The story so far:
The needle slid into Malachi's neck before he could move, and LeBonepierre's grinning face was the last thing he saw before falling into darkness.
The darkness ebbed and flowed, bringing with it strange visions. Unidentifiable female voices cried out in anguish, cried out for a savior.
Cookie's face came into focus, and then he felt the roughness of the rug beneath him, heard her loud and probably fake moans, felt the deep throbbing thrusts, and the explosion of pleasure, and then she was laying alone naked upon a red-stained operating table. Cuts appeared on her skin, crisscrossing all over, opening up before his eyes as if fifty invisible knives were attacking her. She bled profusely; it poured from her wounds like a fountain. So many gashes, so many wounds he could barely tell it was Cookie anymore. The blood gushed to the floor in a torrential rain, unstoppable. No human body could have so much blood but it would not stop, like an ever-flowing fountain. It flooded the room, rising to Malachi's knees, then waist, until it covered Cookie entirely, but it did not stop, even then. The smell of blood was overpowering and sickening.
Malachi realized he'd been hearing screams, inhuman shrieks of terror. As the blood rose to his neck, he realized he was the source of those screams. The blood poured into his mouth, turning the screams into gagging, as he taste the bile liquid.
He was choking, drowning in blood. It rose over his head, and he floundered around, as if in a pool. All he saw was red. All he tasted was blood.
And then the darkness came again, thankfully, and then a new scene was revealed, similar. He was in the same room as before, minus the blood, and Cookie lay on the table again, only everything was fuzzy, blurry to his eyes. He realized he couldn't see Cookie's face and moved closer.
He gripped the edge of the operating table and shook his head a bit, trying to shake the dizziness. The woman was not Cookie, but familiar.
A yell escaped his lips as the face finally came into focus. "Maribeth!" His hands slipped from the table as he stumbled back into the wall and nearly fell. Wounds began opening themselves up all over Maribeth before Malachi's very eyes. He slid to the floor, crying, as blood once again began flooding the room. The blood of his only love, long ago.
He slipped into darkness again, into thought, into memory.
Maribeth. His one true love when the world was different, happier. When it did not rain every day and the sun shined and the flowers grew.
Blue-eyed blond bombshell who'd seen something in Malachi's dark heart no other dame ever had. She cooked and cleaned, and could always make him feel better no matter how bad a day he'd had. He remembered her sweet soft luscious lips, her delicious and skillful tongue, as she went down on him. He could feel her soft round breasts beneath his hands, nipples at his fingertips. Plunging himself deeply into her, again and again and again, all night and again in the morning. She was perfect.
Until someone Malachi had put away escaped prison and killed her. Killed the only good thing that had ever happened to the damned detective.
Not just killed. Tortured. While Malachi watched, helplessly tied up. He'd escaped and killed the bastard, but it'd been too late.
Whatever Maribeth had seen in Malachi, it was gone after that.
Despite the tragedy, Malachi did not turn away from his work. In fact, he delved into it, taking the worst cases he could. Violent torturous murders became his everyday casework. He took cases nobody else would, and became very good at solving them.
He had good instincts, and wasn't really sure why. Instincts that had had him take a walk tonight. Instincts that had led him to Maison De Sante where he had found...
Malachi's eyes snapped as he regained consciousness. "Maribeth..." He muttered, the strange visions of the unconcious realm bringing back old feelings, feelings he'd been trying to drink and fight away all these years.
He took a deep breath, and looked at his surroundings. He lay on the blood-stained operating table, and couldn't move. His eyes darted around, and something caught his eye. A reflection from one of the computer screens showed a small feline body. Messiah?
A face swam up out from the dark edges of Malachi's vision. "Mal?" The face asked pleasantly, with a sweet voice Malachi trembled upon hearing.
He tried to shake his head. Tried to say no. How did LeBonepierre know Maribeth's nickname for him? How did he sound just like her?
Maribeth looked down upon him with a strangely sick smile. "What's wrong honey? Surprised to see me here after you let that terrible man torture me!?" She suddenly screamed. It looked just like her, sounded just like her. He tried to convince himself it was LeBonepierre, or another vision, but did it matter? He watched as Maribeth's hand produced a syringe. Malachi would be dead soon, or worse, ending up like the female victims he hadn't been able to save, and the more that would follow after he was gone. "You'll be able to move soon, and we just can't have that, can we?"
A movement caught Malachi's eye again. The cat. Had it been his imagination?
A flash of movement as the cat suddenly leaped, catching the arm that held the syringe. Maribeth yelled in a very manly way as Messiah yowled, scratching, clawing and biting. Maribeth wrung her hand desperately trying to throw the vicious beast away. Malachi struggled, felt tingling all over but couldn't move. The syringe drops to the floor and breaks. Messiah lets go of the arm, drops to the floor and darts off speedily.
"**** feline!" LeBonepierres voice comes angrily out of Maribeth's lovely mouth. His arm was bleeding. He snatched up a silenced pistol, and went after the cat. "No more sneaking around bitch!"
In his anger, LeBonepierre had finally made a mistake.