White Screams

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 1 -- For I did not know my name

Present day, abandoned warehouse

The faraway sound of breaking glass startled me into consciousness, but it was my own labored breathing that pushed me into full awakening. Slowly, then sharply, I became aware of my body and the excruciating pain that was rapidly coursing through parts of that body. It was taking its sweet time, as if wanting me to savor each feeling; flooding, spreading, pin-pointing. When I tried moving my fingers my entire hand and arm shot up in flames. My legs felt heavy and immobile. Vaguely a logical part of my brain registered that I might have broken my leg. Or ankle. Or knee. A random memory assaulted me, of cowering in fear as the cold barrel of a .357 magnum nudged against my right knee and an evil voice threatened to blow my kneecap off. Or perhaps it was an image from a television screen. I made a whimpering sound to cover the maniacal laugh that erupted inside my head.

I felt my throat constrict as I repeated that whimpering sound, but now the maniacal laugh was gone and was replaced by more pain and hurt. The pain in my throat reached my the back and top of my head. And the whimper became a full blooded groan in reaction to the explosion in my brain. It was like a million needles were flying around with no restriction, all inside my head. It was like a thousand tenors and sopranos reaching a high note with an orchestra. It was like the roar of the space shuttle at launch only focused inside my head. I was convinced my brain would explode. Another random memory. I saw clearly a pink animated brain expanding, pulsating, and then pushing with all its might against the unyielding skull. The force of the exploding brain was too much even for the rock solid skull bone and cracks soon began to appear. I watched in fascination as the cracks grew in complexity and with a sudden "poof" disintegrated into thousands of fragments, under the force of the exploding brain. Brain matter oozed everywhere. This one has to be on screen. And then I heard the evil laugh again, mixed in with a gunshot.

I tried to sit up in shock. And winced as another part of my body clamored for attention. There was something wet against my cheek, which felt swollen. Slowly, then sharply, I became aware of the coldness and hardness of the surface I was lying on. I was able to move my fingers and touch my face, although it took me a long moment and much hacking through the pain to come to the conclusion that it was a concrete surface.

You need to be taking deep breaths now, a calm mechanical female voice reverberated somewhere behind me, around me. I struggled to hold onto the voice, which some part of my subconscious recognized. A glimmer of hope, a trickle of warmth. May be.

With my head twisted, arms in an awkward position and my lungs squashed, it was easier said than done to take those deep breaths. It might be easier if I rolled over, I decided. Again, easier said than done. I tried to move my arms so I could push myself up but I had no strength. I imagined that it was how amputees felt like, the helplessness. After a couple of futile attempts I gave up and slumped back to my prone position on the concrete floor, my eyes closed in defeat.

Ringing in my ears and dizziness spun me back into unconsciousness.

I didn't know how long I'd been out before I woke up again. The all-over-body pain was still rampant, the head wanting to explode was still a too-real possibility, and now to make a bad situation even more impossibly worse, I was overwhelmed by a sickening stench. The sweet sour smell of vomit rushed over me and with a retch, I found myself up on my feet and stumbling toward the bathroom. In my state, I didn't stop to think how and why I'd know there was a bathroom where it was.

I banged my shoulder against the door jamb as I rushed to open the bathroom door and could only make it as far as the sink. Mindless that it was more filth and grime than porcelain, I emptied the contents of my stomach noisily until there was nothing left and my chest hurt from the dry heaving. Not wanting to look down at the wreckage I reached out blindly for the faucet not wanting to think about what I'd do if there was no water. After a sickening lurch and groan a trickle of brown liquid emerged. I watched in fascination as the trickle grew heavier, then paused, and then gradually became something approaching normal. I let it wash away my vomit, resisting the urge to be sick again.

It was only then that I realized I was gripping the side of the sink very tightly and my knuckles had turned into blotches of red and white with the death grip. My hands were shaking when I released them. I tried to stop the trembling by gripping one hand over another wrist but it only managed to make the shaking worse.

Absently I took in my hands. The first thought was relief that at least I had the full complement of ten fingers, which after the knee cap shooting imagery was a serious concern. Then I noticed the smooth skin, deducing that I was fairly young. Neatly manicured nails, no nail polish. Another stray thought came to mind, of giggling as I painted black nail polish on a set of nails. Not my own, and I was struck by how soft and strong those fingers were. Feminine, and I saw myself turning the hand over and tracing my fingers over the upturned palm. There was something quietly intimate about that action that gave me a strange feeling at the bottom of my stomach. A name hovered at the tip of my tongue, the name of the owner of those fascinating hands.

But I could not remember it.

Nothing.

Blank.

I searched through my memory banks and there was nothing.

There was more.

It hit me with the force of a juggernaut.

I did not know my name.

My head spun and I reached out for support from the nearest surface, anything solid.

I did not know my name.

My hands slipped on the wet tiled surface and my legs gave out.

I did not know my name.

As I hit yet another cold hard floor I became devoid of all awareness, but one.

How could I not know my name? It was something that should be ingrained in our beings, our identity. It defined our place in the world. To not have a name was like not having an existence.

I curled up in a fetal position and for third time in my memory, blacked out.


I came to once again with the unbearable amount of pain that seemed to be the default of my current existence. Not that I wanted to get used to it any time soon. Panic came to me quickly when the reason for my latest blackout hit me. I contemplated remaining on the floor and blanking out, letting the fugue state take over. To give in was an easier option than to try to figure things out. Besides, my brain hurt too much for any thinking.

I closed my eyes and heard my heart beat, racing away. My breathing grew shallower. I could feel trembling originating from my core, quickly spreading outwards until my whole body shook. Fear. Desolation.

Seconds.

Minutes passed.

With my last ounce of resolve I straightened, rolled to my side and gingerly pushed myself up with my elbow. I could feel each and every bone and muscle protesting, but I continued my efforts. I concentrated on the smallest of movements, taking it one small push at a time, giving myself instructions. That's it, right elbow on the floor. Bring your left arm over and push. Bring your knees up. Good. Don't think about who you are. Now hands and knees on the floor. Shoulders up. good. Don't think about what you're doing here. Don't think about where is here. Don't think about anything.

The exertion to lever myself up to a crouching position was sapping. The next step was to bring myself to a standing position. That took another round of strenuous effort.

Was it worth it? Using up my remaining energy? All I felt was that I had to. If I did not stand up for myself no one would. I found determination and purpose from deep within, not knowing why.

I ran the water from the faucet until it didn't look like mud from a swamp and splashed it over my face and neck. I still hurt everywhere, especially the pounding in my head had not abated, though the cold shock of the water helped for a second. I was parched, but did not trust the water quality. I made a mental note to look for some water elsewhere in the building.

Without thinking, because it was out of habit, I looked up at the mirror above the sink.

I didn't think I would be able to deal with a second shock in a day. This shock was as huge, even more, than the previous one.

I could not recognize the face in the mirror.

It was me, no about about it. The reflection followed my movements. I tilted my head and she followed. I raised my hand and she raised hers too.

I had no more hysteria left. I shook my head at the twin onslaught of uncertainty. I knew I could not afford to faint and lose my mind again. From an unknown place, I gathered a tiny thread of strength. What I had left was to evaluate the person staring back at me. Light brown, blondish hair. Blue eyes that were very tired, very sad, with almost no color. Heavy bags under the eyes. Pale skin of someone who spent her life indoors. No visible scars on face and neck, although exposed skin was covered in a think film of dust and oil, probably from being on the floor for some length of time. I reached up to pinch my face, and was unhappy at the lack of sparkle and flexibility. In other words, the person looking back at me could have been young and good-looking; but was currently sad, tired and barely sane.

I was wearing a dark blue shirt that was also covered in the contents of the dirty concrete floor. Looking down, I discovered for the first time that I was in jeans and boots. The clothing were soft and well-worn, obviously having been well taken care of.

I could not tear my eyes away, I had to return to my reflection. We stared at each other for the longest time in the dirty mirror, but neither could offer any answers. I could not fathom being so out of control, not knowing my name, not recognizing my face. The implications were too great to even imagine.

A confusing array of thoughts flashed through my mind. There were so many unanswered questions, each jockeying for answers across my fragile mind. I knew I needed to prioritize. I needed to find out who I was and what I was doing here. I had to find out where "here" was. So far my memories had been a cold concrete floor, I did not even have time to look around before rushing to the bathroom. And now looking around the bathroom I had to stifle a frown of disgust at the dilapidated condition. The tiles on the walls could have been white once, but now were an ugly shade of yellowish gray. The stalls behind me did not look appetizing, I idly hoped I did not need to use them any time soon. The overhead fluorescent light only had one strip left.

All in all, not a place to linger.

I reached for the faucet again, to frantically wash my hands, though I did not know why. There was no visible blood.

There were no towels, so I wiped my hands dry on my jeans.

My gaze fell on the exit door. At the back of my mind I tried to form a plan. I needed to find out what was outside.

And then it occurred to me there might be other people. Or that outside the door could be danger. Perhaps I could stay put in the bathroom. Even though it was horrible, I was the only one there and relatively safe. I wondered what sort of person I was; would I have explored the place, tried to find other people, tried to find help? It brought home the situation with the memory loss, and I tossed the thoughts aside. I felt conflicted. The natural sense to hide was in conflict with the need to find answers.

My feet did not move. I was stuck where I was. There was no incentive to move. There was all the incentive to find out.

And then I heard it.

The phone rang.

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Mmmmmm.... Interesting beginning...

[taralicious]

Psychological thrillery ambiguous-type goodness. Where will it end up?

[Alcy]

Hiya watty,

What a gripping start! We don’t have much information…other than a nameless young woman waking up alone and scared. I would guess that it was Tara from the description, but what on earth has she been through to get her to this point?

I haven’t seen the movie that this is based on, so I have no background for this story whatsoever. It does have psychological thriller stamped all over it which is great, because I there are few things better than a good psychological thriller. Except maybe a psychological thriller with lesbians, and our two favourite ones at that.

Not much info, watty, but I am hooked. Written to your usual high standards of course, brilliant, with gripping prose. I’m looking immensely forward to the next chapter.


Alcy

[Paint the Sky]

I do love a mystery:)

My brain is already racing through the who, what, where and when routine

Not much to go on yet, but I know I'm hooked.

[watty]

Zampsa1975 -- thanks.

taralicious -- where will it end up? The End with W/T together of course.

Alcy -- which reminds me, I have to read your new fic. I've been away from Pens so long I feel overwhelmed at the number of fics to catch up. Thanks for your always kind encouragement. Yes it is Tara, I'm not giving anything away by confirming that. It'll be a bit disorientating before (hopefully) things get into a straight line.

Paint the Sky -- (sunday? heehee) I think the who, what, where and when should become clearer eventually, but like I said to Alcy, it may take a few turns before we get there. Thanks for reading.
[br]

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 2 -- A situation on the roof

Three years ago, on the roof of the Aladdin hotel, Las Vegas

Detective Buffy Summers ran three steps at a time up the service stairs, the squawk of her walkie talkie barking out inaudible instructions, updates and reports from her fellow officers. She did not pay particular attention to the noise, only of her single minded focus to reach her destination in the shortest time possible.

"Buffy, wait up," Detective Willow Rosenberg yelled out at her partner. Despite looking as fit and lithe, Willow did not have Buffy's natural agility or speed and found herself in her normal position of several steps behind Buffy. No amount of gym work or endurance training could get Willow match Buffy's seemingly preternatural all round proficiency in anything physical.

Buffy did not appear to have heard her, but several steps later slowed down a fraction. "Two minutes," she turned around and said sharply. Willow was amazed, not for the first time, at how it was possible for Buffy not to be winded. They'd just ran up ten flights of stairs, for Christ's sake.

"Alright, alright, go on ahead, I'm just behind you," Willow acquiesced, grateful for the few seconds' respite.

Buffy returned to hurtling up the stairs as Willow watched helplessly. "Jesus, what do I need to do? Train with the Kenyans?" she muttered to herself. Then she cleared her mind and sprinted like hell after her partner.

Two and a half minutes later, Willow burst through the metal door leading out to the roof, automatically wincing at the blast of hot air that engulfed her. She was still new to Las Vegas, having transferred to LVPD only four months earlier, and had not yet gotten used to the stifling dry heat that was perpetual unless she was indoors. A minisecond later training took over, she had her gun out and her eyes immediately starting to scan the surroundings.

The roof of the Aladdin Hotel was just like any other commercial building -- pipes, water tanks, air conditioning units, engines and other machinery essential for the smooth running of the building amassed all over the roof. The size and height of the machinery and equipment made it a perfect hiding place, or in other words, a perfect nightmare for any cop chasing after a fugitive. The massive faux Eiffel Tower structure of the Paris Hotel next doors dominated the skyline, the impressive iron structure a perfect replica of the real version in the real Paris in the real France. Willow had not been in Las Vegas long enough not to still be awestruck at how utterly LARGE everything was there. And how seriously they all took the corny imitation.

But now was not the time to wonder about the miracle that was the Las Vegas Strip. Out of the corner of her eye she sensed, rather than saw, a quick movement. Turning her gaze in the direction quickly, she assessed that there was no danger and swiftly made her way in that direction. She hoped that it was either Buffy or the fugitive they were chasing. Either way, she had to follow and investigate. She wished she could shout out to Buffy to find her partner's location, but that would alert their fugitive, so she threaded her way in-between two giant water tanks silently.

As she rounded her way to an open area near to the edge of the roof, she heard voices. One calm and collected, the other agitated and clearly disjointed. The contrast was stark. She kept to the side of the nearest wall, stepping softly so as not to interrupt or worse, direct attention to herself.

It was a classic scene. The fugitive, a dark haired young man in his late teens or early twenties, was backing edgily toward the edge of the roof. He was dressed in a dirty gray t-shirt, cargo pants and hi-top sneakers, the typical garb of anyone in his age range. Clutched tightly against his chest, as if his life depended on it, was a casual canvas sports bag of the type easily available at any Walmart. The bag by itself was not important, but the young man, as well as Buffy and Willow, knew full well how significant the contents of the bag was. In his other hand was a handgun.

"Don't come near me," the young man screamed, the gun in his hand waving wildly in the air. His voice was hoarse from fear and his chest rising and falling uncontrollably through too hard running.

Buffy took one step closer, not dropping the weapon she held firmly in her hand. "Don't do anything stupid, kid. Just give me your gun, you have my word that I'll tell the DA you weren't a threat. You'll get off on a misdemeanor at most," her voice dripped reason and calmness.

"You think I'm stupid?" the young man shouted. He shook the contents of his canvas sports bag. "What about this? You'll get me for this, I'll get put away for 190 years."

Buffy's face was impassive. "Did you have anything to do with the kidnapping?" she asked conversationally.

The young man laughed hysterically. "I'm not confessing to anything!" He looked nervously around him and took another step backwards. Buffy had spotted Willow and acknowledged her by an imperceptible nod of her head. Willow wanted to shout a warning, that he was half a dozen steps away from the edge, and it was a long drop down. Instead, she crept to the other side of Buffy, to try to flank the fugitive.

Buffy was in full negotiator mode. "I'm not trying to make you confess to anything. It's just that I can't help you if you don't help me. I'm the only one up here now, but do you think that will be the case in a minute? Even right now the SWAT team is converging on the hotel and you know when they get up here they'll shoot you on sight. Cooperate with me now, I'll make sure nothing happens to you," she said.

The young man appeared to debate to himself, and then he took a breath and pointed the gun straight at Buffy. "Like I said, bitch, I don't trust you. Back off right now, get me the fuck out of here. Or the kid dies." His face was hard as he made the threat.

Willow knew that they had to take the threat seriously, although things had begun to go wrong as soon as the money was picked up. The police presence was supposed to be hidden. The young man picking up the money was not supposed to know he was being watched. They were not supposed to show their hands. They were supposed to follow him back to where his accomplices were, so that they had an idea of where and how the kidnapped victim was. But someone was careless, and the young man took off running at the first hint that something was wrong. And now, with the fugitive backed in a corner on the rooftop of the Aladdin Hotel, he literally needed the help of a magic genie in a lamp to get him, and everyone else, out of this dire mess. Willow did not know how he was to communicate with his accomplices. What would they do when he did not return with the money? He was probably late already. They must have worked out a communication method, and as far as she knew he had not been in contact with anyone since the foot chase began.

What a fubar.

The young man's hands were shaking, and Willow observed that even if he fired his gun, who knew where the bullet would land. She and Buffy both wore light-weight bullet-proof vests, but with an unstable assailant like him, they were still in danger as the bullet might end up hitting an unprotected area. Willow shuddered at the memory of fellow officers who had been shot in the head, neck, or just outside of where their vest stopped. It was unpleasant. She found a secluded spot to the left of Buffy and the fugitive, and trained her gun at the young man. He did not appear to have seen her, and she wanted to keep it that way.

"No one is going to get hurt," Buffy continued as if she had not heard him. She looked out up to the sky and nodded her head at an approaching helicopter. "See that? Helicopters are coming. Snipers are deployed in each one. Give yourself up. You're better off with me."

"Did you hear me? If I don't call, your kid is dead. Dead, dead, DEAD! I don't give a rat's ass who is coming, the SWAT or FBI or the fucking Delta Forces." The young man straightened up, as if going through an internal script. "I have the power here. I am calling the shots. So don't try to sweet talk me, bitch cop. Get me a cell phone, get me transport, get me out of here. You want to save the life of that kid, right? You do as I say," he said smugly. For effect, he waved his gun at her once more.

Buffy did not seem perturbed. Willow had seen Buffy with perps before, and had often wondered at her partner's unflappability even with a gun pointed at her. Perhaps it was an ego thing; Buffy had self confidence brimming to almost overflowing, and sometimes it seemed to Willow that she did not believe she could get injured or hurt. She was not reckless, a steady stream of bravery commendations was testament to her experience and status. But she was fearless and had experience far beyond her age.

And it was experience that came into play now, as she stopped her advance. She spread her hands out in reconciliation, though her gun remained pointed at the young fugitive. "Okay, okay. Look, I'll back off and we can talk about what you want," she said.

"I want a cell phone. I want a helicopter to get me out of here. I want you people to stop hassling at me, get off my back," the young man repeated his demand.

"Why don't you put your gun down first. Be reasonable. We don't want the kid to get hurt, okay? If you put your gun down, I'll put mine down, how about that?" Buffy countered.

He shook his head vehemently. "No fucking way, no fucking way," he repeated.

Knowing an impassé when she saw one, Buffy paused. She kept her stance, but her body action suggested that she was waiting for the other party to make a move.

Time seemed to stand still on the roof. They heard the increasing cacophony of police sirens converging on the hotel. The roar of the helicopter approached ominously. Willow knew that the chopper contained elite sharp shooters who were able to pinpoint a target from 500 yards from a moving vehicle. If the order came to shoot the fugitive, he would have no chance. Knowing her captain, she trusted that he would not make any aggressive rash move like that, because killing the fugitive would almost certainly mean a death sentence for the kidnapped victim.

They continued to wait.

Willow reminded herself of one of the things they were taught in hostage negotiation situations; it was not always necessary to be the aggressor. Let the bad guys make their move. Be prepared. Be proactive, but be ready to react.

The young man took an involuntary step forward and was just about to open his mouth to speak. At the same moment the roof door banged open signaling the arrival of backup. Willow winced. The idiots! We're in a sensitive position here, they're gonna screw things up by stomping in here like elephants and scaring the guy. He's unstable enough as it is.

True to Willow's prediction, he jumped, visibly agitated and backed up quickly. Willow heard Buffy swore, knowing her partner was cursing the other officers the same way she was.

There was nowhere else to go. He climbed up the walled barrier and stood up, dangerously close to the edge. "You fuckers!" he screamed. "I knew you can't be trusted!" He took another half step backwards, one more and he would fall to the ground.

Both Buffy and Willow rushed forward, instinctively trying to save him. They were too far away.

His eyes were a mixture of wild insanity and regret as he took one last step back.

"No!"

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for good update-y goodness... I wonder how the incident on the roof is connected to the blonde waking up inm the warehouse...

[spells42]

Fassssscinating, watty. Can't wait for more.

Anne

[JustSkipIt]

Oh Watty. I know you've been working on getting this ready to post. What a welcome addition to the board. The two chapters show an interesting contrast. The first is so brutal and present. There's no escaping that this person (perhaps Tara) is just ... violated, injured, and completely without understanding of who she is. It's fascinating to read her reactions. She seems almost under-emotive but it's probably just total shock. Your descriptions of the terror and filth are just spot on.

Then the second chapter leaves even more questions. I like that Willow and Buffy are police detectives. So Willow just moved to Las Vegas? It seems to me that she would pull out her gun before opening the door and stepping onto the roof but that's just me. But wow, you set us up with this kid/kidnapper jumping without telling them anything about the victim?

Arggghhh and keep it coming.

[watty]

zampasa1975 --

I wonder how the incident on the roof is connected to the blonde waking up in the warehouse...

Are you sure there's a connection? Heehee. I'm just messing with you. It'll be revealed eventually.

spells42 -- thanks!

Elvis -- yeah, it's been a while. And welcome back to you too. I'm glad the feeling of shock and helplessness was present.

She seems almost under-emotive but it's probably just total shock.

And probably so very overwhelmed that she didn't know which emotion to feel. I can't say I've been in this situation, but hey! that's why we have imagination. More to come.
[br]

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 3 -- The Unthinkable

Three years and 3 days ago, Las Vegas

Tara Maclay deftly maneuvered her Honda into the driveway, narrowly avoiding grazing her mom's car. With two small cars, it was a tight fit into the driveway designed for one car. She switched off the engine, gathered her bag and shoes, and was out of the car in three seconds flat. She made her way quickly to the house, grateful for the air conditioning. Central air conditioning was the only luxury her family could afford, and she was glad that they did.

"Mom, I'm home," she shouted as she closed and latched the front door. "Mom?"

She threw her bag and shoes on the staircase and went looking for her mom. Usually her mother would be in the kitchen, so she made the sun-filled room her first port of call. A perturbed frown broke out in her forehead when she found the kitchen not only empty, but with no signs of recent activity. No casserole bubbling away on the stove top, no brownies baking in the oven, no used pots and pans in the sink or on the drainer next to the sink. The kitchen looked like the state it was when she left after breakfast that morning -- all cleaned up, ready for the next meal preparation.

Strange, she remarked to herself.

"Mom?" she repeated, but there was no answer. She scanned the counter top and fridge door for any note for any clue about the absence of her mother and the lack of cooking activity in the kitchen. There were none.

Mentally she ran through her mother's schedule for the day. Her mother only worked in the mornings, taking the early shift of 6am to 2pm at the 24 hour convenience store where she doubled as cashier and part time book keeper. She sometimes took a nap in the afternoon, but was rarely still in bed by the time Tara or her brother returned home from work. In fact, Tara could only remember it occurring once, when her mother was sick with stomach flu, that she could not physically get out of bed. Her mother had strong work ethics, which she instilled in her children; all the more odd that she was not around. Her car was in the driveway, so she could not have gone far. Unless she was in someone else's car. Again, she would have left a note if that was the case.

Tara went through all the rooms downstairs -- the living room which was never used unless there were guests, the dining room which was also never used even when there were guests, the spare room they used as a storage space, the garage, the garden -- there were no traces of her mother. She was still very puzzled when she climbed up the stairs to the upstairs portion of the house. She made her way first to her mother's bedroom, knocking quietly and entering without waiting for a response.

"Where are you, Mom?" A cold chill, then annoyance, crept over her. Quickly she covered her own bedroom and her brother's bedroom, neither of which were occupied. Nor was the bathroom. Every room looked clean, as usual. She returned to her mother's bedroom, for want of a place to sit and think. She walked purposefully to the window, pushed the curtains aside and looked out into the street. There was nothing to see, she did not know what possessed her to look out in the first place. The street was mostly empty, it was too narrow and the neighborhood not safe enough for the children to play around. As the street was off the Strip and the main roads, the few cars that came into the street were of residents or people with genuine business. This was the part of Las Vegas that was outside of the realm of tourist maps.

Tara sat heavily in the chair next to the window, stumped at the whereabouts of her mother. While there was nothing particularly sinister about her absence -- in all probability she was with a friend or co-worker and had neglected to tell Tara, Tara was still worried. Her mother had mobility problems after a bout of illness several years prior and could not move about for any length of time. Belatedly she thought of her cell phone. Duh, how can I be so forgetful? She ran downstairs to retrieve it from her bag. Flipping it open she speed dialed her mother's number. Star-1, the most important number on her speed dial.

It rang and rang and rang. Sixteen rings later she hung up in resignation. Her mother did not have voicemail, not having the confidence to set it up and continue to use it. Tara dialed again, this time letting it ring for twenty rings before giving up. Next she tried her brother Donny. He worked in one of the casinos on the Strip, and was probably still at work. Tara was not surprised that he did not answer either.

She was out of ideas. There was an early suggestion of panic, of not knowing where her family was. But she did not feel a clear and present sense of danger. Her mind tried to come up with a variety of good reasons. The house was not disturbed, there was nothing out of place so the thought of foul play was far from her mind. She was an avid reader of mysteries and adventures, but this did not feel like one of those situations where Miss Marple or one of the famous literary detectives needed to become involved.

Her mind slightly better adjusted, she made her way to the kitchen to fetch a beverage. Not having dinner already prepared and ready needed an adjustment, and her mind turned to the thought of food. Her mother, as was her nature, had plenty of prepared meals frozen in the freezer, for occasions when she did not cook. Tara pulled open the freezer compartment and mentally took stock of what was available. They would not starve tonight. There were roast chicken dinners, her mother's special spaghetti sauce, vegetable curry, plus all manners of frozen soup. If she were feeling hungry, she could have her pick of delicious homemade meals. But she had no appetite, and wanted to wait for her family to come home before eating together.

Resigned to waiting the evening out, she retrieved her bag and shoes from where she dropped them on the stairs and brought them up to her room. She took her wallet and keys out of the bag and placed them in their usual position at her bedside cabinet. Her shoes she carefully inspected for damage and dirt before wiping them briefly and placing them into their storage box. The box she carefully stowed away in her closet. These were her dancing shoes, the tools of her trade as an apprentice dancer, she had to take good care of them.

She must have dozed off because she was abruptly woken up by the slam of the front door. The next minute she heard her mother call out to her. "Tara! Are you home? Please come now!" There was something urgent and heartfelt about her mother's voice that had her scrambling to run downstairs as quickly as she could.

What she saw startled her. Her mother looked terrible, leaning against the wall. She looked as if she'd collapse any minute. Beside her, Tara recognized her mother's co-worker, Anya, who was closing the door with one hand and supporting her mother with the other hand.

"What's going on?" Tara asked.

Her mother burst into tears and would have fallen down if not for Anya's support. Tara quickly joined the other woman in taking her mother's other arm. Together they half carried, half propelled the weeping woman to the family room and to the nearest armchair.

"It's all my fault," Tara's mother cried, in between sobs.

"Mom, tell me. What's the matter?" Tara asked gently. When she was only answered by more cries, she turned to Anya. "Is there something wrong? Something is wrong isn't there?" she asked, swallowing the fear and the sinking feeling in her stomach. Was her mother sick? Was there a relapse? Something bad happened? The questions flew through her mind out of control.

"I only got part of it, she wasn't very clear," Anya replied. "All I got was a frantic phone call this afternoon, and your mother wanted me to drive her to the bank."

"The bank? What on earth?" Tara muttered. She took her mother's hand and tilted the older woman's chin so she could look at her. "Mom? What do we need the bank for?"

It took several sobs before her mother could control herself. Snd even when she spoke it was barely a hoarse whisper. "It's Donny. He's been taken."

"Taken? What do you mean taken?" Tara gasped.

"Kidnapped. Someone kidnapped him. And they want money."

"What?" It was all Tara could do to remain standing. Illness, car accident or redundancy she could, at a stretch, handle. Anyone who had family and friends knew that they could be faced with those life-sapping events without warning. Kidnapping was something she saw on tv or in movies; it was so completely unthinkable in her world. They were neither rich nor connected. What could anyone possibly gain from kidnapping a poor twenty-three year old maintenance worker who stayed home with his mother for financial reasons?

*****

The ride to the police station was a harrowing one. They switched to Tara's car, piling into the tiny Honda with Tara's mother riding at the back due to her unresponsive state. Anya kindly decided to stay with them for the duration, insisting that they needed a third person to take care of Tara's mother while they reported the kidnapping to the police station.

Tara found a parking space at the back of the station, in the area reserved for the general public. It was all she and Anya could do to walk her mother into the station. Once there they had to find their bearings -- not having the need to be inside a police station before for any reason, it was difficult to find exactly where they should be. The hustle and bustle of activities in the entrance area did not help. Tara chastised herself for not being more prepared. What did you expect it to be like? Like a hotel with clearly marked counters for checking in or booking local tours? Don't be so naïve, she said to herself.

At long last they found the correct desk, all the way to the side of the entrance hallway. The so-called reception area was teaming with people, mostly in groups. They all seemed to want something from the harassed looking desk sergeant, who was trying his best to be polite and to the point.

Tara didn't know what to do. The shock of her mother's revelation was finally hitting home, and it was all she could do not to collapse where she stood. Her mother had found the nearest empty chair and collapsed onto it. It was Anya who fought her way to the front of the crowd, waving at the desk sergeant to get his attention.

"Hey! We need some help here. Local residents! Our tax money pays your salary! A boy has been kidnapped. Need some police action right now," she yelled.

"Slow up, young lady," the desk sergeant admonished. "Everybody gets equal treatment at the Las Vegas police department."

"Yes but we want to report a kidnapping. My friend is distraught, her son is missing and now the bad guys are demanding more money that she has or can possibly earn in her lifetime. That's so unfair, that she has so little money," Anya said.

The police officer looked at her with a quizzical expression, not quite understanding the nuance in her obsession with money. He was experienced enough to take a kidnapping seriously, though. Most of the people clamoring for his attention were tourists, and most of them were there to complain about missing wallets, or car accidents, or being jilted by their beloved at the altar. He waved Anya to one side, and Anya quickly grabbed Tara and Tara's mother. He led them past the front desk area through a doorway into what looked to be the main squad room.

"Sit here," he said, indicating a set of rickety chairs surrounding a plain gray metal desk that had seen better days. "I'll get a detective to get your statement. Don't go anywhere," he reminded them.

Tara pulled out one of the chairs for her mom and eased herself into another one. Anya took the third. The desk sergeant had placed them in an area away from the craziness that was the "front desk" -- presumably where the real police did their work. The squad room was a prime example of controlled frenzy. Uniformed officers and detectives in casual clothing walked about with purpose. Others were sitting at their desks typing up reports, on the phone or talking to one another. Some were less productive, reading the newspaper or drinking coffee from styrofoam cups, but in general work was being done there.

"What's happening?" Tara's mom asked suddenly. She had been quietly sobbing throughout the ride and wait at the police station, and Tara was wary of causing her additional distress, so she had not tried to get her to talk.

"The police will take care of it," Tara replied.

"Are you sure?" her mom asked tentatively.

Tara had no reason to believe the police would not do their best. "I'm sure. I promise. Everything will be fine," she said with assurance.

About five minutes later a short young blonde approached and stretched out her hand. She was dressed more stylishly than the other officers in the station. A white halter top underneath a short leather jacket and skinny jeans with shiny metallic belt was not the uniform of a typical police detective. Add to the combat boots and the whole image oozed beauty and strength.

"Hello, I'm Detective Summers. I understand you are here to report about a kidnapping?" she asked, directing her question to all three seated, not sure who was to be the spokesperson, and wanting to be inclusive without knowing the group dynamics. Tara felt her appraising gaze on her. Not judgmental, rather a trained assessment of strangers. Tara was not sure whether she should speak up or let her mother do the talking. She knew that Anya would defer to the two of them since it was their family matter, she would only add her piece if and when asked.

"My son. Someone's taken him. Bad people," Tara's mother started.

"I see. Why don't we start from the beginning, Mrs..." Detective Summers left the question hanging to get an answer.

When her mother did not answer, Tara interjected. "Maclay." She made the introductions and waited till Detective Summers entered it in her notebook.

"And your son's name?" Detective Summers asked.

"Donny. Donny Maclay. Donald, but we call him Donny," Tara answered dutifully.

"And how old is Donny?" Detective Summers asked.

"Twenty-three."

Detective Summers then proceeded to ask several general personal questions about Donny, Tara and her mother. Where did he work? Did he have a routine? What were his interests? His friends?

"I know this may sound cold-hearted but how do you know he has been kidnapped? Sometimes there is another explanation when a family member doesn't come home as expected. Especially if he's over eighteen," Detective Summers said.

Tara could not answer that question. There was no accusatory tone in Detective Summer's voice, though she could feel her mother becoming increasingly agitated.

"Um, I'm not sure. That's what Mom said when she got home. She's usually home when I get back from work, so it was unusual for her to come back after me," she rambled on, not making complete sense.

Detective Summers looked at Tara's mom gently. "Mrs Maclay, please don't mind me asking. Do you have any proof that Donny has been kidnapped? Did you receive a phone call? Was there a note?" she asked.

Tara's mom's hand shook as she opened her purse to take out a crumpled piece of paper which she handed solemnly to Detective Summers. The three of them, plus Detective Summers, peered at the words as Detective Summers flattened the sheet on the desk with her palms.


[center][font=courier]We have the boy. If you want to see him alive again get ready 2 million dollars in unmarked bills. No police or all you will see of him are parts of his body chopped up in pieces. Stand by your phone for further instructions. Reminder: NO POLICE![/font][/center]

"When did you get this?" Tara asked her mom.

"When I got home. It was shoved under the front door. I remember thinking how rude that they didn't use the letterbox," her mom answered.

"And then she called me," Anya added.

"Why didn't you call me first?" Tara asked, bordering on irritated. No offense to Anya, but this was a family matter. Why her mother chose to call a co-worker rather than her own daughter when this type of emergency happened made her angry. Did her mother not trust her? Or did she still think of Tara as a little girl and incapable of taking or making adult decisions?

As if admitting guilt, her mother was silent. Tara began to think that she was right, and her own mother really did think so little of her. "I didn't want to worry you," her mom said, in a small voice.

Tara sighed. It was not the right time or place to be arguing about this. And she said so, "okay, let's not argue about this now. Did you check with his work?" she asked, not realizing from Detective Summers' smirk that she seemed to have taken over the interrogation.

"Yes of course. I called his supervisor. Oh, he's the one with the funny name. What's his name? Woot? Wool? oh, Woon. Woon. I called this Mr Ian Woon. He was mad that Donny hadn't showed up for work without calling in sick. I had to tell him that Donny wasn't home, wasn't slacking off. I didn't tell him about the note, he doesn't need to know," Mrs Maclay huffed.

"What time did you get home?" Detective Summers steered the conversation back to the gathering of facts.

"My usual time. My shift ends at two o'clock. It only takes me half an hour to get home."

"And you found the note under the door when you walked in?"

"Yes. Like I said, I thought it was really rude to not use the letterbox. I almost threw it away without reading. It was just this one piece of paper. I thought it was a flyer."

"Did you see anything or anyone that's suspicious outside your home today? I'll go canvas your neighbors but I want to check with you first. All of you."

"No," they all answered in the negative.

Detective Summers went through a whole list of detailed questions. And then the interview turned to possible motives. Both Tara and her mom were adamant that there was no good reason why Donny would be kidnapped. They were not rich, not famous, not connected as far as they knew to any of the criminal elements in the city. They were a typical suburban family, trying to make ends meet, struggling to pay the bills. They cared about the environment, gas prices, had a peripheral interest in politics but were not vocal about their views. In other words, they should be invisible in the eyes of any criminals. Aside from rare parking tickets, they had not been in contact with the law.

Tara voiced out the thought on everyone's mind, "I think it's a case of mistaken identity."

"We're trained not to believe in coincidences," Detective Summers said. "But I agree this may be true. Now we need to figure out the next steps. I didn't say this earlier, and I apologize for it, but I'm glad you came to the police even though the note said not to. There is no way you should have to deal with this on your own."

"There is no way we can get two million dollars, not even if we sold everything. Our family and friends aren't rich, they can't spare any money to lend to us," Mrs Maclay said. "Oh god, what am I supposed to do? What's gonna happen to Donny?"

The thought was chilling. There was a real threat to Donny's life, Tara's first instinct was to get the money somehow somewhere, even if she had to sell her body and soul to get it. Anything to get her brother back home safely.

"Let me talk to my partner and captain to get them up to speed. We'll take care of it, I promise," Detective Summers said confidently.

Oddly, Tara heard herself say the same words to her mother earlier. She did not feel comforted by it.

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for good update-y goodness... I guess the bad guys kidnapped Tara after they didn't get the money when they kidnapped Donny...

[JustSkipIt]

Hmmm. Well, I'm confused but I think I'm supposed to be. I'm trying to follow the timeline and it's very strange. I don't even want to guess. I will say I liked the feeling of "normalness" to Tara and her mom here. That's unusual in KB so it was a nice read.

[watty]

Zampasa1975 and Elvis, thanks for reading. I wish I can say it'll become clearer, but alas, not yet.

[hr]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 4 -- "This is the biggest cock up in the history of things cocking up"

Three years ago, on the roof of the Aladdin Hotel, Las Vegas

It was like a Tarantino movie. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The hotel setting seemed like one of those expensive Hollywood film sets that were built according to exact scale. Any moment now the director would shout "Action!" and the director of photography would arrange it so that the scene was backlit by the glare of the desert sun, to give it an overexposed effect.

There were no sound, no ambient noise, no sound of traffic or machinery. The choppy buzzing of the helicopters faded to the background. There was just a muffled, surprised gasp and then the trailing scream downwards. Willow and Buffy watched helplessly as the young fugitive took the one fatal step backwards. Whether or not he did it on purpose was no longer relevant. Willow would never forget his facial expression as his foot failed to find a solid footing and slipped on the edge of the wall he was standing on. His legs gave out and for a brief moment he seemed to be suspended in mid air. His left arm still clutching the canvas bag full of money tightly against his chest, his right arm stretched out in the detectives' direction, as if imploring them to reach out, grab him and return him to safety.

They were never going to make it to where he was, they were too far away. As he fell into the void his eyes met Willow's and there was so much questioning. What could have been his thoughts during these last seconds as he fell off the roof of a high rise hotel? Regret. Anger. Frustration. Sadness. Fear.

It was over quickly. The sound of his body hitting the ground was a sickening thud followed by a bone breaking crack that made Willow want to retch. It was followed by loud screams from the passers-by who had the misfortune to witness the shocking event. Willow and Buffy carefully peered over the wall barrier onto the street below. The angle of the body, the rapidly seeping blood and the fast convergence of police personnel all but confirmed that the young fugitive was dead. The canvas bag had split open when it left his hand, and during his fall some of the cash had fallen out. Green paper money was scattered and floating everywhere. Willow watched in fascination from way above as people ignored the grotesque spectacle of a broken, dead body in order to fight and grab at hundred dollar bills flying freely in the air. The police could hope to recover whatever remained in the bag, but the spilled cash was a write-off now.

"This is the biggest cock up in the history of things cocking up," Buffy remarked. She pushed herself away from the wall and started to make her way downstairs. "Let's go, Will. There's gonna be hell to pay."

*****

Willow had been on the job for only a few months, and she was still getting used to the spectacle of dead bodies in all forms of decomposition, disintegration and disembodiment imaginable. Her experience so far in another jurisdiction, and at LVPD, was in Violent Crimes. It had prepared her for the ugliness of the aftermath of a crime, but her victims in those cases were mostly alive. There was always hope for recovery and a return to normal life. Mostly, it was Homicide that dealt with death.

With the complications with this case, it was rapidly becoming a battleground between Homicide and Violent Crimes. Internal affairs would shoulder their way into the investigation in some shape or form eventually. It would become the proverbial bureaucratic snafu.

And then caught in the middle of the mess was the family.

Willow swallowed hard and gripped her folder tighter against her chest as she approached the family. She knew that nothing she could say would console them or give them back their son, their brother, their loved one. She dreaded the confrontation, secretly wishing Buffy had volunteered for The Talk. But her captain specifically asked her to handle it personally, citing her higher level of empathy versus Buffy's. Willow did not think she was particularly empathic, although she grudgingly agreed with her captain that with her specialization in psychology she was in a better position to deal with the grieving family.

They look so forlorn. So devoid of...any emotion.

She stayed out of sight range to observe the mother and the daughter. The daughter had her arm firmly around her mother's heaving shoulders, trying to give some comfort, no matter how small, to her inconsolable parent. It was the worst thing that could happen to anyone, to lose a child. Nature simply did not intend for parents to lose their children, and it had not given humans any emotional preparation or support to deal with tragedy of this magnitude.

Especially not this way.

Her heart went out to the lonely duo. She felt an inexplicable need to rush to them and engulf them in her arms, letting some of the pain come to her. Whatever she could to help. She knew she was entering dangerous territory. Police officers who became too emotionally attached to their clients often ended up with trips to the departmental shrink, such was the stress and burden they took on.

The younger of the duo, the daughter, chose that moment of contemplation to look up, catching Willow. Their eyes met across the stark, cold room. Willow felt an unexpected jolt. It was as if the emotional turmoil inside her suddenly snapped to order, and things became so much clearer. One look, from a young woman she had met only briefly before, one look said yes, I know unlike any other looks Willow had ever encountered. She staggered with the knowledge as something greater than her, greater than the young woman, greater than the sum of all parts, suddenly came together like the interlocking of puzzle pieces.

She knew the young woman felt exactly as she did, because she shuddered and blinked at the same time. A look of recognition was immediately shadowed by sadness, and she turned her attention back to her mother.

Willow walked up slowly until she was just two feet from them. She stood awkwardly, waiting to be acknowledged.

"Detective Rosenberg," she was finally greeted.

"Mrs Maclay, I'm so sorry for your loss," she said sincerely.

"I can't believe he's not coming back," the mother cried.

There was nothing Willow could say to help, so she chose to stay quiet.

As another crying fit abated, the daughter looked directly at her. "Can I take her home?" she asked quietly.

Willow knew her next words would cause inevitable pain. She took a deep breath. "There's one more thing, and I don't know how to say it without making things worse," she started. At the young woman's gentle expectant look, she found courage to continue. "We'll need to identify the body."

She tensed, to prepare for the onslaught. The hoarse cry from the mother was not unexpected. The expressionless silence from the daughter was not.

"I'm sorry," Willow apologized again. "I don't want to ask, but it's probably better done now rather than, rather than, you having to come in again."

"Does it need to be Mom?" the daughter asked.

Willow shook her head. "No, any member of family will do. Failing that, friends even," she answered.

"She is in no shape to do it," the daughter stated. She was not, nor did she need to be, apologetic. "It'll have to be me."

"I'm so sorry," Willow repeated. She had no doubt that she would say those words over and over again before the day was done.

The daughter whispered some words to her mother, eliciting another round of tears but also a grateful nod, then she carefully extracted herself from her mother and stood up. "Now?" she asked. At Willow's nod, "will you come with me?" she asked. "Can you take me there?"

Even if Willow were not supposed to, nothing would take her away from staying with the young woman through the next few minutes. She knew that she had to offer any help she could, to help the woman endure the ordeal.

"I won't leave your side till you leave the building, I promise," she declared.

She led the way to another part of the police building, a part that no sane person would want to enter or linger. Her fingers trembled as she pressed the elevator button for the morgue, and inexplicably she felt her companion give her unspoken strength. I can feel it, she knows it's hard for me too, though obviously incomparable with what she is feeling now.

They completed the procedure for registering for the morgue quickly. Willow had heard that some police officers deposited their weapons at the entrance out of respect for the dead. She had no such superstition, or strong feelings, and the process of leaving her weapon would be time consuming. She did not want to prolong the wait for the young woman next to her.

The morgue technician led them to a small room. It was cold. Not because of the temperature -- the chilliness came from a room reeking of death, and bone chilling horror. She let the young woman step in first, suppressing a primeval urge to stand in front of her and shield her from the horrific spectacle. This young woman stirred all sorts of emotions and reactions from her. She wanted to protect her, she wanted to hold her, she wanted to ask to be let in. It was the wrong time for these emotions, and Willow put them away to sort through later.

They were standing too close. Even three feet was too close to the gurney. The unmistakable shape of a human body lay underneath a crisp white sheet.

"Take your time, let me know when you are ready," the technician said matter-of-factly but not without patience. Willow wondered how he could stand it, spending most of his waking hours among the dead, most of whom met their fate unexpectedly, some of whom violently. What were his dreams and nightmares made of?

The young woman was trembling, and Willow finally gave in to the action she had wanted to do since she walked up to her in the waiting room. She allowed herself to touch the fragile, small woman. She tentatively placed her hand at the top of the young woman's arm, to offer support, friendship. The woman instinctively moved closer and they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

"I'm ready," the woman said in a small quivering voice.

The technician lifted the sheet just enough to expose the face. Willow knew from being at the scene and reading the file where the injuries were. She fought hard not to remember the clinical words of the autopsy report.
The woman uttered a heart wrenching cry and fell against Willow. "No!" she wailed. Willow threw her arm around the slim shoulders, pulling her tighter. Somehow the woman found strength to stand up, Willow could feel her gather her energy.

"Can you identify him?" she asked roughly.

"Yes. That's him," the young woman stuttered.

Willow nodded to the technician, who let the sheet fall back to its original position. She wanted desperately to take the anguished woman away from the terror. "Please come with me, Ms Maclay," she said formally. "There's just a little more, some paperwork. I won't take up even more of your time."

"Tara. Please call me Tara," Tara said.

They found Tara's mother sitting expressionless in the same position as they left her. Tara went to her immediately and hugged her close, nodding imperceptibly when her mother asked the inevitable difficult question. Tara left her there for more minutes while she and Willow sat at some chairs in a quiet corner. Willow took out her notebook to record the identification.

"What was his name?" Tara asked suddenly.

"Who?" Willow asked without thinking, only after she blurted out her rejoiner that she realized how abrupt she sounded.

"The guy with the money. The guy who fell off the roof. And because he fell off the roof and didn't return to the planned location his buddies killed my brother in retaliation. That guy," Tara's voice grew louder with each sentence, in agitation.

What was left unsaid was the accusation that the police's actions had caused the fall, and were indirectly responsible for Donny's killing. Willow knew that. She recognized the tone and the anger. She didn't know how the case would get resolved, she knew that she would devote all her energy to making sure that justice was served. She also knew it was in vain. Tara's brother was gone forever. Mrs Maclay would never see her son get older, or have a family, or any of the mundane but fulfilling activities that made up life. The kidnapping itself was stubbornly unsolved. They were still unable to determine the reason for why Donny Maclay was kidnapped in the first place. After the crime was reported, the department had mobilized to guide the Maclay family. The decision to follow the kidnappers' demands and to pay the ransom was taken by her captain, the Department having unusually stumped up the money -- it was the first time she had heard of that happening. The plan was to follow the messenger to the lair and for the SWAT team to perform a hostage retrieval operation once the location of the victim was known. Decisions had been taken by the Department, and gentle pressure put on the family to comply.

Like Buffy said earlier, it became the biggest cock up in the history of things cocking up. Willow had feigned shock at Buffy's crudeness when she said it, but it seemed now that the statement was appropriate and indicative of how things had ended up.

In theory she had to be circumspect when telling Tara about aspects of the case. There were departmental guidelines regarding flow of information to the victim's family, because in their hour of pain, nobody could predict what reaction or course of ill advised action they could take. There were the extremes from going to the press, suing the government to taking the law into their own hands.

Somehow, Willow could not see Tara Maclay as an out of control vigilante.

"Tucker Wells," she said. She knew the name would mean nothing to Tara but she could see in Tara's eyes the need to know.

"Why?" Tara asked, tears streaming down her face.

Willow had no answer to that.

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for good update-y goodness... So I guess Andrew is somehow involved in the kidnapping of Tara few years later, if I have to guess, Warren is the creep behind Donny's and Tara's kidnappings...

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 5 -- The Phone Call

Present day, abandoned warehouse

I froze when I heard the phone ring. It was a standard landline phone, not the articifial or fancy ringtone of a cell phone. My feet betrayed me and I could not help but follow the sound of the ringing. The bathroom led to a short dimly lit corridor full of abandoned lockers. Behind one line of lockers against a wall was an opening, the door to that room having fallen off a long time ago.

I had no time to assess what was obviously an office. The phone was at its expected place on a nondescript wooden desk that had seen better days. It was a standard business type telephone with buttons for various functions and ten small lights for different lines. It was the top left light that was blinking red at me. I stared for the longest time at the phone, mesmerized by the rhythm of the ringing tone and the frequency that the red light blinked.

Each and every one of us had some weird conditioning programed into us from an early age. Conspiracy theorists might even go as far and say that the government, or whomever, put something into our mother's food when they carried us so that we are so conditioned. What am I talking about? The urge to pick up the phone and answer it whenever it rings. Unlike letters or emails or most type of communication, we usually know or have a good idea who the sender or originator is. A letter may have a sender's name and address, an email certainly has the sender's details. Even people knocking on our door unsolicited, we can tell by looking through the peephole, the windows or the security cameras. And yet for the longest time before caller ID was invented, there was no way of telling who the caller is when the phone rang. Hence the urgency to pick it up, to answer it, to find out who was the mysterious caller at the other end of the line.

Stupid, if anyone cared to ask me.

I was stupefied at my vehement reaction to a ringing telephone. As if the experience just now, waking up covered in vomit, in an unknown place, filthy, hurting everywhere and not knowing my name was not enough, I had to get worked up over a telephone. Perhaps by nature I was an agitated person? I was learning things about myself every minute of my new life.

I didn't know how long the phone had been ringing, it must have been ten, twenty rings by now. Surely whoever was on the other end of the line would have hung up in frustration. But no, that person was persistent. The ringing and the blinking light continued, as if mocking my inaction.

So I picked it up. I gingerly placed the handset against my ears, listening for the slightest sound. But I did not say anything in greeting or acknowledgment.

At first all I could hear was static of an outside location. May be they had the wrong number. I was too afraid to speak.

"Hey, it's me," a voice suddenly came through. A male voice, rough and impatient. "Where the hell were you?"

"I--" I cleared my throat, trying to clear the ugly squeak that came out of my mouth. "I was in the bathroom," I said.

"Jesus. You scared the shit out of me, don't go too far away from the phone next time, you hear me? How many times do I have to tell you to be close by so I don't have to bust a gut trying to get a hold of you," he yelled, obviously impatient. I blinked. He was talking to me as if he recognized me. Alarm bells started ringing. Red flags started waving. Did I know this guy? Were we connected in some way? Was I expecting this phone call?

"Sorry," I muttered, hoping to sound suitably chastised and subservient. His tone indicated that he expected to be above me in whatever pecking order we were. He also sounded like he would not be nice to people who disagreed or acted against him.

"Forget it. I don't have much time. Give me a status report," he barked.

I baulked. Status report on what? The only thing I was able to report on was my status of lack of any identity. He didn't sound like the sort of person who cared about that. "Everything is fine," I choked out.

"No problems transporting the girl?" he asked.

I almost dropped the phone. Girl. There was a girl here in the building somewhere.

"No," I said. There was nothing else I could have said.

"The next few hours are key. Too much depends on everything, we have to make sure there are no surprises. Don't fuck it up now," he said.

"No," I repeated. "I'll be careful," I added, hoping that it was the right words.

"I'll be back in," he paused. I had a vision of a thick wrist with a thick wristwatch. "Four hours. I'll head straight back after I get the money," he said.

I scanned the room. Found a clock that said twelve. The second hand was moving, so I presumed it was a functional clock. Whether the time was correct I would have to find out later. I had no idea or concept of what time it was. Neither the room I woke up in nor the bathroom had windows and I had not been in the right mind to look for, or find out the time. At least if the clock in the office was working I could use it to countdown the four hours.

I remembered belatedly to respond. "Okay, four hours," I said.

"You know where the gun is, right?" he said.

It was definitely more than I could take. One surprise after another. I hurriedly looked around, moving the chair away from the desk to try to find the elusive gun. "Um," I hesitated.

"Bottom drawer," he hissed. "Stupid bitch," he said under his breath but loud enough for me to hear.

He hung up without another word, and I was left holding the handset with a disconnected tone. I replaced it automatically like a robot, my mind elsewhere.

I took out the gun from the drawer, not dwelling on how natural I was handling it. I must have held or even fired guns in my previous life.

I stared at it.

*****


[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for great update-y goodness... I'm truly wondering what the heck is going on... Is Willow there as a hostage? Is Tara somehow brainwashed to be a kidnapper?

[Alcy]

Hiya Watty, sorry I have been a bit lax in leaving feedback for the past few chapters but you have whipped them up at a phenomenal speed!

What a start, if the first chapter left me confused and wanting more...then the subsequent four chapters even more so!

Okay, so Donny was taken kidnapped and killed, which is why Willow came into Tara's life (I do love cop Willow by the way...something about a badge is hot...can she wear a bullet proof vest too please? As those are also hot).

Now we have Tara with no memory and it looks like she's mixed up with something bad. How did she go from being a dancer to someone who knows how to handle a gun? It's all very exciting and I couldn't even bgein to speculate. I might be inclined to go with zampsa and say she was brainwashed...but that's just one idea.

I'm looking forward to the next chapter and I promise to leave feedback straight away instead of skipping so many chapters!

[Sparks]

Wow, I can't believe I didn't notice this until now, I'm really loving this story! Willow (or Tara for that matter) as a cop is one of my favorite things to see in any story here on pens, and that combined with the superb way you've set up this story, has me very intruiged. I love the scattered timeline thing you've got going on, it adds so much more suspense. And your writing is fantastic by the way, but I'm sure you know that . Anyway, kudos on the great first few chapters, I will definately be keeping up with this story! I can't wait for the next update!

[spells42]

Compelling, Watty.

This latest post raises several questions - who's the girl in the warehouse? Is she Tara? Is she the kidnapper or the kidnappee? What's the connection between this situation and the kidnapping of Donny, not to mention the guy who jumped to get away from Buffy and Willow? and heaps more.


Can't wait to find out, thanks.
Anne

[watty]

Zampasa1975 -- there is a fair amount of confusion here alright.

Alcy -- I hope I haven't turned any readers off by being too deliberately confusing. And yes, the disorientation is on purpose. Willow in just a bullet-proof vest, perhaps? Thanks for reading and I hope you like the rest of it.

Sparks -- I agree, Willow as an intelligent cop is an attraction. The back and forth of the timeline is aimed at pushing the limits of the readers' tolerance.

spells42 -- even after 5 chapters we haven't gotten to the "meat" of the story. Thanks for sticking with me so far.


[br]

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 6 -- Alone in the World

One month ago

Tara folded her street clothes carefully, making sure they were not wrinkled, and placed them on the shelf of her locker. She then took off her shoes, socks and underwear. Her socks and underwear she stuffed into a small handy cloth bag which she then placed inside her gym bag. Her street shoes she placed at the bottom of her locker. Although completely naked now, she was neither self conscious nor proud of her trim figure. She set about her preparations without any heed to her state of undress. It was a ritual she followed every working day. Taking a towel with her, she made her way to the tiny shower stalls at the other side of the changing room. Her shower was quick and efficient, since she would be taking another one at the end of the session she merely wanted to clean herself of the dust and pollution from outside. Wrapping her wet hair in the towel, she padded back to her locker where she proceeded to get dressed. Unlike the others she chose functional sports clothes rather than skimpy costumes designed to show off bodily assets. In no time at all she was tying up the shoelaces of her sneakers and she was ready.

As was her ritual every day, she brought the tips of her fingers to her lips, then touched them onto a picture taped to the inside of her locker, of a young man in his twenties with a broad grin on his face, holding a three foot long fish at the side of a lake. "I love you, Donny. We miss you every day," she said to the picture of her brother. Even after three years, her eyes welled up at the memory of her loss.

She closed the locker door with a quiet slam, leaning her head against the metal surface to gain a moment's relief and support. Then she turned around and silently appraised herself in the mirror at the opposite wall, noting that she had gotten thinner again. Her shorts seemed to be loose about her hips, and she remembered how her trousers always seemed to need a belt. She looked like she had no hip, and her shoulder blades were sticking out. Her blonde hair was more dirty brown, it had lost so much of its luster. Her blue eyes were a listless shade of gray. She didn't keep eye contact with her reflection, knowing that it would only show a face that was haunted and sad. The weight of the world's worry seemed to have descended on her.

Trying to shake herself out of her stupor, she began by squaring her shoulders and ensuring she had the correct expression on her face. For practice she smiled, a toothy smile that never reached her eyes. Taking a deep cleansing breath she closed her eyes to center herself. When she opened her eyes again she looked like a different person than she recognized.

"Hello Mrs Edwards, how nice to see you. You look fabulous! Have you lost weight? You're so toned," she squealed, her voice an octave higher than her normal speaking voice and speaking much faster too. Inwardly she shook her head in disgust at the bubble gum, fake happy personality that she could scant recognize.

But it was necessary.

She gathered the rest of her equipment -- her white plastic MacBook, small towel and a bottle of water she had brought from home. She was the first into the studio, and she proceeded to plug the laptop to the speaker system. She selected a song with a soft beat while she warmed up in the corner. Gradually her students filtered in, singly or in small groups, scattering around the studio getting ready or chatting. This was a class she enjoyed, unlike the classes in the middle of the day full of ladies who lunched and second tier celebrities, this class in the evening had more "regular" people, stopping to exercise on their way home. She adjusted the session accordingly, mixing gentler workouts with bouts that pushed that little bit extra.

She knew she was lucky to have the job as fitness instructor at the health club. She was never able to truly get into the profession she really wanted, dancing. Jobs trickled in, but were never regular enough to give her any sense of career security. And over the last year or so, it became absolutely necessary for her to earn a steady income, and one where there were some benefits. A part of her felt that she should have gotten an office job, with more regular hours and more benefits, but she tried it for a few months and had to quit. She couldn't face the prospect of wearing a suit each day, to try to please people she didn't care about, and being on the receiving end of endless abuse. Or how good she got at doing a job no one wanted. And how is it different here? You still need to put out your fake face.

She shrugged away the dark thoughts and concentrated on the lesson. As always, once she started, her focus turned to the movements, the music and to helping her students. The hour passed by quickly. She exchanged small talk and gave encouragement to the few students who stayed behind afterwards, and then started gathering her stuff.

On the way to the locker room, she slowed her steps as she heard the whiff of soft jazz. Smiling privately, she pushed open a crack to the door of the other studio and slipped quietly inside. The room was dark, unlike the setting when a lesson was conducted. In the center of the room was a tall teenager, her eyes closed, moving to the music. But it was not simply moving. Her movement was like liquid, swaying and melting with the rhythm. Her head lolled loosely, as if completely immersed in the story. Her arms perfectly and precisely placed. And when her feet moved, they took over the music, stamping their soft authority as if the music belonged to them. Tara was mesmerized. Here was the epitome of genius at work, and she felt at once privileged and on the other hand unworthy to be witnessing it.

The girl glided effortlessly across the wooden floor of the studio, her treads never making a sound. It was like watching a bird fly. Round and round, more and more furious she became. And when the music stopped, she was curled up in a ball, tensed with the climax.

Tara knew she was holding her breath. She didn't want to exhale, the need for silence so great. It was staggering.

"Was it okay?" the breathless graceful dancer jumped up and morphed back to a girl. An awkward teenager who was too thin and too tall for her age. A teenager who regarded Tara with an unabridged openness and simplicity.

"Sorry, I didn't think I'd distract you," Tara apologized.

"You didn't distract me. You were quiet as a mouse," the teenager giggled. Again Tara was struck by the contrast of the dancer she witness just now, mature beyond the giggling fifteen year old who was moving about with the unlimited energy that teenagers inevitably had. "Well? You didn't answer me," the girl persisted.

"Answer you what?" Tara asked.

The girl blew out a lungful of air in exasperation. "Was it okay? What I just did," she asked again.

What can I say? It was perfect. I can't find enough words to articulate it. "It was really good, Dawn," she said with a big smile.

Dawn grinned, the grin of a young girl who had just entered a candy shop. "If you say so, it must be okay. They're filming a new musical soon, you think it'll be as big a hit as High School Musical?" she said excitedly. She proceeded to name drop a few of Hollywood's biggest teen and tween stars who she regularly rubbed shoulders with.

Dawn was one of the biggest up and coming child stars in the country, but to Tara she was just the same girl who befriended her three years ago in her darkest hour. "I'm sure it will be. When does it start filming?"

Dawn shrugged. "I dunno."

"When is your mom coming to pick you up? Or are they sending one of your staff now," Tara asked, eyebrows raised in jest at the mention of "staff."

Dawn stuck her tongue out. "Blah. I hate those people. They're always hanging around. May be I should get Buffy to arrest them," she declared.

The mention of Detective Buffy Summers always brought a sense of dread to Tara. The shadow of the events of three years ago would not go away. She supposed she could cut ties with Dawn, and then she would be done with the Summers family and not have to relive the horrors of her brother's murder again.

Then again, she built ties to more than the Summers family, after that tragedy. That other tie would be impossible to break.

"Mom is coming," Dawn's answer brought her back to reality. "Actually, she's probably outside now. Want to say hi?" Dawn asked innocently.

"Sure," Tara answered amicably.

Sure enough, Joyce Summers was in the reception area chatting with the other staff. She gave Dawn a kiss and Tara a hug when she saw them. Slipping an arm around Dawn's shoulder she turned to Tara. "Tara, how is your mother?"

Tara visibly slumped. "She's...there's no change. They have her in for a couple of days for tests," she said, trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation.

Joyce's eyes narrowed. Tara know she was too astute, had known Tara for too long, to be fooled. "What sort of tests? Why are they putting her through more tests again?" she asked out of concern.

What Tara heard was why she was putting her mother through more tests again. She rubbed her fingers against her head, trying to exorcise the guilt that was not forthcoming. She looked at Joyce with barely disguised fatigue. "The doctor said there may be an operation..." she left the sentence hanging, not wanting to explain further. "Actually, I'm on my way to see her. Please excuse me," she said as she backed away.

*****

Joyce watched the young woman walk away. They met in the dance studio where Dawn practiced. It was a shock to her when it turned out that Tara was in a case of Buffy's that ended badly. But by then Tara and Dawn had developed a friendship that neither party wanted to break. Although things remained tense between Tara and Buffy, there was never any awkwardness between the sad young woman and her feisty younger daughter, Joyce watched as Tara became the solid rock that Dawn could rely on, especially with the teen's increasing fame and exposure.

*****

Tara showered and dressed quickly, her emotions all over the place after the conversation with Joyce. She allowed herself a good cry in the shower, where no one could see her. After packing up and changing back to her street clothes, she made her way to her old Honda and was at the hospital in 20 minutes.

She found her mother asleep in her room. Even in slumber, she kept the grimace that had not left her expression since her son was killed. Tara knew she never recovered emotionally from Donny's passing, and it seemed nothing would ever cheer her up.

She carefully negotiated around the wheelchair, placed her bag quietly on the floor and took up the chair at the end of her mother's bed. She was tired, very tired. But too upset to rest. She tried to calm down, forcing herself to stay seated in the chair. It was hard.

"What time is it?" she looked up to see her mother awake, barely.

"Seven," Tara replied.

"Have you eaten anything yet?" her mother asked.

Tara was silent. She tried to remember when her last meal was. Probably the toast and apple from breakfast. She didn't recall lunch. "I'll have something after I leave," she tried to deflect the answer.

"Oh Tara, you need to take care of yourself. Don't let me worry so much about you," her mother cried.

Tara took her mother in her arms, too tired to argue or explain.

"I have an extra class at nine tonight, so I can stay another hour and a half. Has the doctor been to visit yet?" she changed the topic.

"That's very late. Why are they making you work so many hours?" her mother asked, clearly upset.

"I asked for it, mom. Evening classes are usually full, and we get paid extra for good attendance," Tara explained.

"I don't know why you are doing this. Look at Dawn. You have as much talent as her, and look at where you compare," her mother admonished.

"It doesn't work that way. I can go to audition after audition and not get picked. At least with this job I have a steady income," Tara said. "We need it," she added quietly.

Her mother was quieter. "I'm sorry," she started. "I'm so sorry I got sick."

"Mom, don't cry," Tara sniffed. "We'll get through this. With this teaching job I get flexible hours so I can spend more time with you. I can't go back to being a secretary again..." she shuddered at the memory of her last 9-to-5 job. Her boss was a complete sexist jerk, imposing an unreasonable dress code so he could ogle the women in the office. He took liberties, and his language was full of sexual innuendos. He was smart enough to only hire women who were desperate for a job, so they would tolerate his behavior for the pittance he called pay. As the owner of the company, he was also a bully and untouchable. He made things very difficult when Tara handed in her resignation. At the end she had to walk out on the same day, losing even her two weeks' notice pay.

"You're better than all of them combined," her mother said fiercely.

Tara wanted to deflect the conversation away from her. She had other worries. "Has the doctor been to check on you yet," she asked again.

"No, not yet, I don't think. I can't remember," her mother said. "I don't remember much. May be he did. Or was it the nurse?" she grew troubled at her inability to remember, and Tara had to quickly calm her down by reassuring her that she would check. Her mother was becoming a little unstable, and prone to getting worked up over the smallest thing. Tara had learned the art of diffusing the tension by staying calm on the outside.

She finally got her mother to fall asleep. With a kiss to her forehead she said goodnight for the day and went to check with the nurse's station on the timing of the doctor's visit. It turned out that the doctor had been due to visit but was held up in surgery. He would need to be in surgery all night. Tara made an appointment to see him the next day.

Her mother had fallen ill two years ago, she never recovered from losing Donny and her health steadily deteriorated. The extent of her illness was something Tara did not want to face. She knew it was terminal, the cancer, but somehow she needed to hold onto hope, however tenuous.

She didn't know how she could deal with losing her mother. She felt so alone in the world.

*****
[br]

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for good update-y goodness... I guess Tara gets into trouble after her mother dies...

[Yours]

Poor Tara, she's already been through so much with losing Donny, and now her Mum? I'm hoping that there may be a certain redhead that will help her through her pain.

Keep up the good work Watty, I'm really enjoying this fic!

[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.


Part 7 -- Bad News

One month ago

Tara found her mother in the same position as when she left her, uncomfortably asleep in the hospital bed. As luck had it, the other beds in the multi-occupation room were empty, giving them the illusion of a single room. Tara would have preferred to have her mother in a single room at all times, but that was an impossible cost to bear.

As she had done so many times over the past two years, she dropped her bag by the bed and sat at the chair at the end of the bed. She was too tired to read, too worried to do anything but sit there and fret. At least her mother seemed to be sleeping.

Not long after, a flurry of activity and sound from the door signaled the entrance of the medical team. A nurse quietly pulled the curtain around the bed automatically, even though there were no other occupants in the room. She quickly took pulse, blood pressure and checked the levels of the lines seemingly permanently attached to Tara's mother's arm. When she was satisfied, she entered the readings to the chart and handed it to the doctor who had entered at the same time.

"Hello Tara," the doctor greeted Tara quietly.

"Dr Lee," Tara responded.

"Did you just get here?" Dr Lee asked.

"Yes, I had a class this morning. I came straight away," Tara said. "Thanks for shifting your schedule."

"It worked out fine, actually," he said. "I have to get ready for an internal meeting."

"Thanks again," Tara repeated.

Dr Lee studied Mrs Maclay's chart, making certain notations regarding medication. He listened to her lungs, felt her pulse and checked on his patient. All through the examination, Tara's mother never woke up.

Tara let him do his work. She had a million questions, but knew she had to wait for the right time to ask them.

Dr Lee finished his examination, and then regarded Tara steadily. "How are you feeling, Tara?" He had treated Mrs Maclay for several months, ever since her illness became more serious. Her daughter Tara had been constantly by her side giving support. He could see the strain and sacrifices the young woman was under. As a specialist in terminal cancers he had seen countless family members buckle and give up under the stress of the terrible situation, it was detrimental to both the patients and the family. Often it was the surviving, or healthy, family who took the most of the pressure, in their unconditioned love for the patient. It was just as important to care for the care givers as the patient.

Tara shrugged, smiling thinly. "As well as I have been lately, doctor," she said.

Dr Lee looked at his patient again, concluding that she would not wake up during his examination. He had given her a sedative after nurses reported that she had become agitated during the night. He beckoned to Tara. "Do you have a moment to come to my office? I'd like to speak to you about the current regime and some other thoughts I've had," he said.

Tara was torn between staying with her mother and talking with the doctor. He saw her hesitation and reassured her, "she will be sleeping for a while. It won't take long, but I prefer to confer with you in private. I'll tell the nurses to page me if she wakes up before you come back," he said.

Tara shot him a grateful look and followed him out to his office on the next floor.

He settled her into a chair facing his chair, then made his way purposefully to the credenza. "I need coffee. Can I get you one? Or something else to drink? I have water, tea, sodas," he offered. When Tara indicated no, he insisted, "Tara, drink some juice. You look like you're dead on your feet. I understand the need to be strong, I really do. But strong means emotionally and physically too. You need to save some of your energy to take care of yourself," he directed.

Tara sighed, too exhausted to argue or defend herself. On an intellectual level she understood every word of what Dr Lee said, but it was easy, with everything going on in her life and nothing going right, to let the Taking Care of Tara Maclay part slide. She moved back to an easier topic. "I know, doctor, I know. I'll have some juice, as you said," she smiled.

She found that she actually enjoyed, and savored the large glass of orange juice the doctor offered her. She was grateful that other people cared enough about her to give her advice and guidance.

But they were not in the doctor's office to talk about her, or chit chat over juice. The mood turned serious as soon as Dr Lee lee took a sip of his coffee and placed the cup deliberately at his side. He wasted no time in spelling out what was on his mind. "I don't know how to start, Tara, so I'll be direct. Your mother's cancer has gotten worse, the last course of chemo worked some, but not enough. She is very weak and any more chemo will do a lot of damage, I don't know if her body can stand another course," he said as compassionately as he could. "There are virtually no options left," he concluded regrettably.

Tara felt like the bottom just fell off, the sinking feeling that she remembered twice before in her life returned. If she hadn't been sitting down she would surely have fallen down. As it was, she gripped the sides of the chair tightly, not wanting to let go.

"How long?" Tara choked out. "How long does she have?"

Dr Lee contemplated going the diplomatic route. How many of his patients' family had not wanted to hear what he had to say. Anyone would hold onto any lasting hope, no matter how delicate, no matter how improbable. A declaration of time remaining was never useful, often it signaled to the patient and the family to give up. The patient might not even survive that long. It was a rare, strong, tough person who fight and win against the ravages of cancer.

He thought about the young twenty-something woman in front of him. He wanted to protect her, by not telling her the stark truth. He knew that the Maclay family had experienced tragedy a short few years ago, that Mrs Maclay's son had been murdered. It was hard enough for a parent to have to bury their children, but to lose them as the result of a violent crime, he could not fathom the depth of despair that would bring. He thought about his own children, and he was sure neither he nor his wife could survive or remain sane if they had to go through the same ordeal. He knew that the onset of cancer in Mrs Maclay was the worst possible news, that the family did not need one more bad news after what happened, and he promised to himself that he would do all he could do professionally to help the mother and daughter. In time, he had began to view Tara Maclay as a daughter. His children were younger, he having married late, and if they would grow up to be as strong and responsible as her, he would be ecstatic.

In the face of such bad experiences, he could take the easy way out and said he could not tell, or concoct some medically accurate picture to avoid telling the truth. But after everything the young woman had endured she deserved the truth.

"Not long. Three months possibly. Six at most," he said.

He saw as Tara visibly paled, and wanted so much not to have given her the pain. He also saw her valiantly try to gain control of her spiraling emotions, to rein in the panic that was surely overcoming her. And he watched as the control finally snapped into place. "What then do we do? Does she need to stay here? I want to take her home," she said.

"We make her as comfortable as possible," he said. "If it were up to me, I'd keep her under observation for longer, but I understand your wish to take her home. Let's evaluate again tomorrow?" he offered.

"Does she need to know?" she asked in a small, worried voice.

This was a difficult question for him. Some patients wanted to know, so they could make plans and say their good-byes to friends and family. Others crack at the knowledge and never recover at the emotional shock. Some decide that the time remaining was too short, and their bodies go into rapid deterioration and they die shortly after gaining the information. Dr Lee considered his patient and what he knew of her emotional state. "It's up to you. But knowing your mother from treating her for so long, I would say that she would want to know," he postulated.

"Will it be such bad news that she gets really depressed?" Tara asked. "Even more than now. She used to be so cheerful, so positive. She's never been the same after Donny..." she interrupted herself and sobbed.

He let her cry for a while, remaining quiet and supporting yet not intrusive. In his 30 years of practice he hoped he had mastered the art of empathetizing with the patient and family. Some doctors never learned, but he believed that it was not merely skills and technical knowledge that made good doctors, knowing how to put the patients and family at ease played a vital part. He turned his mind to the other matter that was on his mind. He had not been sure if he wanted to discuss with Tara, he was truly uncertain of her reaction.

When Tara's tears abated, he handed her a tissue. Then as she gathered herself, he cleared his throat to get her attention. "There is, well, there's this procedure, I only became aware of it recently, it's new and only just came out of clinical trials," he stuttered uncharacteristically.

Tara stopped in the act of blowing her nose. "A procedure?" she repeated. "I thought you said there are no more options," she was almost accusatory.

He picked up a pen and nervously tapped it against his desk. "I said virtually no more options. This procedure is revolutionary, very new. Developed by a team in Switzerland, only they can perform it at the moment," he explained.

She was silent, subconsciously following the tapping of his pen. "I hear a but," she observed.

He nodded. "A very big but. Actually two very big buts," he explained. At her expectant look he explained further, "It's very expensive, because it's such a pioneering procedure. It won't be covered under any medical insurance for the same reason." He watched as Tara became utterly deflated at this statement. "Look, Tara, I'm not being arrogant or ribbing you at your financial situation. I'm just pointing out that it is potentially financially draining, because there is the after care to think about, not to mention the flights, hotel and incidentals," he tried not to be presumptuous.

"I understand," Tara said. "But if there is a chance, I'll move mountains to raise the money," she said with determination. "How much?"

The doctor hesitated, then told her the rough estimated amount. "Here's the other but," he continued. "There is only a 30% chance of success, and that is for patients who have been cross-matched and carefully selected. It's risky."

"But her odds right now is zero. 30% is already better," Tara said.

He wasn't sure if she was grasping at straws in desperation, or convinced that her mother would recover. He rummaged through one of the piles of papers and documents that covered his desk. "Well, tell you what, I'll find out some more information and let you know. Hmm, I can't seem to find it, I'm sure I printed it out. Anyway, I'll get more information to you, and we'll make the decision, alright?" he asked.

"Okay," Tara was still numb. There was a glimmer of hope but at a huge financial price. It was beyond what she could earn, sell or borrow in a lifetime. She felt like someone had given her hope, then abruptly pulled it away. Her instincts were to shout at the doctor for giving and taking away her hope, but she knew it was unfair, he was only doing his job and trying to help her mother. If he had withheld information because he thought she would not be able to handle it, then he was truly in the wrong. "I'd like the information, doctor. Cost is obviously a tremendous concern, but I don't want to be obsessing about it until I've read more about this procedure and the Swiss team. More importantly, I need to assess if 30% is acceptable," she said.

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Yes of course."

"Don't tell your mother yet. Not before you have come to an informed decision."

"Yes, I agree. Thank you, Doctor."

He watched her take his leave, and wondered if he would ever see her again.

*****

Tara was three steps from the door of her mother's hospital room when she skidded to a halt. She immediately stepped back and slid against the wall outside the door, out of sight of the room's occupants.

Her mother was talking and laughing with someone. Her mother, laughing. Tara had not heard her mother laugh so heartily for so long. Perhaps weeks, months, even before...Donny. The joyful laugh should be music to Tara's ears. Instead she leaned wearily against the wall for support. It wasn't hearing her mother laughing that was causing her the emotional distress. It was the other laughing voice. The one voice that made her heart flutter and sink and skip and melt. She knew that laugh, that voice. It was the voice she most wanted to hear; it was the voice she least wanted to hear.

She spun, propelled off the wall and stood in the doorway waiting for attention to turn to her.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded of Willow Rosenberg.

*****
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[Zampsa1975]

Yay for good update-y goodness... I guess Tara's problems rise from her quest to get money for her mother's cure...

[Alcy]

Hiya Watty,

Thanks very much for these latest couple of updates. Tara's current situation is heartbreaking. Her mother is all she has in the world and she has only six months to live. I think I am beginning to see how she might have become embroiled in something illegal in attempt to raise the money for her treatment in Switzerland. Still, it's all speculation at this stage but Tara did say that she would 'move mountains' to get that money and I wouldn't put anything past her. Fascinating.

And what's the deal with Willow? Obviously they met with the saga around the kidnapping but we still don't know exactly what happened. Obviously something did happen between the two of them, and I can't wait to find out what. She has the ability to make Mrs Maclay laugh? And yet now Tara doesnt want to see her.

Can't wait for the next chapter!

[watty]

Zampsa1975 - thanks, yep your thinking is on the right track.

Alcy -- hey thanks! yep, things are becoming pretty dire for Tara, and even with my convoluted timeline I'm glad it's coming through. Talking about convoluted timeline, I'm gonna try to reveal the W/T relationship slowly, hopefully it's clear in a few chapters.
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[watty]

Title: White Screams
Author: watson (hiddenwatson [at] yahoo [dot] com)
Distribution: Please let me know first
Rating: R
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others.
Summary: Contemporary AU. Who are we? Who can we trust when we can't even trust ourselves?
Notes 1: written for nanowrimo 2008 -- since it was written quickly with little time for extensive research, I have taken liberties with some of the factual and scientific stuff. I could have completed the research in the editing process, but I thought it might be fun to show some of the rawness of the writing under time pressure. Plus, well, I'm lazy.
Notes 2: this story is influenced by the psychological thriller Unknown. The chronology is not completely linear, I hope it doesn't become too confusing.



Part 8 -- Encounter. Some memories were best left untouched

One month ago

Willow was in the middle of listening to a joke from Mrs Maclay when a voice rang out and obliterated every other noise surrounding her. She had not fully analyzed her reasons for visiting Mrs Maclay in hospital, she went at her earliest opportunity as soon as she heard. She knew that deep down, if she thought about it really hard, her motive was painfully clear.

There was no question about it, even though she was relieved to see Mrs Maclay looking better than she expected, and she was happy to share laughs and jokes with the woman who was usually so sad-looking, the real reason for her early morning visit to the hospital was to see Tara.

Tara, who was standing framed at the doorway of a plain hospital room, looking angry, wild, scared and oh so beautiful. Willow felt a tug every time she saw Tara. It took a while, but she had finally identified the feeling for what it was almost three years ago. But Tara never returned the feeling. Almost three years of very gentle pursuit, so slow and subtle that at times Willow thought she was not projecting any intention at all. So often she felt discouraged, even pissed off at how dense, intentionally or unintentionally, Tara was. And then they'd meet, or talk, or Willow would just see Tara doing something mundane like crossing the street, and every single negative thought got thrown out of the window.

"What are you doing here?" Tara asked rather bluntly. Willow supposed she should feel encouraged, that Tara never put on a mask in front of her. She would mostly act annoyed at Willow's presence, but she never blatantly chased her away. And Willow held onto that thought, to justify her continual presence in the life of the Maclay family. Bordering on lame, Willow ruefully told herself. Then shrugged it off.

"I heard Mrs Maclay was in hospital, I wanted to visit," she explained.

"You're disrupting her. She needs to rest," Tara said tersely.

Willow wanted to protest that Mrs Maclay was resting when she came in, and they had only been talking for a few minutes before Tara barged in. It was not as if Mrs Maclay was mad or angry that Willow came, they were sharing a few interesting anecdotes. If anything, Tara's entrance had changed the whole mood in the room to decidedly cold and uncomfortable, she was the one who was disruptive. Willow was about to point all that out when it was Mrs Maclay who came to her defense. "Don't be rude, Tara. It's very considerate of Willow to come visit, lord knows I could do with a few distractions and good company during the day," Mrs Maclay said.

"I keep you company," Tara sounded hurt by her mother's words.

"Of course you do, darling. You do so much for me. But it's nice to have other visitors. I want Willow to stay. You can stay a while right, Willow?" Mrs Maclay asked sincerely.

Willow could no sooner deny the motherly figure than eat her shoe for breakfast. "Yes of course, I have plenty of time," she smiled.

"Don't mind my ungrateful daughter. She can sit over there and glower while we catch up," Mrs Maclay grinned.

Confined to the sidelines, and so desperate to talk to her mother about the meeting with Dr Lee, Tara did end up glowering for the half hour that was Willow's visit. On her way back from Dr Lee's office she had made up her mind to tell her mother about the possible treatment in Switzerland. She had been raised to tell her mother everything, this was not the time to change a lifetime's habit and upbringing. Besides, her mother had the right to know and make decisions about her own health. Tara believed that it was wrong when family members kept vital information from the patient for their own good and vowed never to follow that path.

As she sat, fidgeting, at the chair her mother had forced her into, she tried hard not to pay attention to what Willow and her mother were talking about. Her anger at Willow was automatic, it had become her natural state toward the detective. Ever since the day that she had to follow Willow to the morgue to identify her brother, her resentment against life's injustice had amalgamated and become personified into a smart, earnest redhead. Intellectually she knew it was unfair on Willow, she was one of the officers involved but from reports that Tara had read and scourged, she was not to blame for Donny's death. Yes, she was on the roof when Tucker Wells lost his footing and fell, thereby sealing Donny's fate; but how could she have acted otherwise then? Allowed Tucker Wells and his accomplices to get away with millions of dollars? There was no guarantee of Donny's safety even after the ransom was delivered. The police did the best they could, if anyone were to blame it was the criminals.

Then again, Willow elicited such controversial feelings in Tara. It was unusual for police officers to maintain contact with victims or victims' families after a case. But Tara was out in the grocery store a few months after Donny died and ran into Willow. The officer said hello, and joined Tara in their shopping trip around the store, asking about her, making inquiries about her mother's well being, and generally trying to be friendly. Tara's first reaction was to push her away, or punch her, or ignore her. In spite of herself, some part of her reacted to Willow. She felt a pull, an unknown acquiescence to the other woman's presence, it was as if she couldn't help but to allow Willow into her life. Something in Willow's presence, her voice, her smile, they all made Tara respond in places she knew were trouble. It took her some time to realize it, and even when she did she refused to think about it or give it name because she was in complete denial over the fact that there was a huge amount of attraction between them. All it would take was a small gesture, an absentminded touch, a tender word, and it would all manifest. She resisted, for three years she resisted; it was a wonder that Willow hadn't given up in disgust. Tara was so conflicted. She had become used to Willow occasionally being in her life, but the longer it went on the more she knew she was setting the redhead up for a long fall and heartbreak. She didn't know what to do.

Watching Willow effortlessly interact with her mother pained her. Willow had such an easy-going charm about her. Not classically good looking in a film star sort of way, though rakishly attractive in Tara's books, she made up for it by an openness that made people trust her. It was a great asset in her job as a police officer. She was deceptively astute; suspects opened up to her, victims trusted her, other cops saw her as a team member. Tara knew that she was about to take her sergeant's exam, in the police world making sergeant in her mid-twenties counted as fast track. Tara sighed. Here she was again thinking about Willow. The moments that she was not worried or taking care of her mother, secretly she thought of Willow constantly. It would last brief moments before she forcefully yanked her thoughts and feelings away. She remembered times when she physically dragged her mind away from Willow by making herself do something for her mother. Sometimes she felt she was hovering and smothering her mother with constant attention; other times she was so ready to walk away especially when her energy was sapped. Worry and guilt, it was the perpetual conflict.

"--should take Tara to the cafeteria, I'm willing to bet she hadn't eaten anything."

She caught her name being mentioned and turned to see her mother gesturing towards her. They had obviously been talking about her.

"Well, Tara, have you had anything to eat?" Willow grinned at her. "You heard your mom. She knows you so well. Wait, I could have said that you hadn't eaten anything this morning, probably nothing since, oh I don't know, lunch yesterday. You're so predictable."

"I had coffee." Tara had no idea why Willow always put her in a huff.

"Coffee is not food. Except if it's mocha, then the chocolate just about makes it sustenance," Willow said with a straight face.

Tara wished Willow would not be forever cheerful and able to be so funny and serious at the same time. She put her hands up. "Alright, you win. I had a carrot and pumpkin muffin yesterday at around two," she conceded. "Happy now?"

"It's not an interrogation. I'm not accusing you of anything," Willow said gently.

Tara glared at her. Willow returned the stare steadily. Presently it was Tara who broke eye contact, no longer able to stand Willow's expressive eyes that told of possibilities...if only, and do you remember.

Mrs Maclay seemed otherwise oblivious to the tension between them. With the amount of time they spent together, and the heat that always simmered between them, Tara wondered why her mother would be so unaware. Perhaps she was affected by her illness. Perhaps she was too concerned with her own well being. Perhaps she knew but didn't want to accept it. Or perhaps she knew but didn't want to intrude. Tara never formally came out to her mother, not in the form of an official declaration. But she had never hesitated to bring dates, few that there had been, back home. She had never substituted pronouns, if she was going out with a girl she would say so. Her mother in turn never talked to her about it, it was as if they had implicitly agreed that her sexuality was not a topic for concern. Tara was just glad her mother hadn't made a fuss. She wondered if Donny would have been supportive. He was too much of a maverick, too anxious to please, it would have depended on his friends.

Thinking about Donny made her morbid, and her mood darkened as she was reminded of her mother's terminal illness and the futility of grasping at any glimmer of hope. Two hundred thousand for the Swiss procedure, Dr Lee said. That was for starters, she should add on another hundred for follow up and other expenses.

"Tara, are you okay? You look like the blood just drained from your face," Willow asked.

Tara realized that the dark thoughts had invaded her mind. She took a deep breath to center herself. "I'm fine. You're right, probably dizziness due to lack of food." She turned to her mother, "I'll grab something to eat, then I have to go to work. I have class till three, then I'm free the rest of the day. I'll come by straight after," she recited.

"Why don't you take a little time to rest, my sweet girl. I'll be here, not going anywhere yet," her mother declared.

Tara swallowed the tears that threatened to erupt, and looked away to hide her emotions. She was sure both her mother and Willow saw it, and was grateful they chose not to comment. With all her effort, she brought her emotions under control and even managed a thin smile.

"It's fine, mom. I'll take it easy. I'll bring something with me, we can share our dinners," she said.

Her mother laughed. "You'll need to stop me from picking at your food, what they give us here is doesn't even look like food. I don't even want to start about how tasteless it is. I'll be glad to go home," she mused.

Tara fought another bout of overwhelming emotions by taking very deep breaths. She carefully kept her face neutral. "Well, what they don't see, they don't know," she stated.

"And talking about food, it's time for you two to get out of here. Willow, make sure my wayward daughter has something decent in her stomach before she starts her day," Mrs Maclay directed.

Tara didn't want Willow to go anywhere with her, but she wisely decided to leave that discussion after they said good-bye to her mother. She kissed her mom tenderly on the forehead and gave her a tight hug. Willow gave Mrs Maclay a squeeze on the arm and a peck on the cheek.

And then they found themselves waiting for the elevator by the nurses' station. Willow rocked nonchalantly on her heels as she waited, while Tara surreptitiously edged away, purposefully standing just beyond Willow's personal space. To the casual observer they could be two strangers.

She pressed the button for the cafeteria floor, and then after a moment's hesitation, the ground floor. Willow looked at her with one raised eyebrow.

"Look, you don't need to come with me to the cafeteria. I don't need to be checked on or chaperoned. You should go on to work, aren't you late already?" Tara said determinedly. She focused her gaze on the indicators at the side of the elevator car, not wanting to look at Willow.

Willow sighed loudly. "Why is it so hard for you to accept that I don't mind being with you. That I want to spend time with you?" she asked exasperatingly.

"Will, don't," Tara whispered. "I can't do this. Not now," she added.

"You've been saying 'not now' for the last three years. When is the timing ever going to be right?" Willow asked.

The elevator reached the cafeteria floor and Tara stepped out. She wasn't surprised when Willow followed her, and she had no energy to fight. They didn't exchange words until they had selected and paid for their food. Tara, knowing that it would be the only food she would have until dinner, took a large bagel with cream cheese, a peach yogurt and a large coffee. Willow opted for a fruit salad and a cappuccino. They brought their trays, as if by unspoken agreement, to a quiet table near to the corner.

Tara ducked her head and focused on spreading the cream cheese on the bagel, painfully aware of Willow's eyes on her. She took several bites from her bagel, while Willow picked slowly at her fruit salad.

"I'm sorry if I even misled you in any way into thinking something may happen," she said evenly.

"Something has happened. Something did happen," Willow countered.

Tara blushed. Some memories were best left untouched. "One time. That doesn't count," she insisted.

Willow choked and almost spit out the fruit in her mouth. "What? Jesus, Tara, you're unbelievable," she slammed her hand angrily on the table.

Tara didn't want to argue. She had convinced herself of so many things that the line between real, memories and her made-up memories were blurred. She continued with her bagel, not knowing what to say. She knew she hurt Willow. Belatedly she thought it might be what would drive Willow away. Relief was mixed with a big smattering of regret, and it got confusing again. "I--" she tried to say something, but she could not find the right words.

"Fine. Fine. Fine," Willow murmured. "I said I'd be patient. You won't believe how patient I can be, Tara. Or how persistent."

"I have to concentrate on Mom, she's the one and only important thing in my life right now. There is no room for anyone else," Tara said resolutely.

Willow conceded. "I understand that. But it doesn't mean I'll go away. Even if there weren't this thing between us, I'd want to be there for your mom. So count on me being around from now, and there is nothing you can do about it," she said smugly. "Once she gets better, you and I need to talk. Honestly. No ifs and buts."

Tara froze at Willow's "once she gets better" -- Dr Lee's words echoed loudly in her mind. It was more a case of if she gets better, the when was no longer in the equation.

Willow caught her change of mood, and leaned in with care. "Something is on your mind. It's not just the latest round of tests. What is it?" she inquired gently.

Tara sniffed. She looked at the half-eaten bagel with distaste and put it back on her plate. "It's nothing. No more than the usual bad stuff. She's been in and out of hospital so much, there's too many tests, it gets tiring." She thought it was the best solution, to stick to the truth as much as possible. She wanted to share her burden with someone, but there was no one. Not even Willow. Especially not Willow. Willow would try to help, and Tara knew she couldn't bear to have such a great debt hanging over her.

"Are you sure that's the only thing? You look really sad, like there's no hope." Willow thought Tara was over analyzing, or she was heading toward a mood where she expected the worst of every situation. With all that Tara had been through her young life, Willow wouldn't be surprised if she became deeply depressed. It was up to her to watch out for Tara. With everything she felt for the blonde, there was no way she would forgive herself if she didn't watch carefully and was prepared to intervene as necessary.

"Yes I have a lot on my mind," Tara said loudly and harsher than she intended. "What do you expect? That I'm cracking jokes and have a shit-eating grin plastered on my face at all times? I'm sorry if I'm a disappointment. I have to go."

With that she stood up quickly, grabbed her bag and stumbled toward the exit.

Willow rushed and caught up with her in the elevator. "I don't want us to fight. I won't push anymore, okay?" she said.

Tara knew she would never fool Willow, it was better to compromise. "Okay. Sorry I lost it," she said.

At least they parted not mad at each other.

Tara returned to her car and sat without switching it on for a long time. She had to think of a way, any way. What could she do to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars?

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

She took out her cell phone and systematically began calling.

*****
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