Chapter Text
It all began with a partridge.
Yes, I said a partridge.
The kind someone’s crazy ass true love put into a pear tree.
Would anyone know anything about partridges at all if it wasn’t for that damned song?
No.
Because no one would care about partridges, turtle doves or colly birds without that song.
So, imagine my surprise when my boss started spouting out about the birds from that song.
Dead birds, that is.
Yeah.
Just to think that this all started with a dead partridge in a pear tree.
Fa-la-la-la-la-fucking-la-la-la.
December 21, 2016 – The Ninth Day of Christmas
The FBI New York City field office was little more than a ghost town. The higher-ups were all heading out for the holidays, leaving the grunt workers behind. And as it got closer and closer to Christmas, even the peons of the office were closing up shop to head out with families or friends.
There were a few of us who were lingering around, finishing up paperwork and being on call for emergencies. Mostly, the people around were the nice, accommodating sort who didn’t celebrate Christmas. Fadil and Saaiq were Muslim, Elizabeth was a Jehovah’s Witness, and Will…well, let’s just say he made the “before” Ebenezer Scrooge look like Santa about Christmas in comparison.
As for me…
The only blood family I’ve got is my sister. God knows where she is. I sure don’t. Last postcard I got from her was marked from Myanmar. Why the hell she was in Myanmar? Do not ask me.
The Corbins are the only other people I consider family. August did some raising of my sister and me when my parents couldn’t or wouldn’t. He’s gone now. And little Joey, his son, is on another tour in the Middle East with the Army and won’t be back until February.
So Christmas will be quiet again for me.
But I like it that way.
Nice glass of mulled wine, sparkling lights on the tree, Bing Crosby singin’ White Christmas, and eating glazed ham and sweet potatoes, just like Mama used to make.
I clicked the mouse, shutting off my computer, and started stuffing papers into files while Windows did its thing. I looked up as Saaiq walked by my desk. He was humming “The Twelve Days of Christmas” under his breath.
“Don’t you get in trouble for singing Christmas songs?” I teased as I grabbed my purse out of my desk drawer and slipped on my leather coat. “Don’t tell me Muslims are now getting into Santa.”
Saaiq snorted. “I’ll have you know that I was a lord-a-leapin’ in the Christmas play in 1987. And I fucking leapt to a height you would not believe.”
“They had kids leaping?” I demanded. “You’re totally messing with me.”
“I’d swear to God and hope to die,” Saaiq said, his lips twitching, “but that gets into a theological debate that I do not have the constitution for.” He leaned against my desk and tilted his head toward the glass walled office at the other side of the bullpen. “His royaliciousness wants you. Front and center. Pronto.”
I made a face at him. Saaiq and Elizabeth both thought our boss, Daniel Reynolds was hot. I once did, too. Back when he was my partner---and my lover.
A long, complicated story that I have no plans to tell now or anytime in the future.
Saaiq apparently didn’t approve of my mind freeze, because he nudged me, pulling me back into the present. “He said pronto, Mills. And he was muttering something about fucking French hens, which sounded a bit painful, if you ask me. Hopefully, your true love won’t be asking you to do that.”
“God. Just no. Go.” I pointed toward the door. “It’s eleven fucking o’clock at night and I’m too tired for this crap. Go away.”
Saaiq took his time straightening up from the desk, a shit-eating grin on his tanned face. “I expect full details after Christmas, Mills. Extra points if it involves pears!”
Maybe if I closed my eyes and counted to twenty, a whole swarm of birds would cart him away.
I tried it, but I could still hear him whistling the dum, da, da, dum, dum of each of the twelve verses of that song.
I stomped toward Danny’s office, and I could feel my whole upper back get rigid as I heard him sing out, “Five gooooold rings!”
I closed my eyes again, shook my head, and then pushed open the glass door that entered into Danny’s office.
Danny looked exhausted. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears, and I could see dark circles under his eyes. He probably had insomnia again, and the late night surveillance he had going on for Operation Mistletoe sure wasn’t helping matters.
I tried to muster up some sympathy for him. I really did.
But the fact that he sold me down the river to get his promotion, and I was stuck in the bullpen listening to Saaiq talk about fucking French hens, well…
I wasn’t feeling charitable at that moment.
“Evening, sir. Saaiq said you were looking for me?” was about as good as I could muster. The fact that he could have called my desk phone or come out to get me himself was politely glossed over.
Danny glanced up at me and gave me what I suppose was supposed to be a smile, but turned out more like a grimace, and then waved toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Mills.”
Mills. That’s all I was now. Mills.
My mind did not immediately jump to the times he used to call me Abbie. In that deep growl just as he…
No.
I jerked my brain back from that rabbit trail and tried to focus. I took the chair he offered but sat on the edge of it. I wasn’t looking to stick around for extra duty. I was coming off five twelve-hour days in a row, and the last thing I wanted was to be the sucker who signed up for more phone and paper duty.
I raised an eyebrow at him but let the silence grow, waiting for him to speak first. It got to the point where it was almost uncomfortable before he finally cleared his throat and started talking.
“We’ve got a bit of a situation here, Mills,”
“A situation…sir?” He wasn’t looking at me while he talked. Damn it. That was never a good sign.
“Have you heard about this old story in the news?” He kept going, shuffling the papers around on his desk, never once looking me in the eye as he cleaned up what was, at the moment, an impressively messy desk.
“What story?”
“A couple of years ago, this crackpot started imitating the Twelve Days of Christmas. He would send the birds to his ‘true love’, just like the song.”
“So that explains Saariq,” I said.
“Nothing explains Saariq,” Danny said wryly. That old companionship glimmered in his eyes for a moment as he finally looked up at me. But then it was gone again and he was all business.
“I’m sure the true love was thrilled with the zillion birds she got. Although five golden rings might be a nice compensation for the rest.”
“He calls himself The Five Golden Rings of Hell,” Danny said.
“Catchy,” I replied. “I’m taking it that this does not end with happy lords leaping and pipers piping?”
“All the birds were delivered dead,” he replied, a grim look on his face. “Necks wrung.”
“Damn.” I wasn’t a huge animal person, but the thought of anyone wringing the necks of a bunch of poor defenseless birds gave even my hard heart a thump. “So, the true love wasn’t too happy, then?”
“The true love is dead,” he said flatly. “Two years ago. Along with seven other women. All of them dressed like milkmaids. Employees in a dairy farm in Scotland found them in amongst the cows.” He sighed. “They’d been bludgeoned to death with antique milk cans.”
“God.” Just the thought of it had my stomach churning. “No. God. I hadn’t heard about it.”
“It was covered pretty extensively in the UK, of course, but it happened Christmas Day, and then three days later, an Indonesian jetliner crashed into the sea.”
“And that took over the news. I remember that.” My eyebrows came together in a frown. “So the true love didn’t accept his gifts and he murdered her and seven other innocent victims in the process?”
“That seemed to be the case.”
“Seemed to be?”
“Nothing more happened after the eight women died. The police in Scotland kept a watch out last year for any Christmas themed murders, but everything was quiet.”
“Quiet until...?”
“Nine women were killed last night at a dance party. Here. In New York.”
I could feel my mind starting to whir. That age old feeling I got when a case took hold of me and wouldn’t let me go. “But that doesn’t make any sense. A copycat maybe? Some sicko who read the story and liked the whole twelve days of Christmas thing? Did any of the other days of Christmas happen outside the U.K.?”
Danny shook his head. “No. But there is one rather big difference.”
“What’s that?”
“The true love victim’s name was Katrina Crane. She was the wife of a history professor at Oxford University, Ichabod Crane. He’s the youngest son of some earl over in Scotland.” He sighed. “He was cleared of the milkmaid murders, because he had an ironclad alibi. He was the keynote speaker at a conference about the American Revolution in Boston at the time. His wife was murdered somewhere between seven and one a.m. Boston time, and he was seen in person by at least 200 people in Faneuil Hall. No possibility he could have been in Scotland during that time frame.”
“Okay…so he didn’t murder his wife himself. He could have hired someone,” I pointed out.
“By all accounts, the man was extremely helpful to the police. He pretty much offered his life as an open book for them to go through. He was the one who originally notified the police after his wife had found the two dead turtle doves. He volunteered for polygraph tests. He urged the police to search his home, his car and his office. He gave detailed accounts of his whereabouts for each day one of the gifts arrived.”
My eyebrows shot up. “And what? He was prepared with alibis?”
Danny nodded. “All the way back to the damned partridge in a pear tree. He has an eidetic memory. Remembers everything. Tastes, smells, sounds…the whole shebang.”
I sat back in my chair, staring at Danny, a bit stunned. “So we’re on the case about the nine dead dancers?”
Danny nodded. “The dance party was technically in two states at once. The women were all on one of those large party boats on the Hudson. When other people on the boat found the women dead, the captain radioed for the police. They didn’t want them docking until everyone on the boat had been questioned. So the boat was stuck on the Hudson, and it was straddling the New York/New Jersey state line. Two of the dead women were found in New Jersey. Technically. So the police from both jurisdictions were working together, and someone remembered the story from Scotland, and their chiefs decided to call in the FBI and let us take charge.”
“But how do we know these murders are connected to the others?” I insisted. “It’s not a good thing, but we have a lot of these sorts of incidents here. Have you looked into a terrorism angle? Or a shooter?”
Danny shook his head. “The women weren’t shot. They suffocated.”
I knew the look on my face said volumes about how much I did not want to hear about how exactly these women died. But I asked the question anyway. “How did they die?”
“Each woman had pieces of antique fans shoved down her throat and an old dance card taped across her mouth and nose with duct tape.”
“Oh, my god.”
“I’m barely sitting on the press at this point about this Twelve Days of Christmas thing. And it does not help that half my agents are already off for Christmas and are no help to me at all.”
“What do you need me to do?” I demanded.
“Because the field office in Jersey is closer to the site of the murders, they’re taking point on the investigation. I’m taking Saariq and a couple of others down with me to Jersey to consult with the agents there.”
“Not me?”
Danny paused, not saying anything for several moments, before he finally shook his head. “No. I’ve got another assignment for you.”
If he gave me one more day of paperwork, I would kill him. Right there. I’d get ten lords a leapin’ all over his ass.
Outwardly, I just raised an eyebrow at him.
“Katrina Crane’s husband is here in New York.” Danny paused again and then let out a sigh. “The thought now is that Ichabod Crane is the ‘true love’, and not his wife.”
“So the presents are for him?” Something about this gnawed at me. Violent rage against 17 women and the strength to subdue so many women didn’t say woman killer to me.
“I can see you thinking, Mills,” Danny said wryly. “Don’t overthink it. All the women were likely knocked out with drugs first. The eight milkmaids were, and I’m pretty sure the blood tests on the nine dancers will come up with the same result.”
“Okay…but I don’t get it. What exactly…” My voice trailed off when I realized in a flash what Danny meant for me to do. I immediately began to shake my head. “Oh, no. Damn it, Danny. You are not doing this to me.”
“Abbie,” he began, his voice taking on a pleading that I hadn’t heard since I’d tossed his ass out of bed that last time.
“Don’t you fucking ‘Abbie' me.” I could feel the anger burbling and blazing up inside. “You’re going to make me babysit him, aren’t you? Trail him around like some sort of low-rent bodyguard? Three days before Christmas? While you and all your homies go down to Jersey to do the men’s work?”
“Abbie,” Danny chided. “It’s not like that at all.”
“Oh? Then what is it like? Really?” I glared at him. “You tell me that Ichabod Crane is not down in holding, waiting for me. You tell me that a safe house in fucking Sleepy Hollow is not waiting for us to arrive to spend Christmas there. You tell me that…sir.” I practically spat the last word, so furious I could barely get the words out.
Danny didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
I got up from my chair and stalked out of the office. He knew there was nothing I could do. Not if I wanted to stay an FBI agent and not give up the dream I’d had since I was barely out of high school.
But this was the last time I was going to let Daniel Reynolds screw me over. The last time.
The clock had inched toward eleven-thirty and I was on my way to holding.
The cells were all empty. It was rare that we had anyone here for very long, except for times during large raids. Missy, the clerk who manned the desk, had long gone home. It was dark and a bit chilly down in the holding area. The reception area had their buzzing fluorescent lights on, but the rest of the area was dark.
Seeing as how the decoration in holding was limited to a few obligatory government warning posters on cement block walls, there was nothing much to capture my eye besides the one person sitting on one of the plastic chairs.
The first thing I noticed was his legs. They just went on and on forever. Long, rather trim legs encased in faded blue jeans that hugged all the right places. A pair of brown suede boots covered feet that were crossed at the ankle. As my eyes traveled up, I noted a dark green sweater and a long navy pea coat that hung on rather slim shoulders.
His hair was a mess of brown and gold, and his nose was currently buried in a large book, whose title I couldn’t quite make out.
He hadn’t looked up at my arrival. I was generally pretty quiet when I moved, so it was likely he hadn’t heard me. I cleared my throat finally and then said, “Mr. Crane?”
His head quickly swiveled up as he placed a finger in between the book’s pages to hold his place, and he found me, pinning me with a questioning blue gaze that was a little unnerving in its intensity.
“I am he,” he replied. His voice slipped over me like velvet, and my toes curled. Just a little bit. Because God. Who didn’t like hearing British accents come out of men’s mouths? Not me.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Abigail Mills,” I replied, even as my eyes were scanning what I now realized was a drop-dead gorgeous face.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Agent Mills,” he replied. “I appreciate your kindness in taking on my poor self with Christmas only a couple of days away.”
“Just doing my job, Mr. Crane” was my immediate response. It’s what they always told us to say. I couldn’t say I was thrilled, because I wasn’t. But at least Danny gave me some eye candy to look at and listen to. Might not be quiet alone time with mulled wine, but a bit of company might not be so bad for the holiday.
Especially when he talked like Mr. Darcy.
While I’d been mulling over Mr. Darcy, Ichabod Crane had not remained idle. He had tucked his book into his old leather satchel and grabbed the handle of what appeared to be a rather large wheeled suitcase. Then, he rose to his feet. And those long legs of his extended him up to a height that had to be at least a foot taller than my own.
“God, you’re tall,” I marveled.
An eyebrow winged up at that. The side of his mouth quirked. “You’re pretty bloody short.”
Both my eyebrows rose at his comment. I didn’t like anyone commenting on how short I was. But then again, I did comment on his height, so I suppose I didn’t have much ground to stand on.
Plus, the smirk on his face showed a sense of mischief that made me a little homesick for Jenny. I gave him a fake scowl and pointed my finger at him. “That’s your one shot you get about my height, Mr. Crane. Just the one.” I flipped back my jacket and tilted my head. “Do you see this gun? I’m authorized to use it. On you.”
His blue eyes were just brimming with the thoughts that were passing through his head. I couldn’t make out any of them in specific, but his face was so animated that I couldn’t help but be drawn in to watch the emotions play across his expression.
He didn’t comment, though. He merely nodded and gestured toward the door leading out of the room.
I found myself a bit deflated. Almost disappointed.
I’d come down here in a rage, ready to belt Danny and anyone else in my way. But then I was in Ichabod Crane’s presence for about two minutes, and I felt like the earth had shifted somehow, and that I was standing on the precipice of something different and intriguing. It was a bit scary and more than a bit exciting.
As I walked to the door and held it open so Ichabod Crane could walk through, he murmured as he walked past me, “We have so very much to talk about, Agent Mills. So very much.”
A little shiver ran down my spine as I looked into the intense blue eyes that stared back into mine.
Suddenly, Christmas in Sleepy Hollow with Ichabod Crane didn’t seem like a punishment anymore, but a promise of interesting things to come.
Ho, ho, ho.