Unfinished Business (Challenge #149) -- PG-13
Posted: Tue Jun 11, 2013 7:49 pm
So, I decided to tackle a conundrum that’s been much discussed since 2007…and in some ways, it’s a bit of ‘unfinished business’ from the series itself. Here’s a theory about, well, you’ll just have to read it and find out. Usual disclaimers apply—I don’t own anything from Moonlight, I just like to play with the concepts.
Unfinished Business
Bob Vincent hung up the phone and took a deep breath, trying to still the shaking in his hands. He looked through the arched doorway into the living room. Jennifer was slumped on the couch, staring at the TV. She was pouting as only a 14-year-old can, angry at him for making her turn down the volume when the phone rang.
Every once in a while, a call would come; someone asking questions about his daughter, Morgan. He didn't believe for a minute that this latest caller was really from the Northwestern Alumni Association. He'd been coached, of course, on how to respond. Yes, Morgan was his oldest daughter. Yes, she'd moved to Los Angeles recently. No, he didn't have an address for her. She was still finding her feet, looking for a permanent place. As far as he knew, she was staying with some old college friends. And no, he didn't happen to have their names.
Jennifer had her feet up on the coffee table again, but he didn't have the heart to give her any grief about it. He was too easy on her, he knew, but it was only two of them now. Sandra was gone, who knew where, and Morgan… It broke his heart to think about Morgan.
He'd given everything away for the sake of vengeance, only to discover that vengeance was worth nothing, and the bargain he'd made had turned him into nothing more than a loose end, a piece of unfinished business.
The next step was to call the number, the one he'd memorized the night he'd made his deal with the devil. Devils, really. He wasn't sure which one scared him more, the brunette or the blonde. But he'd be talking to one of them soon, and if his luck was really out, one of them might be on his doorstep before the night was through. He thought about sending Jennifer away, but where would she go where those two couldn't find her? At 14, there was no way she could survive on her own.
He buried his face in his hands. He'd just have to see it through, and hope they would agree that he’d held up his end of the deal.
Those years ago, they’d seemed like avenging angels. Like the answer to his anguished prayers. It still hurt to think about it, but he couldn't keep the pictures out of his head. Like some photo album of pain and damnation, the events were there, captured in snapshots that burned before his eyes.
Morgan, lying in the hospital, beaten, violated. His frantic phone calls to keep the story private. The police, doing nothing. And week later, finding her in the bathtub, wrists slit, drowned in an ocean of blood and despair.
The authorities took the body away to the morgue, saying there had to be an autopsy. Just another violation of his beautiful daughter. He never thought to question how the women found him. They just turned up at his door the next night. The dark one, who called herself Vivienne Steele, offered him a deal. Her voice was soft, but deadly serious.
"You've suffered a tragedy, Mr. Vincent," she said. "What I can do for you won't make it right, but it might make it better."
"Nothing could make it better. My daughter is dead, and my wife is dying."
He remembered that the blonde one had lifted her head and taken a deep sniff. She cast a glance at her companion, and nodded. "Cancer," she said. "Advanced."
Ms. Steele shook her head looking a little sad. "I’m sorry, I can't do anything about that."
"Then forgive my asking, but what can you do?"
She smiled, a radiance seeming to light her face. "I can take out the man who hurt your daughter. And trust me; he'll suffer before I’m through."
He could feel his fists clenching at his sides. He'd always been a law-abiding citizen, paid his taxes. Hell, he didn't even speed. But ever since this – this desecration, he'd been thinking about murder. And here was someone offering him the results he wanted without his hands getting dirty.
"Suppose I agree," he said, "you must want something. And you've got to know I'm not a rich man."
She had a laugh like silver bells. Even her blonde companion looked amused. "Oh no, Mr. Vincent, I'll be paying you. What I want is far more intangible than mere money."
He frowned in some consternation. "I don't understand."
"I need your daughter's name, Mr. Vincent. I need her identity."
But that was later. That night, they talked about details, for the next couple of hours. It all sounded plausible and fair, and he hadn’t had time to formulate deeper doubts and questions.. Nevertheless, he hesitated. Told them he had to talk it over with his wife. But all along, he knew that he'd accept. Because he couldn’t bear to think of the man who had destroyed his beautiful daughter walking around, unpunished. It was simply too wrong to contemplate.
Sandra had horrified at the thought. Although she was as devastated as he, she had more forgiveness in her. And perhaps her illness made her more philosophical. She saw, as he did not, that what seemed like a simple bargain had repercussions that would echo down the years. She begged him to let it be, to let the police do their work, but he hadn't listened. The idea that he could know for sure that cold justice had been done was too tempting.
Sealing the deal didn't seem like much. He handed over a few papers, a few photographs. They gave him a piece of paper with two numbers. One was to an offshore account, with enough money, as they’d negotiated, to cover all of Sandra's medical bills, with enough left over to make a good start on a college fund for little Jennifer. The other was a phone number.
"Whenever anyone calls, asking about Morgan, verify that she's your daughter. If they ask for contact information for her, put them off," Ms. Steele said.
"Then call this number immediately," the blonde added. "We'll take it from there." She paused for effect, and smiled. On her, the expression was chilling. "If you fail to follow instructions, Mr. Vincent, bad things could happen." Her smile grew wider. "Very… Bad… Things."
Ms. Steele laughed, but her eyes betrayed no hint of mirth. "I'm sure we have nothing to worry about, do we, Mr. Vincent? Or should I say, Dad?"
It didn’t occur to him until much, much later to wonder about how they knew about Morgan. To wonder if Ms. Steele had been watching her, had spotted her as a person whose identity she could use. As the years went on, he’d watched, seen the photos credited as “Morgan Vincent’s” work. He was no expert, but whatever else the woman was, she was every bit as good a photographer as his Morgan had been. An even more disturbing thought was that if Morgan’s identity had been wanted, how far would Ms. Steele have gone to make sure it was…available? What had been tragic mischance, and what had been planned?
Bob Vincent gave himself a mental shake. This wasn't the first time he'd gotten a call. But each time, he regretted his stupidity. Oh, they'd kept their end. He'd known when he saw the news article about a brutal, horrific murder. When the remains had been identified, he'd been even more sure. In his heart of hearts, he was glad the man was dead. To claim otherwise, even to himself, would be hypocritical. And yet, Sandra had been right. The man’s death had changed nothing. Morgan was gone. And Sandra, his beloved Sandra, had left him. Sick as she was, she left. Even now, he had no idea whether she was still alive, or if her illness had claimed her at last.
He'd never forget the words she'd spoken before she went. "I can't bear to look at you. I can't touch that money, and I can't stay in this house."
Jennifer had been so young at the time, barely nine, and he had kept as much from her as he possibly could. One day, she would have to know the secrets, he supposed, but as he looked at her, sulking on the couch, he thought that the worst thing in her world was a father who was a little bit grumpy from time to time. And for now, he wanted that to stay the same.
The phone rang three times before she answered. "Dad," she said, her soft voice unchanged, "it's so nice to hear from you again. How are things at home?"
Unfinished Business
Bob Vincent hung up the phone and took a deep breath, trying to still the shaking in his hands. He looked through the arched doorway into the living room. Jennifer was slumped on the couch, staring at the TV. She was pouting as only a 14-year-old can, angry at him for making her turn down the volume when the phone rang.
Every once in a while, a call would come; someone asking questions about his daughter, Morgan. He didn't believe for a minute that this latest caller was really from the Northwestern Alumni Association. He'd been coached, of course, on how to respond. Yes, Morgan was his oldest daughter. Yes, she'd moved to Los Angeles recently. No, he didn't have an address for her. She was still finding her feet, looking for a permanent place. As far as he knew, she was staying with some old college friends. And no, he didn't happen to have their names.
Jennifer had her feet up on the coffee table again, but he didn't have the heart to give her any grief about it. He was too easy on her, he knew, but it was only two of them now. Sandra was gone, who knew where, and Morgan… It broke his heart to think about Morgan.
He'd given everything away for the sake of vengeance, only to discover that vengeance was worth nothing, and the bargain he'd made had turned him into nothing more than a loose end, a piece of unfinished business.
The next step was to call the number, the one he'd memorized the night he'd made his deal with the devil. Devils, really. He wasn't sure which one scared him more, the brunette or the blonde. But he'd be talking to one of them soon, and if his luck was really out, one of them might be on his doorstep before the night was through. He thought about sending Jennifer away, but where would she go where those two couldn't find her? At 14, there was no way she could survive on her own.
He buried his face in his hands. He'd just have to see it through, and hope they would agree that he’d held up his end of the deal.
Those years ago, they’d seemed like avenging angels. Like the answer to his anguished prayers. It still hurt to think about it, but he couldn't keep the pictures out of his head. Like some photo album of pain and damnation, the events were there, captured in snapshots that burned before his eyes.
Morgan, lying in the hospital, beaten, violated. His frantic phone calls to keep the story private. The police, doing nothing. And week later, finding her in the bathtub, wrists slit, drowned in an ocean of blood and despair.
The authorities took the body away to the morgue, saying there had to be an autopsy. Just another violation of his beautiful daughter. He never thought to question how the women found him. They just turned up at his door the next night. The dark one, who called herself Vivienne Steele, offered him a deal. Her voice was soft, but deadly serious.
"You've suffered a tragedy, Mr. Vincent," she said. "What I can do for you won't make it right, but it might make it better."
"Nothing could make it better. My daughter is dead, and my wife is dying."
He remembered that the blonde one had lifted her head and taken a deep sniff. She cast a glance at her companion, and nodded. "Cancer," she said. "Advanced."
Ms. Steele shook her head looking a little sad. "I’m sorry, I can't do anything about that."
"Then forgive my asking, but what can you do?"
She smiled, a radiance seeming to light her face. "I can take out the man who hurt your daughter. And trust me; he'll suffer before I’m through."
He could feel his fists clenching at his sides. He'd always been a law-abiding citizen, paid his taxes. Hell, he didn't even speed. But ever since this – this desecration, he'd been thinking about murder. And here was someone offering him the results he wanted without his hands getting dirty.
"Suppose I agree," he said, "you must want something. And you've got to know I'm not a rich man."
She had a laugh like silver bells. Even her blonde companion looked amused. "Oh no, Mr. Vincent, I'll be paying you. What I want is far more intangible than mere money."
He frowned in some consternation. "I don't understand."
"I need your daughter's name, Mr. Vincent. I need her identity."
But that was later. That night, they talked about details, for the next couple of hours. It all sounded plausible and fair, and he hadn’t had time to formulate deeper doubts and questions.. Nevertheless, he hesitated. Told them he had to talk it over with his wife. But all along, he knew that he'd accept. Because he couldn’t bear to think of the man who had destroyed his beautiful daughter walking around, unpunished. It was simply too wrong to contemplate.
Sandra had horrified at the thought. Although she was as devastated as he, she had more forgiveness in her. And perhaps her illness made her more philosophical. She saw, as he did not, that what seemed like a simple bargain had repercussions that would echo down the years. She begged him to let it be, to let the police do their work, but he hadn't listened. The idea that he could know for sure that cold justice had been done was too tempting.
Sealing the deal didn't seem like much. He handed over a few papers, a few photographs. They gave him a piece of paper with two numbers. One was to an offshore account, with enough money, as they’d negotiated, to cover all of Sandra's medical bills, with enough left over to make a good start on a college fund for little Jennifer. The other was a phone number.
"Whenever anyone calls, asking about Morgan, verify that she's your daughter. If they ask for contact information for her, put them off," Ms. Steele said.
"Then call this number immediately," the blonde added. "We'll take it from there." She paused for effect, and smiled. On her, the expression was chilling. "If you fail to follow instructions, Mr. Vincent, bad things could happen." Her smile grew wider. "Very… Bad… Things."
Ms. Steele laughed, but her eyes betrayed no hint of mirth. "I'm sure we have nothing to worry about, do we, Mr. Vincent? Or should I say, Dad?"
It didn’t occur to him until much, much later to wonder about how they knew about Morgan. To wonder if Ms. Steele had been watching her, had spotted her as a person whose identity she could use. As the years went on, he’d watched, seen the photos credited as “Morgan Vincent’s” work. He was no expert, but whatever else the woman was, she was every bit as good a photographer as his Morgan had been. An even more disturbing thought was that if Morgan’s identity had been wanted, how far would Ms. Steele have gone to make sure it was…available? What had been tragic mischance, and what had been planned?
Bob Vincent gave himself a mental shake. This wasn't the first time he'd gotten a call. But each time, he regretted his stupidity. Oh, they'd kept their end. He'd known when he saw the news article about a brutal, horrific murder. When the remains had been identified, he'd been even more sure. In his heart of hearts, he was glad the man was dead. To claim otherwise, even to himself, would be hypocritical. And yet, Sandra had been right. The man’s death had changed nothing. Morgan was gone. And Sandra, his beloved Sandra, had left him. Sick as she was, she left. Even now, he had no idea whether she was still alive, or if her illness had claimed her at last.
He'd never forget the words she'd spoken before she went. "I can't bear to look at you. I can't touch that money, and I can't stay in this house."
Jennifer had been so young at the time, barely nine, and he had kept as much from her as he possibly could. One day, she would have to know the secrets, he supposed, but as he looked at her, sulking on the couch, he thought that the worst thing in her world was a father who was a little bit grumpy from time to time. And for now, he wanted that to stay the same.
The phone rang three times before she answered. "Dad," she said, her soft voice unchanged, "it's so nice to hear from you again. How are things at home?"