"L, it's Daley," the voice said over the phone; Inspector Stephen Daley of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police

Red Hands

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Tsugumi Ohba, Takeshi Obata, Nisio Isin, and Viz Media. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This was written for the weekly prompt "Silence" at DN Contest on Live Journal and inspired by the 1990 Adrian Lyne film "Jacob's Ladder." Rated M for graphic violence, disturbing imagery, and strong language.

November 15, 2002

Vancouver

"L, it's Daley," the voice said over the phone; Inspector Stephen Daley, my main contact within the North Vancouver Detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. "There's really good news and beyond horrific news. We have Xiang Feng in custody, or rather in the hospital thanks to Michael."

I don't know if I said anything in response over the phone. Xiang Feng, the kingpin of the once massive Blue Dragon Cartel, the biggest distributor of Chinese heroin to Canada, was now in custody after an investigation that went too long and finally ended under my watch.

"Michael was absolutely right, or you were right depending on whose message it was, that warehouse by the train yard was the cartel's central base. Michael and I took a stroll over there and guess who we found; Feng was a cornered dog. His cronies are fleeing or singing; he knew he was screwed so he came out swinging but we have him where we want him."

Feng is in custody thanks to Inspector's Daley's efficient undercover work and the efforts of Michael Norrison, the assistant I sent out into the field primarily to watch the police for me and he proved even more useful.

"That's when we get to the bad news." Inspector Daley's voice took an audible strain. Somehow I knew what he was going to say. "Michael's also in the hospital and it's not looking good. He and Feng got into it pretty good; but your little wiry bastard has to have a blackbelt in several different forms of God knows what. But Feng had a dagger on him and he stabbed Michael in the side. Michael played possum for a minute before pulling out a gun, hitting him in the shoulder, and putting the barrel to his head so we could get him. I'm not even going to ask how he got that gun, but don't worry we're not going to bust his nuts for that after what he's been through."

Michael Norrison, age 21, of Surrey, British Columbia. A criminology student at the University of British Columbia, he has gone through independent, military-style training and has explored everything from mercenaries to police to criminals in his own time. He is one of those "unprivate investigators" who will not go through licensing because it is too much a tool of the establishment yet will poke around on his own to no end. He was the perfect candidate as my eyes and ears in this case, looking at the City Police first before wheedling his way to the more direct RCMP investigation with Daley.

"Michael's in the ER now; they've pumped him with at least 10 liters of blood, he's in and out of shock. They said he's got massive internal bleeding, given the position of the wound that blade probably destroyed one of his kidneys; they can't wait for x-rays, they need to operate on him immediately, control the bleeding while they find out how bad the damage is."

Michael Norrison, age 21, the eyes and ears of L…my eyes and ears…for this investigation is now in a hospital bleeding to death.

I now realize I am out of my seat and staring at the wall. I sneak a peek back at the computer, see the screen black. All is quiet around me.

The conversation with Inspector Daley must have ended, but I don't recall giving him instructions. I don't even recall how the conversation ended

This is starting to concern me now. Did I just hang up on him? I can tell him he had a bad connection, I could hear the usual scratchy intercom and wheeling gurneys of a hospital and many hospitals are notorious for poor reception.

Somehow I am now recalling a brief conversation with Michael, or maybe a message relayed by Inspector Daley; Michael wants his grandfather with him, and he wants his grandfather to take care of his dogs for him. I don't remember if I passed along these messages or not.

I continue to stare at the wall, looking at the bookcase full of old volumes that I must have paged through a hundred times. I'm going to wait a while before calling him back but now I realize I need a moment to myself; savor the silence and mentally process what I just heard.

Police personnel, private investigators, miscellaneous civilians have died in my service before; some even screaming or gurgling over the phone before the line goes dead. It really has never bothered me; though why is this one bothering me?

It's because of what I know is flashing across my computer screen now.

I turn around and see images flashing across the screen; photographs with that usual grainy, poor quality texture of a police camera.

A young man is wrapped up in bloody gauze bandages, but I can see the charred flesh underneath.

I see another young man, a teenager with black and purple ligature marks around his neck; mouth gaping open, innocent brown eyes wide in a death stare.

I see a photo of me covered in blood and wielding a knife. No, that's not me, it's someone heavily made up to look like me.

I turn away from the screen, though it is bright in the dark room.

Those were the last photos of B and A. My failed successors. My victims…I mean those who destroyed themselves and the results were shoved in my face.

That is why the news about Michael is bothering me so much. A died a year ago, B went homicidal nearly four months ago, now a young man in my service is lying on an operating table somewhere.

It's hard not to think sometimes that I have enough blood on my hands as it is; 10 liters worth more was just poured over and more is showering down.

I see my hands covered in it. My clothes are covered in it. Blood everywhere.

No, I must clear my thoughts.

That's it; concentrate on your breathing, savor the quiet. You are a little jarred, that's all. The past year has been rather stressful and sometimes stress can wear down even you; especially when everything has been so personal.

Michael has tendencies to play the tough guy anyway, he knew the dangers when he took this job and I knew from the very beginning he would be the sacrificial lamb in some form. I didn't ask him to go toe to toe with Xiang Feng; he did so because his proverbial stones were bigger than his proverbial brain.

I dare look down at my hands again, completely clean as expected; the last thing I need now is a Lady Macbeth complex.

I must have cut myself because there is a large bleeding mark on my hand. No wait, those are bite marks deep enough to draw blood. I taste some blood in my mouth, only some fortunately because there could be a lot more.

How could this have happened? Maybe I bit my hand after getting the call; I was probably sitting there going from my usual habit of biting my thumb to biting the skin between my thumb and forefinger. This must have really distressed me, especially considering I don't remember hanging up.

This is not a good sign; I think I just had a blackout.

I should call Watari over; have one of our little talks. I could use something to eat right now, some strawberries would be nice or anything to get out the nasty taste in my mouth.

I think I smell strawberries now, no too sweet-smelling, more like strawberry jam. Now it smells like burnt human flesh; I think I just gagged.

There's someone behind me, probably Watari. I'm going to tell him as soon as this case is over I'm taking a weekend off since I haven't done so in two years.

"Poor little Lawliet, the cracks are showing at last."

This isn't Watari.

I try not to flinch at the voice behind me; soft, sing-song, completely mad.

"What is it like to be conscious of losing your mind?"

I'm not hearing this. All is quiet around me and the only voice I am hearing is inside my head. I am making this up to torture myself.

"It must be rather painful. As for me, I don't remember when I cracked, but I remember the moment my hero did. I remember the moment the great L lost his mind."

I shouldn't turn around now, but I am. I need to see him.

I'm looking at me sitting at my computer now…though I'm still standing here; someone else is sitting at my computer and he looks just like me. He looks just like me save for the blood spattered on his clothes, spattered across his face.

He holds a jar to his lips, tongue digging through the congealed contents like a burrowing worm; a jar of…blood…no!...a jar of strawberry jam. He was always fond of strawberry jam.

Brian Boyd, age 17 of Manchester, England. My back-up successor…B…Beyond Birthday.

This is not real. Beyond Birthday still in the burn unit at Cedars Sinai Medical Center and will be at Folsom Prison within the month.

But he's sitting right in front of me, fully healed… in my clothes…covered in blood.

Now his skin is black and charred and he's still smoking like Misora-san said he was when she put him out. He's a mass of pink and black flesh looking at me, my own face looking at me.

I deny this!

No, apply logic here. This is clearly not real and this is not necessarily a hallucination; you are not losing your mind.

You have been known to fall asleep at your computer; you have been known to have nightmares, nightmares that will reflect whatever photos or crime scene descriptions you were examining before nodding off.

This accounts for why you are seeing B, this accounts for why you don't recall hanging up on Daley; the conversation happened before you went to sleep. You will be woken up any time now by another call from Daley on Michael's condition.

I fell asleep; I almost think I recall saying a prayer before I went to sleep.

Watari is probably leaving you alone to get what little rest you can get after spending hours looking over the cartel case, after looking through every room in the warehouse, finding that palette full of packaged heroin with Daley, and after Feng jumped at you.

"Where's the knife L," B asks, slurping up his jam.

I deny your existence!

I feel my lips move, but I cannot draw air from my lungs to do it. The words are catching in my throat. I want to scream at him, order him out of my sight, but alas I am dreaming and this is one of those dreams where I cannot speak.

"Aren't knives fun?" he says, mouth smeared with blood…no…jam in a goofy smile. "The best form of interactive entertainment. Then again you've never done anything direct have you, Lawliet. Always indirect. Always killing people from a far."

"He doesn't need to get directly involved, did you forget everything we learned B?"

I now hear another voice to the side, innocent, naïve, the voice of a kid who could not take the pressure.

"Getting directly involved would compromise his safety and if anything happens to L and word is spread about it, the world's crime rate could skyrocket.

I am surprised he is able to talk; his hyoid bone cut through his windpipe, the impact of his body falling, neck wrapped tightly in a bed sheet.

Albert Rannek, age 16 of Peoria, Illinois. My first successor, my alternate, A.

He's standing by the doorway in his favorite green sweater and brown corduroys, eyes fixed on me with a pleading look. Even if I could speak right now I don't think I would be able to.

"He never learned, L," A says, a small finger pointing at B. "He never studied, I was always better than him, L, I understood what you were doing."

B gives a chuckle piercing the stifling quiet, a laugh that tears through me.

"Henh henh henh henh"

I look back at B; his fingers are inside the jar and feeding gobs of jam into his mouth, face in a jester's smirk, eyes glowing red.

I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming, goddammit I'm dreaming! I will wake up soon and this will all be a memory.

"I think waking up would suck for you right now," B says. "But then again every waking moment for the great L sucks anyway. So glad I was never you."

So glad I beat you, I think, trying to say it but I cannot control my breathing enough to produce words.

"So glad that Misora bitch beat me," B says. He can hear my thoughts, but then why am I surprised. "You didn't do shit L."

"He captured you, he stopped your plot, it's over B," A screams. "He beat you; L beat you like he does all criminals."

I don't know what is twisting the knife more, B cursing me out or A heaping me with fruitless praise. I am not a fool, but I am not a hero.

"What did you just say, L?" B says.

Damn you and damn this nightmare.

"Don't say that,L! You are a hero!" A says, I can hear the sob in his voice. I can see the bedsheet carefully wrapped around his neck, the other end hanging on the ground. "You're the idol of all of Wammy's House. Don't listen to him! He never understood. I understood you, L…but I…"

Don't say it! Don't you dare bloody say it! You're going to say it anyway.

"I let you down L," he bloody said it. "I'm sorry."

I look away, but B is standing right there, blood running off his clothes, Wara Ningyo in his hand, harlequin's grimace.

"I let you down, L; I'm sorry."

B holds up a piece of typing paper, reversing the side and showing the same neat, but shaking handwriting Roger handed to me a year ago.

L,

I let you down

I'm sorry

-A

"He let you down, L!" B screams. "He's sorry, L! Henh henh henh henh!"

B bursts into flames like an effigy on Guy Fawkes Day, red eyes glowing through charred black flesh.

I look away to see A hanging by the ceiling, eyes a mess of tears, body twitching, blood flowing from his mouth.

Neither of them make a sound; simply exist behind a wall of silence. Silence is my walls, my cage, my very existence.

"You're our hero, L," B says, his soft voice breaking the silence as I can feel the heat of the flames closer and closer to me.

I look to the side. Flames gone, not a mark on him not even bloody clothes. Those red eyes are now hollow gray, like what I see in the mirror every day.

I am going to get a call about Michael any minute now, even if it's Daley telling me he's dead…

"Michael's not dead," B says, his breath against my face. "He's just sleeping, or in a chemically induced stupor, though it's not like he wanted."

Not like he wanted? No, it isn't like he wanted, but then again he didn't know what he wanted.

"But he got what he wanted, didn't he?"

B's lips are rubbing against my face. I flinch.

"L, do you know…people who try to commit suicide and fail get a peek into Hell for at least a few minutes? Oh yes. You didn't take that into account didn't you?"

Is this coming from personal experience, you animal? Though I'm sure if B got a peek he savored every minute of it.

"Where's the knife, L?" B is massaging my shoulders now. I want to push him off, shove him off, kick his teeth in, but I'm just as paralyzed now as I am mute.

The knife was in Feng's hand.

"Where's the knife, L?" His lips brush against my earlobe.

Feng's right hand. I can see the tip of the handle in his fist. I don't know how many times I blocked that fist, but it was there the entire time.

"Where's the fucking knife, L!"

It was a unique assassin's blade. Push the lever, blade comes up, like a switchblade. I've researched these types of knives, I recognized the handle the moment I saw it.

"Answer the fucking question!"

The knife is fully extended. I see it in the arc of his punches.

I see it but I do nothing.

"No, no L, you're lying!" A's voice is slightly muffled from the noose around his neck. "Right?"

"Are you lying L?" B says, lips rubbing over mine. I can smell the blood on his breath.

Michael did nothing about the knife. I see it swinging, I see him blocking, I see Feng's hand swiping.

I feel myself stepping sideways, giving a weak feint, shifting my body to the side. I know what's coming because I wanted this.

"No! No! This can't be true, L!" A is screaming now. "Tell me you didn't do this! Tell me!"

"Will suicide be ever the lasting legacy of Wammy's greatest minds?" B says, B's hands are brushing my sides and I simply stand there completely unable to move.

I wanted to feel the slice of that blade, I wanted it to cut through me.

And it did.

"Did you ever read the Bible, L," B whispers in my ear.

The most-read work of classic literature on which empires have risen and fallen, on which people have lived and died; I believe I've paged through it a few times.

B's bloody hand caresses up my side.

"Then saith he to Thomas reach hither thy finger," B whispers, grabbing my wrist, "and behold my hands."

He jerks my hand upward, shoving the open palm in my face. The bite mark is dripping with blood…no…my entire hand is red; coated in thick red.

The pain of my own teeth going into my flesh kept me awake for at least a few more minutes during the ride to the hospital, maybe kept me alive.

I remember saying a prayer before I fell asleep.

"And reach hither thy hand," his other arm caresses down my chest before stopping at one place on my right side, "and thrust it into my side."

I feel nothing, I'm not supposed to feel anything, but I dare look down and see his index finger probing a hole in my shirt and going right through. His finger had disappeared to the bottom knuckle into the gaping wound in my side, his smile widening; red eyes gazing into the red void.

I said a prayer before falling asleep, before heavy doses of medication took my consciousness. "If I should die before I wake…"

"And be not faithless but believing," B finishes with a hiss.

I now see blood gushing from the wound but it no longer surprises me. Unlike the moment I looked down after Feng was in handcuffs.

"No, L, please tell me you didn't!" A is whimpering now.

"But he didn't succeed," B says, still sounding too gleeful for my liking. "I'm sorry, Lawliet, you're not going now, you won't be going for a while. Though people have been known to drop dead from heart attacks at 25, you know."

That wasn't a call from Daley; at least I wasn't at my desk, like I'm not at my computer now. Watari was at my computer, Watari took the call. I simply overheard it from across the room.

Watari should be in the waiting room now, just as I requested him:

"L, I want my grandfather here."

I forgot what he said in response, but I could hear a few sobs sneak past the voice filters.

"I remember the momentous day my idol cracked," B says, though I'm not looking at him. "You're welcome, L."

I close my eyes, they don't exist; their ghosts still haunt me. My failed successors. I told Watari to choose two new ones if I was not able.

"Tell grandpa to take care of my puppies for me."

I am no longer being held.

Everything is quiet at last, I savor it; completely numb, everything completely black.

Though I now feel my hand, or the strong grip of a weathered hand; a grip that is shaking, afraid to let go.

I find my eyes in the haze and pry them open.

Watari is the first thing I see, he is looking at me with fear, deep concern. It wrenches me to see this. His other hand goes to the back of my head, runs through my hair.

I think I'm actually lying down now; I wake enough to feel pillows and sheets. A dull ache goes through every part of my body. I lift my left hand; look down at it to see if the bite marks are still there.

A simple beige bandage is over the spot…next to it a taped-down IV line and the bright red plastic tube for probably one of the over 10 transfusions I've received in the past few hours.

My hand instinctively touches my face. The flesh around my cheek is still tender from one of the last blows I got. I feel the plastic oxygen mask before dropping my hand down to the bed, looking down to see my form encased in a blue checked gown with wires coming from the patches on my chest that are connected to the monitor. The quiet is now interrupted by the electronic blips that match my pulse.

I won't be getting a call about Michael Norrison's condition.

Michael Norrison, age 21 of Surrey, British Columbia, an anti-establishment investigator was my best cover for this case.

It got me more direct access to the RCMP than I could have gotten giving direction from afar. I could keep telling myself that and continue denying the real, less innocuous reason why I became directly involved.

Michael Norrison is actually Liam Lawliet, age 23 of Leduc, Alberta…L...me.

I am now reaping what I've sown.

"Can you hear me, son," Watari says.

I manage to nod.

"You're going to be fine," he says, his normally even voice now a mix of scared and jubilant. "The doctor said the blade did less damage than they thought it did. You had a gash on your liver they sewed up, it did sink deep into your kidney but that was also easily sewn back up. You did give us a few nasty scares, you went into shock a few times and you did lose about 20 pints of blood, but the doctors say you're recovering remarkably. They're keeping you in critical care just for the night, but you shouldn't be in the hospital more than a week."

My hand comes up again and slightly lowers the mask from my face.

"Daley?" I whisper.

"In the cafeteria waiting eagerly for word of your progress."

"Feng?"

"In a room downstairs," Watari says, a smile on his face. "You did more than clip him, you nearly took out his collarbone, but he is all in one piece and still not talking."

I nod, trying to keep my eyes open but the medication is not allowing that.

"I didn't dodge the blade," I say, not knowing of this is an observation or a confession.

Watari shakes his head, his hand gently putting the mask back over my nose and mouth.

"You simply got the wrong end of that fight," he says in an understanding tone.

It is best if it's left at that, though I still have much to face.

I lay my head back and feel a hand go through my hair before falling into a more peaceful sleep.