Inamorata (22/36) – WMC fic

PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Characters, not mine. Story, mine.

There were no lights, at least none that she could see. There were no visible tracks, no noises that didn’t come from neighboring houses. There was nothing to indicate that there was anyone inside, but she wasn’t deterred. Though she didn’t know what the scene would look like, the fact that it was taking place inside these walls was the one thing of which Lindsay was absolutely convinced.

The back door was boarded with 2x4s, yellow police tape draped across it. She could get in that way, but it would be a noisy process. She couldn’t risk giving him that kind of warning.

The windows along the side of the house were left as the fire had damaged them, shards of glass sticking out on all edges of the frames.

She had already somewhat anticipated it as she glanced around the corner. The front door seemed the easy way in. The planks of wood had been loosened, the police tape moved. It looked like easy access.

It also looked like a trap.

If she hadn’t suspected it before, she would know now. Ashe really did have very little faith in her abilities. He really did think that he was that superior, blessed with greater skill, and probably advanced intellect. It should have hurt him to be that arrogant. She knew very well that Ashe didn’t walk in through the front door, too much likelihood of being seen by a neighborhood watch, and he certainly didn’t leave an entrance open for her. Not one that wouldn’t bring about severe injury if she tried to walk through it at least.

If she were going in downstairs, it was through a window, and if she were going in through a window, she knew a better way. She would need to go up eventually, because that’s the direction she had taken Ashe, up into the attic at her apartment. For all of his brilliance, she doubted he’d amend the direction. He would go to where he believed the curse lived. Upstairs.

Lindsay noiselessly moved back past the broken first floor windows to the old oak tree that sat so near the house that they’d often considered having it cut down. One decent earthquake would have put the tree right over on top of them. But they’d never gotten around to it. Apparently the notion hadn’t occurred to any subsequent owners.

The tree wasn’t untouched by the fire, but it was bound to be more secure than the inside of the house. A fall through burned out stairs wasn’t on her to do list.

She put her gun back in the holster, snapping it in, took five steps back and ran at the tree, giving her most vigorous jump and pushing off with her foot, her hands latching onto the blackened branch above her head. Gravity yanked her body downward, the bark scraped roughly against her hands, and she nearly lost her rather weak grip.

She could certainly tell it had been a long time since she’d done this. It was hard to believe she was almost expert at it once. As she walked her feet up the trunk, heaving herself onto the branch, she could also tell that her physical condition wasn’t quite at its utmost. She’d make do. For what her body was deficient in at the moment, her emotional stamina was more than compensating. She was this close, and there was nothing that was going to keep her from getting to Cindy.

Lindsay traveled the path toward the second story window. Most of the branches creaked with her weight, destabilized as they were by their battle with the flames, but they stayed true enough to carry her up to her destination. That wasn’t to say the branch she was currently climbing out on didn’t feel rather precarious. The small cracking sounds that accompanied every forward movement were disheartening, but she was either going to reach her goal or take the fall. If she didn’t make it, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

When she felt the branch sway, she knew that she had reached the threshold of its ability to hold her. She reached toward the blown out window, incredibly grateful for her arm’s length. Leaning as far forward as she dared, she was able to reach through the frame, gritting her teeth as the broken glass dug through the layers of her clothing and into her forearm. Finally, her fingertips found the lock and, with a surge of strength that came out of nowhere ordinary, she was able to wrench the partially melted catch open.

Warmth oozed inside her sleeve as she pulled her arm out to push up the window. Benevolently, it slid open without a sound.

She, sadly, didn’t stand much chance of making such a discreet entrance. Not when she had a two foot span to clear and no trustworthy handholds. Scooting back a few inches to where the branch was a bit more steady, Lindsay slowly worked her way off of her knees and into a crouch, her balance tested every bit of the way. Before she had a chance to consider the ramifications of her selected action, she dove forward through the window.

As soon as she cleared it, Lindsay tucked and rolled, hitting the floor with an astonishingly tiny thump. There would have been only that and the faint sound of broken glass as she rolled over it, but momentum carried her all the way across the landing. As soon as her foot hit the brittle railing, she felt it give way, but it was too late to stop the section from breaking free and falling the distance to the first floor. Lindsay closed her eyes as it landed below with an audible thud.

Then she heard another sound that might have saved her from detection. Music. Playing softly, so as not to disturb anyone who might be passing by outside. He couldn’t have anyone knowing there was someone in here. It disturbed Lindsay though. Ashe had come equipped with material for his listening pleasure. What in the hell was he making this into?

Lindsay got to her feet, feeling her way carefully across the floor toward the room that once housed a desk and computer. When she lived here. Who knew what it last held.

There was a trace of light as she walked through the doorway, coming from the open entry to the attic. Extremely soft and inconsistent. Flickering.

Candlelight.

The ladder to the attic was down. She wasn’t so naïve as to think he didn’t leave it that way intentionally. Lindsay grabbed hold, gave it one hard yank and it broke off in her hands with a muted snap. One last ditch attempt at forcing someone to unwillingly announce their arrival. Maybe he had no respect for her ability, but clearly Ashe expected her to show up at some point.

Lindsay placed the ladder out of her way and squinted into the darkness for something functional she could utilize. Her heart was racing now. Not out of fear. Out of need. If she hadn’t been satisfied before that she was in the right place, she would be now. Cindy was up there. She could feel her. Now she just needed to get to her.

There was a tallish object near the wall. Lindsay went to it, carefully picked it up. A desk chair. It seemed some things never changed. It was sturdy enough. She placed it beneath the opening to the attic and climbed up on the seat. Pleading to whatever divine forces would listen for her arms to hold out this one last time, and wishing that she had a better idea of what she would be vaulting up into, she grabbed onto the sides and heaved herself through the opening.

Debris littered the floor, a combination of objects that had been stored by the most recent tenants and beams that had fallen in the fire. They impeded Lindsay’s view of most of the attic, but also the rest of the attic’s view of her. Ashe’s view.

She slid up onto the edge, got to her feet, and hovered by the trapdoor for a moment to try to get her bearings, before realizing there could be no bearings in this. Until she saw Cindy, there were only two things in her world, fear and desperation.

Staying low, hunkered beneath the edge of the rubble, Lindsay drew her gun again and followed the perimeter. There was so much junk in the way, it was like an inner wall blocking her from the main part of the room.

The music was gentle and clear now. It was classical. Mozart or Beethoven maybe. She wasn’t exactly well-versed in the genre. No doubt Cindy knew exactly what she was listening to. If Cindy was aware enough to be listening. Because there was no crying, no screaming, no choice sounds of life. In fact, there were no sounds at all, besides the music, nothing to let her know that she wasn’t going to emerge from her cover to find that she had arrived too late. It wouldn’t have taken Ashe more than his twenty minute head start to come in, shoot Cindy, and flee, leaving her here in candlelight and classical music to be found.

The dim illumination leaked through small breaks in the debris, but it took Lindsay quite a few steps before she found a passable opening with a clear view in the direction from which the light was coming. She came up behind a support, putting her back to it, holding out hope that she still had the element of surprise to her advantage.

Now that she could see, she was afraid to look. Trying to feed herself thoughts like ‘this is any other case’ and ‘this is any other victim’ didn’t work. In the deepest part of her, her utter core, she knew that it was Cindy and she knew how bad it could be. But she was more afraid not to look, and it was the very fact that it was Cindy that ultimately forced her to glance over her shoulder. When she did, she had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

Cindy was there. Alive. Awake. Aware.

Maybe too aware.

She had to be aware of her position, trapped, her arms out in a pose of crucifixion. There were wooden planks, about Cindy’s height, that came straight up from the floor, just the right distance from either side of her for the backs of her forearms to press against them. Smaller wooden pieces extended out from the planks, beneath Cindy’s arms just below either wrist, with another piece that came up in the front, so that her arms were enclosed in squares without tops. It almost looked as if Cindy should have been able to just slip her hands free from the odd enclosures, but there was something attached to each of those front pieces of wood, something pressing into the delicate skin of her forearms. Lindsay had to look very closely, barely able to discern what they were in the low light. When she did, a violent shudder went down her spine. Scalpels, stuck far enough into the skin so that if Cindy pulled her hands free, it would slice straight down the veins. She would bleed out in a matter of hours. Because, even with her hands unrestrained, her legs would still be shackled to the floor, with the antiquated chains that matched the rest of the scene. Spread wide. For what purpose, Lindsay could imagine, but really didn’t want to.

Cindy had to be aware of her level of undress too. The modern comforts of the house out of commission, the temperature inside and outside were one and the same, and Cindy was no longer wearing the clothing from the photographs, which would have provided some defense. She’d been stripped down to a thin underskirt, practically see-through, and a corset, the laces slackened to expose a substantial amount of skin. She had to be so cold.

Lindsay ached in reaction.

Cindy was certainly aware of Ashe. It would be impossible for her not to be. He was standing right behind her. So that he would be facing the door? So that he would have a shield? Wishful thinking. As she watched him at Cindy’s back, both arms around her, one reaching over her shoulder, the other coming up beneath her arm, as flush as he could get against her to watch over her head as he performed his current task, Lindsay knew it was for the intimacy of it.

Deliberately, Ashe pushed the needle in his fingers up through Cindy’s lip and slowly pulled the thread taut. The black filament already wound across a fourth of Cindy’s mouth. That he had only gotten this far into his performance was undoubtedly due to the fact that he had paused to change his own clothes too. Into his medieval wardrobe from the photograph. To complete the fantasy.

And Cindy was also aware of the pain. Lindsay could detect a restrained noise now, a tiny whimper as the needle went through her lips. But that was all. And Lindsay understood, without a doubt, why. Ashe had told Cindy he would kill her if she made a sound, and he would have, and Cindy knew it. So she didn’t make a sound. She silently withstood everything he’d already done to her, she would withstand all that he was planning to do, to make sure that she stayed alive. She could have been prolonging her own suffering if things didn’t turn out, but she did it anyway, because she was waiting for Lindsay’s arrival, counting on her to come through, and holding out complete faith that she wouldn’t fail.

Lindsay tried not to let the question of ‘what if she had failed?’ enter her mind. She hadn’t. She was here. She was in time. And most of Ashe’s great scheme was plainly visible anyway. She didn’t need to do much imagining to see where he was going with this. Restrain her in a way that pulling free led to death, then do things that made her absolutely desperate to pull free. Cindy had such incredible grit. It would have taken a long time.

Lindsay glanced away to regroup. She couldn’t think about that. She was here. She was in time. She needed to figure out what to do next. Her natural instinct was to rush in, to stop Cindy’s anguish, to stop Ashe from causing it. But how could she get to Ashe without getting Cindy hurt in the process?

She glanced over her shoulder again, forcing herself to look at the situation with more objectivity, like a cop. Both of Ashe’s hands were where she could see them, but she had no idea how easy of access he might have to his gun or another weapon, something that could take Cindy’s life before she could even get near them.

Ashe pulled the thread too tight and Cindy made a more substantial noise, still hushed, but magnified in the extreme stillness of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Ashe softly said. It was the only time Lindsay had ever heard him say those words and make them sound sincere. It might have truly been an accident. “Don’t cry, Beauty. It’ll only hurt for a few hours.”

He paused in his sewing to run his fingers down Cindy’s cheek. Lindsay put both hands on her gun to keep it from shaking as Cindy tried to turn away from the touch. Ashe smiled at the reaction, he seemed to find it charming, and attached his lips to Cindy’s neck. Cindy sobbed, and all thoughts of plans and strategy flew from Lindsay’s mind.

“You went the wrong way,” she said, stepping out of the shadows, gun raised and suddenly pissed as hell. It was a rather pleasant contrast to the misery. “I kept all of that stuff in the basement here.”

“Inspector Boxer, how nice of you to join us.”

He barely moved from his position, only raising his eyes to her. His hand settled onto Cindy’s shoulder. The other hand still held the needle, a continuing link to Cindy’s pain. He made no sudden movements. If he did, Lindsay was perfectly prepared to charge him. It was an intense desire anyway, but then they would all get hurt, with no guaranteed result.

She needed to keep an eye on Ashe, but she was much more interested in Cindy, so that’s where her gaze went, to the beautiful, pale face, marked by both fear and defiance. Mingling with those sentiments in Cindy’s expression was such relief that it instantly became Lindsay’s sole purpose on earth to make that relief valid.

“I know you gave me until midnight, but I really couldn’t wait.”

Ashe’s smiled turned into something even more twisted. He let go of the thread, which seemed a favorable turn, until the hand dropped to Cindy’s stomach, pulling her back tighter against him.

“It’s too bad. I was looking forward to our alone time.”

His face turned into Cindy’s neck, his hand sliding lower, moving down the front of the underskirt. The hand on Cindy’s shoulder moved forward, fingers dipping into the top of the corset. It was meant not just to torment, but to distract, and it was doing a damn good job of it. Lindsay refused to watch it, instead locking her eyes with Cindy’s. Ashe was not going to dictate her moves, draw a mistake out of her.

And, as if she knew it was precisely what he wanted, Cindy refused to cry.

“It seems that you and I share tastes. I knew your blonde friend would be the easiest to lure away alone, but I did hope you would give me a reason to choose this one.”

The hand moving down the front of Cindy’s underskirt found its target. Lindsay could tell only by Cindy’s flinch. She never made a sound. Her brave face was like a knife through Lindsay’s heart.

“Get your fucking hands off of her,” Lindsay couldn’t keep her voice from shaking.

“But she likes it,” Ashe returned, the hand starting to move deliberately, dipping inward through the sheer fabric.

Cindy’s feet jerked in the shackles. Her eyes closed. A few tears leaked out. Silently.

“Tell her.” His words were addressed to Cindy. “I do it just like she does it.”

That impulse to attack surged again. But she couldn’t. Ashe was ready for that. He wouldn’t be doing this if he weren’t prepared for such a turbulent reaction.

“This is worse for you, isn’t it? It would have been better if you walked in here and it was already done? It’s worse having her alive. Isn’t that what you said?”

Cindy’s eyes opened, but they weren’t wounded. Not by her. His choice of words might have been intended for that purpose, to make Cindy sorry that she’d fought so hard to keep going, to cast doubt. But Cindy knew better.

“It kept you from rushing right back to kill her, didn’t it?”

It was surprised irritation on Ashe’s face. He really didn’t get that she could play this game just as well as he could. Probably better. He may have gotten this far, but clearly she’d won a few hands along the way.

She regretted saying it though, taunting him, because he suddenly felt the need to prove how under his control this hand was, and Cindy was what was at stake. The hand on Cindy’s corset abandoned its post to move down to join the other. He grasped the underskirt in both hands, and slowly, painstakingly, pulled upward.

Lindsay twitched, and for the first time since she’d come into the room, Cindy’s eyes showed real terror. Ashe was enjoying every second of it.

This was not going to happen. She was not going to stand here and watch this happen. She just needed a clear shot, but even if it wasn’t the intention, Cindy was acting as a perfect shield now. Ashe was too well-trained. Any shot she might take, he would anticipate and move Cindy right into the bullet’s path.

Ashe’s hand neared the bottom of the skirt. Stupid or not, when he reached the hem, Lindsay was making a sprint for him. She wasn’t about to stand here and watch his hand disappear inside.

That moment was all but upon them when an incredibly loud crash echoed from somewhere below, halting the movement of Ashe’s hands.

“Sounds like someone’s had an accident,” he smirked.

Goddamn it. She’d told them to stay outside. But she couldn’t worry about that now.

“I need to tell you a secret,” Ashe said loudly enough for Lindsay to hear, his hands still paused where they were, then he whispered something into Cindy’s ear.

He was somewhat distracted. There would be no better opportunity. She just needed Cindy out of the way.

Cindy’s eyes were still fixed on hers, and she knew. She knew exactly what Lindsay needed, and Lindsay was well aware of what she was about to do. Whether it was the best option didn’t matter. It was the only option. She was seeking from Lindsay only one thing. Courage.

Lindsay knew when she’d found it. There was a subtle change in Cindy’s appearance, a narrowing of her eyes, a tightening of her jaw, an overall tension. Visual fortitude. Lindsay raised her gun more determinedly, predicting the scream that ripped from Cindy’s chest as she tore one arm free. It was the blood that erupted from her wrist as she turned her upper body out of the way that was nearly disconcerting enough to make Lindsay freeze, but, as Ashe reached inside the layers of his elaborate costume for his own weapon, she fired, two shots right into his chest.

Ashe stumbled backward into the wall. His gun plummeted from his hand, but he stayed on his feet. After a moment to recover, he actually pushed himself upright, moving forward again. Of course he’d worn a vest.

Lindsay took aim again, but not higher. Lower. She still had every intention of seeing him dead, but torture before murder, wasn’t that the game?

Her shot didn’t miss. Ashe’s scream as the bullet ripped through his groin put Cindy’s to shame. He tripped over Cindy’s bound, outstretched leg and fell to his hands and knees in front of her, blood pooling beneath him. If it were just the two of them, Lindsay would have found it quite satisfying to let him experience this particular injury until he finally bled to death. But Cindy was bleeding too.

Lindsay’s mind’s eye supplied a target right between Ashe’s eyes as she raised her gun.

Grunting in pain, Ashe forced his hands into the air.

“I give up,” he gasped.

He was unarmed, definitely incapacitated, and he was doing this on purpose, so that she had to kill him in cold-blood, just like she’d come here to do. She spared a glance at Cindy. Cindy was holding her arm tight to her chest, trying to impede the flow of blood. Her eyes were pleading, but whether they pleaded with her to pull the trigger or not to pull the trigger, Lindsay wasn’t sure. She wanted Cindy to know that she was safe, that she would always be there to protect her. She just wished that Cindy didn’t have to see it.

Her finger was taut on the trigger and a shot rang out. The hole in Ashe’s forehead emerged before her eyes and he flew back, one leg still bent beneath him. The gratification that Lindsay took in that last stunned look on his face was genuine, but she was also experiencing some confusion of her own. She hadn’t pulled the trigger.

She glanced toward the gunshot’s origin. Jacobi was there. He wasn’t leaning on anything for support. He wasn’t even slouching. He was standing perfectly tall, his gun still extended before him. How he got up to the attic in his condition was beyond her, but he would just have to forgive her the fact that she couldn’t spare him anymore attention at the moment.

She dashed to Cindy, unsteady fingers gently pushing the hair back out of Cindy’s face. Cindy didn’t shirk from the touch, but she wouldn’t quite look at her. Misplaced shame. It would pass.

It might have been wisest to wait for tools and assistance, but Lindsay couldn’t leave her like that. Not to mention the selfish motive that she wanted nothing more than to get Cindy down and hold her. She was vaguely aware of Jacobi making the necessary calls. Help would arrive soon.

She dropped her gun to grab onto the wood at the front of Cindy’s still trapped arm, and put her foot on the back plank, pulling with every ounce of her residual strength and pushing back as hard as she could. The board came free in her hands and she tumbled backward to the floor. Once she landed, she glanced up to inspect any damage as Cindy’s arm came free. There was a small knick where the scalpel was inserted, but her dire need to free Cindy of Ashe’s torture device didn’t appear to have done any additional damage.

Her eyes trailed to Cindy’s feet, locked in tight, and a chill went through her when she realized where she would find the key. She crawled over to Ashe’s body, digging through his robes in the search for pockets. Finally, she found the small key. It took everything she had not to spit in his dead, unfeeling face.

On her knees, she went back to Cindy, releasing her feet. When she stood up, free from the restraints, Cindy staggered into her arms.

Her skin was like ice.

Lindsay quickly shucked her duster and wrapped it around Cindy’s suddenly shivering form. She was exhausted, she was certain that Cindy had to be exhausted, but she had to get her away from Ashe, so she pulled her the few feet it took to have Ashe out of their sightline, and sunk down with her to the floor.

The blood was still coming fast from Cindy’s wrist. Figuring it was the cleanest available option, Lindsay pulled her shirt away from her body to press the inside against the gushing wound. Cindy hissed in pain.

“I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

Cindy finally raised her eyes to meet Lindsay’s, and the tears came. Cindy turned into her, clutching tightly with her good hand, and wept against her neck. Lindsay held tight to Cindy’s arm to stem the bleeding, holding Cindy just as tightly with her free arm.

She didn’t try to shush her. Cindy could cry as much as she needed to.

She didn’t say that it was okay. It wasn’t.

Instead, she gave Cindy the only assurance she could.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, kissing Cindy on the head. “It’s over, Baby. It’s over.”