MILLENNIUM "Comatose" By Brian A. Dixon (wackidixon@aol.com) --- DISCLAIMER: All "Millennium" characters copyrighted by FOX Broadcasting. This book is not authorized, endorsed, organized, licensed, or approved by Twentieth Century FOX, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and/or any entity that has created or produced "Millennium". This is a work of NON-PROFIT FAN FICTION, created entirely for reading enjoyment, and any reproductions must include a copy of this page. THIS STORY, "COMATOSE", was written by Brian A. Dixon (WackiDixon@aol.com), and he claims all legal rights over the story concepts and events that occure herein. Credit MUST be given in any and all reproductions. If this piece is to be reproduced, it must be done so in its ENTIRETY, including these forewords. --- "It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me, I would shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed." --Billy Collins --- CHAPTER 1 Seattle, Washington May 9 9:13pm The office was a different type of jungle during the night hours. One no longer teeming with busy life, but a dark, silent jungle absent of any and all activity yet somehow a tad frightening just in its nature. Jane Lindon closed her eyes, promising herself that she would just rest them for a moment before returning her tired gaze to the dimly lit papers scattered across her desk. The tiny lamp that sat beside her was trying vainly to combat the intense darkness of the large office on its own, powerless without the help of its florescent brothers that were sleeping upon the ceiling. Jane had promised herself many times that she'd never stay this late again. It gave her the creeps. Bad things happen in places like these at this time of night. She, of all people, should know this. She'd had more than her share of horrifying events in the past. But, since she had no social life and there were always more deadlines than dates, she often found herself in this blackened room of desks, toiling over one useless form or another on a Friday night. With a groan she forced her eyes open again, wondering how long she had kept them closed this time. Had it only been a few seconds like it seemed, or had she dozed off again? It was too late. She had really better pack up her things and head... In mid thought, Jane's mind stopped to examine the feeling that came over her body suddenly. An urgent, chilling feeling that covered every inch of her skin. She was unable to suppress an intense shiver, shaking in her seat, her short tawny hair jumping out of place. She gritted her teeth. Oh, God, she thought, not again. This had happened before. The shiver, the fright, the knowledge that something was happening. And those ideas in her head...those images that seemed to help her during the day at work had shown her terrible, terrible things. Terrible ideas in her imagination had been there the last time something bad had happened to her. Almost like a prophecy of things to come. Jane tried to calm herself, quickly pulling things together and spinning in her seat. She swung her legs around, her back to the desk, to face the darkened, silent office. By the time she had turned around, she was too late to even barely catch a real glimpse of the figure coming down on her. She felt a force hit her in the side of the head, instantly throwing her to the carpeted office flooring. She started to groan loudly, involuntary from the pain, but stopped when a boot hit her square in the jaw, knocking several of her teeth out of place. She felt a warm flood in her mouth, her mind flashing the urgent, dangerous image of scarlet across her thoughts. An eternity passed in which she examined her current state, head aching, mouth flooding, teeth splitting. But that process was interrupted by another kick, this time to the ribs. As she felt a tooth slip between her loose, bloody lips, she prayed that this would stop, and asked God why this always happened to her... --- CHAPTER 2 Black Residence Seattle, Washington May 10 6:24am One minute Catherine Black could feel herself drowsily nuzzling close to the strong, warm presence of her husband next to her in the bed, the next he was gone. Her half-awake mind barely physically noticed the absence, but she could feel it somehow. His comforting, protective aura was missing. Without even opening her eyes, she slowly made a sweep with her arms, grasping around the sheets and covers to locate him. "Catherine...Catherine..." Frank's voice prodded her gently, hoping to awaken her in a peaceful manner. Catherine responded only by smiling, her eyes still closed, and making a low groaning noise. "Catherine, wake up." With a gentle push, Frank forced his wife to total consciousness, helping her sit up against the headboard of the bed. She rubbed the sleep away from her eyes just in time to see him hang up the telephone on the night stand. "Frank, what is it?" she asked, voice heavy with sleepy confusion. Frank sighed as he sat upon the bed again, wondering how he should present this to his wife. "It was Detective Geiblehouse. There's an emergency. One of your patients, Ms. Jane Lindon..." Catherine gasped aloud. "No, not Jane!" Frank nodded his head slowly. With Catherine's hand over her mouth, he went on. "Last night she was attacked in her office. She was working late. She's in the hospital, the doctors are trying to help her pull through. Right now, it looks like she'll make it." Catherine shook her head. Why was she a social worker? Why did she put herself through this? Patients like Jane Lindon became like daughters to her. And now, she'd been attacked. Again. "Frank, we have to go to the hospital!" Frank nodded, understanding. "I know." The two got dressed quickly, saying nothing to each other as they pulled on their clothing. Frank made sure that their neighbors, Jack Meredith and his wife, were able to come over and keep an eye on the sleeping Jordan. "One of these days," Frank said to Catherine as he hung up the phone after calling the Merediths, "we're going to have to give them a fruit basket or something." Once in their jeep, Frank quickly got onto the road and began heading into downtown Seattle. There was silence, with Catherine adding an occasional heavy sigh to the air within the car. "Catherine, who is Jane Lindon?" Frank asked finally. It took her a moment to contain her fears, but Catherine responded slowly. "Jane came to me a few months ago because...because one night she was coming home late and she was...she was attacked and raped in her own apartment building. Raped by a man wearing a mask who just..." Catherine sighed and shrugged her shoulders to complete the statement. Frank nodded. He understood well enough. And now, Jane Lindon had been attacked again. What a stroke of bad luck. "She was having the hardest time with it." Catherine continued, "Every day, that's all she could think of. Horrible. I mean, not to say that any woman should have an easy time dealing with...do they have the attacker?" Frank frowned and shook his head. The man hadn't been caught. That was the worst part. Catherine breathed hard again and turned her face to the window. Once at the hospital, Frank and Catherine raced in the doors, checking with the desk ridden nurse as to where Jane Lindon had been taken. Frank turned his head for a moment while Catherine tried to find out the room number, only to see Detective Geiblehouse walking towards them. "Frank, Catherine. She's right down the hall." he said immediately. Catherine was quick to abandon the nurse at the desk and race past Geiblehouse, down the hallway. "ICU, room number 16!" he yelled after her. Frank sighed and joined his friend, slowly walking the same way Catherine had just gone. "She's in a hurry, eh? Close patient?" Geiblehouse asked. Frank nodded. "With Catherine, all patients are close." "Yeah. Lindon's pretty banged up. Lost a couple of teeth, major concussions and head trauma, broken ribs." "You have men at the scene?" Frank asked. Geiblehouse nodded. "You betcha. Every man on the force who's not occupied already is goin' over that office building with a fine toothed comb." The two men stopped just outside the heavy wooden door to Jane Lindon's hospital room. Frank asked one final question, rocking on his heels with his hands in his jacket pockets. "Do you mind if I call in some of my friends from the Group on this one? I'd like to give Catherine some answers as soon as possible. Make her feel a little better about this." Geiblehouse put on a mock frown. "You know, Frank, every time you call that group in, I get the feeling you don't think we can handle a case. What's the matter? I mean, I know I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but..." Frank almost smiled. "Geiblehouse..." he growled. Geiblehouse gave a short laugh, opening the door for Frank. When Frank saw into the room, his smirk faded. His facial expressions froze in place in utter shock. The thing on the hospital bed didn't even look human. Covered in tubes, needles, bandages, and tape, Jane Lindon was buried beneath an avalanche of medical equipment. Each piece attached to her in its own way. The respirator hissed up an down, almost sounding tired of keeping her breathing. An IV unit beeped, automatically increasing the amount of medication it was administering. And on top of it all, Catherine sobbed in sorrow at the terrible thing that had been done to her patient. Frank slowly entered the room, his feet shuffling along the ground. He was almost afraid to approach the bed and disturb Catherine's grieving. Geiblehouse simply stood in the corner, observing from a distance. "Catherine..." Frank whispered as he placed his hand on her shoulder. Catherine spun on her heels, turning to bury her face in Frank's shoulder. She couldn't look at it anymore. Frank himself felt the same way, but he couldn't avoid it in the same way. He couldn't hide from it anywhere. As he slowly closed his eyes, he felt the images coming to him... *office dark* ... *curiosity* ... *surprise* ... *smack* ... *jaw aching* ... *blood filled mouth* ... *ribs cracking* ... *sickening devotion* ... *teeth loosened* ... *angrily attacking* ... *defenseless prey* ... *heavy hitting foot* ... *chosen* ... Frank sighed, holding the back of Catherine's head in his hand, her lips against his shoulder. Geiblehouse shuffled uncomfortably. "We're looking to see if anything was missing from the office. The attack could've been simple robbery, or a random..." Frank shook his head violently. "No. The attack was specific. Lindon was chosen for a reason. He wanted her." Catherine lifted her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks, controlling her emotions. "Why, Frank? She's the most quiet, kind woman I've ever met. She's so simple and defenseless, and since her first attack..." Frank nodded. "That could be just it. She could have been chosen for any one of those reasons. We'll find him." he assured his wife. Catherine turned back to the bed. "How is she?" she asked, taking a chair from the bedside. Geiblehouse spoke up. "Doc says she's in a coma. Could be hours, days, months, or..." he decided not to finish the dreadful assessment, "They won't know 'til she comes out of it. Whoever did this hit her hard, but not enough to kill her, thank the Lord." he sighed. Frank nodded. Patting his sitting wife on the shoulder, he went back into the hallway. Geiblehouse followed, and the two men shut the room's door behind them. Frank reached for his cellular phone. Geiblehouse gave him a frown, a shrug of the shoulders, and said, "I don't know what else to say!" Frank nodded. "You did all right. She'll be okay. I'll take care of her." "You do that, Frank. You make sure you do that." With that, Geiblehouse left down the hallway, his head slightly hanging. Frank watched him go and lifted the phone to his ear. "Peter! It's Frank. Where are you? I need a favor..." --- CHAPTER 3 3:19pm Cheryl Andrews swung her dark brown hair around her head, hoping it would be disorganized somewhere other than right in the middle of her face. Peter Watts, standing next to her, gave a chuckle at the futility of the maneuver, as it simply slid right back again, across her eyes. It certainly was a mass of entanglement with a mind of its own. "Sometimes I think I should just shave it off!" Cheryl sighed in annoyance. Peter laughed. "You don't know what it's like without it until you lose it!" he replied, rubbing a palm along his bald head. Cheryl smiled but decided not to dwell on the statement. She knew how sensitive bald men could be... Skipping right over the pleasant conversation, Cheryl crouched down and took a look across the large office that she and Peter were standing in as the police officers shuffled around them. There had definitely been a madman in here. Papers covered the desks and floor in a layer of confusion. Papers that, no doubt, were of some importance and had previously been kept very organized. On the floor, just next to where she crouched, there was a large stain of scarlet blood along the carpet and its paper cover. Cheryl scratched at the dried spot with her finger, a little of the crusty residue coming off on her rubber glove. "Where's Frank?" she asked of Peter. Watts didn't even glance up from the file folder he was reading from. "He's at the station. The victim here was a woman named Jane Lindon. Turns out that she was a patient of Catherine Black's. Lindon had been raped and beaten just about three months ago, ever since she'd been seeing Catherine for support. Last night, she was working in the building later than usual. Everyone else had gone. The night watchman found her up here in this paper mess, barely breathing. The doctors say she'll live, but for now she's deep in a coma. No telling when she'll recover." Cheryl frowned. "I take it there are no suspects." "Not yet. That's why we're here. Frank wants us to confer with local PD, pool our resources, and give him some fast answers as to who and why." She sighed. Fast answers. In her book, there was no such thing. Peter slowly closed his file, grabbing the shoulder of a passing officer. "Excuse me. My name's Peter Watts. I'm working with Frank Black." The officer nodded vigorously in recognition. "Yeah?" "And I was wondering whether or not it's been determined if anything was taken from the office here. Valuables, files, records...?" The officer shrugged his shoulders. "So far, the manager's said that nothing's gone. Just a big mess, that's all. Everything that was here is still here. Guy wasn't interested in theft." "Thanks." The officer continued on his way through the crowd. "So," Cheryl began, "it looks like our man had only one reason to be here..." Peter finished for her. "Jane Lindon." --- CHAPTER 4 Seattle Public Safety Building 3:26pm Frank scratched angrily at his sweaty brow. The glow of the computer screen was piercing to his eyes. He could almost feel his retinas burning away. Two hours at a computer terminal was never his idea of a fun time. He'd recovered any and all information that had been present after Jane Lindon's raping three months ago. No positive ID had ever been made on the attacker, but fingerprints had been lifted from the scene. This, of course, implied that the rapist had never been arrested before in his life. His prints were not on file. There was no criminal record. Jane's description of the attack was here. And, Frank had the advantage of access to any and all of Catherine's records of help sessions held with Jane. Every once and a while, when the computer seemed to produce a dead end, Frank would force himself to look inside the crime again with his mind... *screams* ... *her exciting screams* ... *Jane* ... *no one else* ... *her blood* ... *bright* ... *thick* ... *don't resist* ... *Jane* ... *sickening devotion* ... *gorgeous hair* ... *why refuse my gift* ... *patience is virtue* ... *can't wait* ... *eyes shut tightly* ... *look at me* ... *Jane* ... *LOOK* ... Frank coughed, tired of the office's stale air. Reaching over the keyboard, he lifted the phone on the desk. Punching in a number sequence, he left Peter Watts a message on his beeper. '2000'. They'd already set the meeting place. He'd know what to do. "Frank." Frank placed the receiver down again. Looking up, he saw Geiblehouse standing in front of the desk. "Yeah." he groaned lowly. "Got anything good?" Frank shook his head. "Only intuition. The man that attacked Lindon is obsessed with her. He's deeply devoted. I can't help but think that this and the raping are somehow connected." Geiblehouse looked puzzled. "The same guy?" "I'm not sure yet." "How about your man Watts?" Frank sat up and reached for his leather coat laying on a table behind him. "I'll be meeting with him shortly. We'll see." Geiblehouse gave Frank a pat on the back as he turned to leave the office, heading for the building's parking garage. Peter would be waiting with Andrews at Jane Lindon's apartment. That's where they had agreed to meet. A look around the area where Lindon lived might reveal if the stalker had been monitoring her, and from where. Whoever this attacker was, he had attached himself to Jane Lindon. For whatever reason, he had devoted his life to this one woman. The cement cavern-like parking garage was cold. Frank buttoned the front of his jacket quickly after stepping out of the elevator. Striding across the dense flooring, his ears focused upon the sharp crack of his feet against the concrete. He wondered how Catherine was doing. When a patient of hers was in danger, her maternal instincts tended to take over. She'd become so concerned. Sometimes it worried Frank. He didn't want to ever see her scared. That was the last emotion he wanted her to feel. Fright. The absolute worst of all human emotions. It was a terrible thing, he should know. Frank reached into his pocket to retrieve his keys when he immediately stopped in mid stride, quickly and slowly lowering his foot to the ground. He froze his body. Somebody else was near him, he could feel it. There was a burning sensation across his back. A tingling of the cells. He glanced around the barren garage to see no one at all. His eyes searched quickly yet thoroughly and his ears listened for the sound of any movement. The parking garage was empty. He was the only one here. But he could feel it. Someone else was with him. Someone with a very strong presence. He stood there, unmoving, for several seconds, trying to determine what it was that had come over him. Without even thinking about it or summoning it, he felt his mind explode with a barrage of new images... *white* ... *help* ... *cold* ... *loneliness* ... *dull pain* ... *sorrow* ... *closed* ... *isolation* ... *no others* ... *just self* ... *and you* ... Frank shook his head, his eyes closing. These were not his thoughts. These were not images of the attack or the rape or of any other crime scene. These were from somewhere else. Somewhere far from the place that Frank was now... *help* ... *you* ... *I know you will* ... *reaching* ... *no physicality* ... *just reaching* ... *white* ... *icy cold* ... *unable to move* ... *only to think* ... *and to talk* ... *to you* ... Frank tilted his head back, eyes shut tightly, trying to focus on the individual images as they flashed by. They were there in an instant and gone in the next. Like a bizarre video collage on fast forward. He was almost unable to see exactly what they were, but he just managed to see each one for what it was. And he could hear a voice. Soothing. Feminine. Motherly. Without even noticing he had let go, Frank let his keys fall from his fingers and tumble to the floor. The metallic jangle on concrete startled him. His eyes swiftly flew open as he brought his head back down. In the instant he realized what had caused the noise, the visions were gone. He was alone. The presence had disappeared completely. The images swiftly vanishing. And for some reason, he now felt the loneliness he had just been thinking of. It took him a moment or two to regain his orientation. He took in his flat, cold, gray surroundings, picked up his keys, and started to head for his jeep. Peter Watts was waiting, he recalled. They had a meeting. But even as he started his jeep and began to pull out, he couldn't shake the memory of what he had just experienced. His insight had surprised him before, but never like this. In fact, he hadn't been using it. As if someone else had used his imaging powers. As if someone else had been pulling the strings. And as Frank Black knew well, the best way to find an answer to a troubling question, was to go out and physically find it. --- CHAPTER 5 Apartment of Jane Lindon 4:06pm Cheryl Andrews rocked impatiently on her feet, glancing up and down the stark hallway and occasionally glaring over at Peter, who was standing before Jane Lindon's locked apartment door. The walls between apartments were old, boring, and desperately needed painting. This building had no character whatsoever. Cheryl didn't like things without character. Seeing Frank approach them from the stairwell, she smiled widely and greeted him instantly. "Frank! It's good to see you again." Frank smiled slightly. "Yes. As always, Cheryl." A swift nod between Peter and Frank was all the greeting the two men exchanged, and Frank was quick to reach into his pocket for the apartment's key. "How's Catherine?" Cheryl asked as Frank unlocked the door, swinging it open for the three to enter. Frank sighed while stepping inside. "She's doing okay. She's gone to her office now. She doesn't quite know how to deal with it. Since Lindon's in a coma, she can't really give her any emotional therapy." Cheryl nodded, stepping out of the apartment's tiny entrance foyer and into a slightly bigger room. The apartment itself was small. There was little room for movement or storage. But, it was well decorated. Much more so than the hallway outside had been. Lindon had clad the walls and doors with paintings, posters, and small notes to herself. The table and chairs were clothed by decorative blankets and cloths. Unlit candles littered the shelves and tables. Peter, Frank, and Cheryl spread themselves out, examining the living style their victim had enjoyed prior to this terrifying incident. Such a horrible set of circumstances for such a nice girl. Peter could think of no worse set of events to happen to a young woman than being raped, stalked, and put into a coma. Jane Lindon was the victim of terrible fate. Frank was quick to glance out the room's only window, scanning for any means of monitoring the apartment. "There are various places from where she could've been watched. This is only the second floor. Plenty of space across the street for a stalker to watch from." he commented aloud. Cheryl sifted through a small pile of magazines in the bedroom nearby. "Looks like she wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary. She wasn't preparing this apartment for Good Housekeeping or anything." Peter, slowly walking the tiny kitchen space, asked to Frank, "Did you find anything on the computer? Do you feel there's a connection to the rapist?" Frank lifted his head to the window once again and concentrated... *watching* ... *go ahead* ... *act normal* ... *watching* ... *cold eyes* ... *glaring down* ... *I like that* ... *Jane* ... *beautiful Jane* ... *every action* ... *grace* ... *take the gift* ... *don't ignore* ... *Jane* ... *don't look up* ... *all safe* ... *no one watching* ... *'cept me* ... *gift* ... *like it* ... *wear it* ... *for me* ... Frank responded to Peter's question slowly. "The more I think about it, the more I realize that last night's attacker was mentally attached to Jane Lindon. He was devoted to her. He devoted his thoughts, his emotions, and his actions to her. Everything he had to offer. I have a feeling that the same may have been true of the rapist three months ago." Peter was just about to suggest another area to look into when the three were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. All stopped their previous action immediately. With a puzzled look on his face, Frank tossed Watts and Andrews a glare of question. Who would be knocking on Jane Lindon's door now? He went into the foyer to answer it. Watts and Andrews stood behind him, shoulder to shoulder, looking like a pair of secret service officers behind the figure of Frank. With a whining creak, the door opened. Frank glanced out at the large, overdressed woman standing in the hall. Her blazingly unnaturally red hair seemed to sprout from her head like a neon sign, pulling Frank's attention from her painted on mask-like face. "Yes?" he growled in his low voice. Upon seeing Frank's face in the door instead of Jane Lindon's, the large woman frowned. Her plump, make-up covered cheeks dove downward in a scowl. Her solid green eyelids closed halfway in a glare of distrust. Her poorly drawn eyebrows arched in curiosity. With a moment of looking him over, she spat with unneeded volume and annoyance, "Is Jane in?" "No. Ms. Lindon has been in an accident. She's at the hospital." Frank explained flatly. The woman's overdone face changed quickly from suspicion to shock as her bright red lips opened. "Oh, my! An accident? Well, I...I..." she found herself at a loss for words in the situation, suddenly noticing Peter and Cheryl standing in the back. "Can I help you with anything?" Frank asked. The woman held a little white bag up, directly in front of him, her bright pink fingernails gripping it tightly. "I...It's just an order that was placed for her. I usually make my runs on Saturdays." she explained. Frank frowned, not understanding. "An order?" "Some cosmetics and a little jewelry, that's all. She's...Jane was a regular customer. Is she going to be okay?" Frank nodded slowly. "The doctors are tending to her now. You can visit her at the hospital, if you like." Peter stepped forward from the back, slowly moving Frank aside. "Hi." he said, smiling to the make-up woman, "We're here working with the police. You said that the order had been placed for her?" The woman's mouth gaped in silence for a moment as she stared up at Frank and Peter in awe. Her mind wondered what sort of private detectives they were, searching for clues to an unsolveable case. Finally, as if snapping out of a dream, she replied. "Oh, yes. It was called in this morning." "This morning?!" Frank asked, a little shocked. "Yes, yes a gentleman called it in." "Did he say who he was?" from Peter. "No. No, it was the same mysterious fellow as usual. Jane's got herself a real secret admirer. He's made three or four orders now. Jane was beginning to wonder." Frank and Peter both looked each other in the eye, unspoken assumptions moving between them. Frank had been right. "Is she going to be back soon? Should I come back later, when..." "No, um...you'd better leave it here." Frank answered. The woman handed him the bag, a pained expression crossing her face during the exchange. "Oh...okay. Would you just let her know I'll be thinking of her. I'm so sorry...!" she exclaimed. Frank nodded as the woman turned and hurried off down the hall, as if she didn't want to get in trouble for interrupting the three. Frank and Peter shut the door once again and turned to look at Cheryl Andrews. "Some secret admirer." she commented. Frank held the white bag in his hands, pulling at its opening with his fingers. Inside, as expected, there were some cases of make-up and a small white jewelry box. Just a simple gift. "Maybe he felt sorry." Peter suggested. Frank nodded. "The man who placed this order is the same man who attacked Lindon last night." As Frank closed the bag and handed it to Peter, his body exploded once again with the sensation of someone being close to him. His muscles burned, his head tingled. He could almost feel some invisible person's arms reaching around him in a hug-like gesture. "Peter..." he gasped. With that, Frank's mind filled with the female voice again, flooding with the images that were not his own. He pulled his head back, bracing his body against the wall as he saw... *white* ... *small gifts* ... *who's the man* ... *the horrible man* ... *angry* ... *scared* ... *don't like fright* ... *healing* ... *drifting* ... *into white* ... *save me* ... *Frank* ... *save me* ... "Frank?!" Peter asked loudly. Frank shook his head hard, staring ahead at Peter, who could see a gleam of urgency in Frank's eyes. He felt Cheryl at his side, holding him up by the shoulder, supporting him. "My visions..." Frank breathed, "they're no longer mine." --- CHAPTER 6 Office of Catherine Black 4:48pm "What happened?" Frank glared up at his wife leaning over him as he lay on the couch. "I don't know." he said honestly, "It's happened twice now." "Twice? When was the other time?" Peter Watts asked from his position standing by the office's window. "In the parking garage at the public safety building." Frank groaned, "Look, we don't need to make such a big..." "Frank!" Catherine chided, her concern bleeding into her voice. Cheryl Andrews appeared to Frank's side, standing behind the couch. "Frank," she said, "I've had my doubts but I've never questioned your... sight before, but if it starts doing things that throw you off like this..." "I'm going to be all right." Frank growled. Catherine's brow furrowed in worry. "It's just...different than usual." Frank explained, his voice coarse, "I'm not getting into a crime. These images aren't coming from the mind of a killer. They're...different. Brighter. More hopeful. They're not of the crimes." "Then what do you think they are?" Cheryl asked. Frank simply shook his head as he sat up, ignoring Catherine's further requests that he stay laying down and rest for a while. "I'll be fine." he assured them all. Catherine put her hand to his rough cheek, looking into her husband's deep, dark eyes. "Are you sure?" Frank nodded vigorously, staring back at her to let her know that he was absolutely sure of it. He even gave her a slight smile. "Well, then I'm going to go back to the hospital for a while. I want to see how she's doing." Catherine said quietly. Frank nodded. "Do you mind if I come along? I'd like to take a look at her." Cheryl asked. "No, not at all!" Peter stepped towards Catherine's desk, letting his hand run along its edge. "Frank and I are going to stay here and look over a few of your files, if you don't mind." Catherine's gaze darted from Frank to Peter and back. "Uh...no. No, go right ahead. Call me if you need any help." Frank nodded, leaning forward to kiss Catherine on the cheek. She looked at him with concern once again before stepping towards the door with Cheryl. Frank could tell Catherine was worried. Worried for Jane, and worried for him. She gave a slight wave of the hand before Cheryl swiftly closed the door behind the two. Peter and Frank stood in silence for a few moments before either one spoke, alone now. "What is going on?" Peter demanded after a moment of looking at the resting Frank, stepping from the desk towards the couch, his voice taking a slight tone of anger. "Nothing." Frank growled, folding his hands in front of him and glaring towards his feet. "Then why did you just about collapse in Lindon's apartment?" "I'm fine." "You're not fine, Frank! This is why the Group is so concerned about you. Every time you have a problem with your 'vision', your 'insight', you end up in a hospital. I don't want to see you end up like Jane Lindon. Temporal Lobe problems are nothing to take lightly." Frank looked up at the angry Peter as if he had betrayed him. "They're not problems! You should know that. They help me!" Peter sighed, looking away from Frank for a moment to let his anger cool down slightly. "Frank, I don't want you hurt. We can't have that happen. I'm responsible. Cheryl and I can take this case ourselves. We can finish it from here without you." "No!" Frank yelled, his mouth contorting in anger, "Peter, I have to face this. I have to learn about it. Whatever this problem is, I have to work it out!" "Why?" Frank frowned and looked away from Peter once again. He let his stare drift the room, looking at anything but the man standing before him. "Why?!" Peter shouted, needing an answer from Frank. But Frank refused to answer. He refused to tell Peter about his daughter, Jordan. How he and Catherine knew that Jordan had received Frank's gift as well. How Frank found himself standing in his little girl's doorway at night, watching her sleep and fearing what nightmares hid in her mind. Nightmares that lurked in the corners of her gray matter because of him. Because of his gift. His curse. And whatever the nature of it was, Frank had to find it. He had to learn it like the back of his own hand so that he could help her. Help Jordan deal with the visions. The mental flashes of insight. The terrors that there were. But how could he do that when he kept being thrown curve balls like this one? Who was giving him altered thoughts now? Peter spun on his heels to face the window again, knowing that he wouldn't be able to make himself pull Frank from the case and angry because of it. It was Frank's case. He was doing to help his own wife. And to help himself. Peter had often wondered if, given the choice, he would take the ability to see what Frank saw. To get such an first hand look into the things that were happening on a case. But the more he thought about it, the more Peter Watts knew he might not be able to handle such a power. Only one man he knew of could. "Frank..." Peter trailed off, not knowing what to say. "Let's not dwell on it, Peter. Let's find our man." Frank stood up and glared directly at the back of Peter's turned head. When Peter looked back over his shoulder, Frank could see concern in the man's eyes. Not the same concern as his wife's face had displayed, but another. Professional concern, and friendly concern. Frank was happy to have both from such a good man. --- CHAPTER 7 Reynolds Memorial Hospital 5:09pm Catherine Black was quick to reassume her position in the small metal chair by the hospital bed once she and Cheryl Andrews had entered the room. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked over Jane's body once again. Cheryl, too, felt a pain inside at the horrific sight. Jane's face had now formed one giant bruise. Black and blue markings covered all of the skin that was visible through the medical patchwork that held her together. The two women were quiet for a long time. Light beeps that confirmed the IV was still working filled their ears with the regular hiss of the respirator adding accompaniment. "I'm sorry, Catherine." Cheryl said after feeling she had to break the silence. Catherine nodded. "Sometimes," she said, her voice wavering unsteadily, "I feel like I can't give them all the time they need. Like the hours we spend at the office doing counseling and victim services are just not enough. We could be doing so much more. Sometimes I just want them to move in with me. Live at our house and get the kind of treatment they want and need. But...it just doesn't work that way." Catherine sniffed. Cheryl stood beside her, not knowing what she could do. Maybe listening was enough. That's what Catherine did all day long. Listen. Catherine stood and headed for the door. "Excuse me, I'll be in the ladies room." "Of course." Catherine left the room, wiping at her eyes. Cheryl glanced once more at Jane Lindon, listened to a few more beeps and hisses from the machines, and shook her head. How horrible. Almost a fate worse than death. To be trapped in a comatose state for indeterminate time. Unable to interact with the world. Unable to live or die. Another moment of looking and she headed out into the hall to find a doctor she could confer with. But the room was only absent of visitors for a few brief moments. A tall, poorly dressed man stepped into the room quickly, making sure that Cheryl Andrews had not seen him. A man that Jane Lindon would've recognized had she been awake. She worked in the same office with him. And he knew Jane very well. After all those nights watching her in her apartment from afar, he had learned quite a bit about her ways. But still, he wanted to know so much more. To do so much more to her. Stepping towards the bed the man pulled nervously at his tattered black T-shirt before extended a hand over Jane's body, looking down upon the handiwork that he himself had done to her. The bruises, the blood, the bandages. All done with his own hands and feet. She was his. As he stared down upon her, he was able to feel himself loosing control. Her hair, her skin, her body...they were all so...so perfect, even when bruised beyond recognition. He couldn't help but lower his hand to touch her face. To push at it with his fingers, to drag his nails along its surface. Scratching along the marks he'd made. He'd never been more enraptured by another person like this in all his life. And he wasn't quite sure what to do about it. She wasn't responding at all. She was totally unconscious. His pulling at her cheeks, pushing at her eyelids was evoking no response at all from her, and that made him angry. She was supposed to respond to him. To react to him. Not to ignore him. She'd reacted last night. And weeks ago, when they had made love...if you could call what had happened between them that. He'd worn the mask then because he'd been afraid. Still was. Her screams had excited him. And now, even in the hospital, he could barely keep his hands off of her. Her body practically called out to him. And so, he grabbed at her face, pressing harshly... "Hey! What're you...?" Cheryl Andrews stood in the doorway, her face aghast with shock. What was this man doing to the comatose Jane Lindon? Her mind was horrified to even think about it. The man turned to look at Cheryl, his eyes wild with frustration and anger, his hair mussed. He let his hand from Jane's face, turning to reach out for the black woman by the door who had interrupted him. A quick movement that she was unable to escape and he struck her across the face, the force of the blow motivated by his rage. He and Jane were supposed to be alone. "Ahh!" Cheryl cried, her face throbbing with the slap. She dropped to her knees on the tile flooring, holding her face as the man came at her again, his arm raised, a low growl coming from his throat... --- CHAPTER 8 5:27pm One instant Frank was watching the rain splattered pattern on the windshield of Peter's truck, the next instant his eyes filled with white light. His skin tingled with that non-human presence as he once again felt his thoughts explode... *glow* ... *white* ... *horror* ... *help, now!* ... *the man* ... *touching* ... *grabbing* ... *forcing* ... *body painful* ... *despicable presence* ... *trying to heal* ... *his hands, strong* ... *his thoughts, angry* ... *uncomfortable* ... *face swollen* ... *black, blue* ... *forcing down* ... *go away* ... *go away* ... Frank reached out to grab the dashboard, his knuckles white. Peter quickly looked over from the driver's seat, surprise filling his features. "Frank?!" Frank breathed hard. "I'm okay, Peter. I'm seeing it again...I know what it is." "What what is, Frank?" Peter asked, trying to pay attention to both him and the rain slicked roadways. "The visions...they're coming from Jane." "Jane Lindon?" "Yes! Jane Lindon. She's calling me...reaching out to me. I can see her, hear her! All from her coma." Peter shook his head. "Frank..." "Peter, we need to get to the hospital, now! She's being attacked again... from her hospital bed!" Peter glanced at Frank's frightened face once again and, unable to detect anything but seriousness from the man, quickly swerved his truck around in a massive U-turn, heading back towards Reynolds Memorial Hospital... The hospital nurse looked up in surprise when Frank and Peter came bursting in through the door, running towards her with determination. "Call security. Get them to Jane Lindon's room immediately!" Frank demanded. The woman opened her mouth to question him but the two were gone, running off down the hallway before she could ask. She reached for the phone on the desk. As Frank pushed himself to run down the hall faster he saw Catherine standing ahead of him. "Frank! What's going on?" she asked, appropriately thinking the worst. Frank slowed down for just enough time to grab her by the shoulders and warn, "Honey, stay out of the way. Something's wrong..." With that, he continued down the hallway, running with all his might. Peter Watts looked to Catherine and shrugged, following Frank in a mad dash along the twists and turns of the hospital corridors. A few precious moments later and the two men finally arrived at Jane Lindon's door, the large black number '16' staring out at Frank like a beacon. He desperately grasped at the door handle. A group of frenzied metal clicks was its only response. "Locked!" Frank gasped, moving his eyes close to the door's smallish wire laced window. His widened eyes first spied the most shocking of sights...Cheryl Andrews lay sprawled across the floor, her eyelids closed tightly. Unconscious. Standing between her and the bed was a tall, disheveled man looming over top of Jane Lindon, his back turned to Frank. Frank was unable to see what the man was doing with his hands, but he knew it was something that had to be stopped. "Hey!" Frank screamed, pounding on the heavy wooden door with his clenched fists. His voice was muffled but the man inside heard him and his pounding, turning to look at Frank's marked face staring through the window. Frank could tell just by looking at him that this was the man who had become obsessed with Jane Lindon. So obsessed that his love and rage had become the same indistinguishable emotion. So obsessed that raping and beating her could be seen as acts of affection through his angry eyes. So obsessed that even now, Jane in a coma, he could not keep from molesting her. The man, seeing Frank, suddenly became frightened. He jumped quickly, kicking his feet uncaringly over Cheryl's limp body. Heading for the window, he abandoned his activities. "He's getting out the window!" Frank announced, turning to run further down the hallway towards the fire exit. One way or another, they were going to catch this man. For Jane. Frank's mind paused a moment in thought, almost able to feel Jane with him now, lending him what little strength she had left. He pushed urgently at the metal bar, bursting through the red emergency exit, an alarm instantly sounding throughout the hospital. He didn't have to look behind him to know that Peter was close by, following him throughout this chaos. They were a good team. Frank almost slipped making the transition from the clean tile floors of the hospital to the slippery rain covered parking lot asphalt. He had to concentrate on his footing to keep from sliding to the ground. Constantly pushing harder, he raced on. A glance ahead revealed he was close. Jane's stalker was just ahead of him, running with all his might as well. "Hey!" Frank screamed again, panting in exhaustion. The man didn't even hesitate at the sound of Frank's raspy voice, continuing in his rapid stride away from his two pursuers. Frank gasped aloud, sucking harshly at the damp air for breath. The cold rain falling down upon his hot face was somewhat of a relief in this desperate sprint. He silently wished he was allowed to carry a gun with him during his work. It might've made this situation a lot easier for him. "Stop!" Peter yelled from behind Frank, startling him at first. Apparently the new voice had startled their running man, too, for he turned around to look as if wondering how many men were chasing him. That turned out to be his mistake. His body turning slightly to look behind him, the man lost his balance, slipping along the watery pavement. His body lifted into the air, legs falling behind him. Airborne for several moments, gravity plunged him once again to the earth, his chin cracking on the black pavement. He grunted as it chipped off his skin and vibrated throughout his jaw. Frank was upon him in seconds, jumping onto the man's back, his knees pinning him down. "Don't move!" Frank screamed, the intensity of his voice containing more than simple anger. Peter grabbed for the man's arms. He closed his eyes, feeling to two strong men holding him down, unable and unwilling to escape. He turned his head on the pavement, his face scratching. The cool rain stung in his cuts as it made Frank feel refreshed, rewarded for their accomplishment. They'd caught their man. Jane Lindon's rapist, stalker, and attacker. Lifting his face to the dark gray sky Frank could better feel the raindrops play along the lines of his face. In his mind echoed one last feminine voice, an intense sigh of complete relief... *safe* ... --- CHAPTER 9 Black Residence 8:43pm Frank hung up the telephone with a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Cheryl's going to be okay. She's on her way home, now." Catherine, sitting at the kitchen table, put her head in her hands and just shook it back and forth. "What a day!" she groaned, sadness thick in her voice. Frank crossed the bright, clean kitchen slowly, sitting down at the table opposite his wife. "Catherine, she's going to pull through." he said. Catherine looked up at him, her eyes watery. "How do you know?" Frank smiled. "I know. Jane was talking to me while in that coma. Those visions...they were hers. Somehow, someway, we formed a link. She's healing, I know it. And one day, when she's ready, she'll come out of that coma. And when she does, it'll be safe for her because we caught him." Catherine found her husbands deep, low, raspy voice comforting in its tone and content. And when she looked at him, there was a comfort to his face that proved what he said was true. The lines on his cheeks framed the hopeful expression on his lips. "Why do we do it, Frank? Why do we surround ourselves with this...trauma?" she gasped, unable to let a tear roll out of her eyes. Frank shook his head, reaching out for his wife's hands. "Because we have to. We can, and we have to." She lowered her head, holding his warm palm close to her cheeks. Muffled coughs escaped her quivering lips. He could feel the warm, wet tears dripping onto his fingertips. And looking deep within his soul and hers, he knew it was true.