Interception

In the end, Jill found herself unable to sleep in spite of her aching need to do so, and headed for the one place to which she almost always defaulted.

The cemetery was innocent of any other life save for a plump city pigeon, which sat on a nearby headstone and bobbed its head at her, occasionally feathering its wings. There was a marble seat opposite Gideon's grave; John had paid for it himself. This was where she now sat, hands cupping her elbows, shivering now and then despite the growing warmth of the morning sun. There being no Kramer family plot, Gideon had been interred amongst many other children, and as Jill turned her head she could see row upon row of similarly small stones, all adorned with bright plastic windmills, teddy bears, china figurines and other tokens.

All, that was, except Gideon's. The plain granite stone was etched with nothing more than his name, an infinity symbol and four animals: eagle, bear, elephant and lion. These, too, had been chosen by John, and he had never elected to reveal their deeper significance or to allow Jill to further brighten the small grave. At each step of the way, Jill had felt herself excluded from mourning for her child, as if only his father could possibly be grieving in any real way, as if the fact that their son had lived and died inside her should have been more than enough.

As if you were responsible for his death?

A young couple walked past her on the narrow pathway. She raised her head and smiled as best she could, but something about her expression caused the pair to drop their gaze apologetically and hurry onward, and all at once Jill felt colder than ever before, and painfully guilty; she had no business smiling at anyone whilst sat by the grave of her son.

There were more footsteps on the path, but this time Jill simply hung her head and studied her folded hands in minute detail, waiting for the unseen walker to pass her by. The crunching of gravel ceased, and after a few hesitant seconds, someone sat down beside her on the bench with a heavy sigh.

“I know I shouldn't have come here,” said Strahm, “but I didn't know where else to find you.”

Jill raised her head, glad to see him, but at one and the same time she felt another thorn of guilt pierce her heart at the happy sentiment, in this of all places. “It's all right,” she said. “Really, it is,” she insisted, addressing the sober look in his eyes and reaching out to take his hand. His skin felt cold and smooth, as if he'd been walking in the open air for some time.

“This is a big place,” said Strahm, as if he'd read her mind. “I've been looking for a while. It's pretty, though,” he added, looking around.

“Peter,” she said, trying to get past his obvious reluctance to speak his mind, “what's wrong? Whatever it is, I'd prefer if you told me.”

He smiled. It was seasoned with sadness but it was, nonetheless, a smile – and then he leaned in unexpectedly and kissed her, one hand resting soft on the back of her neck. Jill closed her eyes and stayed as still as she could, her attention focused for the moment on nothing but that connection, that warmth, and the gentle pound of his heartbeat against her breast. Eventually, and with reluctance, Strahm drew back and regarded her evenly.

“Here it is,” he said. “There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn't let this happen, but I think I can make peace with them all if you just tell me one thing: that I'm not getting in the way of something,” he finished, and now that still, hesitant expression was back, falling across his face like cloud-shadow.

“What do you mean?” asked Jill, although she already had her suspicions.

Strahm frowned and lifted her hand, touching her wrist, tracing the blue-black bruise that had bloomed there. “I mean this,” he said, then he let go of her arm and reached out, pressing his fingertips to the livid bite on her neck, “and I mean this, Jill. If I'm making things worse for you, I want you to tell me now and I'll walk away.”

“You're not making anything worse,” she said, struggling to raise her voice above a whisper.

“Who did this to you?” Jill tried to look down, look away, but he lifted her chin inexorably and refused to allow her quarter. “If I can help...?”

“What's done is done and it's taken care of. There's nothing you can do now.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Are you ever going to believe me?” said Jill brokenly, taking his head between her hands, pressing her lips to his cheek, brushing the cool stubble there, planting small, desperate kisses across his mouth, breathing in every last trace of his scent before burying her head in the hollow of his shoulder and sagging, every muscle going limp. She felt him touch her hair, almost reverently.

“I believe you,” he said, sliding an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss into the top of her head. “Come on. Let's get you home.”

Jill stood up, slipping her hands into her pockets, and only then remembered what she'd come here to do. Her fingers closed on a small, cool object and she pulled it free, holding it up in the wash of the sun where it gleamed as if newborn. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Strahm watching her curiously, but she bent and placed the tiny Chinese warrior figurine on Gideon's headstone with infinite care, setting it straight, turning it to face the dawn. Only when it was arranged to her satisfaction did she stand back, her smile shining seraphic even through a fine veil of tears.

She turned away at last, stepped into Strahm's embrace and watched from the warmth of his arms as the pigeon took flight, wings applauding the sky.

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

A small creak intruded upon the breathless silence at the rear of the packing plant. The door inched outward, letting in a small slice of weak sunlight, then a hooded figure sidled through the gap and closed it. The resultant breeze stirred months of dust into tiny eddies across the filthy floor, and the figure waited for this to dissipate before making its way down the dark corridor. It walked with a limp, although this disability was not, perhaps, quite so severe as to warrant the ebony cane it carried, and which clicked gently and steadily along the floor to mark its owner's progress.

Less than a dozen paces later, this accessory proved its mettle as the figure pulled up sharp and tapped the point of the cane against a fine steel tripwire a few inches from the floor, the action less experimental than it was thoughtful; and indeed, the wire vibrated but held. The hood tilted up as hidden eyes studied the row of loaded shotguns strapped to a rack on the ceiling, and then it snorted derisively. "No initiative," it whispered to itself, sounding moderately amused, then stepped carefully over the wire and moved on.

A bend in the passage brought the figure out beneath a security camera, and it once again glanced up, gazing at the red power light as the camera finished one arc and began to swing back. Waiting, patiently judging the camera's field of vision, it eventually nodded and ducked around the corner, head held low.

One right-and-left later it pulled aside a plain door in the wall and found itself looking down at John Kramer, clearly deeply asleep with one hand curled, childlike, beneath his cheek. The light in the room was low, blue-toned and melancholy, in counterpoint to the businesslike beep of the heart monitor.

Gordon drew back the cowl in order to see a little better in the dimness, frowned briefly at John's unconscious form and then stepped over to the counter beneath the medicine cabinet to examine the empty ampoule he'd spotted. His brow creased further still and he glanced back at John.

“John?” he said, quietly, moving back to the gurney and patting the man's face gently, trying to rouse him. “Come on, old boy, you haven't had that much. Rise and shine.”

(Dr. Gordon...this is your wake up call)

Far too close a comparison for comfort. Gordon shook his head savagely to clear the memory and continued, shaking John's shoulder instead.

The strident clash of steel upon steel interrupted his efforts for a moment, and he moved with surprising agility and all due secrecy to the door, which was one quarter ajar. Through the gap he could see Hoffman, back turned and shoulders hunched, working on some apparatus or other beneath the white glare of an anglepoise lamp. Gordon's curiosity was piqued as he watched the detective reach out for another tool; the knuckles of that hand were stained with fresh blood. Whether his own or someone else's, Gordon couldn't tell.

“Lawrence,” muttered John, his voice strained and weary, but still commanding for all that; it carried even over the noise from the workshop. Gordon hobbled back to the gurney and looked down at his patient with concern.

“I thought we'd talked about morphine,” he said, keeping his voice low and level. “Last resort and all that, eh?”

“Jill insisted,” said John, smiling weakly. “She meant it for the best. Where is she?” he asked, and now the smile slipped a notch as Gordon looked away briefly, clearing his throat.

“She met with Special Agent Strahm again...at the cemetery,” said Gordon, his gaze still averted. After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, John tapped his arm meaningfully.

“And?”

“I think she's getting a little closer than you intended,” breathed Gordon, the words tumbling out as if in a terrible hurry. “I'm sorry.” He watched as John waved one trembling hand, dismissing this as an irrelevancy, although something at the back of his eyes carried a different truth.

“She's not under any suspicion?” he asked, staring past Gordon.

“No, I don't believe so.” He paused, and licked his lips nervously before continuing. “Listen, John, I don't think this getting us anywhere.”

“You think your time could be better spent?” said John, sharply.

“I'm happy to look out for Jill and you know it – I just don't think it's right to use her as bait, for Christ's sake...”

“If you want to walk away, I've no more claim over you than you allow. I can't stop you. Look at me, I'm an invalid.”

“So am I, remember?” Gordon retorted, casting a meaningful nod downward.

“We both gained from it.”

The cacophony from the workshop ceased abruptly, to be replaced by a short litany of gruff curses from Hoffman and the clatter of some instrument as it was hurled aside, and the doctor looked warily over his shoulder for a second, hand tightening around the handle of his cane. “I'd better be going,” he said, pitching his voice even lower than before. “Will you be all right?”

“You of all people should know the futility of that question, Doctor,” said John, and now his pale eyes, no longer fogged with either pain or sedation, cut Gordon to the quick.

“I only meant–” he began, but John was already turning over onto his side, signalling an end to the conversation. Gordon's cheek tightened in frustration, but then he hauled back on his anger and swung around, stalking out of the room the way he'd come. He pushed the hidden door shut behind him as quietly as he could, then limped away, his cane tap-tapping into the sickly gloom.