Title: Stones in Water

Author: Bob J Montonelli

trackratiii@hotmail.com

Fandom: CSI: Miami

Pairing: Horatio Caine/Other (male)

Author's note: This is apparently about the fifth fanfic for the fandom and the only slash. Which sucks for me, at least, because the lists I've looked up always sound so welcoming at first, "Any pairing or genre accepted" and, then, the kicker: "but please no slash". Thank god for an open list.

Warnings: Violence, adult themes, slash, prostitution, brief mention of child abuse/exploitation.

Disclaimer: CSI and its related tentacles belong to CBS. While it might be fun to borrow them, actually owning 5 criminal investigators wouldn't be exactly...peachy.

Anyone not from CSI (Joey, Ramon, etc.) belongs to me.

He wakes in the night like something yanking him, an inside-out jerk of his spine, spitting him into dim grey and the orange glow of streetlights. His heart pounds, his sheets are damp and musty from his sweat. The dream he was having speeds in a whirlpool, blurring, spraying blood, scattering. He catches an image or two, exploding buildings and a sick junkie turning tricks on the streetcorner. He sits up, rubs his eyes, grumbles. He's not going back to sleep tonight.

The clock mocks his insomnia with a neon-green `12:10' blinking frantically at his bedside. Power outage. Storm. Again.

A halfhearted bit of thunder rumbles in the distance.

He gets up, stands at the window in his boxers, leans against the sill and presses his forehead to the cool glass. He stares out, down, at the sidewalk, the street, the apartments beyond, far away, out into the misty night. Something small and feral darts across the road, shadow in the streetlight. A trashcan clatters and a cat shrieks. An underweight, mostly decorative tree forcibly imported from the north bends in a sharp, high wind.

He lived north once, in New York, rural enough to see those kind of trees all the time. They grew there, grew tall and broad, like sentries along the roads. But that was a long time ago, and the memories of copper-bright autumns and frostbitten mornings are dim and faded.

//"Hey, H, want some coffee?"

"That's not coffee."//

Not that it doesn't get cold in Miami. It just doesn't get *cold*. Not like New York, not consistently enough for people to be used to it, to expect it. It's one of those things you have to live with, day in, day out. As a child he expected the cold to come every October, knew that it would relent every April. Every morning he comes to work, expecting death. Seven, eight, nine hours of stink and suffering in the heat. Sometimes people wonder why he's so good at what he does, so very good at picking through the dead for clues. Why he never seems to feel it.

It's not that he doesn't. He's just used to the cold by now. It's just like going out on a snow day in elementary school, wrapped in layer after layer. After a while you get used to it, and you can
take off a scarf, a sweater, a pair of gloves. You stop noticing the cold after a while. It's not important.

NOTE: (this actually takes place about 2 hrs post pt 1)

Humid, fetid darkness lies across the city, blankets skyscrapers in mist, orange light on black pavement. Beyond the safe edges of the streetlights, the world is swallowed, light into a black hole. Streetwalkers wait on the corners, some in groups, tough-talkers with too much makeup, smacking gum. Horatio sees them from his car, not as cop but just human, just a mortal like everyone else. When he stops at a light, a nervous voice pipes up at his open window.

"Mister? Hey, mister."

He turns.

Girl no older than thirteen smiles, tries to be sultry with a flat chest and dimpled cheeks. Rouge splotches her face like a bad sunburn, cherry lipstick smeared, a child playing dress-up.

Unbidden comes a face over hers, a memory, fishbelly pale, lifeless, yellow peeling skin and bulgy, rotted eyeballs. Silent child plucked from the water, the marks of abuse purpling her body, screaming silent tales on a stainless steel table. His coroner looked, but tried not to see; talked to the child--the body--about boys, first dates, unfair parents. Chuckled. Laughed with tears on her cheeks.

"Hey, mister. What you cruisin' for, homes?"

He shakes his head. He can't speak, can't do it, knows he couldn't speak without saying--

//"Hey, kiddo. What're you doing here? Go on home, kid."//

--without giving himself away. So he shakes his head. Her face falls and she moves away like a dream, dancer's walk, beautiful little child crushed like a wilting bouquet dropped in a trash compactor. Wilting. Beautiful child like the flowers, red as roses, red as blood.

Light turns green and he drives on, just drives, busts the speed limit and turns around as he comes into a more respectable district. Returns to the ebbing flowing swirling black hole. Searches.

The faces of tired, anxious junkies watch his car, potential money for their next fix. He knows them by heart--gaunt, soulless sentries to death, toeing the line. Homicide waiting to happen, walking on water wait till they have to run. And then the children, little ones, someone's sons and daughters maybe ten, eleven, twelve, going on twenty, thirty, forty. Children too young to die, too old to live. It's all in the eyes, lonely hurting eyes waiting, always waiting, waiting for the bedtime story and mommy to tuck them in, safe and warm. He can't watch them. He's been here dozens of times. He can't do it. He's not that far gone. Not yet.

Yet.

He spots his target. Man on the streetcorner, nearly-man, slender body gloved by a black nylon t-shirt, sleeveless arms protected by a mantra of tattoos. He pulls up, trying not to look menacing, shrugging off his cop-ness and slipping into easy customer routine. He flashes a twenty and the man gives him a sharklike grin, sharp yellowy teeth, leans up against the sill of the door.

"Hey, man." His breath is hot in the car and reeks of smoke and coffee. "You lookin' for somethin' good?"

"Looking for a fuck." Horatio snipes back, so much for easy customer.

"Shit, man, chill." He laughs, syrupy noise like oil on water, water lapping against the hull of a boat, chortle-chup-chortle. "I give you what you want, don't you worry. I give you good."

"All you have to do is lie there."

The man whistles. "You hungry, man?"

"You bet." And he smiles, tiger-smile, the way a tiger sneaks and strikes from behind.

"Then you got a deal." The man slides in, stretches long legs beneath the dash. "I'm Joey."

"Harry." Horatio replies. A bead of sweat trickles down the Joey's face, and a pink tongue snags it. "You got a place, or you just wanna find a parking lot?"

"Hey, man, long as I get paid, I don't care if you fuck me in a fuckin' dumpster."

A terse nod. "Good. I know somewhere."

(3)

And he drives. Drives out, drives east, towards the municipal beach. The lot is open, as it always is, some four, five cars peppering the asphalt expanse. Nexus of illegitimate fucking.
Horatio finds a corner near a sand dune, soft ocean wash whispering through the open windows. Six spots away, a rusty Ford fiesta moans and rocks in time with its occupants. Horatio feels Joey's hand crawl up his thigh, grope him, not tentative but teasing, practiced,
professionally awkward. He doesn't want the facade, he wants to fuck, just wants to lay the kid into the wide front seat, thank god for those american cars with their stick shift on the steering
column. More ways to fuck than the kama sutra.

He snags Joey's wrist, and dark eyes flicker up to his own, confusion quickly glazed.

"What you want, man?"

"I told you. I wanna fuck you."

"'Kay, man. Whatever you say. You got it." Trying to sound confident, but the words blur into each other, mark of uncertainly, graffito of fear.

Horatio slides his hands around the hustler's narrow waist, shoves him down onto the seat, crawling over him and staring down, Joey's eyes on his, desperate as the kid tries to hold his gaze and fails. His teeth graze a stubbled throat, and he dry humps the whore, arousal stirring in him, cream in coffee, patterns turn to uniform murk. He is hard, his muscles tight, body racing ahead of mind, wait, wait--

Joey evades his grasp and undoes both their jeans, long fingers making Horatio shiver deep in his belly. He has to wait, cool off, just a little, ease off on the gas pedal, slow down. Horatio punches the glove compartment open, resting his weight on one arm and Joey's body as he fishes for a condom.

"Hey, man...man..."

"What?" He finds he is sweating, shaking, frustrated. He can't find it. Dammit. He *has* one. He knows he does.

"Chill, man, I got a condom. Ok?" Joey swallows hard, panting with his head and neck bent against the door. "Ok, man?"

Horatio nods. "Fine. Where?"

"Front pocket, man."

The man's pants are down somewhere about his knees, but Horatio does find it, hapless little plastic packet with two others attached. The plastic is clear, the condom is--purple. But if it works, who cares about the color? He slides it on, like a glove, like the powdery white *snap* of the gloves he wears to work. Same material. Same thing, same job. Stop infection. Protect.

Horatio fucks him. Fucks him hard, does as he promises, lays him back into the seat, once or twice cracks his head on the door. His face is buried in the whore's neck, heart beat rattling against his ear, alive, real, breath hoarse, probably sick with something awful. Those long, bony fingers dig hard into his back everything he thrusts, dig deep, ride his t-shirt up and scrape down, draw blood, and in pain Horatio clamps his teeth into Joey's shoulder.

A shudder. A sharp cry. Something like a rubber band snapping, like a little kid flicking another's earlobe, insides corkscrew, relax, tremble, fall.

Ragged breath, wet, blood, spit, sticky and sweaty, skin tacky on the vinyl seat. The silence is so loud, the wash of the ocean, burning salt, endless waves, endless lapping trickling laughter. Endless cycle of stones and water and clouds in the sky, clouds stroking the moon's round, pale face with fingers made from ice, ice and the humid hot hell surrounding the car, surrounding them, oppressive.

Horatio gives himself a mental shake as he draws out, peels off the condom and throws it into the garbage bag in his car. Joey is staring up at him, face slack, dull, gone away. He rearranges his clothes, tries to ignore the inevitable guilt. Joey was laughing and now he is silent, silent witness, silent player selling himself for nothing. Does this man have an apartment, a house, a sofa even to call his own? Always is the why. The picture that falls into place, the gift of a cop and the curse of a human being.

Only three know the why. Cops, the insane, and the dead.

He jabs the young man roughly, and Joey's eyes flicker up to his. Silent as the sand, Joey dresses, sits placid on the passenger side.

"You gonna pay me now?"

Horatio nods, gives him the money.

Joey nods, then swallows and gives Horatio a hopeful look. "You mind givin' me a ride back, man?"

"Sure."

Silent as the sand. The little Ford fiesta sits with its door open, two pairs of legs sticking out. The bay sparkles, beautiful and cold in moonlight. Lapping. Laughing, licking, gurgling, growling tires on asphalt covered in sand.

Silent sand. Stillness rides with them, a wall of glass.

Line, line, dash. Yellow paint on black pavement. Line, line, dash. Horatio watches the road, watches the rhythm, hears his companion breathing. Moon's cool gaze fades into sodium orange
glower of city lights, city darkness. Shadows hard as stone, blurred lines. Horatio is only human, only that, nothing more, no badge, just a driver's license and cash that now rests in Joey's pocket. Only human.

He can do nothing about the fight outside the little bodega. He can't save the little girls in cheap make up, can't help the dim-eyed, drug-addled runaways hiding out in the bus stations.

He drops Joey in an alley. The hustler doesn't look back, but Horatio sees in the rearview mirror a muscle car speed by, hears the shout of "Puto!" and the clatter of glass. The words on the mirror give him a twinge--

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

How much closer could they be?

(4)

(5)

The neighborhood is quiet, all the shades drawn, shops crowded by lazy contingents of old women perusing for the week's groceries. The heat swims in the air, leaf on a slow-moving river, drowned cat in the floodwaters.

In twenty years Horatio has learned what it really is to paint the town red. He can drive through a single district and know the crimes, know the doorknobs dusted for fingerprints, hears the screaming wives and husbands and children. Crowds gather for murder, for arrests. Rubberneckers watch suspects put in handcuffs, stare boggle-eyed at sheet-draped bodies being wheeled away forever. Always crying--parents grieve for children, spouses for each other, siblings for family.

Except in San Bolivio.

Silent in the midmorning swelter, ripples rising from sidewalks. The alley is readily apparent--taped off, surrounded by the CSI truck, two police cars and an ambulance.

Paint the town.

Red.

The brick walls of the buildings are dark with blood, streaks and smears. Horatio tries to avoid an oily puddle, a shredded shirt. A pale young policeman with a nauseated grimace tries to wave the clotted flies away from the body.

Body hacked apart like a ninth-grader's biology project. Gaping hole that stares, half an eye and half a mouth, skin slit clean, ribs cracked. Turkey dinner, frogs in jars, first college dissection. All the organs are gone, just hanks of flesh and blood and probably now fly eggs.

"Horatio." It's Megan, behind him.

He turns.

"Long night?"

He tries for a smile and fails, ending with a jerk of his mouth as warped as the body's ribs. "You could say that. So, what've we got here?"

"Like I said, Hispanic male, looks about sixteen, maybe seventeen."

"Who found him?"

"A young man apparently found him while walking home this morning. Says he smelled it."

"I see. And where would he be?"

"The police have him in for questioning."

"I thought that was our job?" He crosses his arms.

"Well, it seems the police want him for prostitution."

Horatio's stomach drops hard. "And questioning him about the kid is just part of the package?"

She frowns at him. "We're working on it."

He goes over to look more closely at the body, takes the gloves that Megan hands him, pulls them on. Familiar.

She's right. About sixteen, from the physical development--or what he can see of it. The body is naked, smallish. He looks at the head--eye sockets open, eyes--

Gone. Just gone. Empty sockets, empty holes.

The whisper of an old legend ghosts through his brain. Says that a person's last moments are imprinted on their eyes. Superstition. Ghost stories and nonsense.

"They're gone." He gestures, and Megan nods.

"We haven't found them. The internal organs were in a garbage bag next to him."

"Jesus." He murmurs. The blood is so red, so bright.

Daylight really does change everything.

"Where's Alexx?"

"She's coming."

"And you tell me off for being late?" Again he tries the smile, and manages a part of it this time.

"She had a reason." Megan shrugs. "You didn't."

"Huh. Well," he stands, "I think we'd better bag this guy and let Alexx have a go at him."

"Not much to do."

"Isn't our killer nice?" He succeeds with the smile, but knows it is too sharp, too dark, knows from Megan's swift double-blink.

Alexx saves the conversation by jogging up. "Sorry I'm late. Body?"

Horatio gestures absently towards the carcass behind them. "He's all yours, Alexx. What's left of him."

The coroner winces and he knows it was a good idea not to have anything to eat. It's good that he's not quite awake, not quite alive to the death pervading the alley. The stench and the wet is background, like trying to focus with a magnifying glass, one tiny circle of clarity and then blurs, washes, vague smears. He sees the body, the blood, the flies making lazy, drooping circles. Sees and doesn't see.

He watches Alexx twist and turn the head, pull up eyelids, examine hands.

"Horatio?" She calls, an uncertain tremor inching her voice up.

"Yeah?" He kneels beside her, beside the corpse, waiting for it to speak its riddles.

"Look at this." She holds up a hand, washed out and once the color of tea with cream, thin hairs on the knuckles, a few old scars, a light scrape. But otherwise... "No damage. Not much, anyway."

"So our kid wasn't defending himself."

"Well, honey? What was it? You know your attacker?" Alexx turned the hand over. Long raw patches crusted with sand and dirt covered his palms.

"Attacked from behind. Didn't get a chance to strike back."

"No head trauma, though. He was wide awake when he got gutted."

"Alexx, let me ask you..." He glanced at the skin still left over the ribs, at the way it pulled out, taut. The arms were slender, the joints a little too large. "What kind of person lets themselves get pushed face-first against a wall and doesn't fight it?"

"Could be--"

"Yo, H." It's Speed, appearing with a wad of bills in a plastic bag. "We found this in the vic's front pocket. Mostly twenties and ones."

"A prostitute?" Alexx suggested.

"Get his prints, take them to the police and have them do a cross-reference for previous offenses. Do a rape swab and in the meantime, Megan, you and I are going to have a little chat with the guy who found our vic."

END PART 5