Disclaimer: This story is an original work of literary art by me, myself and nobody else but me. I don’t actually own the characters, but Golden Press should be flattered that I’m using them because, after all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. If you’ve been frustrated by the wait, blame my students. I do J Forgive me if this fight scene breaks any laws of physics – I will admit I didn’t research the mechanics of fisticuffs – my only knowledge of fighting comes from Jean Claude Van Damme movies. Suspension of disbelief may be called for! J
Warning – there is a bit of fighting and a bit of smooching in this episode. If you don’t like either of those things (!), you may want to avoid this chapter.
Chapter Twelve
Special Agent Mark Carlson hardly moved as someone shouted his name inches from his ear. "What is it, Fynnes?" he asked crisply.
Derek repressed a grin. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn’t help trying his favorite prank. It had long been his aspiration to ruffle the unflappable Mark Carlson during a case. Despite four years of trying, he’d never succeeded. When he was actually involved in a mission, Mark’s attention couldn’t be swerved from his task at hand.
"Just wanted to let you know that I was here, Special Agent," he said, shouting to enable himself to be heard above the cacophony of sounds assailing him.
"Where’s Frayne?" frowned Mark.
"He’s along the back perimeter. Stigers is with him."
Mark relaxed. Despite Derek’s constant fooling around and the devil-may-care poses he chose to adopt, he could always be relied on to do his part and beyond in a crisis. Stigers was a brand new agent – Mark hadn’t wanted him on the front lines of this debacle any more than he’d wanted Jim there. Derek had neatly solved two problems for his friend, without being told to do so.
Frowning, Mark forgot all about both the new recruit and his rival. Carefully, he surveyed the area around him. He stood directly in front of the ramshackle Piers farmhouse. A row of emergency vehicles formed a sort of makeshift wall between him and the farmhouse. Behind that initial screen were literally dozens more vehicles of all types – police cars of all sizes and shapes, fire trucks, ambulances. Every siren on all of those vehicles was blaring, the various wails and whoops blending into a vast tumult of sound which, were they to concentrate too intently on separating the differing noises, would overwhelm anyone listening. Overhead helicopters with wide searchlights roared and circled around in never-ending cycles, sometimes seeming perilously close to crashing into each other or the ground. Often, the aircrafts swooped down so low that the air currents created by their relentlessly circling blades wildly tossed the hair on the heads of the mass of people below. Twigs and sticks and pieces of debris around the ground, eliciting an occasional curse from someone whom was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The only area that concerned Mark was the back of the house. There was a patch of trees very close to the house in the back, and they’d been unable to get a large group back there. There were only a few men patrolling that area. Mark hoped that Piers had watched as much TV as everyone else in America, and that he assumed that there would be several hundred federal agents stationed to each square foot of land around the house.
Mark turned and saw the wiry figure of Sheriff Riker running toward him, his head bent against the wind created by the helicopters.
"What’s going on now?" Riker shouted.
"We’re going to ask them to come out," Mark shouted back.
Riker’s reply was lost to the sirens and the breeze, but the expression on his face and the gesture he delivered made known his opinion on the possible success of that tactic far more eloquently than could mere words.
"I know," Mark replied. He smiled unpleasantly. "But if that doesn’t work," he yelled, "Then I go on."
It was obvious that Special Agent Mark Carlson was not at all worried at the though of performing that task.
Inside the farmhouse, the man who in one short day had gone from child abductor to assailant to kidnapper to murderer to FBI Most Wanted list member peered disbelievingly through his mother’s front room curtains.
"I don’t believe it," he muttered under his breath, surveying the mess outside the window.
It was obvious that he was talking to himself; he probably didn’t even know that he’d spoken aloud. But Trixie latched onto the remark.
"Believe it," she told him with cheerfulness that she didn’t feel. "They’re there. And they aren’t going away until they have you. At this point," she finished thoughtfully, "they probably don’t even care too much whether they capture you alive or not."
Piers turned from the window, his face alight with rage as he surveyed his captive, the one person available upon whom he could vent his rage. Trixie’s breath caught as she saw the murderous expression on his dissipated features – though her plan hinged on making him angry, she wasn’t much looking forward to the next few minutes.
"I’ve said again and again, lady, that I’m sick and tired of your smart mouth," Piers snarled as he advanced on her. "I warned you to shut it. I told you you wouldn’t like what you got if you didn’t. I guess you don’t believe me." He stopped a few feet away from her. "I guess I got to show you that I mean what I say."
Trixie took a deep breath. "I’m amazed that you can even keep track of what you say for more than five minutes," she taunted. "I thought that the only thing you could keep track of was that jug," she said, nodding toward his container of whiskey.
Piers face darkened still more. "You think you’re funny?" he asked awfully.
Trixie shrugged, looking up at him with a bored expression from hr prone position on the floor. "Not funny enough to make a living as a stand-up comic, but I’m not dealing with the most high-brow audience in the world here," she pointed out reasonably. "I wouldn’t want to make jokes that were too complicated, you might not understand—"
She broke off with an undignified "Oomph!" as Pier’s foot connected again with her ribs.
"Obviously that was a rhetorical question," she muttered, trying to catch her breath. "So sad that I get punished for merely answering—,"
Again, Piers interrupted her comments with a harsh blow to her side.
"For the love of Pete, can’t you hit me somewhere else?" Trixie complained loudly after she regained her composure. "All night long, it’s been kick, kick, kick. Your repertoire is sadly limited, I’m afraid – for best results, you should really vary your strike area. After constant abuse a region will actually begin to numb, rendering further attacks…"
"All right." Piers interrupted her lecture. "You choose," he said, with a ghastly parody of a courtly bow. "Where do you want to get hit next?" he asked. "Because I’m done sick of you," he said in quiet tones which were somehow more menacing than his earlier blusterings.
Trixie had rolled half onto her side, and she clenched her bound hands tightly together, bracing them on the floor. She tensed, so that the majority of her body weight was balanced on her braced hands. "Wherever," she said in a bored tone.
Piers frowned, looking suddenly confused. "What do you mean?" he frowned.
Trixie half-shrugged. "Wherever you want," she repeated.
"You ain’t gonna…" Piers began uncertainly.
"Beg for mercy? Cry? Ask you not to hurt me?" Trixie rolled her blue eyes expressively. "Piers, you don’t scare me at all," she said contemptuously. "You’re a drunken bully. You don’t attack unless someone’s tied down on the floor. Go ahead," she sneered. "If it’ll make you feel more like a man, go for it," she invited derisively. "But you’re no man, Piers. You’re a sneak and a bully and a coward. You know it," she said, staring him in the eye, "and I know it too."
With a howl of rage, Piers rushed toward Trixie. She dropped her hands quickly, causing her body to half roll back on the floor. She allowed the momentum of that movement, slight though it was, to aid her in raising one leg, kicking it out powerfully just in time to connect with the midsection of the crazed man rushing toward her.
With a howl of pain, Piers bent double, staggering to a sudden stop.
Trixie frowned. It wasn’t enough. She slid foreword on her back, raising her leg again to deliver another powerful kick to the same area. This one was enough to bring Piers to his knees. Quickly, she reacted, this time slamming her foot into his head. She rolled away quickly but not quickly enough – when he fell, he fell directly over her.
Trixie swore loudly – she hadn’t knocked him out; she had only stunned him. She had only seconds to complete her escape, seconds that were being wasted trying to wriggle out from under Piers’ not inconsiderable weight.
Piers rolled over and off of her, shaking his head dazedly, trying to clear it. Trixie managed to pull herself into a sitting position, but before she could rise to her feet Piers turned toward her. If his expression had been murderous before, the language now lacked the words to describe the depth of the fury that burned in his pale, normally lackluster eyes.
"You are going to pay for that," he said flatly, his voice thick. "And you’re going to keep on paying, and paying, and paying more, and…."
Trixie sighed. This was getting monotonous. She tensed – this was the move she hated the most. "What about when I’m done paying?" she asked, again allowing boredom to infuse her voice.
Piers smiled eagerly, and leaned close to her, obviously intent on telling her all of the ways in which he was going to make her suffer. He never got to deliver all his exotic threats though. As he leaned forward, Trixie leaned back, then jerked her body forward again with devastating speed and accuracy.
Matching cries of pain tore out of each of their throats as Trixie’s head slammed into Piers’. Piers fell back, his head slamming against the floor. Trixie pulled her knee up to her chest, then allowed her leg to lash out again to its full length.
A weird gurgle came from Piers’ throat. His head rocked back and forth on the worn wooden boards of the floor, and was still. Trixie held her breath. She hoped she hadn’t miscalculated and delivered that kick at the wrong angle. If she had bent his head at an angle the good lord hadn’t intended heads to bend….
She scrambled up onto her knees, and then to her feet. It was difficult going – her hands were still bound, and her various bumps, bruises and abrasions – particularly her ribs - screamed in pain as she moved. She moved cautiously toward Piers and bent over him.
Within seconds, she was reassured as the foul stench of whiskey blew across her face. Piers was alive – he was just out cold.
Trixie straightened up, grimacing. She stood still for a moment, taking stock of her various injuries. She bent slightly to one side and groaned aloud. Definitely a couple of broken ribs. So much for riding when she got back to New York – it would be a few weeks before she could take all the jouncing around involved in being in the saddle.
At her feet, Piers shifted and groaned. Trixie looked down sharply – he was still out, but it looked as though he was regaining consciousness more quickly than she had thought he would.
She looked toward the front door – she could go out there, but opening the door and waltzing out into the midst of nervous, heavily armed law enforcement officials didn’t appeal to her. She turned and made her way quickly toward the kitchen. She approached the counter and turned around, yanking open drawers behind her back until she found the one that housed Mrs. Piers’ cutlery.
With her fingers, she grasped a large steak knife. She leaned back, bracing its handle against the counter and awkwardly began to saw at the ropes which bound her hands. She muttered under her breath in frustration as the knife slipped time and again, cutting her hands and wrists. Eventually, however, she sawed through the last strands and brought her hands up before her in relief. She was free!
She moved as quickly as her battered body would allow her to move toward the back door in the corner of the kitchen. It was definitely time to get out of this place!
Mark nodded sharply in response to the questioning look a Texas State trooper was delivering him. Upon receiving confirmation, the man lifted the microphone to his lips and spoke into it.
"Mr. Piers!" he called, his voice artificially magnified to the point where it rose clear and loud above the clamor surrounding him. "There are local, state and federal troops here. They have completely surrounded this area! You can not get through. I repeat, you can not get through. Come out peacefully, and no one will be hurt."
There was no response at all from the farmhouse. The trooper repeated his message, and again, there was nothing.
Mark frowned. Earlier, there had been flickers of movement at the front windows and occasional reports of moving shadows from the personnel stationed near various windows. In the last ten minutes or so, however, there had been nothing. Mark was beginning to get worried.
The trooper looked questioningly at the FBI agent in charge of the operation. "Sir, should I…" he shouted
"Deliver the message again," Mark yelled back. "Tell him we’ll be coming in if he doesn’t give himself up."
"Mr. Piers. You still have the opportunity to end this without an act of violence," the trooper said into the microphone. "If you do not respond to our overtures, we will be forced to enter of our own accord."
Mark turned. "Are you still calling?" he shouted at the team behind him.
"We’re trying, sir!" they shouted. "We think he cut the phone line!"
Mark swore under his breath, swinging around again to face the firehouse. "Ready a team to go in!" he shouted at Derek. "We wait five more minutes for him to give her up," he said, his handsome features harsh. "Then we go take her."
Trixie crept out the back door. She was sure that the door was under surveillance. Therefore, she was amazed and not a little shocked when she crept out of the book door and no one was there to meet her. She scowled as she looked around – obviously there was some very sloppy surveillance work going on here.
There was a rustle from around the corner of the house, and quickly Trixie darted into the brush a little way back from the door. There was always the possibility that there was actually a problem. She’d been surprised a time or two when someone she though was operating alone turned out to have a partner, and she didn’t care to make that mistake tonight. Easing down to her stomach, she began to carefully and quietly creep through the brush until she reached a straggly strand of trees on the edge of the property.
She followed the line of trees up the edge of the property, until she was actually n front of the house. It was a little easier to move undetected since it was now almost light. Years of species survival had condition people to be a lot more aware of stealthy movements in the darkness than in the light. Looking out over the mass of people, her eyes moved carefully, trying to single out the face she suspected was there. Finally, she found it -up near the front, arguing angrily with Sheriff Riker and another older man. Mark. Trixie’s face broke into a grin. I knew it! she thought triumphantly. Only Mark would bring out this many people to a single hostage situation. She grinned wider. There was always a silver lining to every cloud. If she played it right, perhaps this night wouldn’t be a total loss after all.
Moving carefully, she slid out of the line of trees and joined the crowd. People have an amazing facility for overlooking the impossible. Trixie was the hostage, and she was inside the house. Therefore, it was impossible that she should be moving freely through the crowd. So the people she passed, most of whom, to excuse them, didn’t know her by sight anyway, didn’t even notice her, or assumed somehow that the battered and bloody young woman was supposed to be part of this crowd. Therefore, she was able to move almost the whole way through the crowd without anyone impeding her progress in the least.
She moved steadily toward Mark. The constant flashes of the light from the helicopter and from various blinking siren lights continually illumed his features in the pale grey light, creating almost a strobe effect as one shade and speed of light chased another across his face. No one even noticed her until she was within fifteen feet of her goal. Then Derek Fynnes, who was standing with his back to Mark, looked up and locked eyes with her.
It was an extremely gratifying reaction, Trixie thought with pleasure. Derek’s eyes bulged, his mouth dropped open, and an expression of imbecilic amazement conquered his handsome features. She smiled pleasantly, and fluttered her eyelashes at him.
It was that familiar coquettish gesture which finally shook him from his stupor. Derek’s face lit up and his mouth opened obviously intent on broadcasting the news of her presence to everyone.
Trixie threw a hand up to halt him, furiously shaking her head. He frowned curiously at her, and she pointed her finger deliberately behind him. He glanced behind him, confused, and saw Mark, still engrossed in his argument. Derek turned back to Trixie and grinned. His finger met his thumb as he made the "A-OK" gesture, and he deliberately turned his back on her. He joined in Mark’s argument, moving toward his friend so that he forced Mark to turn partially around.
Trixie approached until she was standing directly behind Special Agent Carlson. Riker saw her first – his mouth dropped open in astonishment. Mark, intent on what he was saying, didn’t notice. Trixie reached out and put her hand gently on his shoulder. He turned around, ready to bawl out whomever was interrupting him.
His mouth was open to shout when he eyes fell on her. She smiled happily up at him as he jumped back, stumbling into Riker, almost knocking them both over. The unflappable Agent Carlson, never surprised by whatever his cases might throw at him, was undeniably staggered.
"What in the name of…"
"Hello, Mark," she said clearly.
"Mary and Joseph!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "What in the….how did you….what are you…."
"Did you think I was just going to sit in there waiting for someone to rescue me?" she asked. "Really, Mark."
"Did I think…" he repeated flatly.
She smiled at him. "Are you glad to see me?" she asked.
"Am I…." Mark composure broke. He rushed toward her, and pulled her into his arms, ignoring the little grunt of discomfort she let out as he strained her sore ribs. "God, Trixie," he muttered almost incoherently. "I can’t believe you’re…"
"I’m fine," she gasped, moving his hands away from her sides. "Watch the ribs, there’s a few broken, and…"
He acknowledged her words only by sliding his hands away from her ribs, moving them to cup her face. "I can’t believe you just…I thought you were still….God, Trix, I was afraid that…"
Trixie smiled at him. All around them, the word of her miraculous appearance was spreading like wildfire through the group, but they ignored the furiously whispering throng.
"You were worried about me?" she asked lightly. "You should know better. After all, I did score three points higher than you did on the self-reliance index at…"
"Shut up," he told her reflexively.
She smiled. "You don’t need to worry," she told him gently. "I’m fine."
"If you ever do this to me again," he groaned, his hands still roaming across her face and through her hair, "I’ll…"
"You’ll what?" she asked teasingly.
"I’ll…" he trailed off, unable and unwilling to think of a dire enough consequence. He stared into her eyes, eyes he had worried he wouldn’t be seeing again, and was lost to everything but the pools of mesmerizing blue. "God, am I glad to see you," he muttered as he pulled her close to him.
Trixie drew in her breath in surprise as Mark pulled her body against his, and started again in surprise as he pressed his mouth to her in a passionate kiss. She responded automatically to the familiar caress, and the crowd around them began to cheer as they observed the embracing couple.
When word of Trixie’s totally unexpected arrival in the middle of the operation swept through the crowd, Jim was so suffused with relief that he could hardly stand straight. After a moment, he pushed himself away from the police blazer he’d been leaning against and began to push his way through the crowd, eager to see her, eager to see for himself that she was all right. It wasn’t easy going – everyone else wanted to see her too, and he had to fight his way through the tightly pressed bodies to see her.
Finally, he pushed through the last row of people and caught sight of Trixie. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her – she was standing very close to Special Agent Carlson. His hands were entangled in her hair, moving down to stroke her cheek. And Trixie wasn’t moving away – instead she smiled up and murmured softly to him – it looked like a rather intimate exchange.
Jim forced himself to shake off the feeling of jealousy that threatened to overwhelm him. Of course Trixie was glade to see Carlson – they’d been friends for a long time, and she’d just escaped near death. He started forward again, intent on giving her a greeting of his own.
Thus, he was bare feet from her when Carlson pulled her even closer to him and brought his lips down on hers. Jim stopped in his tracks so suddenly that his body rocked slightly as it came to a standstill. Trixie didn’t pull away – her arms encircled the detective’s neck and she returned the kiss enthusiastically.
Jim wasn’t feeling anything at this point. He stared in amazement at the embracing couple, barely hearing the cheers of the people around him.
Finally, the kiss ended and Trixie pulled away. Jim could see her face as she smiled up at the FBI detective. One of those odd hushes that sometimes descend on large crowds fell just then, and he was able to hear her next words with crystal clarity.
"So, Mark," Trixie grinned. "When are we leaving for Quantico?"
The agent grinned down at her. "Your chariot awaits," he told her teasingly.
Trixie sighed. "Let’s go! And once we get there, I don’t think I’m ever going to leave."
Mark smiled, and leaned down to press a gentle kiss on her cheek. "I’ll never let you," he said softly.
Jim’s breath caught in his throat. She was going to Quantico. With Carlson. She had not even seen him – hadn’t even inquired about him, it seemed. His head jerked slightly, and he saw Derek Fynnes looking at him. There was, for once, a sober cast to Fynnes’ handsome features, one not without a touch of sympathy. Jim stared silently at the man for a moment. Derek nodded slowly. The expression on his face spoke more clearly than any ‘I told you so," could have.
Jim turned, and stumbled back through the crowd. Apparently, he’d lost. Her time as hostage must have clarified things for Trixie. That affinity for Carlson that Fynnes had told him of seemed to have led her out of that farmhouse directly into the agent’s arms.
Jim stopped as he heard someone call his name. He turned, and saw Fynnes coming after him. "Where’re you going, Frayne?" he asked.
Jim stared bitterly at the agent. "I’m leaving," he said shortly.
Derek lifted a brow. "You don’t want to talk to her?"
Jim shrugged angrily. "I have nothing to say," he said bitterly.
"Do you have a message for her?" Derek asked quietly.
Jim turned and looked at him. "She’s made her choice," he said quietly. "I’m not fighting it anymore." He turned and continued to push through the crowd, leaving Derek staring thoughtfully after him.
Jim stopped at a car on the very edge of the periphery. "Are you going back to town?" he asked dully.
The young officer leaning against the car looked at him curiously. "I suppose I’d better," he sighed. "No one’s getting out until I go," he said, his disappointment apparent in his tone. "There’s not much left to see anyhow. Now that the woman’s out, they’ll just storm the house for Piers." He looked curiously at Jim. "You needing a ride back?" he asked.
Jim nodded dumbly, and climbed into the vehicle. The officer put it into gear and reversed up the long drive. Jim stared ahead, unseeing. Trixie was all right, but he had lost her. She was ‘his girl’ no more.
Back in the center of the crowd, Mark had herded Trixie toward the ambulance. The paramedics were clucking agitatedly over her, dressing wounds, wiping away blood, talking about shock and fractures and dolefully warning of the possibility of internal bleeding. Trixie was waving them away agitatedly as she talked to Mark.
"So how long did it take Jim to get back to Tumbleweed and notify everyone?" she asked eagerly.
Mark raised a brow. "How do you that that’s how we were notified?" he drawled.
Trixie waved this remark away as casually as she waved away the paramedic’s concern. "Of course he did," she said dismissively.
Mark sighed. "A few hours," he said reluctantly. "Riker called me, and we high-tailed it out."
"I’m glad they let you take charge," she commented.
Mark hesitated, and decided that this wasn’t the time to tell Trixie of the Bureau’s "deal."
"Where is Jim, by the way?" Trixie frowned, looking around her. "Did you make him stay in Tumbleweed? He must have been pretty cheesed off…"
"No, he came," Mark interrupted, frowning. "I don’t know where he is just now, but…"
"He left," said Derek suddenly, coming up behind Mark.
Trixie’s head jerked toward him. "What did you say?" she asked intently.
"He left," Derek said gently. "Went back to town with one of the local cops."
Trixie frowned, bewildered. "I don’t understand," she said. "Do you mean he went back to arrange our luggage? Doesn’t he know that by Bureau rules I have to go to Quantico to be debriefed? Did you tell him…"
"He told me he was leaving," Derek told her quietly.
"Why?" Trixie asked. She’d gone pale, the vivacious, relieved cheer of a moment ago having dissipated.
Derek sighed. "He said to tell you that he understands you’ve made you choice, and he won’t fight it anymore."
"My choice…." Trixie said faintly. She looked slowly from Derek to Mark and back again. "He must mean…The job." She stopped. "He came with me to see if he could handle me doing my job. I guess he decided he can’t." She stopped again. "But that means that he…that we…"
"That you can get on with your life," Derek said quietly.
"My life," she repeated.
"Yeah," he said. He prodded Mark sharply with his elbow, and that one started.
"Trix, don’t worry about it," Mark said gently. "It’ll be ok."
"Ok," Trixie repeated. Her face was chalk white by this point, and her eyes were clouded. "Of course," she said quietly. She leaned back on the gurney that the paramedics had pushed her onto. "Can I rest until we get to the airport?" she asked quietly.
Mark nodded at the paramedics, who pushed the stretcher up into the ambulance. "Of course," he said gently as he climbed into the vehicle and sat down next to her. "You relax," he told her as he took her hand. "I’ll be here."
Trixie opened her eyes and smiled weakly at him. "I know," she said softly. "You know, you always are here for me, Mark," she said slowly. "Why is that?" she asked.
Mark smiled back at her, hiding the wild surge of exultation that sprang up in him. "You still owe me two hundred bucks on that bet," he teased. "I’m protecting my investment."
Trixie laughed softly. "I’m glad you’re here," she told him as she closed her eyes again.
"Rest now," he said calmly, hiding the wild surge of exultation that sprang up in him. "We’ll be home soon."
Chapter 13
Rocchio looked up as the door to his office opened. His eyes narrowed when he saw Special Agent Mark Carlson’s tall frame silhouetted in the doorway. His face relaxed into bland expressionlessness when the Special Agent moved further into the room, revealing the slighter form of the woman behind him.
"Investigator Belden," Rocchio said gruffly, rising from his seat in greeting.
Trixie accepted the hand he proffered, returning his handshake firmly. "It’s good to see you again, Sir," she replied simply.
Rocchio grunted, and glanced up at the wall clock, which read two PM. "I was expecting you either earlier or later," he informed them.
"I would have been here earlier, sir, but they kept me quite some time at the hospital this morning," Trixie told him, her irritation at the well-meaning medics barely concealed.
Rocchio, who was not much for conversation, merely nodded and reseated himself at his desk. At his grudging gesture, Trixie and Mark seated themselves in the chairs across from the desk.
"I expect that you’ve told it too many times already, but I need you to fill me in on what happened out there," Rocchio said, after examining her in silence for a moment.
In a few concise sentences, Trixie outlined her reasons for being in Texas, her abduction by Piers and her time in captivity. She did make mention of the fact that she had escaped the house of her own initiative, but made much of the role the federal agents had played in "distracting" Piers.
Rocchio was silent for a moment after Trixie had completed her recitation.
"Well, Investigator Belden, I’m, glad to see that you remembered enough of your Bureau training to eventually get your way out of that house," he said finally.
Trixie was able to hide the smile that threatened at this Bureau-centric remark. "Thank you, sir," she replied.
Rocchio drummed his fingers on his desk. "Special Agent Carlson, have you spoken to Detective Belden about our agreement?" he asked.
Mark groaned inwardly. Trust Rocchio to phrase the question in a way that incriminated him as well as the assistant director. Now there was no way that Trixie would believe that her old pal Mark was involved in her entrapment. "I’ve not yet had to opportunity to discuss your conditions with Detective Belden, sir," he said aloud, trying to apply a significant, though not extreme, amount of stress to the pronoun.
"What conditions?" Trixie asked suspiciously, leaning forward slightly.
Rocchio continued to drum his fingers on the desk. The rescue had not gone the way the assistant director had wanted it to go. Belden had gotten out of the house on her own steam. As it was, there was no clear debt that she owed to the agency. The director looked with disfavor at Carlson. This whole scene would be going a lot more smoothly if Mark had managed to move his behind a little quicker, and pull Belden out of the house before she’d managed to cold-cock her captor on her own.
"Detective Belden," Rocchio said finally, "I’m sure you know how costly a move such as the one the Bureau made last night is."
Trixie nodded. "I certainly am, sir," she said respectfully.
"Good," Rocchio began. "Then I’m sure…"
"However," Trixie said as though she’d not heard the assistant director begin to speak, "It is my understanding that situations such as that – rescuing citizens from the clutches of the criminal elements in our society – is the reason that this Bureau exists."
Rocchio reddened. "I…that is, this organization…"
"I realize that of late the Bureau’s been moving toward a more preventive approach," mused Trixie. "Catching criminals before they do anything criminal. However, sometimes a hands-on mission such as last night’s is still necessary, I guess."
Rocchio grunted. "Young lady, I’m not going to beat around the bush with you," he said gruffly.
"Good," Trixie murmured.
"We wanted you as part of this organization four years ago, and you turned us down. We’ve tried to get you several times since then, and you’ve refused every time."
"I have my reasons," Trixie said tightly.
"After last night, my feeling is that you owe us," Rocchio said.
Trixie stared incredulously at the assistant director. "You showed up and made a lot of noise in the front yard of a farmhouse in Texas and I owe you?" she asked incredulously. "Might I remind you, sir, that I got out of the house myself while Bureau agents were still pondering their move."
Her words didn’t please either male in the room. Rocchio was angry because she was right, and had been rather disrespectful in pointing it out. Mark was even angrier, though. He understood Trixie’s need to try to get out of this obligation Rocchio was trying to foist onto her. But in the process, she’d made him look like a fool. Some payback for his rush to rescue her.
Trixie seemed to realize how her last remark had sounded. "I am very grateful for the presence of the Bureau," she said in more reasonable tones. "Getting out of the farmhouse was one part training to four parts luck and I realize that. Had the situation gone differently, Agent Carlson and his team could have been the only thing that saved me from death. As it is, though, I really don’t see why I have an obligation to the Bureau for their involvement in a situation that they were called to by request of the state police."
"I’m not playing anymore, kid," Rocchio said. "If you quote what I’m going to say now, I’ll deny it. We want you in this organization. That cop in Texas who called us in gave you to us. If you don’t work with us - work off what you owe us, so to speak - from now on when you need us, we won’t be there."
"Are you threatening me?" Trixie asked incredulously.
Rocchio shrugged muscular shoulders. "Belden, no one in this Bureau gets where they are by playing nice. We need you. If this is the only way we can get you, so be it."
"Sir, I have an agency of my own in New York. I can’t just leave it and my life there to come here and be an agent!"
"No one’s asking you to leave," Rocchio said, settling comfortably into his chair. He sensed that victory was near, so he could afford to relax. "You’ll be a stand-by agent."
"What?" frowned Trixie.
"You stay in New York, and you run your agency. If something big happens in your area that we need you on, we call you."
"So I’m supposed to be on-call for the FBI, 24-7?" Trixie demanded angrily.
"We’ll work something out," Rocchio said lazily. "Here’s the deal," he said after a moment’s thought. "We won’t ask for your help more than twice in a twelve-month period – how about that?" he asked.
"Oh, that’s great," Trixie assured him sarcastically.
"Look, Belden," Rocchio said, leaning forward. "This is actually a dream job. You don’t have to do any agency scut-work – we’ll call you in for the high profile, challenging stuff. You get to do your own thing, your own way the rest of the time. People would kill for this deal."
"I am honored," Trixie said flatly. "Is there anything else, sir?"
Rocchio leaned back and waved a hand. "That’s it. I know where to find you when I need you – Agent Belden."
Trixie nodded stiffly, then turned and quickly left the room. Mark followed anxiously, shooting a half-glare over his shoulder at Rocchio. As the door slammed behind them, the assistant director allowed his carefully blank expression to relax into a grin. A moment later, a sound that would have astonished many people who worked under Rocchio echoed throughout the room. The assistant director was chuckling.
"…that I didn’t have anything to do with this plan," Mark finished anxiously, staring intently at the woman who was sprawled face-up on the neatly made bed. "Do you believe me?"
"Yes," Trixie said impatiently, not bothering to open her eyes. "I’ve told you that fourteen times already."
"Why do I get the feeling that you don’t believe me, then?" he asked.
Trixie sat up with a groan. "I believe you," she assured him in exasperation. "I just can’t believe you agreed to it."
"What did you want me to do? Refuse to go on those terms? Just leave you there?" Mark demanded.
Trixie sighed, and looked up at him. "Mark, I would rather that you had let me deal with whatever happened in that farmhouse than chain me to this open-ended deal with the Bureau," she told him seriously.
"I couldn’t do that," he told her softly.
She nodded slowly. "I know…No one, it seems, can ‘let me’ do what I want. Everyone always knows what’s best for me." She moved to the edge of the bed, and reached for the phone on the nightstand. "It gets just the littlest bit tiresome at times."
"Who are you calling?" asked Mark, somewhat at a loss as to how to respond to her comments.
Trixie raised a quizzical brow at him. "The airport," she said simply. "I have to get back. There’s other cases piling up at the agency."
"You’re going back now?" asked Mark disbelievingly. "But you…you just got here."
Trixie smiled at him. "I have to get back to work," she told him.
"I thought you might…stay here for a few days. Visit. Hang out…," he floundered.
"Here?" Trixie grinned as she looked around the pristine bedroom and out into the equally spotless apartment. "You’re too neat. I can’t stay here; you’ll kill me. Besides, I felt bad enough throwing you out of your bed this morning; I couldn’t do it again. And I don’t want to be sleeping on that couch – I remember how uncomfortable it is!" Smiling, she lifted the phone and began to dial.
Still trying to muster arguments to convince her to stay, Mark was distracted by a loud pounding on the door. Mark left Trixie arguing into the receiver with the ticket agent, and went to answer it. He opened to find Derek Fynnes, grinning on the doorstep.
"I’m not interrupting anything, am I?" drawled Derek, pushing his way into the apartment.
"Of course not," spluttered Mark.
"Where’s Trix?"
"She’s in the bedroom, call-,"
"You dog!" Derek crowed. "I guess I am interrupting something!"
"Don’t be stupid," Mark snapped. "She’s calling the airport."
"The airport?" Derek asked incredulously. "Why’s she doing that?"
"She’s going home," Mark told him bluntly.
"But why?" insisted Derek.
"She had a ‘discussion’ with Rocchio today, and he gave her his little ultimatum."
"So what happened?" pressed Derek.
"She’s a stand-by agent. And she’s pretty ticked."
"At you?"
"Mostly at Rocchio. But no," Mark sighed, seating himself on the old sofa. "She’s not thrilled with me, either."
"So you’re just going to let her go home?" Derek asked incredulously. "You have her right here, and you’re letting her leave?" Neither of them noticed that the one-sided conversation in the other room had ended, or that Trixie had moved to stand in the doorway of the bedroom. She was about to make her presence known when she realized the subject of their conversation was herself, and so she paused curiously to listen.
"What else can I do?" Mark barked, glaring up at his friend.
"Geez, man, at least try!" Derek pressed. "You’ve been mooning over her for years! Don’t even tell me that you’re just going to let her slip away!"
Trixie bit her lip at those words, and retreated slightly back into the bedroom. She hadn’t realized that Mark still cared for her in that way until the kiss he’d given her the night before, when she’d emerged from the farmhouse. Dazed, surprised, and still extremely full of adrenaline from her experience and the triumph of her escape, she’d responded to the caress without thinking. Only much later, after some much-needed sleep and medical attention, had she realized what exactly had occurred. She’d decided that it was probably just their renewed proximity and the circumstances surrounding their meeting – namely the intense personal danger she had faced – that had led Mark to react in such a way to seeing her. She’d managed to convince herself that the kiss was the same thing to him that it was to her – a celebration of life, and of that fact that she’d managed to hold on to life through another tight scrape. Obviously, though, she’d been wrong, and in her misunderstanding had cruelly raised hopes in Mark that she couldn’t satisfy. She caught her breath and her eyes filled with tears at the thought of her friend suffering such pain because of her. Her roiling thoughts caused her to miss the next part of the conversation, but the sound of a familiar name jerked her back to attention.
"…kick the stuffing out of Frayne for if you didn’t even plan to fight for her?"
Mark groaned. "I didn’t mean to do that. It just…happened."
"You just ‘happened’ to punch Frayne in the nose," Derek repeated sarcastically. "And he just ‘happened’ to punch you back. Is that it?"
Trixie’s eyes widened. Mark and Jim? Fighting?
"Let it go, Fynnes," Mark snapped.
"I won’t," Derek maintained stubbornly. "What’s in your way now, Carlson? Did you even try to start things up with her again?" He snorted disgustedly at Mark’s vague shrug. "I knew it. What’s holding you back?"
"She obviously doesn’t want that. Frayne—,"
"Is out of the picture," Derek interrupted. "After what I said to him, he knows how it is between you two."
Mark’s startled exclamation masked the sound of Trixie’s shocked gasp. Her mouth fell open and she was – for once in her life –speechless.
"What did you say to him?" demanded Mark angrily.
Derek shrugged. "I told him how good you and Trix are together. When he saw you kiss, he figured it out for himself, and he left. He’s not in your way, anymore, Carlson. So now you should…"
"Should what? Move in and get me on the rebound?" interrupted Trixie, striding angrily out of the bedroom.
Both men turned startled glances on her, obviously having forgotten that she was in the other room.
"Well, isn’t this just great, Agent Fynnes," Trixie snapped, whirling on her friend. "What exactly gave you the idea that you could go around playing with my love life?"
Derek stood his ground, despite his obvious discomfort. "Trixie, I just pointed a few things out to him. Obviously, he agreed with me."
"Obviously," Trixie agreed, her voice silky smooth. "Can you tell me exactly what you pointed out?"
"A few things that both he and you would have figured out on your own, if you weren’t so stubborn," Derek insisted.
"Like?" Trixie pressed.
Derek swallowed. "Like, high school crushes end after high school. They don’t go on forever, Trix. Not in real life." His voice softened as he looked down at her. "I know it’d be cool if they did. But you’re holding on to this old dream, and it’s holding you back."
"Holding me back," Trixie repeated in a flat voice.
"Yeah. You could be here with the Bureau, building a fabulous career, but instead…"
"Did you tell Jim he was holding me back?" Trixie interrupted.
"What?" frowned Derek. "Yeah. I told him that you both…"
Trixie’s groan of frustration interrupted him. "Great, Fynnes. Thanks so much. What do you think you’re doing?" she demanded in shout, and she tugged at her hair in frustration.
"I thought that I was trying to help my friends. I…"
"Big help. You just put this huge dent in my relationship, and…"
"Hey, Trix. It was pretty easy to dent," Derek pointed out gently.
Trixie’s expression went blank, and her heightened color paled at his words. "Yeah," she said finally. "I guess it was, at that." She sighed, and then looked from one man to another, both of whom were staring at her uncertainly. She sighed.
"Fynnes, get your interfering hide out of here," she said finally. She smiled at him as a peace offering. "I’ll see you the next time you’re in New York, or I’m here."
"Trix," he began, but Trixie shook her head at him. "Never mind. You meant well. However," she added sternly, "I might remind you which highway is paved with good intentions."
Derek grinned, and enfolded her in a bear hug. "Oh, I’m on my way there anyway. Loads of outraged mamas and furious husbands have told me so."
Trixie chuckled and hugged him back. "See you later, Fynnes," she said, and he winked at her as he let himself out of the apartment.
Mark hadn’t said anything since she had made her presence known. Still he was silent, just staring back at her as she turned to look at him. Trixie walked slowly toward him, and took his hands in hers.
"Mark, I honestly didn’t know that you still felt this way about me," she began hesitantly.
"Trix, you don’t have to do this," Mark said gruffly, trying to push her away. "It’s ok and everything. I know…"
"No," Trixie insisted, refusing to let go of his hands. "Listen to me. You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had. You’ve even saved my life more than once."
Mark grinned. "It’s amazing that we ever survived that internship," he mused. Remember that time on the docks?"
"In Florida?" Trixie asked, and laughed at his answering nod. "How could I forget? I fell into that bin of cocaine…"
"…And you were sooooo high when we got you out," Mark laughed.
"I was not," Trixie insisted with a frown. "I was…"
"High as a kite," Mark insisted.
"Whatever," Trixie said. "Who’d have imagined that they’d just fill a whole crate with the stuff like that? They didn’t even hide it...Anyway," she said meaningfully, jerking herself back onto track, "My point is that we’ve been through a lot together. So much that we’ll always be a part of each other."
"But…." Mark sighed.
"But not that way," Trixie said regretfully. "We’re great partners, Mark. Great friends. Once, we were great lovers," she grinned, and he smiled in return. "But we’d be a horrible married couple."
Mark sighed, realizing at last the truth of her words. "Yeah. You’d never clean your hair out of the brush."
Trixie grinned. "Or the sink," she added. "I don’t rinse the toothpaste out, either, or clean the little drain thingy after I do the dishes, or…"
"Enough!" Mark interrupted with a laugh. "I’m going to wake up in the night, thinking of that sink."
Trixie laughed, and squeezed his hands. "Friends?" she asked.
Mark pulled one of his hands from her grasp, and gently upped her cheek. "We could never be anything else," he told her. "But Trix – I will always love you. A part of me will always be yours."
"And a part of me will always be yours," she told him softly. "Just…not enough."
He smiled down at her, nodding understanding – and agreement. He lowered his head and kissed her softly on the lips, one more time. When he straightened and released her hands, a part of their lives was irrevocably finished.
"So," he said briskly. "When’s your flight?"
"Not until nine," Trixie told him. "We have all afternoon."
"In that case, there’s this great little ‘restaurant’ that I just have to show you." With a grin, Trixie picked up her suitcase and followed him out of the apartment.
"But I don’t understand," said Honey in bewilderment. "Where is she now?"
Jim lifted his head from his hands and laughed bitterly. "With Carlson," he said. "God knows where – maybe they’re still in Texas, or maybe they went to D.C. or maybe they’re on a cruise to the Bahamas or maybe they went to Hawaii or Club Med or…"
"I doubt Trixie would have gone to Club Med before she came back and filed a report at the agency," Honey said dryly. But behind her glib reply was a deep concern for her brother – she had never seen Jim this way. His mood was somehow savage – as though his losses went beyond sorrow or even despair, to something more primitive.
"Well, all I know is that the last I saw of her, she was kissing Carlson," Jim snarled.
"What kind of kiss?" asked Honey cautiously. "Was it a peck on the cheek, or was it on the lips, or…"
"Think Richard Gere as Lancelot in "First Knight," Jim said bitterly.
"Oh dear," Honey said ineffectually, remembering that particularly torrid screen kiss. "That’s not good."
Jim laughed humorlessly. "Not for me. Looked pretty good for them, though."
"Jim, this can’t be what it seems," Honey insisted, awkwardly shifting her bulk in her chair. "Trixie has talked about Mark to me. She has no feelings of that type for him. He—,"
"He obviously has feelings for her," Jim retorted, fingering the still-tender gash on his forehead.
Honey winced. "Well, it’s possible that he does have feelings for her, but she doesn’t have the same feelings for him," she insisted. "I’d know. She’d tell me that kind of thing. After all, he kissed her, right?"
"She didn’t seem too put out by the experience," Jim muttered, remembering how Trixie’s arms had curled around the agent’s neck. "She definitely kissed him back."
"Well, it was probably just a reaction to the experience she’d just been through," Honey told him "I’ve been through a couple of hostage situations myself, and let me tell you I would have kissed a yellow dog if that had been who rescued me."
Jim looked up, a glint of hope showing for the first time in his green eyes. "Really?" he asked uncertainly.
Honey nodded vigorously. "What did she say to you about it?" she asked.
Jim shrugged. "I didn’t ask her," he muttered.
"What do you mean?" frowned Honey.
Jim shifted his gaze from his sister’s face and coughed in embarrassment. "I didn’t talk to her. I left."
Honey stared at him open-mouthed. "You left?" she asked incredulously.
Jim looked embarrassed. "Yeah," he admitted.
"Without talking to her?"
"Yeah."
"You dope!" Honey accused her brother.
Jim reddened. "Well, I didn’t want to intrude where I wasn’t…"
Honey shook her head. "I can’t believe that you just put your nose in the air and stamped away without even trying to find out what was going on!" She scowled at the brother she usually treated with adoration. "You deserve your misery! She must have been so hurt!"
"Well, she had plenty of consolation," Jim snapped defensively.
Honey relented. "I know it looked bad, Jim," she said gently. "But you really should have stayed to talk to her."
Jim sighed, a defeated expression crossing his tired features. "It wasn’t just the kiss, Honey" he said rubbing a hand over his eyes. "It was what the Fynnes character told me. And what I saw…"
"What is it, then?" Honey pressed, trying to understand.
"Fynnes told me that Carlson and Trix were practically one person when they were working together. And I watched him – he’s just like her, Honey. Totally focused, methodical, smart. Fynnes said they were an unbeatable team, and I’m sure that they were." Jim sank back on the cushions with a sigh. "Where do I fit in that, Honey?"
Honey struggled to find the right words to explain the situation to her brother. "Jim, I’ve seen you and Dan team up on a troubled kid and do amazing things with him. The two of you – without discussing things ahead of time – go with the flow of the discussion, feed off each other – it’s amazing! You’re both focused on the same goal, so you work together in complete unity. But that doesn’t mean you and Dan are soulmates!"
Jim grinned weakly, and, encouraged, Honey continued. "It’s the same way with Mark and Trixie. They have the same professional goals, so, professionally, they are a perfect team. But that doesn’t make them soulmates any more than you and Dan working together so well makes the two of you love match material!"
Jim sighed and rose to his feet. "Thanks, Honey. I’ll have to think about that."
"Do," Honey urged him, hugging him tightly as he bent down to embrace her. "Don’t let your insecurities mess this up, Jim," she urged him.
"I won’t," he promised, smiling over his shoulder at her as he stepped out of the little house. Unless they already have, he added silently to himself.
To be continued?