+18 - eps 28-32 - On the sixth installment of the Blackbird series, Cassidy sends Gillian and her team with Brock and Russel to Tampa, Florida, to look into the death of a girl while winter storm Jonas beats the East Coast. But this seemingly ordina...
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As soon as they got in the SUV, she pulled a laptop from under her jacket. Brock didn't even glance at her. He kept a blank scowl on the road—or what little he could see of it through the thick rain pouring on the windshield.
He let the wiper swing a couple of times, then asked, "Did you take that from Irene's car?"
Gillian nodded, wondering if she loved him enough to take the scolding his scowl forecast.
White fire glared in the dark clouds looming above the Trail, and a fearsome lightning bolt branched off straight ahead of them, over Hunter's Green. Thunder busted like a zillion shattering glasses. Gillian managed not to sink her head between her shoulders just out of instinct, but her eyes fluttered.
Bock waited for the thrashing echoes to die away. He realized he needed to raise his voice anyway, to overcome the loud clatter of the rain on the SUV. The wiper pushed the water in little waves.
"What else did you find?"
No scolding? She kept her eyes ahead, both hands on the computer on her lap.
"I didn't steal any more evidence, if that's what you mean, sir."
His scowl turned into a mild frown as his lips pursed. Gillian suffocated a groan. Oh, no. Not the smiling frown. It turned her knees to jelly every damn time. Her knuckles went white around the edge of the laptop. No use. Her porcupine armor was defused in a heartbeat.
"You didn't answer my question..." His voice remained calm despite of the noise.
She didn't dare to look at him. Because if his lips were still pursed, she'd have no other choice than introducing him in real life to what she'd shown him in dreams so many times: the concept of wild sex with her in the car.
"Fred found it in the trunk, along with a small suitcase full of women's wear," she replied, trying to sound as calm as him.
"In the trunk... Did he tell you if there was blood inside of it? There was some on the back bumper, but I didn't see any on the seats."
Gillian shook his head. He let his scowl back in place. The wiper whined at every swing. He managed not to play Titanic into a couple of ponds deep enough to swallow the entire SUV, but his mind stayed on what they were talking.
"Irene's body was clean, according to the pictures the police gave us," he said. "And she was dressed when she was found. No underwear, but top and jeans."
"Not to mention her wallet and phone in her pockets. But she couldn't be dressed when he tortured her. They found her lying on her belly... Remorse?"
"Usually. Yet, he spent some time with her body, in order to wash her clean and dress her up."
"I'm gonna be sick for real," she grunted.
"Later," he replied, colloquial. "Remorse or forensic countermeasure...?"
She flashed a bitter smile at the way he kept her focused on the reasoning side, no matter how horrible. "Washing her would've been enough. He didn't need to dress her up."
"So he developed some kind of emotional bond with her through torture."
Gillian scowled. "What?"
Brock glanced at her, surprised at her shock. "He's grateful to her for the pleasure she provided him. He feels remorse about going too far and killing the source of his pleasure. So he tries to show both his gratitude and his remorse by taking care of her body."
She grimaced, disgusted to no end.
"There must be a plastic bag in the gloves compartment."
Gillian was able to notice the way he said it. Not mocking, but definitely humorous. Brock made a joke! Surely the next lightning would strike straight on the SUV. She managed a scoff.
Brock liked how she let him ease the horror and insanity underlying his explanation. A minute later, he was grateful to leave the Trail for the paved avenue that would take them to Downs Boulevard and the I-75.
"I was thinking about the needle marks in Irene's arms..." she said then. Psycho-bastards aside, she loved the chance of having this conversation with Brock. And she didn't want it to end so soon.
"Addicts are high-risk victims," he said.
She nodded, agreeing. "They're usually more straightforward with strangers, in order to get hold of their next fix. Easy prey in dangerous circles."
He nodded, master to young grasshopper. "You think that's how our subject found her?"
She shrugged with a quick grimace. "I don't know, sir. Maybe? We know she left the gas station alive and kicking, but she never made it to her hotel, only two miles away."
"There was nothing on the traffic cameras?"
"They hadn't sent them by the time we left. I trust T will have them by now."
He knew what it meant, so he didn't ask any further. "We should take a look at the hotel area. Maybe there are bars, or some other place where Irene stopped on her way there."
She frowned. "Now?"
Brock scoffed. "I think we better get some dry clothes first."
She automatically smiled back. Gosh, it was so easy, talking to him, being with him. It felt both good and right. It was terrifying.
