Interception

There was so much blood.

Jill sucked in a lungful of air, meaning to scream, but all that came out was a jagged whine. She choked it back and looked down, putting her fingers between her thighs. The pain had subsided to a gnawing ache in her lower belly but still the hot flow continued. She traced a path through the slick, sticky fluid, her hand shaking uncontrollably as she found its source, and felt Gideon struggle inside her as he died.

This time, she found the will to scream...and woke, curling onto her side, arms wrapped around her belly, teeth sinking into the meat of her lower lip. The window was open but the room was still oppressively hot, and Jill sat up and swung her legs out from beneath the sheet. Behind her, she heard Hoffman turn over in his sleep with a short sigh. She turned and studied the gleaming curve of his bare shoulder for a moment, watching him breathe, then dragged herself off the bed and into the bathroom.

The harsh light, although unkind, was nowhere near as cruel as the mirror. Jill's eyes stung with shame as she looked herself over. Her breasts were red with a dozen bite marks, her wrists and upper arms bruised and her face shadowed and haunted. She turned away from her own gaze in disgust and twisted the shower faucet, turning it as far as it would go, and then stepped beneath the freezing deluge. The water felt like needles being driven beneath her skin but she endured, head bowed, eyes squeezed tight shut, refusing to acknowledge anything but the icy scourging.

Eventually, she whimpered and shut off the water, blinded for a second by the pain of cessation that somehow contrived to be worse than the wicked lash of the water itself. Jill stood in stoic silence until it subsided, then wrapped herself in a towel and switched off the light.

Hoffman was dressing when she returned, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt and then reaching for his shoulder holster, shrugging it on. He caught sight of her as he did so, and studied her as she shivered in the shadow of the bathroom door.

“You don't sleep too soundly, do you?” he asked, cryptically.

“Do you?” Jill retorted. Hoffman simply snorted and picked up his jacket.

“How long's it been since you were fucked as hard as that, Jill?” he said, quietly. “Have you ever had it like that?”

“That's none of your business,” she snapped, her eyes simmering. Hoffman crossed the room in two quick strides and loomed over her.

“Everything's my business,” he said, cupping one hand behind her head and closing his mouth on hers. Jill parted her lips – the action was pure reflex – and tasted the sweet warmth of his tongue. Once again, she was surprised at this unexpected show of civility; Hoffman seemed to flip between extremes with no regard, no compunction and no real warning. She slid one arm around his neck, drawing herself closer with a softly muffled sigh, and traced her other hand up his chest and stroked his throat, feeling his pulse beat strong and deep against her fingertips. Presently, Hoffman broke contact and looked at her without speaking.

“I don't understand you,” said Jill helplessly. For a shadow of a second she could swear that the briefest pain tainted that dispassionate gaze, and then the fledgling glimpse of humanity died away and the chill descended once more.

“Be grateful for that,” he said, and turned away.

--------------

The cellars at the abandoned plant, always cool, were little short of icy. She knew that John had requested that the thermostat be adjusted earlier in the day, but had no clear idea why – only that it concerned one of the tests. Jill made a habit of staying as far as possible from involvement in the games. This, however, she could not avoid. Her fist clenched around the pig mask, and then she sighed harshly and dragged the hateful thing over her face before unlocking the scarred steel door in front of her.

She recoiled first of all at the smell; she understood at once what the problem was, and her face twisted in anger as she made a mental note to clean out the cell.

Eric Matthews lay in an inelegant heap on the mattress against the far wall of the cell, and did not stir at the muted creak of the door hinges. Jill moved on cat's feet to the makeshift bed and gently laid a folded blanket across Eric's legs, then placed a tin plate of cold stew on the floor near his head. At this soft sound, however, he blinked his eyes open, bleary and bewildered in the poor wash of light from the open door. One hand shot out with surprising speed and closed around Jill's wrist, and he bared his teeth in a guttural snarl.

“Kill you bitch,” he slurred, his throat clogged with spittle. Jill tugged her arm gently, but could not extricate herself.

“I'm sorry,” hissed Jill, keeping her voice low and harsh to disguise it as best she could. “I didn't do this.” She drew back a little, feeling his hand tighten around her arm, his touch cold and rough.

“You're not...” he said, and started to drag himself up, using her arm for leverage.

She placed her free hand against Eric's shoulder and shoved, and finally managed to dislodge his grip. Being only half awake in any case, he sagged, his head knocking against the damp wall as he blacked out again. Jill rubbed at her wrist, distractedly, and then checked his pulse out of habit. It was a little convulsive, and she reached out, unfolded the blanket and drew it across his supine form.

“I'm sorry,” she repeated in a small whisper; quite pointlessly, given the circumstances, but it helped to correct something small and previously unheeded inside her mind. As she moved to stand up again, she noticed a dead rat in the corner by the door. Its whiskers and snout were beaded with blood, but she could see no immediately apparent cause of death. Gingerly, she picked it up by the tail and tossed it out into the corridor before locking the door behind her.

The cold seemed to have taken an iron hold on the stones of the cellar now. Jill, reaching the point of suffocation inside the stinking mask, ripped it off her head and flung it aside. It flopped into a corner and continued to stare at her, a crease in the rubber making the hog's face look as if it were winking at her. She couldn't tear her gaze from it.

(Jill?)

(Hey, Jill?)

“Hello? Earth to Jill,” said Amanda, rapping her knuckles gently on the door that led to the cellar steps.

“What?” Jill surfaced slowly, struggling back up from the depths of the fugue. She dismissed her confusion with an effort of will and offered Amanda a weak smile.

“I'm sorry,” she said, suddenly grateful for Amanda's company, “sleepless night. What can I do for you?”

“John wants to talk to you,” said Amanda, still with the same guarded air about her.

“Where's Hoffman?”

“He's fucking with one of John's mechanisms; where else would he be? Asshole thinks he knows everything. So how's Matthews?” she asked, with a noticeable sneer. Jill knew very well that Amanda held little to no regard for the well-being of their prisoner. Perhaps understandably so, given their shared history, but the sentiment was still jarring.

“He's okay, but I think you need to ease up on the Demerol now - it's too strong.”

“Whatever,” said Amanda; a verbal shrug. “It's all we've got.”

“Okay, but at least reduce the dose,” said Jill, becoming frustrated. “Take it down to fifty milligrams.”

“What about the benzos?” asked Amanda.

Jill reacted. “Who told you to give him those?” she said. This time, Amanda physically shrugged. “Hoffman did,” she replied.

“Detective Hoffman is not the doctor here,” said Jill, reining in her anger with a conscious effort, “I am. No more benzos or you're going to kill him. If Hoffman makes any more 'requests' of this kind, refer him to me, is that understood?”

“Loud and clear, ma'am,” said Amanda, her voice spiced with mockery.

Jill raised a hand to her temple and pressed hard, trying to subdue the beginnings of a headache. She was still oddly protective of Amanda and was glad to have watched her drag herself out of the gutter of heroin addiction, but sometimes the young woman could be harsh and unrepentant company. Jill excused herself with a curt nod and went to find John.

He was slumped to the side in his wheelchair when she entered, trying to reach a cup of water on the instrument tray, hand opening and closing several inches short. Jill inwardly cursed Amanda for such thoughtlessness, then picked up the cup and handed it to John. She remained silent until he had swallowed several mouthfuls, then asked how he was feeling.

“As ever,” said John, gnomically. He raised red-rimmed eyes to her face and favoured her with half a smile; the right side of his face, pale and doughy, was unhappily slow to respond. “Could you help me back onto the gurney, please?”

Jill hooked her arm around John's waist, supporting his weight as he levered himself out of the chair, his breath coming in short, hissing gasps. There was little for her to support, in any case; he had lost more than ten pounds in the last week, she estimated, and even for a man undoubtedly on an approach path to death, the rapidity of his decline was shocking. She felt his ribs, stark and clear beneath her palm even through the gown, and closed her eyes in anguish.

“Detective Hoffman tells me that the FBI paid you a visit last night?” breathed John after he was safely back on the gurney.

Jill finished smoothing the sheets across his chest and took a moment to scrutinise his face for any signs of emotional disturbance. John had never been the easiest of men to read, even before the cancer had seized him, but now all she could detect were the pain and exhaustion that sat upon his shoulders like a pair of vultures, waiting for him to succumb. She had no idea how much detail Hoffman would have entered into, nor what kind of subsidiary mind game he might be playing.

“I had an agent call at my apartment last night, yes,” said Jill, carefully. “He wanted to know if I knew where you were.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I said no, of course. Did you really have to ask?” she added, heartsick.

“There are few obvious questions and even fewer obvious answers,” said John, and now he held out a blue-white hand which trembled only a little. “He left you a card, I assume. May I see it?” Jill nodded, and wordlessly handed over the business card. John studied it carefully, both back and front, and then passed it back.

“Call him,” he said.