Title: Shadow of Hell; Chapter One
Author: Demelza
Season: Three
Spoilers: Up to, and including, 233 Days
Disclaimer: Without Prejudice. Third Watch is NBC's property, I am only borrowing them for fiction-writing purposes. All original characters are my own, but you may use them if you so desire.
Characters: Bosco, Faith
Pairings: May, or may not, have B/F together
Warnings: Dark-fic; violence; sexual references; profanity; character death.
Rating: FRM
Summary: Gloved hands were moving, fingers pointing, as they examined long and streaking bloodstains that covered the walls. The words the bloodstains formed, nothing more than gibberish.
Note: Part of this story is taken from an original short story I never quite finished, and thought would work very well as a Third Watch fan fiction.
Dedication: Thanks to Jill for such an awesome beta job! hugs

CHAPTER ONE

Bosco had fallen asleep at the desk where he usually filed his reports, when a loud clatter woke him up. His eyes and head aching, he lifted his face where it had been resting against his bare left arm and looked over his shoulder, behind him. The move sent burning pain spiraling through his neck, and he frowned as he saw Gusler picking up the paper tray that had fallen off the other desk.

In his mind, he wanted to call the younger man a moron, but with his head hurting too much, he turned back to the desk and let out a pain-filled exhale.

Even breathing hurt.

He'd been dreaming. Or at least he thought he had. He couldn't remember. Not now.

He breathlessly checked the time on his watch, and realized he'd slept less than six minutes. He cursed, before exhaling softly.

His mind started to drift then, to his dreams, whatever they had been. They had felt so surreal, only he couldn't remember much more than the gut wrenching feelings he prayed he'd soon forget. The only remnant of the dream, the sickening feeling, lay in the pit of his stomach and at the back of his head, where his headache had worsened.

Bringing his right hand to his head, he leaned against his palm, closed his eyes and slowly breathed in and out a few times. He could almost feel the pain, burrowing deeper into his skull. A grinding, fiery pain.

Gusler was still behind him, and if it wasn't the young man's offensively strong aftershave, it was his constant talking to himself that was getting on Bosco's only remaining nerve. Not that it was the younger cop's fault. After all, it wasn't Steve Gusler's fault he hadn't slept more than five hours – and six minutes – the last four days. Nor was it Steve Gusler's fault that his head hadn't stopped hurting since the morning of the second day.

"Boz?"

He heard her then, heard her curious tone.

"I thought you left already?"

Opening his eyes, Bosco looked up, and to his right, and saw Faith standing there –ready to head on home. "I thought I did," he replied, blinking slowly.

"Still got that headache?" she asked tiredly.

"Yeah."

"You should go home, get some sleep."

He nodded carefully, but even that small movement alone caused more pain. "I'll try."

"Don't try," she warmly replied. She leaned sideways, against the archway. "You need to sleep, Boz."

Sighing, he sat up straight; felt the crick in his back – the one he'd gotten two nights ago helping Sully and Davis chase down the son of a bitch the last six days had been focused on. "Yeah," he answered, a prickling sensation crawling up his neck. "You too," he said.

Slowly, she nodded. "Soon as I hit the sack," she quietly promised.

Gusler – finally finished with his tidying up – walked out, bumping hard into Faith's arm as he went past her, and without an apology.

"What's with him?" she asked casually, rubbing her upper left arm.

The top of his eyes throbbing, Bosco sighed. "Who cares?"

A small smile tugged the corner of her mouth, and she shrugged. She sighed softly, nodding in his direction. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Night, Faith," he replied, and he watched her leave.

She had gone from his line of sight, when he let out a long, low sigh. The pain in his head felt like it was only worsening. And then there was the dream. At first he'd pushed it from his mind, not even consciously. But then came the silence and suddenly, he remembered.

Michael had locked his door, and his thumping on it, calling out his name, wasn't in fear.

He'd been the one to pull the trigger.

"Mikey," Bosco whispered then, vivid images blanking out the reality around him.

Michael had been standing one second, and in the next Bosco was towering over his younger brother's body, holding the silver plated revolver in his hand. He'd felt the blood, all of it warm, as it sprayed against his skin.

It felt like slow motion as he saw Michael fall to the ground, where he had fought with him over the revolver.

Reality seeping back in, Bosco inhaled, blinking the memory away. Only it wasn't a memory. It was a dream. A horrible dream.

"Boscorelli, call on line four," a man's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Bosco looked out to his right again, and saw the desk sergeant standing there. "Line four," the obese older man repeated.

Bosco had barely the chance to respond, when the desk sergeant hurriedly walked away.

He slowly exhaled, before reaching forward and picking up the handset. With the phone to his ear, he hit the 'four' button. There was a beep, followed by the sound of rushing traffic. "Boscorelli," he said.

'Mister Boscorelli,' a cold, emotionless male's voice sounded.

"Officer," Bosco corrected. "What can I do for you?"

'It is imperative that we speak, Mister Boscorelli.'

Bosco sighed in frustration. "Concerning?"

'The case you and your partner, Missus Yokas, have been working on this last week.'

He reached for a pen and piece of paper, "You have information?" he asked the man.

'The eastern entrance of Central Park, Mister Boscorelli. Twenty-five minutes.'

"What can you gi..."

Bosco's words had half been said, when the phone on the other end went dead, and all he was left hearing was a hollow tone that grated on the pain in the back of his head. Sighing, he replaced the handset and let out a long exhale.

Feeling even more frustrated, he rose to his feet and reached for his black leather jacket that had been over the back of the seat, only it was gone now. Frowning, he looked around the room, and on the floor, but it wasn't anywhere in sight.

"Son of a bitch," he grumbled.

There wasn't a solid thought in his mind on the matter, only the fleeting idea that he'd probably left his jacket in his locker, when he remembered the last place he'd had the jacket. Faith's place. He'd worn it to her place the day before yesterday when they'd agreed to meet up to go over the case.

Satisfied with the fact his jacket was at Faith's apartment, and knowing he'd ring her when he got home and ask her to bring it to work tomorrow; he walked out of the room. He'd just have to go in his jeans and t-shirt.

The last few days had brought close to one thousand-plus calls from Jane and Joe Public, and while the Detectives had sworn to have gotten 'their man', Bosco was reserved to let the matter rest. After all, what harm would one more tipster do? If the man had evidence to prove the man in custody was the killer, and that he had another few bagfuls of evidence that would keep the bastard in jail, then it was all the better.

Sitting in his car at the lights three blocks from the meeting place, Bosco checked his off-duty gun. He made sure the clip was loaded with fresh rounds, and that the clip itself was firmly locked in place, before he slipped the ice-cold gun into the front of his jeans once more and covered it with his un-tucked t-shirt.

As crazy as the idea to go meet some strangely-polite tipster was, Bosco also knew when to be extra cautious. If his off-duty weapon didn't do it, then the backup at his ankle would.

The light ahead turned green, and the mid-morning traffic continued.

The park, and much of the city, really, was eerily quiet as Bosco pulled his car to a complete stop a short while later, a short distance from the eastern entrance. Ever since leaving the precinct, he had a feeling in the back of his still aching head that maybe, just maybe, someone had been following him. He checked his left, right and rearview mirrors, and, satisfied no one was in view, he found himself letting out a low sigh of relief.

Opening his door, Bosco climbed up out of the car. It was windy outside now; it hadn't been when he left the precinct, and as he closed the car door he felt a gust of wind rush past his back. The cool air went up his t-shirt, brushing against his skin and sending a shiver through his spine. It felt too familiar.

The area around him was dimly lit, and, with trepidation, he made his way over to the entrance.

Waiting there, he took in the smells of freshly cut grass and newly dug-up irt. It was a slice of heaven from the daily smog and gasoline fumes he was so used to. He could've spent hours there, but then came the feelings of unease again, the one's that told him someone, or something, was watching him. The only desire he had now was to get the hell out of there.

He was drawn, though, to the intuition that told him to get out of there. He was much like a child in that respect; if someone warned him not to go somewhere, or do something, he would just to spite them. Gut instinct, for him, was often the same.

As he slowly exhaled, he slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. Even now, tiny fragments of his dream started to creep into his mind.

He could see her. Faith. Pen in her mouth, rolling it across her lower lip.

It drove him crazy inside, and every thought of her made his stomach somersault. He had to blink the images from his mind though, the feelings that he knew weren't his. They were from his dream. His dream, and his dream alone. Not him. Faith was his friend, his partner, and she was married for God's sake.

"Mister Boscorelli?"

In fright, Bosco turned around, his heart thumping in his throat. "Y-yes," he breathed cautiously, trying to catch his breath. He rose an eyebrow, "You're John Basil?"

"John Baisley," the thin framed man corrected. His voice was rough, almost without accent, and his breath stunk of balsamic vinegar. "I haven't much time," the hooded man said, and Bosco frowned – he hated not being able to see the eyes, or the full face, of the person he was speaking to. "But," the man calmly paused, "I need your help."

Bosco took a half step toward the man. "What do you know about the man we have in custody?"

Baisley's lip curled downwards – he was frowning. "He is not the last, but the first."

"What?" Bosco shook his head. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You need to speak with Alfredo Wilcox. Seek him out, please Mister Boscorelli. He works on Fifth Avenue."

"Oh sure," Bosco sarcastically promised, "I'll just go knock on every door."

"He drives a horse carriage," Baisley continued – not catching his sarcasm. "Alfredo Wilcox. You must be quick. There isn't much time."

Hesitant for a split second, Bosco went to say something in response, when Baisley took off, back into Central Park. "Quick my ass," he muttered. "Jagoff."

His car parked opposite the lane where the horse carriages usually stopped, Bosco crossed the road and looked about the pretty well-lit street. Although the pavement was almost bare of all people, there was a modest flow of traffic that silently crept along the asphalt.

In the background were the faint clip-clops of horse carriages as they went along on their late night tours of Central Park. The horses' shoes were mental and rubber alike, and drew on his ever aching head. He just wished for five seconds of freedom from the pain.

A carriage pulled in beside him, and Bosco turned to his right and saw a middle aged man in a top hat come down off the front of the carriage, and then walk to his bay horse and feed it a treat from his pocket.

Frowning, Bosco walked towards the shorter man. "Alfredo Wilcox?" he asked.

The man, smiling friendly, turned to him, wiped his hands with a white cloth from one of his other pockets. "How may I be of assistance, sir?" He spoke with a light German accent.

Bosco moistened his lower lip then, before speaking. "Your name, and, accent..."

Wilcox laughed. "Yes, they don't fit, do they? I changed my last name to something more America when I arrived here five months ago...five months yesterday, to be more precise."

"Five months? You hardly sound German."

He laughed again. "Naturally by here I meant New York. I had been living in Chicago up until that point for, ten years I do believe. Ten years and, six days, if memory serves me right."

Bosco stared at the man for a long minute, before raising his eyebrows. "Right. Uh, thanks." He mentally rolled his eyes. "A man, John Basi...Baisley, told me to 'seek' you out. I don't know what the hell for, but..." He gave a shrug, looking at the shorter man.

"John Baisley," Wilcox said, as if acknowledging his knowing the man. "A very disturbed young man. Suffers from rash hallucinations and delusions."

Sounds like everyone I know, Bosco thought. "He told me to talk to you, so, here I am."

"And, who exactly might you be, mister..."

"Boscorelli."

Wilcox removed his hat then, nodding. "Aaah, Maurice Boscorelli."

"Wait, how...?"

"Mister Baisley has mentioned you more often than not, I have to tell you. To tell you the truth though, I thought he had imagined it all. You, your partner, and a list of people as long as my arm that he claims are going to die at the hands of a revengeful serial killer."

Bosco shook his head. "That's...not..."

"Not what, Mister Boscorelli?"

"How can he know? Unless..."

Wilcox shrugged, "Unless?"

Once again, Bosco shook his head. "Unless he's the killer. John Baisley, he must've murdered all those people. Otherwise, how would he know?"

The shorter man laughed, shaking his head. "That's preposterous, Mister Boscorelli."

"How?" he demanded, "He knows about the killer, the victims, and me and Faith!"

"How?" Wilcox repeated. He gave a short laugh. "He's been institutionalized for the four years, that's how."

Every rational part of Bosco was telling him to stop, but he shook his head. "He got out then. He must've escaped."

"I overlooked him this evening, he's been in a catatonic state the last six days. So, what you're suggesting is...not even possible."

"Bullshit!" he shouted, "He was at the Eastern Entrance, I saw him!"

"I'm sorry, that's just not possible."

Frustrated and angry, Bosco shook his head and took a few steps backward, away from the man. "You can't expect me to believe that! You're a carriage driver!"

Wilcox tossed his hat to the ground. "Actually, you only think I am."

"You were driving that thing!"

"And so, of course, the automatic assumption is that I'm a carriage driver. But would it not be possible that it was merely a tool, a part of a world someone would have you believe to be real, when in fact at the snap of my fingers you would wake up and realize that this was all just a wild dream?"

Bosco swallowed hard. "It's not a dream."

"And I'm a carriage driver; I lied when I said I wasn't."

He swallowed again. "No. None of this..."

"Isn't real?"

"Stop, you're..." Bosco shook his head again, more in confusion this time. He turned and was walking away, when he heard Wilcox snapping his fingers. He stopped in his steps, not far from where he had been those seconds ago, and turned back to the shorter man. Wilcox wasn't wearing his carriage driver outfit any more. He stood there in a white lab coat, concerned look on his face. "Wh..."

Sudden screams pierced his ears then, and he dropped to his knees, covering his ears tight to stop the sound from going in. It didn't work though, he could still hear the screams.

"Stop it!" Bosco shouted, squeezing his eyes shut as he begun rocking back and forth, "STOP IT!"

And it did. It stopped.

Almost breathless, his eyes shot open, and he found himself staring close-up at the fabric his sofa was made of. He swallowed hard, heart racing in his chest. He attempted to make sense of what had just happened. He ran every second of it through his pain-free mind, but nothing. He couldn't make sense of it. None of it.

He sighed in relief at the absence of the living hell, when the phone ran and he rolled onto his back, but ended up falling flat on his back on the carpeted floor beneath him. There was a putrid smell in the living room, and as he sat up he quickly realized that while this was his apartment, nothing about it was familiar.

The walls were stained and dark, and the smell in the room was a mix of rotten food and dog feces. He didn't have a dog though.

He went to stand up, when he turned his head to the right and reached for the smoke-caused yellow phone that sat on the makeshift coffee table that was put together out of old crates. Swallowing, he set the headset to his right ear, "Hello?"

"Schatten der Hölle," the dark voice on the other end said, and, just as quickly, the phone went dead and all that remained was the piercing dial tone. The caller had hung up.

A sick feeling in his stomach, Bosco replaced the handset. None of this was real. It couldn't be.

Cautiously, he rose to his bare feet then; all around the apartment was nothing but filth. Dirty clothing was scattered over a broken lamp, the back of a grubby armchair, and strewn all across the floor. Clothing that wasn't his. Then there was the empty bottles and cans of beer and other assorted alcoholic beverages, some of which looked to be months old. And who of course could forget the cockroaches and ants that were everywhere the eye could see.

He felt even sicker, when he caught a glimpse of a framed photo that sat atop a makeshift cabinet opposite the sofa.

He walked over and picked up the frame in his left hand. It wasn't a photo he had ever remembered being taken, but just the same it was of him, Michael and their mom, standing against a brick wall. Smiles were absent in the three of their faces, and Michael – complete with beard, while he himself only had a moustache and slight goatee – seemed to be the only one paying attention to the photographer.

Silently, he ran his thumb over the corner of the photo, trying to figure out what it meant.

He knew none of this was real. The photo proved it.

Not even thinking, he lifted his right hand to his face then, almost unsure why he was, when he felt the goatee and moustache his photo-self had, only it was as real as he was. He tilted the frame then, just enough that he could see his disheveled reflection in the glass. His hair was longer than he'd remembered seeing that morning, amongst other things about himself that just wasn't right.

Just then, the door to his apartment opened and Bosco turned around and saw a man he didn't recognize walking in, with a large set of keys in hand, and an apologetic look on his face. "I'm sorry Mister Boscorelli," the really short, balding, man said, "They wanted in."

"They?" he asked, and his question was answered when two familiar faces came into view. "Sullivan, Davis..." he said, a smile on his lips. They looked exactly like he remembered them looking, and he laughed, realizing they must both be in on the joke.

Sully, nightstick in his hand, frowned deeply. "House check time, Mo," he said, and by his tone, he seemed serious.

Bosco half coughed and laughed in the same breath. "Yeah, sure, okay guys. You got me," he laughed again.

Davis walked into the room and over to the sofa where he was still standing. "What, you think we're jokin' with you? Move to the wall and spread your arms and fuckin' legs."

"Yeah, sure," he laughed, putting his hands in the air, "You win."

His jaw clenching, Davis removed the nightstick from his belt. "Make me force you," he said, his tone it was both a threat and a promise, and made Bosco swallow hard in sudden confusion, and fear.