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discoveredinaljWell, can't call it completely joyful, but it does end up okay. Plus things may not be what they seem... But see the trailer at the end of the story if you need warnings.
Bodie undid the last lock, then slipped inside his apartment, getting just far enough in to hook the door shut with one booted foot. He then carefully redid all the locks, in sequence, as had been reinforced throughout his training until it was now second nature; then lastly, flipped the light switch and turned to face the room.
His apartment was tidy; not very big, as per CI5 standards, but it reflected the strict regimentation of his military background. Travel light and keep it sparse. That way, there was little to leave behind if he had to leave quickly, as had happened various times in his life.
Travel light applies to people as well as belongings. Nothing was going to weigh him down.
He willed himself to move, walked through the room, headed into the bedroom.
On this particular day, which made him question his position in CI5, Bodie was bone tired.
As a member of CI5, he was used to difficult situations, facing down life and death, charging into danger, gun drawn. There was no issue with his duties there. But he’d never thought that the most dangerous thing he could ever do was to play Father Christmas to a load of infants in a Christmas market.
He’d just spent the entire day being dribbled on by various and sundry little sprogs. The beard itched, the long red costume was too hot, the black boots were far too big, and who knew what the disease-ridden sprogs had transferred to him.
So now he was dead on his feed, he was hot and sweaty, he was hungry, and he wasn’t sure if he’d have enough energy to address all three.
And to what end? They hadn’t found the Hudense Liberation Army terrorists that had threatened to the Christmas fete. It wasn’t clear if the HLA were serious or just playing with them. The only victory he could truly claim was deflecting an incoming lolly before it had planted itself on the jacket – and he doubted that CI5 would pay for that cleaning bill.
At least it’s not the Americans’ Santa Claus. He wasn’t sure he could pull off an old fat man, even for Cowley.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 5:40 pm. Hard to tell the time, in the middle of the winter.
With military precision, he stripped off the costume, laid it on the chair next to the bed, passed by the airing cupboard, and decided that a shower was the easiest thing to accomplish.
As the water – hot as he could stand it – sluiced down his back, he spared a thought for his other half, his partner – somewhere up north, teasing out another thread from the same skein of wool: an IRA link to their friends the Hudenese.
On a solo mission. Without Bodie to guard his back. All on the whims of a certain Scotsman.
Not that Doyle would speak to him for a good while after the blowup during their last meeting.
Bodie allowed that it all might have something to do with his current sour mood, but refused to think about it further.
He shut off the water, made a cursory pass of the towel over his body, then scrubbed at his hair. Wrapping the damp towel around his body and securing it with a knot, he stalked over to the bed and sat on the edge.
Food, or sleep? Surprisingly, he wasn’t sure which to pick, for once. But a quick nap, followed by a hot meal might solve things. Yes, fifteen minutes’ worth of shut-eye should do the trick.
He leaned back on the pillow, mostly dry now, and closed his eyes.
Fifteen minutes.
<>==========<>
Bodie sat up suddenly, senses on full alert.
He checked the clock on the nightstand beside the bed: 5:53 pm. So much for a nap.
Quickly sorting out the pounding noise - someone’s at the door – he stood, adjusted the towel, and moved through the apartment.
The spyhole in the front door revealed a familiar tangle of blondish hair veering towards white. The Cow – what’s he doing here? Frowning, Bodie adjusted the towel a slight bit more for decorum's sake, then undid the locks and opened the door. “Good evening, sir.” He executed a perfect parade rest, despite the lack of clothing.
“Bodie – lad. Was already in the area, decided it best to stop by.”
“Come right in, sir.” Bodie stepped to the side as the imperious figure strode into the room. Bodie redid the locks, then walked to the drinks cabinet to automatically start pouring a malt whisky.
He was slightly puzzled; he would have expected some comment from the Cow about the lack of attire.
George Cowley sat down and made himself comfortable on the couch, then reached out for the drink Bodie offered him. But instead of taking a sip, he placed it carefully on a coaster on the table and focused his gaze directly on Bodie.
“Laddie, why don’t you sit down?” Cowley nodded at the chair opposite.
Perplexed, Bodie silently sat down, obedient.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Bodie. Doyle – Doyle was up north, as you know. Tracking down the HLA contacts with the IRA. We’ve lost Doyle.”
The confusion became numbness; he knew what that could mean. “He’s been kidnapped? By the IRA?”
“No, laddie. He’s been killed.”
“But – but – ” But I just spoke to him four days ago. But he was alive, and warm, and breathing – and more than angry at me.
“Yes, the IRA led him into a trap, cut him down, left... left him on the side of the road with a warning.”
Bodie sunk into the chair, deflated, unbelieving. He thought of the past few days; of storming into Cowley’s office, telling him in no uncertain terms that sending Doyle up north alone was an excuse for a suicide mission, that if something happened to Doyle, it would be on his head and his head alone.
And Cowley had cut him off, reminding him that he was not the comptroller, telling him that one more word and he would be out for insubordination, to be very careful how he tread.
Mind, Doyle had had no sympathy, either; had been livid that Bodie hadn’t had confidence in him to get this job done; had stormed off himself.
“Nothing to say, laddie. It’s a dangerous job, Doyle knew that. Can’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t blame myself. Not at all. I blame you. Sir.”
Cowley’s head snapped up, his spine straightened.
“I did say, sir, that this wouldn’t end well. I believe you told me to shut it, that you would kick me out if I uttered any further words.”
“Bodie - “ the lion arose in Cowley’s voice, warning.
“Well, you won’t have to worry about it, sir. Because I will save you the trouble. I am resigning.”
“You can’t resign, Bodie – not without my say so.”
“Yes I can, sir; that was the one part of the the small print that I did check. I will leave CI5, I will find out who killed Doyle, and I will make them pay. Undoubtedly the IRA and HLA will then kill me. And then you’ll have two deaths on your hands.”
“Don’t be hasty, man; we’re already on that trail. We have more resources than you can put together by yourself.”
“But not enough to keep Doyle alive – eh, Mr. Cowley?”
Cowley stood, put the barely-touched glass on the table. This time, not on the coaster.
“Bodie, you are obviously not in the right frame of mind. Today is Friday. I will give you the weekend to absorb all this. If you feel the same way, we will discuss this Monday morning in my office. 7:30.”
“Not changing my mind, sir. I plan to be long gone by Monday.”
“Bodie, think a minute! If you do this with the full resources of CI5 behind you -”
“Then Doyle will be just as dead.”
“Ach, there’s no talking sense into you, man. Be in my office at 7:30 on Monday. If you still feel the same way it’ll keep.”
Angry, Cowley arose and turned sharply for the door. His leg – the game leg, old Spanish Civil War wound, the one that troubled him from time to time – his leg gave out, and he fell backwards.
There was a sickening thud as his head hit the coffee table.
“Cowley!” Bodie came over, swooped down, knelt beside the figure. There were a few convulsions, then nothing. A thin seepage of blood trickled from the ear.
Bodie placed his fingers against the carotid artery, then shook his head. Rising to his feet, he stood for a moment, assessing the situation for a moment.
He could await an ambulance for a dead man.
Or he could go after Doyle’s killers.
He moved into the bedroom, pulled an overnight bag from the closet, started pulling out clothes to put into it.
He took his gun and holster from where it hung on the chair, and stopped to look at it.
Doyle is gone. The IRA killed him.
It was beginning to hit him.
No – the IRA pulled the trigger, or whatever they had done, but George Cowley killed him.
Maybe there was a certain justice in that.
<>==========<>
Bodie sat up suddenly, senses on full alert. Someone’s knocking at the door.
The clock showed 5:42.
He looked around: the bed was empty. No bag, no clothing. The Father Christmas outfit remained where he had draped it over the chair.
Swiftly moving into the living room, he checked there as well. Everything was in place: chairs in order, nothing on the coffee table. The drinks cart in order.
No body on the floor.
Sheesh – this obbo is playing with my head. He ran his hands through his hair in relief.
The pounding started up again.
He peeked through the spyhole. Bobby, one of his grasses, was raising his fist on the other side, ready to pound again.
How did he find me here?
“Bodie!” Bobby was almost wailing. “Open up, already!”
“Cut out the racket, Bobby, before you get the neighbours out. What do you want?” Bodie yelled from behind the locked door. “And how did you get past the outer door?”
“C’mon, Bodie! I was sent – w-was told you’d know what it was about, and there’s a time limit.”
Bodie reached under the side table next to the door, and carefully pulled out a pistol. “Okay, move back from the door a moment.”
Bodie slowly opened the door, swung out with the gun raised – but it was just Bobby, sniveling in the corridor.
“Fer Chrissakes, don’t shoot me on top of all this!”
“Get in here, Bobby,” Bodie snarled. “Don’t know how you got this address, but it’ll be the last time you’ll get use it. Now what do you want?”
The man stood, huddled, as Bodie closed the door and redid the locks.
S’not like him, Bodie thought. He’s a grass, but not a weasel. Something has him scared.
“They told me - “
“Who told you?”
“It’s in the note.” Bobby pulled an envelope from his worn jacket. “They said I knew you, told me where you lived, said to give this to you with no delay. Said it was about your partner – Doyle.”
Bodie grabbed the envelope, did a quick once-over of the outside, then opened the end.
A sheet of A4 fell out, done up using cut-out letters, like in a bad spy movie. The note read:
A second item was included: a snap of Doyle, bound and gagged, and shooting daggers. Bodie smiled inwardly. If he’s able to glower like that, he’s okay.
Or had been, when the picture was taken.
“Who gave you the envelope, Bobby?”
“I dunno, Bodie. Was minding my business, I was – then got knocked on the head. When I woke up, had a headache, a toothache, the envelope, and my own set of instructions.”
“Where are the instructions they gave you?” Bodie needed as much information in order to make a decision, and he would take whatever he could get.
Bobby handed over another lettered sheet, which had Bodie’s address and a sentence stating that the envelope must be delivered by hand by 5:00 pm, wait if he must.
He glanced at the clock – 5:38. “This says 5:00 pm. Where the hell have you been?”
“Well, you weren’t in at 5:00, now were you? They were quite explicit about the ‘by hand’ part.”
Some flexibility, then. The deadlines might be fairly arbitrary. One last thing, though, that doesn’t make sense.
“When they thumped you, where did they hit you?”
“Where?” Bobby thought for a second. “Back of the head, I suppose. Got a lump back there now.” He lifted an arm to rub his head, wincing as he did.
“You said a toothache. C’mere.” Bodie pulled the man into the kitchen, grabbing a torch from a utility drawer. “Say ahhh.”
The man obediently opened his jaw and Bodie shone the light in.
“You’ve been round to see your dentist lately, Bobby?”
“What? Dental work? Of course not, who has time for that?”
“Well, someone’s been busy in there.” Something’s been inserted into the molar. Transmitter? Poison pill? Bomb? Can’t tell by just looking.
“What?” Bobby was even more scared than before, if that were possible.
“Look, Bobby, I need you to focus.” Bodie sighed. Doyle would be much better at talking Bobby through this, get him calmed down. “Our friends, who sent you to me, have gone to a lot to trouble to get me to do something for them in short order. I will get you, Doyle, and the ultimate target out of this – but I need your help.” That should help distract him; and if it’s a transmitter, I sound as though I’m not immediately capitulating. Expected behaviour.“Okay?”
“S-sure, Bodie.”
He stared Bobby straight in the eye. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“No, you’ve been surprisingly fair, given your general reputation.”
Bodie scowled; Bobby grinned.
“Word on the street is that you’d work someone over as soon as talk to them. But you’ve been more than fair with me.”
“That should teach you, then – don’t believe everything you hear.” Bodie nodded sagely. “Now, then -” need to give him something to do, prevent any real info from accidentally getting transmitted – “I want you to list anything you remember in the couple of days before you got thumped.” He placed a piece of paper and a pencil on the table before Bobby. “Anything odd, anyone you don’t know suddenly showing up. Even the duffer at your local giving you the side eye.”
“Where are you going, then?”
“Just in here.” He gestured towards the bedroom. “You need me, come get me. But start on that list.”
“Okay.” Bobby sat down at the table, started writing.
Okay.
Bodie went into the bedroom, paced a bit. Three ways to handle this. One – I call this in somehow. There are probably taps on the phones, they may have compromised the R/Ts, and Bobby boy is likely a human transmitter; Doyle dies. Two – I kill Cowley. The rest of CI5 kills me, and Doyle kills me again if they let him go. Three – I rescue Doyle, which incidentally saves Cowley. No idea how, but that seems to be the way to go.
But there was one other way. He didn’t think that the HLA would have bothered to tap every phone in the neighbourhood. He would just need to get out, get to a private phone -
“Bodie?” Bobby stood in the doorway. “Remembered something – or someone – said he knew you – name was – ”
Bodie waved his hands in warning.
A deep ping cut through the sound in the apartment. Bobby frowned a bit, then swayed, and collapsed onto the carpet. Bodie’s only link to Doyle was dead.
<>==========<>
Bodie sat up suddenly, senses on full alert. Phone’s ringing.
He looked around: the room was empty, no bodies splayed across the doorway.
He looked at the clock; 6:40 pm.
*Brr-brrr* rang out again. He rolled over, picked up the receiver.
“Ullo.”
“Why, hello there, sunshine. Hear you’ve been lying down on the job.” Doyle’s growl came clear over the wires.
"Doyle!" Bodie was fully awake now. "You're..." He caught himself before blurting out 'alive!'. "Finished? Back from the cold reaches of the north?"
"Yes - Father has called me home, we got the information and a person of interest. It must be Christmas, after all. Miss me, sailor?"
Yes, more than I can ever tell you. "Got friendly with a few sprogs, came home to disinfect myself. You really should have pulled that duty."
"We go where Father tells us to. You should know that by now."
"I do. And - Doyle?"
"Yes?"
I am sorry I questioned your ability. I just am not sure what would happen - to me - if something were to happen - to you. "I knew you were up to it. Just was jealous you got all the fun."
"I shall take that as an apology. Now - Father Christmas is coming soon enough, and you may get a Hudenese in your stocking after all, but not tonight. The Cow asked me to write up my report now, and I should be done in about an hour; what say you to some takeaway, see what's on the television?"
"Sounds like a plan; maybe it'll be one of those Hollywood Christmas classics."
"Sure - as long as you don't try on an American accent. And before you do try one on, I will drop now, else you'll not see me before Jimmy Stewart does his finest."
"Okay, see you soon."
"See you. Bye."
Bodie felt better, more refreshed than any shower or food alone could make him. Everyone was alive - though he couldn't directly speak for Bobby. Doyle was safely home. Doyle would be over to his.
The best gift of all.
He could travel as lightly as he wanted, but there would always be one piece of luggage he'd never leave. Because Doyle was his partner.
Though I can't tell him that; I'd never hear the end of it. Have some standards after all.
~*~ fin ~*~
Title: Resolution
Author: golden_bastet
Slash or Gen: Implied slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: No, please
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above): see above
Disclaimer: I don't own anything - no I do not. I just played with them, and I put them back the way I found them when i was done. :nods:
Notes: Implied character deaths (but are they really?)
Bodie undid the last lock, then slipped inside his apartment, getting just far enough in to hook the door shut with one booted foot. He then carefully redid all the locks, in sequence, as had been reinforced throughout his training until it was now second nature; then lastly, flipped the light switch and turned to face the room.
His apartment was tidy; not very big, as per CI5 standards, but it reflected the strict regimentation of his military background. Travel light and keep it sparse. That way, there was little to leave behind if he had to leave quickly, as had happened various times in his life.
Travel light applies to people as well as belongings. Nothing was going to weigh him down.
He willed himself to move, walked through the room, headed into the bedroom.
On this particular day, which made him question his position in CI5, Bodie was bone tired.
As a member of CI5, he was used to difficult situations, facing down life and death, charging into danger, gun drawn. There was no issue with his duties there. But he’d never thought that the most dangerous thing he could ever do was to play Father Christmas to a load of infants in a Christmas market.
He’d just spent the entire day being dribbled on by various and sundry little sprogs. The beard itched, the long red costume was too hot, the black boots were far too big, and who knew what the disease-ridden sprogs had transferred to him.
So now he was dead on his feed, he was hot and sweaty, he was hungry, and he wasn’t sure if he’d have enough energy to address all three.
And to what end? They hadn’t found the Hudense Liberation Army terrorists that had threatened to the Christmas fete. It wasn’t clear if the HLA were serious or just playing with them. The only victory he could truly claim was deflecting an incoming lolly before it had planted itself on the jacket – and he doubted that CI5 would pay for that cleaning bill.
At least it’s not the Americans’ Santa Claus. He wasn’t sure he could pull off an old fat man, even for Cowley.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 5:40 pm. Hard to tell the time, in the middle of the winter.
With military precision, he stripped off the costume, laid it on the chair next to the bed, passed by the airing cupboard, and decided that a shower was the easiest thing to accomplish.
As the water – hot as he could stand it – sluiced down his back, he spared a thought for his other half, his partner – somewhere up north, teasing out another thread from the same skein of wool: an IRA link to their friends the Hudenese.
On a solo mission. Without Bodie to guard his back. All on the whims of a certain Scotsman.
Not that Doyle would speak to him for a good while after the blowup during their last meeting.
Bodie allowed that it all might have something to do with his current sour mood, but refused to think about it further.
He shut off the water, made a cursory pass of the towel over his body, then scrubbed at his hair. Wrapping the damp towel around his body and securing it with a knot, he stalked over to the bed and sat on the edge.
Food, or sleep? Surprisingly, he wasn’t sure which to pick, for once. But a quick nap, followed by a hot meal might solve things. Yes, fifteen minutes’ worth of shut-eye should do the trick.
He leaned back on the pillow, mostly dry now, and closed his eyes.
Fifteen minutes.
<>==========<>
Bodie sat up suddenly, senses on full alert.
He checked the clock on the nightstand beside the bed: 5:53 pm. So much for a nap.
Quickly sorting out the pounding noise - someone’s at the door – he stood, adjusted the towel, and moved through the apartment.
The spyhole in the front door revealed a familiar tangle of blondish hair veering towards white. The Cow – what’s he doing here? Frowning, Bodie adjusted the towel a slight bit more for decorum's sake, then undid the locks and opened the door. “Good evening, sir.” He executed a perfect parade rest, despite the lack of clothing.
“Bodie – lad. Was already in the area, decided it best to stop by.”
“Come right in, sir.” Bodie stepped to the side as the imperious figure strode into the room. Bodie redid the locks, then walked to the drinks cabinet to automatically start pouring a malt whisky.
He was slightly puzzled; he would have expected some comment from the Cow about the lack of attire.
George Cowley sat down and made himself comfortable on the couch, then reached out for the drink Bodie offered him. But instead of taking a sip, he placed it carefully on a coaster on the table and focused his gaze directly on Bodie.
“Laddie, why don’t you sit down?” Cowley nodded at the chair opposite.
Perplexed, Bodie silently sat down, obedient.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Bodie. Doyle – Doyle was up north, as you know. Tracking down the HLA contacts with the IRA. We’ve lost Doyle.”
The confusion became numbness; he knew what that could mean. “He’s been kidnapped? By the IRA?”
“No, laddie. He’s been killed.”
“But – but – ” But I just spoke to him four days ago. But he was alive, and warm, and breathing – and more than angry at me.
“Yes, the IRA led him into a trap, cut him down, left... left him on the side of the road with a warning.”
Bodie sunk into the chair, deflated, unbelieving. He thought of the past few days; of storming into Cowley’s office, telling him in no uncertain terms that sending Doyle up north alone was an excuse for a suicide mission, that if something happened to Doyle, it would be on his head and his head alone.
And Cowley had cut him off, reminding him that he was not the comptroller, telling him that one more word and he would be out for insubordination, to be very careful how he tread.
Mind, Doyle had had no sympathy, either; had been livid that Bodie hadn’t had confidence in him to get this job done; had stormed off himself.
“Nothing to say, laddie. It’s a dangerous job, Doyle knew that. Can’t blame yourself.”
“I don’t blame myself. Not at all. I blame you. Sir.”
Cowley’s head snapped up, his spine straightened.
“I did say, sir, that this wouldn’t end well. I believe you told me to shut it, that you would kick me out if I uttered any further words.”
“Bodie - “ the lion arose in Cowley’s voice, warning.
“Well, you won’t have to worry about it, sir. Because I will save you the trouble. I am resigning.”
“You can’t resign, Bodie – not without my say so.”
“Yes I can, sir; that was the one part of the the small print that I did check. I will leave CI5, I will find out who killed Doyle, and I will make them pay. Undoubtedly the IRA and HLA will then kill me. And then you’ll have two deaths on your hands.”
“Don’t be hasty, man; we’re already on that trail. We have more resources than you can put together by yourself.”
“But not enough to keep Doyle alive – eh, Mr. Cowley?”
Cowley stood, put the barely-touched glass on the table. This time, not on the coaster.
“Bodie, you are obviously not in the right frame of mind. Today is Friday. I will give you the weekend to absorb all this. If you feel the same way, we will discuss this Monday morning in my office. 7:30.”
“Not changing my mind, sir. I plan to be long gone by Monday.”
“Bodie, think a minute! If you do this with the full resources of CI5 behind you -”
“Then Doyle will be just as dead.”
“Ach, there’s no talking sense into you, man. Be in my office at 7:30 on Monday. If you still feel the same way it’ll keep.”
Angry, Cowley arose and turned sharply for the door. His leg – the game leg, old Spanish Civil War wound, the one that troubled him from time to time – his leg gave out, and he fell backwards.
There was a sickening thud as his head hit the coffee table.
“Cowley!” Bodie came over, swooped down, knelt beside the figure. There were a few convulsions, then nothing. A thin seepage of blood trickled from the ear.
Bodie placed his fingers against the carotid artery, then shook his head. Rising to his feet, he stood for a moment, assessing the situation for a moment.
He could await an ambulance for a dead man.
Or he could go after Doyle’s killers.
He moved into the bedroom, pulled an overnight bag from the closet, started pulling out clothes to put into it.
He took his gun and holster from where it hung on the chair, and stopped to look at it.
Doyle is gone. The IRA killed him.
It was beginning to hit him.
No – the IRA pulled the trigger, or whatever they had done, but George Cowley killed him.
Maybe there was a certain justice in that.
<>==========<>
Bodie sat up suddenly, senses on full alert. Someone’s knocking at the door.
The clock showed 5:42.
He looked around: the bed was empty. No bag, no clothing. The Father Christmas outfit remained where he had draped it over the chair.
Swiftly moving into the living room, he checked there as well. Everything was in place: chairs in order, nothing on the coffee table. The drinks cart in order.
No body on the floor.
Sheesh – this obbo is playing with my head. He ran his hands through his hair in relief.
The pounding started up again.
He peeked through the spyhole. Bobby, one of his grasses, was raising his fist on the other side, ready to pound again.
How did he find me here?
“Bodie!” Bobby was almost wailing. “Open up, already!”
“Cut out the racket, Bobby, before you get the neighbours out. What do you want?” Bodie yelled from behind the locked door. “And how did you get past the outer door?”
“C’mon, Bodie! I was sent – w-was told you’d know what it was about, and there’s a time limit.”
Bodie reached under the side table next to the door, and carefully pulled out a pistol. “Okay, move back from the door a moment.”
Bodie slowly opened the door, swung out with the gun raised – but it was just Bobby, sniveling in the corridor.
“Fer Chrissakes, don’t shoot me on top of all this!”
“Get in here, Bobby,” Bodie snarled. “Don’t know how you got this address, but it’ll be the last time you’ll get use it. Now what do you want?”
The man stood, huddled, as Bodie closed the door and redid the locks.
S’not like him, Bodie thought. He’s a grass, but not a weasel. Something has him scared.
“They told me - “
“Who told you?”
“It’s in the note.” Bobby pulled an envelope from his worn jacket. “They said I knew you, told me where you lived, said to give this to you with no delay. Said it was about your partner – Doyle.”
Bodie grabbed the envelope, did a quick once-over of the outside, then opened the end.
A sheet of A4 fell out, done up using cut-out letters, like in a bad spy movie. The note read:
You have misplaced Raymond Doyle!
If you want him back alive and whole, you have one hour to kill George Cowley.
Proof will be required; we will contact you on that.
If you tell anyone, you will get him back – piece by piece.
- HLA
A second item was included: a snap of Doyle, bound and gagged, and shooting daggers. Bodie smiled inwardly. If he’s able to glower like that, he’s okay.
Or had been, when the picture was taken.
“Who gave you the envelope, Bobby?”
“I dunno, Bodie. Was minding my business, I was – then got knocked on the head. When I woke up, had a headache, a toothache, the envelope, and my own set of instructions.”
“Where are the instructions they gave you?” Bodie needed as much information in order to make a decision, and he would take whatever he could get.
Bobby handed over another lettered sheet, which had Bodie’s address and a sentence stating that the envelope must be delivered by hand by 5:00 pm, wait if he must.
He glanced at the clock – 5:38. “This says 5:00 pm. Where the hell have you been?”
“Well, you weren’t in at 5:00, now were you? They were quite explicit about the ‘by hand’ part.”
Some flexibility, then. The deadlines might be fairly arbitrary. One last thing, though, that doesn’t make sense.
“When they thumped you, where did they hit you?”
“Where?” Bobby thought for a second. “Back of the head, I suppose. Got a lump back there now.” He lifted an arm to rub his head, wincing as he did.
“You said a toothache. C’mere.” Bodie pulled the man into the kitchen, grabbing a torch from a utility drawer. “Say ahhh.”
The man obediently opened his jaw and Bodie shone the light in.
“You’ve been round to see your dentist lately, Bobby?”
“What? Dental work? Of course not, who has time for that?”
“Well, someone’s been busy in there.” Something’s been inserted into the molar. Transmitter? Poison pill? Bomb? Can’t tell by just looking.
“What?” Bobby was even more scared than before, if that were possible.
“Look, Bobby, I need you to focus.” Bodie sighed. Doyle would be much better at talking Bobby through this, get him calmed down. “Our friends, who sent you to me, have gone to a lot to trouble to get me to do something for them in short order. I will get you, Doyle, and the ultimate target out of this – but I need your help.” That should help distract him; and if it’s a transmitter, I sound as though I’m not immediately capitulating. Expected behaviour.“Okay?”
“S-sure, Bodie.”
He stared Bobby straight in the eye. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“No, you’ve been surprisingly fair, given your general reputation.”
Bodie scowled; Bobby grinned.
“Word on the street is that you’d work someone over as soon as talk to them. But you’ve been more than fair with me.”
“That should teach you, then – don’t believe everything you hear.” Bodie nodded sagely. “Now, then -” need to give him something to do, prevent any real info from accidentally getting transmitted – “I want you to list anything you remember in the couple of days before you got thumped.” He placed a piece of paper and a pencil on the table before Bobby. “Anything odd, anyone you don’t know suddenly showing up. Even the duffer at your local giving you the side eye.”
“Where are you going, then?”
“Just in here.” He gestured towards the bedroom. “You need me, come get me. But start on that list.”
“Okay.” Bobby sat down at the table, started writing.
Okay.
Bodie went into the bedroom, paced a bit. Three ways to handle this. One – I call this in somehow. There are probably taps on the phones, they may have compromised the R/Ts, and Bobby boy is likely a human transmitter; Doyle dies. Two – I kill Cowley. The rest of CI5 kills me, and Doyle kills me again if they let him go. Three – I rescue Doyle, which incidentally saves Cowley. No idea how, but that seems to be the way to go.
But there was one other way. He didn’t think that the HLA would have bothered to tap every phone in the neighbourhood. He would just need to get out, get to a private phone -
“Bodie?” Bobby stood in the doorway. “Remembered something – or someone – said he knew you – name was – ”
Bodie waved his hands in warning.
A deep ping cut through the sound in the apartment. Bobby frowned a bit, then swayed, and collapsed onto the carpet. Bodie’s only link to Doyle was dead.
<>==========<>
Bodie sat up suddenly, senses on full alert. Phone’s ringing.
He looked around: the room was empty, no bodies splayed across the doorway.
He looked at the clock; 6:40 pm.
*Brr-brrr* rang out again. He rolled over, picked up the receiver.
“Ullo.”
“Why, hello there, sunshine. Hear you’ve been lying down on the job.” Doyle’s growl came clear over the wires.
"Doyle!" Bodie was fully awake now. "You're..." He caught himself before blurting out 'alive!'. "Finished? Back from the cold reaches of the north?"
"Yes - Father has called me home, we got the information and a person of interest. It must be Christmas, after all. Miss me, sailor?"
Yes, more than I can ever tell you. "Got friendly with a few sprogs, came home to disinfect myself. You really should have pulled that duty."
"We go where Father tells us to. You should know that by now."
"I do. And - Doyle?"
"Yes?"
I am sorry I questioned your ability. I just am not sure what would happen - to me - if something were to happen - to you. "I knew you were up to it. Just was jealous you got all the fun."
"I shall take that as an apology. Now - Father Christmas is coming soon enough, and you may get a Hudenese in your stocking after all, but not tonight. The Cow asked me to write up my report now, and I should be done in about an hour; what say you to some takeaway, see what's on the television?"
"Sounds like a plan; maybe it'll be one of those Hollywood Christmas classics."
"Sure - as long as you don't try on an American accent. And before you do try one on, I will drop now, else you'll not see me before Jimmy Stewart does his finest."
"Okay, see you soon."
"See you. Bye."
Bodie felt better, more refreshed than any shower or food alone could make him. Everyone was alive - though he couldn't directly speak for Bobby. Doyle was safely home. Doyle would be over to his.
The best gift of all.
He could travel as lightly as he wanted, but there would always be one piece of luggage he'd never leave. Because Doyle was his partner.
Though I can't tell him that; I'd never hear the end of it. Have some standards after all.
~*~ fin ~*~
Title: Resolution
Author: golden_bastet
Slash or Gen: Implied slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: No, please
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above): see above
Disclaimer: I don't own anything - no I do not. I just played with them, and I put them back the way I found them when i was done. :nods:
Notes: Implied character deaths (but are they really?)
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no subject
Date: 2020-12-29 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-29 05:55 am (UTC)Bodie's got a lot on his mind these days. But he's well on the way to realizing that Doyle can help him with that. ;-)
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Date: 2020-12-29 07:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-29 02:23 pm (UTC)Nice work.
Best wishes for the New Year.
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Date: 2020-12-29 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-29 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-30 02:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-12-30 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-01-03 02:04 am (UTC)