of smoke towards her open window, considering her next words. "This girl, Maria Vasquez, I would put money on it she was being prostituted. Poor kid. What she must have been going through the last five years." 

Laine felt a stab of empathy and put the cigarette to her lips. "Hopefully he can help us with her background, with or without his biases."

“Ah,” Pari interjected, raising her index finger, “my apologies - I’ve sent you down a different path.” The woman cleared her throat, “Dawant, I believe has biases against, well, a lot of other law enforcement branches. That they all like to bother people, rip off dealers - and well,” she swallowed down and glanced to her side away from the rear view mirror momentarily to spit out the last sentence, “fuck hookers.” She wished she had her coffee in hand to gulp back down on.

“Cops are human too.” Donnelley nodded, before lighting his own cigarette, “There’s a lot that goes on. Some Deputies didn’t like ‘colored folk’ around Dalhart. Some Deputies took their own cuts from meth cook’s profits in Dallard County. Part of the reason I left the Department.”

“I even saw it in Seatac sometimes when I lived in Seattle. They rough up prostitutes, ‘specially trans ones, rip off dealers.” Donnelley snorted something in his face and hocked it out the window, “Same shit, different cops. Fuck ‘em.”

“Yes, Seatac Police were the named victims of that particular spray,” Pari added, brow furrowing at the sound of Donnelley’s snort. She held back any other comment about it and simply twitched her fingers over her thighs.

Laine raised her eyebrow at Pari's clarification and gave an irritated twitch of the cigarette, the embers catching the wind. "Wrong path, I was on the wrong planet," she muttered. 

Listening to the talk about the corruption she kept her gaze on the winding black asphalt. The drive had been uneventful so far but she kept her attention as the odd vehicle would pass going towards Charleston. They were getting closer to the town of Beckley, another sign showed it was only five miles more. The prison wasn't too far away from the small town. 

Laine took a drag and glanced at Donnelley, wanting to share the ACAB joke again but the space between them was still too thick with tension and she felt the anxiety tighten in her chest. Guilt and remorse, and not all of it for the dead man, still clung to her like cheap perfume so she shut her mouth and kept driving.

The conversation was about Duwant but they were headed to see Dulane and the books she had taken with her from the library still sat in the box, unopened. Finally, Laine spoke up, "Agent Bhaat, there is a book about the mines and another on some local native legends I'd really like you to take a look at when you can."

“Sure,” Pari replied from the backseat with a light nod. “I’ll look over them when we get back to the motel. I have some areas of research of my own to comb through too, I’ll add those books to the list.”

[hr]
>0800...///

Another hour of passing trees, and trees, and more trees had them approaching Beckley Federal Correctional Institution. Sprawled out in a complex of bland buildings and dropped somewhere in the Virginia wilderness, Beckley seemed a place devoid of hope for escapees. If the snipers did not get you, the endless wilderness would. Donnelley’s eyes went over the brick buildings and he felt the misery and aggression hanging over this place like a fog.

Donnelley opened the door and stood, blue eyes gleaming behind his shades. He felt the aura touch his skin like a morning mist, making his head buzz with it. He frowned, a quiet growl escaping him. He’d need a cigarette. There weren’t many cars in the parking lot in front of the visitor center, only the employees’. No visitors today, besides the three of them. They had come calling on David Dulane, and Donnelley would not leave here without answers. “Laine, Pari, you two handle the questions. If there’s anything I want to know in particular, I’ll ask him.” Donnelley frowned, “Otherwise, he’s yours.”

Laine stepped out and flicked the cigarette on the parking lot. It had only taken a few days to change everything, the plans they had made now in the wind like ash. The cabin was no longer their safe place, the men now on constant guard and no time had been taken to formulate new plans. All of it bothered her, Laine preferred going in with a game plan and now they were all winging it. 

She shrugged, putting on her glasses and taking her notebook and bag. "Thanks, we'll do our job."

Laine glanced at Pari, "I spent half my career talking to criminals much worse than Dulane. I'll get him started and when he starts talking about his 'devils' maybe you can jump in. What do you think?"

Pari blinked and followed the wisps of smoke with her eyes as they cascaded to the ground, flicked from Laine’s fingers. She tilted her head back up to meet Laine’s eyes, now behind the frames of her glasses. “I’ll take notes,” she answered. “When he does start talking about his devils, I’d appreciate if you did the same, I don’t tend to write at all when I’m engaged in conversation, it’ll be crucial to have the words on paper for later, exactly as they’re said. I tend to poke somewhere… Somewhere outside of the tangible.” She held a straight face for a while, in the midst of a pregnant pause - before she smiled. “After you then.”

"I brought a recorder," Laine said as she began walking towards the prison entrance, her heels clicking against the asphalt. "But certainly we'll take notes and things to follow up on while the other is in conversation."

“Perfect, then I’ll write up a transcript after the fact,” Pari smiled, following at Laine’s side. She tilted her chin upwards to take a look at the prison in all of its bare glory. Bleached and scorched and coarse - dressed in generic paint, the grey roof slanted. It was grim, and that grim ran deep. A tingle at the back of her neck caused her lip to twitch. “And there I was thinking that Disneyland was the happiest place on Earth.” 

Laine grimaced slightly, unsure which she would hate more. A prison or fucking Disneyland. It was a tough choice. 

“I guess people don’t stab you in the neck for lookin’ at you wrong, or too long, or at all in Disneyland.” Donnelley frowned at the two women, noting Laine’s slight frown at the mention of Disneyland. “Don’t mind me when you’re interviewin’ the guy. I might have myself a smoke and talk to the Warden in a bit.”

As he’d said, he fished out his pack of cigarettes, sniffed in a lungful of mountain prison air, and sighed it out before lighting a cigarette. He smirked, although this place wanted him to do nothing of the sort, “Have fun, ladies.”

[hr]

Agents Bhatt and Laine, having received their passes, been introduced to the Warden, and fed the protocols were taken from Donnelley’s company by assigned guards. They got up and headed down the corridor as a door was closed behind them. A single dark, lonely shape with smudged painted lines that signaled that it was just a straight line. Above them in the reverse, fluorescent lighting in a strip humming gently. That paint was a threat to not veer from the given path in here. 

The walls were painted in a forest green, but such a hue was a lie - no nature sat here. Just concrete met with bars of steel. Nothing was growing here, things only festered. Germs from dirty fingers smeared on the bars and safety glass. There was a cold that went beyond just a touch on the skin from a breeze - any breeze that did enter here was harrowed, and anything fresh was sieved and stirred into an echo of the outside. 

The inside of Beckley was a reality all of its own, a granitic monolith.

They followed the spine of cracked paint down the corridor, through door after door until they were ushered by two tired, weary guards into a small room, cordoned off from the prison. Pari was grateful for the more open space, during their walk through the facility, she had been feeling as if the walls were shrinking down - as if she were Alice in a grey Wonderland, growing larger in the belly of a shriveling catacomb. 

How a place could feel so full of grime, and yet smell so sterile was confusing to Pari’s senses as she took her seat, directed to it by their guard escorts. The room was barren, save for a table with three chairs. The walls were painted in a seventies shade of maroon that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a swank and plush club of that era, now? Now it was just a reminder that time stopped within these walls, and yet, all that really existed here at all was time. 

The chairs too, were a vintage shade of burgundy. The leather cracked and split to reveal the sponge inside. Sponge that looked to have been picked and pinched at by idle hands. It seems the devil did make work for them.

Pari took her seat on the right, her eyes immediately flitted to the window - a single rectangle, filtering in a paltry amount of natural light that just illuminated the concrete floor and its mysterious stains. Above them, a light hummed and flickered sporadically, and she began to hear outside of the room, the sound of several footsteps - and the unmistakable sound of metal chain shaking. She gave a glance to Laine, and a nod. She was ready, and she had confidence that Laine was too. 

The door on the other end clinked open and a short, but grating alarm sounded once before the metal slab set in the wall slowly came open. Beyond it was a hall the same color as those they’d come in through, and an ominous clink, clink, clink accompanying hurried bootfalls. Two guards had David Dulane by the arms as if at any moment he could shrug them away and start a rampage the violence of which would be deafening.

He did not. Dressed in orange and chains, David Dulane was tangle-haired and long-bearded. Gray in strands from his scalp and his chin, and a look in his eyes that was full of emptiness. A void whose hunger threatened to swallow anyone who looked into it too long. If David Dulane had not been crazy in the mines, he looked to be now. As cold and gray as the bars that kept him here. He sat, mouth slightly ajar and the only sound in the room was his breath through it. Slow. Even. The two guards left his side and took their places in the two far corners.

Dulane’s eyes hung on Laine’s before they slid across to Pari. Her eyes he held the longest. “Hello.” His eyes and face slunk back over to Laine as if his neck was made of slow, grating stone, “Hello.”

He did not blink once between them. Until slowly, his eyes shut and then opened. Once. “I know why y’all’re here.” He said, voice tired and scratching, as if the words were clawing up out of his throat to freedom, “I killed men.”

Laine watched him, her notebook closed and the recorder between the agents and Dulane. She met his eyes when he looked back towards her, her green gaze behind her black frame glasses direct but not hostile, "Hello Mr Dulane, thank you for seeing us. I am Special Agent Heather Laine and this is Special Agent Parinaaz Bhaat. We are here to talk, we want to know your story, about what really happened in the mines.  Nothing said to us will be used against you. With your permission, we would like to record our conversation."

She held her finger over the record button, waiting for his answer. 

“What y’all know…” Dulane’s wet eyes slid over from Laine to Pari slow enough almost to hear, “...’bout it?”

“What does anyone [i]really[/i]...” Dulane leaned closer, his mouth falling open to reveal stinking, yellow teeth, “[i]Know?[/i]”

His prolonged stare at her hadn’t gone unnoticed, and still Pari did not react, not with a smile or any other crack upon her countenance. She simply let the man take his seat and get as comfortable as he could, all things considered. She turned the cover over on her own notepad - a small A3 thing with a flip top. In her left hand she held a mechanical pencil, clicking the top to reveal a point.

Laine received no protest about recording so she pushed the button and said their names again, the time and date for posterity. She looked at Dulane, then said, "That's why we're here. Now I've read the police report and heard what people say happened but we would like to hear your version of the events leading up to the explosion."

She looked at him, at his demeanor then glanced at the guards. Laine had almost forgot they were there, as the FBI normally arranged the meetings with subjects ahead of time with instructions. She sat up, addressing the pair, "Do you mind giving us some privacy, please?"

The guard at the left corner looked at the other one, a silent conversation happening only in looks. One shrugged and the other turned back to the two FBI, “Sure, we’ll be just outside.”

They turned and left promptly, if not a bit hesitantly. One of them looked back at them before he stepped over to push an unseen button, the alarm sounding again before the door crept closed.

“The explosion.” Dulane said, straightening in his seat as if the disappearance of the guards made another side of him appear. He seemed more lucid, but that same hunger in his eyes beckoned them like portals to somewhere no one wanted to go, “[i]What do y’all know[/i] ‘bout it? ‘Bout [i]Blackriver?[/i]”

Laine waited for the guards to leave, and once Dulane spoke again she leaned forward, studying the change in his mannerism.  "I know you blew a mine shaft with enough dynamite to collapse three tunnels, just luck and geology that it didn't. Reports say the breathing equipment wasn't up to par, you had suffered from the effects of thin air and it made you mentally unstable, enough to get the idea to blow up the mine. They never mentioned a reason, maybe to get back at Vera Corp? Maybe you wanted to save the Earth from another strip mine? Maybe your coworkers were stealing your egg salad sandwiches so you blew them up.  Whatever reasons [I]they[/I] might give, it's not the truth. I've learned Blackriver has a way of covering that truth, by any means."

At Laine’s side, Pari had pressed the tip of her pencil on the paper, and listened to her words. The words that she was wasting no time on mincing, and Pari herself had to catch up on the details of Dulane’s story. It was one of the few times that Pari herself had been sat with a criminal of his calibre. It wasn’t where she worked, afterall. Pari lived behind a desk, or in a lab with evidence. Cold, hard, evidence. Dulane was a living, breathing man with a story. He’d been convicted of his crimes. 

His eyes narrowed and his frown got deeper inside his thick beard. He held Laine’s gaze and clasped both of his shackled hands together on the table, chains clinking with the movement. He broke the heavy silence, ”Sounds like y’already know the truth. Y’all just wantin’ me to say it.” Dulane leaned forward, towards Laine, and his eyes made it seem as if Pari wasn’t even there. Like the room could fade away to nothing but the fiery, yellow-blue of his eyes, “What you waitin’ for me to say, Heather?”

Her gaze held his as long as she could, Laine then pushed her glasses up, "They said you went crazy, that you were screaming about [I]devils.[/I] That's why you blew up the mine, some figment of an oxygen starved mind. But it wasn't a figment was it, Mr. Dulane. What is your truth?"

For the first time, Dulane’s exterior shook. His demeanor of the insane murderer cracked as he shivered and his eyes escaped Laine’s to peer off back into his memory, mouth hanging open, “I see it in my sleep. Crawlin’ up out of them shadows and rocks. Them mines,” he looked to Laine again, “They got too close to Hell.”

“I needed to do it. I made a promise.” He said, “I made a [i]promise[/i].”

"Who did you promise?" Laine probed, leaning forward slightly.

“[i]The Sleeper.[/i]” Dulane smiled, his abyssal pupils narrowing to pin pricks, “He made me promise.”

Pari’s groomed brow immediately raised at the mention of devils, and of hell. [i]”Now that’s a story,”[/i] she thought to herself. Her rich brown eyes narrowed briefly in thought while her brain ticked over what she already may have known that could corroborate such a thing. She came back to her Wendigo theory, but kept her lips sealed for now. Laine was in her element, and she wasn’t about to interrupt the woman. In her hand, the pencil wrote down “The Sleeper” onto paper, and a chill ran up her spine at the very action. 

Laine looked into those intense eyes, the constricting pupils seemed to draw the light into them and it was hard for her to look away. Blinking she have her head a sharp shake then brushed back a lock of short dark hair. Laine put her hands against the table, gazing back across at Dulane.

"Who is 'The Sleeper'?" she asked.

Dulane’s smile widened as if he was telling campfire stories to his children, he leaned closer in turn with Laine. His eyes went to Pari and then to Laine, “Y’all don’t know him.” He shook his head, slow as slow and lost his smile, speaking as if there were no truer wisdom, “But he knows y’all. He knew me, he knows your ma’s and your pa’s and your children. Born or not. To them, time is a river, and he swims in it.”

“But here? He sleeps. But y’all keep these words close.” He stood up quick, sending his chair clattering to the ground and the alarm sounded again. The door crept open at its snails pace but the guards squeezed themselves through, grunting and swearing, and closed the distance as quick as they could, their boots slapping the concrete as they ran.

One held Dulane by the arms, swearing, while the other took him by the hair and slammed him into the table hard enough to make Pari’s notebook jump. Dulane was laughing through his bloody lips, screaming in his sing-song, warbly tone, “I made a promise! I made a promise! I made a promise!” The guards wrestled him away from the table and dragged him out towards the door, chains jingling like sleigh bells to his song and flailing dancing.

“Shut the fuck up, Dulane!”

“DEATH WAKES THE SLEEPER!” And the door closed shut, and silence filled the room again.

When all had been said and done, after her heart had slowed its ferocious beating in her chest, Pari turned to Laine, her eyes commanding an intensity, her breath quick from her lips; “holy cabooses….” she uttered in a breath, bringing her hand to her chest. Pari was a woman who had immense pride in the fact that her nerves were made of steel - but that? That deadly atmosphere snuck into her, and she gave a quiet and nervous laugh after the fact. 

Laine listened intently to the strange description of what Dulane called the Sleeper. While her nature was to take it with a grain of salt, there was something about his tone and the almost manic gleam in his eyes that made her skin prickle with goosebumps under her blazer. She jumped in her seat, the burgundy vinyl creaking beneath her as she leaned away from Dulane as he sprang out of his chair. The guards were already moving as Laine tried to recover her composure but the last shout made her scalp crawl with recognition. 

[I]Death awakens the Sleeper.[/I]

Once he was dragged away, Laine sank back in her chair, breathing out slowly. The nervous chuckle made her look over at Pari, they both had been startled. A tactic to end the conversation no doubt or was it more. Laine reached to turn off the recorder when something from their conversation a few days prior came rushing back.

"A sacrifice?" She asked in the silence between the two women, meeting Pari's dark gaze. "An offering to this 'Sleeper'? Eighteen lives is a hell of a gift basket."

Pari too, was taken back to their conversation; “Ockham’s damned razor…” she said, running her tongue over her front teeth, sighing. She brought her arms around herself and her brow furrowed harshly. “I need to research this further, Dr. Laine. I know where to start…” She then plucked up her notebook, and began making a spitfire bullet point list. [i]A. Chapman. Laine’s books. Ritual text. Cosmic strings. Linguistics - [u]Chapman.[/u][/i]

She placed the pencil back down. Sighing again. “I want us to look at how frequent these killings have been - the spaces in between them. Are they sacrificing for a gift? Or simply feeding this beast to keep it at bay? There are… Many avenues that we could explore. It’s important we get the right one.” Pari was not making eye contact, instead, her gaze remained transfixed on the points of her list, the pen being rocked in her hand by her fingers. “That promise is important too. [i]Very[/i] important.”

Laine picked up the recorder to put back in her bag, listening to Pari. She glanced up, tilting her head slightly, "Dulane had nothing to do with Maria or the hiker, he was in prison already and his killing was blowing up other miners. Nothing like skinning and murdering a girl in a sexually sadistic fashion. But certainly, we'll look for anything possibly connecting them other than general location. There is a serial murderer out there, Sleeper or no Sleeper. The two victims we have identified plus the bones at the Vasquez crime scene. At any rate, I'd still be interested in looking at Dulane's prison and psychology records, they must have had him examined before he stood trial. Places like this don't like to see a mass murderer put away in a mental institution."

Laine stood up and hooked her bag on her shoulder, "We have a lot of work, I'll need to stop at the store for coffee and decent cigarettes after we talk to Duwant."

“Of course, I’m thinking laterally for now…” Pari clarified, shaking her head and bringing her fingers to her lips. “Dulane was not responsible for Miss Vasquez, but the mine explosion and her death are absolutely connected, and the rest of the missing girls…” her voice was distant as she stood from her seat, placing the splayed fingers of her right hand against the surface of the table. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, as if she were momentarily meditating in the room - sealing away the atmosphere to lock it into her memory to recall it later. 

She dragged her fingers from the table at last, placing the notebook back into her breast pocket before letting her hands fall to her sides, holding mudra in each. “You’re right, let’s meet back with Donnelley and head to Duwant. I can make contact with him, if Donnelley has not already. In any case, I want to get out of this room. Bad juju… [i]Very[/i] bad juju…”

[hr]

Laine followed the guards down the hall, Pari beside her as their high heels clocked along on yellowing tiles. She glanced at one of the guards, a big man with sun freckled slabs for biceps and a square gut above his Sam Brown belt. 

"Does he do that often, flip out?" Laine asked the corrections officer. "Or do you think that was just him having his jollies with the Feds."

It seemed believable and her instincts said as much but if there was one thing she learned about sociopaths and psychopaths was they could lie quite convincingly. The guards that interacted with Dulane daily might not be mental professionals bit they would have a certain insight.

The guard, whose name tag read Doyle, cocked his head at Laine. A simple man’s temptations ran through his eyes at the sight of her but he smiled like any southern gentleman. Or any man who thought highly of himself as one. “No, ma’am. Dulane just sits in his cell. We keep him in solitary, fucker barely even blinks.” He swallowed hard, any charisma vanishing with fear seeping in to replace it, “That was new to me. You watch any video record of his trial, he almost seems a little normal, you know?”

“He tried to kill himself after some of the other guys talked to him about nightmares. Now,” He frowned, shaking his head, “He’s [i]that.[/i]”

Footsteps from down the empty halls echoed to Laine and Pari. Soon, it was revealed to be from Donnelley’s oxfords, his shades in place as he came back to the two FBI agents. “Warden Thomasson okay’d the field trip, but it’s scheduled goddamn far out from now.” Donnelley’s head turned to the guard named Doyle and he flashed a grin, “Don’t see whatever that was too often?”

“No. Crazy man, that guy.” Doyle nervously chuckled back.

“You get used to it.” Donnelley smirked.

“Are you?” Doyle’s brow cocked.

“Sometimes.” Donnelley turned back to Laine, smirk vanishing, “Four weeks.”

Solitary. No wonder he's going to go even more batshit than he was already. And a suicide attempt after talking. Laine furrowed her brow when Donnelley told her the amount of time, an entire month before they could take Dulane back to the scene of his crime. 

"He's unstable," Laine said, glancing at Donnelley. "I'd like to get any psychiatric history, records of his time in prison, anything like that. He said something that we'll need to look into."

Looking back at Doyle, Laine said, "You might want to keep him under watch for awhile in case he reacts badly after the interview."

Pari frowned, tucking one foot behind the other, straight backed with a hand below her chin thoughtfully. “I still want to talk to Mr Dulane about his experience. I can’t lie, I’m disappointed he cut us short with that. He’d be interesting to deep dive into. It’s… [i]essential[/i] even, that I do this.” Her lips pursed in regret over the situation, and she sighed again, shaking her head as her foot came back to the ground. “Four weeks… That’s a long time indeed. I’m asking a lot, Donnelley, Laine - I’d find it especially helpful to join you both when we do go back to the crime scene with him. Perhaps it would yield a better result for me to question him there anyway… The ambience would make it easier for him to revisit...” her voice was tapering off slightly as she spitballed her words. Finishing with a nod. 

Laine nodded her agreement, "That's the idea we had, bring him to the scene and see what he gives us. Next time we'll have more information to go on, I'll go over any reports on his mental health if you want to give the history of the mines and local legends a go over."

She turned to Donnelley, "Can we get those, Dulane's mental health and behavior reports?"

“Absolutely,” Pari replied. “When I return to Seattle, I’d like to speak to an academic alum of mine. We studied together and she might be able to offer some clarity on mine legends, her forte is linguistics and folklore, she might add a further dimension to my own theories, especially something that’s circling for me now…” she added, blinking up in the direction of Donnelley. 

Donnelley’s eyes went between the two women, not seeing anything he could add to their competence besides, “Yeah, why not. I’ll call back later and request those psych evals.”

[hr]
>0930...///

The drive back to Charleston seemed to go quicker, with the case to discuss that pushed away some of the awkwardness Laine had felt between herself and Donnelley. 

She smoked another of his cigarettes, having trashed the stale cloves that were not worth the carcinogenic fumes. "So, the Sleeper that Dulane talked about, that he made a [I] promise [/I] to, it definitely has a dark vibe. The way he said it, that even if we didn't know the Sleeper he knew us and our ancestors and our offspring or those to come. Like a creepy omnipotent Santa Claus, he's got tabs on people. Thankfully we have Pari," Laine glanced at the rear view mirror, "Because this is some really weird shit." 

She took a drag of the harsh Marlborough Red and blew out a stream of smoke as the truck passed the city limits sign. Ahead the arching bridge over the Kanawha River, the rolling water sparkling in the midday sun.  Laine glanced at Donnelley, "Have you ever heard of the Sleeper?"

Donnelley flicked ash from the end of his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke, shaking his head, “I’ve heard about a lot of weird shit,” He clucked his tongue, “Ain’t heard of the Sleeper.”

He cocked his brow at Pari through the rearview, “You neither?”

Pari was deep in her notebook, pencil scratching at the paper as she brainstormed several ideas. Keywords in boxes, with branches to further points within the pages of the tiny notepad. Her writing small and conformed. She did manage to notice Donnelley after he attention though, and her eyes came up from the paper. She sat straight in the seat, one leg crossed over the other. “The Sleeper, I believe is just a sobriquet. It doesn’t give an indication of the true identity of this being, other than it sleeps, and was woken.” 

She closed the notepad, and placed it within her lap. “I was more taken with something else that Dulane said, that time is a river and he swims in it - but with those who are born or not.” She rapped her fingers over the cover, tilting her head. “I am instantly reminded of the five rivers of Hades. Acheron, Phlegethon, Lethe, Cocytus, Styx… They’re symbolic. All of the rivers collect together in the great marsh of the Greek Underworld.” She pressed the pencil to her lower lip and closed her eyes, taking in a breath before continuing on. “The river Styx of course, being the abomination. The water toxic and black as ink. To drink it or touch it is to die. But the Styx is a boundary line that separates the living and the dead. Is that the river?” 

Pari stopped again, glancing down at her side. “If what Dulane said is to be believed, then the Sleeper is a being who swims over cosmic strings. Folklore and mythology cross over - I have a place to start, but it’s why I want to look at the language our foes are using…” 

“This is Appalachia.” Donnelley shrugged and frowned, taking another drag, “MacOnies, O’Dhoules. Think Irish, Celtic. Has to be Pagan, I don’t know about anybody skinnin’ girls for Jesus.”

“In any case,” Pari Interjected, “I want to find out, mythological origins aside, whether these sacrifices are an exchange of power, a gift, or simply a feeding.

”If it wasn't for that hole in your leg, I would think it was just some sadistic asshole with a penchant for the dramatic. There are a few cases involving skinning a victim I know off the top of my head, I plan on doing some case studies. I still think we should be looking into locals that are into taxidermy or maybe butcher their own meat, something like that," Laine commented, glancing at Donnelley. "But since there is obviously something in those woods, maybe it is linked to real ritual."

Laine bit her lip slightly, thinking over Pari's ideas then said dryly,  "This might be a real shock to you, but in highschool I dabbled in Wicca. I remember something about Celtic sacrifice, they often strangled their victims and or stabbed them, tossed them into a bog."

“You never…” Donnelley raised a brow and looked Laine’s way, his lips holding back a smile.

She caught his eye for a moment and for a split second it felt like before the interrogation happened. Laine looked away, back to the road and shrugged slightly with a half smile,  "What can I say, I watched the Craft too many times my sophomore year."

The truck rolled smoothly over the bridge, catching a few odd looks because of the bullet pock marks. From the bridge they could see the golden dome of the state capitol building gleaming in the July sun, the city stretching out beyond the river. Pari's words came to mind. The border between life and death, the poisoned water of the Styx. A black river. 

[hr]
>1040...///

“We’re here.” Donnelley spoke into his phone before curtly disconnecting the call and slipping it back into his pocket.

Pari has given him Dawant’s number and they’d organized a meeting at a busy coffee shop in the center of town, opting to have people around in case Jay tried again. Somebody might be eavesdropping in the crowd, but they’d think twice before they opened fire on him and Laine. The same coffee shop they were outside of now, a quaint hipster locale named the Rocket. A neon sign with a 1950s art style of a zooming space ship above the door.

Donnelley opened his door and habitually scanned their surroundings, spotting nothing out of the ordinary. He nodded to Pari, “Sit somewhere nearby, view of the door and near the kitchen. We’ll be close by.” He turned to Laine, “If we need to bug out, we go through the kitchen.”

Without waiting for confirmation from either woman, he turned for the door and entered into the place, the smell of coffee hitting him like a wall. In a corner, nursing a cup of coffee, was a lone black man. Age lines across his face and a squint to his eyes that told Donnelley he had seen the worst of humanity far too many times. Donnelley limped to his booth, “Dawant.”

“John Davidson.” Dawant smirked, sipping his coffee.

“Just Davidson.” He smiled and slid into the booth seat opposite him, masking his Texan in his speech. “I’ve been dying to meet you. Heard you’re the one that gave us a name to our Jane Doe.”

“That’s me,” Dawant nodded, then looked to Laine, “Well, hello, Miss. What would your name be?”

Laine inhaled deeply the aroma of the coffee shop, her gaze flicking at the chalkboard menu and taking mental notes of her favorites among the varieties. She had buttoned her blazer, the slight bump under her left arm the only indication of her holstered weapon. She followed Donnelley towards the corner, inspecting the man sitting alone, and she knew him to be one of their own in his way. Duwant has the look of one who fought the darkness with perseverance and determination, his stubborn belief to at least save one life would be worth the heartache. 

With a  polite smile, she held out her hand, "Dr Heather Laine, BAU. It's nice to meet you, Mr Duwant."

Laine slid into the booth beside Donnelley, aware of how close he was but she pushed the thought away as she  folded her hands neatly on the formica table top. "Thank you for meeting back up with us. I have some follow up questions about Maria Vasquez."

The smile on Dawant faded into seriousness at the mention of Maria. He sighed, nodding as he sipped at his coffee, “Go ahead.”

Flipping her notebook out, Laine began, "Agent Bhaat told us you suspected she was kidnapped by a gang, cartel, then trafficked. She said Sinaloa, Gulf Cartels seemed to be likely. Do you know anything more about their street operation, the sex trade they're involved in? How she was taken, as was she lured in or snatched? Did she maybe know some of these guys? I'm working on a profile but in my usual cases the killer is generally the kidnapper but obviously not this situation so I'm just trying to get a feel for the sequence of events that lead to her death."

Dawant frowned, “They were good people, the Vasquez family. The father was a hard worker in construction and the mother worked at a bank. When they came to America, they took up their trades again.” Dawant said, sipping his coffee, “I was with them for years, I’d know if they were lying. As far as I know past that? It was just Maria at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“The cartels further north lay low. They don’t manufacture, but they receive shipments in from the ports or from mules.” Dawant looked out the window, shaking his head, “Most of their revenue is in sex trafficking through Pacific Highway. There’s schools nearby, the airport is there.”

“It’s no stretch to say she was brought to West Virginia from there. Less chance of her being found again, and being so far from home? No hope of a successful escape.” Dawant growled, eyes closed, “She died hopeless. Years of taking shit, I [i]hope[/i] she was numb inside by the end.”

Donnelley flashed back to the motel room in Washington, picking up the prostitute and throwing her to the winds after he was done with her. He wondered if she was far from home and without hope, every John she got was the only ticket to a roof over her head and a bed to sleep in. The only catch was some stranger’s sour breath in her face and the weight of them pressing her down. “Sounds like shit.” Donnelley muttered.

“Doesn’t it?” Dawant looked back to Laine, “That’s all I know. I do have these.”

He reached down next to him and brought up a Manila folder, slapping it on the table and opening it up. “Four perps for the Sinaloa cartel picked up in the PNW. Homeland Security and US Marshals got them after local PD smoked them out.” Dawant said it with some satisfaction, “Interviews after that led them to a man named Miguel “El Rojo” Villalobos, in charge of their money laundering operations. FINCEN traced their money and it pinged on several pieces of shit in Mexico.”

Dawant reached over and flipped through a couple of pages until he found a picture of a well-to-do looking Caucasian male, smiling with his wife and children at what looked like a fashion show red carpet event. “And one fucking prick bastard here in the States. This man’s name is Gregory Carlisle, thinks highly of himself as a modeling agent. Most of his clients are adults, but sometimes he recruits at any age for…” Dawant raised his brows and looked at Donnelley and Laine expectantly.

“The fucking Sinaloa.” Donnelley frowned. “Where is he?”

“I can tell you.” Dawant smirked, taking another sip of his coffee, “But I’ve got a catch.”

Donnelley frowned sceptically, glancing towards Laine. “What is it?”

“You let me in on this. I’m tired of sitting on case files with my thumb up my ass like a glorified librarian.” Dawant leaned closer, “You expect me to believe that you’re [i]just[/i] FBI, [i]John Davidson?[/i] No one in any field office I could get a hold of knows a fucking Senior Special Agent John Davidson. Why?”

Donnelley’s features fell to something dark, no longer hiding his accent, “I wouldn’t go diggin’ too deep, partner.” Donnelley inclined his head towards Dawant, “Might never get out of that hole.”

“The Childress Case was taken from CMC and the FBI. Now this one? I’m still a good fucking detective, you let me in on this and I-“

“No.” Donnelley shook his head. “You’re helpin’ us plenty. That’s enough for me.”

“I know who the Russians in the hills are. I know who their boss is.” Dawant growled, a thread of desperation weaving itself through his words.

That caught Donnelley off guard. His brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, the frown on him twitching deeper. “Goldstar Motel.” Donnelley said, “We’ll talk later.”

Laine listened silently, jotting a few notes about the family. "So no connection through the parents, they didn't owe any coyotes or anything. Just bad luck, poor girl."

At his description of Maria's bleak life after being taken until her grisly end, Laine pressed her lips together in a line. It was something she was unfortunately too familiar with after her work with the Los Angeles field office. She took a look through the case files, faces of men that preyed on children, modern day slavers.

Laine snapped her gaze up to Duwant then shot a look at Donnelley when the man called him out. The tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck at Donnelley's expression, the same face she saw a few nights before. She barely heard the exchange has blood drummed in her ears and a tremble ran through her. 

She swallowed hard, gripping the manilla folders Andrew was about to protest Duwant getting involved when he mentioned the Russians. Laine breathed out sharply, leaning into the booth. They couldn't let this go, it was too much of a promise. And Duwant had no idea where it might lead him. 

Laine looked over at Donnelley when he told the detective to meet up with the Goldstar. Her gaze was intent, trying to read his hard features, the burn scar gleaming against sun weathered skin. Turning away, she focused on Duwant, wanting to ask questions about the Russians but held her tongue. She would have a chance at the motel and the thought made her suddenly feel clammy, a cold sweat prickling the back of her neck. 

"Excuse me," Laine said quickly, part of her wanting to warn Duwant somehow, the panic of what could be waiting for the man at the Goldstar starting to sink it's grip into her. "I need to use the ladies room."

Laine slid out of the booth and walked quickly towards the pink door that lead to the restroom. She had to get away because no matter how strong her desire to warn Duwant was, the pragmatic part of Laine wanted that information on the Russians. Nausea welled at the thought as she shut the door to the bathroom and went to the sink, splashing cold water on her face.

[hr]
>GOLDSTAR MOTEL
>CHARLESTON, WV
>1330...///

Like the trip out from the Goldstar, the trip back was silent and full of tension. Curt words were exchanged and that was all. Donnelley shifted uncomfortably in his seat every so often and kept his eyes firmly on the view passing them by out the window. Dawant would arrive at the Goldstar later that night, but for now, Donnelley was happy to be on his own. Standing outside of his motel room, he had just lit his cigarette when he spotted Laine doing much the same outside of the women’s motel room.

They locked eyes after a quick exchange of glances. Donnelley sighed, taking the few necessary tentative steps towards her. The woman he had grown close to, that he had felt a spark that he hadn’t felt since Holly. The woman who looked at him like a murderer, just waiting for her to make the arrest. He opened his mouth to speak, the word tumbling out of his mouth hesitantly, “Hey.”

Laine took a deep drag of the black cigarette, a silent moment of appreciation to the barista who pointed her to a trendy vape shop that happened to also carry Djarums and other 'exotic' tobacco. Her frayed nerves seemed to soothe with the familiar crickling sound and the slight numbing sensation that spread down her throat. She glanced over, catching Donnelley's lean figure from the corner of her eye. 

She missed him, that she could admit but what had happened could not be forgotten. It had simmered inside her, spiking anxiety at what might happen and Laine hated living on eggshells. Their eyes met and she did not look away this time. 

"Hey," Laine replied back, her voice sounding rusty in her ears. She cleared her throat slightly, then flicked the building ash with a tap of her manicured nail. The tension between them was oppressive and no small talk would do, nothing about the case now. Laine finally asked, "Can we talk somewhere?"

He looked her over, taking a drag from his cigarette before he blew it out and nodded. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder in no particular direction and turned, hoping she would follow. He hated living between bitterness and hurt, and maybe clearing the air would help. If the air between them wasn’t tainted forever. What else would he come to regret and miss the longer this case went on, he wondered.

He turned back towards her once they had gotten to some distance away from the motel rooms. He held her gaze for a time, remembering fonder moments in the bar in Charleston, or the motel right after extracting Frank. He glanced away before he spoke.

“What is it?” He asked, as if he wasn’t constantly being reminded of how Michael’s death made Laine look at him with the same revulsion, fear, and hate as she would a spider on her wall.

Laine took a moment to collect her thoughts and studied his features, the bright blue eyes that held an air of sadness but she had seen them hard and deadly before. The scars, the visible momento from the thankless job he did. The one he warned her about from the beginning, it was a war not police work. 

Taking a deep breath, Laine said, "I want to apologize."

The words slipped out in a rush, the guilt she had twisting in her gut. "I knew...You warned me and I knew in the back of mind what that interrogation would be. What might happen at the end. I just..."

She sighed, looking away from him and put the black Djarum to her lips but did not inhale yet the muttered, "I shouldn't have been there. I didn't help and you have your [I]ways[/I] of doing things. And when the time came...fuck, Donnelley. I just wish I never knew what happened with Michael. And it's fucking selfish of me and I'm sorry."

Laine blinked hard and her cheeks hollowed as she took a sharp drag of the clove, the embers cracking and flaring red. She blew the smoke away from him, her arms now tightly crossed. 

Donnelley was caught off guard, taken aback almost at the first words Laine let loose. In his mind, it was him that needed to apologize. But here she was, apologizing for not being a killer. Once again, he was reminded that he was not with seasoned veterans and stony-eyed killers. These were Feds, and analysts, and people who weren’t used to pruning the gene pool with a bullet or a garrote.

And he knew that he still needed to apologize. “I’m sorry too. I…” and he was at a loss for words. Guilty for not feeling guilty. She was right. “Look. Michael had it comin’…”

But even that felt wrong. He frowned, shaking his head to chase away the building temper that always flared up when his actions were morally called into question. Holly loved picking at those scabs. And here Laine was, not even meaning to. Falling victim to a habit that she had nothing to with. “Michael had it comin’. He was goin’ to kill you, kill me, kill everyone. That’s what he was goin’ to do.” Donnelley frowned, ran a hand through his black and red hair, “I needed to do everythin’ I did to make sure we didn’t become a goddamn [i]example.[/i] Make sure they couldn’t find out who you are and go after everyone that knows you.”

“I ain’t tellin’ you to harden up. I ain’t tellin’ you to forgive me and [i]this is why you should.[/i]” Donnelley shook his head, “Just… I needed to make sure nothin’ could make our homes unsafe. I’m sorry you had to see it all. I ain’t sorry for everything Michael spilled to us.”

Laine heard him out, nodding slightly then glanced at Donnelley, "I know he was dangerous, and I did not make it easier by saying our names like a fool. I knew that it wasn't going to end well but I tried to ignore it and pretend it was like any other interrogation. I tried to straddle a moral line and I failed. I could have walked away, I could have given all the responsibility of Michael to you and Dave but I didn't. Until it was clear there was no going back. I could not lie to myself anymore that I didn't know what would happen."

She took a drag and felt her face grow hot, a blush of shame and anger rising to her high cheekbones. "I know we needed that information and fast. You had to...but I can't settle it in my head. You executed a man. And yes he was a shit bag I'm not arguing there. But it's still murder."

Laine met Donnelley's eyes, it wasn't the first she knew it just by his demeanor. "How do I reconcile that, I catch killers. I want to ignore it, because if I can ignore it, we can go back to how it was."

She shrugged, arms still crossed in her breast with her cigarette dangling from her fingers. "But I can't, I won't, but maybe I can accept it what you have to do, because this is war. I just..."

Her green eyes flashed and she looked directly at him, meeting his gaze. "I need to know something." 

Donnelley sighed, nodding, “Anythin’.”

"Do you like it?" She asked directly, watching his face. 

Donnelley’s eyes narrowed, a frown growing deep in his face as the familiar aggression coiled in him. He snuffed the flame, looking away from Laine and sucking in a drag. He rolled his jaw, “I spent a couple weeks every year helpin’ my uncle out on his farm. Horses, chickens, tractors, farmer shit.” He frowned, looking at his cigarette before he continued, rolling it between thumb and forefinger as his mind played back the memories, “Coyotes get too close, you put a bullet in those, else they get to the chickens and the eggs.”

“Never liked it. Never hated it.” He looked back to Laine, shrugged, “Just somethin’ I gotta do sometimes.”

Laine raised a brow as he spoke then pursed her lips, "We're talking about people, not fucking coyotes. Nevermind about Michael, but I know it's not always some murdering asshole that gets killed to protect the Program."

Her own temper mixed with the anxiety she had felt earlier she thought about Duwant and Donnelley's casual threat. Laine gestured at him, "What about a man like Duwant, a good man trying to do the damn near impossible against the worst types of people. Who just wants to help get the people that destroyed Maria Vasquez. If he doesn't do what you and Foster want, are going to put a bullet in him too?"

His mind flashed back to his days in Working Group THUNDER. A haze of red hanging like a curtain over those times. The dirtiest of deeds, and they were the ones Foster called to do them. Donnelley held her gaze. “We hand them a lot of money and ask them to shut their fuckin’ mouths.” Donnelley said, “It’s up to them if they make us help them.”

His lip curled in contempt, no matter the feelings he had for Laine, the wistful gazes they’d shared, he refused to be judged by someone who could never understand, “There’s your goddamn answer.” Donnelley flicked his cigarette away and retreated back to his room.

Laine watched him go, her jaw clenched tight and once his door closed she tossed the butt of her black cigarette onto the parking lot. She stood for a moment, staring at the door. What she had wanted to do, clear the air and try to settle things had gone poorly. They might have had an attraction, a connection that was as tenuous as a cobweb strand now, if not completely severed by now.

"Fuck," she sighed, then lit a new cigarette, scanning the parking lot as she inhaled deeply. It was a point that had skipped her mind, the payoffs. And beyond that, Laine did not want to leave things like this. Not now. 

She tossed the half smoked Djarum and walked toward his door, standing there for a moment before knocking, three sharp raps. The door opened on Laine and Donnelley stood in the doorway, “What?”

Laine took a deep breath as the door swung open and his curt question. Her normally cool expression was flustered, the color still high in her cheeks. “I...I forgot about the money,” she admitted, with a slight shrug  then put her hands on her hips. “I’m just, hell...can I come inside rather than talking out here.” 

Donnelley frowned, looking her up and down before he sighed and dropped his hand from the door to his side. He shook his head, glad that Laine was still willing to patch things up. The hurt from the insinuation that he was a baseless killer still thumped in his chest, but he shrugged, “Fine.” He stepped aside for her, closing the door behind her, “What do you want me to say, Laine?”

She stepped inside, crossing her arms again in a gesture she knew most took to be defensive when it was more of a self comforting action. Laine put her arms down and looked him over. 

“I’m not wrong,” she started, “It’s pretty fucked up what has to happen but I understand and I’m sorry I jumped to the conclusion about Duwant. I’m also going to have to really think about this, if this is something I really want.” 

Laine met his eyes and searched them, “I could just take the money and go back to my office in Quantico. Leave it up to you and the others.”

Her voice caught and a sound like between a laugh and a sob muffled beneath her hand. “Part of me wants to but I don’t think I can do that. I’m here for a reason not just bear witness but to find these monsters. And that means, I have to be okay with everything. And it scares me to know that I could probably do that.” 

Donnelley’s frown softened and he brushed past her to sit on the edge of his bed, his hands coming together in his lap. Being okay with everything wasn’t what it was about. Intimidating witnesses, tampering with evidence. Making people disappear. He didn’t like it, nor did he hate it. It was just something he had to do sometimes. And she [i]was[/i] right, still. “Laine,” he began, looking up at her from where he was sitting, “You’re goin’ at it all wrong if you think everybody’s okay with everythin’ they have to do for the Program. It’s not about that.”

“It’s not as simple as right or wrong. Good and evil. It’s all shades of gray.” Donnelley said, shaking his head. He knew what he wanted to say. That he would miss the hell out of her if she left. He looked at her, taking his moment as he took all of her in. He made her feel this way, like Holly and Tilly, like history repeating itself. “What are you going to do?”

Laine watched him as he spoke, the strain of the last few days showing as he spoke about the subtleties they faced. Her job as an FBI profiler was not shades of gray, she hunted people that killed for sadistic pleasure. It was as much a battle between good and evil as one could ask for. It was easy to be moral then but in this fight, the fight Donnelley had told her once was the only one that mattered, the means didn't matter it was only the ends. 

She sighed, her hands resting on the swell of her hips, "I want to find this asshole that killed Maria Vasquez and Bethany Miller. And all those other victims who are just bones now. What, if anything, it might have to do with Dulane's Sleeper. If I have to do this the Program's way, with all [I]that[/I] entails then..."

 "Look, I'm not driving off tonight, we've been through a lot. And I want to see this through," Laine sat down on the stained motel chair, the old wooden frame creaking. The memory of their last time in a motel room, they had sat in opposite places and a different tension had been humming between them. 

Laine fell silent, reaching up to brush a lock of dark hair behind her ear, and asked quietly, "What now?"

Donnelley shrugged, the only evident answer on his lips, “We find the killer.”

Silence again, as the tension between them loosened in the stillness of the room. In the wake of the last few nights, the two of them had felt a spark that burned bright. Something within them brought them together, but the prospect of Donnelley’s work, of the Program coming between them was not something he wanted to think on. Here he was, enjoying something he never expected, and never expecting the things he did not enjoy to threaten it. “What after that?” Donnelley asked quietly, leaning forwards in his seat at the edge of the bed, closer to Laine.

Laine met his eyes, the moments they shared racing through her mind. It was hard to deny, despite the fact that he was her team lead and the experience with the interrogation. She still felt it, the desire to reach out and close the gap between them. 

His question held her silent for a long moment as Laine rolled everything over in her mind. She finally nodded, keeping her gaze intent on his. "You told me that this is the only war that matters, and I'm starting to understand. It's not what I'm used to, and there will be things I don't like that have to be done. I'm coming to terms with that."

She took a deep breath, her gaze moving to her hands, studying them as she replied, "I guess after we finish here...I don't know. We go back to our lives, our jobs..."

A slight half smile touched her lips and she shrugged, looking back up at Donnelley,  "Or find a nice beach and a cold beer."

Donnelley’s lips curved up in a soft smile as he looked up from the toes of his shoes to Laine’s eyes. He chuckled, a soft breath escaping him as he nodded, “I’d like that.”

Laine smiled in return then pushed herself up from the chair, reluctant to end the nice moment but the others were waiting. "We should probably go before people start wondering where we are.”