DCMK: Heavy Silences (3/10)

[what_we_dream]

Title: Heavy Silences (3/10)
Series: Magic Kaitou/Detective Conan
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Follows Slip and Fall/Pride Goeth Before

Summary: "We would like Kid delivered by the 24th. For every day you're late, one bright face vanishes from the world." Children kidnapped, Nakamori has only one place to turn for help. Kaitou Kid.

He's supposed to be asleep. Conan's bedtime is 9:00pm and Ran is impervious to wheedling. Fortunately, she also stops checking on him after the first half hour, and the old man doesn't turn in until after midnight unless he (read: Conan) has just finished a case and has enough cash on hand to drink himself to sleep earlier. Consequently, Conan's lying under the cover reading with a flashlight – and how sad is it that this is just everyday life instead of a camping trip? – when the doorbell rings.

It's not unheard of for clients to turn up at 11:30, although it rarely turns out well.

Ran, although possibly still awake, is doubtless in her bed clothes and unwilling to answer the door. The bell rings another two times before Conan hears the TV set on mute, then lumbering steps. There's a conversation, loud protestations from the old man, murmurs from the other, and then the door closes. And two sets of footsteps return.

He's got the flashlight switched off as soon as he realises whoever it is has come in, ready to sneak over the door. But there's no need, because it opens silently before he can even lie down again.

"Oi, Kudou," hisses a familiar voice. In the background, the TV turns back on.

"Don't take all night," bawls the private eye at a volume that's just begging Ran to come out and tear into him.

"Hattori?" asks Conan, shocked, throwing off the blanket. He has no night vision thanks to the flashlight, and in the dim light seeping in from the main room all he can see is the Osakan boy's silhouette leaning against the door frame.

"Something's up, Kudou. Something big. We need to talk."

"Oji-san may be a lousy parental figure, but he's not just gonna let me walk out of here at midnight. And I can't sneak out either; he'll notice if I'm not in bed when he comes in." And how much does he hate having to share a room with Ran's dad? It's not so much the snoring as the constant burgeoning inconvenience, affecting him in a dozen different minor ways that all rub at him like pebbles in his shoe.

"You're telling me you can't sneak out past a 45 year-old man? Just wait 'til he's sleeping and meet me downstairs. If he asks, I'm here giving Conan a message for Kudou." There's no room for compromise in the tone.

"It won't be until after 12:30; Youko's re-run's on at midnight."

"I'll wait."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He dresses warm because this body is prone to catching cold even in mild weather, and as much as he hates it, not getting a ridiculous amount of sleep makes him even more likely to catch one.

Hattori's waiting for him on the bottom step of the stairs, wearing one of his many thin jackets and a pair of slacks. Conan's sharp eye immediately catalogues the fact that his hat is missing, and that there is no bike in sight; although he'd hardly have ridden it to Beika. If it were in fact Hattori Heiji.

They walk down the empty street in silence, elementary school student and high school student taking a midnight stroll. He twitched the sleeve of his coat up over his watch before he stepped out of the door, now he keeps his wrist close to his other hand.

They round a corner and keep walking; Conan's pretty sure they're heading to the local park. It's in sight now, empty and abandoned in the darkness, hardly lit by the surrounding streetlights. The swing set casts long, twisted shadows; the faces of the spring-horses take on sinister grins and leers in the uneven lighting. Like something out of a movie. A movie where the unsuspecting elementary school kid gets murdered gruesomely.

"Your accent's pretty good," he says finally as they turn into the park, heading for the covered platform provided for protection from the sun and the rain, and for those who don't feel like sitting on the spring-horses.

"Of course," says Hattori matter-of-factly. "Was it the hat?"

"That, and the fact that I talked to Hattori before I went to bed. Mistakes like that aren't like you, Kaitou Kid."

"I was a bit pressed," says Hattori's face with different voice and a Tokyo accent. Conan represses a shiver as he sits on the bench, Kid slouching next to him.

"I take it you haven't come here in the middle of the night to beg me to arrest you. You've got your own cop to bug for that."

Kid reaches into a pocket of his jacket and Conan tenses, makes no effort to hide the fact that he's got the watch aimed at the thief. The only reason he hasn't pressed the trigger yet is because the Kid's never threatened him yet – and it would have been easy – has even saved his bacon a couple of times. He's willing to hear the thief out for that, although not to give him any leeway. But all the other boy pulls out it a tape-recorder. "Do you recognise this voice?" he asks in a tone which gives away absolutely nothing, and depresses the button.

It's a copy of a copy; Conan can hear the button being pressed on the other end, and the fuzzy effect of too many covers, and even someone breathing nearby, but those thoughts plummet right out of his mind when the voice begins to speak.

"A man with a request… For each day you go over deadline… You don't say… We'll be in contact, Inspector. Better step up your performance."

There's a click from the tape recorder, and then another as Kid stops it. Conan can feel the thief's eyes on him, watching him with a fox's cunning.

"Play it again," he orders, stalling. The thief pauses just long enough to silently register his scepticism, and then rewinds and starts the tape over.

The ten seconds the edited clip takes to play is not enough time for him to even gather his thoughts, never mind think. Not nearly enough. Because Kaitou Kid has come to him with what is clearly a ransom demand, made by Gin. He can't screw this up, can't mess up this chance. But that's not what's occupying the majority of his thoughts. What's occupying the majority of his thoughts is: shit.

The tape finishes for the second time and Kid turns his hand over; the player is gone when he turns it back again. He waits for an answer, and when none comes leans back on the bench, head tilted back to stare up at the dark ceiling. It's a calm night and the park is silent around them, no rustle of trees or squeaking swings. Just the far-away rumble of traffic, too distant to register consciously.

"That bad, huh?" says Kid, eventually, without looking down at him.

"What did they take?"

Please not people, please not people, for the love of the gods let it not be lives at stake.

"Children."

Fuck. This is. So. Fucking. Bad. Apart from the fact that everyone the Black Organisation touches dies, he needs to play his operation with microscopic precision if he's going to hang on to his own life, and hostage situations do not allow for that kind of care. This will force his hand, and in the end most likely…

"So who are they?" Kid is remaining carefully neutral, gazing out now at the haze of golden-grey clouds that make up Beika's night sky on anything other than the clearest nights. He might, from his tone, have been talking about politics, or coffee, or anything else he didn't give a damn about. The fact that they're sitting here means he cares, cares a dangerous amount.

"The less you know about them, the safer you'll be."

"It may have escaped you, kid, but playing things safe's not exactly a founding principal of my profession."

He ignores the kid, ignores most of the thief's poise. "They're killers. I don't mean mercenaries or assassins. I mean they kill people who get in their way, and knowing they exist counts as getting in their way." He keeps the anger out of his voice, but even after all this time he still can't sift out the bitterness.

"Who do you know who got in their way?" Kid turns to look at him, eyes flashing in the dim lights. It's not curiosity, not ghoulishness. It's fear.

"Me," Conan – Shin'ichi – says flatly.

There's a pause. And then. "Being a brat again must suck, but it's not exactly death." He's never figured out exactly how the Kid knows who he is. He supposes that really it's not that big a mystery; one boy disappears, another one shows up with the same interests and the same intellect. Anyone with any kind of detachment, anyone whose last name isn't Mouri, could probably see it miles away. Anyone, like Gin.

"It would have been if their drug had done what it was supposed to." A dark certainty. And then more silence.

"They've kidnapped five children and a woman – a pregnant woman. If they don't get what they want by midnight – 23 and a half hours from now – they'll start killing them. One a day."

"What guarantee do you have that they haven't killed them already?" He hates himself for being able to ask it with relative calm, only gagging just slightly at the words, a taste of bile in the back of his throat.

"None," answers the thief. "They were alive when the ransom demand was made yesterday night. Now? Who knows." He shrugs, a rustle of thick cloth, eyes staring over Conan's shoulder, more sombre than the detective could have ever imagined Hattori looking.

"And the ransom?"

"Me."

"Shit." He says it aloud this time, without meaning to. There's a heat-beat of silence, and then the thief snorts.

"And I didn't think you cared."

"Don't be a smart-ass. These bastards –" he cuts himself off. He doesn't need to lecture Kaitou Kid on the putrid, festering corners of the criminal underground. For all he knows, the thief's never seen a corpse, never met a murderer. Never seen death. But regardless, Kid's no innocent. "Look. If these men are holding victims, we have to find them immediately. Because every second we don't is another second they might be getting bored with keeping them alive."

"So get on it, detective," says Kid, eyes snapping onto him. Conan blinks.

"I'm going to need some evidence for that… You know, clues," he prompts, raising his eyebrows.

"I thought you knew who these guys were!"

"I know their names. I know what they're like. I know what kind of car they like to drive. I have absolutely no idea where they are; I've been trying to track them down for more than a year!"

"But you're a detective, everyone's always raving about you, the famous Kudou Shin'ichi, the brains behind Nemuri no Kogoro!" sputters Kid.

It would, on another occasion, possibly be flattering. Now it's just irritating, and frustrating. "I'm a seven year-old kid with a 9pm bedtime investigating an international crime syndicate that kills people who hear about it. What did you think, I spent my recesses typing up the minutes from their meetings that I recorded on my secret network of bugs? I'm one detective, not the National Police."

Kid ignores his sarcasm. "Well, do the cops have a file on them? A squad?"

"Did you miss the part about killing everyone who hears about them?" He pauses. "Who did they kidnap, anyway? Can't be your friends or relatives; if they knew them they could have just taken you."

"They're not. They're … they're the kids of the Kaitou 1412 Task Force."

"They kidnapped cops' kids? That's crazy!"

"I'm aware," says Kid sourly. "I figured we had to be dealing with a bunch of nut jobs. Can't say I'm relieved now."

After his immediate shock dies down, though, it only takes a few seconds to figure out their angle. And then it makes sense. A horrible, cutting, burning kind of sense.

"They're not nut jobs. That's the problem. They're cold, ruthless bastards who thought this all the way through. Think about it: They've picked the only people who could control the investigation. I'm betting the Task Force is playing this close to the chest: probably haven't told Section One about the ransom demand because they want to be able to run the case themselves. That's perfect; no paper trail, no cops outside the Task Force in the know. Now, the cops've got two options to deliver the ransom. Either they somehow manage to capture you with public knowledge, and then you disappear from custody and everyone involved keeps their mouths glued shut to keep from losing their jobs and getting arrested – and even then it'll come out eventually when you don't face trial, and the cops who know anything will go away for a long time. Or, they capture you on the sly or make a deal with you and hand you over, and again they're all forced to keep the silence or face getting fired and arrested. Whichever way they follow, they're forced to commit a serious – to say nothing of terrible – crime."

The Kid says nothing. Conan can't tell whether it's because he's already figured this out for himself, or because the deductions have floored him.

"I suppose," Conan says at last, trying to work out a solution, "I could try to get in to get a look at the crime scenes." Even as he begins, though, flaws begin to set in, a windshield slowly cracking outwards from the weak point. "But Section One'll have been all over them by now, and although piecing things together gives them trouble they don't usually miss evidence. And since in this time-frame pretty much the only thing we could pick up at a crime scene that would be actually helpful would be a frickin' sign saying 'we're staying at the Bates Motel, 666 Murder Avenue,' I doubt if it's worth it." He ends up spitting out the words, throwing them like knives into the empty park. "These guys are professionals. There won't be any clues. No mistakes, not in something as simple as a kidnapping." We're screwed. The mantra echoes in his head over and over, church bells tolling a death.

"I'm so glad I came to talk to you," says Kid, dripping sarcasm not quite covering iron-hard irritation, frustration. He stands, stepping out from under the roof in one sharp stride.

"I'm not giving up," says Conan, sitting up, voice with enough edge to it that Kid stops. He speaks without turning, shoulders blade-straight, chin high.

"Aren't you? You're saying these guys've got us beat before we've started. Sounds pretty defeatist to me, and I can't afford that. Those kids can't afford it."

"Look. My one goal in life – in this goddamn pint-sized life – is to take these bastards down. I don't want to see them hurt anyone else again – ever. I'll do everything I can to stop that from happening, with or without you. But you need to know, it's been a year and I'm not closer to catching them now than I was at the start."

Kid stands stone still while he speaks, Hattori's dark skin and clothes blending with the perpetual dusk of light pollution, just another shadowy feature of the park. He is standing with his head tilted up again, as if stargazing through the thick blankets of cloud.

As Conan finishes the blankets part, and just for a moment as if by Kid's direction, moonlight streams down thick and bright and catches his eye as he turns back, and somehow he's said the right thing without meaning to.

"You're no closer to catching me, either," the thief says lightly. No trace of the anger from a moment ago.

"So what? Set a thief to catch a thief?"

"You set and I thieve. Or put these bastards out of commission, as the case may be." He makes no attempt to hide the intensity in his voice, to pretend as he usually does that the only emotion he knows is carefree confidence. It's unnerving, watching the moods flit across his face and knowing that it means the thief's lost his anchor and is free-floating on a violent river with, possibly, a waterfall at the end the size of Niagara.

"Alright." He would have agreed anyway, whether or not Kid cared. It shouldn't matter that the thief clearly feels a personal stake in this. But it does. "I'll need the names and addresses of the victims. A copy – not the original – of the police reports on each. We are not going to bring Section One down on ourselves. Agreed?"

"Hey, my police friends are a consequence, not the goal, of my heists," says Kid, in an injured tone. Then, more seriously, "I'll keep it on the down low."

"Right. We'll also need the phone records from the ransom demand; that includes transcripts, call tracking report and the report on the phone itself."

"Sure," says Kid, a little too lightly. Conan shoots him a glance, but sees nothing suspicious. Of course, if the thief didn't want him to, he wouldn't.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah," he says, eyes sharp. "How did you hear about this?"

"'Fraid that's a secret," is the Kid's answer, with a smug grin. He's got his control back, bottled up whatever he's feeling and hidden it away, and the poker face is back in play.

"Meaning you've either got a contact inside the Force, or – what?" He straightens, spine snapping. "Did they contact you? Nothing in the newspaper, but…" Kid's face gives away nothing, set in his traditional smirk, all smoke and mirrors. "If they contacted you, if they asked for your help – and someone finds out…"

"It's wonderful that you've got the compassion to waste worrying about every little detail of other peoples' lives, Detective. But it's irrelevant. It doesn't matter how I know, just that I do – and now so do you." He shifts his posture in a way that means this meeting is over. "Do you need me to walk you home?" he asks, grin splitting into a toothy smirk.

Conan lets his glare answer for him.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early – say 7 – here, with the information. Don't worry about school, I'll take care of it."

"Yeah, I bet you will," he grouses. Kid nods, smirks once more, and disappears in a cloud of smoke.

Conan remains sitting on the bench for another five minutes, letting the situation sink into his brain. Then he goes home, calling the Professor as he goes.

We are so screwed.