Interception

(A/N: This scene proved emotionally gruelling to write and I debated its inclusion for some time. In the end I felt it warranted, but please be forewarned it may be triggering for some.)

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Jill pulled up at the rear of the plant and switched off the engine, and simply sat for a while, staring into the congested shadows.

Strahm had left her apartment in sorrowful silence, pausing at the door only to press his lips to her forehead and wrap her fingers in his palm before walking away, head bowed. She lifted her hand to her face now, studying it, almost as if he might have left some trace upon her skin; something that she might see, some kind of keepsake, but there was nothing. She looked away and crossed her arms over her breasts, looking out into the gloom once more.

The building in front of her seemed more dispiriting than ever. There was an evening fog creeping in off the harbour like a prowling cat, the vapour sidling around corners and forming a sickly, yellowed nimbus around the naked sodium lamp above the back door. The fog had also brought with it a suffocating blanket of silence so effective that even the hum of passing traffic on the nearby interstate was effectively muffled. She sighed to herself and got out of the car, at which point the miasma settled at once on her hair and shoulders, creating a dim, fiery sparkle wherever it landed.

Only as she approached did she see the beaten-up panel truck parked in the deepest reach of the shadows between the doorway and the steel fence at the side of the loading bay. The tail gate was down, and now Hoffman stepped out onto the dock and regarded her coolly. Jill returned his gaze as best she could for a moment, but in the next second she shifted her focus and her priorities, noticing that he had a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. All Jill could see was a tangle of fine, mousy hair and one small white hand, resting limply on the detective's chest.

“Take her inside and let me take a look at her,” said Jill, her voice shaking slightly. “It's cold out here.”

For once, she observed with no small gratitude for the fact, it seemed that Hoffman was content to obey a simple instruction without comment. Cradling the child close to keep her as warm as possible, he stepped into the dusty gloom and led the way through the workshop to the holding cell that had been prepared. Jill knelt down by the side of the mattress and watched him put Corbett down as gently as he could, smoothing her tumbled hair before standing up again; Jill was yet again struck by how tender Hoffman could be under some circumstances. She frowned minutely, but then noticed that he had caught her eye and looked back down at the unconscious girl.

“What did you use?” she asked, lifting one wrist to check the child's pulse, which she found to be thumping a little too hard for her liking.

“Ketamine, fifty milligrams,” said Hoffman. “It was either that or the thiopental, and you told me not to use that again, so...” he shrugged and tailed off, still gazing at Corbett. “Is she okay?”

Jill, still concerned for her young patient's health, didn't respond for a moment. Instead, she laid her head on the girl's chest and listened to her breathing, which was a touch raspy but otherwise strong and steady. Finally, she sat back and laid a palm on Corbett's clammy forehead as the girl shifted ever so slightly in her stupor, lips parting with a throaty gasp.

“The dose was probably a little too high for her body weight, so she may be out for a while yet,” she said at last, “but I don't think she's in any danger. I'll check on her again in a while.” Jill straightened up. Unexpectedly, Hoffman offered her a courtly hand to help her to her feet, and she was so thrown by the gesture that she accepted it without thinking. Only once she was standing again did she think once more and draw back her hand, suspicious and watchful.

“What's wrong?” he asked, after he'd locked the door behind them. Jill turned back, still wary, but now also mildly puzzled. His voice was calm, his tone betraying nothing but solicitude, and his gaze professed genuine concern as far as she could see.

“Why do you ask?” she said, trying for more confidence than she felt, when the truth was that she was now suffering a nauseating blend of confusion and unease. If she were honest she'd admit that he had always possessed a talent for leaving her off balance, but this was by far the worst time yet.

“Because,” he said, quietly, “any idiot can see you've been crying.” So saying, Hoffman moved closer and traced a soft line down her cheek with one fingertip, following the ghost tracks left by her tears.

Don't, she thought, but something stopped the word on its way to her throat and her objection died unvoiced. Jill turned her head a little, her eyes closed, and brushed her mouth across his hand; he responded by gliding his fingers into her damp hair and stroking the nape of her neck in careful little circles. After a while she opened her eyes and looked at him. His face was unreadable.

“I won't be seeing Agent Strahm again,” she told him, trying to keep the unhappy quiver from her voice. “It was a stupid thing to do and it could have backfired on all of us.” Hoffman didn't respond, didn't speak, merely continued his soft ministrations.

“I trusted you once upon a time,” she continued, her voice distant in spite of her desire to wound him with her words. “I wanted so much to help you.”

It might have been her imagination, but it felt as if his fingers had paused for a fraction of a second. Then the moment passed, and they were circling once more.

“Sometimes I wonder if you've ever listened to me,” she finished, reaching up and pushing his hand away from her neck gently but firmly.

“I'm not the bad guy you think I am,” he whispered, closing her head between his palms and moving to kiss her forehead, her brow, her cheek. He moved lightly and with infinite care, covering the marks of her recent weeping with his lips, breathing slowly onto her tingling flesh. A second passed, then two, and some inner turmoil took hold of Jill's hands. She raised her palms and pushed against Hoffman's shoulders, drawing away from him, shaking her head sadly.

“I have no idea what you are, Mark, and I don't think I ever did,” she said, huskily, “All I feel around you is confusion. What is this, another one of your games?” She tilted her head, eyes tracking his features for any sign, a single flicker of any reaction at all. “Are you even in there any more?”

She saw it briefly as she had once before, a tiny flash of human vulnerability in the depths of those cool eyes, there and gone again before she could fix upon it, but this time she remembered that she'd...read the news reports of Angelina's murder with a heavy heart, appreciating just what had driven him to butchery even if she could not condone it. She ran sorrowful eyes over the crime scene photos, then set them aside and glanced instead at a lurid and intrusive newspaper picture of the detective at his sister's funeral. Only now did she turn to study the man himself for the first time, still unconscious in his restraints and looking eerily peaceful, and she touched his face and said, I'm so sorry...

“I'm the one who should be saying that,” said Hoffman, which startled Jill into the realisation that she'd given quiet vent to the memory. To her chagrin, she felt a blush rising on her cheek, but as she battled down this unsolicited affection something else rose to meet it, and she found that she was suddenly and incandescently angry instead.

“'Sorry' stops working after a while,” she said, her voice flat, and she stepped even further away, crossing her arms to put up a barrier between them. “The idea is that you learn from your mistakes, if that's even an adequate word for everything you've done. Good God.” She laughed, and heard the sound as if through someone else's ears. It was bitter and profoundly tired.

“Jill, just listen to me...” he said, and now he seemed little short of desperate for her forgiveness, so it was with a genuine stab of regret that Jill turned her head away from him, breaking contact with what she hoped was some degree of finality.

There was a soft whisper of air and, all at once, he was close in front of her and taking hold of her wrists, his grip not hard but nevertheless implacable. She started in surprise, and then tried to pull free. Now Hoffman tightened his grasp, and she met his gaze, hoping to reason with him there. Instead, what she saw terrified her to the depths of her heart; his eyes were sad and reproachful, lacking anything approaching malice, and for the first time she considered the possibility that he was utterly and irretrievably insane.

“Please don't scream,” he said, his tone hushed and pleading, pulling her against his chest and nuzzling her cheek. Jill had frozen like a cornered animal, hadn't even considered crying out until he spoke, but now she twisted away from him and drew a deep breath.

Hoffman reacted immediately, and now his hand was clamped over her mouth and he was pulling her to the cold concrete floor, shoving her down on her back and straddling her. Jill struggled against his weight and managed to raise herself from the floor, but in the next second he had drawn back and dealt her a brutal backhanded blow to the the temple. Black clouds bloomed across her field of vision and she sagged, dazed for a few seconds. Through ears full of squealing white noise, she heard him speaking to her.

“You'll put out for that fucking boy scout but not for me?” he hissed, pulling at his tie, loosening it. “Why couldn't you just keep still and shut up, huh? Why do you always have to piss me off? I never wanted it to be like this...” He dragged the tie off and grabbed her hands, wrapping it around her wrists and tying them tightly.

“Stop this,” Jill muttered, her voice still clogged with concussion. She couldn't quite focus on Hoffman until he leaned in close to her, and when he did, his breath was harsh and hot. He licked her face, just once, and then seized the front of her blouse, ripping it open with one rough jerk. She raised her bound hands and tried to push him back, feebly, but he subdued her with contemptuous ease and buried his face in her breasts, rubbing his cheek against her cold, shaking flesh.

“Good girl, that's right, just relax,” Hoffman gasped, sliding his hand up her leg and dragging her panties down. Jill's vision was clearing a little and she whined from the back of her throat, but he was already forcing her soft white thighs apart and pushing into her. The pain ripped through her and she tried again to scream, but he merely put his hand over her mouth once more and, this time, pinned her with his whole body weight as he drove into her as deeply as he could.

Head spinning from lack of air and paralysed by fear, she had no more strength to do anything but weep in silence as Hoffman moved against her like a rutting animal. He kissed her bare throat over and over again, his lips terrifyingly gentle in contrast to the ferocity of his thrusts. Jill cried out once more against his palm, but the sound was weak and hoarse, more sob than shriek, and she eventually succumbed entirely and closed her eyes.

On the far side of the room, Amanda watched from the shadows behind the open door, her knuckles crammed into her mouth and her eyes grey with horror.