Classification: I think this series went completely Alternate Universe long ago — although I’m trying to stick as close to canon as possible

Spoilers: Anything could pop up.

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Rating: PG-14, some language. Well, I’ve done it. I’ve used actual words that wouldn’t make it past network censors. I hate it when that happens.

Synopsis: Josh’s crucible continues

Warning: Angst ahoy! But more resolution (Yea!)

Series: This story is twenty-third in the 'Rocky Path' series.

Series So Far:

Flesh and Bone 1/5

By Lacy

The sun took its own sweet time rising this morning, doing its level best to banish the rain and the clouds, but doing only a mediocre job. The morning sun peeks through the gloom here and there, but never overtakes it entirely. I can’t help but think that this morning’s weather could be an omen for the rest of my life.

This room has a tiny, caged window on the wall just at the ceiling -- the only thing keeping it from being a dank, dark pit. My mood isn’t helping much in that respect, either.

The deadline for getting Donna back safely and peacefully came and went over an hour ago. For seven hours, a remorseless madman with a taste for taking human life has held her hostage. For an hour, the chances of getting her back alive have decreased at a steady rate.

My life in the political arena did nothing to prepare me for this. My degrees from Harvard and Yale can do nothing for me now as I wait in this dingy room. I wait for someone to bring me word. I wait for someone to being me hope.

I’ve spent the last few hours praying alternately to God and to her.

I’ve decided that there must be some kind of divine plan at work here. I’m supposed to be learning something; maybe even she’s supposed to be learning something. There has to be a plan. Someone has to be orchestrating this for some as-yet-unknown purpose -- because if not, that means it’s all just some random tragedy. I’ve had too much random tragedy in my life. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you.

God is a vengeful God — I’ve decided. He must have been listening in at just the right moment, and concocted the perfect punishment for my crimes…my words. He knows just when to listen and when to act. He is a master of timing. He is the consummate politician. I just wish he could have left Donna out of this.

But I guess if it didn’t involve taking Donna away, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment.

I tell myself that I’m a Jew, and as a people, we are accustomed to evoking God’s ire. We are also accustomed to suffering through said ire. We’ve had thousands of years of practice. But, knowing that really doesn’t help much.

God is also a big mystery to me. And, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not big on mysteries. I like things to be laid out for me. The pros and cons should be evident — the consequences clear. There should be studies with numbers and projections. There should be specs and diagrams and org charts.

I wonder why He chose to punish me. Sure, I was cruel and proud, but I’m still just a man. I’m still just an individual in a world full of people who deserve some form of censure. Maybe it’s because I help run the government and I’m supposed to be above pettiness. I’m supposed to know that when you’re a person of some considerable power, you must be careful how and when and with whom you wield it.

It’s sort of like how a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. In the big picture, you’re only as powerful as you are in the direst of circumstances. In other words, I misused my power and now He’s showing me just how powerless I really am.

There's nothing I can do here. There is no way I can speed this along, or make the clock tick any faster or slower. I cannot head up the search or lead a rescue effort. I can’t look at evidence and put the pieces of the puzzle together. That would constitute a mystery -- once again, not my strong suit.

Have I learned the lesson yet? Can You bring Donna home now?

I turn with a start when the heavy door opens and Sam barges into my quiet interrogation-room sanctuary. I know immediately from the look in his eyes that there’s been news.

"They found the car," he says in a rush, before I have the chance to inquire.

"Donna?"

He shakes his head, his hands on his hips. "The car was spotted a few minutes ago when the helicopter did a final sweep. There’s a team moving in now. They want you there for," he swallows, "positive ID, just in case. Let’s go."

I gather my coat from the back of the chair with fumbling hands and follow Sam out of the room. Detective Jefferson meets us outside and without a word leads us to a vehicle obviously culled from the motor pool. I notice as I climb into the passenger seat that she reaches over to turn off the CB radio before turning the key in the ignition.

She doesn’t want me to hear what’s going on, and she’s right. I think if I had to learn from a radio that a body had been found I just might lose it completely. I don’t think I would be responsible for my actions.

She flips on the dashboard sirens and I’m unexpectedly thrown off by the blinding red and blue that fills my vision. I have to blink to hold the anxiety, dangerously close to the forefront, at bay. Sam’s hand, resting briefly on my shoulder, calms the tension racing through me.

The ride lasts for fifteen minutes and I don’t really pay attention to where we’re going, nor do I ask. The sun continues its valiant struggle with the gloomy clouds, and the occasional raindrop falls unheeded upon the windshield. Sam’s presence in the back seat is palpable to me even though I do not turn to look at him.

More sirens assault me when we approach our intended location. I have a feeling that this god-forsaken area of town will see more police cars descending upon it today, than it has in the past year. As the car rolls to a stop, I notice a quiet ambulance with unemployed paramedics milling about it, and my stomach clenches into an excruciating knot. She hasn’t been found…alive, anyway. I see a police officer coaxing a German Shepherd from an animal crate in the back seat of a cruiser.

The scene has already been taped with yellow ribbon warning off casual onlookers, and already a few have begun to gather. I am angered by their morbid curiosity as they whisper and point. Passing through the crowd, with Detective Jefferson in front of me, I see what draws their attention.

My car.

Jefferson holds up her hand, bringing me to stop at the tapeline.

"What?" I ask.

"You have to stay here, Josh," she tells me.

"I’m sorry?"

"This is a crime scene, Josh. We can’t risk contaminating it until all the evidence has been gathered."

"How will I contaminate the scene?"

"It’s procedure. Law enforcement personnel only," she replies. "Wait here." She leaves me to stand helpless once again, and approaches another officer, conferring with him for a few minutes. The German Shepherd begins barking and I turn to watch his owner attempt to calm him. I’ve never been a big fan of dogs — especially the kind that can rip out your throat in a heartbeat. "Josh?" Jefferson’s voice catches my attention again as she approaches.

She lifts the tape and crosses beneath it. "Is that your car?"

"Yes," I answer without hesitation. "Did you find anything?"

"Forensics is about to begin their investigation. Josh," she grabs my elbow and shepherds me away from the growing crowd of onlookers, closer to the barking hellhound, "there are traces of blood on the driver’s side window, and on the concrete surrounding the car."

"Blood?" I ask, because I don’t how else to respond.

"It’s been raining, Josh. That’s going to make gathering evidence and tracking her location more difficult."

Great, that’s all I need to hear right now. She continues to speak softly. Her lips move, but I can’t hear the words that are coming out of her mouth. My ears are filled only with the sound of the barking German Shepherd, which remains unappeased by its master. I know that the words Detective Jefferson is saying to me are probably important, but my ears remain unwillingly riveted to the barking which becomes more and more prominent.

"Can you shut that damn dog up?" I shout, turning on the officer. The dog turns upon me, probably because he senses that his human is being threatened. He bears his teeth briefly and emits a deep and frightening growl in the back of his throat. I am forced to back off, giving the officer a measure of distance. When the dog deems it safe once again, he continues his insistent woof.

"Josh," Sam takes my arm, making his presence known only because he feels it necessary. "You have to calm down. These people are doing their job. They’re only trying to help."

"I know," I whisper, the fight leaving my body. "I’m sorry." I am holding it all together with only the slimmest thread of sanity.

In a split second, the snarling, yelping hellhound, whose mouth I would swear is foaming, breaks free of his restraints and launches his powerful body in my direction. My heart lurches in my throat where it seems to have taken up permanent residence, as I fear that the mistake of my threat has come home to roost in a vicious way.

But it does not. The dog is hardly aware of me as he rockets past my legs and under the tapeline, nearly knocking Detective Jefferson over in the process. I look back at the dog wrangling officer, whose eyes have grown wide and face has scrunched up in an unreadable expression.

"Damn!" The officer curses and takes off, sprinting towards the car. I watch as the dog stops short of the Corvette, and begins barking in a wild frenzy.

"Damn it," Jefferson echoes, whipping past the tapeline. "The trunk!" she shouts. "Open the goddamn trunk!"

A bevy of officers descend upon the car and I hear various shouts coming from the indiscernible horde.

"The key’s broken off in the lock!"

"Get me a crow bar. Now, damn it!"

The dog’s frenzy has communicated itself to the officers as they work frantically to open the car’s trunk. Two crowbars are passed through the crowd and the strongest of the men throw themselves into popping the lid. I can only stand in horror, watching the scene unfold before me. My legs cannot move, and it’s all I can do to remain standing. I can barely feel the tight grip Sam has on my arm.

"The trunk?" I ask, turning to him. "That trunk’s not big enough for…I didn’t buy the car for its trunk space," I finish. I need to throw up, and the dog won’t stop barking. The men with the crowbars put their entire combined weight into their task, causing the sports car to rock on its rear suspension.

With the sound of grinding metal against metal, the trunk at last gives way and pops open so forcefully that it nearly bounces closed again. It’s then I hear the words that send me running for someplace to vomit.

"We’ve got a body."

TBC

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