Viggo's Break - Chapter 1.1 - I think the Earth moved

It was a Thursday. The first time she visited was on a Thursday. No reason for that to stick in Viggo’s mind, but it was going to. There were going to be two years’ worth of spending Thursdays thinking about her on the other side of that everything-proof glass. That Thursday visit was going to change everything.

He had no regular visitors. He hadn’t had that many people in his life to begin with. He had been a private man, not a loner, but he had kept to himself. His father had been long dead, his relationship with his mother had been distant. He had been on friendly terms with his colleagues, thought clearly not their friend. Even his girlfriend of three years had dropped him with scarcely a thought.

The visit was unexpected, and he was ready for anything as he prowled into Visitations, ready for an ambush, ready to fight for his life. There wasn’t much civilization left in him at that point.

“Booth 5.”

The prison guard propelled him forward a little too roughly. Viggo didn't care. Rules of the game. Prisoner vs. guard, there was no cutting slack. He stumbled and sucked in a deep breath when he saw his visitor.

Nyssa Malik. Talk about a blast from the past.

He let himself be settled into the bolted-down chair. While they chained him down, he studied her. Those five years hadn't been kind to the cheerful crime lab tech he had known. He tallied the years, realized that she was twenty-nine. She didn’t look it. Her sunken, bruised eyes were a stark contrast to her pale. She had swapped her jeans-T shirt combo for a strict, black and white pantsuit. Her body, once petite, round, had lost all its happy fat. And she sat hunched, her face adverted.

He didn’t recognize her. Once upon a time, he had counted her as one of his few friends. Nyssa would touch him, would look up right into his face, green eyes bubbling with light.

At the trial, hers had been the last words he had heard, “Rot in hell, bastard.”

Low and vicious – and, years later, they were still etched up there under his skull.

She reached for the receiver first. Her hand was shaking. It worsened while he let her stew. He didn't keep up the pretense for very long. He wasn't cruel, he had never been, and he was curious. Anything that could break the tedium was welcome.

He put the receiver to his ear and waited. He could hear her, he could hear her breathing hard. He just waited, undisturbed by the silence between them.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carlsen.”

Her voice was cold, impersonal. It made him feel wretched – made him wish she would spit her hate at him again instead. He didn't allow his feelings to show.

“Afternoon, ma'am,” he mumbled, as scrupulously polite as ever.

Relief flashed in her eyes, relaxed her shoulders and it was another piece of the puzzle she dangled in front of his nose. Why the relief? He was giving her the cold shoulder. Why not hurt or resentment? Why relief? He couldn’t resist mysteries.

“My name's Ines Valdez. I work for Arthur & Brandt.”

Now, that was a surprise. He kept it concealed as well, but Nyssa seemed to read it in him. Something flickered in her eyes, something very much like her long-lost sparkle. He hadn’t shared anything with anyone in so very long. He decided to play along, “Law firm?”

“Yes. Civil rights. You know the kind, you were a cop.”

He nodded ever so slightly. He had noticed the minute clenching of her jaw as she said the part about who he used to be. It didn't hurt the way it used to. In fact, it made him think…just think…

“I want to represent you,” she said.

Like hell she did.

The world had no doubt changed in the five years he had spent behind bars, but Nyssa Malik was no lawyer. She held a degree in marine biology or something of the sort. Hell, he would have done a better job of defending himself. He had the criminal law degree, and he had taught her what little she knew on the subject. He distinctly remembered explaining some of the finer workings of the criminal system over coffee. She'd had a way of looking at him when he did, as if she was lapping it all up. It had made him feel…

He slammed the door on those memories and those feelings. They felt foreign to the thing he had become. They belonged firmly in the past.

He wished he could rub his eyes. He was exhausted. Seeing her was draining.

“What do you really want?” he asked.

She winced. His tone was dry, arctic-cold. He wasn’t a kind man anymore. He didn't have the strength, he didn't have the energy to pretend. She leaned closer and finally met his eyes. His breath caught.

The green, the deep forest green…Nothing could dull it, not even the thick, scratched, stained glass. It was painfully vivid, and it held an appeal he couldn't deny. He was the one in chains, but she was begging him – begging him!

“I believe you,” she told him.

Three words. Just three words – meanings, thrown together and forming one that shouldn't even have mattered, so vague it was. But he had been waiting to hear them. For six years. He had been waiting for six years. And now, here she was, telling him stuff he had thought he didn't need anymore. Turned out, he did need them. He still did. After everything, no matter the changes he had undergone, he still needed for someone to believe him.

He let it sink in. She believed him. He was silent for too long maybe, because she lifted her free hand to the glass between them.

“Peter,” she said, a world of gentleness to her voice. “Viggo.”

His nickname – so many things in that word. He blinked, suddenly brought back down to earth. He was still in jail. She was still lying.

Not about believing him. He knew her. It didn’t matter how long they had been apart, what had happened to him, to her. He knew Nyssa Malik. She wouldn't lie about that. But she was lying about something else. She was passing herself off as his lawyer and he didn't understand why.

Then, she did something, answering him with her body rather than her words. She had been staring into his eyes, trying – he knew – to convince him, but the guards rotated behind her and she slanted them a look of panic.

Privacy.

That’s what she wanted. She wanted privacy for their conversation. The real conversation. He couldn't imagine what she wanted to tell him. Everything had long been said between them. What more could she tell him? What was it that scared her so much? He told himself not to wonder, not to care. But…Damn his curiosity!

“I’m ready for a change of lawyer.”

Her face softened with relief. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you,” she said with feeling. “Thank you, Viggo.” She balled her fists, still tense, still pale. “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, once I’ve taken care of the paperwork.”

***

She came back two months later. They met in the private visiting room lawyers used. They chained Viggo down again in a chair facing the wall, as was regulation. But when the door opened again, he twisted his body around, so he could watch Nyssa come in.

She dragged her leg as she walked. The limp had been barely noticeable, back in the days, and only when she was too exhausted to cover it up. Her eyes took in Viggo, paused on his black eyes. She faltered, a troubled expression flitted across her face, then it hardened again. She dismissed the insisting guard in a terse manner that was new. She had changed – a lot. Pain had wrought so deep a transformation that she was like a different person altogether.

“Are you okay?” he blurted the instant they were alone.

He couldn't help it. He told himself it was idle curiosity.

She reacted like the question stung. “I'm fine.”

Lie. He had enough cop left in him that he knew that right away. He didn't pursue the matter, Lady Truth had long kicked him out of her service. He snorted.

“You?” she asked, her eyes on his bruises.

He shrugged with his whole body, his rolling muscles a silent threat. But she didn't even seem to notice. She was caught up with her own messy thoughts.

“What do you want, Nyssa?”

She launched herself in a sloppy apology, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything. I know you were telling the truth. You were framed – just the way you said you were.”

She dissolved in tears. She started crying so hard – Nyssa, resilient, bubbly Nyssa. Sobs raked her, working through her clenching, twitching muscles as if her little body couldn't hold all that misery anymore. He pulled on his chains. He didn't know what he would have done if he hadn't been held down. Slapping her held as much appeal as comforting her.

But the rattling startled her out of her bout of despair. Sniffing, clearing her throat, she wrestled her unhappiness under lock and key. A heart-breaking sadness lingered in her eyes, but she was once again calm and composed.

“It was my fault, you know. I did the DNA-testing. I was the one who matched the hair with you.” He knew that already. He remembered her taking the stand. He remembered how she had brazenly met his eyes and sent him straight to hell. “It was planted. The hair. It was planted. I should have seen it. I guess I did see it. I just didn't want to.”

She was barely breathing between words. He decided to interrupt before she collapsed. “Nyssa…”

She drew up, back so straight it had to be uncomfortable. “Don't call me that. Call me Miss Valdez. Anybody could walk in on us.”

“Why…” He shook himself. “Why should I…?”

He tilted his head, considering. She was planning something long-term. She was using a fake id. She was posing as his lawyer. It wasn't about apologizing – at least, not just about apologizing. What the hell did she want?

“Inessss,” he said, letting the S’s slither out of his mouth. “What do you want?”

Her next words tumbled out of her like she was puking them, “Russ did it.”

Russ. Detective Russel Pierce. Former partner. Former best friend.

It didn't come as the surprise it should have been. Five years was a long, bitter time, enough to give you thoughts of betrayal and a touch of disillusionment. And Russel had always been odd, all normal and sleek on the outside, but not so clean once you looked him up-close. He had been eerily good at putting himself in the suspects' shoes. He had also been a shameless womanizer who pursued women with an intensity Viggo had always found a little bit unsettling.

So, yes, maybe Russ had done it. Viggo accepted that the way he had learned to accept all the unpleasant facts of his life. He waited for the pain, the sting of betrayal. Nothing came. He still looked like a man, but he had as much of an ability to feel as the cold concrete walls of his cell.

Meanwhile, Nyssa kept talking, a little green in the face, “I know he did it. I…I know he killed again last year. A stripper from RD, downtown. I knew he was having an affair with her. Maybe he went overboard during sex. She was strangled. That's what he does when he gets rough. He puts his hands…”

She let out a little keening sound, lifting her hands to her neck. He did his best not to notice. He didn't…He couldn't start…He was in jail, for heaven's sake! He had a right not to care, he had a right to be selfish!

“He…He killed her,” she went on, eyes lowered. “I know that. We found hair clasped in her hand. A DNA match to a former boyfriend who had been stalking her. Real piece of work. Could have been him, but the scene…It was so neat and that hair…The strand was just too clean. I was…It was weird. Deja vu. You know the feeling. I was back working the Defoe murders.”

'Defoe'. The name socked him in the stomach. It reminded him of Helen, Brian and the kids, of the worst time in his life. His body was still there, but the Defoe case had killed him – had killed the good, naïve guy he had been.

“It kept nagging at me, and nagging. I kept looking into Crystal Sarasian's murder, even after the case was closed. She was seeing Russ. He was keeping it on the down-low because we were together at the time. But a man fitting his description was seen with her that night.” Her throat worked. Tentatively, guiltily, she met his eyes. “That's when I messed up. I'm sorry, Viggo. Peter. I'm sorry, Peter. I went to Levowsky. It was too soon. I didn't have enough proof. Not only did he dismiss it, but he forbade me to go anywhere near both cases – or anywhere near Russ.”

He stared at her unblinkingly. “He wouldn't have. He trusts you.”

“Not anymore. I messed up. After you got…” She gulped, looked away again. “I started drinking. It was pretty bad, I made mistakes. He stopped trusting me. So, I believe you, but I've got no proof. No proof, no credibility. No nothing.” Nothing. Nothing?! Rage swirled in the pit of his stomach. “I’ve stopped drinking. In case you're wondering. Two months sober.” He hadn't been wondering actually, but he should have. “Not that it changes anything. If I insist, they'll think it’s drunken paranoia. There's nothing I can do.”

She sure took the easy way out. She had found a great excuse not to act. He sank all his censure into two simple words, “You're outside.”

Simple words of blame to her simple words of trust.

She shrugged a little. “Yes, I am. But I might as well be in prison with you.” She laughed mirthlessly. He felt like throttling her. She thought she knew anything about life in jail?! “Russ is spying on me. All the damn time. He goes in and out of my flat as he pleases. He…”

Her voice broke for real now and she crossed her arms, trying to rub some warmth into her bare forearms. She was scared. Just speaking of Russ scared her. Viggo made a dispassionate note of her fear. His old self would have been skeptical, maybe a little sickened at the idea of Russ killing people, of Russ framing him, of Russ stalking a young woman. His former self would have felt pity, compassion toward Nyssa.

But he didn't experience anything of the sort.

Heart, dead. Mind, working. He needed more information to lay his own plans.

“Are you safe?” he asked.

“Safe,” she echoed. “No. He's going to kill me. Eventually, he's going to kill me.” Her voice held no self-pity, no alarm. It was a plain, matter-of-fact truth. “I know too much. But he's playing with me right now. Cruel games. I amuse him.” Cruel games. He refused to think about it. “Safety's a relative thing, isn't it?”

She was smiling – a dismal twist of her mouth. He tried to mirror her expression, sharing in her wry sense of humor. His facial muscles protested the strain. They couldn't quite manage a smile, and hers faded away. She reached for his hand, where it was cuffed to the metal table. Her touch was a jolt of electricity. He hadn't been touched – not that way – in years.

“God, what happened to us?” she whispered.

Tears filled her eyes.

“You're thinking about running away, aren't you?” he asked.

She didn't answer. She didn't need to – he knew. He knew because, after five years of imprisonment, running was the only thing on his mind. He didn't know if it was a plan, a picture or a dream anymore but, when he lied on his back in his cell, alone in the dark, it was all he could think about.

“Yes.”

Some of her tension drained away. At least, they had that in common: the dream, that was a picture, that was a plan.

“Then why are you here?” he asked.

Dangling a truth they couldn't prove, dangling a freedom he had lost.

She leaned over the table, toward him. Her voice dropped to a whisper, one he barely made out, “I want us both to run away.”

A tremor went through him. Running.

“I'm sorry, Viggo. I wish I could give you exoneration, I wish I could give you everything back. I wish I could give you your life back, but I can't. What I can do is get you out of here.”

“How?”

Her eyes narrowed, little lines appeared at the corners of her mouth, the way they always did when she was puzzling something out. “I haven't hammered out all the details yet. First, I needed to ask. Do you want me to…do it?”

“To break me out of jail?” he spelled out.

She nodded slightly, nervously. He relaxed back into his uncomfortable chair. God knew he wanted to say yes, but he couldn't. He had learned to suspect a trap anywhere, at any time and from anyone. Nyssa Malik appeared to be telling the truth. But maybe she was a paranoiac drunk, maybe she had a grudge against Russ. Or maybe Russ had sent her to torture Viggo. He didn't know. He just didn't know.

“I don't know.” Her eyelashes fluttered, covering what she thought, what she felt, her crushing disappointment. “I want to see that girl's case file and whatever you've got on the Defoe murders.” If only to make sure she wasn't completely delusional. “And I need to think about it.”

Think about…Fuck, so many things…Her little bombs made his head was spin. And it was getting to him. Everything she had said, it was finally catching up to him. What if she was telling the truth? And what if Russ killed her? If she was telling the truth, Viggo would be losing the only person who believed in his innocence!

“You can't wait, though, can you?” he asked. She looked up, her face lighting up like a lamp. “You’ve got to go in hiding, out of his reach.”

“There's nowhere I'd be out of his reach. He's a cop. I…I tried to…ask for help. Nobody listened. I tried to leave, and he found me again – and again. I think, next time, he’ll kill me.”

“Then…” He felt a strange reluctance and had to stop, to marshal his thoughts. What was left of his morals stung, but it was as much for her sake as for his. “Then, you need to lure him into a false sense of safety.”

“To…?” She frowned.

“He's all about control. I remember how he was. He despises the women he has sex with. He can’t see them as a threat.”

“You want me to…” She seemed to wither. “To sleep with him?”

“I want nothing,” he bit out. “You come here, blabbing nonsenses about freedom and breaking me out. I wasn’t asking. And there aren’t hundred ways to go from here. Either you get the fuck away…” She opened her mouth to shoot that possibility down, “You're bright enough to do it.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

It was despair. She wanted it to be guilt but really, it was despair bringing her to him. Whatever he could have felt, it helped him steel his heart against it. “Then, you’ve got to sleep with him.” He sounded harsh, he knew it, but he could see no better, no safer way. “It’s the only way he’ll relax his guard. Then, you can either break me out, or investigate him.”

“Investigate?” she repeated with that frown.

His lips complied this time and curved into a smirk. “You don't think that he has only done it twice, do you?”

Her eyes widened. Her lips formed words, although she didn't vocalize them, He will know.

He shrugged. He couldn't care. “I said nothing about it being safe.”

“There’s no such thing as safe,” she retorted sadly. “I'm going to die anyway, I've known that for a while.” She closed her eyes – tight, very tight, and she let all the air out of her chest. “But I want to see you out of here before I do.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Alright.” She called the guards to be let out of the room. The last thing she said before they led her away was, “You, think about it. I'll send the paperwork over.”

Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn't.

To know whether Nyssa and Viggo decide to run away together, read Chapter 1.2.