*****Author's Note: It's good to be back, for real, this time, I promise. There's been so much going on in the real world that's blown me head over heels with stress that I just COULDN'T write, even when I thought I had good ideas, or had a spare moment to sit down and concentrate. I want to thank everyone over at the Twisted Sisterhood for all the support you're given me and my writing during a period in my life that was absolutely horrible. I especially have to thank my best friend Jackie for all of her love and support during everything that's made me an emotional wreck, and for being the rock throughout. I hope everyone enjoys Chapter XVIII as much as I enjoyed writing it.

P.S.- I've come to realize that as this story takes place over the course of several days that will become weeks, I'm introducing the date at the beginning of each day so you have an idea of when everything is going on in relation to everything else.

P.P.S.- Anyone who may rival me in being an insomniac and a chronic T.V. junkie may notice a few new, but familiar faces cropping up in the next couple of chapters. I'm a HUGE fan of CSI:NY, and LOST. (WHO ISN'T A FAN OF LOST, REALLY?) You may notice a few guest appreances from CSI:NY investigators and, like in the chapter, CSI:NY M.E. Sheldon Hawkes. There really isn't any reason to have Jack Shepard from LOST in there, but I was getting greedy with my favorite characters, and I just loved the idea of having them all in the same canon. They're not there are a plot focus, it's still OZ/SVU, but it's interesting to have them pop up once in a while. Tara*****

It’s a really simple idea, but I don’t think Orson Welles has ever been to OZ.

In many native cultures, the idea of loneliness is so frightening and profound that every major precaution was taken to prevent a man from ever having to go through the rest of his life as an island. We’re married, one man and one woman unto another, to live out the rest of our births, and deaths with the fantasy of never having to be alone again. So it is, lovely people, everywhere, but here. I could lie to you, but why bother? Loneliness is tangible, as tangible as the blood pouring out over the shank in your side. If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.”

~~~~~

11.8.06 St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital , Upper West Side 7:30 a.m.:

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Finn stepped back from the tiny figure, and nearly tripped over his own feet. Captain Cragen stepped forward.

The orderly, who looked harassed beyond repair, shook her head and snorted. “Sir, Officer, whoever you are”-

“Cragen. My name is Captain Cragen of the Manhattan SVU.”

“Mmm hmmm. Well, I can tell you one thing, Captain Cragen. I have a whole staff under me. I run a tight wing, and I hate to see any patient; I don’t care who they are, interrupt the rest of the rest of my patients and staff. If you honestly think that the young lady in there is too old to have a good dressing down, well then you have another thing coming, the both of you. I have enough to worry about. That young lady is lucky to be alive, let alone making my life hectic wanting the phone, and the doctor, and her captain every few minutes.”

Her size was diminutive, but her presence was inspiring. The sheer impenetrable force of her statement was enough to make him relive Catholic grade school. Her round pink face topped by a tight bun was austere enough to make him back away slowly, his eyes searching the staff for anyone that might possibly rescue him from this situation.

“Excuse me, Signora…?” Munch stepped into his path, pulling his hat from his head as he bowed slightly towards the frightening vision.

The ward matron glared upwards at the towering black figure, but budged not an inch. “Signora Lombardo, Signore. Potete parlare italiano?”

**“Si, Signora, poco italiano. Devi scusare como noialtri abbiamo com portati. Molto siamo preoccupati per il nostro amico, Officer Benson. Possiamo vederla?” Her expression softened marginally, and the tiny figure turned on a dime, leading the way up the hall. Munch followed, leaving the other two stunned in the wake of Italian verbosity.

Finn nudged his Captain’s shoulder. “Did you get it?”

“I could lie, and say yes, but that would make me feel even more in the dark than I do already.”

“So what do we do?”

Cragen shrugged. “Follow the Jew. He knows all.”

~~~~~

Manhattan Criminal Court, 100 Centre Street, 9:11 a.m.

The heel of her shoe caught in a steaming grate right outside the courthouse. Falling slightly to her left, she felt her ankle wrench as she pulled it free.

Shit. She was already 11, no, make that…12 minutes late, and her ankle was already starting to swell. Hobbling forwards, she forced her body up and over the obstacle course of people, briefcases, papers, and other odds and ends. Finally reaching the top landing, she struggled for a moment to navigate the heavy swinging doors.

The floor had just been freshly waxed, and she cursed the slipperiness of the tile against her high heels. One misstep threw her forward, and a strong arm prevented her from falling to the ground.

A pair of arms helped her rise, and steadied her. Throwing her hair back, she focused on the smiling man holding her arms.

“Judge Miller!” Her surprise made his smile widen, and he stepped back to allow her to stand.

“Long time, no see, Miss Cabot.”

The older man smiled down at her from beneath a crop of iron-gray hair. A huge man to behold, she felt positively tiny standing next to him, even in heels. He was one of a dying breed, even in court. Known for being excessively fair, no matter what the case had given him a reputation, and a begrudging respect from his peers. She’d always admired his passion, and secretly hoped that she could have a place on the bench someday.

“I’m sorry, sir. I was under the impression that you had retired.” She smiled up at him, rubbing her ankle as she used his arm as a counterweight to stand.

The sound was almost a chuckle, and more a snort. “I spent three years up in Rochester with my wife, and our dogs, and the house…I couldn’t take it anymore. All that peace and quiet, I couldn’t stand it. I came back to do some consulting work with a few friends a year ago, and before I knew it, I was back in a courtroom.”

“We’re definitely glad to have you back, sir.”

“You don’t need to tell me young lady. I’ve had a full docket since my first day back on the bench.”

“ADA Cabot?” The court clerks all had the same attitude. Even this one, fresh faced and younger than most, all soon surrendered to the casual New York Court atmosphere. They were the backbone of the court system; everyone knew it. The woman standing before her hadn’t been here very long, evidenced by her overly high pumps and chic wardrobe. She looked nervously at the judge and at Alex, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Judge Simmons has asked me to bring you into his chambers as soon as you came into the building, Ms. Cabot.”

Shifting back into panic mode, she stepped forward, and lurched slightly, grimacing in pain. Judge Miller steadied her again, and waved the clerk away with a dismissive brush of his hand.

“Just let Judge Simmons know that we’ll be along in a minute.” The gesture, though simple, relayed enough of his disdain to cause her to look at him in surprise.

His face relaxed as he smiled down at her. “Don’t give me that look, Alex. You’ve been in this game for a while now, and you know that there’s nothing a judge my age hates more than a woman walking into court looking like she’s waiting for a date.” He put up his hand to dissuade her from arguing. “I know, it’s sexist and crude, and everything else you can heave at my head, young lady. I have never asked a woman to wear a skirt in my court room, and I never will. I believe that a woman can wear what she wants as long as it’s decent.”

Steering her gently down the hall, they walked slowly towards Judge Miller’s chambers. Leaving her outside the door, he grinned down at her boyishly as he opened the door to the chamber’s outer offices.

“I think I’ll prove a point Alex. Next time you have to see me up on the bench, I’ll wear a pair of beach shorts and sneakers for you. When the rest of my peers demand to know what’s going on, I’ll just tell them that I’m having a moment of sexual independence.”

His chuckle followed her inside, and abruptly cut off as the door closed behind her.

~~~~~

Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 10:46 a.m.

The gym was a small, cramped space, barely large enough for the equipment stored there, let alone the 20 or so men that used the work-out area every hour. By unspoken agreement, the hour between 10:30 and 11:30 was Aryan time, right after the mail was finished and right before lunch.

The sudden electric charge in the air was magnified as the remaining guards connected with Schillinger’s glance and moved outside the gym perimeters. The small group of men stopped their reps and moved as one to form a tightly packed unit around Vern’s body. He sat up on the bench and wiped his face free of sweat. Glancing back to Robson, he received a nod in the affirmative and began to speak.

“I’ve just made a little deal that’s going to make us all very happy.” He stopped for a moment, letting his words sink in for effect. The subtle shifting of their bodies conveyed their interest, and he continued.

“I’ve been talking to someone who empathizes with our cause. He’s willing to pay us in cash, $500 apiece, if we can provide him with what he wants. Once we’ve proven our competence and faith in the cause, he’ll cut us a check for $1,000 apiece for another deal in the works.” The excitement was palpable, and the heated murmuring rose to higher levels.

“So what’s the deal, Vern? What the hell do we have to do to make $1,500 K?”

“This is going to be a partner set up. Each of you is going to do a little recon, and report back to me with your information. We’re gathering material on specific threats and removing them to be ‘rehabilitated’ elsewhere. For each threat successfully removed and contained, the partner team will receive $500 each. I have assured my contact that the boys at OZ are more than capable of keeping their mouths shut. We protect our own.”

Cutler and Robson were standing close together, whispering towards the back of the group. Vern noticed their furtive movements out of the corner of his eye.

“Anything you got to say, you can say to the rest of the class, boys.”

“What’s the deal, Vern? You’ve said a shitload, except anything real about what’s going on. Who’re the targets?” Cutler had a big mouth, and Robson shifted the blame as he faded to the back of the group. Schillinger ignored the man for a moment as his gaze moved to settle on Robson. He knew that the next piece of information was the stickler. They’d either go for it, or they’d push against it. His leadership depended on how well he could spin it.

“We’re outnumbered in OZ. It’s the last mission of the white man to rise up against the niggers and the spicks who’re running into this country and poisoning our children. We have to get at them before they can hurt us, and corrupt our children. We have to start when they’re small and still open to being rehabilitated…our way. We can stop them from selling drugs to our kids, eating up our welfare, and breeding their way into our schools. If we can get these kids and raise them the right way, the white way, we can make sure they know their place. They can learn to work hard under the white man, the way it should be.”

His words were starting to make a dent. Many of the group were nodding as others discussed it amongst themselves. One or two were frowning, and he hastened to continue to see how far he could push it.

“Each group will do some recon work for me. Each of the niggers and spicks in here has at least 6 kids, all doomed by nature and their parents to become carbon copies of their old men. Look at Alvarez. His granddad and his dad were both in OZ for murder. Alvarez’s son even died because of all the drugs he and his bitch used to do while she was pregnant. That baby died a merciful death before it could continue the cycle, and end up here too. We’ve been commissioned to stop them, to remove their children away from the drugs and put them to work, doing honest labor for their keep, just like the rest of us. I want you to find me info on each child you can. For each child we can find and ‘rehabilitate’ with the help of our outside sources, I can pay you each $500 bucks.”

The murmur of approval turned into a roar. They filed past him out of the gym, suddenly silent as they passed the waiting hacks.

Robson waited for him at the back of the crowd.

“What’s the deal with Keller, Vern? This doesn’t make any sense. You’ve been doing but bitching about Keller for the past three weeks, and now you turn around and pull this shit out of your ass? What’s really going on?”

“Back the fuck up, James. I’ve been setting each bit of this into motion for weeks. There’s something going on here that doesn’t seem right. Where the fuck has Glynn been for the past few days? There’s something going on, and I bet Glynn knows what it is. But for now, while he’s doing whatever the fuck niggers with spare time feel like doing, you and I are going to be making a little extra cash.” Robson’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, and his voice dropped to a whisper as they passed the two hacks at the door.

“So what’s actually going with Keller then? Are we just going to drop that whole thing for this other project?”

Schillinger smiled. “Not even remotely. We’re stepping things up a notch, and we’re going to have our way in the end. Our friend has agreed to help our cause, and to fund it from within. We are going to RULE this shit-hole, and by the time we’re done with our little housecleaning, the dust won’t have a nigger to settle on.”

~~~~~

Medical Examiner’s Office, 1 Police Plaza, 11:22 a.m.

Her head snapped up as the phone ring shrilly by her ear. Fumbling for the receiver, she lifted the handset to her ear.

“Warner.”

“Hi Melinda, it’s Sheldon Hawkes.”

Her mouth curved into a smile as she involuntarily sat up straighter. “Hi, Hawk, long time, no see.” His chuckle on the other end was warm, but she could sense his impatience.

“I’m sorry this isn’t a social call, Doc, but I have two detectives in my office and two more en route. I also have a few things you may need to take a look at.”

She shook of the last off her sleep-addled confusion and pushed the boy’s autopsy photos away from her. She couldn’t concentrate on the call and on the sight before her at the same time. It was too much. She fought to bring her focus back together.

“Wait, why do you need me? Anything that comes up in your jurisdiction falls on your plate. I’ve been served up too much as it is.”

“I’d love to argue politics, Mel, but I’ve got two of your detectives in my office with two kids on the slab, and they tell me that there’s going to be more on the way. My lead CSI brought these in this morning, and I just received a phone call from a friend in the Bronx, telling me he’s got one on his docket too.”

She sucked in her breath and fumbled for the aspirin bottle in the top drawer.

“I’ll be over there soon. Any prelim exam?”

“Not yet. I was hoping to share this little game of Clue with you.”

“It’s not a game, Hawk. If you have what I think you have, I think we’ll both need a long vacation after this.”

“Fine by me. I’ll bring the beach towels, you bring the vodka.” The phone clicked in her ear before she could respond, and she pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. Taking a deep breath, she refocused.

Snatching up several of the files, grabbed her keys, stopping only to poke her head into the receptionist’s area on her way out.

“Marcie, do me a favor, let everyone know I’m out for the rest of the day. Anything else that comes up, John can handle.”

~~~~~

Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 2:12 p.m.


One. Push, lift…Breathe.

Two. Push, lift…Breathe.

Three. Push, lift…Breathe.

Four-

“What the fuck do you want, Beecher?” He’s opened his eyes to stare right up into Beecher’s cotton covered crotch, almost dropping the heavy weight in his sweaty palms. Beecher’s hands shot out to grab the weight and lift it back onto the bench supports. Handing Stabler a towel, he pointed at his sweatshirt.

“Nice look. Planning on sweating off a few pounds on that beer gut you’ve got going?”

Stabler smirked and wiped his face. “At least when I sweat, I don’t smell fear, Beech.”

Toby’s eyes narrowed, and he looked like he was going to snap back, but a ten-pounder smacked him in the chest. His entire body froze as the knocked out of his lungs, and his heart sped up. Ignoring the feeling of sickness in his belly, his head whipped around to a smiling O’Reilly.

“Do some reps, Beech. Your husband and I have business to discuss.”

Elliot ignored his first impulse to defend Toby, but the other man made his decision for him, catching his eye before nodding and moving towards the bench.

Scrubbing his face dry, and threw the towel at Toby, and turned to face the other man. Rising slowly to his full height, he experienced a brief moment of satisfaction to be so much taller than the other man. His moment was short lived though, as O’Reilly snorted and led the way to a darker corner of the room. Pulling aside a couple of half naked men, ignoring their fumblings to straighten their clothes, O’Reilly cleared the space. Finding a comfortable place on the wall, he leaned against it, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Stabler accepted one, drawing lightly on the thick, cloying smoke, and waited. He didn’t have to wait for long.

“How’s things with the wife, Keller?” Ryan took a long drag as his eyes flicked momentarily over to where Toby was doing his reps. Stabler chided himself mentally to show Toby how to do a correct set later. He was killing himself overexerting. Seeing the smirk of satisfaction on O’Reilly’s face annoyed him.

“I don’t know, Ryan, how’s YOURS?” His eyes deliberately raked over Alvarez, doing push-ups by himself in another corner.

O’Reilly smiled. “He’s got his uses.” Pinching the cig out between his palms, he spread his hands and let the ashes fall to the floor. Suddenly refocusing, he pulled into a new vein.

“Shillinger’s been looking pretty happy for the past few days, K-Boy, and there’s something else going on.” His eyes flicked over to Miguel.

“I’ve heard a few things myself. Beecher tells me you’re taking the kid on as a full partner. The way I see it, he doesn’t bring anything to the bargain, so why the sudden change?”

“Alvarez has his moments, but I offered him protection for something else, and right now, he’s a crazy fucker I’ve got behind me. He’s got my back while Cyril’s in the hospital, and we’ve agreed to cover each other. You’ve got yours, now I’ve got mine.” Stabler waited. The fidgeting Irishman waited for a few more seconds, then continued.

“It’s Alvarez, though. There’s something else going on. I heard Pancamo and someone else talking about Alvarez and Ginsberg the other day.”

The memory was slow to come, but a vague recollection was there. “The dead fag?”

“The same. There’s been a rumor for a while that Ginsberg was helping Nappa record his last memoirs, a ‘fuck you’ to the rest of the families that were still on the outside.”

“I don’t get it.” Stabler shifted impatiently, trying to keep one eye on the perimeters of the room while still keeping O’Reilly in full line of sight.

“Neither do I. Even if he did write a fucking book, where is it? If the marinara-soaked ginnys over there DID destroy it, why worry about it now? There’s no evidence left if it’s gone.”

Elliot was beginning to get a headache. The small furtive movement to his left was lost to him as he rubbed the sweat from his eyes. Still focusing on O’Reilly as he wiped the stinging sweat away, he didn’t notice the sudden disappearance of both C.O.s, or the furtive emptying of the room.

“What’s that got to do with…-“ His voice cut off as he noticed the sudden quick movement towards Alvarez on his left. He spun quickly, shoving O’Reilly into the wall, pivoting to run towards the oblivious man.

“Alvarez!” Elliot almost fell forward as his foot caught the edge of a weight bar, but he still continued to push. He barely registered anything else besides the man in front of him, struggling under the weight of three other men. One of them, a large chunky Italian man he briefly recognized from mug shot follow-ups before coming in, had his arm wrapped around the kid’s neck.

Alvarez was almost blue, and his eyes rolled wildly in his sockets as he struggled underneath the other two Italians pinning him down.

Stabler’s fist slammed its way home into the dead center of the beefy Italian’s face, shattering his nose in a spray of blood all over Alvarez’s face and chest. The payoff came through and the man dropped Miguel’s head to cradle his gushing nose, falling back as the Latin man’s head cracked against the floor.

A blur of motion off to the side alterted him to the presence of the C.O.’s who were forcibly yanking O’Reilly away from one of the Italians. A homemade shank gleamed dully in his head, and as the buzzing finally began to recede, his head was slammed into the corner by two more uniforms, and he tasted dirt as he was quickly handcuffed and dropped to the floor.

~~~~~

St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital , Upper West Side 4:04 a.m.:

Everything was pain.

Her skin felt like it was on fire. She could feel each contact point in her skin, like a small stabbing blade, even as tubing rushed life-giving oxygen and fluids to her body. Each breath was painful and she almost prayed for it to end, as every muscle in her chest fought against the agony of having to breathe. The tube down her throat scratched and pulled, and she choked on it, trying to cough it up involuntarily.

“She’s fighting the intubation!”

“It’s okay, Olivia. Just relax. If you stop moving they can pull the tube out of your throat.”

Suddenly, there was light as absolute as the darkness had been only seconds before. She shied back from the sounds of it all as her eyes tried desperately to focus themselves to the shifting arena of colors and sounds. The sea of white-coated doctors and scrubbed nurses shifted into her field of view. One man, white coated, put his hand gently on her forehead.

“Olivia. Can you hear me?” Her eyelids were pried open as a blinding penlight checked her pupil response.

“Olivia, my name is Dr. Shepard. You’re in St. Luke’s Hospital. If it doesn’t hurt too much and if you understand me, can you blink twice for me?”

It was an effort to open her eyes again to the glare, but she managed two quick blinks.

“That’s great, Olivia. I just wanted to make sure you could hear me. You’re currently being intubated, with a tube down the back of your throat to deliver oxygen to your lungs. If you can relax for just a few seconds, the nurse and I will remove the tube together, and that should make you a little more uncomfortable. If you understand me, can you blink for me again.

She wanted to tell him to shove his Morse code blinks and his bedside manner up his ass, but she did it anyway, leaving her eyes peeled open into slits afterwards, slowly letting her pupils adjust to the brightness.

“Okay, Olivia, now we’re going to ask you to relax for a moment. When I tell you to, I want you to blow air out of your mouth as hard as you can, just like you would if you were blowing up a balloon, ok?” She blinked, not really sure if he wanted her to, but this time, the blinking was easier, so she did it anyway.

She blew as hard as she could as the scratch of the tube lining made its way up her throat and past her soft palate. She fought down a gag reflex, gasping in pain as the constriction of her diaphragm sent waves of agony through her chest. One of the nurses was there, holding her head to the side as she dry-heaved into a basin.

The waves of agony finally began to ebb away as she forced herself to relax, and felt her breathing even.

“Good job, detective.” The doctor was smiling, but his expression was guarded. “I have to caution you though. I conceded to removing the intubation this early because I feel that your progress warrants it, but I am going to warn you against pushing yourself too far ahead of yourself. Because of the nature of your condition, sedating you is only a last resort, and we want to keep you as still and relaxed as possible. Can you agree to relax, sleep as much as you possibly can, and try to take in as many fluids as you can? We’re trying to prevent you from moving. Your arm was factured in the incident, and until we can have an orthopedist up her to take a look at the X-Rays, we only have a soft cast on the arm."

Her voice came out on a croak, but she had to know. “What happened to the boy?”

Finn’s voice broke through the din of beeping and bustling orderlies. “He caught one to the shoulder. He should be okay, but you were the first priority.”

“But what about-“

“I don’t want to head buts about anything. You get to sleep. Munch and I have got it covered. He’s been running all over town trying to find out what’s been going on.” Before she could say anything else, he continued. “Cragen should be here in a few hours to check up on you, and I’m going to check in with you every couple of hours to make sure that John’s not slacking off chasing aliens or something.”

At least it didn’t hurt to smile. “Go get ‘em, Scully.”

~~~~~

Oswald Maximum Security Penitentiary 2:55 p.m.

For a man with a lot of relative power, Tim McManus sure had a way of throwing his dick around.

Elliot stared right into the man’s face, watching amusedly as the grown man before him pitched a bitch that would put his teenage daughters to shame. He’s tuned out about ten minutes back, but the basic nuances were all the same, just repeated in different variations: “my prison, not yours”, “not going to exclude anyone from the rules”, and “this is ridiculous!” seemed to be fighting odds for the current favorites. His wrists were chafing in the handcuffs behind his back, and shoulders ached from having to sit in a chair not meant to support someone at his awkward angle.

Finally, he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are you done yet? You know, you can pitch a bitch all you want, but that’s not going to get a fucking thing done around here.”

McManus was startled out of his rant for a moment. His mouth opened in a defensive tirade, but Stabler beat him to the punch.

“Yeah, look, I know you’re the big shit around here, ok? But if you’ve got something to actually say to me, then say it. But first, close the fucking blinds so you don’t blow this whole thing wide open before it even has a chance to start.”

Tim seethed, but saw the point. O’Reilly was waiting for his turn at the gauntlet only ten or so feet away in the hall. And from the way his eyes were boring into the office, you could almost hear his thoughts trying to process every single word Tim was saying. Stabler’s back was to him, but they still needed to be safe.

As he moved around the office, closing the blinds, Stabler continued, in a much more even tone. “Look, I don’t want to stir up shit in you neck of the woods, any more than I’d want you to stir up shit in mine, but I need to give you the facts as quickly as I can get them to you before O’Reilly starts thinking I’m in here pouring my soul out.”

Tim snorted, but didn’t say anything.

“O’Reilly and I were having a conversation in the far corner of the gym, directly behind the last bench-press. We spoke for the better part of 5 to 10 minutes before I noticed a few of the big Italian guys come at Alvarez in the other corner. I shoved O’Reilly past me and went to help the kid. I tried to pull the big guy off Alvarez, but he wouldn’t respond, so I tapped him in the nose.”

Tim couldn’t take it anymore. “You tapped him!? Pancamo has a shattered nose and a broken cheekbone.”

“Yeah, well, I have a mean left hook, and he didn’t listen to me the first time.”

McManus smirked. “You and your brother are two sides of the same coin, you know that?”

Elliot leveled his gaze until it caught the other man’s. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, so assume this is fair warning. Say that again, and you may join your friend Pancamo at the plastic surgeon.”


TBC...



**“Si, Signora, poco italiano. Devi scusare como noialtri abbiamo com portati. Molto siamo preoccupati per il nostro amico, Officer Benson. Possiamo vederla?”

THIS IS ROUGH ITALIAN CONVERSATION, SPOKEN BY SOMEONE WITH A DECENT COMMAND OF RUDIMENTARY ITALIAN. MUNCH'S CONVERSATION ROUGHLY TRANSLATES TO: "Yes, Ma'am, I speak a little Italian. Please excuse our behavior, but we've been very worried about our friend, Officer Benson. May we see her?"


That's all for now, folks, I hope you enjoyed it...There will definitely be more in the near future. - Tara