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monaboyd Jul. 1st, 2006 12:21 am)
flybynite29.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Jul. 1st, 2006 12:21 am)Title: Imitation of Life: Pt. 2/??
Author: flybynite29
Rating: Series R-NC17, this part R-NC17 (to be on the safe side) for graphic description of murder, language, masturbation
Pairings: Billy Boyd/Dominic Monaghan (a bit later in the story), brief mentions of Billy/omc, the cast of Lost popping up in various places and positions.
Summary: Billy Boyd's a hard-working, straight-laced, small town detective with a secret. When the course of The Job takes him directly into the path of his daydreams, he has no choice but to follow. Billy's fantasy has become someone else's obsession... and the results could be deadly.
Disclaimer: I do not own Billy Boyd, Dominic Monaghan, or any of the other real-life persons in this work; I'm just playing with them for a bit. I do own Detective Bailey Connor, however, for better or worse. No money is being made off of any of this, and I adore all of these people far too much to intend any disrespect.
Warnings: AU, Work in Progress, Graphic descriptions of serial murder, gore, general squick, characters being in mortal peril
Feedback: I live for it. : )
a/n: I've taken great liberties with location and timing -amongst other things- for the purpose of this story. I haven't pulled any punches with the gore in this fic, so if you are squeamish about that type of thing, please beware. Although parts are definitely meant to be humorous, this will get quite dark in places because I'm dealing with a very disturbed mind (apart from my own ; )). The filming of Rings took place just as in real-life: with the sole exception of Billy not being cast in the role of Pippin. The details of Lost are all as is.
a/n II- Just wondering if someone could be kind enough to tell me how to link my earlier parts of the fic properly. I managed to get the actual link in my post, but have no idea how to make it say 'Prologue' or 'Part 1', as the rest of you appear to be able to do. I'd greatly appreciate any help. : )
Prologue
Part 1
Do you, don't you want me to love you
I'm coming down fast but I'm miles above you
Well, tell me
Come on, baby
Tell me the answer
You may be a lover but you ain't no dancer.
~ Helter Skelter
~ Motley Crue
"Fuck yeah. Tha's it. Just like that...." Dom caught his lower lip between his teeth as his breath hitched.
The light of the Hawaiian sunset filtered in through the lounge, casting a ethereal, fiery glow over the contents of the room. Dusk had always been Dom's favorite time of day, especially here on the island, the blazing reds and oranges and purples perfect for painting, or writing, or long, soul-searching walks. But today he was far too preoccupied to concentrate on the beauty surrounding him- his whole world was centered on the action taking place below his waist.
"So bloody good...", he purred, hips thrusting into the expert touch.
He slid a hand up from where it rested on his stomach to tweak a nipple, the added sensation almost too much on his already-heightened nerve endings. His head lolled back on his shoulders, his whole body tensing like a bow-string.
"Christ, yeah...so close, baby..." He growled down encouragement, forcing his eyes back open to watch in the full-length mirror lining his living room wall.
"Fuckin' gorgeous..."
He stared into the glass with hooded, lust-darkened eyes, watching the hand moving faster on his cock, the thumb brushing sensually over the head, the perfect contrast of colors; paleness of delicate flesh, long, tanned fingers, flame-drenched flash of sunlight on silver, the liquid black of chipped nail varnish...
Dominic Monaghan was a master of conversation, even when his audience was only in his own mind.
He fisted himself almost roughly now, bare toes curling into the carpet, low, feral moan building deep in his chest.
He was just a hair's-breath away from bliss when a large, bushy head suddenly popped up in the open window right beside him, nearly scaring him out of his skin.
“Dude!”, the disembodied head squawked.
Dom jumped two feet into the air and was most of the way into cardiac arrest before he finally realized it was only Jorge. "Chri...What?!", he bark-squeaked, tucking himself into his shorts so quickly he gave himself a friction burn.
Then he took a pissed-off step forward and nearly wiped out, forgetting his jeans were still pooled around his ankles. He somehow managed to pull them up in a series of stilted hops while stalking towards the source of interruption.
He flung open his front door, panting from exertion and frustration. "Can I bloody fucking help you, Garcia?"
Jorge had moved around to the doorstep and stood there looking like a big lost puppy. When he spoke he sounded nearly as out of breath as Dom, as if he'd ran up the entire length of beach. "It's... oh man...you promised to come."
"And so I was, before you showed up, you great pillock.", Dom muttered testily under his breath. He noticed that Jorge's eyes were practically bugging out of his head, and had a terrible moment when he was sure that Jorge had gotten a glimpse of him wanking. But then he looked closer and realized Jorge wasn't embarrassed or flustered- the poor bloke was terrified nearly senseless.
Dom tried to hang onto his righteous anger, but found it was already melting away. It was impossible to stay mad at Jorge for more than two minutes at a stretch. He sighed and tucked his wrinkled tee into his jeans. "What are you on about, Jorge?", he asked, tone gentle now.
"He's back, Dommie." There was no need for Jorge to expound on the identity of 'he'; the horror in his voice and his pale, frightened face said it all. "He's gotten into my friggin' kitchen somehow!"
Dom stifled a grin- it would be impolite at this point. But he'd laugh his arse off about this in private later. "C'mon, mate, let's go. I'll rout the bastard out right quick. No worries." He prattled on soothingly, shutting his front door and hopping down off the step.
Nope, no chance whatsoever Jorge had witnessed Dom's five-fingered Olympics. He could've been decked out in an evening gown and tiara, roller-blading through the living room and Jorge'd not have noticed- the fearsome beast hiding in his own home was taking up every ounce of his attention.
Jorge followed Dom back down the beach, his cheeks burning with shame. He knew he was acting ridiculous and childish...but there was no way in holy hell he was going back to face the intruder by himself. A couple of days before, he had had a run in with the little fucker in his garage, and one experience like that was more than enough for a lifetime. A horrified Jorge had repeatedly flailed at it with a very long-handled broom but the monstrous thing had stood off all attempts to dislodge it, staring him down with beady little eyes, taunting him with a hair-raising series of chirrips and (Jorge could swear) hisses. After a battle of what seemed an eternity, the broom had finally done the trick and forced the thing into reluctant retreat. Jorge absolutely refused to believe it had been frightened off by his constant barrage of high-pitched, feminine screams.
"I don't know what the hell it is, man, but it's hideous.", he panted as he tried to keep up with Dom. "I think it's probably insectoid...but I didn't get that close of a look, ya know?"
"I'm sure I'll be able to handle it, mate, whatever it is.", Dom replied calmly, trying not to let his amusement seep into his voice. He stopped a moment to bend and flick a bit of seaweed off of his ankle.
Jorge looked down and took in Dom's bare feet with something like horror. "Oh, man...you're not goin' in there like that, are you? All... unprotected?"
"Shall I go back for my HAZMAT suit, then, do you think?" Dom looked up at him, eyes widening in mock-fear.
"It couldn't hurt.", Jorge replied soberly. "You could've at least brought some Raid or somethin'. I'm tellin' ya, this sucker won't go down without a fight."
"Ah, well...I'll have a look anyway, yeah? Size up the situation, see what we're dealing with, what tactics are called for. We'll go to Plan Two only if necessary."
"You've got an actual system for this worked out?", Jorge asked, the relief evident in his voice.
"Absolutely." Dom solemnly assured him, ticking the non-existent steps off on his fingers. "Ladybugs, moths and ants: Plan One- I simply shoo them gently from the area of infestation. Plan Two is for smallish spiders, water beetles, and the like- capture and removal. Plan Three's reserved for more fearsome arachnids, small household rodents, and particularly noxious roaches. Anything larger and we go to DEFCON1 status and flee the premises."
"Cool. Hey..." Jorge tugged Dom to another stop, looking at him gratefully. "Thanks for not laughin' at me, Dommie."
"Never, luv.", he replied gravely as he bit down on his lip to hold back a giggle. He slung an arm around his friend's ample waist and gave him a reassuring squeeze, realizing he didn't really mind the interruption in his late-afternoon fun that much, after all.
Just lately, his imaginary playmates seemed to have lost most of their appeal.
************************************************************************************
Another sleepless night had passed, another endless day, the atrocities had continued to mount, and Billy had gone way past the point of exhaustion, was now steadily edging his way into madness.
'Peanut Butter Dude' - as Bailey had taken to calling him - had been identified: twenty-seven-year-old Mark Schultz. Small-auto mechanic, so happy because he had recently shed thirty pounds in anticipation of his upcoming nuptials. He had loved his bride-to-be so much, had wanted to make her proud, wanted to look perfect for her at their wedding - or so his sobbing mother had informed Billy at the morgue. Mark was determined to lose at least another twenty before the big date.
Now he would never have the chance.
Billy had stood watching the autopsy, outwardly as stiff-spined and stoical as ever, not flinching even as the saw cut into bone, as the blood flew. Detective Boyd was not known as 'Iron Man' around the precinct for nothing. But inside, he had been quaking and ill, filled with an immense sadness. So many promising lives wiped out, for no rhyme nor reason whatsoever. He was truly beginning to believe the insanity would never end.
And now he and Bailey were on their way back from yet another, the death scene of the second female. She had been found earlier that day; a young, beautiful, dark-haired lass, hideously mangled, her life cut brutally short by the hands of a monster.
And still Billy was no closer to the truth.
He had insisted on driving, needing the diversion, scoffing at Connor's protests that he was in no shape to take the wheel. In retrospect, Billy's insistence had probably been a very bad idea.
The road signs were a series of blurs before him, his hearing muffled and strange. Worse, he seemed to be losing seconds here and there, would find himself in a new spot with no clear idea how he had gotten there.
Bailey was quiet next to him, lost in his own thoughts, troubled. But Billy knew his partner was not being affected by these murders as deeply as he was, did not feel quite the same sense of urgency and desperation. To Connor, this was a job - the most gruesome and frightening of his career, yes - but still all in the line of duty.
For Billy, it had gone far, far beyond that point.
He was jarred out of a semi-doze when Connor's cell phone chirped in the silence. Billy heard him tell whoever was on the line to hang on a second, then promptly zoned out again. He came back to full awareness when he realized Connor was speaking to him.
"M.E.'s office." Bailey looked down at the phone, face puzzled. "They're all up in arms, wanna know if we logged in a lottery ticket with Peanut Butter Dude's body. The say they just found..."
Billy heard no more. Just like that it hit; everything clicked into place with sickening ease. His eyes went wide and he jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, wildly slicing through three lanes of dense traffic, coming to a bone-jarring, screaming halt on the shoulder of the freeway.
"Jesus fucking Christ!", Bailey hollered, cell phone flying, clawing the dash in a white-knuckled death-grip. "Boyd, what the fuck...?!"
Billy dreamily turned to his partner as horns blared and tires screeched around them, face thunderstruck but his voice eerily calm. "4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42.", he muttered slowly, then once again, faster, the second time punctuated by a wild bark of laughter that was not entirely sane. "Fuck me. The numbers. The bloody cunting numbers."
Connor didn’t watch much television, had only caught the show a couple of times during its run, so he was still hopelessly in the dark about Billy's sudden revelation. He blinked, paused a long moment, then blurted, "You're telling me you somehow know what this mysterious lottery ticket says, Bill?" He stared at Billy, incredulous, then let out his own bark of laughter. “You willing to bet actual money on that, partner?”
"Aye.", Billy whispered sickly, closing his eyes, the numbness fading, a wave of stark fear flooding in to take its place. "A hundred and fifty six million dollars worth."
****************************************************************************
"Aha! Got 'im!" Dom was kneeling on the tile of Jorge's kitchen floor, bum sticking up in the air, the rest of him obscured by the cupboard under the sink. He'd had to crawl most of the way in to get to the wee bugger, but finally, victory. He scooted his way back out, the fearsome creature that had driven a grown man from the sanctity of his own home now sitting sedately in the palm of his hand.
Jorge had hovered warily in the doorway for most of the proceedings but had finally gotten up enough nerve to inch forward slowly, a bit at a time, determined to stay close if Dom should need rescue. He cringed, but held his ground as Dom extracted himself from the cupboard and stood.
"Is this the perpetrator?", Dom asked soberly, in his best cop-voice, holding up the enemy.
"That's him!", Jorge exclaimed accusatorily, pointing for emphasis. "That's the...the thing!"
Just then the terrifying menace let out a wee, contented chirp, and Dom could hold back his laughter no longer. "It's a cricket, Jorge!" He managed to rein in the giggles with great effort, keeping his voice calm and unthreatening. "See, look...he won't hurt you, mate. He was only using his little legs to make music for you. Serenading you, like." He took a step towards Jorge, intent on showing his friend that the tiny thing meant no harm.
"Dude! Don'tevenfuckin'thinkaboutit!!" Jorge backpedaled furiously to compensate, a trapped look rising in his eyes when he realized escape was cut off by the refrigerator. He settled for raising his hands as if to ward off evil spirits.
Dom was tempted to tease some more, but there was a difference between taking the piss and cruelty - and Dom could never be cruel, least of all to sweet, sensitive Jorge. So, instead, he left the kitchen with the beast, taking it outside, a ways from the house, placing it gently on the grass. "Be well, little one. And no more scaring Hurley-Bear, yeah?" He watched the insect happily hop off and headed back towards the house, shaking his head and grinning to himself.
Jorge was standing in the living room when Dom came back in, looking semi-relaxed for the first time that afternoon.
"All gone?"
"All gone.", Dom confirmed, biting back another smile at the relief that rose in his friend's eyes. "Need a hug, luv?"
"Shit, yeah." Jorge moved into Dom's open arms gratefully. "'kay, I'm good.", he said after a moment more, pulling back with a reddened cheeks and a lopsided grin. "Don't wanna be any more girly than I already have been today. Sorry 'bout all that, but - bugs and me, we just don't... click, ya know?"
"S'all good, mate.", Dom smiled over at his friend. When Dom had frozen in abject fear on the precipice of a cliff during a cast outing, it had been Jorge that had talked him down from his panic, in that sweet, soothing way of his, not letting anyone else close enough to see the terror in Dom's eyes. And, later, when Dom had broken down in tears of anger and shame, Jorge had stood solidly by, arm tight around Dom's shoulder, giving comfort without a single word having to pass between them. Dom figured he owed him a hug, at the very minimum.
"Want a beer, Dommie?"
"Absolutely."
As Jorge went for the beverages, Dom comfortably meandered throughout the house, picking items up and setting them down, fiddling, unable to cease his insatiable need for motion for even that short amount of time. After a brief tour of the den, he poked his head into Jorge's bedroom, noticing an object setting on the bed, propped against the headboard. Curious, he walked over and picked it up.
"What've ya got there?" Jorge came into the bedroom, beers in hand. He was used to Dom wandering off from whatever place he had last left him.
"Videotape." He held up the cassette. "Was on your bed." Dom waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "A little visual aid, eh, mate?"
"Nope, not mine. I've never seen it before.", Jorge replied, setting Dom's beer down on the nightstand and taking a swig of his own.
"Then where'd it come from? You have a secret admirer, do you, Garcia?", Dom grinned. "Someone leaving prezzies on your pillow?"
Jorge shrugged. "Wasn't here when I walked down to get ya." He paused a moment, then amended his sentence, blushing slightly again. "Okay... when I ran down to get ya." He shook his head, smiling. "Foxy, no doubt, up to his tricks. He's always leavin' shit like that around for me to find. His whacked-out idea of humor. Probably some gay biker porn or somethin'.", Jorge winked, grinning now. "Let's pop it in, should be good for a laugh."
"Foxy left for L.A. last night.", Dom murmured absently, sliding the cassette from its cover. A piece of paper fell out along with the tape, and Dom unfolded and read it, cocking an eyebrow. "Looks more like a band of Jehovah's Witnesses invaded your bedroom while you were out. What the bloody hell's that supposed to mean? Sounds like a sodding fortune cookie."
Jorge stepped closer, and Dom held up the paper so he could see the boldly printed words:
The love of money is the root of all evil. The fear of same is the beginning of salvation...
********************************************************************************
Billy blinked blearily at the clock on his nightstand. 5:02. The first light of dawn was beginning to creep in through the blinds, but he was not just awakening to begin the day; his restless mind had not allowed him any sleep.
From the moment he had had his epiphany and finally gotten with the program, his brain had been whirling non-stop, trying to follow and interpret the clues of a madman.
The mysteriously appearing lottery ticket, for one thing.
The morgue attendant had been in the body cooler, rearranging its residents to make room for a new arrival. He left for a smoke break and when he'd returned to the cooler, fifteen minutes later, to retrieve a forgotten clipboard, he'd discovered the ticket setting atop Schultz's remains.
The puzzled attendant said he'd seen people break into the morgue before, intent on stealing items, but that was the first time he'd ever known someone to sneak in and leave something with one of the stiffs. He had no idea what it meant.
But Billy did.
The killer had begun to grow impatient- the detectives were not catching on to his game quickly enough to suit him. So he had decided to give them a bit of extra help.
Billy was still appalled at his own slowness- the answer had been there right in front of him, all along, and he'd just been too bloody blind to see it. Not that it would have changed things if he had... the monster would've just moved on to his next phase a little sooner.
Billy did not even want to imagine what that next phase might be.
Now that he knew what he was looking at, most of the items left at the kill sites made perfect sense to him... although there were a few things that still had him puzzled, that he couldn't seem to fit into his (admittedly extensive) knowledge of the show. The SOLD sign at 'Sawyer's' site, for instance. As far as Billy could remember, the character had had absolutely nothing to do with property sales, real estate, or anything of the like. Perhaps the sign was meant to suggest that Sawyer had 'sold out' to someone or something, but that didn't quite feel right either. At every body scene, there were a couple of minor things like that which just didn't quite jibe; a decal for Columbia University left at 'Jack's' site, A Neil Young cd - of all bloody things - propped by the crushed foot of the psuedo-Locke. Probably meaningless, except in the killer's sick mind- but loose ends, nonetheless.
And Billy had never cared for loose ends.
But eclipsing all of these other thoughts was one so terrifying he didn't quite dare to explore it fully.
His first reaction after finally making the connection had not been to go back through the case files to see what he might have missed, or to hop online and search for similar killings, but to flip open his mobile and begin frantically dialing the number for the nearest airport. He had been on the line, trying to book the next flight leaving for Hawaii when Connor had intervened.
In that moment of all-encompassing panic, Billy had come very close to cold-cocking his best friend and partner as he reached out and took the phone from Billy's hand.
Connor had talked to him slowly, soothingly, pointing out the flaws in Billy's thinking, gently telling him he was being completely illogical, trying to make him see reason.
But, in that horrible moment, Billy had no room for logic or reason- fear for Dom filled his entire universe.
After a bit, Connor was able to bring Billy down somewhat from his plateau of terror, finally managed to convince him to look at things a bit more rationally. One by one, Bailey calmly shot holes in all of Billy's wild theories.
Billy was positive that the line between vicariously killing off television characters and the actors who played them was paper-thin, that the murderer could easily switch from one agenda to the other.
Bailey was convinced otherwise, thought the worst that would happen is that the killer might start in on Desperate Housewives next.
Billy had insisted - rather vehemently - that they immediately get on the horn and notify the entire cast and crew of Lost, J.J. Abrams, the top echelon at ABC, all involved police forces (local and national), the F.B.I., and the Coast Guard since, after all, Oahu was an island, and thus surrounded by water. He had paused a moment, then added, as an afterthought, that they might do well to get the Green Berets and Scotland Yard on stand-by, just in case the others needed a bit of backup.
Bailey had somehow managed to keep a straight face throughout this panic-driven spiel, then had reluctantly compromised, agreeing to notify the Hawaiian authorities and have them keep an eye on things around the set- though it was obvious he found it completely unnecessary and had only done so to stifle Billy's whinging.
Back in his bed, Billy sighed and stretched, his whole body aching with weariness. Having had time now to think things through a bit, he realized he was most likely being ridiculous, jumping at shadows. Undoubtedly, Connor was correct. Reality appeared to be of no interest to the killer; every move he'd made so far was firmly rooted in the world of make-believe. There was nothing to indicate that would change, that anything but fictional characters would capture his attention. Yes... Connor was the one making sense here, was, without the slightest doubt, right. But if there was even the tiniest possibility he was wrong...
Billy glanced down at the crime scene photographs sharing the bed with him and had to shut his eyes on the images. Connor had to be right.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
Exhaustion finally won out, and Billy nodded off, a series of stark, gruesome pictures - all that remained of what had once been eight bright, vital human beings - spread over his lap.
He was jarred back to consciousness twenty two minutes later by the strident ringing of the bedside portable. He grabbed for it in a fog, though his heart was already hammering. A call at this hour could mean only one thing; there was now a ninth to add to the list.
He fumbled for the phone, putting it to his ear, expecting to hear the voice of the station dispatcher, or Connor, perhaps. But the warped, mechanically-filtered voice that came across the line turned Billy's blood to ice.
"Good morning, Detective."
Billy's eyes flew open, all vestiges of sleep leaving him in an instant. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat- he could only clutch the phone with white-knuckled fingers and listen, numb with revulsion and foreboding.
"You'll find your next present near the entrance to the Hamelin County Park, back in the trees a bit. I've clearly marked the area with a large, blue tarpaulin, lest you become confused. Confusion seems to be an issue for you of late. I must say... I've been very, very disappointed, Detective- I'd hoped you were brighter than this."
The caller paused to chuckle, and the cold, grating sound nearly stopped Billy's heart.
"I'm fervently hoping I have your attention by now. If not, I should think this one will do the trick nicely. In fact... I trust you'll have more answers than you care for after this last."
**************************************************************************
"Ooo-kay. That's just a little bit disgusting. I think we can cross the Jehovah's Witnesses off the suspect list, dude.", Jorge deadpanned, wincing a little at the image that flickered across his t.v. screen.
Dom nodded in agreement, but kept his eyes on the screen. For five whole minutes, the basic scene had not changed, only the angle of view. The camera remained focused on a dark-haired, hefty bloke... or, rather, what remained of the dark-haired, hefty bloke. The fellow appeared to have lost most, if not all, of his vital organs- they seemed to be spread out on and around his body. There was a large jar of Jiffy peanut butter nearby, the contents liberally mucked around, and Dom suspected the Jiffy was also the sticky substance oozing out of the hefty bloke's mouth. The gruesome tableau had immediately reminded Dom of Hurley's peanut butter-gobbling take on set. Of course, Hurley had not been laid out, gutted, and blanketed by his own intestines at the time. Dom hadn't said anything aloud, but it was highly unlikely Jorge had missed the similarity.
The two had started out watching the film laughing and joking, Jorge insisting on doing things up right and making popcorn to go along with their beers. After a few moments of the film, however, they had set the bottles and bowls aside, appetites forgotten.
"Where the hell did this come from?", Jorge asked a few seconds later, voice now sounding a bit uneasy.
"Can't be Foxy, but... one of the cast taking the piss with you." Dom answered pertly, not really believing it, but wanting to reassure his friend. None of their mates was this twisted. This was just purely sick. Nobody they knew would pull this kind of stunt, especially not with Jorge, their teddy bear.
"Nah... I'm not so sure this is a joke." Jorge replied quietly, turning towards Dom, his face slightly pale. "It's like those... whatchamacallits... snuff films."
Dom was just as troubled, but found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the grisly images. They were monstrous, yes... but also oddly compelling, somehow, because of their stark realism.
The film jerked and the time changed, though the scene remained the same. The videographer had moved farther away, the shot long-view now. Dom watched as a slight, nattily dressed, rather distinguished-looking blonde man entered the footage. He stood, just thoughtfully observing for a long while then walked slowly around the area, taking notes. Obviously a cop of some sort. Extreme close-up of the blonde bloke's face; tired and haggard, but still appealingly handsome for all that. Dom wanted to keep watching the man - he was a much nicer focal point; baggy, bloodshot eyes and all - but his attention was relentlessly drawn back to the mutilated corpse.
"Jesus.", Jorge breathed beside him. "Dommie, I don't think I like this. This is beyond weird, bro." Jorge's voice had gone from vaguely uneasy to moderately frightened.
"They're just acting, mate.", Dom replied, still trying to sound calm and soothing though he was growing more unsure by the second. It didn't look fake, that was the thing. Dom had been in the business long enough to know the difference. The blood on the screen didn't have that manufactured look that all psuedo-blood seemed to have, no matter how good the special-effects crew. Nothing about this had the feel of fiction; not the body, nor the scene, nor the exhausted blonde bloke... most of all, not the weirdly labored breathing of the person behind the camera. Dom recognized the sound immediately; it was a noise he'd made himself very recently. The twisted bastard was getting off on this, was wanking to the carnage he'd created.
Dom's gut rolled and he finally had to close his eyes on the image. Beside him, Jorge did the same, saying in a broken whisper. "Dom... fuck, man... this is real."
********************************************************************************
Billy had always been the most stoical of blokes in the presence of brutal death, never once losing his cool even at the goriest of crime scenes, looking on impassively as everyone around him cringed or turned away, hands plastered over their mouths. But there was nothing stoical about him now as he stood frozen, staring up, transfixed, at the body gently swaying in the early morning breeze.
Billy now knew what the out-of-place clues at the other kill sites meant, the ones that did not quite seem to belong.
The props were here at this scene, also... but this go-round Billy was all too easily able to identify everything on and around the corpse. Most of the items were right for the character of Charlie Pace. The little baggie of heroin lying on the ground at the body's feet was right. The striped, sleeveless shirt was right. Even the vintage bass guitar propped against the trunk of the tree was right- an exact bloody duplicate of the one Charlie played on stage.
Most of the props were right.... but it was those that were not that were robbing Billy of his breath. The anonymous body swinging from the tree was meant to represent two very different personas, though some traits bled in from one to the other seamlessly.
Charlie Sharpied his feelings out on taped-up knuckles, not the actual flesh of his hand. Charlie's finger was covered by his Driveshaft ring, not a delicate Celtic silver band. Charlie did not rock out to Coldplay and World Without Sundays on the island, because Geronimo Jackson was about as cutting edge as things got around there. And Charlie did not have the habit of popping lollies into his mouth when he got a wee bit fidgety.
But Dominic did.
Billy jerked out of his trance and lurched off towards a stand of hedges, retching till there was nothing left to bring up.
Connor was right behind him, comforting hand on his back, but the spasms would not stop. After a long while, Billy righted himself, wiping at his mouth, staring at his partner in mute horror.
Bailey pulled a flask from his hip pocket, handing it over.
Billy accepted it, draining the last bit of whisky from the slender metal container. The alcohol burned through his veins, but Billy could not seem to get warm. His whole body trembled helplessly.
Connor gently squeezed his shoulder. "Hang tight, babe. I'm gonna go grab you a refill."
Billy could only nod weakly and crouch down again, willing the blackness to leave the edges of his vision.
The next thing he knew Bailey was racing back towards him, bellowing, gun drawn, eyes wild.
"Seal off the perimeter! Now, goddamit! Lock this fucking place down, tight!"
The half dozen officers at the scene immediately jumped into action, spurred on by the detective's ferocious tone- though it was beyond pointless to try to 'lock down' a twenty-acre county wilderness with only six men.
Connor caught hold of Billy's sleeve and tugged him in the direction of the car park. Billy began running after him, not realizing he was pulling his own gun till it was in his hand.
"He's here. The motherfucker was right here!" Connor looked around wildly, then pointed to the windscreen of Billy's car, where a bright pink Post-it note in the shape of a heart now lay.
Any more questions, Boyd?
Now it begins...
to be continued.....
Author: flybynite29
Rating: Series R-NC17, this part R-NC17 (to be on the safe side) for graphic description of murder, language, masturbation
Pairings: Billy Boyd/Dominic Monaghan (a bit later in the story), brief mentions of Billy/omc, the cast of Lost popping up in various places and positions.
Summary: Billy Boyd's a hard-working, straight-laced, small town detective with a secret. When the course of The Job takes him directly into the path of his daydreams, he has no choice but to follow. Billy's fantasy has become someone else's obsession... and the results could be deadly.
Disclaimer: I do not own Billy Boyd, Dominic Monaghan, or any of the other real-life persons in this work; I'm just playing with them for a bit. I do own Detective Bailey Connor, however, for better or worse. No money is being made off of any of this, and I adore all of these people far too much to intend any disrespect.
Warnings: AU, Work in Progress, Graphic descriptions of serial murder, gore, general squick, characters being in mortal peril
Feedback: I live for it. : )
a/n: I've taken great liberties with location and timing -amongst other things- for the purpose of this story. I haven't pulled any punches with the gore in this fic, so if you are squeamish about that type of thing, please beware. Although parts are definitely meant to be humorous, this will get quite dark in places because I'm dealing with a very disturbed mind (apart from my own ; )). The filming of Rings took place just as in real-life: with the sole exception of Billy not being cast in the role of Pippin. The details of Lost are all as is.
a/n II- Just wondering if someone could be kind enough to tell me how to link my earlier parts of the fic properly. I managed to get the actual link in my post, but have no idea how to make it say 'Prologue' or 'Part 1', as the rest of you appear to be able to do. I'd greatly appreciate any help. : )
Prologue
Part 1
Do you, don't you want me to love you
I'm coming down fast but I'm miles above you
Well, tell me
Come on, baby
Tell me the answer
You may be a lover but you ain't no dancer.
~ Helter Skelter
~ Motley Crue
"Fuck yeah. Tha's it. Just like that...." Dom caught his lower lip between his teeth as his breath hitched.
The light of the Hawaiian sunset filtered in through the lounge, casting a ethereal, fiery glow over the contents of the room. Dusk had always been Dom's favorite time of day, especially here on the island, the blazing reds and oranges and purples perfect for painting, or writing, or long, soul-searching walks. But today he was far too preoccupied to concentrate on the beauty surrounding him- his whole world was centered on the action taking place below his waist.
"So bloody good...", he purred, hips thrusting into the expert touch.
He slid a hand up from where it rested on his stomach to tweak a nipple, the added sensation almost too much on his already-heightened nerve endings. His head lolled back on his shoulders, his whole body tensing like a bow-string.
"Christ, yeah...so close, baby..." He growled down encouragement, forcing his eyes back open to watch in the full-length mirror lining his living room wall.
"Fuckin' gorgeous..."
He stared into the glass with hooded, lust-darkened eyes, watching the hand moving faster on his cock, the thumb brushing sensually over the head, the perfect contrast of colors; paleness of delicate flesh, long, tanned fingers, flame-drenched flash of sunlight on silver, the liquid black of chipped nail varnish...
Dominic Monaghan was a master of conversation, even when his audience was only in his own mind.
He fisted himself almost roughly now, bare toes curling into the carpet, low, feral moan building deep in his chest.
He was just a hair's-breath away from bliss when a large, bushy head suddenly popped up in the open window right beside him, nearly scaring him out of his skin.
“Dude!”, the disembodied head squawked.
Dom jumped two feet into the air and was most of the way into cardiac arrest before he finally realized it was only Jorge. "Chri...What?!", he bark-squeaked, tucking himself into his shorts so quickly he gave himself a friction burn.
Then he took a pissed-off step forward and nearly wiped out, forgetting his jeans were still pooled around his ankles. He somehow managed to pull them up in a series of stilted hops while stalking towards the source of interruption.
He flung open his front door, panting from exertion and frustration. "Can I bloody fucking help you, Garcia?"
Jorge had moved around to the doorstep and stood there looking like a big lost puppy. When he spoke he sounded nearly as out of breath as Dom, as if he'd ran up the entire length of beach. "It's... oh man...you promised to come."
"And so I was, before you showed up, you great pillock.", Dom muttered testily under his breath. He noticed that Jorge's eyes were practically bugging out of his head, and had a terrible moment when he was sure that Jorge had gotten a glimpse of him wanking. But then he looked closer and realized Jorge wasn't embarrassed or flustered- the poor bloke was terrified nearly senseless.
Dom tried to hang onto his righteous anger, but found it was already melting away. It was impossible to stay mad at Jorge for more than two minutes at a stretch. He sighed and tucked his wrinkled tee into his jeans. "What are you on about, Jorge?", he asked, tone gentle now.
"He's back, Dommie." There was no need for Jorge to expound on the identity of 'he'; the horror in his voice and his pale, frightened face said it all. "He's gotten into my friggin' kitchen somehow!"
Dom stifled a grin- it would be impolite at this point. But he'd laugh his arse off about this in private later. "C'mon, mate, let's go. I'll rout the bastard out right quick. No worries." He prattled on soothingly, shutting his front door and hopping down off the step.
Nope, no chance whatsoever Jorge had witnessed Dom's five-fingered Olympics. He could've been decked out in an evening gown and tiara, roller-blading through the living room and Jorge'd not have noticed- the fearsome beast hiding in his own home was taking up every ounce of his attention.
Jorge followed Dom back down the beach, his cheeks burning with shame. He knew he was acting ridiculous and childish...but there was no way in holy hell he was going back to face the intruder by himself. A couple of days before, he had had a run in with the little fucker in his garage, and one experience like that was more than enough for a lifetime. A horrified Jorge had repeatedly flailed at it with a very long-handled broom but the monstrous thing had stood off all attempts to dislodge it, staring him down with beady little eyes, taunting him with a hair-raising series of chirrips and (Jorge could swear) hisses. After a battle of what seemed an eternity, the broom had finally done the trick and forced the thing into reluctant retreat. Jorge absolutely refused to believe it had been frightened off by his constant barrage of high-pitched, feminine screams.
"I don't know what the hell it is, man, but it's hideous.", he panted as he tried to keep up with Dom. "I think it's probably insectoid...but I didn't get that close of a look, ya know?"
"I'm sure I'll be able to handle it, mate, whatever it is.", Dom replied calmly, trying not to let his amusement seep into his voice. He stopped a moment to bend and flick a bit of seaweed off of his ankle.
Jorge looked down and took in Dom's bare feet with something like horror. "Oh, man...you're not goin' in there like that, are you? All... unprotected?"
"Shall I go back for my HAZMAT suit, then, do you think?" Dom looked up at him, eyes widening in mock-fear.
"It couldn't hurt.", Jorge replied soberly. "You could've at least brought some Raid or somethin'. I'm tellin' ya, this sucker won't go down without a fight."
"Ah, well...I'll have a look anyway, yeah? Size up the situation, see what we're dealing with, what tactics are called for. We'll go to Plan Two only if necessary."
"You've got an actual system for this worked out?", Jorge asked, the relief evident in his voice.
"Absolutely." Dom solemnly assured him, ticking the non-existent steps off on his fingers. "Ladybugs, moths and ants: Plan One- I simply shoo them gently from the area of infestation. Plan Two is for smallish spiders, water beetles, and the like- capture and removal. Plan Three's reserved for more fearsome arachnids, small household rodents, and particularly noxious roaches. Anything larger and we go to DEFCON1 status and flee the premises."
"Cool. Hey..." Jorge tugged Dom to another stop, looking at him gratefully. "Thanks for not laughin' at me, Dommie."
"Never, luv.", he replied gravely as he bit down on his lip to hold back a giggle. He slung an arm around his friend's ample waist and gave him a reassuring squeeze, realizing he didn't really mind the interruption in his late-afternoon fun that much, after all.
Just lately, his imaginary playmates seemed to have lost most of their appeal.
************************************************************************************
Another sleepless night had passed, another endless day, the atrocities had continued to mount, and Billy had gone way past the point of exhaustion, was now steadily edging his way into madness.
'Peanut Butter Dude' - as Bailey had taken to calling him - had been identified: twenty-seven-year-old Mark Schultz. Small-auto mechanic, so happy because he had recently shed thirty pounds in anticipation of his upcoming nuptials. He had loved his bride-to-be so much, had wanted to make her proud, wanted to look perfect for her at their wedding - or so his sobbing mother had informed Billy at the morgue. Mark was determined to lose at least another twenty before the big date.
Now he would never have the chance.
Billy had stood watching the autopsy, outwardly as stiff-spined and stoical as ever, not flinching even as the saw cut into bone, as the blood flew. Detective Boyd was not known as 'Iron Man' around the precinct for nothing. But inside, he had been quaking and ill, filled with an immense sadness. So many promising lives wiped out, for no rhyme nor reason whatsoever. He was truly beginning to believe the insanity would never end.
And now he and Bailey were on their way back from yet another, the death scene of the second female. She had been found earlier that day; a young, beautiful, dark-haired lass, hideously mangled, her life cut brutally short by the hands of a monster.
And still Billy was no closer to the truth.
He had insisted on driving, needing the diversion, scoffing at Connor's protests that he was in no shape to take the wheel. In retrospect, Billy's insistence had probably been a very bad idea.
The road signs were a series of blurs before him, his hearing muffled and strange. Worse, he seemed to be losing seconds here and there, would find himself in a new spot with no clear idea how he had gotten there.
Bailey was quiet next to him, lost in his own thoughts, troubled. But Billy knew his partner was not being affected by these murders as deeply as he was, did not feel quite the same sense of urgency and desperation. To Connor, this was a job - the most gruesome and frightening of his career, yes - but still all in the line of duty.
For Billy, it had gone far, far beyond that point.
He was jarred out of a semi-doze when Connor's cell phone chirped in the silence. Billy heard him tell whoever was on the line to hang on a second, then promptly zoned out again. He came back to full awareness when he realized Connor was speaking to him.
"M.E.'s office." Bailey looked down at the phone, face puzzled. "They're all up in arms, wanna know if we logged in a lottery ticket with Peanut Butter Dude's body. The say they just found..."
Billy heard no more. Just like that it hit; everything clicked into place with sickening ease. His eyes went wide and he jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, wildly slicing through three lanes of dense traffic, coming to a bone-jarring, screaming halt on the shoulder of the freeway.
"Jesus fucking Christ!", Bailey hollered, cell phone flying, clawing the dash in a white-knuckled death-grip. "Boyd, what the fuck...?!"
Billy dreamily turned to his partner as horns blared and tires screeched around them, face thunderstruck but his voice eerily calm. "4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42.", he muttered slowly, then once again, faster, the second time punctuated by a wild bark of laughter that was not entirely sane. "Fuck me. The numbers. The bloody cunting numbers."
Connor didn’t watch much television, had only caught the show a couple of times during its run, so he was still hopelessly in the dark about Billy's sudden revelation. He blinked, paused a long moment, then blurted, "You're telling me you somehow know what this mysterious lottery ticket says, Bill?" He stared at Billy, incredulous, then let out his own bark of laughter. “You willing to bet actual money on that, partner?”
"Aye.", Billy whispered sickly, closing his eyes, the numbness fading, a wave of stark fear flooding in to take its place. "A hundred and fifty six million dollars worth."
****************************************************************************
"Aha! Got 'im!" Dom was kneeling on the tile of Jorge's kitchen floor, bum sticking up in the air, the rest of him obscured by the cupboard under the sink. He'd had to crawl most of the way in to get to the wee bugger, but finally, victory. He scooted his way back out, the fearsome creature that had driven a grown man from the sanctity of his own home now sitting sedately in the palm of his hand.
Jorge had hovered warily in the doorway for most of the proceedings but had finally gotten up enough nerve to inch forward slowly, a bit at a time, determined to stay close if Dom should need rescue. He cringed, but held his ground as Dom extracted himself from the cupboard and stood.
"Is this the perpetrator?", Dom asked soberly, in his best cop-voice, holding up the enemy.
"That's him!", Jorge exclaimed accusatorily, pointing for emphasis. "That's the...the thing!"
Just then the terrifying menace let out a wee, contented chirp, and Dom could hold back his laughter no longer. "It's a cricket, Jorge!" He managed to rein in the giggles with great effort, keeping his voice calm and unthreatening. "See, look...he won't hurt you, mate. He was only using his little legs to make music for you. Serenading you, like." He took a step towards Jorge, intent on showing his friend that the tiny thing meant no harm.
"Dude! Don'tevenfuckin'thinkaboutit!!" Jorge backpedaled furiously to compensate, a trapped look rising in his eyes when he realized escape was cut off by the refrigerator. He settled for raising his hands as if to ward off evil spirits.
Dom was tempted to tease some more, but there was a difference between taking the piss and cruelty - and Dom could never be cruel, least of all to sweet, sensitive Jorge. So, instead, he left the kitchen with the beast, taking it outside, a ways from the house, placing it gently on the grass. "Be well, little one. And no more scaring Hurley-Bear, yeah?" He watched the insect happily hop off and headed back towards the house, shaking his head and grinning to himself.
Jorge was standing in the living room when Dom came back in, looking semi-relaxed for the first time that afternoon.
"All gone?"
"All gone.", Dom confirmed, biting back another smile at the relief that rose in his friend's eyes. "Need a hug, luv?"
"Shit, yeah." Jorge moved into Dom's open arms gratefully. "'kay, I'm good.", he said after a moment more, pulling back with a reddened cheeks and a lopsided grin. "Don't wanna be any more girly than I already have been today. Sorry 'bout all that, but - bugs and me, we just don't... click, ya know?"
"S'all good, mate.", Dom smiled over at his friend. When Dom had frozen in abject fear on the precipice of a cliff during a cast outing, it had been Jorge that had talked him down from his panic, in that sweet, soothing way of his, not letting anyone else close enough to see the terror in Dom's eyes. And, later, when Dom had broken down in tears of anger and shame, Jorge had stood solidly by, arm tight around Dom's shoulder, giving comfort without a single word having to pass between them. Dom figured he owed him a hug, at the very minimum.
"Want a beer, Dommie?"
"Absolutely."
As Jorge went for the beverages, Dom comfortably meandered throughout the house, picking items up and setting them down, fiddling, unable to cease his insatiable need for motion for even that short amount of time. After a brief tour of the den, he poked his head into Jorge's bedroom, noticing an object setting on the bed, propped against the headboard. Curious, he walked over and picked it up.
"What've ya got there?" Jorge came into the bedroom, beers in hand. He was used to Dom wandering off from whatever place he had last left him.
"Videotape." He held up the cassette. "Was on your bed." Dom waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "A little visual aid, eh, mate?"
"Nope, not mine. I've never seen it before.", Jorge replied, setting Dom's beer down on the nightstand and taking a swig of his own.
"Then where'd it come from? You have a secret admirer, do you, Garcia?", Dom grinned. "Someone leaving prezzies on your pillow?"
Jorge shrugged. "Wasn't here when I walked down to get ya." He paused a moment, then amended his sentence, blushing slightly again. "Okay... when I ran down to get ya." He shook his head, smiling. "Foxy, no doubt, up to his tricks. He's always leavin' shit like that around for me to find. His whacked-out idea of humor. Probably some gay biker porn or somethin'.", Jorge winked, grinning now. "Let's pop it in, should be good for a laugh."
"Foxy left for L.A. last night.", Dom murmured absently, sliding the cassette from its cover. A piece of paper fell out along with the tape, and Dom unfolded and read it, cocking an eyebrow. "Looks more like a band of Jehovah's Witnesses invaded your bedroom while you were out. What the bloody hell's that supposed to mean? Sounds like a sodding fortune cookie."
Jorge stepped closer, and Dom held up the paper so he could see the boldly printed words:
The love of money is the root of all evil. The fear of same is the beginning of salvation...
********************************************************************************
Billy blinked blearily at the clock on his nightstand. 5:02. The first light of dawn was beginning to creep in through the blinds, but he was not just awakening to begin the day; his restless mind had not allowed him any sleep.
From the moment he had had his epiphany and finally gotten with the program, his brain had been whirling non-stop, trying to follow and interpret the clues of a madman.
The mysteriously appearing lottery ticket, for one thing.
The morgue attendant had been in the body cooler, rearranging its residents to make room for a new arrival. He left for a smoke break and when he'd returned to the cooler, fifteen minutes later, to retrieve a forgotten clipboard, he'd discovered the ticket setting atop Schultz's remains.
The puzzled attendant said he'd seen people break into the morgue before, intent on stealing items, but that was the first time he'd ever known someone to sneak in and leave something with one of the stiffs. He had no idea what it meant.
But Billy did.
The killer had begun to grow impatient- the detectives were not catching on to his game quickly enough to suit him. So he had decided to give them a bit of extra help.
Billy was still appalled at his own slowness- the answer had been there right in front of him, all along, and he'd just been too bloody blind to see it. Not that it would have changed things if he had... the monster would've just moved on to his next phase a little sooner.
Billy did not even want to imagine what that next phase might be.
Now that he knew what he was looking at, most of the items left at the kill sites made perfect sense to him... although there were a few things that still had him puzzled, that he couldn't seem to fit into his (admittedly extensive) knowledge of the show. The SOLD sign at 'Sawyer's' site, for instance. As far as Billy could remember, the character had had absolutely nothing to do with property sales, real estate, or anything of the like. Perhaps the sign was meant to suggest that Sawyer had 'sold out' to someone or something, but that didn't quite feel right either. At every body scene, there were a couple of minor things like that which just didn't quite jibe; a decal for Columbia University left at 'Jack's' site, A Neil Young cd - of all bloody things - propped by the crushed foot of the psuedo-Locke. Probably meaningless, except in the killer's sick mind- but loose ends, nonetheless.
And Billy had never cared for loose ends.
But eclipsing all of these other thoughts was one so terrifying he didn't quite dare to explore it fully.
His first reaction after finally making the connection had not been to go back through the case files to see what he might have missed, or to hop online and search for similar killings, but to flip open his mobile and begin frantically dialing the number for the nearest airport. He had been on the line, trying to book the next flight leaving for Hawaii when Connor had intervened.
In that moment of all-encompassing panic, Billy had come very close to cold-cocking his best friend and partner as he reached out and took the phone from Billy's hand.
Connor had talked to him slowly, soothingly, pointing out the flaws in Billy's thinking, gently telling him he was being completely illogical, trying to make him see reason.
But, in that horrible moment, Billy had no room for logic or reason- fear for Dom filled his entire universe.
After a bit, Connor was able to bring Billy down somewhat from his plateau of terror, finally managed to convince him to look at things a bit more rationally. One by one, Bailey calmly shot holes in all of Billy's wild theories.
Billy was positive that the line between vicariously killing off television characters and the actors who played them was paper-thin, that the murderer could easily switch from one agenda to the other.
Bailey was convinced otherwise, thought the worst that would happen is that the killer might start in on Desperate Housewives next.
Billy had insisted - rather vehemently - that they immediately get on the horn and notify the entire cast and crew of Lost, J.J. Abrams, the top echelon at ABC, all involved police forces (local and national), the F.B.I., and the Coast Guard since, after all, Oahu was an island, and thus surrounded by water. He had paused a moment, then added, as an afterthought, that they might do well to get the Green Berets and Scotland Yard on stand-by, just in case the others needed a bit of backup.
Bailey had somehow managed to keep a straight face throughout this panic-driven spiel, then had reluctantly compromised, agreeing to notify the Hawaiian authorities and have them keep an eye on things around the set- though it was obvious he found it completely unnecessary and had only done so to stifle Billy's whinging.
Back in his bed, Billy sighed and stretched, his whole body aching with weariness. Having had time now to think things through a bit, he realized he was most likely being ridiculous, jumping at shadows. Undoubtedly, Connor was correct. Reality appeared to be of no interest to the killer; every move he'd made so far was firmly rooted in the world of make-believe. There was nothing to indicate that would change, that anything but fictional characters would capture his attention. Yes... Connor was the one making sense here, was, without the slightest doubt, right. But if there was even the tiniest possibility he was wrong...
Billy glanced down at the crime scene photographs sharing the bed with him and had to shut his eyes on the images. Connor had to be right.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
Exhaustion finally won out, and Billy nodded off, a series of stark, gruesome pictures - all that remained of what had once been eight bright, vital human beings - spread over his lap.
He was jarred back to consciousness twenty two minutes later by the strident ringing of the bedside portable. He grabbed for it in a fog, though his heart was already hammering. A call at this hour could mean only one thing; there was now a ninth to add to the list.
He fumbled for the phone, putting it to his ear, expecting to hear the voice of the station dispatcher, or Connor, perhaps. But the warped, mechanically-filtered voice that came across the line turned Billy's blood to ice.
"Good morning, Detective."
Billy's eyes flew open, all vestiges of sleep leaving him in an instant. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat- he could only clutch the phone with white-knuckled fingers and listen, numb with revulsion and foreboding.
"You'll find your next present near the entrance to the Hamelin County Park, back in the trees a bit. I've clearly marked the area with a large, blue tarpaulin, lest you become confused. Confusion seems to be an issue for you of late. I must say... I've been very, very disappointed, Detective- I'd hoped you were brighter than this."
The caller paused to chuckle, and the cold, grating sound nearly stopped Billy's heart.
"I'm fervently hoping I have your attention by now. If not, I should think this one will do the trick nicely. In fact... I trust you'll have more answers than you care for after this last."
**************************************************************************
"Ooo-kay. That's just a little bit disgusting. I think we can cross the Jehovah's Witnesses off the suspect list, dude.", Jorge deadpanned, wincing a little at the image that flickered across his t.v. screen.
Dom nodded in agreement, but kept his eyes on the screen. For five whole minutes, the basic scene had not changed, only the angle of view. The camera remained focused on a dark-haired, hefty bloke... or, rather, what remained of the dark-haired, hefty bloke. The fellow appeared to have lost most, if not all, of his vital organs- they seemed to be spread out on and around his body. There was a large jar of Jiffy peanut butter nearby, the contents liberally mucked around, and Dom suspected the Jiffy was also the sticky substance oozing out of the hefty bloke's mouth. The gruesome tableau had immediately reminded Dom of Hurley's peanut butter-gobbling take on set. Of course, Hurley had not been laid out, gutted, and blanketed by his own intestines at the time. Dom hadn't said anything aloud, but it was highly unlikely Jorge had missed the similarity.
The two had started out watching the film laughing and joking, Jorge insisting on doing things up right and making popcorn to go along with their beers. After a few moments of the film, however, they had set the bottles and bowls aside, appetites forgotten.
"Where the hell did this come from?", Jorge asked a few seconds later, voice now sounding a bit uneasy.
"Can't be Foxy, but... one of the cast taking the piss with you." Dom answered pertly, not really believing it, but wanting to reassure his friend. None of their mates was this twisted. This was just purely sick. Nobody they knew would pull this kind of stunt, especially not with Jorge, their teddy bear.
"Nah... I'm not so sure this is a joke." Jorge replied quietly, turning towards Dom, his face slightly pale. "It's like those... whatchamacallits... snuff films."
Dom was just as troubled, but found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the grisly images. They were monstrous, yes... but also oddly compelling, somehow, because of their stark realism.
The film jerked and the time changed, though the scene remained the same. The videographer had moved farther away, the shot long-view now. Dom watched as a slight, nattily dressed, rather distinguished-looking blonde man entered the footage. He stood, just thoughtfully observing for a long while then walked slowly around the area, taking notes. Obviously a cop of some sort. Extreme close-up of the blonde bloke's face; tired and haggard, but still appealingly handsome for all that. Dom wanted to keep watching the man - he was a much nicer focal point; baggy, bloodshot eyes and all - but his attention was relentlessly drawn back to the mutilated corpse.
"Jesus.", Jorge breathed beside him. "Dommie, I don't think I like this. This is beyond weird, bro." Jorge's voice had gone from vaguely uneasy to moderately frightened.
"They're just acting, mate.", Dom replied, still trying to sound calm and soothing though he was growing more unsure by the second. It didn't look fake, that was the thing. Dom had been in the business long enough to know the difference. The blood on the screen didn't have that manufactured look that all psuedo-blood seemed to have, no matter how good the special-effects crew. Nothing about this had the feel of fiction; not the body, nor the scene, nor the exhausted blonde bloke... most of all, not the weirdly labored breathing of the person behind the camera. Dom recognized the sound immediately; it was a noise he'd made himself very recently. The twisted bastard was getting off on this, was wanking to the carnage he'd created.
Dom's gut rolled and he finally had to close his eyes on the image. Beside him, Jorge did the same, saying in a broken whisper. "Dom... fuck, man... this is real."
********************************************************************************
Billy had always been the most stoical of blokes in the presence of brutal death, never once losing his cool even at the goriest of crime scenes, looking on impassively as everyone around him cringed or turned away, hands plastered over their mouths. But there was nothing stoical about him now as he stood frozen, staring up, transfixed, at the body gently swaying in the early morning breeze.
Billy now knew what the out-of-place clues at the other kill sites meant, the ones that did not quite seem to belong.
The props were here at this scene, also... but this go-round Billy was all too easily able to identify everything on and around the corpse. Most of the items were right for the character of Charlie Pace. The little baggie of heroin lying on the ground at the body's feet was right. The striped, sleeveless shirt was right. Even the vintage bass guitar propped against the trunk of the tree was right- an exact bloody duplicate of the one Charlie played on stage.
Most of the props were right.... but it was those that were not that were robbing Billy of his breath. The anonymous body swinging from the tree was meant to represent two very different personas, though some traits bled in from one to the other seamlessly.
Charlie Sharpied his feelings out on taped-up knuckles, not the actual flesh of his hand. Charlie's finger was covered by his Driveshaft ring, not a delicate Celtic silver band. Charlie did not rock out to Coldplay and World Without Sundays on the island, because Geronimo Jackson was about as cutting edge as things got around there. And Charlie did not have the habit of popping lollies into his mouth when he got a wee bit fidgety.
But Dominic did.
Billy jerked out of his trance and lurched off towards a stand of hedges, retching till there was nothing left to bring up.
Connor was right behind him, comforting hand on his back, but the spasms would not stop. After a long while, Billy righted himself, wiping at his mouth, staring at his partner in mute horror.
Bailey pulled a flask from his hip pocket, handing it over.
Billy accepted it, draining the last bit of whisky from the slender metal container. The alcohol burned through his veins, but Billy could not seem to get warm. His whole body trembled helplessly.
Connor gently squeezed his shoulder. "Hang tight, babe. I'm gonna go grab you a refill."
Billy could only nod weakly and crouch down again, willing the blackness to leave the edges of his vision.
The next thing he knew Bailey was racing back towards him, bellowing, gun drawn, eyes wild.
"Seal off the perimeter! Now, goddamit! Lock this fucking place down, tight!"
The half dozen officers at the scene immediately jumped into action, spurred on by the detective's ferocious tone- though it was beyond pointless to try to 'lock down' a twenty-acre county wilderness with only six men.
Connor caught hold of Billy's sleeve and tugged him in the direction of the car park. Billy began running after him, not realizing he was pulling his own gun till it was in his hand.
"He's here. The motherfucker was right here!" Connor looked around wildly, then pointed to the windscreen of Billy's car, where a bright pink Post-it note in the shape of a heart now lay.
Any more questions, Boyd?
Now it begins...
to be continued.....
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
From:
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http://www.livejournal.com/support/faqbrowse.bml?faqid=67
Haven't read the piece yet, but I'm very interested in this series. Hard-ass detective Billy with a crush on Dom! Damn, but that's adorable.
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*loves you to death*
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Once again, thanks ton for the great comments, and I hope you continue to enjoy! : )
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or use this html code:
< a href="http://whatever.com" > Prologue/chapter1/etc... < /a >
Minus the spaces before and after the > things.
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From:
Captivating
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Re: Captivating
From: (Anonymous)
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Hmmmm.... seems to me I remember a certain photographer mucking around the crime scene...! And it is all aimed at Boyd after all. So it must be somebody who knows his LOST obsession. Damn him... Billy will feel responsible.
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From: (Anonymous)
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*tips hat* "' name's Sackett,Echo Sackett ; am waiting with baited breath the next installment in this most delightful series.
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Okay, bad form... sorry. *grins* This cloak and dagger writing goes straight to my head, apparently.
Seriously, it's lovely to meet you, and thank you so much for your kind comments. They're ever so much appreciated. : )
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I love that Jorge was afraid of a cricket. And of course, Dom would be the first person any of the cast would go to with a bug problem.
Uh-oh, the unsub is escalating. Billy, quick, go to Hawaii to protect Dom!
Excellent chapter, can't wait for more.
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Ha! You couldn't have said it any better!!! ;D
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I liked it before, but it seems as if you've edited/changed it around, and it's even more fluid now.
I'm sitting here scratching my head, lol, because I can't for the life of me remember editing it or changing it around, except possibly for one or two words that were mispelled the first go-round. *laughs* Do you happen to remember which parts in particular you thought might have been changed? Just curious...I have a terrible tendency to forget about these things once I do them. ; )
Thank so much, once again, for all of your enthusiastic feedback. : ) *hugs*
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~ Jen
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