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Thread: this string of streets

  1. #1
    HB Forum Owner catherine e. forrester's Avatar
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    <center>bullock2</center>

    <center>I walk down these city streets
    Nothing seems familiar to me at all
    The blue lights flash and moan
    I feel so far from where I've come..

    I walk down these city streets
    The thick black ribbon keeps you from me
    You always had that way of you
    Showing up when it was most opportune

    And it plays like a broken record
    Deep within my soul
    Visions of childhood
    Visions of me growing old...


    Catherine E. Forrester -- new kid on the block, with a lot of learnin' to do.</center>

    <font color="#a62a2a"><font size="1">[ August 02, 2005 04:48 PM: Message edited by: amongst rampages ]</font></font>

    <font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ August 02, 2005 04:51 PM: Message edited by: amongst rampages ]</font>

  2. #2
    HB Forum Owner catherine e. forrester's Avatar
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    <center>13 schneider3 450</center>

    The term grotesque did very little to explain how it looked, laying there on the floor, its innards strewn about the carpet. Day forteen on the case, and she still couldn't stomach half of the evidence she'd found. Body turned away from the arm, fingers moving to quivering lips, stomach churning violently. Someone left an arm? How can someone just leave an arm like this? Nostrils sucked in air quickly and she turned back to face the evidence, eyes squinting as she forced herself to look. The arm was delicate, surely that of a woman, manicured fingers holding a piece of paper that seemed to have been ripped from a legal pad. Feet unsteadily led her over, and she crouched down, careful to not touch the evidence. It read:

    <center>Agent Forrester:

    I see you have found my little token for you. You have her hand, but I have her heart-- along with the rest of her body. Perhaps you need a partner to help you with this crime, hm?

    Love,

    -G
    </center>


    She knew the initial meant nothing-- nothing could be traced by it, and she knew it was probably nothing more than a token to try to throw her for a loop. Still, her eyes flipped various photographs through her brain, and the car that had been spotted numerous times kept coming to mind. The tag was Ohio, and read SFT. It meant nothing, yet she knew it had to mean something. Slipping the note into a plastic baggy, she tucked it into her pocket and glanced at her watch, thankful the long day was over.

    -----

    At exactly 11:32, fingers moved to grip pen as life was messily inked onto paper. She needed some way to vent, and while the cell phone was quick and easy, paper felt like the best solution. The recipient? Her father.

    Dear Daddy,
    This letter is more personal than business. I shouldn't have let you talk me into joining the field, my stomach can't handle it much longer. I found evidence today that was nothing more than a torn limb from some poor soul's body-- and another note, much like the first few. It was all I could do to not throw up then and there-- a lovely thought, isn't it?

    I know those tags mean something, that vehicle has a purpose. Rob threw it out completely at first glance, but I know that it plays a key factor. It really is starting to get to me that people are treating me as your daughter, not as a criminal investigator. They know you placed me here because I'm your daughter and because NYC needs higher numbers-- and I won't deny any of that. But the fact is, I know what I'm doing, and I'm doing the best I can do. No one can expect any more of me than that, right? People are so cold here. It isn't like home, it isn't like your office. People are crude and vulgar and don't give a flying fvck if people are happy or not. It's a job, you get it done, and that's that.

    I miss you. I miss being home, and feeling like I have my life under control. I've always respected you for what you do, personally and professionally-- but now, I respect you even more. To get up every morning and deal with what you deal with, ontop of personal life-- you're a strong man. I wish I had your stregnth.

    Dad, I need a partner. I need someone who I can talk to things with and not get in trouble. I'm not saying I need some cuddly candle-light-dinner beach-walking guy.. I just need someone who I can talk business with and get it off of my chest. Can you see into that?

    Send everyone my love--

    -Catydid

  3. #3
    HB Forum Owner catherine e. forrester's Avatar
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    At exactly eleven fifty-nine, she felt herself tremble. Fingers gripped the wheel as she drove, eyes darting between the rain-drenched road and the headlights that reflected blindingly in her rearview mirror. Cheeks puffed as lips heaved a sigh, eyes narrowing to focus on the road. Something isn't right. It raced through her brain in spinning circles, the scattered innards, the license tags. Immediately, brown depths dialated and lips parted, her heart thrown up into her throat, all in one sudden movement. The car. The car is following me. Eyes moved to the rearview mirror and she caught a glimpse of the black Dodge Neon, it's front tag reading Ohio, the initials blurred behind steadily descending beads of rain. Fingers gripped the steering wheel until knuckles were white-- a hard right, and she was headed down an alleyway, flipping her windshield wipers onto top setting. The car remained on her tail, challenging her, telling her no matter where she was, they'd be right behind her. Always seeing, always watching. Trembling fingers reached for her cell phone, and it rang the second fingers met plastic. She gasped, eyes immediately moving to the rearview mirror. Phone was nervously flipped open, and pressed delicately to her ear.


    "H-Hello?"

    "Who are you calling, fawn? Don't you know you can't trot away from me?"

    "Who are you, p-please, please tell me.."

    "You are a sick fool, a scared little lamb with no where to go. I bet you wish your Daddy was here now, don't you? I, on the other hand, will see you again soon."



    Click.

    She felt rather incoherent. At any moment, she knew she'd lose control of the vehicle, the rain splashing down harder now. The headlights swerved to the left and moved around her, right foot pressing to the brake to rapidly slow the car. She mimicked, pounding on the break so as to not hit the car. The initials were plain as day-- it was the car in the photographs that had been spotted exactly two blocks away from every murder scene on her case. The car made a hard right, and she blinked, turning on her high beams. There was nothing but darkness infront of her, as if she were in an endless tunnel. Shaking her head, she stared in disbelief as she drove, slowing the vehicle more, now. She felt engulfed in the thick blackness that surrounded her-- no street lamps, nothing. Then, suddenly, her engine revved-- foot moved to stomp break pedal, but the car only accelerated-- reaching 45mph, now. She was too panicked to scream-- hands firmly lay on the steering wheel, mouth opened to a silent daze, eyes glazed over. And then, a wall--


    --------


    The blankets were heavy with sweat and drool, and she struggled with the sheets, gripping them tightly. Limbs flailed in silent defense, and it was when elbow swung to the corner of the end table that she was catapulted from the dream. Blood seeped from a small cut, and she winced, groggily stumbling into the bathroom for tissue to cover her fresh battle wound. Flopping down onto the toilet, she stared at the bottom of the opposite wall, as it met the floor. Mouth was dropped open slightly, eyes barely open, glazed over. It was a dream that was so real it made every vein in her body freeze, a dream that now would plague her mind even during the most euphoric events. Nostrils flaired slightly, and her mouth closed, as she sheepishly began to sob. Wherever she was, there was the car, the tags, the victims, the blood. Wherever she was, the hideous smell would follow her, a scent that was found where all dead bodies were, that constantly churned her stomach and made her head light and clouded. She removed the tissue from her elbow as she wept, glancing down at the small dabs of her own blood. She was numb, feeling nothing for herself. Everything she felt was for the victims she could have saved-- the victims that had yet to be murdered. There had to be a stop to it, she had to find a way.

    There's nothing like a jab to the funny-bone as a heafty wake-up call.

  4. #4
    HB Forum Owner catherine e. forrester's Avatar
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    Memo:
    To: Agent Forrester
    Subject: For Your Eyes Only



    Forrester,

    You've got a lot on your plate, so I see. Five victims in two weeks is quite a pretty little penny. You were assigned to this case because you have a good head on your shoulders (that from your father, I'm sure) and an even better temperment to handle this case.

    You will not be receiving a partner as of yet. Your cooperation and dedication to this case is what will make or break you as an agent. It is important that you put your personal life aside, focus on the task at hand, and learn how to seperate the two. Though it is not mandatory that you seperate yourself entirely from others in the office-- on a personal level, I highly recommend it. Agents (much like Robert Giovanni) will try their best to break you of this case and make you give it up. This is your first case on your own, and though the stress level may be high, you were assigned to the case for a reason. It is yours, no one else should tamper with it, and if you know of anyone trying to work against you in the sidelines, please let me know immediately.

    As far as the tags for the vehicle are concerned, we have matched the car to Budget Rental Vehicles, Inc., based out of Cleveland. The rental reports are being run as you read this memorandum. Please be advised that you will be receiving a fax as soon as one o'clock this afternoon.

    I applaud you for your dedication to this case. You are the right person for it, and I know you will get it done.

    Regards,

    Dad.

    p.s.- Cookies are in the mail, kiddo. Hey, I couldn't make this completely business!

  5. #5
    HB Forum Owner catherine e. forrester's Avatar
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    send1

    Laptop clicked as it opened, Windows making its music as software loaded. The hotel room was gloomy and cool, and even as she tried to click the AC off, it still droned on with a persistant buzz. Plush seat donned wheels and a high back, and she tilted back in it, arms raising over her head for a stretch as she waited for the laptop to finish its loading. Password was entered, keys tapping lightly as fingertips punched in respective letters. Mouse quickly clicked on internet icon, and email was pulled up. Finding nothing new was somewhat of a relief-- while tests were being run on various artifacts from several victims, she took a short break for the evening, the persistant nightmares a sure sign that she was headed towards a nervous breakdown if she didn't take some time for herself. Just as fingers moved to Google a movie theatre, an instant message popped up.

    SFD99272: You're home early tonight.

    A momentary freeze. Eyes darted around. She knew those initials. How could he have gotten her screen name?

    Catydid928: Who is this?
    SFD99272: Who do you THINK this is?
    Catydid928: I have no idea.

    Already, a mistake. She wasn't up on the hackers, but she knew he could get her ITP address from this very conversation. Cell phone flipped open and she immediately called Phillip.

    "Yeah."

    "Phil, Catherine. The initials have my screen name."

    "What do you mean? What initials?"

    "The license plate. It matches the screen name. I need tech support to locate SFD99272."

    "Did you respond to the message?"

    "Yes."
    Fool. She'd probably be fired.

    "Christ, Catherine. Alright, sit tight, Mark will buzz you back shortly."

    Meanwhile, her computer chimed incessantly as the initials wouldn't leave her alone.

    SFD99272: Where did you go, Catydid?
    SFD99272: I just wanted to talk.
    SFD99272: You know you can't hide, even if you are FBI.
    SFD99272: I have the other hand, if you play nice I'll give it to you.

    She wanted to vomit.

    SFD99272: You look great in pink.

    She stood up to run to the bathroom, stumbling over the cord from the computer. Her reflection flashed before her eyes in the mirror-- her, tripping to the floor, in her pink blouse.

    Something was very wrong.

  6. #6
    HB Forum Owner catherine e. forrester's Avatar
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    <font face="arial">The flight back to Pittsburgh was very uneventful. Settled into business class, the cushy seats were rediculously comfortable, small form sinking into creaking leather quietly. Fingers tugged the eye mask over her eyes and iPod wafted its tunes into tympanic membranes, the soothing mixture of voices burned into a collection of soft music. She wasn't off the case, but because of her foolish mistake, she was forced to fly away from the city and return strictly incognito. The song seeped into her flesh, past her organs, bloodline, veins. It hit home.

    The pathway is broken
    And the signs are unclear
    And I don't know the reason
    Why you brought me here
    But just because you love me
    The way that you do
    I'm gonna walk through the valley
    If you want me to...


    She felt the heavy man to her right shift in the seat, clear his throat, the scent of Polo Sport wafting through her nostrils. It reminded her of her father, a scent he chose to wear nearly daily. Visions clouded her mind as she let herself sink in the seat, her mind clearing from the case, moving into a filmscreen of memories. She always liked the way he'd hit the ball to her when she was little, fingers encircling the grip of the tennis racket tightly, the ball lobbed towards her gracefully. It was a sport they shared for the majority of her childhood, her father and Catherine, a common bond that spoke a secret language that none would understand. The green ball (although, sometimes they were white, and donned a Polo pony) would fire a bit more quickly across the court the older she became, a competitive nature buzzing through her bones that definately came from her father's side of the family. There would be less talking, more playing, more silent language to be shared. Mother and sister would watch drinking lemonades, discussing boys and fashion. Catherine would be focused on the ball, the sound it hit as she lobbed it back to her father, not interested the least in the opposite sex. Not yet.

    Childhood seemed to have ended abruptly. College came and went, and a career in Psychology was quite the opposite of fulfilling. A roommate that shared a quaint little apartment in Mount Washington, left to get married. Repeat twice, and you'd have Catherine, alone to pay the rent. Side jobs were to be had, helping dear old Dad at the office, filing papers, offering free counseling to the other secretary who had a failing marriage. This was life... not the life she had at all imagined, but it was life.

    Thoughts moved back to the present, and she let out a quiet sigh, contemplation striking a chord in her form. Marriage. She'd almost been there once-- Peter Swindler, veterinary extraordinare. No, she wasn't the 'my ex-lover abused me and now I will be anti-men' type-- things just didn't... happen. She believed it was possible to fall out of love-- it happened. One day, she woke up, and knew it wasn't right. She could't help but wonder where Peter was... if he ever did end up finding that 'special someone'. Breath slowed, and her mind slowly cleared, allowing the words and melody of the music to cradle her off into a light, restful sleep...

    It may not be the way
    I would have chosen
    Living in a world
    That's not my home
    But no one ever said
    It would be easy
    They only said I'd never
    Walk alone...
    </font>

  7. #7
    HB Forum Owner catherine e. forrester's Avatar
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    <center>sandrabullock</center>

    <font face="arial">You'd think that people would've had enough of silly love songs
    I look around me and I see it isn't so, oh no
    Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs
    Well what's wrong with that, I'd like to know 'cause here I go again...


    The metal chains creaked quietly with her movement, one leg up on the wooden slats, one leg dangling for toe to stable body against floor. She'd always loved their porchswing-- the view of the large sycamore tree, watching neighbors come and go. The township was unique-- everyone had grown up there, children grew up and started families and stayed close-by, making family gatherings and functions a weekly routine. St. Paul's often threw carnivals this time of year in the church parking lot, helping to raise money for the parish. Eyes slid along the sidewalks, everyone gone for a Saturday matinee at the Benedum Center, or a picnic and stroll in the park. Lips pressed gently together to form a thin line, crystaline eyes seemingly focusing on every aspect of the street, though nothing registered. She felt clouded, alone. A corner-life crisis well underway.

    "Not much ever changes around here, Catydid."

    The screen door creaked much like the chains, her mother coming out with two glasses of home-made lemonaide. Catherine patted the empty wooden slats to her left, forcing a small smile that barely touched natural lips. They'd sit in a few moments of silence, her mother Maria knowing she needed some time to process whatever she was feeling. After about two full minutes of silence and quiet sipping, Maria spoke softly.

    "I will never forget the day I moved here with your father. Chelsea was about to turn two and you were just a seed of hope in my belly. I remember the Walkers next door being so friendly, and we were so excited because they were putting in the new pool down a few blocks. But I also remember taking forever to get settled because your father was rarely home.. he was rarely even home for dinner. It wasn't until you were in forth or fifth grade that he started making more of an effort to be here."

    A hand moved to gently rest on Catherine's knee, its touch warm and soothing.

    "Don't let yourself become so enwrapped in work that you forget your life, Catydid. You're young, and you have a full life ahead of you. And that includes a husband and family. Daddy's work is Daddy's work-- if it isn't what you want, then don't do it, no matter how low the numbers are in New York. Your happiness is what will keep you alive."

    She couldn't bare to look at her mother, if she did, the flood gates would open. And Maria understood this, a silent partnership that had been well established from a young age. They could read each other like an open book, and this was one of those chapters that she wished had closed as soon as it was open. Maria patted her leg lightly and moved back into the house, Catherine's eyes welling up with saline crystals that would soon skid down perfect cheeks. It wasn't that she didn't want to make a difference, it was simply that she was entirely lost. She kept the case, it was hers, it had to be done. She just needed time to think and reflect.

    Never before in her life, did she want someone so much to be there for her when she got home from work. Never before had she wanted someone so badly to talk with, about anything, or even not talk. Just lay under the stars, or swim together in the evening, or just rest in the presence of eachother. Twenty-eight, and alone. She felt like she was fifty.

    Though nothing will keep us together
    we could steal time just for one day
    We could be heroes forever and ever
    We could be heros forever and ever
    We can be heros...

    </font>

  8. #8
    HB Forum Owner catherine e. forrester's Avatar
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    <font face="arial">The intercom echoed against generic walls and tiled floors, a pleasant woman's voice emitted throughout the airport. Noting a departure, Catherine looked at her watch to see what time it was. 7:23AM. Her flight was booked for 9:00am, but because of Phillip's short notice, she was unable to meet the two-hour prior-to-departure deadline. Silently, she approached the E-ticket check-in, and touched the screen as it prompted her.

    Once ticket was printed, a woman dressed in the usual airline attire smiled up at her, glasses lightly fixed atop her head. Catherine noted the smudge of cherry-colored lipstick stuck to her teeth.

    "Have you any bags to check?"

    "Two, thank you. One carry-on."


    The seats were rather comfortable, and she sat, legs folded neatly at the ankle. She was instructed to wear all-black, her dark hair pulled back into a short, stubby ponytail that showed her face. Short strands of hair feathered about slender face, her sunglasses atop her head much like the woman's reading glasses. She sat back against the back of the seat, shoulders squared. She evoked a new confidence that she had not yet felt able to use-- finally, she was ready. Phillip had instructed her to wait at the gate; he would be there when time permitted. He, too, would fly the same flight-- seated diagonally behind her in business class, an aisle jutting awkwardly between them. They were not to speak to each other-- he had given her signals to look for and to give, marking the flight as official training of her undercover status. He wanted to watch her play the game-- eye signals that were too fluid for others to catch, light gestures of her hand brushing over her ear as a sign of a secret language others would not understand. At 7:48, Phillip rounded the corner, coffee colored khakis buckled neatly to his hips. As soon has she spotted him, book was opened on her lap. Signal one. Head bent low as she casually read, his footsteps carrying him to a seat across and down the row from her. He sat, she turned a page. Signal two. He crossed his right leg over his left, ankle meeting knee. Signal one, Phillip. Part of her wanted to smile, so she let herself, lending it to the book. Eyes skimmed the pages idly before she closed the book and stood up, swinging leather bag over her shoulder. Task one was complete.

    Heels clicked lightly as they led her to Starbucks, eyes scanning the menu that hung over the counter. Dissatisfied with the choices, she moved to the cooler and picked up a bottled Vanilla Frappacino, chilled. Superman was waiting in the wings, sliding the girl behind the counter a five dollar bill. Catherine turned, smiling at Phillip lightly.

    "I thought we weren't supposed to be seen together, hmm?"

    "Task one completed, task two was offering you refreshmants. You must be psychic."
    A grin, to accompany his amazingly posh outfit.

    Hazel-colored eyes met those that reflected coffee, and that smiled quietly at each other before parting again. He'd move to a newstand to browse through the USA Today, she'd walk back to the gate (A23 to be exact) to wait for departure. Heels silenced their clicking as she stepped onto the moving sidewalk, shifting to heave her bag higher onto her shoulder. Head dipped lightly to the side as she people-watched; airports were always the best place to see an eclectic mix of people. Brain silently noted the woman behind her, casually talking of her nephew's headcold. Eyes moved to note the man about two feet ahead of her, talking on his cellphone to what seemed to be his boss. The camera in her mind took vivid shots of her surroundings, sacking them away to her private filing cabinet.

    It didn't seem to take long before she was boarding the plane, case tucked under the seat infront of her. Frame sunk into cushy business-class seat, and as Phillip walked by, fingers moved to adjust the sunglasses atop her head. Signal 2.1. Phillip returned the gesture, finger moving to scratch at his temple. Their words?

    "Happy flying, let the games begin." </font>

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