idlehands

Does anyone from Old Spam still show up?

I am from old Spam, it's been so long.

The Gunslinger's Bible: A role-player's guide to guns and the arts of gun-fighting

Your music choice makes me want to be friends with you. You had me at Mobb Deep

@Leidenschaft

Same tho, for me it was the Cramps.

Also a great guide for gun retards like myself.

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

Name: William Patrick, "Billy", "Queen"
Age: 32

Gender: Male

Appearance: 5'10", 160 lbs; a lean build, not overly muscled; sandy colored hair, blue eyes, multiple tattoos

Appearance

Agency/Organization: DEA, undercover agent

Education: Bachelor degree in Criminology, minor in Computer Science, University of Northern Florida

Background: Born and raised in a trailer park in Brooksville, FL to a single teen mother, his father was in and out of his life in the early years but then ghosted when Billy was about 13 years old. His dad had been a biker, a meth addict and in and out of prison. His mother had a string of boyfriends and remarried a when he was 15 and they moved to Jacksonville FL where he attended high school in a rough Cuban neighborhood. He learned Spanish and their habits as he was a gregarious kid and easily moved through the popular crowds, especially since he also often had the best weed. The only thing he wouldn't touch was meth, after watching what happened to his father.

After high school, he went to community college and dabbled in a few courses before settling on criminology. Jobs were scarce and his thoughts turned to security. There would always be crime so he got his degree in Criminology and took several computer courses certifications Recruited by the sheriff's department, he was hired out of school and worked as a patrol officer but quickly reached higher, taking the test to join the DEA or Customs. He passed both but decided the DEA was where the real action was.

His undercover work included a stint with the Hell's Highest, posing as a biker and building a case on their importing and distribution of heroin and opium, a situation that was causing upheaval with Mexican cartel sponsored street gangs that were once the main source. His time with them lasted almost four years before he built enough trust and evidence. Once the arrests were made he was sent to Miami, a place outside the Hell's Highest territory.

His new case took him into the Miami underworld, his fluency in Cuban Spanish and flashy, outgoing nature along with his supposed connections helped win the trust of the Cuban mafia. The vacuum left by the long-time boss in 2007 led to a bloody factional war over drug territory and encroaching Mexicans and Colombian controlled street gangs. Among the drugs, parties and territorial disputes there were rumors of one group of Cubans turning to the occult, Santeria to curse their rivals. Ordinarily, the idea of the mystic African based religion wouldn't have interested Billy but he made a contact with the Miami-Dade sheriff's department, a man named Yoel Barrera whose grandmother was a practitioner. He told Billy that what was happening was dark magic, nothing a true Santerian would murder and sacrifice, that the dark god the cult worshipped wasn't a traditional Santeria figure. Deeper digging exposed kidnapped victims, mostly rival gang members, being killed by knives or drowned as offerings to a dangerous dark entity that they called on to give them the power to defeat their enemies.

His choice to join Delta Green came with a mysterious meeting and a burner cell phone. Now he is a member of Working Group THUNDER, a cleaner team that takes care of loose ends. He leaves most of the killing to the others, his skill is finding the target whether on the street or online.

Personality: Fast-talking, outgoing and friendly, he is a gregarious man and has the capability to charm most people. He can run his mouth too much and piss people off but generally, his humor keeps him from too much trouble.

Family, Friends, and Associates: Mother, Stepfather, Yoel Barrera and Abuela Barrera

Likes: Hot people, sex, drugs, designer jeans, empanadas, gossip

Dislikes: cultists, unnecessary brutality, boredom

Fears: The things he's seen haunt him and he is afraid that one day he'll lose the war personally and end up in a straight jacket. He's afraid that one day he'll slip up and after all the executions he's witnessed and assisted with, he'll be the target.

STRENGTH: 3
DEXTERITY: 4
STAMINA: 3
BUREAUCRACY: 3
INTELLIGENCE: 4
WILLPOWER: 3 -1 = 2

Skills:
Gifted(+5): Awareness, Persuade
Adept(+4): Breaking and Entering, Subterfuge, Computer Science
Average(+3): Handguns, Interrogation, Hand to hand combat
Novice(+2): First Aid, Tactical Driving, Law, Criminology

Strengths:

Weaknesses: Addictive behavior to cope has been growing the longer Billy stays working in the Program, killing people and seeing the monstrous reality behind the veil of civilization, whether it's sex, drugs, booze or gambling he has a taste for it the risky behavior a proxy for the adrenaline fuel of his job; physical weakness: a smaller build than the rest of his team, he works out but it is not religious about it like most other team members, heavy smoker also suffered a collapsed left lung due to a stab wound received in the line of duty

Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment: Because you're not going to be walking around in door-kicking gear all day, every day on a clandestine op.
Clothing: everything from designer suits to ratty jeans, it depends on where he's going, he's a bit of a fashionista and has a dark funky style all his own, his nickname reflecting his attention to his appearance
Weapons: the ASP, his beloved and rare spy gun, a compact but full power 9mm S&W, he carries it hidden on undercover missions or off duty, brass knuckles, Spyderco Matriarch self-defense knife

Operational Clothing/Equipment: General DEA tactical gear, Mini Uzi for close quarter combat inside houses or while driving, Tavor TAR-21 5.56m, taser, flexicuffs, can vary depending on the job
Tools/Equipment: B&E tools, electronic listening devices, spy shit

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

---

>FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA
>JUL.14.2019
>2200?

Cold, feathery breezes washed through the night air and carried off another stream of smoke. Somewhere on the side of the road, a lone cherry like a firefly in the shadows smoldered, growing brighter with the occasional draws of its owner. Every so often, headlights would fade in and Donnelley would track them with sharp eyes as they would fade out again when their drivers continued on with their lives uncaring of the aging punk on the side of the road.

He looked up to the night, watched a plane drift by ever so slowly like a wandering star. Signs of life, expectant of another sunrise as if it were owed. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he took his eyes from the plane and put them on the name on his screen. Queen. He let it ring once, twice more, and then answered.

“Howdy.”

“Pardner,” his voice on the other end had a giddy tinge, “Hold onto your boots, I got something for ya. Fresh off Interpol.”

Donnelley cracked a grin and took another draw off his cigarette and chasing it with a nip off his flask, “You gon’ tell me or am I gonna have to come up there?”

“Alright, alright, I don’t know if you’re busy or balls deep in someone,” Queen replied, unable to keep the boyish excitement down. “Looks like FSB has been keeping an eye on the guy your contact told you about. Nikolai Gorochev, he’s a confirmed high ranking officer in Tadjbegskye Bratva. Those are some bad dudes, even among the Russian mafia in Miami they’re not to be fucked with. Miami bratvas are mostly fraud, extortion, and shit, Tadjbegskye traffiks women, girls mostly from old Eastern bloc countries and sells them all over the world, including here. Anyhoo, he’s an army and KGB vet, listed here that he fought in the Afghanistan war for the Soviets. He’s supposed to be fifty eight years old but...hold on.”

A pause then a picture popped up in a text message, the image of a younger man, perhaps in his mid thirties, with cold blue eyes and hard Slavic features looking over his shoulder in a candid shot taken with a telephoto lens. A visible tattoo on his neck emerged from the collar of his suit, an Orthodox style cross.

“They must have some fucking magicians as plastic surgeons in Moscow,” Queen said after sending the picture. “That’s a recent picture, only a year old. He was last seen in March, 2018 in France but when they raided his chateau, he was gone. Poofed. In April there are reports of him in New York and you can guess who he likely met with. His name has been orbiting around missing persons cases in Europe for years, mostly girls. According to some statistics I looked up, his arrival in New York corresponded with a rise in reported missing teenage girls from the New York/New Jersey area. It might be coincidence, but I kinda doubt it, this is their trade.”

He paused then said, “Well, he drops off the radar now but there was a little tidbit that I find very juicy. His daughter Natalya has recently come to the US for a visit. Seeing NYC? Hollywood? Miami Beach? Not this jet setting lady, she’s vacationing in West fucking Viriginia with her husband, Viktor Ivanov.”

A flick of a lighter could be heard on his end and the sound of inhaling and blowing of smoke then Queen said, “That’s the quick version of what I got, I thought I’d tell you first.”

Donnelley whistled, flicking ash and taking another hit of his cigarette, “I love it when you work your magic, Queen.” Donnelley chuckled, “I’ll try to find Natalya and Viktor. Hopefully they stay put and don’t pull a Houdini like daddy. Anythin’ else?”

"You know I got you, Big Tex," Queen crowed, "I got my contacts, worldwide."

He sniffed and then said, "Nah, unfortunately, even my reach is limited. This guy takes great pains in covering his tracks...not exactly records of his flights, if you know what I'm saying. Private jets, prolly."

Queen hissed a breath in then coughed, turning away from the phone, "You should mosey on down to Miami, beaches are wall to wall suntanned skin this time of year. I'm taking a break, checked in with home base and hit up some friends, got some good shit."

Donnelley smiled, kicked slightly at the gravel as he chuckled, “Shoo’, you know I’d love to show Miami what a real fuckin’ party is like them old days, me an’ you.” Donnelley’s chuckle guttered out, thinking on old times, hazier and simpler. More honest, in some ways, “It was good seein’ you ‘gain.”

A faint smile hung around the edges of his lips, “I got plans tonight, but I’ll let you know next time I’m free to come ‘round. Party like we used to.”

"Hell yeah," Queen replied, "I'm gonna hold you to that. I miss those days, bro. THUNDER ain't the same without you. When you done babysitting, we'll hit the best club with the best illegal substances the DEA can provide."

“One thing the Federal Government’s good for is puttin’ guns and drugs in us hoodlums’ pockets.” Donnelley clucked his tongue, “See you ‘round, Queen. Don’t fry your brain without me.”

"I'll save that pleasure for ya. Deuces," Queen said before ending the call.

Donnelley took the phone from his ear and let his arm down, taking another drag from his cigarette and another swig from his flask. He didn’t have plans, but when did he ever like safety? He looked back at his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Laine’s number. His thumb hovered over the call button and froze in place. Had she heard about what happened in New York? What would she say?

He swallowed, making to put his phone back and then swore on the night air, looking at his phone again and mashing his thumb against the call button, putting it to his ear and listening to it ring...

Laine was on her knees, laying out papers on the carpet in the empty spare bedroom she used as an office. Each page had a smiling girl, a missing child from the Seattle area, New York, and the Southwest border area. Dozens of faces, all girls between twelve and seventeen, mostly Hispanic some Asian or Native, even a few light skinned black girls. None were white or dark skinned, the theme seemed to be olive hued girls with dark hair and eyes.

She sat back, her pale thighs framed by the black jogging shorts and knee high soccer socks she wore. The faces looked back at her, Maria Vasquez in the center. Her phone suddenly buzzed and chimed and she leaned over to pick it up.

Donnelley.

Laine paused, after Agent Garcia's information about the situation in New York she not called or texted him, making the excuse she was busy. In fact she was, but he might have news she needed to know. On the fourth ring, she finally slid it to answer and said, "Donnelley?"

“Hey,” he began, a tepid note to his voice, though he tried to force some cheer in there, “Um, what are you doing? You busy?”

As if he needed to explain himself, he went further in his reasoning for the call, “I been makin’ the rounds. Ava and I compared some notes. How are you?”

Laine sank back on her heels, taking a moment to listen to his tone. "It's eleven at night, what do you think?"

She waited a beat then said in a lighter voice, "I'm working actually, just trying to get a sense of the scope and connections. Falling down a rabbit hole to be honest. VICAP had quite a few hits but nothing that matched the signature of the Vasquez case exactly. You've been busy for being on a break."

There was a long pause on the line, the soft sound of a cigarette being drawn on and the sigh. He didn’t put any effort in masking the tone of it. Deflating. “I’m…” Donnelley began, sighing again, “Am I bothering you? Because I have a direction to take things.”

"You're not bothering me," she replied, standing up and started to walk to the kitchen. "I'm actually taking a break, so..."

Laine went down the stairs, continuing, "What direction do you want to take things?"

She almost added to clarify she meant the case then stopped herself. Of course he meant the case, Laine reasoned.

“Listen,” Donnelley began, always a good start to any line of reasoning, “I’m sure by now you know that I got Carlisle. He’s been in contact with a Russian syndicate named Tadjbegskye Bratva.”

“It’s a stretch, I know, but with the Russians and AB bein’ active in Blackriver…” Donnelley grunted, sizing up his next words, “Everything about this fits their MO. Carlisle sees the Russians as better business and more secure than the Sinaloa.”

“I can’t risk putting all of this out on the air on a phone on the side of the road,” the sound of a passing car lending proof to his location, “We don’t have to discuss the case if you don’t want to. Sounds like you’re busy for bein’ on a break.”

He dipped his toe and tried at a chuckle, “You hungry or anythin’?”

Laine stayed silent, he brought up Carlisle, assuming she knew. If she knew about Carlisle she knew about the shootout but that part was left out. The sound of wind and a passing car obscured his voice for a moment then quieted.

"I've been working," she said evenly, "And yes, I know you got Carlisle. And I know it didn't go smoothly. I already had dinner...but I could use a drink."

“I can help with that.” He said, a smile in his voice, “Know a place?”

Laine replied, "The Rec Room, it's near downtown Fredericksburg. I'll text you the address. I need to change and I'll meet you there."

The bar sat on the edge of downtown Fredericksburg, small with graffiti art covering the brick walls and clusters of college aged kids with dyed hair smoking just outside. The windows had been painted over, but the red tinged light poured out of the open door along with the crash of drums and strangled guitar riffs. An overly muscled bald man stood at the door, watching with a bored expression as he collected cover charges and checked IDs.

Laine pulled up in her black Volkswagen Golf, parking near the only lamppost in the small parking lot. She checked her makeup in the mirror, her deep burgundy lipstick almost black in the low light. Laine had changed into large hole fishnet tights and a short black bondage skirt paired with her tall Doc Martens that laced nearly to the knee. Her top was a sleeveless Minor Threat t-shirt slashed across the back, the fine lines of her tattoo peeking between the ribbons of fabric.

Laine looked nothing like an FBI agent but she still felt a twinge of self consciousness at her age, she had a decade or more on most of the girls at the bar. Laine started towards the entrance, keeping an eye out for Donnelley.

Once inside, she could pick him out of the crowd past the thrashing crowd, nodding his head along to what sounded like a live cover of GG Allin’s Abuse Myself. The black in his hair and beard was gone, cut down to the red and shorter. He stood with his Thrasher cap perched atop his head, a Leftover Crack tank made from a tee, the sleeves cut off. His frayed black jeans complementing his dull, black Doc Martens. He rose his bottle of beer to her with a small smile, beckoning her over with a nod.

Laine sauntered through the crowd, slipping through knots of people yelling in each other's ears to be heard above the thrashing guitar. She slid up to the bar and leaned in, half shouting her order to a bartender with pink liberty spikes. The bottle of Smirnoff Black Ice and paid, dropping a dollar in the tip jar that had a sticker slapped on the side Fuck you, pay me.

She took a sip and glanced over the crowd, her eyes skimming the young faces until she spotted the familiar features under the cap she recalled he wore at Baughman's apartment. Laine pushed off the bar and skirted the crowd, eyes following her progress but were no spying Russians only drunk boys with an appreciation for fishnets.

She raised her slightly when she made eye contact with Donnelley and headed in his direction. Laine leaned in, speaking up so he could hear, "You found the place fast. What do you think?"

It was a cramped space, the pool tables being used right now as makeshift benches as the club was packed to see Miserable Viscera, a punk band from Baltimore.

He leaned back and raised his beer away from a couple passing them a little close and smiled at Laine, “S’great.” He took a swig from his beer, and looked her over appreciatively, a twinkle of hunger in his eyes not unlike the boys ogling her on her way over, “You clean up nice.”

Laine nodded and took a sip of the malt beverage, shifting her eyes at him to dare Donnelley to say something about her drink of choice. Lifting her brows she shrugged, "Dress for the occasion, but thanks. I feel like an ancient crone around these kids."

She caught sight of a pair of teen girls in short skirts and Converse sneakers, long skinny legs and too much make up. Laine smiled slightly, a reminder of her own youth. She looked over at Donnelley, catching the expression in his eyes, "Digging the hair. Ginger suits you," she said, leaning towards him again so she didn't have to shout. Her gaze held his, the deep green of her eyes almost black in the dim smoky lighting of the club, "How are you doing?"

To his credit, the grin kept up with the question, even growing into a smile, “I’m good,” he chuckled, running his hands through his short hair, “Yeah, I ditched the two-tone. Figure it makes me look weird. What about you? Had a damn crazy week we got out the other end of.”

"Yeah a little weird for a backwoods place like that especially," Laine replied, raising her voice before taking a drink. The noise of the band and the crowd buffeted them, and the mention of his crazy week got her attention on more important things. Laine leaned in and said in his ear, her warm breath against his skin, "Follow me, I know a place to talk without screaming at each other."

She stepped away, catching his eyes before turning to walk towards the back of the club, around the stage until she came to a door. Laine pushed the bar and it opened onto a back deck, some heavily graffitied picnic tables and a couple of people smoking and chatting but most everyone was inside to see the band.

Laine lead him to a bench against the railing of the deck and sat down, crossing her legs as she absently tugged the short skirt down along her thighs. "Now we can hear ourselves think."

“I usually don’t like that.” He chuckled as he followed Laine, chugging down his beer and chucking it hard into the back parking lot and reveling in the twinkling shards and sharp sound of breaking glass, “Down to business?” He said, hushed as he shoved a cigarette between his lips.

Laine took a sip from her bottle and leaned an elbow on the back of the bench, turning her body so she could face Donnelley. She looked at him for a long moment, then said, "I can imagine that's true. I heard about the cops, something must have gone wrong."

She stayed quiet and fished out her Djarums almost out of habit seeing him get a cigarette. She held the black package and waited.

His jaw flexed for a moment, “You want to ask if me if I enjoyed it?”

Laine shook her head a little, running her thumb across the mouth of the bottle. "I know you must have been forced into that choice by circumstances and no, I don't think you enjoyed it. You told me that and I believe you. I just...I'm just wondering what happened."

Donnelley sighed, shaking his head at the mood damper. “We got our guy, shit went south quick. Real south. Cops pulled up and I had to do what I did.” Donnelley lit his cigarette and looked back at Laine, “I don’t know what else there is to say.”

“These weren’t Blackriver deputies. Them I could give a shit about.” He pursed his lips, “I’d rather not have, but I did.”

Laine took a drink then nodded, saying nothing. Her gaze held his and she sighed, looking at the near empty bottle of Smirnoff. "I figured as much. I'm sorry that went so bad. For you and them."

She knocked back the rest of her drink and held the empty bottle. Laine looked at it then at him, a slight sad smile touching her dark painted lips. "Sorry to bring it up but it's been on my mind. The shit we're in."

Laine followed his example, chucking her bottle hard so it smashed farther than his did. She took out one of her clove cigarettes and held it between her fingers. "Wanna get drunk?"

“Is that even a damn question?” His mischievous grin returning at her question. He looked at her the way he did in the motel, a hunger buried shallow in his gaze, “Party at your place or are we ruinin’ some cleaner’s mornin’?”

Laine bit her lip when she felt herself grinning in response, meeting the look in his eyes. Her heart skipped and she felt warmth in her face. Taking Donnelley back to her place or a motel, either one was dangerous and exciting, something that they both could tell themselves was just for safety, to keep from driving drunk. They could say that.

Laine held her cigarette out for a light, "Do you have a room?"

“It’s in town.” He said, the insinuation that he’d already gotten one in advance for this very moment bringing him a little warmth. In reality, it was a bed to sleep in. But he knew why else. Her canine digging into her plump bottom lip made him stir inside, the hunger roiling like restless waves at her eyes peering into his. “Pick up a bottle, go there.”

Laine stood up, brushing her hand over the back of her skirt to keep it from riding up. It would be safer, maybe, to take him home but there was a part of her that balked at the idea. Or maybe a strange motel room was just the thing to forget herself.

"What's your poison? There is a liquor store down the street," she offered, her cigarette still unlit between her fingers.

“Whiskey.” He said through his smirk, “‘Less you’re lookin’ for somethin’ else?”

"Whiskey is good," she said, tucking a lock of short hair behind her ear, "Vodka, rum, tequila...but not gin."

Laine started to walk towards the parking lot, glancing at Donnelley. "You got something else?"

“I got a bottle already in my room, but you want vodka, we’ll have to go shoppin’.” He took a drag and almost listed fuck it as an option, a part of him wanting to spend time alone with Laine and forget the world outside of his motel room. Like when he made eggs and bacon for Ava, draping a blanket over her as she fell asleep on her couch.

But this, it was more primal. Like his foray with Queen and Ghost had unlocked a side of him he hadn’t let loose in some time, the thought of Laine all to himself after their stay in the Goldstar was irresistible. “Your call.”

Laine smiled slightly, a wistful turning up of her full lips. "Whiskey will do, reminds me of your flask."

She recalled that night when he calmed her down, giving her his hoodie after the terror of Mrs Baughman's walking dead corpse. "Yeah let's just head over, I need something stronger than anything in a twelve ounce bottle."

Laine walked towards her car, retrieving her keys before she changed her mind. "Coming with me or am I following you?"

“I should probably ride shotgun. We been drinkin’ a little.” Donnelley smirked around his cigarette. The cherry lit up and two streams from his nostrils plumed from him. He flicked the cigarette away, “Then again, I got a ride for myself and I like to go fast. Beat you here, beat you to the motel?”

"You only beat me because I had to do this," Laine said, moving her hand up and down to indicate her face and body. "Besides whatever rental POS you have isn't going to out run my VDub."

She clicked her key fob, the black VW Golf with black rims flicked the lights and honked, "Hop in, boss. I'll chauffeur you."

He touched a hand to his chest and smiled, “And my heart is touched that you went through such trouble.” He chuckled, biting his lip for a moment and pausing before he fell in step with Laine, “If you insist.”

Laine drove, the music playing in the background as she followed his directions. It happened to be on the same route as she would take home and the decision not to just hang out at her place began to gnaw at her. She liked Donnelley, it wasn't as if any of her neighbors knew he was her boss, and Foster was nowhere around. Laine told herself it was because of privacy but deep down, a strange motel room released her from a certain responsibility. Her hand flexed against the wheel and she asked, "Is this a nice room or Goldstar quality?"

She shot a glance at him, feeling the need to give some explanation, "Your hotel is closer than my place anyway."

“I deserve the finer things in life, as you know,” Donnelley looked at her from watching the scenery move past, “It’s a little nicer, I guess. Better be for what I’m payin’.”

"Everything is pricey around here, government workers getting those fat stacks," Laine remarked. "At least it's not LA."

She pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, a decent looking place on the outskirts of Fredericksburg. Laine sat for a moment, "I feel...fuck it. Let's drain that bottle. We deserve it."

She got out, looking over at the well maintained landscaping and clear blue pool, all well lit. Laine stepped inside once he unlocked it, feeling a sudden surge of guilt and pushed it aside. The room was a few steps up from the Goldstar, a single king-sized bed and flat screen TV mounted on the wall, a minifridge and furnishings that at least looked like they were from this century.

Laine stood aside, looking around, "Not bad."

Donnelley stepped up beside her, “Like I said,” he nudged her softly, “Finer things.”

He took up the bottle on the nightstand by the neck, pouring two shots into the hotel provided glasses and offering one to Laine, “What should we toast to?” He looked at her from behind the glass. That simmer in him born again seeing her in the light of the lamps. His eyes ran over her curves, her lips, imagining in the back of his mind what she felt like to the touch, “Two people coming together for a good night?”

Laine set her purse on the nightstand and accepted the glass, holding it close to his, "A good night and another sunrise."

Her eyes were on his as she clicked the glass, the secrets they held and the way he looked at her. Laine smiled at him, bringing the cup to her lips and swallowed the whiskey, shivering slightly as the heat coursed through her chest.

Donnelley puffed out his cheeks in a breath as the whiskey went down, shaking his head as he sat on the edge of the bed, pouring another shot. “Still hangin’ onto that, huh?” He offered a smile, remembering trying to keep her calm after seeing her so shaken. Trying to keep her calm after him being so shaken, almost seeing her die on their first assignment together, because he wouldn’t steer her away just a bit harder. He realized he’d lost his smile a bit and brought it back, “Little flattered.” He offered the bottle out for another shot.

Laine ran her fingers through her hair and grinned sheepishly, "Yeah, I guess I am. It's just one of the few things that makes sense to me in this whole... Program situation."

She held out her glass then sat beside him, leaving a bit of a gap between their bodies. Laine stretched out her legs, pale skin showing through the diamond pattern fishnets, her polished tall boots laced almost to her knees.

"I guess I'm slower on the uptake, I've always been a little methodical when it comes to working out problems so being asked to accept so much...weird and...well lawful ambiguity it is an adjustment in thinking and rationalizing. But that, another sunrise? I can make sense of that, I understand that," Laine said, turning to look at him. "You're a good team leader, I told Foster as much when he asked what I thought of you."

She made a small gesture with her hands, "Not to kiss your ass or anything."

“I think I deserve a few pecks, thank you very much.” Donnelley smirked, and then looked at Laine appreciatively. Not with a hunger, though that was still there, but some genuine gratitude. He nodded, “Thank you though.”

He looked away, chuckling but slightly worried, “You think he knows?” He pointed at the both of them, gestured to the motel, “What, uh… we got?”

Laine knocked back some whiskey, hissing between her teeth and raised an eyebrow. A coy smile toyed at her lips at his question. She tilted her head slightly, "What do we have that would make him object in any kind of way. We're just having a drink, colleagues...of a sort."

Her gaze met his, feeling the warmth of both whiskey and her own physical response. "Do you think we're that obvious?"

His mind flashed with his first meeting with Bakker, and then the tense moments in Annie’s Diner between him and Jason. “Shit, I hope not.” He chuckled, “I keep it under wraps pretty well. Agency man and all, I can keep a secret.” He winked.

He knocked back his shot and smirked, “Just bondin’, after all. Nothin’ horrible.”

He was starting to feel the telltale looseness of his limbs and tongue, his inhibitions melting away. Far from him to let himself lose control though, “I gotta ask…” he clucked his tongue, “Is it my music taste, my winnin’ smile, boyish charm?”

Laine chuckled, tucking her hair behind her ear. She turned her body so she could face him and shrugged, running a hand down her upper arm, briefly covering the black inked tattoos there. "You do have those qualities, but..."

She bit her lower lip and then chuckled, "You're bold. A lotta guys are like intimidated by me? I don't know, I've been told before. But you're not and you still treat me like I'm not just a nice face. It's cool."

The whiskey was gone from her cup and the SoCal now making an appearance in her speech. "Plus you know, you got that vibe."

She helped herself to another glass and muttered as she took a sip of the straight whiskey, "I'm talking too much."

Donnelley chuckled, being bashful and flattered was not something he was used to. He felt like a boy again, first date with his crush on prom night. Or some such other shit, he thought. “You ain’t.” He said, turning to look at her, “I mean, you do have a nice face. Pretty, like…” he snorted at what his next words were, that country bumpkin with punk flair not knowing much outside his hometown, “Like one of them actresses you never think you’ll ever see off that screen. Intimidatin’.”

He chuckled, “But, I like that. You’re different. Sounds cheesy as all hell, I know, but… I like you.”

He rubbed his neck, fingers brushing the faded scar as he looked into his glass, “I’m gettin’ pretty up there.” With a shrug, he poured another shot for himself and threw it back, wiping the corner of his lip on his forearm. “Damn country ass punk kid and big city pretty girl.”

He chuckled, looking at Laine as he laid back on the bed and stretched his legs, “Fuck, are we a stereotype?”

Laine laughed and rolled her eyes, "Thanks, I'm glad to know I'm still intimidating to a big bad spook."

She leaned back on one hand, watching him stretch out, her gaze flickering across his flat stomach and up to his face. With a wry grin, she said, "Yeah, maybe we're like a total trope. But at least this city girl isn't shopping on Rodeo Drive. I don't have a trust fund."

Laine took another sip, feeling the tingling numbness in her lips and face. She giggled at the ticklish sensation when she bit her lip, testing the sensation. "Now it's my turn," Laine looked at him, her expression shifting from giddy to something more serious. "Other than what I look like, why do you like me?"

“You got a real nice face with them purdy city girl lips and your eyes’re like the water in the creek at summertime.” He drawled out in a cartoonish Texan, slack-jawed drawl and laughed before he turned a bit serious. “Nah, but… You’re intelligent. Always workin’ at somethin’ in that mind. Everything I don’t have, you do, and that makes you a good Special Agent.”

“You got some sense of right and wrong, and a lot of the people I know or knew either have too much or none at all.” He shook his head, looking up at the ceiling, “It takes a special type of person to keep one foot one side and the other on the other.”

“I look at you and see somebody who knows full well what they are, or at least what they want to be. Ain’t gonna let anybody change ‘em ‘less you let ‘em.” He smirked and nodded, “I like it. The way you do everything you do. I know I get under your skin, but goddamn you can return the favor.”

“Some reason, I like it a hell of a lot. I get called a fuckin’ prick, an asshole. Real sonofabitch.” He laughed, “But anybody who can take that and toss it right back is somebody I wanna keep around.”

He looked at her, that same smirk as he snaked a hand under his head to prop it up and get a better view, “Keeps me interested.”

Laine looked down at her hands and then back at him, her green eyes sparkling. "That was ... that was pretty fucking good."

Then she laughed, pulling her leg on the bed, folding it under so she sat almost sideways to look directly at him. "I hope you remember that next time we piss each other off and I say something mean to you, because it'll probably happen. I'm usually pretty even tempered but you do have your way about you, Mister Donnelley."

She purposefully dragged out the word, knowing he didn't care for being called that but the sly grin and twinkle in her eyes revealed the mischievous humor.

He chuckled, grinning and edging closer to her, the hunger rising up again and begging him to reach out and caress her fishnet adorned thigh, “Thank you, but I prefer to be addressed as ‘sir.’”

Laine's brows ticked up, the smile turning impish as she said, "Oh do you? Well...yes, sir. I'll remember that."

She licked her lips lightly, then pressed them together, shifting a little closer. Her glass was empty she realized so Laine leaned in taking the whiskey from the nightstand and poured a glass. She looked at Donnelley, tipping her glass to him, "Thank you for the whiskey, sir."

Laine knocked it back then set the glass on the nightstand beside the bottle, "I can be a hell of a smartass when I'm drinking, sir."

“Mm…” Donnelley bit his lip in turn, reaching under and hiking up his shirt to scratch at his chest, “Are you patronizing me, Doctor? I don’t know if I can take this grave insubordination.”

He chuckled, his stomach still exposed as he reached over to rest his arm dangerously close to the small of her back, “Whatever will I do with you, I wonder.”

Laine tossed her short hair and gave him a half smile, her eyes flashing with the same desire she had at the Goldstar Motel. "I'm sure you'll think of something , that's why you're the boss. What do you do when your team member acts up?"

Her gaze ran over the muscle on his stomach, tracking the twin lines that lead down and disappeared under his jeans. The headiness of the whiskey and the intense feelings that roiled through her made her bold, made her forget the possible consequences.

“Probably been thinkin’ about what to do with you for a bit,” he shifted to his hands and knees, placing Laine on her back under him. He paused, letting his eyes roam over her in this new light. They’d been sitting, or standing, front to front. Always fully clothed. An electrifying distance between them and now, the rise and fall of her chest, the feeling of her under him, his voice came in a purr, “Have you?”

She watched him get up, her eyes never leaving his face despite her heart thumping in her chest. Laine shifted when he moved to her, letting him press her back against the bed. His hands were calloused but warm on her wrists and she gazed up at him, her lips parted slightly.

"Yeah, I have," she admitted, her cheeks now flushed from whiskey and the warm desire building inside her, "More than I should have."

He felt her breath coming soft and warm on his cheeks, his eyes searching hers, roaming over her face and her plump lips, the intoxicating sound of her admittance and the way her lips moved around the words. They’d waited and been interrupted by everything short of the hand of God. Not tonight. He leaned in close, finally touching his lips to hers, the tenderness sending shivers of relief, yet the wanting for more only grew.

Laine closed her eyes when he closed the small distance, sensing his intent. She returned his kiss, the sparks of sensation tingling through her body as she arched up slightly to meet him. As her lips parted against his and the kiss grew deeper, she sighed softly.

The night had become a wordless expedition of each other’s bodies, heavy breaths of pleasure punctuating the silence, swears and curses tickling at ears and begging for more. A longing in each other, for each other, finally answered in such sweet and satisfying melodies and harmonizing breathy moans and groans.

Laine sat up, still on her knees between his legs,"That was some interesting quid pro quo, sir."

She smiled and leaned forward, seeking to kiss him. He placed his hand along her jaw and drew her into a deep, passionate kiss, seemingly unheeding what he’d done just a moment ago as their tongues tickled and caressed each other, “Stick with me, there’ll be more.” He chuckled. He got to the end of the bed, grasping up his jeans with a reaching hand and withdrawing his pack of cigarettes. “You want yours, or one of mine?”

Laine watched him, enjoying the sight of his sinewy muscles when he moved. Her purse was over on the table near the door so she shrugged, "I'll just take one of yours."

She moved so she was sitting up in bed, the pillows behind her against the headboard. Laine took the cigarette, waiting for him to settle in next to her if he would. Her body was still humming with whiskey and sexual release and she gave Donnelley a crooked grin, "This is only going to make it harder to hide."

Donnelley’s grin grew across his lips as he chuckled, crawling to Laine on all fours and offering her a cigarette as he sided up with her, “Yeah, well,” he shrugged, knowing he’d gotten practice hiding secrets from Foster, and even his own teammates, “What’s life without risk?”

He lit his cigarette with his black lighter, offering it out to her, white writing glancing at her as he handed it over.

"Pretty boring, for sure," she replied, taking his lighter. Once she lit her cigarette she read the writing then smiled, handing it back to him.

"Does that work for you?"

He smiled back, giving a single nod, and looking at the little novelty lighter he’d found at a local store, ‘If you wanna f*ck, smile when you give me the lighter back.’ He drew in a long breath of nicotine and let it out upwards towards the ceiling, “I hope you know I’m not done. Just a break.” He smirked. “You are good.”

Laine smiled as she brought the cigarette to her lips, taking a drag of the sharp tasting tobacco. "That's what I was hoping you'd say."

The smoke drifted up and Laine leaned back, not bothering to cover her nakedness, "You are... damn, you left me melting."

Donnelley’s eyes roamed over her in the soft light of the lamps, feeling his arousal return to him again quicker and quicker the longer he stared, “I been thinkin’ ‘bout this since the Goldstar.” His fingers strayed to her thigh, stroking and softly caressing dangerously close to what he wanted further up, “I hope the next Safehouse is good enough. I don’t know about you, but pushin’ the limits is always fun. ‘Course, we could just go out and rent a motel if that don’t arouse suspicion.”

He put the cigarette to his smirking lips, looking sidelong at Laine, “Unless, of course, I’m only a late night encounter…”

Laine put her cigarette between her fingers and looked at him, feeling his wandering hand and her own internal twinge of response, "You think I'm going to deny myself?"

She leaned over, nipping him on the shoulder playfully, "As long as we're having fun and we're not like making it weird for our team, what's the harm?"

“What they don’t know,” He leaned over and kissed her forehead, taking her chin with a finger and wrapping his lips in hers, “Won’t hurt ‘em.”

He leaned back, sighing. He thought to bring up the fact she’d touched his scar and accepted him as he was, but decided against it. Some part of him didn’t want sentimentality to crack the thick air of arousal between them. It was something he’d wanted there for the longest time, perhaps longer than Laine even knew. From the phone call in Seattle at the very first days of them knowing each other to now. They hadn’t even spent an hour at the bar before deciding on this.

It had been some time since he’d felt that wanted, and beyond the feeling of being a big, masculine man, it made him feel like that young punk with the world ahead of him again. And no need for any help he didn’t ask for in taking it on. “One more shot and then we go again in a bit?” He asked, an eager little smirk on his lips.

---

>15.JUL.2019
>1130...///

Laine was dressed in the same skirt and t-shirt, minus fishnet thigh highs that somehow had been torn in the night's activities. She brushed her hair, still slightly damp from the shower then applied a light bit of make up. Eyeliner and lipstick would at least make her feel human.

The night before had been intense and wonderful, and Laine caught herself smiling at nothing as she continued to get ready. She had hardly thought of the case and it had been a nice break but today was a new day and there was work to do.

As she laced her boot, Laine glanced over at Donnelley, "We should go pick up your car and get something to eat. What's your itinerary look like?"

“I- agh…” The boot slipped on finally and he went to work lacing it and tying it. Still sans shirt, he slipped it over his head and stood, “I’m pretty free today. At some point soon, I’m goin’ to have to go back out-of-country to see what Iraq looks like. Developments.”

He screwed his eyes shut as he threw his head to one side, then the other, each movement accompanied by rattling pops and he sighed with satisfaction. “Somethin’ to eat sounds like a great idea.” He clucked his tongue, “I hope nobody broke into my rental. Clothes and guns are in that thing.”

"I'm on my weekend," she said, standing up and smoothing her skirt down. "But I'm expecting a call from CJIS anytime about the bones. I'd also like to get a hold of Duwant and talk to him about a man he arrested for a couple of murders that share some similarities to our killer's signature. You know, I forget you have a day job too. I hope it's nothing too bad out there."

Laine watched him pop his neck and winced, then said, "Let's go find out, I probably should have just let you drive I was...I don't know. I just wanted you close, I guess."

She ducked her head, hiding a sheepish smile before heading to the door.

Donnelley’s face was beaming with a smile as he chuckled, “A worthy sacrifice then.” He shrugged, he followed her out the door and his smile vanished as the sun stabbed at his eyes, his hand as a visor as he waited for Laine to unlock her car. “The sun can fuck off…” he muttered.

"I agree," she said, squinting as she pushed unlock on the key fob. The doors unlocked and she tossed her purse on the backseat and slid into the driver's side.

Once they were buckled in, Laine glanced at him and said, "I had a really good time last night."

Donnelley smiled over at her, looking away bashful and nodded, “Yeah,” he breathed a little chuckle, “I had a really good time too.”

Laine turned then leaned over to kiss his cheek swiftly before pulling back to start the car. Her face was flushed and she almost laughed at herself, after everything they had done in the motel during the night she felt shy about kissing him now, "Well, uh, after we pick up your car, I need to go to my place. I can make some lunch or we can grab something on the way."

The rental car was intact where they left it and Donnelley followed her. Laine decided it was better to use some of the groceries she bought and the prospect of West Virginia and eating fast food every day made her long for her kitchen.

They drove to Stafford and to the apartment complex, parking in front of the French blue townhome. Laine got out of the car and waited for Donnelley to find a visitor's spot. When he approached, she pointed out her front door, "I figured we might as well eat the groceries I bought, how do you feel about tacos?"

“The same way I feel about whiskey,” He smirked at her, “Passionately.”

She led him in, the living room furniture all in black leather and the art on the walls charcoal sketches of vague faces, a framed poster of a movie scene in grayscale that Donnelley would likely recognize from A Clockwork Orange. The place was neat but spare and devoid of most color, and there were only a few personal photos on the wall in the dining area.

Donnelley looked around at his surroundings as he closed the door behind himself, nodding appreciatively. Her place was nice, sophisticated and sleek black. He followed her through the apartment and set the groceries he helped carry on the kitchen counter, going to sit at the dining table. Like Ava’s house, Laine had hung snippets of her life on the walls and his eyes flitted across them. Younger Laines, what she assumed were her family, and more. There was a particular photo that caught his eye and his lips slowly grew into a smile. A little Laine with her father’s hand in one of hers and her mother’s in the other. One look at her father gave him the answer to where she got those damn cheekbones from. There were more of her playing with another child, the resemblance in their faces told him it was her brother.

“Cute.” He said, “Can't imagine you before the goth thing.”

He squinted and leaned a bit closer, his smile growing, “And here I was, thinking black was your natural hair.”

Laine was pulling out a Tupperware of marinating meat and glanced over at him looking at the photos. She sighed dramatically, "My secret is out."

She pulled a chef's knife from the drawer and brought it to the cutting board. "That's another thing that stays between us."

“Cross my heart.” Donnelley grinned, walking over from the dining room to lean against the refrigerator and watch her at work, “‘Sides, you’re the one with a knife. Deeply inclined to do whatever you’d like me to.”

He winked and clucked his tongue, “Need me to help with anythin’?”

Laine flashed a wicked grin, pulling the raw beef from the container, "I'll remember that. And sure, I'm going to make carne asada, do you like cilantro and onions? They need to be chopped fine."

“I can do that.” He smiled, “Growin’ up in Texas, kinda weird I didn’t taste Mexican food ‘til I was a teenager.”

He drew a knife from the block and grabbed an onion, rolling it over and catching it on the cutting board, “Half? All of it?”

"Really? Well, in LA taquerias are on every corner, southern Mexican, northern Mexican, you name it," Laine replied as she sliced. "And just half the onion."

She heated a little bit of oil in the cast iron pan and tossed in the meat, it cooked quickly, the fragrance of pepper and garlic filling the kitchen. Laine looked over at Donnelley, "I thought Tex-Mex was a big thing."

Laine put the meat in a plate and took a piece, blowing on it and went over to him, holding it up, "Try this."

He leaned over, stopping his dicing and taking the morsel into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, nodding, “Damn, that is good.” He smirked, chewing with his mouth closed as he went back to dicing up the onion. He was maybe surprisingly competent at food preparation, his hands taking to the task with ease, “Yeah, it is, just my dad kept us from, uh… experiencin’ the world. I snuck out to the big cities when I was a teenager and that’s when I had my first taste of somethin’ that wasn’t canned or boiled sausages.”

He sighed, “I learned to cook from-“ he paused, about to bring Holly up and then wondering how Laine would react. Bringing a past love up wasn’t something they’d ever done with each other. They were both adults though, the fact they had pasts that happened before either of them knew each other shouldn’t sting. “My ex-wife. I didn’t even know how to cook without a microwave when I met her.”

He chuckled, “I could make a damn good ham and cheese quesadilla on the pan though, tell you what.” He winked at her and then went back to his quick work, “That your own marinade?”

Laine raised her brow slightly at the mention of his father and ex wife in the same breath. Dozens of questions came to mind but she held off the barrage. "That's a hell of a diet, it must have been a revelation when you got to eat something other than sausage. And it's a good thing she trained you."

She walked past him, giving him a playful swat on the butt and glanced over her shoulder as she untied the bag of corn tortillas. "I enjoy cooking and it's more fun to share the preparation. I hope the next safehouse has some sort of kitchen."

Laine tossed the thin disks of masa onto the hot griddle. "It is my own marinade, it's mostly lime juice, red and black pepper, onion, garlic and a certain secret ingredient."

She looked over at him and handed him a bunch of cilantro, "What did you like to cook together, you and your ex?"

“Anythin’, really.” He chuckled, eyeing her own behind as she passed him after swatting his. He went back to the cutting board, the knife gliding through the stalks of cilantro, “Either one of us would look up recipes every other night. After Tilly was old enough to pick, we’d let her. It was usually just mac n’ cheese and chicken strips, though.” He smiled a bit wistfully remembering those times.

“My specialty was shrimp tacos with tomatillo salsa.” He kissed his fingers with a ‘mwah’, “Like that. Best shrimp tacos that side of the Rio Grande.”

"Tilly is your daughter," Laine said, flipping the small tortillas. Her thoughts flickered to her own ex, Dr Bakker and his desire for a family. And her own resistance to it. She took a deep breath and added, "Cute name. Better than Heather."

Laine grinned sardonically, then brought over the tortilla basket and the plates to assemble the tacos. "I definitely to try those, sounds delicious. With some dressed Coronas on the side. I'm afraid the best I can do is Coke Zero or ginger ale."

As she cut a lime in two, she glanced at him, "It sounds like you enjoyed your family. Do you see your kid between all your traveling and work?"

He kept chopping the cilantro for a while even after her question. He only stopped when he finished with the entirety of it, setting down the knife now that he had no escape from answering the question. His wistful smile shriveled to something almost akin to grieving before he cleared his throat and tried at his good-natured smirk again, “I, uh…” he turned to face Laine and leaned back against the kitchen counter, rubbing his jaw, “I was recently discharged from the Army around the time she…”

He rolled his jaw, shaking his head, “I don’t see ‘em anymore. I haven’t been around since Foster hooked me into the Agency and the Program soon after.” He sighed, clearing his throat of nothing again, eyes avoiding Laine, staring off into memory, “She remarried, I left the country for as long as I could with every overseas assignment with high Op Tempo. This, right here,” he circled his finger around at Laine’s apartment, “Right now? First assignment with UMBRA in West Virginia’s the first time I’ve stayed in the states for more than a couple days at a time for a damn decade.”

He folded his arms, shrugged and finally looked back at Laine, a lopsided smile, “Came back to find you, I guess.” Trying at some cheerful sentiment, silver lining. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to spill my guts.” He breathed a mirthless chuckle.

Laine set down the knife as she looked at Donnelley. She shook her head, moving over to be closer to him as she spoke, “You don’t need to apologize for opening up, I want to know you, Joseph Donnelley. I asked, you answered. I appreciate your candor.”

Leaning her hip against the counter, she continued, “Relationships are tough and adding in the stress of your line of work and whatever else was going on...I don’t judge you on how your marriage ended, that’s between you and your ex. I’m the worst at keeping contact with family, so I will not lecture you but...you know, maybe you should stay around the states more often.”

She gazed at him, a slight smile on her full lips, “And...I like that you stayed to see me, makes me feel...special.”

It was her turn to feel suddenly awkward and exposed, spots of rose rising on her cheeks as she turned away, going to assemble the mini street tacos, “We should eat before this gets cold. Do you take lime juice on them?”

He opened up again at her cheeks reddening, giving her a more genuine smile, “Yeah, I do.” He said looking at her for a moment before putting a hand to her cheek and kissing the other, pushing off the counter and making his way to the kitchen table, “Let’s eat us some tacos.”

The tacos were good and Laine watched Donnelley devour several, a smile playing on her lips. "So big city girl can cook?"

She chuckled and finished her food, leaning back. "I can give you the big tour when you are done, it's not much as I don't spend a lot of time at home. At least that was supposed to change this fall, I was going to teach a behavioral psychology course at the Academy."

Laine shrugged, sipping her drink, "Supervising Agent Barnes decided I was absent too much with my new 'secret missions' to be a reliable teacher."

She snorted slightly, "I mean, he's not wrong he was just an ass about it. Territorial I think, doesn't like his agents being taken without being in the loop. Have you ever had that issue?"

“All the time.” Donnelley shook his head, “These are damn good.”

He smiled, regarding Laine with a grin and then sighing, “My clashes were usually early on in my career with the Program. When I was working with GRANTOR and THUNDER we’d sometimes even have to postpone operations. I took a break after Chechnya, got transferred to THUNDER.”

“Couldn’t really hide healing burns. I threw my Station Chief at the time a bone at Foster’s advice, told them I was operating with a counter-terrorist task force.” He shrugged, “Foster runs a lot of interference for his Working Group’s people when he can. After I healed up some I got put in Turkey by the Agency. Been there ever since, now we’re in Iraq.”

"Hopefully Barnes will get over being butthurt, I had to decline an assignment in Albuquerque because I'm going back to West Virginia," she commented, "They'll send someone else but...it's a balancing act, as you know. I don't think I would be as focused as I should be anyway. I'd be thinking about Blackriver."

Laine tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then looked up at him, "Chasing ISIS in Iraq, assisting the Kurds?"

She waved her hand slightly, "Sorry, I know you spooks like your secrets."

A flicker of a grin touched her lips. "I'm the inquisitive type though."

“You bein’ insubordinate again?” Donnelley purred, eyes gleaming from beneath his brow as he looked at her, hungry smirk.

Laine bit her lip slightly then rose from her chair, "And if I am, sir?"

Her eyes twinkled with humor and the same want, an impertinent smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He clucked his tongue, shaking his head and smirking as he too rose, brushing his fingers slowly across his belt and hooking a thumb into it, a glimpse of his Adonis belt peeking out at her, “Might have to take my belt off.”

Laine put her hand on her hip, raising her eyebrows, "I'll call you sir, I don't call you Daddy."

She made to move past him in a swaying haughty stride, the same playful twinkle in her eyes as she glanced at him.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” Donnelley’s brow quirked, eyes stuck to Laine’s swaying hips and her behind as she walked past him. “You are testin’ my patience.”

Laine sauntered into the living room, barefoot now, her boots sitting by the door. She dragged her fingers along the arm of the black leather couch and said, "And what are you going to do, sir?"

He moved his hands to his buckle and they deftly pulled the leather thing free from its loops. Slow steps over to face Laine and he leaned in close, closer, closing his eyes and spoke as his lips brushed against her earlobe, “How ‘bout I show you.”

A playfully rough hand turned her from him and bent her at the waist, hiking up the bottom of her skirt with a growl and raising his belt just as a ringtone sounded through the house. He sighed with some disappointment, feeling for his phone and finding it silent in his pocket. He thought to keep going, but decided against it. “I think it’s yours.”

Laine shivered at his warm breath and insinuating promise, feeling his strength against her resistance as he bent her over the arm of the sofa. She tensed, expecting the crack of his belt on her bare bottom, the anticipation sending a thrill of excitement through her. Then the familiar chime of her phone went off and she sighed, sagging against the couch.

"That it is," Laine stood up, pulling her skirt back down. If she wasn't expecting a call she would have ignored it. Moving quickly to where she left her cell phone, Laine snatched it up and answered when she saw it was CJIS.

"Dr Laine speaking," she said then smiled triumphantly, "Excellent, thank you Dr Pigeon."

She paused and her brow furrowed slightly, "Really."

Laine checked the time and did some mental calculations, "Alright, no don't send the report, I'm coming up there. I owe you one. Thanks again."

Ending the call, she looked at Donnelley, "Looks like I'm going to head to West Virginia early. Clarksburg at least. The forensic anthropologist has her report but she said she found some oddities that the labs picked up. Things she said have raised questions and I don't think the Program would want more people looking into it."

A sudden thought occurred to her and Laine asked, "Do you still have the shard?"

Donnelley pursed his lips as he went through the process of looping his belt back into his jeans, “I think Foster turned it in. It’s not somethin’ I’d really roadtrip with.” He redid his buckle, looking back up at her, “We need it for somethin’?”

Laine shook her head, "I just remembered, I wanted to get it tested, we have a forensic geology department. But, I suppose that's something the Program won't allow out of their hands which only makes me more curious."

She leaned over to him, pressing her body against him and gave him a brief kiss on the lips. "Which you know, I am not easily put off from. I should get dressed, do you want to come along?"

Donnelley returned the kiss and chewed over the thought of accompanying Laine. He shrugged, nodded, “Yeah, I’ll come along. Special Agent John Davidson again.” He smiled at her, leaning forward and kissing her forehead, “I’ll go get my clothes.”

---

It was late afternoon when they arrived at the CJIS complex, the heat of the day disturbed by a slight breeze that ruffled the deep green leaves of the surrounding trees. Laine was dressed in black slacks and white blouse, the tailored charcoal gray blazer over it with her FBI badge clipped to the pocket. Donnelley walked with her, Agent Davidson she reminded herself to call him and not to look at him in a personal manner. She was Dr Laine, BAU now and shifted into the mentality of investigating professional.

Dr Pigeon’s office was next to the large forensics lab and offices scattered down the hall belonging to other archeologists and anthropologists. Laine knocked even though she could see Erin Pigeon hunched over her desk, her long black hair in a single braid over her shoulder. The woman had a smooth round face that was olive skinned and a plump but shapely figure under her white lab coat. Laine knocked again and she looked up, blinking bright black eyes at the pair behind a fringe of bangs.

“Dr Laine! Howdy, y’all come on in,” she waved them forward, standing from her chair but it hardly changed her short stature. She looked at Donnelley, a swift up and down sweep of her inquisitive gaze. “Dr. Erin Pigeon, who might you be?”

Donnelley stepped forward, leaning past Laine and offering his hand out to shake. The smile on his face was easy to keep up from the past night’s mischievous, carnal activities putting him in a high mood. “Special Agent John Davidson.” Donnelley nodded, perfect and indeterminate American accent, “Nice to meet you.”

Pigeon shook his hand, nodding and said, “Well, glad you made it up. You must be the investigating agent. I tell you, it was quite a graveyard the State Police left us but you know, funny enough, Doc Laine was the first to call and ask about them.”

“The State Police handled the crime scene, but it’s our case,” Laine assured her and glanced at the window that showed the lab, a connecting door beside a bookcase full of textbooks. “What do you have for us?”

“Quite a bit,” Pigeon replied, “For a rush job, especially one that you’re playing so close to your chest, Laine.”

Her fist was on her ample hip before her expression changed from suspicious to excited again, like a cloud passing over the sun. “Well, come on. Might as well see the girls while I explain.”

She lead them into the anthropology forensic lab, a large white space full of tables and tools of the trade. Regular microscopes, bone saws, picks and brushes, sample kits for gathering of material found on the bones, DNA extraction kits and a monitor hooked up to an electron microscope.

“Here, put these one,” Pigeon handed them both a pair of blue nitrile gloves. “Can’t have your oils destroying evidence.”

Laine snapped the gloves on in a practiced movement and peered over Pigeon’s shoulder at the skeletons laid out. Some of the bones were broken but they seemed to be intact.

“Now, we have them labeled from the oldest to the youngest, not actual age wise but from the time they were buried,” Pigeon indicated the long table where some of the remains sat. “We sent the dental records for identification but even I can’t rush that, it just takes time, especially if they’re older. They are all female, ages range between midteens to mid twenties. The seven we have fully intact we can probably get IDed by DNA if we have to, they may have enough material.”

“Site A held the first remains and this is Jane Doe A-1, she was found at the deepest layer,” Pigeon began, “It is not very clear how she died, no major trauma. We do find some interesting marks, very small...here.”

She pointed with as gloved finger at tiny scratches on the skull and down on metacarpals on the left wrist. “I found these same types of marks on JD A-2 and A-3, I took a look at them through the electron microscope and look here.”

Pigeon offered the black and white photo of the close up which looked like a slice with smooth edges on the pale bone. “Clean and sharp, not an animal. A very good knife.”

“A skinner’s knife?” Laine asked.

“Probably, it looks like the nicks I’ve seen before on deer bones. My family back in Oklahoma were big on hunting and curing their own hides into leather. Which by the way, stinks very much but you know, tryna keep the old practices alive,” Pigeon said, then moved on to the skull, “I did find some possible trauma to the head, like a blow but it’s hard to tell if it was a post mortem or not. No healing has occurred so we know it happened right around her death.”

She looked at them both, “Any questions yet?”

“Maybe his methods were refined.” Donnelley pursed his lips and looked between Laine and Pigeon, “Maria Vasquez didn’t have any of those. Killer didn’t touch her bones.”

Laine nodded, “He also did more damage, remember the X ray? Her pelvis and that...how she died, by foreign object to the heart.”

Pigeon looked between them again, holding up her finger, “Pelvis you say? Well, check this out.”

She walked down the row of bones and stopped, holding out her hand to show them the pelvis of one of the victims, or rather pieces of it. “This is Jane Doe A-5, massive pelvic trauma. A-4 has a fractured pelvis, and other fractures in her bones. A jump from almost no damage from A-1 to A-3. Refining his skinning game maybe but whoever your boy is he’s got a lot of anger.”

Laine took a deep breath, looking at the broken pelvis that seemed familiar, the cracks and dislocation of the hip and elbow was similar to the trauma on Maria. “That is a big change, if we assume he killed them all he moved from something like strangulation to this...are there other injuries?”

The short woman nodded and began pointing out places marked with labels with numbers and letters on them, “Other than the pelvic trauma, there are spiral fractures on her left arm, the ulna. Those are usually caused by twisting, as in someone grabbing and twisting the arm. We see it often in child abuse cases. There are some that seem to be caused by blunt force, like her pelvis and some that indicate she was being restrained.”

Laine rolled over the information and said, “If we’re going to assume it’s one man, he’s stepping up his game. He’s getting more violent but more skilled, no knife marks?”

“None that we were able to find,” Pigeon said, “You think they were all skinned?”

“I have one recent victim that was completely skinned head to toe,” Laine replied, taking out the folder she had tucked under her arm. “Here, if you want to check the photos and autopsy report.”

Dr Pigeon eagerly took it and flipped through the information and stared intently at the images. She whistled low under her breath, “Hell of a job, definitely is a practiced hand at skinning. It’s tough not to cut into the muscles and from the pictures...”

She held one up, peering at it and shook her head, “Nothing.”

“Bakker said there wasn’t any cuts in her muscles or tendons,” Laine commented.

“Well, that’s a fine job, I mean as far as skinning goes otherwise this guy is a monster,” Pigeon replied, then looked at the report, “Busted pelvis I see... eyes removed, tongue and larynx. Holy hell, he mutilated her, too. Interesting pieces to take though.”

“I agree,” Laine said, “Not a butcher’s cut.”

“Nope, but very telling.”

“Her...self. Her voice, her eyes, her face,” Laine said, frowning slightly. “He took who she was and left the meat.”

Donnelley folded his arms tight, frowning and shaking his head, “I don’t like it.” He said, “Look at them and look at Maria. Learning curve is…” Donnelley whistled sharp as he thrust his finger straight up, “We’re either dealing with a better guy or he’s getting tutored.”

"We're missing some victims," Laine said, "I think there might be more, we know that Bethany Miller is one."

"Got her records?" Pigeon asked, her interest piqued.

"Uh, no, unfortunately I haven't been able to get them," Laine replied.

The anthropologist frowned, "Why not?"

Laine glanced at Donnelley, "It's in the process."

"Well, when you get em, send them over," Pigeon said. "Sounds like a white lady, Bethany Miller."

"Probably, she was a tourist hiking in the mountains," Laine replied, "Why?"

Pigeon picked up the skull belonging to the older victims, Jane Doe A-3 and said, "By their skulls, I figured them to be Caucasian though some have distinctly wide, high cheekbones which are more like..."

With one hand she pointed to her own face which despite the soft roundness had the distinct Native American cheekbones. "Now, Laine here has the Nordic cheekbones, not as broad as my peeps. But what also tells me most of these have some Native blood are the teeth. A dead give away, look."

Gently, she turned the skull over to show the backs of the incisors which revealed definitive scooped hollows. "That is a trait shared by Siberian and Native Americans, no other races. So these ladies, at least a majority have at least some amount of Native blood. And I'm fairly certain a healthy dose of Caucasian. We'll know for sure once we get the IDs."

"So they could be Latin American like Maria," Laine said.

"Yep, it's a good chance," she replied, setting down the skull.

Laine stayed silent for a moment then said, "He's certainly accelerating and improving in the brutality and sophistication of the murder. Serial killers usually don't change their MO but it's not unheard of for them to experiment or just get better at killing. Or increase the violence, simply killing isn't enough for them to get off, there needs to be torture. A method killer will do this. He'll keep a person alive for torture, a sexual sadism which might include the act of rape or not. Though judging by the condition of the pelvises of the last four victims he was using a foreign object and very brutally. He wanted their pain and to control every aspect of them. The previous cases could have been bound based on the number of fractures and possible dislocation but Maria was drugged but still kept conscious. So it doesn't seem BDSM plays a big role, they like the process of binding. Our guy just needs them immobilized but conscious."

Continuing her train of thought, Laine said, "He needs complete control and power, absolute power. He wants power over the victim in life, death and after death. He's stripped her of her identity, if we can assume he kept her skin and body parts, he possessed her even after death. I don't think there was cannibalism but there was definitely an element of product killing if he's keeping body parts. He's highly organized, intelligent and efficient. He also craves attention, why else leave the body in plain view to be found but why now?"

Laine looked at Donnelley, "We know he killed Maria in another location and dumped her body in a place he had left other bodies. His graveyard. This tells me he probably lives in the area, since they're clustered. But what bothers me is why leave Maria out and...well draw attention to her, the others were buried. Unless he did leave them out before and no one found them or someone buried them."

Pigeon cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing, glancing at the man she knew as Agent Davidson.

Where’s all the skin?, Kingsley had asked back in Iraq. This was too close to home, but it was only tangential evidence that these two cases were connected. Until Donnelley could get a close look at one of the Yezidi bodies in Iraq then there was nothing but a skinning connecting the two. He shook his head, letting go a troubled sigh with furrowed brows.

“Thank you.” He said, looking at Dr. Pigeon, “This at least gives us a history.”

He looked to Laine, “Anything else we need?”

Laine gazed at the bones, there were so many questions still unanswered and she shook her head slowly. "This gives me a lot to work with, unfortunately it can't tell us about soft tissue damage or where the skin and parts missing went to."

She sighed, her thoughts suddenly turning to the books she had read at the Goldstar Motel and she looked at Pigeon. "He probably kept the skin as a trophy, maybe he has a history in taxidermy but I'm starting to question that. I don't think he's an Ed Gein, there seems like too much ritual in the process of killing. So what's he using those skins for?"

Pigeon pursed her lips and then said, "That's not my field but I've known hunters, a good hide is used for something, it's definitely a product."

"Do you know much about the Natives in this area?"

"Only that they're gone. Why?"

"I uh...well I read a book about Native stories of the Appalachians, about Skinwalkers," Laine said, suddenly feeling silly. She was about to change her mind and tell Pigeon to forget when she saw the woman's expression. Fear and something else, something masked in the deep dark eyes.

"Skinwalkers? Well...they usually take wolf skins and New Mexico, never heard of them in other places," Pigeon said quickly, not looking at either of them. "Anything else? I need to put these specimens away."

Laine raised her brow then replied, "No, that's fine. We'll be in town for the night, call me if the identifications come through."

"You bet," Pigeon replied, still seemingly distracted. 'Nice meetin' you, Agent Davidson."

Laine nodded and looked at Donnelley before heading out the door.

Once outside the lab she looked down at the folder of the forensic reports and said, "I probably shouldn't have mentioned that."

Donnelley shrugged as he lit up his cigarette, blowing out the first puff with his words, “No harm in it. Worst thing that could happen is that weird look she gave you.” He said, still masking his Texan, “Where to now?”

Laine looked at the thick folder in her hand and then at Donnelley. "I brought my laptop, I'm going to set up and do some work. Maybe we can grab some coffee, there is a Starbucks down the road."

---

Donnelley sipped at his coffee as he watched Laine work. When she worked, she really did work. No words, but there were a couple smirking glances between each other. He looked around at the place, the chain coffee shop dressed up like a quaint hipster coffee house. There were suits in here, probably Feds if not businessmen gearing up for the workday following their breaks.

He took another glance at Laine unnoticed as her eyes drifted across her laptop screen. With a content smile, he got up and headed for the bathroom, finding it was thankfully a private one. The constant sound of the fan going on would help mask the call he was about to make. He pressed the phone to his ear, looking at himself in the mirror and his eyes showing he hadn’t had much sleep the other night. Or any of the other nights since New York. He pulled down his collar and snorted at the hickey just below his neckline. The other line picked up, “Donnelley?”

“Kingsley. How you doin’ man?” Donnelley asked, his Texan leaking back into his voice with the privacy.

“I’m good. Me and Smitty have been working Viktor over for a bit. Can’t really discuss that too loosely, where are you at?” Kingsley asked.

“Can’t really discuss that too loosely.” Donnelley smirked, “I need you to do me a favor, man.”

“Yeah?”

“Have anybody working with the police or the Iraqi military there in Baghdad give you an early warnin’ next time Anzor rolls through a village.” Donnelley asked, his voice low in the din of the bathroom fan, “You get there before they start shovelin’ ‘em away in a mass grave, you need to secure a body from ‘em. Check to see if they’re missin’ their tongues and eyes and shit. Can you do that?”

“Uh,” Kingsley muttered, “Uh, yeah. Why?”

“Can’t discuss that too loosely.” Donnelley said, his tone a bit more serious. “Call me with any news at all, Viktor, Anzor, anything.”

“Of course, man.” Kingsley smiled on the other end of the line.

“Alright. See you when I get back.” Donnelley hung up the call and sighed. This case, everything. He’d gotten close to Laine, and if Foster ever found that out he’d have hell to pay. Laine would be reshuffled somewhere else, her career even more in jeopardy, and his.

“What the hell are you doin’, man?” Donnelley muttered to himself in the mirror. He shook his head, it was complicated, but it was fun. Very fun. As fun as his old days in THUNDER were, and he was never caught then. He wouldn’t be caught now. He hoped, shaking his head and sighing.

He exited the bathroom and made his way back over to Laine, sitting down and taking another sip of his coffee, “Anything interesting?”

When Donnelley returned, Laine flashed a smile at him then ticked her eyebrows up. "I just received a list of identification for our Jane Does. I haven't gone over them yet, I was just going to open it."

Like a kid at Christmas she beamed with excitement, a real break to figure out who the women were and where they had come from.

"The oldest skeleton, JD A-1 is...oh wow, she was born in 1940, Luisa Fernandez Martinez in Laredo Texas, last known address was in El Paso with two arrests made for prostitution and theft. Reported missing by her sister in 1958 and nothing done about it, apparently. No reports on record after the initial one. Then there is A-2 Diamante Maria Cuellar Hernandez, no birth record found but an arrest record for prostitution in 1968 in San Antonio, Texas and listed her age as 20. Nothing after that, no one reported her missing or the cops didn't bother to file a report. A-3 was Juanita Lopez, an eighteen years old coed attending the University of Texas in El Paso, born in Ciudad Juarez and brought to the US when she was three years old. Parents and school officials both file missing persons reports in 1981 but nothing was ever found, no trace of her."

Laine took a deep breath, then continued, "A-4 was another Mexican woman from Texas. Leticia Moreno Sanchez, seventeen year old that has a juvenile record of drug possession, can soliciting and dropped out of school. Apparently listed as a runaway by the Corpus Christi police, no other missing person case made."

"That covers the first four, all out of Texas and all Mexican immigrants or children of such," Laine said, "That's very close to Maria in type. I'm just surprised how far these go back."

She took a sip of coffee as she continued to read. Laine paused, "Now this is interesting, an Interpol report of the identity of Jane Doe A-6 is from Russia. Anka Vasilov. And the most recent was from Britain, Yasmin Jamali, age nineteen and reported missing after a night out with friends at a club in London.”

Laine sat back and looked at him, “Sounds like he was picking mostly convenient targets, sex workers for example. First Mexican and now Russian trafficking. But how is our guy getting these girls, is he traveling to more urban areas to get them, are they getting picked up off the street or is someone helping since these Russians are hanging around. I still feel he’s in the area, whether a permanent resident or maybe a murder vacation home. Either way, he’s very comfortable and he’s much older than I first imagined. The earliest victim was killed in 1958 or 59. That’s sixty years ago, no wonder he had to get a drug to keep them still. He’s old as hell, even a teenage girl could probably get away if he was relying on just strength. If he's the same man that has killed them all then he'll be the oldest active serial killer. Or there has been more than one, maybe. Someone taking over from the older killer."

Laine blew a puff of breath, her lower lip pouting slightly, "There has to be more bodies, he probably has other dump sites.'

Her green eyes flickered up to Donnelley, "I need to find out if there is any record of Bethany Miller's murder, if she had the same mutilation injuries as Maria, she would be the closest murder time wise to Maria as well. Blackriver Sheriff's office probably has something, they took the fabric Frank said he saw off Maria. How can we get to them?"

“Do what we were going to before I got stabbed in the damn leg.” Donnelley shrugged, “I go in there and get it.”

He shook his head, “I want to know why they took it without telling anyone. Tampering with a crime scene.”

Laine gave him a look of concern, "If you get caught... you'll be in their house. Is there any chance of getting into their computer files from the outside at least? I'm pretty sure they are not just tampering with evidence or being lazy slobs, it seems like they're actively covering up."

“That’s what I’m saying. They’re deliberately working slow or not at all to help us with this case, fucking around and scrambling to keep us from something. The fucking Sheriff is a MacOnie himself and I’m starting to think they feel pretty damn threatened by us being there.” Donnelley shrugged, “And maybe Ava’s got something, I’ll have to ask her when we rendezvous in a few days.”

Donnelley shook his head, “You said it yourself. Dulane belongs in an institution, not a cell. They wanted him forgotten.” Donnelley frowned. “Makes me wonder if this killer is a wildcard. Bringing too much attention to Blackriver. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Sheriff is in the Russians’ pocket.”

He leaned back in his chair and sighed, “Only more reason for us to get to this guy first before he gets buried.”

Laine took a drink of her coffee, thinking over his words then nodded, "What Frank told us, he was beckoned over to find Maria. That 'shimmer' he saw, the voice he heard. I need don't know what it was, but it exposed the crime and drew attention where it wasn't wanted. If... let's say somehow that was the killer's intention to show off because he wasn't getting enough attention, it wouldn't be the first time. Serial killers often try to insert themselves into investigations or taunt the police because they crave attention and power. If this guy becomes a liability, a wild card as you say, then he might also draw the ire of those that want everything to remain secret. Finding him is the tough part."

She leaned forward, her arms resting on the table, "He's comfortable in the forest and the area, he knows this place. His crimes have been covered up for a long time. My gut says he's locally tied, Blackriver is too insular to for this to be some transient vacationer bringing his fucked up hobby to their neck of the woods. Oh, also my VICAP search found at least six reported missing children cases from Blackriver over the years, all from tourist families and none solved."

Laine looked directly at Donnelley, "This guy is local, hell he might even be a MacOnie. Let's start looking back at where it started, at the park. We know the head ranger there, he's covering up and protecting someone even at the expense of his own rangers. Definitely in the pocket of the sheriff and if the sheriff's in the pocket of the Russians it leads back to them. We know they're in the hills, we know they're up to no good but why here? What on Earth is the attraction of a poor ass Appalachian county to a Russian gang?"

“It’s a good place to stage shit.” Donnelley offered, shrugging his shoulders, “Operation JAWBREAKER, we sent CIA Officers into Afghanistan. We staged the mission in some bumfuck place and hopped them over the border in Russian helicopters.”

“Dead drops for supplies and intel are hidden in alleyways and stuff.” Donnelley pursed his lips, “The CIA didn’t train the Nicaraguan Contras in Nicaragua.”

“Blackriver is a place no one goes and no one leaves. Nobody’s going to suspect shit until somebody puts them on the map.” Donnelley furrowed his brow, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, “Carlisle was working for the Russians in the end. He double-crossed the Sinaloa. Those Chechens I fought years ago that gave me this,” he thrust a finger at his burn scar, “They were trafficking people and antiquities to finance their shit.”

“What if these girls are being kidnapped by the Russians or the Sinaloa or someshit and being held somewhere in Blackriver before they get shipped off somewhere else?” Donnelley hissed, “It’s an ample pool for this guy. Snatch one every few months, fuck it, who cares? Leave one out to bake in the sun and attract the authorities?” Donnelley whistled, shaking his head and leaning back again.

His eyes slid back to Laine, “And why the fuck did Clyde Baughman go there and not finish the fucking job?” He shook his head. “I need access to that asshole’s case files.”

Donnelley squinted, “The other town in Blackriver, Mercy. I want to go there next time we’re in Blackriver. We’ve been focusing too much on White Tree.” He said, “And if everyone works in the mines for Vera Corp, I want someone to go there and interview the supervisor staff, tell us about Dulane.”

“Maybe he wasn’t always crazy, maybe he had some friends who can tell us about the types he hung around.” Donnelley shrugged.

Laine nodded, pausing at his explanation, "A staging ground, I never thought about that but it seems to fit. A few girls missing is small payment for secrecy. Then why did the killer finally draw attention. Most of what I know about men like this is they want acknowledgment that they've lacked all their lives."

Her gaze met his when he mentioned Baughman and Laine crossed her arms, leaning forward to speak in a hushed tone, "What if he wasn't up here to stop anything. His wife...those things we found. Something he wanted more than anything and he was willing to make a deal with the Devil. Or whatever you want to call it. Lord of the Woods, the Sleeper. Same as Dulane, making promises but what was he supposed to get in return. I never got that answer. If you go to Mercy and talk to Vera Corp, I'm going with you. I need more information on Dulane, I'm still waiting on the psych records."

“I’m almost inclined to take those with a grain of salt.” Donnelley pursed his lips, “Those records were made after he made contact with his thing. His friends could either confirm the records or tell us who he used to be.”

"It very well could be, there is enough reason to think Dulane is getting railroaded but places like this often don't want to put a murderer into a mental hospital and will overlook obvious evidence to lock him in prison. Justice they call it. Either way it'll give me an insight to Dulane and the system that put him away," Laine said, before finishing off her now tepid coffee. "And certainly I'm interested in him before he blew up the mines."

“So, we’ve got a couple directions to take this now.” He nodded. “Well, we’ve got the day ahead of us still, what’s to do? I’m kind of just following you around.”

Laine typed a few notes then closed down her laptop. "Nothing can up as foreign matter on the body, by the way. Nothing that didn't belong to the area she was found so we still don't know anything about where she was killed."

She rubbed her face then tucked her hair behind her ears. "Honestly, I could use walk or something. There is so much going on in this case that is strange I feel like I'm grasping in the dark and things are just slipping out of reach."

Laine took a deep breath then said, "I should talk to Duwant. About Wayne and about these missing children cases, maybe that'll help. Right now I'm going to get a chocolate croissant."

She stood up from the table, brushing her hand along his shoulder as she went to the counter. Laine ordered two and waited, glancing over her shoulder at Donnelley, a small smile turning her lips up at the corners. The night before had been something she had imagined but the real thing was so much better. And was it a real thing, she asked herself. Laine liked him, despite everything or maybe because of it, he was very real. And so was the risk to not just their careers but to their team, she had seen it before when it was another colleague she had dated. Whispers and jealousy, and that was not even someone in charge. Laine could keep a secret, though and they would have to.

"That'll be $5.50," the barista said in a bored drawl.

Laine gave her cash and took the pastry back to the table and put one in front of him. "We can get back to my place before it's too late, if you want to ...sleep over."

She met his gaze as she sat down, pulling a piece of the croissant apart. Donnelley’s gaze slid over to her, a mischievous grin forming on his lips as he eyed her side-on. A coy breath, “I might be willing. I believe we did have some unfinished business before we left.”

"That we did," Laine agreed, a sly smile appearing as she bit into the pastry.

Once they finished, Laine took her laptop and lead the way to the parking lot. As they approached her Golf, she glanced at Donnelley, a mischievous twinkle once again in her green eyes.

"Can you drive stick?"

Donnelley looked her up and down, a playful smile and a curious quirk of his brow, “Yeah,” He said, “Why?”

Laine tossed him the keys, a jingle of metal when it hit his hands. The VW key and lock fob was joined with a few other keys and a keychain of a pair of bright cherries made to look like human skulls.

She didn't answer other than a quick, "It'll be more fun."

Laine put her things away in the back, removing her blazer to toss over her purse, and slid into the passenger seat. She kept a sly smile on her face as he got into the driver's seat. It was a long ride home and the case weighed on her so having him alone was a pleasant distraction.

Donnelley jiggled the stick-shift habitually, making sure it was in neutral before pressing in the clutch and turning on the car, the engine whirring to life with his grin, “I’m startin’ to think you got a purpose for me.”

He shifted into reverse and got them out of the parking space and onto the road, punching the gas. Once they got onto the freeway, he glanced sidelong at Laine with a mischievous grin.

Laine leaned back, watching the countryside as Clarksburg vanished in the rear view mirror. Her hand slipped to her seatbelt and she toyed with it. "I might have something I've been thinking about, boss. You know me, my mind is always working."

The seat belt slipped off and she leaned over, kissing his neck just above the collar, her hand sliding over his thigh. She stroked her fingers closer to his groin and whispered warmly in his ear, "How good is your concentration?"

He shivered in delight at the feeling of Laine’s soft lips on his neck. As he felt her fingers on his thigh, softly kneading, his excitement only grew and stirred something below his belt. The soft whispering in his ear only wound him up more, “I’d like to think it’s pretty good.” He bit his lip, “Test me.”

Laine’s idea of testing his concentration was something Donnelley fully agreed with. A few points knocked off for the few times he’d almost drifted into the other lanes, but thankfully morning traffic was all but non-existent at this hour. The both of them exploring each other’s bodies with the danger of the police or other cars seeing them or plowing into them only fueled their escapade until Donnelley could take it no longer…

"How was that, sir?"

A breathy chuckle left on the air as Donnelley worked at regaining himself. He looked down at her resting there, her chin shiny with drool, and smiled. “Goddamn, Laine.”

She grinned and slowly sat up, pulling her blouse closed. "No road trip is complete without road head," Laine teased, wiping her chin. "I'm impressed with your powers of concentration."

Laine buckled back up as they crossed the state line back into Virginia. “The best in this country,” Donnelley smirked across at Laine, “I should hang out with you more often.”

She laughed, glancing sidelong at Donnelley, "I hope it's for more than my navigator skills."

Digging out a pack of Djarums, she lit one and took a deep drag, the familiar krek-krek crackling of the cloves. "I wouldn't mind you hanging around more, I enjoy your company."

He smiled, a genuine thing and a twinkle in his eye at that, “In all seriousness, I do too.”

---

>STAFFORD, VIRGINIA
>HEATHER LAINE RESIDENCE
>2200...///

It was late by the time they finally pulled into the Drycreek Townhome apartments, parking in front of the French blue house. Laine lead him inside, turning to Donnelley as soon as the door closed and she locked it.

"Are you hungry?" She asked, a hint of mischief still in her eyes. "Or would you like the tour I never gave you?"

A mischievous grin returned as he placed his hands on his hips, looking Laine up and down as he turned up his chin, “Little bit of both, I think.”

She backed away towards the kitchen, her eyes on him, "What're you in the mood for?"

Laine felt the excitement rise inside her, the tension still there from the ride home that needed a release but first she had to be a good hostess.

Donnelley stepped up close to Laine, holding her gaze all the way until he was inches from her, looking down into her eyes. He took his hand and brushed aside a lock of hair behind her ear and leaned in close, “I’ll take that tour.”

Laine blushed slightly at his touch and smiled in a manner that gave a glimpse of the shy teen she once was. "You've seen the kitchen and the living room, that door right there is there is the half bath. Let's go upstairs."

“Okay.” Donnelley took her hand as she led him upstairs, eyes on her rump and thighs as they ascended each stair. When they finally got to the top of the stairs, Donnelley leaned on the doorway next to her bedroom. “Going to show me everything?”

She passed the second, smaller bedroom but left the door closed, mentioning it only as her office. Laine had left the pictures of missing girls and murder victims arranged on the floor, sticky notes tabbed on each pile. Right now she wanted a break, to put the case away as it weighed on her, the feeling of climbing towards the revelation only to keep slipping backward. With Donnelley, she could vent that frustration in a pleasurable way, she could talk to him and not veil everything in half-truths to protect the Program.

When they got to her bedroom, the door was open revealing a similar theme of black and gray only there was more gothic aesthetic, the black headboard carved with skulls and roses, patterns of spiderwebs visible through the dark lacquer finish. Her bedcover was black silk, ruffled in places and the furniture and mirror frame all had the same decor theme. Unlit candles in glass and metal holders lined the dresser and nightstand and the lamps gave a soft glow when lit. The only modern item was the flat screen TV mounted in the corner.

Laine smiled slightly at his request, leading him inside. "I'll show you what you want," she replied, "I'm not sure if that's everything, though."

Her gaze met his as she waited, her hand resting on one of the black polished posts of the bed. Donnelley leaned his weight on his right leg, hooking a thumb in his belt as he returned Laine’s smile, stepping up to her. His eyes went about the room, appreciating the aesthetics until his gaze fell back on her just as they again were so close to each other, his small smile growing to a grin, “Show me then.” He purred.

Laine bit her lip slightly then began to remove her clothes, her blouse slipping off pale skin marked with black tattoos. Swirling clouds around a full moon on one upper arm and the moth and bat pair above her breasts detailed with fine vines and roses and belladonna blooms that curled over the points of her shoulders. Her slacks slid down and she kicked them away, still in her heels and black hose, the old fashioned kind with a line up the back and attached to garters.

Reaching back she unclasped her bra, watching his face as she took it off, tossing it onto a chair. Her breasts still had some marks from the night before, reddened places his eager mouth had left on her creamy skin. Her fingers slipped down to the clasps of the garter belt, and she toyed with one. Her green eyes met his gaze as she undid the clasps before sliding down the black satin panties, exposing the smooth plump mound of her sex, leaving her thigh highs and heels in place.

"What do you think, sir?" She asked with a sly smile, "Should I take these off, too?"

Donnelley bit his lip watching her undress in front of him, laying herself bare, stark naked. He felt a growing in his loins that soon strained against the fabric of his slacks, reaching down to rub at himself in unadulterated lust for her. The way the light fell over her, the curves of her body, everything. He breathed a shuddering sigh at the sight of her, and he knew he could not hold himself back.

Without an answer he rushed to her, taking her face in one hand and locking his lips in hers. Laine returned his kiss, parting her lips to taste him as she pressed her naked body against his clothed one, feeling the lean muscle and obvious arousal.

He broke the kiss, hands busying themselves with removing his shirt and the undershirt beneath it. Three buttons down and he threw the tedium to the wind and simply pulled the buttons open in a series of pops before throwing the garment carelessly to the side. He gave Laine one passionate kiss before leading her onto her back on the bed, removing his shoes, socks and slacks in almost record time. If this would be the only chance for them to be lustful and intimate with each other without caution and consideration for the others, he would take full advantage of it...

With a soft sigh she whispered, "Goddamn..."

Donnelley lay on top of her, eyes closed and softly panting, enjoying the smell of her perfume as he lay there. A soft smile curled his lips and he planted a soft kiss on Laine’s neck, then her lips, propping himself over her as he looked down at her, “Goddamn...” he breathed.

She laughed softly and looked up at him, then sighed, her arms slipping around his torso to hold him. "I hope you didn't pay for another night in the hotel, you could sleep here," Laine said after a few moments of catching their breath.

“You don’t have a problem with that?” He shrugged, looking at her almost sheepishly, “Didn’t want my presence remindin’ you of…”

He snorted, shaking his head and looking away, softly slipping away from her to lay next to her. There was always that reminder that they were not only coworkers, but he was her supervisor hanging over him after these little forays ended. His arm beneath his head and his other arm touching hers, wanting to be close to her still, “Ah, never mind.” He smiled.

Laine rolled onto her side, looking up at him."Reminding me of...?"

She laughed, her breasts jiggling as they pressed together. Laine put a hand on his chest, "It's our secret, just us. I don't expect you to treat me any different. Our lives our own outside of UMBRA."

Laine fell silent, it wasn't entirely true, the trouble of fraternizing was it followed them everywhere. "At least we can act normal around Foster, he doesn't need to know. And as long as we're successful, we're working then he has no reason to pry."

She kissed him then rolled away, going to the bathroom to clean herself. “Yeah,” Donnelley said, watching her bare rear as she walked to the bathroom, smiling at the sight of her in the moonlight, “Goddamn, I love the sight of you.”

Laine smiled to herself at his admission, glancing over her shoulder at the man stretched out on her bed before closing the bathroom door for privacy.

Once she returned, she slid over onto the bed and curled up beside Donnelley, tucking the pillow under her head. She looked at him, at the scars and wear of years of war left. And those eyes.

Laine reached out and laid her hand on his chest, "I have tomorrow off, we should do something."

He looked down at Laine’s hand on his chest, she no doubt felt the beat of his heart. The odd thing was, it was beating fast as it would on the way to a gunfight with no reason, but as he looked back at her and into those green eyes it dawned on him why. She always had that way about her since they met, made him feel like some kid on a date night with his first girlfriend. He smiled at her, “We should.”

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

>QUANTICO, VA
>BAU 4 OFFICE
>08.JUL.2019
>0815...///

Dr Laine entered the office, it felt comfortable and familiar as even more so than her apartment. Which made sense in her mind as she spent more time in the office or on the road assisting in cases than she did sleeping in her own bed. She was dressed in heels and a knee length fitted skirt, all black except her gray silk blouse under her blazer.

Her desk was dusty, the cleaning crew would not touch the desks of agents, so as she settled in, Laine began her routine of wiping it down. Her dual monitors sat dark, unused for what felt like a month but was actually about a week during her absence.

"Welcome back, enjoy your vacation?"

Laine glanced up, another analyst Agent Lewis who sat at the desk across from her had arrived with coffee from the break room. He was average height and developing a pudgy spare tire, an unremarkable middle aged face except for keen dark eyes beneath a furrowed brow.

"Oh, yeah, very restful," she remarked, tossing the antibacterial wipe away. "How's the wife and kids?"

"You know, I still keep them around, hanging like a noose around my neck," Lewis said lightly with a straight face. "One day they'll finish me off."

Laine huffed a laugh as she turned on her computer, no one doted on his family more than Special Agent Russell Lewis. His desk was full of pictures of his lovely wife and four children, various framed Little League and Scouts portraits.

"Not a day too soon," Laine quipped dryly, raising her eyebrows slightly at his chuckle. They had their routine, a comfortable gallows humor that had developed over the years as Lewis had been a mentor when she first joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit. "What are you working on?"

"Hmm, a stroke," Lewis muttered then opened a file, "We got a request from Phoenix police, they had a pretty nasty murder of a customs agent. They're considering it could be Cartel related considering the work she was in but it also looks like it could be the work of a lust killer. Raped, cut open and decapitated. Her heart cut out, maybe a very upset ex boyfriend?"

Laine shook her head, "Brutal. Not unlike the cartels to cut heads off, anything else?"

"Nothing more other than very distinct lack of evidence," he replied, sliding the file over to Laine. "No other blood, no semen, not even a goddamn hair and you wanna know why?"

Laine winced inwardly at the photos but her face remained unchanged. "Good planning. Definitely not an uncontrolled act despite the brutality. He was very much in control."

Agent Lewis nodded slowly, "Handcuffs, a pistol found without ammo...you don't think a customs officer with no children in the house would bother having an unloaded weapon by her bedside, do you?"

"Nope."

"He cleaned up after, crime scene was spotless other than what he wanted us to see," he sighed. “Professional, practiced.”

"Good luck," Laine offered with a shake of her head. Her own case for the program was stalling for lack of victimology, the results of Bethany Miller’s murder hidden by the Blackriver Sheriff and little else but bones that she was still waiting on the results of from CJIS.

"Waiting to hear back from the border patrol office in Nogales where she was assigned, they've been slow," he added, then sat back in his chair to go back to work. “By the way, I heard Dr Bakker put in his resignation.”

Lewis’ dark eyes flickered at her with interest at her reaction but Laine only glanced over and nodded.

“It’s too bad,” he continued, “The Academy probably won’t replace him I heard, cutting back on the pathology course, letting that fall into general forensics. A shame.”

Her gaze shifted to the other agent as she peered around her monitor, “It is a shame. Is this why your wife is probably slowly poisoning you?”

“Just tell me to shut up, like she does,” Lewis grinned then went back once again to work. “By the way, she’s got an open invitation for dinner once you got some time.”

“As long as she makes her chili, I’m down,” she replied, “Tell her thank you.”

“Will do.”

Laine opened her email, noticing one dated earlier in the morning from Supervising Special Agent Barnes. A request for a meeting after lunch. She sighed, most likely he had not been happy with her disappearing from the CJIS conference despite her quick email sent from the road to inform him she had been called away. She clicked the ‘will attend’ meeting button then closed it.

Before getting into work emails, she opened the icon on her desktop labeled “VICAP” and logged into the system. It was a comprehensive database compiled over the last thirty years of victims, missing persons, murderer’s signature and other details that might link cases. While under utilized and poorly maintained for most of its existence, the FBI finally was given a grant to revamp and build on the potential to make it more user friendly for local PDs.

Glancing over her shoulder, Laine slid her phone out and opened it, bring up a list of terms she copied into the search engine. “Skinning, amputation of tongue, removal of eyes, removal of larynx, missing children Sinaloa cartel sex traffiking, sexual trauma foreign obeject, pelvic damage with foreign object, black stone, Russian sex traffiking missing children, Blackriver, West Viriginia...” The list was long for all possible hits and it was going to bring a lot of stuff up that might not be related at all but Laine had little other options.

Then it was a wait while the program sorted along its parameters and it could take awhile. Laine tucked her phone away and went back to her emails but the Blackriver case weighed on her. How she would love to run it by Lewis or another analyst, but it was something she could not talk about, unless it was another UMBRA member. Laine reached for her phone again and scrolled through her contacts until she found Pari.

***
Once she was off the phone with her teammate, Laine felt a little better. Getting the ideas running through her mind verbalized helped her see them more clearly. And Pari mentioned something that Laine had considered, the killer being a pathetic loser. That was often true about serial killers, they took out their perceived inferiority on their victims in various ways, ultimately the control over life or death finally giving the murderer a sense of power and success he or she lacked.

Dr Laine's partially written profile included the man was likely in his thirties or older considering the skill and patience it would have taken to kill and skin Maria Vasquez. He hated women, feared their rejection and mockery so he found ultimate control over his victim by drugging them into paralysis and removing their ability to speak rendering them truly helpless. He used a foreign object to penetrate vaginally though if he himself had raped them before it was unknown as the evidence wasn't there. But what was certain was the amount of force and trauma caused to Maria's body was horrific. After looking at the x-rays, Laine knew her pelvis had been fractured. In fact so had the ulna bone of her forearm, an elbow partially dislocated. Maria had struggled, she had tried to get away before being subdued.

Laine blinked, she had been lost in thought standing outside the empty conference room still holding her phone. She needed more information, the victimology would provide her clues to the man who did this. Her next call she made as she walked back to her desk, her sandwich she had made at home waiting for her to finish. Lewis was gone and most people in the office had left for lunch so she looked up the directory.

"Forensics lab, this is Dr Pigeon," the chipper voice came over the phone.

"Hey, it's Dr Heather Laine, BAU," Laine replied, the young forensic anthropologist, Dr Erin Pigeon, an intelligent, detail fanatic of a woman that she had worked with on previous cases.

"Oh, howdy Laine," the woman's voice became cheerful, the faint Oklahoma drawl curling around her words. "Calling about that boneyard the State Police sent us?"

"Yeah, I hadn't heard back and I was wondering about the progress."

A clicked of a tongue and sigh could be heard before Pigeon answered, "We're backed up, you know how it is. But I took a precursory look as we organized them. I can tell you this, they're all female and young but not children and some have injuries.”

"I hate to be pushy but this is important to a recent murder, a very bad one and I'm struggling with the victimology for the profile. I need those skeletons evaluated as quickly as possible," Laine said, glancing over her shoulder but she was alone in the hall.

"Is Barnes putting in a rush order?"

"No, look, it's not something..." Laine sighed and tried to think of a way to put it. "It's a case I'm working on the side, Barnes isn't in on the details. Please, Erin, I'll owe you big if you can get me that forensics report as soon as possible."

She could practically hear the other woman's interest piqued. Dr Pigeon was a good anthropologist who loved a mystery.

"Oh, on the sly? Curiouser and curiouser... alright, give me a couple of days and I'll have my report and you owe me," Pigeon said, the interest in her voice clear. "I don't know what yet but it'll include some answers."

Laine rubbed the back of her neck and agreed, "I will do my best."

"Alright, talk to you later."

The line went silent and Laine checked the time, her meeting was in ten minutes, no time to finish her sandwich. She took a bite and washed it down with half a bottle of water before heading over to her supervisor’s office.

Supervising Special Agent James Barnes looked up through steel rimmed glasses as Laine entered his office. He was a balding, broad shouldered man who wore neatly tailored dark suits, a genuine air of G-man about him. He smiled at her but Laine could see the tension, how his eyes did not reflect his facial expression.
“Heather, take a seat,” he said, “Nice to see you back, how was the...well, whatever it was that you got up to.”

“Sorry about the conference,” Laine said, feeling a slight irritation at his passive aggressive approach. “I got a call. You know, it’s classified.”

“Of course, classified,” Barnes nodded deeply, then peered at her. “Do you find it odd that an agent would have a classified case kept even from her direct supervisor?”

“There’s a lot of things I don’t find odd anymore,” Laine replied, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. “Your clearance is not something that is my business, sir. I can’t speak about it, you know that.”

Barnes grinned sardonically, then leaned on his desk, “Just so. I can’t have my agent running off when I need her here. Or where I need to send her.”

Laine just looked at him, waiting for whatever shoe he was going to drop. When she did not respond, Barnes sat back, “I’ve given your Academy course to Agent Ngyuen, she’ll be teaching this fall. I can’t have an instructor absent half the time.”

“I understand,” Laine said, though disappointed it was only logical an instructor would need to be present, “She’s a good choice.”

“I’m glad you approve, Doctor,” Barnes said, then looked her over, “We had a request for assistance in New Mexico, they had a few bodies pop up in the desert and local cops are having trouble piecing it together. Scattered over several counties and city jurisdictions so it’s a tangle of information being haphazardly shared.”

He pushed a file at her, “I need you to go out there. You leave next Monday and it could be a week or so, maybe more so pack accordingly.

Laine opened the file and was greeted with a crime scene photo of a murdered young man and then glanced up, “I won’t be able to do this. I am expected back in West Virginia in two weeks.”

“Is that so?” Barnes said, then reached for the file, “Well, by all means, we’ll try to adjust murders around your new schedule. Do you know when you won’t be occupied by your secret agent case?”

There was a bitter tinge to his voice and Laine took a deep breath, “I’m sorry, Mr Barnes, I know you don’t like to be kept in the dark but it’s not my choice. Just know that it’s important enough to pull me away from this and you know I take my work seriously.”

Barnes stayed silent and then rubbed the bridge of his nose under the glasses, “Fine, yes. Work some of the backlog cold cases for now, I’ll send someone else to New Mexico. Dismissed, Agent Laine.”

Laine stood up, leaving the case file on his desk and left the office. She walked back to her desk and picked up her neglected sandwich before plopping into her chair. The curiosity and nosing around her business with UMBRA was unsettling, Dr Pigeon was one thing but her supervisor quite another. There was a distinct dislike of her having access to information he could not and Laine knew Barnes well enough to know the man would gnaw on a bone for a long time. The tenacity made him a good investigator but could also become obsessive and fixated. Laine hoped for his own sake he would forget about it.

*****
>STAFFORD, VA
>HEATHER LAINE RESIDENCE
>11.JUL.2019
>0537...///

The phone chimed in the darkness, stirring Laine from sleep and she groped for it, fumbling until she managed to answer the unknown number.

"Hello?" She murmured, eyes still closed.

"Special Agent Laine?"

"This is she," Laine replied and opened her eyes. "Who is this?"

"It's Mark, Agent Mark Garcia, New York office."

"Oh, hey Mark, it's really early, what's up? Did you find anything more on Carlisle? It could have waited," she said, rolling over onto her back and stretching.

The voice on the other end sounded strained and there was anger there as he spoke, "Yeah I got something new on Carlisle, he's fucking gone. Someone snatched him a few hours ago."

Laine held her breath, so Donnelley had been successful getting to Carlisle.

"I'm sorry to hear that, what happened? Maybe he just got wind of what was going on and split"

"No, this was not him running away. Information must have been leaked, someone wanted him because this was a goddamn mess. We got bodies here, including two local cops," he snapped then sighed heavily. "There was a shootout, whoever took Carlisle, they were professional. And...shit."

Laine was wide awake now. Two cops dead, shot down by Carlisle's kidnappers. Goddamnit, Donnelley.

"That's awful, any leads?"

The silence stretched out before Agent Garcia finally spoke, "I'm working on it, Dr Laine. I gotta ask, why did you want that information on Carlisle."

Laine rubbed her eyes and said, "Because his name came up in a missing persons case. I'm sure that's not a surprise."

It was a white lie, she did want to know more about the modeling agent who procured children for his buyers. The thought made a knot in the pit of her stomach, memories of her own brief foray into modeling when she was younger, at her mother's insistence. At least that was one time Lila Laine listened to her daughter when she begged never to go back.

She shook the memory away and listened as Garcia spoke again, "Of course, it's not surprising. Shit, it's a mess here. The house...just blood everywhere. Carlisle had a few guards and none survived. The family is shaken up, of course. Wife claims to know nothing of what Carlisle was up to or the extra millions in his bank accounts. Anyone that saw these guys is dead, our suspect has vanished. It's a real shit show."

"Sounds like it," Laine said, then fell silent.

"Hey, sorry for waking you up," Garcia said, "I'm just grasping at fucking straws right now. I gotta go, I just heard someone reported a torched car."

The line went dead and she sat in bed, things must have gone bad if Donnelley was forced into a shootout with local cops. At least, she hoped it was something that they could not avoid. How far the Program would go to cover itself was still something that sat uneasy in the back of her mind.

It was too late to go back to sleep so Laine rolled out of bed and looked at the floor. She had assumed the snatching of Carlisle would be something quiet but now the FBI was flocking all over the mansion in Yorktown. At least they would probably try to keep the press out of it as it was embarrassing for the Bureau to have their suspect stolen from under their noses. Dead hired guards for a piece of shit like Carlisle could be forgotten but the dead cops, that would raise interest. Local PD or the families, someone would question and then...?

Laine took a deep breath, running a hand through her short sleep tousled hair. Would more people die because of the Program, the pieces of the bloody puzzle were becoming more intricate and dangerous. It was part of a more important war, she told herself, willing herself to believe that.

She turned her thoughts to Maria Vasquez, how she must have suffered not just in her murder but from the day she was kidnapped. How many children just like her were stolen and sold, passed around to pedophiles and rapists all over the country. How many ended up in shallow graves or tossed in a landfill, used and discarded. People like Carlisle, like the Russians and the Cartels, all of the powerful men that found themselves with money to buy their protection from justice. All of them were the same evil as the Green River Killer or Ted Bundy, they just had the funds and connections to hide their crimes. Sociopaths were drifting murderers as well as CEOs and politicians, abusers and users knew no economic or class boundaries. Evil that resided in humanity, she had always believed that. It was not something that was an outside force.

Whatever Donnelley did to get Carlisle to talk, Laine decided she could live with it even though she knew torture to often be ineffective as the person would say anything to get it to stop. But a man like Carlisle, this modeling agent who made his money exploiting children, he would find a way to slip out of the justice system. Or he would take the fall for those he served, either way, Carlisle was a key to big fish, the sharks that preyed on girls like Maria.

Laine went to take a shower and get ready for work, her mind fogged by memories she had not wanted to think about and thoughts about two dead police officers with families that would receive folded flags and a bagpipe serenade.

Her eyes opened wide and she turned the water from hot to cold, shocking herself to try and clear her mind. She gasped in the emptiness, the tiled walls amplifying her voice. Her phone sat on the sink and it beeped with an alert. Her work email she could see as she wrapped her towel around herself and sat down to see what it was about.

VICAP results found: 1,254 items

Laine stared at the number and then nodded to herself, it was a lot but she could weed it down to the ones most closely related. It would take time and she was alone on this one. Laine set her phone down and went to get dressed for work.

PT 1

Freedom from Oppression

I'll be working on this during the week

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

Heavily wooded hills rose up and framed the multistory buildings of the FBI Criminal Justice Information Services compound, a high tech center of data and information held by the feds. It was used to track and identify not just criminals but missing persons and educated other law enforcement agencies and the public about the process of DNA analysis and biometric identification. The sun was just over the hills in the east, illuminating the dull beige brick and gleaming off the panels of glass along the side of the central building.

Outside there was a small cluster of men and women, dressed professionally and sipping coffee from styrofoam cups. Some carried laptop cases and others had notepads and one older man had a yellow steno pad under his arm of his ill fitting suit jacket. Away from the main cluster was a small, nearly walled off nook under the shade of an oak tree where smokers gathered.

Dr Laine stood under the tree, dressed in a black skirt over black tights topped with a form fitting deep grey sweater that hugged her hips and a Djarum between her fingers. Her blazer hung over her arm, the West Virginia summer morning already promising the day would be hot.

"You should really quit, it'll kill you."

The voice belonged to Dr Alex Bakker, forensic medical examiner for the crime lab at the academy. He sniffed at the stink of cigarettes, the sweeter smell of her cloves mingled in the acrid smoke.

“Yeah, well death is my aesthetic,” Laine said, rolling her eyes then flicked her ashes, “Besides, it didn’t seem to bother you before.”

“Because you only smoked after...ah, well if a funeral is what you’re after you’re always dressed for it,” Bakker quipped, running his eyes over her then glancing away towards the building. “I brought you a coffee.”

“Did you?”

“Black like your heart.”

“Funny,” Laine took the coffee and looked at him, “How’s your girlfriend, Linda? Babysitting still?”

“Funny and it’s Lily, she’s a kindergarten teacher,” Bakker replied, giving her a sharp look. “And she’s doing well, thank you for asking. We’re engaged now.”

“Congratulations,” Laine said, tipping her cup slightly to him. “Now for a two story house in the suburbs and a white picket fence. Of course, on a civil servant and public school teacher salary that might be difficult.”

Bakker took a drink and nodded, looking pensive at the hulking building across the parking lot. “That is a problem. She thinks maybe if I went back to practicing medicine on the living we could afford it.”

Laine raised a brow, a flicker of concern crossing her face. “You’d leave all this? I always thought you enjoyed your job. You’re good at it.”

It was a genuine compliment, no matter what feelings lay between them, Dr Bakker was a brilliant forensic medical examiner and they often worked on cases together. There was no one else she trusted more with a body.

“Maybe, things change. I’ve been doing this awhile.”

“If you were really going to do it, you wouldn’t be here,” Laine pointed out then snuffed the clove cigarette out in the sand of the ashtray.

“I said I was thinking about it, I would make a lot more money going back to surgery and saving lives rather than after the fact,” he said, falling in step with her as they walked back to the CJIS building as it grew closer to the time the seminar would begin.

“You would miss the mystery, the puzzles,” Laine said, tossing her bobbed dark hair as she shook her head emphatically. “I know you.”

“You knew me, things change. I’ve changed, I’m thinking about a future, you know? Marriage, kids, the things that you...” he bit back the words that would have come next, the same things they had argued about and ultimately drove them apart. “Anyway, I’m still with the Bureau.”

They finished their coffee and tossed the cups before entering the building as the other people, men and women from field FBI offices, city and county detectives, biologists and forensic examiners filed in to the lecture hall. Like high school, they tended to group up in knots of likeness, locals with locals and feds with feds. The science nerds off by themselves. Laine tried not to smile at the thought and found a seat at the back and Bakker slid into the desk next to her. “Sitting in the back with the cool kids now? Think you’ll get a handy from me if they turn off the lights?” she said, giving him a sly look as he blushed, unable to hide the reaction with his strawberry blonde coloring that reddened easily.

“Knock it off, Heather,” he muttered. Bakker coughed and cleared his throat as he attempted to smother the laugh. “Pay attention, I’m not letting you borrow my notes.”

Just as the seminar began, Laine felt a buzzing of her phone. Not the one she used everyday but the secret phone. She froze, unsure she had heard it but it went off again causing her to fish around in her purse before fetching it up and checking the message.

Working Group UMBRA is activated. Blackriver, WV.

“Shit,” she hissed, staring at the simple sentence, “I gotta go.”

“What’s going on?” Bakker leaned over, whispering though few heads turned their way with looks of annoyance.

“Take notes for me, I need to run.”

Laine got up, giving an apologetic nod to the geneticist who glared at her from the podium and she slipped out into the morning light. Blackriver County was not far from Clarksburg, she could drive and be there in an hour. Laine replied back, “omw”

The road was familiar and it brought back unpleasant memories as Laine steered around the turn of the mountain road heading toward the safehouse. She checked her speed on the rental Hyundai when she passed a Blackriver county cop tearing off to whatever methmergency was going on.

Behind the beauty of the wilderness there was the haunt of industry, the urban decay and ghettos replaced with trailer parks with blank eyed women scratching at their pale skin, watching dirty tow headed children playing in the weed choked yard. Hunger existed here, hopeless lives of poverty and violence as hard as any in Watts. Bikers and family meth dealers rather than gangs and crack, but it added up the same.

She passed in a flash, the sadness of the scene left behind as quick as she could, her mind on what might have caused Donnelley to activate them again. Excitement tempered with apprehension built up as she caught sight of the cabin, pulling into the parking area. Stepping out of the car, she reached for her regular phone. A message from Bakker, asking what happened. Laine turned off the phone and headed towards the door.

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

Mid May, FBI Academy

Dr Laine sat at her desk, it was past six o'clock PM but a new case file opened on her desk and she was typing her notes. The Childress case was cold and no longer theirs, her boss had shuffled her to new work on two homicides in Massachusetts. No black rock slabs or weird vibes, just standard wrath.

Never far from her thoughts was West Virginia and as she perused the autopsy reports she picked up her phone. Scrolling through the contacts she stopped at Tom Stewart, then tapped it.

Wherever Tom was his phone would light up with the incoming call.

“SSA Stewart, how may I help you?”

"Hey, Tom," a soft feminine voice on the other end replied. "It's Dr Heather Laine, from Quantico. We met in West Virginia. Are you busy?"

Laine kept it simple, unsure if she was on speaker, realizing it was the time when normal people went home and ate dinner.

“Heather! How are you?”

"Doing about as well as expected, just working late on a case from your neck of the woods and I thought about you," she said, "How about you?"

“I’m doing well. West Virginia feels like a lifetime ago now. I know it was only a month, but things have gotten better here. What case are you working on? Maybe I can help?”

"That's great to hear, Tom," Laine replied, feeling a small knot of envy as she still was not sleeping well. "Oh, the case. Yes, it's a John and Jane Doe, both found washed up along the coast near..."

Laine checked the location again, "Near Cohasset, I probably butchered that pronunciation. Anyway, both unsolved, unidentified and bodies damaged by exposure on the water within a week of each other. State police first caught the case but it went cold pretty fast. So we're taking a look at it."

She paused, feeling the weight of the questions she really wanted to ask.

“I do recall this case. The bodies were reportedly in the water for over a week. They were quite bloated. The first was a male close to 30 wearing a tracksuit found near Kimball’s Point and the second a female in her early 20s found on Black Rock Beach near Forest Ave. The salt water could have been used as a forensics countermeasure. The only thing CPAC could uncover was that the people in Cohasset wouldn’t tell them anything. It wasn’t just that possibly they didn’t know, but they appeared frightened about something, fearing that if they did talk it could mean the end of their life; kind of like Whitey Bulger’s Winter Hill Gang.”

"Being dumped at sea certainly is a forensic countermeasure," Laine said wryly, then took a few notes on a steno pad. "It does have a strong feeling of execution. Cause of death was determined as multiple GSW on both. And the track suit, suggests Russians, it was Adidas after all."

There was a hint of dark humor in her voice then she sobered, "I'm glad you're familiar with this case. It was just given to me today to try and create a profile of the suspect."

“Yea, that’s about right. I kind of suspected the Russians too. They haven’t really taken over much in Boston, but are growing in Providence and are entrenched in the Coney Island neighborhood of Brooklyn. I even hear they are making inroads in Bridgeport, Connecticut. You know who grew up in Bridgeport, right?” Tom didn’t wait for Dr. Laine to respond. “Aaron Hernandez!”

“Hey, are you coming up to Boston or are you doing your work from Virginia?”

Laine blinked at the name, leaning over to reach the keyboard and searched it on Google before answering. "Oh, the football player convicted murderer, they must be very proud. I might pop up there, check out the crime scene area. It's probably not going to help much but I miss the water. And maybe talk to some people mentioned in this case file. Sometimes they're willing to share more with a stranger, someone that will be gone in a few days and never pull them over for a speeding ticket. I'll have to see how far I get with the autopsies, our pathologist is going over them with me."

“Sounds great, give me a call when you come to town. I can pick you up and go check on some of your leads together. It was good hearing from you, Heather. I do need to get going.”

"Thanks for the help," Laine said then hurriedly asked, "Have you heard from Donnelley or Foster, or any of the others?"

“No, you are the only one. I’ve tried to put that behind me for now. I am still curious and will respond when he calls...I’m sure he will call again.”

"That's probably a good idea, have a good night, Tom," she said.

Once the call ended, Laine added her notes from his details and leaned back in her chair. He put it behind him, she wished she could but her mind continued to dwell on the matter, picking at details when she was not occupied. It probably helped that Tom had a wife and family life outside work.

Not long after hanging up with him, her phone buzzed again and Mariana's contact picture popped up.

"Hey girl," she said when Laine answered, "Catch you driving?"

"No, I'm still here at the office, what's up?"

*****
The coffee table was littered with the detritus of a near empty bottle of wine and the remnants of take out Pad Thai. Laine sat on the sofa, a BBC nature documentary playing in the background. When she was lonely, David Attenbourgh’s voice was pleasant and soothing. She finished the last of the wine and got up to toss it in the trash, then went to the freezer. The cherry vodka was almost empty but she took it anyway.

Pouring it into her wine glass, she raised it sardonically at a picture of Mariana and herself, when they graduated at UC Irvine. Their last chat had been rough, an unexpected turn. Mariana had broke the news that her mother was insisting her sister be the maid of honor rather than Laine. She knew her sister and Mari had never been close, they were antagonistic but her best friend had a strong willed mother. Laine was disappointed, not so much that she wanted the status but it was the last act as two single women. She would be giving her friend away as much as Mariana’s father would be.

Maybe it was already over, when their lives had parted ways and they had been keeping the deep friendship on life support over a continent and an engagement. Laine took a drink of vodka, knowing she was being dramatic and winced as she reminded herself suddenly of her self centered mother.

The wedding was less than three months away, she still had to be fitted for the seafoam blue bridesmaid dress and find shoes and book her flight and hotel. Laine would be there for her best friend, the time off was already approved for both wedding and bachelorette party. Mariana had reminded her that if she did not have a date there was plenty of eligible groomsmen.

Laine shuddered. Drunk ex frat dudes driving Escalades. They probably had khakis on under their tuxedo pants. She needed a buffer against that nightmare but not many prospects to fly across the country for a wedding.

Laine had not had a serious relationship for over a year, since she and Alex broke up. He was still a friend, she thought about reaching out to him. He might be a safe choice but the temptation to want to get back with him might prove too much while surrounded by newly wedded bliss. She put her phone down and looked at the ceiling, maybe she would just find some hot juicy Marine on the base nearby with a week of leave to spare.

********

Early June (collab between idlehands and Ionisus)

There was nothing like a summer downpour in Houston, the stifling heat met with an equally oppressive torrent. A thunderstorm had made the world a scalding sauna and the rain beat mercilessly into the night, thumping the windows of a rental house with each gust of wind. The humidity seeped inside and choked the air, but the night had provided a reprieve from the worst of the heat. Jason was still damp with sweat, and now he was itchy. It was the percocets he had washed down an hour ago with a healthy swig of a disgusting banana flavored vodka. He could never avoid a stupid cheap bottle of booze.

The storm outside flashed and he looked out the window, vodka bottle in one hand and his cell phone in the other. There it was, he thought, the secrets of the universe flashing in the blue. He was beginning to see the world as a codified veil where only the dark truths were found in its cracks. Lightning, darkness, the instant of a strange moment and its quick passing. It flashed the proof of something dark, unknown. Something like Mrs. Baughman, or Ghazni.

Whether it was the storm, the pills, or the restless two months since West Virginia Jason needed to connect with it. The high strangeness, the paranormal, the unknown riding the rim of the knowable and comfortable and sane. He had the team’s numbers but reaching out to most he found unappealing. In all their own ways Jason would feel silly, too vulnerable to connect with over it. Dr. Laine came to mind, and before he could sift through the haze of liquor and opiates he was dialing her number.

Fuck, too late now.

Dr Laine sat up in her bed laptop open to work files, Netflix playing on the flat screen so only flickers of light from changing scenes was noticed. Music from her computer filled the quiet as she typed and read, flipping among several tabs of photos. Her phone lay on the comforter nearby and from the corner of her eye she saw her screen pop up with an incoming call. Jason Jimenez, or as she had him in her phone, “Freckles”.

“Hello?” Laine answered.

“Hey,” Jason said, sounding relaxed. “I, uh, well…” As he trailed off another flash of blue came in from the rain pelted windows and the boom of thunder followed it.

“I was wondering if you had a minute to talk,” he finally said.

Laine sat up, turning down the music and setting aside the computer. “Yes, of course,” she answered, interest perking up. “What’s going on?”

She had not heard from anyone else since her two calls and despite the time that went by, West Virginia was always in a corner of her mind.

“Ah, nothin’ going on,” Jason answered. “I just can’t stop thinking about Black River and uh-”

Jason paused, staring out the window and assessing the moment. It was hard, he was addled and comfortably numb. He took a sip of vodka, and said, “I feel like if I don’t talk about it I might start bouncing off the walls. Now that I think about it it sounds dumb. It all meant something else to you.”

“It doesn’t sound dumb,” Laine assured him, rolling off her bed, walking barefoot through the carpeted hall in her oversized Smiths t-shirt. “Trust me, it’s never far from thought for me. I haven’t talked about it, who would I tell that would believe me? Huh...no, it’s been psychologist heal thyself.”

She opened the refrigerator and took out a leftover bottle of red moscato from the block party the complex had held. One she had went to despite her apathy for her neighbors and she had stood in the back, the weird girl in black at the party once again. The free booze had made up for the boredom.

“I can’t say it’s worked too well,” Laine admitted, pouring a glass of chilled wine and took a sip. “So let’s talk about it, Jason. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jason chuckled. “Not like that,” he said. “You’re talking to me like you should be taking notes.”

He looked down at himself, pantsless in socks and a moth chewed shirt. The storm spoke again from outside, rain smacking the empty house in heavy sheets. He was happy to be alone, if only in the unfamiliar spaces he always seemed to be in these days.

“It makes me feel validated in a way,” he said, and sighed. “Donnelley mentioned we had all seen something, and that morning sort of proves it was real for me, but now I want all the answers and that world is still hidden away from us.”

Laine leaned forward, as if to listen harder to him. Donnelley had been cryptic and Tom wanted to hide from it but here was what she wanted. Answers. Not just for Marlene but for Sofie and perhaps for that thing she thought she saw under the pier that summer she was fourteen.

“I want that, too,” she said intensely and she took another drink. The frustrations of having her work taken away and the silence after bubbled near the surface. “I have seen things, sensed them. A murder I was working on...”

Laine paused, she was not ready to spill about the pier at Redondo Beach. Not yet.

“A college girl kidnapped and murdered in a forest, laid over a black slab of stone that was putting out some bad juju. You could feel it in the air, like vibrations. Just like all the bad in the world was in tune with this thing. I’ve been to dozens of murder scenes, you know? Nothing ever like this. The field agent from Seattle spent time around it the most, investigating the body and he ended up killing himself two days later.”

“Shit,” Jason breathed.

Laine stopped, slightly breathless after spilling what had constantly battled in her mind. “What it has to do with poor Mrs Baughman, I don’t know but good old powers that be swept away all the evidence and reports on Sofie Childress. I was never able to complete a good profile...the killer is still walking around out there.”

She drank deeply then sighed, “Sorry, you wanted to talk and I just hit you with a wave. But I can’t let it go.”

“It’s all kind of the same thing,” Jason said. He sank as best he could into a stiff couch, the bottle cradled in his lap. “I’ve been thinking about my own experience. It’s always sort of there, you know, lurking in the background world. What happened to me...I think I saw it again. Before I got the call.”

He shook his head, looked around the vacant room and its furnishings. There was no identity, nothing of a home. It might as well been a hotel room or cell. “I’m not saying it’s connected, or your killer either, but maybe the connection is us. Not like we were picked because the shoe fits. More like we were meant to be here.”

Jason chuckled at himself and the opiate itch spread to his back, a shuffling muffle heard over the phone as he scratched at it.

Laine thought about it, refilling her glass and walked back to her bedroom. She stood still, the dark room illuminated only by the mute television, blue light flickering and the shadows shifted and grew. “Maybe we are,” she said finally, setting the wine on the nightstand then went to the bed, jumping slightly to keep her feet from the edge of the bedskirt. An old childhood habit that had long ago disappeared, the fear of monsters snatching her ankles. Laine rolled her eyes at herself, then settled back against the black decorative pillows.

“What did you see out there?” she asked, a gentle urging in her tone.

The question gave Jason pause. He had been so apt to call her, to brush against the idea of the unknown, but now when she wanted it out of him he felt hesitant. Was he avoiding it? He had spent years holding the story back, keeping it to himself. There had been no reason to chip away at its memory with each skeptical snicker or doubtful explanation.

“I, uh…” he said, and after a pause continued, “I was in Afghanistan. Called out to a firefight that turned south, we were the backup.”

He took a swig of vodka, this time exhaling its noxious sweet fumes from his mouth.

“Something happened out there. The people we were meant to save, they turned on us. Kicked our ass really, but the whole time I was hearing these horrible sounds. I can’t describe them, not like any animal I’ve ever heard but still animalistic. And then uh…”

Another pause, one clear with the silence of someone suddenly in the midst of their trauma. The storm roared and it pulled him back into the present.

“The guy we were all supposed to be there for, I found him. He was doing something, looked like a ritual of some sort, like some crazy shit you see in a movie. And it felt like your stones, Dr. Laine. Like the world wasn’t meant for it.” He had left out mention of the Three, of their guiding presence that night in Ghazni, or their lurking in the video. He wasn’t ready to reveal their presence to the larger world.

“I’ve spent the last two months trying to figure out what the hell Baughman did. Donnelley talked like he did something to make his wife that way. Have you...have you considered what it might be?”

She listened, fighting the urge to write notes and instead just heard him out. In her mind’s eye could see flickering fire, muzzle flashes and tried to imagine what sound her might have heard. Before West Virginia she might have reasoned it out, effects of combat stress and unfamiliar tribal culture but now it was different. There was nothing she could do to explain a murderous corpse living in a septic tank.

“I believe you,” Laine said simply, “As for Baughman, I don’t know. I think he might have tried to bring his wife back, I would like to look at records of where she was buried. Maybe she was dug up illegally and who Clyde Baughman was. If he had some sort of medical or science background. I asked our pathologist here, Dr. Bakker, if he thought it was possible to reanimate the dead. He said so far some guys at Yale were able to bring brain cells back to life from some slaughtered pigs but the pigs never regained consciousness and it lasted only two days. But you’re talking about a lab at Yale fully equipped with some of the best in their field, not some cabin in the woods.”

Laine paused, “I didn’t tell him anything else, he’s used to my macabre questions.”

She reached over, picking up her wine glass and downed half of it. “You said you witnessed a ritual. What were they trying to accomplish? If you had to guess.”

There was a prolonged pause and Jason considered his words. "Perhaps ritual is too strong a word. Maybe it was just that. In any case I haven't a clue. People were dying, I was wounded, it was all a fuckin' mess. I couldn't tell you what any of it was. If anyone did know they weren't talking and they made sure to bury me with the secret."

He sighed, and continued," If I had to guess it felt like something was supposed to 'arrive.' I have no idea what that means but I felt it. Like intuition but in a survival sense."

"Whatever we encountered--Mrs. Baughman--that was the interview. I have a feeling training wheels come off next time around."

Laine stayed quiet after he had finished, whatever he had seen it had been violent and intense, perhaps enough for lasting trauma. As Jason had said, maybe they were chosen for the weird shit they saw or maybe it was something more. She needed more than a glass of wine to deal with it.

Something arriving, drawn by blood. Or was it the dying?

“It certainly sounds like ritual sacrifice and that is what I thought of when I saw the Childress scene. What is sacrifice but an offering for a higher power...something otherworldly. The Aztecs ripped out hearts and offered them to Huitzilopochtli. Ancient Celts threw their sacrifices into a bog after strangling them or cutting their throats. The modern world forgets easily but culture does not, sometimes old habits die hard. Maybe this is a cult or some kind of ancient tribal tradition that existed before the word of Muhammed ever came to that corner of the world,” Laine said, shifting on the bed then remembered. “Baughman had some papers in that box, research about Native American stories and some artifacts. I don’t know if or how they tie in with his wife but it was apparently important enough to keep hidden.”

“Yeah,” Jason responded. He leaned over and grabbed at the water damaged book resting on the coffee table in front of him. He had found it tucked away in nondescript used bookstore downtown. “Sky Devils,” he read on the cover. “Archetypical Figures in Native American Mythology. He had a copy in the footlocker. I just picked it up. Next time we meet I’ll have read it but it doesn’t look like that type of book.”

She pulled her knees up, wrapping an arm around them as she thought over the situation and over what Jason had described. While there was a chance the trauma had played into his memory of events she did not doubt he saw something frightening and unexplainable. Not after the cabin. Empirical senses were for deducting but sometimes a good investigator used his or her gut. And Jason’s gut had helped keep him alive.

“That’s my thoughts. Read it anyway, everything is a clue until it’s a dead end,” she said after a deep breath. “As for what lays ahead, it’s probably places angels fear to tread.”

Angels. How fitting a word, how ironic. Pararescuemen were called Guardian Angels. Jason had always felt pride in their motto, “That others may live.” The reminiscence in all of its shallow comfort turned at the thought of Anis al-Shamard. He hadn’t been saving anyone these days. Just killing or sending off to be killed. “That you may live.”

“...Weren’t meant for the clouds,” he muttered, thinking of what Laine had just said. “My mom said that to me once. Wherever we go, Laine, we deserve to be there.”

“Deserve is a heavy word,” she replied after a moment of silence. “Maybe we’re not being punished, but we’re what is needed to help... ‘fight the only war that matters’. Whatever that means, it’s what Donnelley told me anyway.”

Laine fidgeted with the hem of the old t-shirt, pulling on a thread. It started to unravel, the seam fraying under her finger tips.

"I'm already tired of fighting wars I don't understand for and against powers I don't even know. Right now we're just doing more of the same. Hell, I don't even care anymore. I just keep going to see where I end up, where I burrow down in this universe."

Jason realized he was overstaying his welcome in the phone call. Between lucidity and stupor he had a knack for becoming abstract, and the combination of sickly sweet vodka and pain pills made his social filter degrade into a slur of consciousness. At least he could recognize as much.

"Don't you ever get sick of the comfort of putting one foot in front of the other? Until we get real answers that is all this is. One foot in front of the other fighting someone else's shadow war."

Outside the wind howled. It rattled the windows and sent wood creaks ticking throughout the hollow spaces of the house. Something distant was calling, beckoning.

"Listen, sorry to cut this off but I gotta go."

“I haven’t shared that experience, and I am not envious of you. What you’ve seen and done, it’s ...well, it’s appreciated. I suppose, necessary even, ” she said, referring to the war. She added quickly, not quite hiding the sardonic tone in her voice, “Or not and we’re all just tools of great powers to use and throw away.”

Laine at least thought she understood what she fought, humans with mental or behavioral conditions that lead them to gruesome murder. Nothing evil, nothing other worldly, just humans being inhuman. The experience with Childress case, then Marlene Baughman were new. “I have to keep going, because the answers I need are out there.”

When he said he had to go, Laine nodded in the darkness, “Take care of yourself, Jason. Call me if you need anything. Good night.”

After the line went dead, Laine sat up in bed, watching the mute tv flickering blankly in the dark bedroom. Jason’s words had stirred a faint anxiety, for both him and herself. There was so much unknown out there, Laine doubted if she even knew the right questions to ask, let alone what the answers would do for her. The Baughmans, Sofie Childress and now Jason’s story of the tribesmen and the madness of that night. Sooner or later the call would come and Laine would answer it.

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

The flight was short and when the plane landed, a light drizzle fell in the Virginia evening. A taxi, a walk, and a lock lead Dr Laine back to her town home. It was dark inside, the curtains drawn against the watery light and she stood in the entrance, surveying the familiar landscape of her home. What she knew now seemed to change everything yet nothing seemed affected, the furniture in the same place and the too loud hum of the refrigerator. Closing the door behind her, she dropped her bag on the black leather recliner and went directly to the freezer.

Laine was not a drinker, never had been, but the last few nights seemed to put that to the test. She pulled out a bottle of vodka, Grey Goose Cherry Noire, something she had picked up on a whim. Now she poured it straight into a small glass tumbler and took a drink, wincing slightly.

The quiet house rested around her, weighing on her shoulders and the darkness seemed to seep in, shadows drawing closer. She shook her head, knocking back the rest of the vodka and rinsed the glass before heading back to the living room.

She lived alone, despite the areas popularity of roommates, she preferred her space. Her table was often covered in graphic crime scene photos and after one incident with a weak stomached roomie and a ruined laptop that finalized that decision. Laine flicked the lights on, a pair of lamps with grey silk shades sending soft illumination which just seemed to chase the shadows back. They curled in expectation, like prowling cats under chairs and in corners. She flipped the last switch that turned on the track lighting that lined the sides of the ceiling.

The room was bright now, the black leather furniture against crisp white rental property walls. Her stereo was next, the speakers thumping to life with whatever had been on her playlist before she left for West Virginia. An old Nine Inch Nails track, a haunting melody about longing and failure. She sank down on the couch to listen, kicking off her shoes and curled up on the plump cushions. Her eyes darted to the sliver of shadow under the entertainment center, a corner shelf and the bruise on her wrist responded with a throb of pain.

Laine laughed softly at herself, at the anxious crawling in her skin. It was a typical response to trauma and she took a deep breath to calm her nerves. It would pass, the fear, tension, and anxiety at shadows and what they might hold.

Heather Laine was not afraid of the dark.

****

Her first night she slept soundly on the couch, exhaustion and cherry vodka combining to send her into a dreamless unconscious. The second night Laine lay in bed and woke up with a choking scream stuck in her throat and the pressing down of her chest. She could not move or speak and her mind wildly groped to find a reason. Marlene. She had come back to revenge herself.

Once she could move, Laine rolled over, grabbing her phone from the nightstand. In the glow of the light she could see nothing on her bed and no evidence there had ever been. Sleep paralysis, she told herself noting the time was still early, 1:11AM.

It was not the first time she had experienced the condition and each time it was just as intense until it was over. No wonder people once believed in incubi and later alien abductions, the feeling of helplessness was terrifying. Laine sat up, tapping her phone to check any messages. There was ten unread messages on Facebook from her mother and she rolled her eyes, reluctantly opening them. The first was a question about a new dress she took a selfie in and then nine messages about why she did not ‘like’ the picture. It was still a decent hour in California so she replied.

Mom, sorry, been busy with work, will call tomorrow. Give my love to Dad.

Laine paused then added, Love you, too.

She liked the selfie, her mother still a beautiful woman even in her fifties and she could tell there had been another round of Botox. Laine sighed and liked a few of her other posts, hardly looking at what they said.

Laine brought up her work email and sent a message to her supervisor to let her know she was back in town and would be in the office tomorrow. She still needed to finish her analysis of the suspect in the Sofie Childress case. Delta Green or no, it was still an open homicide in the FBI’s jurisdiction and as far as she was concerned she was still working to help solve it. Her thoughts turned to Agent Michael Chan, dead now by his own hand, and her own encounter with Marlene. Had he seen something she missed or was he affected that deeply by just the presence of the black slab of stone. The strange, alien feeling that accompanied the crime scene was certainly palatable but was it enough to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

********************************************************************
April 23, Seattle, WA

Rain fell in a steady rhythm at the SeaTac airport, the shades of concrete and sky becoming almost indistinguishable behind the hazy curtain. Dr Laine stood with her laptop bag slung over her chest, a black turtleneck covering to now faded bruise on her neck and pulled her small rolling suitcase along the row of taxis. The black pea coat was buttoned against the cold spring breeze, her old leather jacket had been tossed in the bonfire of the shed. She ducked her head against the rain, walking quickly to the first available cab.

"Welcome to Seattle, home of warm beaches and sunshine, where can I take you, Miss?" The driver quipped in a dry voice,the glanced I the rear view mirror when the well polished gem did not elicit a smile from his passenger. He was in his late fifties, heavyset with a florid face chapped from cold wind and his hands on the steering wheel looked calloused. She wondered briefly if he had worked the fishing boats until age caught up with him.

"1110 3rd Ave, please," Laine replied, shoving down the handle of her suitcase and pushing it across the seat.

"Right away."

Laine leaned back, watching the city, gloom settling over it despite the landscaped daffodils and crocus blooming, the bright blossoms hanging low in the steady downpour. She swiped her new phone open and scrolled through her contact list, passing the members of Team UMBRA each under their own code name she made up. Then there was Special Agent Chan, she had his number still despite the brief few days before reality shifted forever.

The agent had been only a couple years older than her, experienced but not jaded, with a quick intelligence and eye for detail. He had seemed to Laine a steady man with a level head, a wife and son and a mortgage. Perhaps he had been under more pressure than she saw, her attention had been on the case after all. And yet her mind kept turning back to the morning in Olympia and the black slab and how long Chan had lingered there.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the driver pointed out the Space Needle as they entered downtown.

"Thanks, it's not my first time in the city," she replied politely, not wanting to encourage conversation.

Once he pulled to a stop outside the FBI field office she paid him and made no comment when he asked if she was a G-man. "Or is it G-woman? Uh, G-person?" He shook his greying head as she closed the door.

"Just agent these days," she replied unbuckling her seat belt and grabbing her gear.

Laine made a dash for the entrance, carrying the small suitcase rather than deploying the wheels. Once inside the guard gave her a suspicious look, opening her cases and running the metal detector over her once then twice as it beeped. She gave him a coy smile, "Piercings."

***

Once inside she found the Special Agent-in-Charge Angela Gino in her office. A blonde woman in her forties with a no nonsense air and thin pursed lips. "What can I tell you Doctor, the case isn't in our hands. I assumed you knew this."

Her tone said she assumed Laine had made sure it was moved. So she asked, "Seattle PD?"

"Your people took over," Gino replied, "At least that's what they said. They had all the paperwork anyway."

"All the evidence? Photos?"

"At an office in Washington they said, look Dr Laine, I'm a busy woman and you're obviously out of the loop. Good day," she said, a hint of nervous energy in her voice and she rose from her chair to show Laine out of the office.

Dr Laine started out then paused, "I'm sorry about Agent Chan, by the way. He seemed like a good guy, very sharp."

Something flickered in Agent Gino's dark eyes, sadness then suspicion. "We appreciate your thoughts."

Then she closed the door.

Laine left the building, standing in the rain for a moment then popped the black umbrella open as she started walking down the street. Her phone was in her hand and her thumb scrolled along before finally tapping on the contact labeled Mike Muir.

Wherever he was, Joseph Donnelly's phone would light up with the incoming call.

The phone changed screens as Donnelley picked up, counting up the time of the call. A tired sigh that sounded as if the man had just awoken, an equally tired and droning voice coming from the other end, “Laine?”

His voice brought her back to the cabin and she paused a brief moment before replying, "Hey, yeah, it's me. Did I wake you?"

She watched the rain from the security of the umbrella, almost tempted to back out but the questions needed answers. "I just need a few minutes."

“Yeah?” He said, ignoring the previous question. A sound like shuffling came from the receiver before he spoke again, sitting up in bed maybe, “What is it?”

"I'm in Seattle, following up on the Sofie Childress murder," she said, stepping back as a car splashed through a puddle. "Only everything is gone. You wouldn't know where that box of evidence might have ended up?"

A long pause, a pregnant silence filled in the spaces their voices left empty. After a few moments, Donnelley sighed, “Laine, I know what I know.” He said, “I don’t know that. I can tell you someone does. It’s not your case anymore.”

Laine glanced up at the leaden sky then nodded, unsurprised by his answer. "I understand this whole thing is in a green file folder somewhere but I'm still working on a suspect profile. This isn't just about one victim, Donnelley."

She paused and tucked her hand into her coat pocket, thinking for a moment then she said, "Don't tell me I flew out here just to enjoy the weather. I also have some questions I'm working on in an agent's suicide, nothing official but..."

Laine sighed then continued, "How are you, by the way?"

Donnelley huffed through his nose, “Don’t do that.” He said, a little more stern than he might have wanted, but he corrected himself in step, “I’m… fine.”

He took his moment on the other end. A slight sound of static coming through before he continued, “If you’re asking what I know you’re asking,” he said, “No. Not unless he knew and wanted to spill. He would’ve been snatched up just like the rest of you otherwise.”

He let that sink in. It wasn’t until after he yawned that Laine heard his voice, “I’m sorry. If they were close.” There was a sincerity to his voice, “Happens a lot.”

"I'm not putting you on the couch again, Mr Donnelley," Laine replied, smiling slightly. "I asked in genuine concern after our weekend in the mountains."

After his explanation, Laine said, "Not close but Agent Chan worked the Childress case, I went with him as a consultant. He spent more time around that stone than anyone else. We were all spooked but..."

She started walking again, the sound of her boot heels clicking on the wet pavement seemed too loud in her ears. "He just didn't seem like he was at that point. And if this thing pushed him too this I can't help but think well, about the cabin."

Her hand unconsciously raised to her neck, rubbing where she had been grabbed. “Yeah.” Donnelley said, “That was more of an introduction than I would’ve given any of you.”

“But not all of it was up to me. I still remember my first. But,” he paused a few beats, “But you handled yourself about as well as anybody on their first. Just remember Laine, look at the sunrises.”

Laine stood on the corner of 3rd and Spring, waiting for the light to change. She listened to Donnelley, his tired voice and wondered briefly how many he had given those same words of encouragement and how many of those were still alive and with all their marbles.

"I handled it well after I ran shrieking and tearing half my clothes off," she said, huffing a soft self effacing chuckle. "I should have listened to you, lesson learned."

At his mention of sunrises she looked over the buildings, the very tops shrouded in low clouds as the rain still fell though it has started to slacken. "Sunrises will probably have to wait until I'm back in Virginia."

Laine crossed the street and kept heading west, her mind turning over the things he told her and the sound of his voice, "Late night?"

“Couldn’t sleep.” Though he didn’t tell her why. He didn’t feel anybody needed to know. Maybe he felt she didn’t want to. Whether it was what he got up to during the night before or otherwise. “Just, uh… unwinding.”

"I've had a few of those myself lately," Laine admitted, omitting the details of the sweat soaked sheets and racing heart when she would bolt awake. "I could use some strong coffee. No sleep on the red-eye."

After a moment she grinned to herself unable to keep the curiosity of what a man like Donnelley would do to relax, "Unwinding? So nice hot bubble bath with some mystic yoga music playing?"

She could hear the smirk in Donnelley’s voice, “Only the best for this girl.” Donnelley said, “Listen, we both got shit sleep. I’ll let you go try at it again.”

Laine looked out at the small coffee shop across the street, making for it, avoiding both cars and puddles. "I'll be trying at it again but not sleep. If you're in the area in the next few days, let me know. I'll buy you a vente mocha with extra foam. And Donnelley, I don't spook easily."

She stood under the awning, collapsing her umbrella one handed, shaking it out.

“‘Course not. Figured there’s a reason I’d keep you around.” He chuckled, letting it gutter out before he added, “Who knows though, might see me, might not. Keep in touch.”

And the call ended.

Laine shook her head,a half smile touching her lips as he hung up and she put the phone in her pocket. Inside the coffee shop it was warm, a few people already settled in with their laptops writing the next Great American Novel or tapping away at their phones on some money grabbing game.

"What can I get you?" The barista asked, a tall lanky man with a beard and a bun of fashionably messy hair bundled at the back of his head. He gave her the once over, a hint of interest dampened with wariness.

"Just a regular coffee, dark roast, black and one of those chocolate croissants, please," she said, "I'll be needing refills, too."

"Sure, on the house," he said, though all regular coffee had free refills likely but Laine gave him a smile of gratitude and he grinned in return. "I'll bring it over, and I recommend the booth at the far corner. A little secret, it has the best WiFi."

"Thanks, um..." She glanced for a name tag but it was a local place and he wasn't wearing one. She did not recognize him from the last time she had been here with Chan and a local detective when Sofie Childress' abandoned car had been discovered in the parking lot.

"Austin," he said, still grinning. "Like the city."

Before retreating to the corner booth she said, "Oh, well thank you, Austin. Very much appreciated."

Setting her laptop up in the corner booth, Laine ruminated over Donnelley's words. It's not your case anymore.

Like hell it wasn't. She stubbornly furrowed her brow, tapping her black painted nails on the table as her computer booted up. She had said she should have listened to him but she told herself that was in physical situations. This was different and self delusional reasoning was a powerful force.

She pulled up her personal files, things she collected for her thoughts on the profile of a killer. Under the Childress file she had copies of pictures she took on her own camera, not a standard practice so it the Agency did not know and what they did not know DG could not confiscate. Her photos were not as high quality as the crime scene unit but the distinctive black slab under the pale body of dead Sophie Childress was visible. Laine cursed herself for not getting better pictures of it but that was what Chan and his team were doing.

She zoomed in, the stone looked featureless and smooth, no light reflecting and no shadow darker than its own color. Laine wondered if it was still there, in the small glade among the temperate rainforest. Moving the mouse, she zoomed in on corpse of the college girl. Her long hair matted with blood and the frozen expression of horror on her face, mouth open in a silent scream.

Dr Laine gazed at it for awhile, the world around her fading away as she recalled the shambling corpse of Marlene. If they had not found Sofie, would that have been her fate or was Mrs Baughman a special case?

“Jesus.”

Laine snapped out of her thoughts and looked up at the stunned expression of Austin the barista. She folded down her laptop screen enough for it not to show. Resurrection of some kind but not holy, she thought wryly.

“Sorry about that, I’m working on a case.”

“No shi...really? You’re a cop?” he seemed wary again as he set her coffee and pastry on the table.

“Heather Laine,FBI. A profiler actually,” she said, hoping it would sway his judgement.

“Like the tv show?”

“Uh...something like that. You have heard of Sofie Childress? She came here often, her car was found here after she went missing,” Laine said, watching his expression.

He furrowed his brow, then rubbed at his ear, the multiple piercings clicking faintly, “Yeah, I heard about her.”

“I didn’t see you here that day.”

“I was off work, sucks though. She was pretty cool,” he offered, then started to back away as the door chimed with another customer shaking off the rain.

Laine could see something bothered him and she leaned back, giving him a warm smile. “Maybe we could talk about it later. After your shift?”

“Um, sure, yeah,” Austin replied, bumping into the table behind him before turning to hurry back to the coffee bar.

She opened her computer back up and started typing notes, things she remembered from the case and discussions with the detectives working it. One was dead but the local PD still might have information, if their files had not been raided as well. Laine picked up her phone and called the Seattle headquarters.

“Can I speak with Detective Gary Smith? Tell him it’s Dr Heather Laine, FBI, ” Laine asked the operator and waited until she heard the heavy baritone of the senior detective.

“Smith here, didn’t expect to hear from the feds again. What did you want?”

There was shortness to his voice but it was natural from the hours spent in his presence during the search for the victim. “I’m just checking in, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

Silence then a reluctant grunt she took as acknowledgement.

“I’m still working on a detailed profile and I was wondering if I could look into your files there on the Childress case, anything would be helpful,” Laine said, picking up her cup of coffee to take a sip as she waited for his answer.

On the other end there was a snort of derision, “Files? Feds already cleaned us out, took everything. Might want to check with your buddies in Washington.”

“Everything?” Laine asked, setting the cup down and sloshing a bit of the hot liquid onto her finger. Wincing, she added, “Nothing is there, not even for local use. We don’t know if the suspect is local.”

“Like I said, check with them. I’m surprised you didn’t know, Dr Laine. Figured you’d be the first after Chan’s suicide,” Smith replied, his tone changing slightly from annoyed to interested.

“I was on leave last week,” she said quickly, “Thank you for your time, Detective. I’ll be in touch.”

“Uh huh, not sure what about but we’re always thrilled to help the FBI.”

The line went dead and she set her phone down, rubbing her the bridge of her nose under her glasses. It wasn’t her case anymore, she reminded herself and it seemed like it was not anyone’s case. What would they do with the evidence. Work it, destroy it? She looked at her phone and resisted the urge to call Donnelley back and ask for his local contacts. It would do no good as he was not a man to give anything without purpose. He was a spook, a mystery, and the right person she needed for this task. It’s not your case anymore

“I’ll never learn my lesson,” Laine muttered and took a bite of the chocolate croissant. It had smelled divine but now tasted like cardboard.

It was evening when Austin the barista clocked out and met Laine in the parking lot. She leaned against the wall, smoking a Djarum and offered him one from the black package.

As she lit it she asked, “How long have you worked at the Bouncing Bean?”

Austin took a drag, his sinewy tattooed arms exposed from the rolled sleeves of his cardigan. “Like a year or so, I took some time off to do a tour with my band, just down the coast. I just came back two weeks ago, Marla held my job. She’s pretty cool for a boss.”

“Did you know Sofie?”

“I guess, I knew what she liked to drink. Ordered the same thing every day, a medium nondairy chai latte. We talked about music, she saw the band a few times, and...”

He shifted, turning his arm down in a manner that caught Laine’s eye. A tattoo among the field of colorful ink swirls, dark black and hard lined unlike the rest of his work.

“And?” she encouraged him, looking up at him, holding his gaze.

“We kinda, might have messed around a couple times. It wasn’t anything serious you know. Just hung out,” Austin said, then took a long drag, blowing the smoke through his nose. “It really sucked hearing she was killed. And those pictures...Jesus. She didn’t deserve that. What kinda psycho does that?”

“That’s what I am trying to figure out,” Laine said, then flicked her ashes. “Did she ever seem scared or think someone might be following her?”

Austin shrugged, then surreptitiously pulled his sweater sleeves down. “She never said, I don’t think so.”

Dr Laine looked him over, then nodded, “Thank you, Austin. I appreciate your time.”

“Sure. Hey, if you don’t have anything else to do, my band’s playing tomorrow night. The Eternal Lie. We’re playing at Rick’s Records. Kind at this cool hole in the wall club slash record store,” the barista offered, looking her over, his eyes lingering on her chest now that her coat was unbuttoned.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Laine said.

****

It was past 3AM and Dr Laine lay awake in the hotel bed, staring into the darkness. After a few days in Seattle she was still nowhere closer to answers than she had been when she arrived. Leads were cold and evidence, everything that had been processed and recorded, was gone into the shadows.

Sleep refused to settle in, everytime she dozed an errant thought woke her. Rolling over she thought about Donnelley and his unwinding. It probably involved a lot of alcohol.

Laine raided the minibar, taking two small Jack Daniels bottles out before running a hot bath. Sitting on the edge of the large tub, she knocked back the shots of bourbon and then turned on her phone to play a list of dark slow music.

The water settled around her body, warm and embracing as Laine leaned her head back on a folded towel. Already she felt tensions loosen in her back and neck. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply the steam of the hot water, lightly fragrant with one of the rosemary and lavender bath bombs she bought earlier in the day.

Suddenly she smelled rot, decay and a hand with grey skin and flesh pulling away from the fingers shot out of the water and seized her neck. Laine tried to scream but could not, the hand on her throat in a death grip. In the water she could see a face rising up. Marlene Baughman. The dark tendrils of her hair seemed lighter as her face broke the surface and Laine tried to scream again when she saw not the dead wife's face bit that of the younger, blonder, Sofie Childress. Accusing dead eyes stared into her own as the corpse in her tub throttled her. A thick wet voice came from Sofie. " Clyde."

With a splash and a gasp, Laine woke kicking and thrashing in the tub. Her hand went to her neck but there was nothing.

"Fuck," she whispered raggedly, her teeth chattering. The water was cold by now so she climbed out and wrapped herself in a hotel towel. Wet hair and all, she bundled herself into the bed, hot tears stinging her eyelids as she burrowed under the covers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the darkness.

(to be continued)

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

Creepy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bw_4bgVzFi8