fredbassett | Fic, Death and the Maiden, Part 4, Claudia, Team, 15

Title : Death and the Maiden, Part 4
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Claudia/Nick, Stephen/Ryan, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 21,221, divided into in 8 parts.
Summary : Dinosaurs are not the only things to come through the anomalies.
A/N : This series is early in my main ‘verse, not long after the events of The Devil’s Crowll. It arose nearly three years ago out of a chat with

steamshovelmama. I owe an absolutely huge debt of gratitude to

aelfgyfu_mead as her assistance with Middle English made this story possible. I am also grateful to

talliw for information on clothing and shoes. And as ever, thanks are due to

lukadreaming for her beta help.

Ryan pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck in an attempt to keep out the pervasive trickles of water that were already finding their way down his back. The clear cornflower blue of the sky had been obscured some while ago by dark clouds and within the past few minutes a steady stream of rain had started to fall.

A few paces in front of him Stephen went down on one knee, staring at red earth heavily impregnated with ochre, which would shortly turn into a very unappealing mud bath. Eventually the tracker looked up and nodded in answer to Ryan’s unasked question. Moments later he was on his feet again and moving, bent over in a crouch, still staring intently at the ground. Ryan stared around into the tangle of undergrowth, knowing Kermit and Fiver were doing the same. The prints Stephen had identified looked like they’d been made by a flat leather shoe with no heel.

They were in an area of the forest known as the Scowles. It was a labyrinth of hollows, some of them several metres deep, originally believed to be the surface remains of iron ore extraction, but now thought to be remnants of an ancient cave system. The ground had been eroded away over millions of years to leave a series of rocky dells and channels, overgrown with ancient yew trees and sprawling ferns. Ryan had spent long enough around the Forest of Dean with Lyle for company to absorb this sort of information like a sponge. He began to wonder if they’d need to widen the search area soon to include the caves and mines. No doubt Lyle was already thinking along the same lines.

They passed a dog-walker hurrying along, a waxed hat pulled down low over his brow. “Best of luck, boys,” the old man murmured, his black Labrador at his heels. “And before you ask, no, I haven’t seen anything odd.”

Ryan exchanged a grin with Stephen as they nodded to the man and continued on their way. Their operations in the Forest of Dean were an open secret amongst the locals, a fact that continued to give Lester grief, but so far the conspiracy of silence had been well-preserved.

The trail led up a slope into a denser area of trees where dark yews fought for dominance with equally old, tangled oaks. The tracker hesitated briefly to examine the ground again, and when he straightened up, there was a frown on his face.

“Whoever it is has a hole in their shoe,” he said, quietly. “It’s about a size seven.”

They moved off again, following Stephen’s lead.

Ryan thumbed the control on his radio and demanded a sit-rep from Lyle. The lieutenant had drawn a blank in his sector and, as Ryan had surmised, was considering widening the search to take in the underground workings. He had also been joined by Cutter and, according to Lyle, when the professor had left the hotel, Claudia and Connor had been trying to open communications with their prisoners.

“Stay on the surface, Jon,” Ryan ordered. “We haven’t encountered any radio interference yet, but Stephen says this trail is fairly fresh, so there’s a chance we’ve still got an open anomaly around here somewhere. Work your way over to…” he consulted his GPS and gave Lyle a grid reference. “Call Finn and get him out here as well. I want to see if he can follow the prints backwards. And keep Cutter out of trouble. I’m surprised Ditz let him slip the leash after that knock on the head.”

A chuckle from Lyle told him his friend had been thinking along similar lines.

An urgent, “Sir!” from Fiver brought them all to a halt. The young soldier pointed to a patch of bushes. “I heard something. It sounded like a whine.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows and nodded for Fiver to investigate. He approached the tangle of undergrowth cautiously, brushing aside leafy branches. Ryan could hear it now, a low whine. Fiver started to talk softly to something, and a minute later he backed out with a small, white dog cradled in his arms. A black eye-patch spread around to one ear, and the dog looked like it had somersaulted over in the mud at some point. Fiver knelt down on the red earth to take a closer look at the animal, all the while speaking to it in a soothing voice as he ran one hand down the dog’s flanks.

“No prizes for guessing what he’s called,” Kermit commented.

“Patch,” Fiver announced, reading the small metal tag on the dog’s collar, to a pleased grin from his comrade. He slipped a length of webbing strap through the dog’s collar to use as a lead and straightened up. “Sir, I’ve got a feeling about this.”

Ryan nodded. Fiver wasn’t the only one who’d jumped to a conclusion. There was a phone number and a postcode on the reverse of the tag. Kermit entered the code into his GPS while Ryan got out his mobile and rang the number. The call went unanswered. They moved off again, with Stephen in the lead and Fiver just behind with the dog. Emboldened in the company of his new companions, Patch tried to pull ahead. It was obvious what direction the dog wanted to go in, and it coincided with both the trail Stephen was following and the course predicted by the GPS.

Stephen moved smoothly along the rough path, rarely having to stop to check his course now, and Ryan and his men followed behind, their previous banter replaced by a quiet watchfulness. The tracks led to a stile set in a three-strand wire fence that didn’t look like it would hold very much back, but it seemed to denote the boundary of the forest, as beyond it an unmade road ran along the edge of the trees. Muddy prints on the stile indicated that their quarry had passed this way. Fiver lifted the dog over with him and had to hold onto the webbing strap to prevent the animal breaking into a run.

“There’s a cottage up there,” said Stephen. “How do you want to play this, Ryan?”

“We stay out of sight, for a start off. Fiver, tie the dog up somewhere. Kermit, check the ground. See how close you can get without being seen from a window.”

“Yes, boss.” Kermit jumped lightly over the stile and melted back into the edge of the trees. It was at times like this that Ryan cursed their black uniforms and made a mental note to raise the issue of camouflage gear again with Lester.

The fading light helped and even though he knew where Kermit was, Ryan still found it hard to make him out in the shadow of the trees. Once Fiver had secured the dog, the three men split up, moving smoothly into positions where they could each keep a watch on a different aspect of the brick-built cottage.

Ryan moved quietly to a position where he had a good view of the rear of the cottage, but one which didn’t bring him too close to the large chicken run. He didn’t want to disturb the birds. Half a dozen or more brown hens scratched at the earth of their run, clucking quietly to themselves, pecking at a scatter of corn amongst the thin grass of their enclosure. They’d been fed that day, by the look of it.

“Boss,” Kermit’s voice in his ear was low and urgent. “I can hear voices in the kitchen but I can’t understand them.”

“Welsh?”

“Nope.”

Ryan wasn’t surprised. It just confirmed what he’d expected. He’d need to play this carefully or they’d end up with a hostage situation on their hands. “Stay where you are, and don’t try anything. Tell me if anything changes. Fiver, where are you?”

“Front door,” murmured Fiver. “I can get it open quietly if we need to go in.”

“Hold position,” Ryan ordered. “Hart?”

“Climbing a tree,” reported his lover nonchalantly. “I reckon I can get a line of sight into the kitchen window from up here.”

Time passed slowly, the way it always did when they were preparing for action, when seconds seemed to stretch into eternity and minutes turned into hours. But waiting was what they were good at. They’d certainly had enough practice.

“It’s our guy, all right,” confirmed Stephen, a few minutes later, not even panting from his exertions.

“Armed?”

“He’s got a knife shoved through his belt but that looks about all. I can’t see the owner, but there’s someone in a rocking chair, facing into the room.”

“What’s happening?”

Stephen hesitated then said, “They’re about to have a meal, by the look of it. The lad has just handed whoever’s in the chair a bowl of what looks like soup.”

“They’re having something to eat?” Ryan wondered if this job would ever lose its capacity for surprise.

“Looks like it,” Stephen said. “So what do we do?”

“Wait. I want to be sure there’s only the one bloke.” Ryan checked his watch. “Report again in five minutes. If threat levels change, we go in, but wait for my signal. I don’t want anyone going off half-cocked.”

Five minutes passed uneventfully. Stephen reported that the man had finished eating, and so had the occupant of the rocking chair. The young man had used his knife to hack chunks off a loaf of bread, which he had promptly and unceremoniously devoured and then he’d left the knife on the table.

Ryan turned the options over in his mind. If the man had the plague they needed to minimise his contact with the owner of the house, but it was a question of how to go about it. He had a strong suspicion that the other person in the kitchen was an elderly woman. The washing line contained aprons and the sort of underwear that wouldn’t have looked out of place on his Nan’s clothes drier when she’d been alive, so that ruled out chucking in a flash-bang. He didn’t want a heart-attack victim on his hands.

“Hart, if the subject steps away from that knife I want to know about it. Fiver, get that door open and do it quietly. Kermit, on my word, I want you in. Fiver, you follow him. I want them both alive. Got it?”

A chorus of assent told him they had. A moment later Fiver reported that he had the door open ready for entry.

Less than a minute later, Stephen’s voice came back over the radio. “He’s taken two steps away from the table, leaving the knife behind.”

That was what the captain had been waiting for. “Go, now!” Ryan ordered.

Seconds later his men burst into the cottage through the front and back doors, weapons raised, yelling loudly in a standard entry manoeuvre they’d practised time and time again. Ryan was hard on their heels, no more than 30 seconds behind Kermit who already had the young man bent over the table, both arms forced up his back. Fiver had his Glock drawn and was pointing it at the man’s head.

“Don’t hurt him!” The old woman’s voice cut through the shouted commands being directed at their captive by Ryan’s men like a hot knife through butter.

Ryan turned to face the occupant of the rocking chair, a woman who looked to be in her late 70s, with grey hair pulled back into a bun from which a few wisps were already escaping. Her pale blue eyes were watery but her voice was firm. She pushed herself up out of the chair, but gave a gasp of pain as her right foot met the floor.

“Ma’am?” Ryan was at her side in an instant, offering her his arm to steady herself. “Sorry about the dramatic arrival, but we needed to ensure your safety.”

She stared him straight in the eye and sniffed dismissively. “Can’t I eat lunch with a friend in peace?”

“Do your friends usually scare your dog off, ma’am?” Ryan countered, his voice level and polite as he watched his men securing their captive.

“Patch barks a lot but he’s not awfully brave. There was a misunderstanding, nothing more than that. Now are you going to tell me your name, young man, or are you just going to stand there trying to look like you’re in charge?”

Ryan grinned. She definitely reminded him of his Nan. “Captain Ryan, at your service, Mrs… ?”

“Eileen Allen. And I very much doubt that that you are at my service, Captain Ryan,” she sniffed. “But there’s a pile of wood out the back that needs chopping if you really want to be useful.”

“A cup of tea and an explanation wouldn’t go amiss, ma’am,” he said, recognising superior force when it stared up at him out of rheumy eyes. “Then maybe we’ll see what we can do about the wood. But I need to get your guest away from here first. It’s possible he’s carrying a disease, and we need to minimise the possibilities for infection.”

The woman stared at Ryan with a disconcertingly direct gaze. “He’s been here for something in the region of an hour. Another short while can’t make that much of a difference. The kettle’s on the stove, tea’s on the dresser and milk’s in the larder. Now would you mind letting Thomas go? Then we can talk about this like civilised people, Captain.”

Ryan pressed the transmit button on his radio. “Hart, untie the dog, then come and join us, we’re about to put the kettle on.” A moment later, while Ryan was reporting their situation over the radio to his second in command, the small white dog burst into the kitchen, barking madly, his stumpy tail wagging, followed by Stephen, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Patch’s owner sat back down in the rocking chair, cradling the dog in her lap.

The young man said something in a language that Ryan couldn’t quite understand, but from the tone of the lad’s voice it sounded like an apology.

To Ryan’s surprise, Eileen Allen answered him haltingly, in what sounded very much like the same language. “Aye ascusen yow.” Or at least that was what Ryan thought she’d said.

He rattled off something in reply too fast for Ryan to even begin to follow. Eileen Allen held up her hand and said, “Speke thee slowliche.”

Ryan guessed that she had just told the man to speak more slowly because he repeated what he’d said, this time leaving a noticeable gap between each word, but Ryan still couldn’t pick up more than a word here or there although it looked like their hostess was doing somewhat better when it came to understanding her ‘guest’.

“Thomas says he means no harm, Captain Ryan, and I believe him. Now would you do him the courtesy of untying his hands? I think I’m entitled to have some say in the matter while you’re in my house, don’t you?”

“I can’t risk him making a run for it, ma’am. I have your safety and that of others to think of. As I said before, he might be sick. I need to get him checked by a doctor.”

“Then untie his hands and call a doctor, young man. There are four of you, after all.” The kettle on the stove let out a loud whistle, causing the man called Thomas to stare around him in alarm. “And will someone please make some tea! You’ll find some fresh mint in a jar by the sink. I think Thomas would prefer that.”

With something approaching resignation, Ryan watched Stephen treat Eileen Allen to his best smile. “I’ll make the tea, ma’am.” He shot Ryan a disarming grin. “Kermit and Fiver can keep an eye on Thomas while you call Claudia. How does that sound, Ryan?”

“Release his hands, lads,” said Ryan, knowing when he’d been out-manoeuvred.

“Sugar, ma’am?” asked Stephen, politely, his blue eyes twinkling in a way that few people could resist.

Ryan wondered what the chances of cake and biscuits were.

Eileen Allen smiled and waved her hand at a large tin on the dresser. “Help yourself, Captain.”

He sighed. The resemblance to his Nan was now complete. She’d always known when to bring out the biscuit tin as well. It looked like they were all going to observe the social niceties whether they wanted to or not. He pulled out his mobile phone. Claudia would no doubt get on like a house on fire with Mrs Allen.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

fififolle

I was sure Eileen was in deep trouble!! Looks like she had a few tricks up her sleeve *g*
I'm loving the Middle English :D
A breath-holding chapter!

From:

Fic, Death and the Maiden, Part 4, Claudia, Team, 15

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags