Every Breath You Take – The Police

Just do what he wants, Blake Carrington told himself as he preceded Police Captain William Handler down the grand staircase of the Carrington mansion, do what he wants and Fallon and Krystina will be all right. Next to him, Jeff kept easy pace, tense and scared, but like Blake, kept at bay by Handler's promise to save Fallon and Krystina if they went along with his plans.

On the ground floor, milling police officers silently tracked the men coming down the stairs, their expressions curious and a little excited. No surprise there. After all, being involved in the arrest and conviction of the richest man in Denver would make a hell of a coup on any cop's resume. They were probably calculating their chances of getting a few minutes on the evening news. A few were probably even wondering if they could possibly get a book deal out of it. Let them enjoy his fall: so long as his children were safe, Blake didn't care.

And then he saw a new figure enter the scene: Sergeant John Zorelli, a police officer and his daughter Fallon's current lover. Also the man who'd been trying for several months to take Blake down and had even used his relationship with Fallon in an effort to do so. Blake wondered if the younger man was there to gloat. That would just be insult to injury.

"Keep moving," Handler hissed under his breath. "Remember, you're daughters' lives depend on it."

A muscle flexed along Blake's jaw, his eyes hard with barely controlled rage, but he held the desire to spin and throttle the police captain in check. Barely. As he watched, Zorelli spoke to one of the police officers, his voice pitched too low to be heard, but it was easy to see the tension that rippled through the assembled crowd.

Handler saw it too. "Just stay calm," he growled in warning.

But it was already too late. Blake would never remember quite what went wrong or how it happened, but suddenly Zorelli was shouting, "NO!" and drawing his service weapon.

Desperate both to stop Handler and to save him, Blake spun.

He never had a chance.

The percussive beat of gunfire assaulted his ears while he was still moving, and by the time he'd made it all the way around, crimson was already flowering on the front of Handler's shirt. "No," he ground out even as something punched him in the stomach. His chin dropped and he stared down at the red stain suddenly spreading on the crisp white of his shirt. He watched as his own hand, seemingly disembodied, swam into view, clutching at wound as though that would stop the bleeding. Hot and slick, blood slipped between his fingers while a cacophony of shouts and warnings ricocheted inside his head, the sounds pulsing and discordant. More gunfire assaulted his senses and he caught sight of Jeff grabbing for one arm in his peripheral vision, then looked up just as Handler toppled and tumbled down the uneven surface of the stairs.

"No." Handler was the only one who knew where Fallon and Krystina were. Blake would have staggered forward, would have grabbed the other man and shaken him in an effort to drag the information out of the bastard before he breathed his last. Would have, but his body failed him. His knees buckled and the world swam. He felt Jeff grab for his arm and heard Zorelli shout for an ambulance.

"Blake, you need to---" Jeff started to speak, but Blake cut him off, using the last of his strength to jerk free of the younger man's hold as he grabbed at the railing in an effort to remain upright. Instead the world spun and he sank to his knees, glaring at Zorelli as the younger man drew close. Blood bubbling up onto his lips, every breath a strain, he coughed heavily. "Handler knew where Fallon and Krystina are." He tried again to lunge to his feet only to fall back, gasping heavily, the blood draining from his face. "If he's dead...." He couldn't finish.

"We'll find them," Jeff assured the older man as he tried to push him back down with his uninjured arm. "But you need to stay still until the ambulance gets here." He flashed a worried gaze at Zorelli.

"Fallon," Blake groaned, "Krystina." Blood slid over his hand and between his fingers where his palm was pressed against the wound in his belly. It hurt less now, the pain downright gentle next to the thought that two of his children were in danger. Instinct drove him to try and push upright again even as Jeff tried to stop him, but the younger man needn't have tried. Injury and blood loss stopped the older man far more effectively than anything else could have. Breathing hard, sweat and chills sliding over his skin, Blake collapsed onto the uneven surface of the stairs. "Find them," he implored his former son-in-law even as the encroaching darkness reached up and dragged him down. Too battered and weak to fight it any longer, he tumbled into the abyss and knew no more.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Music played softly, the notes light and tinkly, the antique tune ever so slightly out of time with the version running in Fallon Carrington’s head, her memory playing like a distant echo of the current reality. The music box. Around her, much of the ceiling of the cavern under the mansion had fallen in, creating a treacherous surface of broken rock and debris, but somehow that damned music box had survived, still playing its haunting lullaby. Looking around, she noted that the main passage both ahead and behind appeared to be unpassable. God, what had she done in talking her little sister into bringing her here? Now Krystina was in danger because of this whole mess, and it was her fault.

Why couldn't she have just left it alone the way her father asked? Why the hell had she had to keep delving into the past? Why couldn't she just have forgotten she'd ever heard the name Roger Grimes?

Roger Grimes.

So many of her life's traumas suddenly seemed to originate from that one name: her mother's infidelity, her parent's divorce, her own long-hidden guilt, her father's legal problems, and so many of her own misunderstood fears.

Roger Grimes.

And now his son, Dennis Grimes was just as hellbent on his father on getting the precious artifacts acquired from the original Nazi thieves. He'd already cornered she and Krystina once, and they'd barely escaped with their lives. Hopefully, falling rock had finished the bastard off, but if it hadn't and he found them again. She shuddered, praying he'd at least been knocked unconscious by the cave in triggered when his gun went off. A small hand crept into hers, clinging tightly, a tactile reminder of the present, and what she was here for. Not just the past, but the here and now. Her sister had a right to grow up with her father in her life, and Blake Carrington didn't deserve to pay for things he hadn't done. She had to get them both out alive and make things right, especially after the things she'd thought and the mistakes she'd made.

Especially when she was the one who'd killed Roger Grimes and her grandfather the one who'd gotten rid of the body. For months she'd thought her father capable of murder, and he hadn’t known about any of it. The thought made her stomach roll. She'd been so furious at him, resentful of his refusal to accept her relationship with Zorelli, and suspicious of his every motive. All while thinking he was covering up a murder, when she was the one who'd been in the wrong, and he'd been completely innocent. No wonder he'd been so angry. It must have been hell knowing his own child thought him a murderer in spite of any efforts he'd made to deny the charge.

Krystina squeezed her hand again, bringing her back to the present and she glanced down at her little sister, seeing the terror. "We'll be okay," she assured the child as she gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"I wouldn't count on that." Cold, hard, bitter, and furiously angry, Dennis Grimes' voice echoed eerily off the shattered walls as the barrel of a pistol nudged hard into Fallon's back. "I wouldn't count on it at all."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One minute the small group on the second-floor mezzanine of the Carlton Hotel was fighting; trading shouts, insults, and finally blows back and forth. And one minute later, Alexis Colby and Dex Dexter lay sprawled amid the shattered remains of the table that had formed the none too gentle cushion for their fall.

Staring down at her cousin and the man who had briefly been her lover---who had in fact fathered the child she carried---Sable Colby found herself surprised that there was no blood. Given the fall and the way they were positioned, sprawled atop the shattered table that had halted their fall with such brutal effectiveness. It seemed almost impossible for that much damage not to include buckets of red. Perhaps she'd just seen too many bad movies, but it gave the haunting the tableau an unreal quality.

It couldn't be Dex and Alexis down there, perhaps broken beyond repair. Much as she hated her cousin, it just didn't seem possible for something so banal to be the end of her. And Dex, so fiercely alive even in his obsession for Alexis. So desperate to be a father to the child Sable carried. He couldn't possibly have breathed his last because of a small fall.

And yet neither of them moved or even appeared to breathe, though from that distance it was impossible to tell.

As she continued to stare, Sable was distantly aware of her daughter, Monica, joining her on one side while Adam Carrington appeared just behind her opposite shoulder, but they, like the shouts from horrified onlookers were just as unreal as everything that had followed that first awful, piercing crack of wood as the balustrade gave way behind Dex.

Everything after that moment---the panic, the calls, the paramedics, the police, everything---had the feeling of bad fiction as seen through an out-of-focus lens. It couldn't be real and yet somehow it was. In the very few minutes that followed, she could hear the sirens and worried murmurs, feel the rush of people moving past her, and see it all unfolding, but it was like she wasn't quite there.

It wasn't until a hard hand clamped down on Sable’s upper arm and she was yanked to a halt and back around that reality somehow skidded back into being.

Adam.

Sable stared at her cousin's son the way she might something that had crawled out from under a particularly slimy rock. Bring on the slime as far as she was concerned. Honest muck was preferable to Adam Carrington any day. She glared at his hand, then tipped her chin up to stare right into his eyes, a smirk twisting her lips when she saw fear. She flicked a look past his shoulder, abruptly realizing there were police there---two uniformed officers and another man in jeans and a sport coat. A detective to judge by the way to uniforms clearly deferred to him.

"You have to tell them it's not my fault," he swore, his tone somewhere between menacing and terrified.

So that was it. She wondered if any of the hotel guests had seen what really happened, or was it down to his word versus hers and Monica's. Either way, she didn't really care. She yanked her arm with more force, pulling free this time and shook her head. "You’re on your own," she snarled, her lips twisted in a sneer. "I hope they hang you." The notion that he might have killed his own mother didn’t seem to have him nearly as upset as the idea that he might have to pay for it. Little as she liked Alexis, she almost pitied her cousin in that moment. To have a child like that seemed like far more punishment than even Alexis deserved.

He looked like he wanted to hit her, but before he could do a thing the detective stepped their way as she flashed a suspicious look at Adam. "Mrs. Colby?"

Adam jerked his hand back without making contact, and stood there desperately trying to look like he hadn’t been about to take a piece out of her. His efforts failed miserably.

Sable nodded. "Yes."

"Detective Larson," he introduced himself as he gestured to the badge pinned to his belt. "I was wondering if you had time to give us a statement." He glanced at Adam, his eyes narrowing faintly.

A quick glance confirmed that the police were interviewing several possible witnesses, doubtless more than enough to hang Adam. Sable was sure she wasn’t needed here, but Dex might need her at the hospital. "I’m sorry," she apologized breathlessly. "Mr. Dexter...he’s a friend...and I really do need to get to the hospital to see how he is."

The detective looked like he wanted to argue, but he held back. There were certain advantages to wealth and privilege. Doubtless had Sable been anyone else, she’d have found herself interrogated whether she had time or not. "All right," he exhaled after a beat. "But I suggest you plan on making time to make a statement by the end of the day." He flashed another hard look Adam’s way. "We want to make sure we have everyone’s story straight."

"Of course," Sable muttered. She turned her own hard look Adam’s way. "I’ll be more than happy to tell you everything I know."

Overhearing her words, he tensed, his eyes dark with an eerie mix of fear and loathing while his hands fisted at his sides, fantasies of getting them around her throat doubtless running through his head.

They were still glaring at each other when Monica inserted herself into the conversation. "I assure you, Lieutenant, my mother is more than willing to give you a formal statement, but right now we really would like to get to the hospital to check on Mr. Dexter’s condition."

The detective didn’t try to argue this time and Sable soon found herself out of the hotel and safely ensconced in Monica’s car, the low rumble of the engine turning over an odd sort of comfort. Soon enough they’d be out of there and perhaps she could escape all the questions about what she could have done or should have done to change the course of events. She was lost in her own thoughts when she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Monica asked worriedly.

How to possibly answer that question? "Let’s just go," Sable pleaded.

Thankfully Monica didn’t press any farther, simply pulled out of the parking lot and turned in the direction of the hospital.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Pain. It throbbed viciously through Alexis Colby's head, pounding like a jackhammer inside her skull, intense enough to send nausea surging up from her stomach. A low moan escaped her lips as she lifted a hand to her temple only to find it oddly restrained. Dark eyes swung over, a frown touching her brow as she stared at the translucent tubes attached to the back of her hand.

What the hell?

Glazed and unfocused, her gaze swept past the thin I.V. line to the sterile white walls a short distance away, then trailed along the collection of monitors congregated near her bed.

A figure stepped through her line of sight, a white labcoat flapping around a figure clad in blue surgical scrubs.

A hospital?

Alexis frowned, struggling to understand. What the hell would she be doing in a hospital? She searched her memory for an answer, but it was foggy, the images and sounds that came up jumbled together in a way that made no sense whatsoever. There was a hole there, she realized, a shudder of horror running down her spine. She was still trying to reorganize her thoughts in an effort to figure out what was going on when an unfamiliar voice broke in.

"Mrs. Colby, you're awake." The labcoat and scrubs swept back into view followed by a man with a friendly smile.

Suspicious of any expression that seemed so innocent, Alexis narrowed her eyes assessingly. "Yes?" she murmured suspiciously.

"How are you feeling?"

"Lousy," she answered crisply, then quickly demanded, "Why am I here? What’s happened?"

The doctor frowned as he leaned closer. "Can you tell me what you remember?" he questioned.

"Would I be asking if I remembered anything?" Alexis rapped out, impatience rapidly turning to panic. Something was very wrong—she could feel it—she just didn’t know what.

"Calm down, Mrs. Colby," the doctor attempted to soothe her rising stress.

Alexis was having none of it. "You calm down!" she exploded. "Now tell me what the hell happened."

Refusing to be bullied, the doctor offered a mild expression. "First tell me the last thing you remember."

"I-I..." Alexis stammered, every passing moment that she couldn't respond to his request increasing her frustration incrementally. "I-I-I...I don't...." Her breathing suddenly shallow and too fast, her blood pressure shooting through the roof, she couldn't think straight. It was all wrong, everything running together until she wasn't sure what was happening to her. "I don't know," she gasped as flashbulbs went off behind her suddenly tightly shut eyelids. "I don't...don't...don't know...."

Lost in her own agony and confusion, she never felt the needle that pricked her arm. Within moments, she sank into the comforting arms of unconsciousness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Paralyzed by terror, Fallon stood stock still move as she felt the pistol in Dennis Grimes' hand slide higher on her back. "You really should have played nice," he breathed near her ear in some twisted mockery of a lover's tone. "Could've made this a whole lot more pleasant."

"Go to hell," Fallon snarled, instinctively pulling away from any hint of contact.

Feeling her slight movement, he punched the barrel of the pistol more firmly into her lower back. "Just give me an excuse."

Still clinging tightly to Krystina's hand, Fallon froze.

"That's better," Grimes panted. "Just play nice, and you get to live."

He was lying. No doubt about it. Grimes wouldn't let them live. He couldn't afford to. He nudged her back with the gun again. "Now let's just move along, and everybody can get what they want."

Instinct told her to do as he said and keep living another second rather than risk dying immediately, but instinct can be a poor guide in some instances. It will drive the body to cling to guaranteed seconds of life rather than fight for unlikely years. Had she been alone, Fallon doubted she could have found the ability to resist the paralyzing fear and denial of her obvious fate, but there was her sister to consider, small and terrified and young enough to be her own. Krystina didn't deserve any of this, and Fallon felt ten times a fool for getting her into a situation likely to get her killed.

"I said, Move it," Grimes snarled when she didn't immediately move, banging the barrel of his pistol into her back hard enough to leave a bruise.

If she did as she was told, she and Krystina were both dead. That thought playing over and over in her head, Fallon made her decision. Their only chance was to to fight. In an instant, she spun, flinging her sister clear as she moved and shouted, "Krystina, RUN!"

Not expecting any resistance, Grimes didn't respond instantly, giving her just enough time to push the gun aside as she body slammed into him. He was solid muscle, so it was like hitting a brick wall with all her might, but it was still enough to throw him off balance. They went down hard, both scrambling for Grimes' weapon with too much to lose to surrender easily. Grimes tried to simply shake her off, but Fallon wasn't letting go. She had to hold on to buy Krystina as much time to escape as possible. His elbow slammed into her jaw hard enough to leave a bruise while she tried to drive a knee into his groin, coming close enough to draw a sharp grunt of pain. Limbs flailing, they rolled and tumbled in a desperate fight for life. By rights Grimes should have had no problem subduing the far smaller woman, but with everything on the line, Fallon made up their physical disparity in sheer determination. She clawed, kicked, bit, used anything and everything to slow her attacker down.

But even determination has limits. After the fourth time her skull crashed into the floor hard enough to leave her seeing stars, her grip faded for an instant, giving Grimes a chance to fling her aside. Momentarily airborne, Fallon hit the ground several feet from her starting point, sharp edged rocks and debris tearing at every patch of exposed skin as she tumbled with the force of the throw. "KRYSTINA, RUN!!" she screamed again even as she used her momentum to scramble to her feet.

Realizing his mistake, Grimes lunged after her, but Fallon managed to avoid his grabbing hand even as she spun and slammed a fist into his temple to send him careening off balance.

Seconds, it was all about buying every additional second for Krystina and now herself to escape. Breaking away from Grimes, Fallon turned and ran, Grimes' furious shout only adding speed to her strides. She heard the gunshot, felt the percussive hammer on her eardrums as it echoed inside the cavern. It came close enough that she heard the whistle as it carved a wake in the air near her left ear. The bullet impacted shattered rock, sending tiny, gravelly shrapnel flying. Overhead, the ceiling creaked and moaned, while the remaining wood supports cracked and bowed.

Seemingly unaware of the increasing danger with every shot, Grimes fired again.

Don't stop, just run. Fallon rounded a bend in the tunnel just ahead of a third shot, and saw her little sister picking her way through a debris strewn section of the cavern about twenty meters ahead. She swept the child up in one arm without slowing as she ran past. Just keep moving. That thought hammered a drumbeat in her head even as dust and small stones clattered around her with increasing frequency.

Another shot pinged into a nearby rock wall, close enough that Fallon felt the sting of dust and gravel on her cheeks while around her the earth seemed to surge and roll, not liking this unwanted intrusion into its domain. The walls on all sides shuddered, bigger rocks cracking away and while dust and dirt trickled to the floor beneath her feet. Grimes screamed an obscenity, but she ignored him, legs pumping harder in the mad effort to escape as the ceiling overhead creaked and moaned and they were pelted with ever larger debris. It was all coming down, Fallon realized in a sick rush, and if they didn't move, they were going to be right in the middle of so much rubble their bodies might never be found.

"No, no, no," she panted under her breath, the words coming in time with every desperate stride. Something hammered her shoulder, and she heard Krystina scream as another flying stone caught her cheek. Behind her, Grimes' screams were lost in a rolling roar of thunder that shook the walls until it seemed as though the gates of hell had opened up. Seeing the vague shadow of stairs ahead, Fallon thought she had time. It would be close, but—

And then a huge shard of granite cracked loose from the ceiling in a shower of stinging debris, the sound it made a tortured scream of breaking stone and shattered wood supports. Caught in a blinding cloud of bitter tasting dust, Fallon barely dove backwards in time to avoid being flattened as the last hints of light were exterminated in one fierce roar of sound. Her momentarily hope that it would end with just the one boulder died a fast death as her back was pummeled by fist sized projectiles dropped from above. Hauling Krystina against her chest in a protective cuddle in hopes of sparing her from the worst of the assault, she scrambled through the chaos by feel, hunting for anything that might provide protection from the increasing rain of stones hailing down on their heads. She was simply trying to survive another second, one second at a time. Something clipped the side of her head, cutting deep enough to draw a heated trail of blood down the side of her face.

"Please, god, no," Fallon croaked, well aware that another blow like that might well leave her incapacitated, and Krystina didn't have a chance on her own. She had to do this. Crawling now, nearly all sense of time, place, or distance lost in the swirling havoc, she felt ahead of herself, tracing the walls until she found an overhang of rock that seemed secure and had a deep depression underneath. Hidden against her chest, Krystina was trembling violently and sobbing. "We'll be okay," Fallon told her sister over and over as she pushed her under the scant cover she'd found, then pressed in after her as best she could. Around them, the world continued to rush and roar as it was torn apart and rejuggled into an new shape. Huddled protectively around the fragile, shuddering figure of her sister, Fallon Carrington fought not to scream as falling debris hammered at every exposed part of her body until finally a baseball sized piece of rubble slammed hard into the back of her skull and she knew no more.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"What the hell?" Jeff Colby swore as the floor beneath his feet shuddered, bucking gently for the third time in something over a half an hour. The shaking wasn't dramatic---he'd barely noticed it at first, mentally writing it off as his own shock, then attributing it to the milling crowd, then thinking it was the emergency vehicles arriving---but now as the third tremor of energy rippled through the earth with more force than the previous shudders, he realized it was something more. He'd been through earthquakes in L.A. and he suddenly realized that it felt eerily like the Carrington mansion had been hit by a very small one. This didn't bode well, not well at all.

"That's not good, is it?" Zorelli muttered where he stood nearby.

They were standing on the front steps, watching as paramedics carefully loaded a bloody and pressure bandaged Blake Carrington into the back of an ambulance, the speed of their movements an indicator of just how dire the older man's situation was. Handler was in the house, dead on the stairs. It was pure luck that Blake and Jeff weren't as well.

Jeff shook his head. "I don't think so," he admitted and ran a hand through his hair. He'd already put several calls into Dex Dexter's office in hopes of finding the other man as quickly as possible, all with no luck. With Fallon and Krystina still missing, presumably in the caverns under the house, he was certain they'd need both the other man's equipment and his expertise to find them quickly. His instincts screamed that need was now at least twice as bad as it had been. "I've never known of an earthquake in this area and there were parts of the underground tunnels that weren't stable." The inference that the shaking had been caused by a cave in was so obvious he didn't need to give voice to it.

"Mr. Colby," one of the paramedics called out, "we're ready to leave." As focused as they'd been on getting Blake stabilized for transport, they'd still checked on Jeff's condition and one had taken the moments necessary to loosely bandage his bloody upper arm while his partner took Blake's vitals.

The plan had been for Jeff to ride into Denver with the ambulance while Zorelli and Dex handled things at the house, but with Dex missing and now this. Jeff wavered gently on his feet, abruptly beset with doubts. "Maybe I should stay," he muttered dazedly, everything that had happened since the shooting feeling more like a movie than real life. It suddenly occurred to him that his wounded arm was aching and he reached up absently to massage the bandaged area. Minor as the injury was it still hurt like hell.

"No," Zorelli quickly disagreed as he reached out to guide Jeff toward the waiting ambulance. "You need to have that arm looked at, and things will go more smoothly at the hospital if there's a family member there for Blake...especially if there any decisions that need to be made...and I'll be here in the meantime."

"I don't know," Jeff exhaled, but he didn't resist as Zorelli continued to press him toward the ambulance.

"We'll find them," the detective said intently. He nodded to one of the waiting men who quickly stepped forward, taking up a position on Jeff's other side. "But right now, you need to go with the paramedics."

Jeff nodded unsteadily. "Yeah, I guess." The detective was right. He was so shaky legged it was getting harder and harder to stay on his feet. Definitely in shock, and he wouldn't be any good to anyone if collapsed on them. Besides somebody had to be there for Blake.

"Go on," Zorelli urged as he and the paramedic helped Jeff into the back of the ambulance. "I'll take care of things here."

Jeff was already sinking back onto a gurney at the urging of the paramedic when the driver slammed the rear doors shut.

Zorelli stepped back out of the way, and a moment later, the ambulance was moving, the siren blaring loudly. The detective stood watching it for a moment, then turned and headed back inside. With the injured seen to, he could concentrate his full attention on his missing girlfriend and her little sister.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~