Unwritten: The Brooklyn Pieper Story (continued)

Disclaimer: all characters in this short story are fictional/creations of my own imagination. Sights and locations are based on real cities/towns/National Parks located in the Western United States.

Brooklyn’s memory of the ensuing events was unreliable. Nathaniel McGinty’s cold, dead eyes were the last clear image in her mind. Bits and pieces of what followed existed, but there was no knowing if they were reality or a dream.

In the haze of her memory, Brooklyn remembered one single moment with clarity. An object slowly bouncing and landing on the ground, blocking Brooklyn’s view of the dead mobster. Her eyes scanned the object, dissecting the details with precision. White petals. Soft and velvet. Clumped together.

Like a rose.

There it sat mere, inches from Brooklyn’s face, pure and innocent, unaware of the horror and anguish of the room. She wanted to touch it. A vague memory pricked at her brain. A serial killer who left behind victims and a rose. A yellow rose, never white. La Rose Juane. 

The assassin killed Nathaniel McGinty. Brooklyn wondered if she would be spared or if she was the next target. Again, a kill shot never came. Brooklyn wasn’t on the hit list, at least not that day. 

If she survived, she may be the first person spared by La Rose Juane. Brooklyn Pieper. An FBI agent forever in debt to an assassin. 

Poetic, no?

***

“In here! She’s down here!”

A voice. Male. A thundering herd of footsteps clamoring down stairs. 

Brooklyn swerved in and out of consciousness. Did the assassin escape or linger to make sure Brooklyn survived and McGinty died? 

Solid cold grazed Brooklyn’s neck and pressed down on her weakened pulse. Panic jolted her into subconsciousness mimicking her rapid heartbeat. Brooklyn’s breath quickened, her chest rising and falling in sharp, quick bursts of pain, and her eyes fluttered open, revealing nothing more than blurred splotches of grey. 

“She’s alive!” The deep baritone rang through the room, relief mixed with surprise. “Brooklyn is alive!”

“We need a medic.” A female voice, low and gravely, joined the chorus of noises. “We’ve got an agent down. I repeat there is an agent down.”

Swirls of color dimmed in Brooklyn’s vision like stage lights, the voices fading like a somber song. She wasn’t even sure if anything was real. Just the flower, the rose, a few feet ahead. That was the only thing she was sure of. 

“Brooklyn!” The male voice was back, closer, floating above Brooklyn like an angel. “Oh God Brooklyn. What happened?”

She must look like a sorry sort. Hair matted by blood. Twisted bones, swollen ankles. A woman more dead than alive, but her chest rose and fell with shaky breaths, fighting to stay alive. 

“Don’t worry Brooklyn. I’m gonna get you out of here. I promise.”

There was a sudden, strong desire to smile. To laugh like the maniac Brooklyn temporarily became. She wasn’t getting out of that little grey room. Certainly not alive. The man should know better than to make promises he could not keep.

***

The sour sweet smell of antiseptic greeted Brooklyn. It whizzed into her nose, past a small blockage, stirring the first thoughts of a dull, blank mind. 

The steady, shrill beat of a machine followed. It assaulted her left ear while the other detected the sound of a grinding puff.  The two followed a specific rhythm, the cadence familiar and foreign to Brooklyn. It was meticulous and constant, durable and steadfast, yet mechanical, not human. 

The sounds of manufactured humanity. Of life even.

It was like waking up from a deep sleep. There was no pain. No suffering. No light at the end of the tunnel. No confrontation or resolution with long lost loved ones. Sam didn’t visit and offer Brooklyn fatherly advice from beyond the grave. Her mother didn’t greet her at pearly white gates. Nathaniel McGinty wasn’t waiting for her in fiery depths.  Nothing existed to Brooklyn, and she was unconscious to anything else. 

Until the smell and sounds.

Long settled aches greeted Brooklyn as she regretfully returned to consciousness. A headache pricked above her right eyebrow as light filtered its way through her eyelids. The pink-orange light was jarring to Brooklyn, who until that point, only knew inky black darkness. 

Brooklyn’s body twitched, as though remembering it was capable of movement. One quick jerk to the right followed by a quiver through her shoulders, small movements for most people, but to Brooklyn, monumental. She felt old and worn, like a hide stretched too thin, but alive. Very much alive, and Brooklyn wondered if the library, the squirrel, McGinty, was nothing more than a heat induced fever dream. It was a far more logical explanation. Brooklyn fell asleep by the lake and burned to a crisp, her body sent into heat stroke by the overzealous, greedy sun.

“She’s waking up.” The same deep baritone voice from her foggy memory filled the room. The smell of pine needles and lavender replaced the antiseptic one from earlier, overwhelming Brooklyn’s over sensed brain. 

“Jackson.” A female voice cautioned, the same one from Brooklyn’s memory. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Brooklyn rationalized the situation. She was found by the lake more dead than alive thanks to her stupidity. “Space!”

Brooklyn’s eyes adjusted. The blinding white light dissipated, making way for two heads looming over her. One possessed a pair of intimidatingly kind dark brown eyes, while the other pair was a creamy brown, the color of mixed coffee. 

“Skye?” The word was nothing more than a hoarse squeak as Brooklyn looked between her two friends. “Jackson? What are you doing here?”

The seven words sent Brooklyn into a coughing frenzy, silencing any chance of response. She heaved and spat, her lungs working overtime to dislodge mucus and saliva. Jackson and Skye watch from the side of Brooklyn’s bed, worried looks on their face.

“I’m fine.” Brooklyn cleared her throat once but gratefully took the water in Skye’s outreached hand. She sipped greedily, wishing she could chug the whole cup. “How long was I out?”

“Three days.” Skye reported with the utmost professionalism, pretending Brooklyn was just another victim, not her longest and best friend. “You needed two emergency surgeries for your shoulder and the gunshot wound, but they still have to fix your jaw and ankle.”

Pain tweaked Brooklyn’s face as her jaw dropped as far as it could. Three days. Two surgeries. Potentially two more. Hope retreated as Brooklyn faced the gravity of the situation. The surgeries were real, which meant the fight actually happened. The cabin, the squirrel, the library, all of it was real, not some figment of her stressed out imagination. 

Brooklyn didn’t know which revelation was scarier: the brutal torture she endured at the hands of Nathaniel McGinty or the logic defying cabin library in the middle of the Sierra Desert. 

It was too much. What little color existed drained from Brooklyn’s face. Memories nipped at her eyes, clamoring to be remembered, spiking Brooklyn’s heart rate. The pounding in her head and ears matched its rhythm, and Brooklyn wanted to cover her ears with her hands, desperate to shut out the noise. But she couldn’t. Brooklyn was paralyzed, and yet her hands violently shook on their own accord. 

“Brooklyn,” Jackson’s deep voice broke through the wall, but it came through as McGinty’s Irish accent. Brooklyn was back in the cold, grey room, McGinty’s hand roped around her neck, constricting her windpipe and chest.

A flurry of activity whirled through the fish-eyed room. A nurse in turquoise scrubs was at the far edge of the lens, her voice muffled in Brooklyn’s ears. Brooklyn wanted to scream, lash out, cry for help, but she was stuck, drowning in McGinty’s grip. 

The smell of lavender broke through Brooklyn’s terror. Breath returned, cool and sweet in her compressed lungs. Her heart rate dimmed in its place, and Brooklyn slunk into the grey wall, her eyelids heavy. She was tired of fighting. So. Damn. Tired. 

***

It was dark the next time Brooklyn opened her eyes. Casts of white blue light cut across Brooklyn’s chest in straight lines, vaguely reminding her of prison bars.

But she wasn’t in a prison. That much Brooklyn remembered, though her memories were nothing more than splotches of color. Her mind and body were like bricks, as drugs dulled both her pain and memories. The world was foggy to Brooklyn, as though she existed outside of it, separate and untethered from her own struggle.

Through blurred vision, Brooklyn saw two lumps of humans sitting in nearby chairs. One a woman, the other a man. Both too tall for their sleeping arrangements, their tall, lean bodies curled to fit in the small space. It looked uncomfortably jarring to Brooklyn, her vision already dimming. Her forehead pushed down on his eyelids, her green eyes concealed as she drifted back into the nothingness. 

***

The harshness of the evening gave way to the brilliance of morning as Brooklyn slept, the sun banishing the dark nothingness she retreated to. A warm hug draped itself around Brooklyn’s shoulders. Comforting light caressed her face, and it felt safe enough for Brooklyn to open her eyes to the world again.

Brooklyn’s curious green eyes took in the site. Early morning yellow clung to every inch of the room, giving it a summer orange hue. The prison bars of light were gone, replaced by a scratchy paper hospital blanket and the flowery pattern of hospital gown. Her hands smoothed the ruffled fabric, and Brooklyn finally, logically, comprehended the situation. 

A hospital. She was in a hospital.

A neon green light caught the corner of her eye, directing Brooklyn’s attention to the medical machines piled next to her head, the same obnoxious ones from the day before. In the glow of the morning, they didn’t see so villainous, the beeps nothing more than faded background music. 

“Welcome back Agent Pieper.”

An intruder. Brooklyn snapped her head to the left, her neck muscles straining with the sudden movement. Every fiber was on edge even though the voice was deep, soothing and male, very nearly the polar opposite of McGinty’s. There was no accent and a hint of familiarity, yet Brooklyn’s hands balled into fists against the hospital bed sheets. Her shoulders hunched into a defensive position, and she hated how jittery and off-balance she felt. 

The anxiousness immediately dissipated when Brooklyn took in the site of her two best friends. Jackson and Skye were still there, as they had been the day and night before. The difference was Brooklyn could see them now. She took in the etched worry lines carved deep in her friends’ brow lines. Only thirty-three, Skye aged ten years it seemed. Exhaustion frayed the wrinkles around her eyes, and those themselves, still intimidatingly brown, lacked their usual vibrance and mischief.

Jackson was a rumpled mess, something Brooklyn had not seen since their academy days. His normally tamed hair was as crinkled as his over worn white dress shirt, and his tie was discarded to a nearby chair. Tilted square glasses perched precariously on the bridge of Jackson’s nose and a small patch of drool mixed with the three-day shadow on his sharp jawline. 

The voice didn’t belong to either of Brooklyn’s friends, though. Instead, it belonged to a third person, a man who was the physical embodiment of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, from his black crew cut hair to the black and white standard issue suit on his body. 

Special Agent William Gibson, head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, more commonly referred to as Gibby. 

“Where,” Brooklyn looked between the three agents, her eyes eventually settling on Gibby. “Where am I?”

“St. Rita’s Hospital, just outside Lake Tahoe,” Gibby answered with his matter-of-fact tone, something else the Bureau would bottle and sell if it could. “You’ve been here for four days.”

Brooklyn nodded and shifted in the hospital bed, her joints crackling awake with every movement. Not even one day passed since Brooklyn first woke, but it felt longer, more like thirty years than a few hours. While the drugs eliminated much of the pain, Brooklyn still felt stretched to her limits, ready to potentially snap at any moment.

“How are you feeling Brooke?” Jackson lept to the side of Brooklyn's bed as soon as she moved, eager to attend to her every need. His eyes looked like a painting, cream swirled with brown to make a muddled mess of emotions Brooklyn couldn’t decipher. Not at that moment. 

“Hungry.” Her voice was raspy, as though a dense fog covered both Brooklyn’s tongue and mouth.  It seemed like she gave the right answer, though. Jackson’s large, broad hands loosened their grip on the bed barrier, and Skye audibly sighed, her motherly instincts kicked into high gear. 

“We can get you some food,” Eager to move, Skye retreated to her chair, her expression hidden by a downturned face. Normally, she would chastise Brooklyn with relieved sarcasm, her retorts hiding her worry. This time was different though. Sure, there were mishaps on mountain hikes and youthful stupidity, but Brooklyn never came this close to death. She skirted its edges, flirted from a distance, but Brooklyn never truly faced death head, not until she faced McGinty. “Mac and cheese ok?”

Brooklyn returned Skye’s question with a weak smile, “Don’t forget the chips and pudding.”

Skye looked away from the chair and met Brooklyn’s gaze. A transformation occurred as fifteen years of friendship flashed between them. Happy memories flooded Brooklyn, memories of the old Brooklyn, of the teenager who laughed and smiled without strain. A girl who knew nothing but family, love and happiness. Memories that belonged to a different person. A different girl. A different woman. Someone Brooklyn didn’t recognize, even though it was herself. 

A new ache settled in Brooklyn’s chest, one that threatened to tear her in half. Incapable of sharing the memories, she broke eye contact with Skye, instead turning to Jackson. 

“Can you make sure she gets me real pudding?” Brooklyn feigned a whisper, hoping to ease some of the new, apparent tension in the room. “Not the crappy sugar free stuff?”

“I heard that.” Skye grabbed Jackson by the arm and pulled him toward the door, “Come on Jackson. Let’s help Princess Brooklyn shorten her lifespan.”

Jackson reluctantly followed Skye out the door, leaving Brooklyn alone with William Gibson. A tall, lengthy man, Gibby rose through the ranks in the FBI’s Los Angeles office before transferring to Quantico to work with the BAU’s serial crime unit. Twice, Brooklyn was privileged enough to work with him, and two different times, he saved her life. 

“It’s good to see you again Brooklyn.” A thin smile played at Gibby’s lips as he sat in a chair. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Me too,” Brooklyn admitted, though a crooked smile played at the right side of her face. She noticed Gibby looked older than he had six months earlier. There were grey speckles in his immaculate black hair and wrinkle lines around his narrow eyes and mouth. 

“I came to tell you Agent Boss has been taken into custody.” If he were wearing gloves, Brooklyn imagined Gibby would remove them from his hands one finger at a time, an indifferent look on his sharp face. “He will be charged with conspiracy, kidnapping, attempted murder of a FBI agent and the murder of sixteen individuals, including Samuel Pieper.”

“He was the mole.” It wasn’t a question, but rather a statement by Brooklyn. She pieced it together in the library just before her capture. Jackson was the only other viable suspect, but he was far too young. The mole was the same age as Brooklyn’s father, had he lived, though it was clever of Boss to set up Jackson for the fall. 

“Yes,” Gibby held Brooklyn's gaze, acknowledging her pain with a simple look. “McGinty got to him before he even joined the Bureau. He’s willing to talk.”

“In exchange for?” Icy hate sparked through Brooklyn’s blood. She knew how the justice system worked. Too often, criminals walked away with little more than a slap on the wrist in return for a bigger fish. If he took a plea deal, Hubert Boss had a chance to live his life free of the suffering Brooklyn would endure for years to come. 

“A life in prison with a chance of parole.” Gibby was honest, something Brooklyn appreciated.

“And McGinty?” Brooklyn’s voice betrayed her, its slight tremor speaking volumes louder than the words. There was the fear Brooklyn wasn’t used to, suffocating and panicky. Her pulse quickened, anxiety rose in her throat, and Brooklyn felt the urge to play with the engagement ring around her neck. 

The only problem was, when she went to grab it, the ring wasn't there.

“He won’t bother you anymore Brooklyn.” A calming look filled Gibby’s soul blue eyes, one mastered that could only be mastered by parents. A father to two daughters, Gibby’s expression was filled with empathy and understanding, soothing many of Brooklyn’s anxieties. “McGinty was dead when we arrived. He did not survive the shooting.”

Relief flooded Brooklyn like a tidal wave, releasing her body from tension’s tight grip. Brooklyn’s shoulders dropped from her ears, and her hands unclenched, her nails leaving deep impressions in her palms. Nothing felt as good, though, as the sweet, cool breath in Brooklyn’s lungs, the first she’d taken in days. 

“I don’t remember much,” Brooklyn admitted, the memories tugging at her subconscious, daring to be remembered. “There was the fight, but after that, it’s all a haze.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Gibby quickly assured Brooklyn, his voice quiet amidst the chaos of her mind. “We can take your statement another day. For now, you should rest.”

Brooklyn nodded, but there was something tugging at her chest. Words, an admission perhaps, that needed to be heard. 

“There was a rose,” Brooklyn blurted, the words out before she could stop herself. She didn’t plan on saying anything about the rose. In fact, Brooklyn planned to keep it to herself, at least until she could confirm it was real. 

“Yes.” Gibby turned his head slightly, a puzzled look on his usually expressionless face. “They found a white rose next to your head. We believe it's the work of La Rose Juane.” 

It was the same conclusion Brooklyn came to the day it happened, but there were holes in her theory. Aspects of the crime scene didn’t fit the profile compiled by Brooklyn and the BAU. La Rose Juane only left two things at a crime scene: dead bodies and a single rose, almost always yellow. NThe assassin never dropped a white rose and never left a witness. Brooklyn being alive didn’t make sense, not if it was the work of this notorious assassin. 

The other problem: a man killed Nathaniel McGinty. Not the man who found her in the cellar. Brooklyn knew that was Jackson. She also knew that a woman did not kill the Irish mobster, though Brooklyn had no physical proof. She never saw the shooter, and yet, she knew this wasn’t the work of a female assassin.

Brooklyn didn’t share this vital piece of information, though. She blurted the fact about the rose, but she kept the male killer to herself. It wasn’t as though she was afraid to share. Gibby respected Brooklyn as an agent and would listen to her opinion. In fact, he looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to share her latest hypothesis. All Brooklyn did was nod, creating a secret in the process. 

“Brooklyn, I know these next few months will be challenging,” Gibby looked at Brooklyn with a solemn, honest face. He wasn’t trying to sympathize or say everything would be ok. He knew better. He’d been an FBI agent too long to think otherwise, “Most days you’ll be fine, but there will be some when  waking up will be hard. I want you to know you’re not alone. I’m here for you, if you ever need anything.”

Brooklyn’s head popped up from her knees, her body unconsciously caving into itself. Gibby was the closest thing to a father Brooklyn had, especially after the incident with Lancaster, but that moment was different. Instead of Gibby’s no nonsense tone, Brooklyn heard Sam’s strong yet soft voice. 

A new set of tears fell down Brooklyn’s face. She sniffled and swiped at her nose, her shoulder groaning with the movement. 

“Also, I want to extend you a formal offer.” Brooklyn’s brow creased in confusion as Gibby continued. “I don’t know what your plans are after all this is over, but we have an opening at the BAU. In the serial crimes unit actually. It’s yours, if you want it.”

Brooklyn’s jaw went slack, the pain underwhelming when compared with the shock. Working for the BAU was her dream job as a teenager, but Brooklyn’s sole focus since joining the Bureau was catching McGinty. Nothing else mattered, and Brooklyn never thought what might come next, after his organization was dismantled. 

“Sir,” Brooklyn stuttered, not entirely sure what to say. Five days earlier, she would have accepted the job on site. No hesitation, but something was different now. She was different.

“You don’t have to give me an answer now.” Gibby assured her, the kind look returning to his face. “Take all the time you need, but know this. You’ve already proven yourself a competent agent and profile with the work you’ve done on the McGinty and Rose cases. Believe me when I say it would be an honor and privilege to work with you.”

With that, Gibby stood, the conversation clearly over. It took him only a few long strides to cover the length of the room before he reached its sliding door.

“Take care of yourself Brooklyn.”

With a quick nod, Gibby was gone, leaving Brooklyn alone in the silent hospital room. The silence didn’t last long though. Skye and Jackson replaced Gibby, two styrofoam to-go boxes in each hand. 

For the next few hours, Brooklyn felt more like herself than she had in weeks. Color returned to her cheeks as she filled her stomach beyond its limits, gorging on mac and cheese and pudding cups. A nurse stopped to check in, making sure Brooklyn was comfortable and pain free. A doctor promised to check in on Brooklyn in the morning, discuss the next steps for rehab and future surgeries. 

Other than that, Brooklyn felt normal. It was just a typical day, minus the unflattering hospital gown and drugs. Jackson and Brooklyn laughing over her love of mac and cheese, Skye regaling a child’s latest mishap, the three of them talking as though no time passed. Brooklyn felt like she was a teenager all over again. Happy. Light. Carefree.

“Oh, I forgot!” Skye exclaimed after Brooklyn finished her third cup of chocolate pudding. Agile as always, Skye bent over to reach under her chair, her dark brown hair flopping over her head and brushing the floor, before turning with a flourish. “These are for you Brooklyn.”

Skye set two objects on the tray at Brooklyn’s chest. A new wave of emotion threatened to overtake Brooklyn as her eyes took in the site before her. On the tray sat a diamond, its gem glittering in the glow of the overhead light. It was the very ring Brooklyn wore around her neck for almost a year, the one Declan used to propose.

Brooklyn gingerly picked it up, afraid the ring would disintegrate at her touch. A part of her assumed the engagement ring was lost during the fight, never to be seen again. It was there though, real, the metal band cold in the palm of her hand.

The site of the other item was startling. Like the ring, Brooklyn assumed she would never see it again, but for extremely different reasons. She didn't think this thing was real. Yet there it was, staring at her. A heavy leather book with a black spine and dark maroon cover. No title. No author. Just a book with her name on its spine. 

“It was in your pack,” Jackson explained as Brooklyn picked up the book and examined it. It seemed both foreign and familiar as she held it in her hand. It was slightly heavier, and maybe more dense, but Brooklyn knew it was the book. The one from the library. “Figured you could use some reading material. You may be here for a while.”

“Thank you,” Brooklyn looked between Jackson and Skye, offering both a small smile. “Both of you.”

Skye took Brooklyn’s free hand and gave it a small squeeze, while Jackson softly patted Brooklyn on her good shoulder. Brooklyn savored the moment, never wanting it to end, but again, her body betrayed her. Despite her best attempts to stifle it, a yawn broke through, forcing Brooklyn’s mouth wide open. She was tired, there was no denying it, but Brooklyn would have fought exhaustion as long as possible, if not for the rule following orderly. The second Brooklyn yawned, a new nurse, this one dressed in pale pink scrubs dotted with daisies, appeared in the room to usher Skye and Jackson out. 

“Visiting hours ended an hour ago,” the woman lectured when Jackson complained. “You’re lucky I let you stay this late. You can visit Agent Pieper tomorrow, but right now, she needs to rest.”

Brooklyn shrugged at her two best friends, stifling another yawn in the process. The pain medication was starting to wear off, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she transformed into a hideous, cranky beast of a woman. It wasn’t exactly anything new for Skye or Jackson. Both of them had seen Brooklyn in her raging dragon form plenty of times, but it would be different this time. The pain would only enhance Brooklyn’s repressed anger, and no one, not even Brooklyn herself, wanted to be around when that volcano exploded.

The orderly shooed Skye and Jackson out of the room before turning all her attention on Brooklyn. She mothered the injured FBI agent as Brooklyn imagined a mother would. The orderly tucked Brooklyn’s shoulder into a more comfortable position, not exactly pain free but tolerable. 

“This ok sweetheart?” Brooklyn nodded as the nurse elevated her ankle under a few pillows. Until that moment, Brooklyn forgot about her swollen appendage, now throbbing thanks to the movement. “Good. If you need anything, you just press this button alright?”

Again, Brooklyn gave a haphazard nod, but she was already drifting off to sleep before the orderly turned out the light.