Chapter Text
Carl Hickman (Crossing Lines) - Foxa
Word count: 8883
Help from a Friend
It was just another day in his routine here in The Hague. The ICC team’s case files were piling up, the names of transnational criminals were popping up every week, and whenever one investigation was wrapped up, it inevitably led to another, without ceasing. For the world seemed to have an endless supply of darkness. Justice was running at full speed, never slowing down.
Hickman was accustomed to having a life that revolved around this realm. The headquarters had almost become his second home. If one could call his rusty caravan parked near that drab carnival in the heart of a neglected Amsterdam park a first home at all. Carl was giving everything he could to the kids on this team. Well, what little he had left: his trained mind, which he tried in vain to keep clear of the haze of morphine, and a clumsy left hand too shaky to hold a gun steady. And to tell the truth… he kind of enjoyed the routine.
Until something interrupted his momentum. When he had joined the team, nothing and no one was waiting for him. Until… her.
He could have watched the sun slowly set in the sky, if the offices hadn't been buried in a basement with almost gloomy brick walls — though it was easy to get used to. Yet Carl knew exactly the brightness on the surface at that very moment, his gaze involuntarily drawn to the wall clocks scattered around the headquarters. As soon as a chance arose, his concentration drifted toward the bundle of fur and feathers he left alone for the day. Far too long for his liking. The questions echoed in his head like a succession of falling dominoes. Was she sleeping peacefully, curled up among his old blankets on the couch? Or was the deafening noise of the carnival preventing her from doing so today? Was she pacing back and forth inside those few square meters of sheet metal? Was her wing hurting so much that she was gnawing at it? Was her makeshift bandage still in place? But above all, was she…
A voice with a French accent, recognizable among a thousand, cut him clean out of his thoughts.
— “Hickman, what do you think?”
Carl snapped his head up, catching up with the conversation on the fly.
— “It's a front account used as a diversion. The guy who signed this isn't trying to hide the money; he's trying to buy time.” He replied without missing a beat, as if he had never mentally drifted away from the exchange.
The French commissioner nodded, but scrutinized his friend with that calm, sharp perceptiveness so characteristic of him. He noted the stiffness in Carl’s posture, the weary lines on his face, and the dark circles growing heavier by the day. Hickman held eye contact for a brief, unwavering moment before shifting his gaze to the others.
Eva’s eyes never left the charts displayed on the room's screen. Anne-Marie remained reserved, true to her quieter nature. Tommy was loudly chewing his gum — so loud it drowned out the faint hum of the projector. Sebastian, for once, was analyzing the bank account with relentless seriousness.
The tension between Daniel and Hickman, however, remained… palpable.
— "Now, we just have to figure out why he's trying to buy time." Sebastian spoke up, raising his eyebrows as he glanced between the two, clearly sensing the awkward silence settling in.
— "Find the motive. And he’ll be cornered like a rat." Carl concluded, having nothing left to add to this late meeting.
— "Sebastian, keep digging, just in case we missed a detail. Eva, Tommy, first thing tomorrow morning as soon as the office opens, go to the agency to question the manager. Anne-Marie, handle the liaison with the officers who were on scene," the commissioner ordered.
— "Yes, sir," Anne-Marie replied immediately.
As the others began packing up their things, Carl stole one last glance at the clock. Then he stood up.
— "Hickman... Could you step into my office before you leave?"
Carl closed his eyes slowly, his jaw tightening subtly. Of course Louis wanted to see him one-on-one. It was an inevitability he had prepared for. In fact, he was actually surprised it hadn't happened days ago.
— "Yes, of course," he simply said.
He waited discreetly until his colleagues were about to leave, save for Sebastian, who seemed determined to linger over the transactions. With a slow but steady stride, Hickman headed toward Louis' office, where the Frenchman was already waiting, sitting comfortably in his chair.
— “Carl… We need to talk.”
It was direct, to the point. And judging by his serious expression, Louis had no intention of joking.
— “It’s been about… a week or two…? That my brilliant profiler has been arriving late every morning. And I’m starting to wonder about it.” Louis continued.
— “A few issues with the lock on my van… And my hand is hurting like hell. You know… I’m going through a rough patch.”
Louis stared him down with a firm, accusatory look. He wasn't buying such an easy lie; he wasn't a fool. Hickman was acutely aware of this... but much like the guy they were currently tracking, he was trying to create a diversion. The less his friend genuinely knew about the matter, the better — even if it meant getting a scolding.
— “Carl. You’re falling out of line again, aren’t you?” the commissioner asked, tilting his head, worried that his best officer was losing his way.
Carl took the blow without flinching, biting his tongue slightly. His entire reputation was at stake. His best friend might think he was relapsing into drug use. That he was once again standing with both feet at the bottom of the pit he had dug for himself before joining the team. As if his body were echoing that thought, a wave of pain surged through his right hand, as searing as if it had been plunged into boiling water. By reflex, his left fingers reached for the leather glove, adjusting it back into place.
— “I’m being careful. I don’t need it the way you think,” he replied.
He was neither telling the truth nor lying. He was still taking them. But ever since she had been there.. . he was making more of an effort.
— “I know you well enough to tell when something’s wrong. Something has changed.” Louis retorted.
— “Nothing serious.”
— “You seem in a real hurry to get back to Amsterdam these days, you know, I’ve noticed. You check the time every ten minutes.”
Carl looked away for a split second.
— “I told you, I’m having some trouble with the van’s lock.”
Louis sighed, and Carl could have sworn his friend mentally rolled his eyes, weary of this "lock" story.
— “What happens in the van stays in the van. But don’t forget where your priorities lie.”
Carl nodded.
— “Yeah, I know.”
Louis stood up, walking around his desk to step closer to him. His hand came to rest on the American’s shoulder — a weight that felt almost nonexistent to him compared to the burden now weighing on his conscience. The commissioner hesitated for a few seconds before lowering his voice.
— "I'm not just worried from a work perspective. I'm worried about you, Carl."
The man in question stared at the far wall of the room, his breath slightly hitched. Even if he were the type to confide his problems in others... What could he possibly say in this situation? That he was responsible for a strange winged fox, traumatized and, moreover, injured, inside his van? If he told a story like that, Louis wouldn't have any doubts left. It would completely confirm that he was high on opiates.
Hickman merely nodded.
— “Hm.”
Louis stepped back, a silent dismissal. Carl didn’t ask for more. He slowly turned on his heel.
— “See you tomorrow,” he said before leaving.
As he walked down the main aisle, he nodded to Sebastian, who looked up from his screen. The analyst gave him a sympathetic look, sensing — though not fully understanding — that the day had not been a pleasant one for him.
Carl didn't lose a second before starting the drive to Amsterdam. His heart was hammering against his ribs while the icy wind of the falling night bit at his cheeks. It was late this time. The discussion with Louis receded into the background of his thoughts, which instantly redirected toward the fox. He had never been away this long. And he blamed himself, immensely. If the busy day had dragged on long for him, then for her, trapped between four walls in the midst of a chaotic din, it must have been an torture.
— “Hold on… I’ll be back soon…” He murmured barely audibly.
…
Finally, he felt the familiar atmosphere of the Amsterdam park wash over him. The carnival was emptying of visitors as closing time had come. Without the streetlights and neon signs of the colorful kiosks, one wouldn’t have been able to see more than a few meters ahead, so thick were the dark clouds blanketing the night — typical of the Dutch weather. Carl quickened his pace now that he was close to his trailer.
That’s when his blood ran cold. As he arrived, he spotted two silhouettes leaning against the side panel of the vehicle, laughing loudly and banging against the sheet metal as they gestured, cans in hand. The impacts must have echoed inside, mingled with foreign voices and scents. He imagined the terror that must be gripping the fox at this very moment.
— "Hey, you there! Clear off, get away from my van!" Hickman barked in a cold, authoritative voice, making a sharp, sweeping gesture with his left arm.
The two — teenagers who had found nothing better to do than loiter outside — startled at the sound of the American’s voice. When they saw his imposing stature and the grumpy look of a man best left alone, they didn't press the matter and deserted the area.
Once alone in front of the door, Carl froze, straining his ears to catch whatever was happening inside the cabin. His heart skipped a beat. He should have heard the frantic scratching of her claws on the floorboards, her nervousness while strangers were within reach, her frightened pants escaping her throat, the futile thrusts of her only valid wing in an instinct to flee.
Yet, he heard nothing.
And that was worse than hearing her distress.
Carl hurried to insert the key into the lock, his left hand trembling. He castigated himself for leaving the fox alone for so long. When he opened the door, he slipped into the darkness of the van, immediately cutting himself off from the outside world as he closed the door behind him. He switched on the dim golden light; a musty atmosphere coupled with a foul odor assaulted his nostrils. He expected movement, but there was only the stirring of dust.
His eyes immediately fell on the fox’s distinct silhouette on the seat. She was curled up on the old blanket, her eyelids closed. She would never have fallen asleep with such a racket pounding against the walls. He noticed the drooping posture of her ears and her almost lethargic stance. It was the sign he had dreaded most since he picked her up. The infection was winning the fight.
The American didn’t even take the time to take off his long coat as he rushed toward the bench, crouching near the edge with a flash of worry in his eyes.
— “Hey… Foxa…”
Foxa. That was the name he had unconsciously ended up giving her, that simple nickname “Fox” that had progressively metamorphosed over the days. A name that a part of him regretted, because it meant he was growing attached despite himself. And growing attached… Wasn’t good for either of them.
He reached out with his left hand toward the fox, placing it gently on the top of her head and sliding down to the tips of her ears. She barely reacted—just a faint breath, a twitch of her whiskers. Hickman could feel the abnormal heat radiating from the little creature. A thermal wave that bore witness to the harsh battle she was facing. His throat tightened with an anxiety he couldn’t swallow.
He reached out with his left hand toward the fox, placing it gently on the top of her head and sliding down to the tips of her ears. She barely reacted—just a faint breath, a twitch of her whiskers. Hickman could feel the abnormal heat radiating from the little creature. A thermal wave that bore witness to the harsh battle she was facing. His throat tightened with an anxiety he couldn’t swallow.
— “Little one ?”
He leaned in to inspect the bandage on her wing, his fingers briefly brushing aside the fabric without removing it completely, not wanting to trigger a panic attack in the creature. The skin around her wound was swollen and taut. Too flushed for his taste. He realized it was no longer a time for makeshift treatment in the middle of a lousy caravan.
Foxa stirred, her heavy eyelids fluttering half-open, the reflection of her azure eyes — usually so vivid — reduced to a dull glaze. Hickman could have sworn he saw death lurking there like a parasite, waiting for the ultimate opportunity to seize its victim. The flimsy bandage around her wing was now nothing short of an insult to her suffering.
— "No, no... Not this..." he stammered.
Carl reached for the bowl of water he’d left at the foot of the bench. It was still just as full. He held it close to the fox’s snout.
— “Here, kiddo… You gotta drink.”
He caught himself feeling a flicker of hope as he extended the container. Foxa’s fate mattered to him more than he would ever have dared admit.
— “Foxa?”
The fox didn't cast a single glance toward the liquid. Her body felt no need for it whatsoever. She no longer had any will to ingest anything.
— "Damn it... How long have you been like this? What have I done..."
He cursed himself. It was his fault. He had left her alone all day, thinking everything would go smoothly just like the previous days. How long had she suffered like this under the chaos of the park?
— "No, don't do this to me..."
The American straightened up abruptly, his joints protesting with a sharp crack. He had to find a solution before it was too late… He couldn’t move the van without attracting the attention of Genovese’s men or worrying Shari. Nor could he allow the vixen to die on his bunk. She… She was just starting to trust him. She, who had been paralyzed by fear of humans before gradually accepting his presence, depended entirely on him… He couldn’t betray her like that.
— “Damn it, girl…”
He couldn’t just call any old vet, either. Who would believe him if he asked for an emergency appointment for a fox with a “wounded wing”? They’d think he was a crazy subway guy. However, he lacked the equipment and skills required to treat such an injury, especially with his right hand out of service. He scratched his head, ruffling his hair even more. He ran his left fingers across his face. He paced back and forth. Every second of hesitation could be one second too many for the vixen — the one that would prove fatal.
What if he had only managed to delay the inevitable? Because of him, the vixen was agonizing longer than necessary.
“No, stay focused.”
Part 2
Carl picked up one of the unused blankets from the seat and carefully laid it over the fox's back. He wrapped her up as best he could, tucking her wings in so they wouldn't twist in the process. Then he tried to lift her, relying mostly on his left arm. He intended to carry her himself to a clinic, despite the risk that this entailed. Suddenly, a lightning bolt of pain shot through his right hand without warning. He lost his balance and let out a groan, his movement halted cold. He forced himself to catch his breath and regain his composure, his vision blurred by the jolt. His dose of morphine had worn off a few hours ago.
— "Hang on... Hang on," he repeated to Foxa as he gathered his senses.
He tried again. Clenched his jaw. Drew on the strength of his left arm. But the vixen turned her head and nipped his fingers with a measured snap of her teeth. Not enough to hurt him, but sufficient to act as a warning. She surely sensed his instability and perceived it as a threat. He let his grip go, helpless, his gut twisting more with bitterness than with pain.
— "I'm not leaving you like this. You're not giving up on me now."
Hickman stood back up, wincing at the sudden heaviness in his right hand, which felt like an anvil to which his entire body was tethered. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, turned it on, and scrolled through the contacts with his trembling left fingers. The names rolled by. Shari? She might panic. Sebastian? He’d be too curious for his own good. Tommy? It wasn't even worth considering. Anne-Marie? She had to be busy enough. Eva? She was the most serious of the group, but she had a code of honor and truth. She was loyal to her work. She wouldn't keep the secret.
The cursor hovered over the name Louis Daniel. Of course, it had to be him.
The American couldn't hear anything but his own heart pounding wildly in his chest, thudding all the way to his eardrums. The commissioner was a man of integrity, with a wealth of knowledge and resources that could prove useful in any situation. And, truth be told, without him, he would still be huddled in the van that served as his tomb.
He tensed up before finally deigning to place a call.
— “Louis. It’s Hickman. I have… a problem. It’s not a case, it’s… Do you happen to know a trustworthy vet close to Amsterdam? Not some guy who treats poodles, but someone who knows how to keep a mouth shut and has experience. It’s for… something personal.”
Immediately, he began to regret his words when the voice on the other end sounded questioning and confused.
— “Hold on a second, Carl. Can you repeat that? I’m not sure I quite understood…”
— “Don’t ask questions. I need it now,” Hickman cut in.
There was a silence.
— “You’re asking me for a very specific and restricted location… You’re in luck, I might know someone in… What’s it called again? Oh yeah, Leiden. But, what for…? Do you need me to drive you there? I know that with your hand, sometimes…”
Carl closed his eyes. He hated above all else having to beg for help. He felt like he was nothing but a failure. However, he didn’t have the luxury of refusing this time.
— "...Yeah, I'd appreciate that... I'll explain when you get here."
Louis agreed and hung up, leaving his friend on the other end of the line. Hickman slowly pocketed his cell phone, his eyes finally returning to the fox as if she were an anchoring point. Shrunk into the corner of the blanket, Foxa looked incredibly vulnerable. So close to embarking on her final journey, and it left him petrified.
— “Hold on, little one…”
To pass the time, he sat on the opposite bench, unable to look away.
— "Of all the humans you could have run into, it had to be me, huh? Couldn't you have picked a cat lady? Well, a fox lady, rather."
Time stretched out. Languishingly.
Until the still-distant rumble of a car echoed through the nocturnal silence of the closed carnival. Hickman approached the window, pushing aside the curtains to scan the surroundings. The impeccably familiar silhouette of the French commissioner beneath his long, dark coat was easily recognizable. The American got up and unlocked the latch with a sharp click. He opened the door with a shrill creak, the cold air seeping into the vehicle. Daniel arrived at the threshold.
— “Louis…” Carl said simply, stepping aside to invite him in.
The detective followed him inside, his cop’s gaze darting around the interior out of sheer habit. He had braced himself for the sight of his friend having relapsed, expecting a shabby setup, vials of morphine, and the smell of cold coffee, but this didn’t quite match that picture. When a shadow shifted in the semi-darkness at the back, his eyes widened imperceptibly. He didn’t say a word. He waited for his friend to explain.
Carl walked over to the bench.
— “I… I took her in two weeks ago.”
Louis took a few more steps, intrigued and almost terrified at the anticipation of the mess his detective had managed to mire himself in this time.
— "Are you rescuing local strays now, Carl?" he joked.
Then the creature stood up, the blanket slipping from its back, revealing her fiery red fur and white wings. Foxa backed away hastily, her ears flattened. She had sensed and heard the stranger who had just infiltrated her refuge.
— “Carl… God, what is that thing?” Louis gasped.
Hickman immediately placed his hand against the fox’s flank to steady her, adjusting the tone and volume of his voice.
— “Easy, don’t get too close. She doesn’t trust anyone. She… I know it’s weird, I don’t really know where she came from either. But her wing is severely injured.”
— “Carl, do you realize I’m looking at a bloody fox with wings?”
The American simply replaced the blanket over the creature to wrap her up again. She didn’t have the strength to put up a fight, barely standing on her wobbly legs.
— “Louis, we can’t waste any time. It’s a matter of life and death. The infection is going to kill her.”
The commissioner lowered his head, a sign that he wouldn’t press further and that he understood the urgency, even if that didn’t mean things were clear.
— “I contacted an acquaintance. One of Rebecca’s cousins, he’s clean. He’ll know how to keep a low profile. Do you need help carrying it?”
Hickman replied with a resigned nod, while taking care once more to immobilize Foxa’s wings. His left fingers found their way behind one of her ears as he kept his gaze glued to her.
— “I promise you everything will be all right. Louis is a kind person.”
The Frenchman had moved closer, skeptical, wondering if his friend wasn’t overreacting to a simple distressed animal.
— “She’s smarter than you might think. But she’s scared. Very scared,” Carl added to justify himself, anticipating judgment.
Despite all his questions, Louis showed extreme gentleness as he gathered the fox in his large arms. When he lifted her, she felt much lighter than he had imagined. Foxa let out a small yelp of protest, her paws feebly trying to struggle against the blanket that entrapped her.
Hickman immediately placed his hand beneath her muzzle so she could latch onto his scent. Not Louis'. Not the outside world’s. His own.
— “I’m right here, Foxa…”
But how could he explain to the fox that Louis wasn’t one of the monsters she had known? That they were bringing her to the only place where she stood a chance of making it out alive?
— “Let’s go,” Louis declared.
The moment they stepped outside, the chilly Amsterdam breeze greeted them, scratching at their faces like a trap snapping shut on the more adventurous. Louis tightened his grip to ensure he protected the fox as much as possible. He didn't speak, not wanting to add any extra stress. Carl, meanwhile, scanned the horizon, nervous at the thought that one of Genovese’s rats might show up at this hour, when darkness was at its thickest.
The two men settled into the unmarked black sedan. Louis handed the fox back to his friend sitting in the passenger seat, who immediately hugged her close to shield her from the rest of the world. The commissioner found himself finding this endearing and respectable. His friend must truly care deeply for this strange creature. He, the usually bitter man, wasn’t the type to attach himself to anything like that.
The engine purred as the car pulled away. Behind them, the carnival had become nothing more than a cluster of skeletal shadows rising into the pitch-black sky. The drive was punctuated by an almost religious silence. In Carl’s arms, the little creature’s body no longer resisted, surrendering completely. He could feel her fever raging beneath the fabric, devouring all her energy. Bursts of pain shot through his inert gloved hand. Without his dose, the withdrawal was starting to gnaw at his nerves, but he could not falter.
Not now. Not when the vixen needed him most. Not when she, too, was in so much suffering.
As they reached the outskirts of Leiden, Louis' deep voice broke the silence that had settled over them all.
— “I’m not going to ask you what you plan to do with an animal like that, Carl… Or what it really is. But you do realize that this might take over your daily life, don’t you?”
— “Hm.”
— “Where did you find her?” the commissioner ventured to ask anyway.
— “In a remote corner of the park. She was fleeing from humans who were surely more savage than she was.”
— “She was fleeing from someone. You know it’s dangerous if those people are looking for her, right?”
— “They won’t find her.”
Hickman turned his head to distract himself with the passing scenery. He remembered the tracker he had removed from her wound—the one he had disabled and thrown away as best he could.
— “She might have belonged to someone.”
Carl took a slow breath.
— “She won’t belong to anyone. Not even me.”
Deep down, he knew Louis was right. He was risking his career, his reputation, his own life for this little creature who couldn't even speak the human language. But when he had caught a glimpse of all the human filth reflected in her azure eyes the first time she looked at him, he knew he could never have abandoned her to her fate.
He looked at the fox’s small, closed eyes.
— “Tell me about your contact… Do you know him a little?…” he inquired.
Carl was worried. He didn’t want to just hand Foxa over to anyone. Louis understood that perfectly.
— “Rebecca doesn’t talk about him much, but from what little she’s told me, he’s always been a calm fellow with a good spirit. His name is Viktor Willems.”
The car finally veered into a deserted lane before pulling up in front of a small cabinet with a modest facade. The lights were on, indicating that someone was indeed working inside. The fox began to squirm, nearly inaudible whimpers vibrating from her throat. One of her paws managed to break free from the blanket cocoon, her tiny claws clinging to Carl’s coat. The latter looked down.
— “Shh, it’s okay.”
In reality, he didn’t know if everything was going to turn out okay, but he couldn’t let his own fear show. That would only amplify her anxiety.
Louis leaned in to pick up the fox, but Carl stopped him by raising his palm.
— “No, don’t worry, I’ve got this. She’s clinging to me like a koala to its tree.
He could hold out now that they were just a few steps from their destination. Louis walked around to open the door for him, and at last they headed toward the clinic. Hickman took a deep breath. He knew this wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.
No sooner had they stepped inside than Foxa was overcome by a spasm of terror, trying to extricate herself from the worn blanket. The smells of chemicals and animals that had come before her seeped into her nose. What shook her was a visceral fear of the distinctly human world. She recognized all of it. Carl's stomach twisted further as he held the fox a little tighter against his chest.
— “Yeah, I know, it stinks of death and detergent in here… But it’s not what you think.”
His bluish eyes lingered on the scar she bore on the top of her snout, illuminated by the cabinet's ghostly neon lights. That nearly invisible mark that was evidence of the regular wearing of a muzzle that was far too tight. He suddenly wondered if it was in this kind of laboratory that she had endured the worst cruelty.
A man in his fifties, wearing a wrinkled white lab coat, with graying hair, appeared in the doorway of an exam room. He adjusted his glasses, his eyebrows raising at the sight of Foxa’s head peeking out from the American’s arms.
— “Come in, everything’s ready. Close the door behind you.”
The two men joined him. With every step, Carl could feel Foxa’s tension rising another notch. The veterinarian, on the other hand, was already slipping on his latex gloves, which slapped against his skin. This had the effect of startling the fox, who quickly regained her alertness. Hickman prevented her from leaping out of his grasp by tightening his hold just in time.
— "What do we have here, then? You can set her down."
The vet began, having cleared the table positioned in the center of the room.
When Carl tried to place her on the stainless steel table, the fox squealed, lifting her hind legs to avoid touching the surface, all while clinging to his coat with her front paws. Her intact wing flapped frantically, finding a way out of the fabric, a few down feathers swirling around.
— “By all that’s holy…” Viktor reacted.
— “Carl, wait, I’ll help you,” Louis chimed in, already reaching out to assist him, but Carl took a few steps back.
— “No, put something on that frozen metal, anything. There’s no way I’m putting her down on it, she’s completely terrified,” he warned them.
He wasn’t wrong. Foxa was panting, her tongue sticking out, gasping for breath, her fur bristling. Carl held her with his left arm, his right gently resting against her side as a reassuring presence. Sweat rolled down his forehead. He absolutely hated what he was putting the vixen through, even if it was "for her own good."
Viktor and Louis looked around the room. The commissioner quickly found a sterile towel, which he spread out on the table, softer and warmer than the steel.
— “Lay her here, it’ll be better.”
Carl went about it with a gentleness he was only known to display with the most traumatized victims and children. Inch by inch, his gaze locked into the fox's, he lowered her onto the towel, his warm breath brushing the top of her head. The fox had her ears flattened and her eyes wide, but at last, she found herself on the table, slowly scanning her surroundings.
— “Look at me, Foxa, don’t look at anything else… That’s it, sweetie, good, very good.”
The other two men fell silent, respectful of this moment of vulnerability and the trust that had been built between Carl and Foxa. Viktor didn’t ask a single question about what he was witnessing, despite his astonishment at having a fox with bird-like joints in his office. Instead of seeking answers, he immediately turned his attention to the improvised bandage that was wrapped around the injured wing.
"— Since when?" he asked, pointing his chin at the injury, using as few words as possible.
— "Two weeks. There was a metallic piece of debris in the wound that I removed, it wasn't natural," Carl explained, deliberately omitting to say it was a tracker when he caught Louis' eye.
— "And it has deteriorated since?" Viktor continued.
— "Today. I don't know the exact time."
Viktor Willems slowly nodded, mechanically smoothing his coat. His gloved hands approached the injured wing with calculated slowness, but the mere brush of the latex against her feathers tore a shrill cry from Foxa that echoed through the entire exam room. Her feverish body was racked by a contraction of fear that rippled all the way to Carl's gloved hand. The detective clenched his teeth, planting his feet more firmly into the tiled floor, stiffening his stance as he pulled the fox a little closer to him with his left arm. He was trying to act as a shield between her and the rest of the room.
— "It's okay, I've got you, little one..."
Louis hesitated to intervene. He felt it could escalate at any moment.
— “Carl, you should step back and let Vik-”
— “No, I’m not moving. If she freaks out, she’ll break her other wing or a leg on a piece of furniture.” Carl retorted in a tone that left no room for negotiation.
Viktor, who had looked up at the former New York cop, didn't try to contradict him. He knew how to work on all types of animals, admittedly more conventional ones, ranging from kittens to the biggest mastiffs.
— "No problem, but I'm going to have to cut this bandage. Hold her tight, it's stuck to the flesh, probably with pus. It's going to hurt."
Just by hearing this description, Carl felt an immense sense of guilt weigh down on his shoulders. He was the one who did Foxa's bandages. He was the one who had left this one too long today. He was the one who hadn't been up to the task. And now she was paying a heavy price for it. He tensed his jaw so hard that his muscles and gums ached, to the point of overshadowing the sensation of the nerves burning in his right hand. Louis lowered his head. He knew his friend well enough to know that he was beating himself up mentally.
The American’s left fingers came to frame the vixen’s muzzle, blocking her view of the scissors, offering his familiar silhouette as a reference point.
— “Hey, you’re so brave.”
The metallic click of the blades against the base of the wing made Foxa shudder. As soon as the soiled strip was sliced, she chirped and arched her back in a desperate attempt to get away, a hoarse groan emanating from her throat, but Carl managed to restrain her. Louis took the initiative to assist him, holding down the vixen’s hind legs. She growled with fury and turned, clicking her teeth just a few centimeters from the veterinarian’s glove, who narrowly avoided the attack, breathing between his teeth.
— “Easy, Foxa, I know, it hurts. It’s my fault, sweetheart… Only my fault. I’m so sorry about this,” Hickman whispered.
The French commissioner had rarely seen his detective in this state. He hesitated, before his voice found the words.
— "It's not your fault, Carl. You did what you could with what you had."
Hickman turned his head away.
— "No, no I didn't do what was needed. I should have acted sooner."
—"Carl..."
The vet peeled off what was left of the bandage, a vile stench rising from the infected wound. He grimaced.
— "It's not your fault. The only fault lies with those who inflicted this injury on her. She could never have done this to herself."
The vet pointed a finger at the shape of the wound.
— "It was a projectile, fired from too close. They aimed for her wing because it's not a, let's say, vital part. And looking at the angle of the shot, the goal was to graze her, as if the projectile was designed not to pierce the bone. The goal was to slow her down, or at least, to retrieve her fast enough, before the infection reached this stage. It's very strange. I don't think it was a shooting error, not from this close."
Carl felt as though he were about to stagger, his legs losing their strength. The information had just dealt him a heavy blow. He thought about the tracer. It was the first time he had heard of a tracer fired directly into a living being. Of course, it was obvious. The humans pursuing her had simply sought to catch up with her as quickly as possible, using her geolocation to achieve their ends. And he had compromised their plan by destroying it.
— "Is she... Is she going to make it?" He muttered.
— "The debris you removed left embedded impurities," the vet explained while preparing a syringe vial. "I'm going to have to drain and scrape the necrotic tissue, and check via X-ray if the bone is affected. I have to anesthetize her. Her heart wouldn't take the shock, otherwise."
Hickman hugged Foxa a little tighter, unconsciously, as if he wanted to protect her from the whole world.
— “Oh, my little girl…”
Part 3
The moment Viktor armed himself with a needle, the vixen caught sight of its silver glint. A visceral panic redoubled her last reserves of strength. In a survival impulse, her intact wing thrashed desperately. Louis was driven by an instinctive reflex when he saw her fangs skim Carl's leather glove, putting his own hand up as a barrier. The French commissioner stifled a curse as they pierced his skin.
— “Foxa…!” Hickman exclaimed in surprise in the heat of the moment.
The veterinarian took advantage of this opening to drive the needle into the vixen’s thigh. She lunged and writhed on the towel, her sapphire eyes glinting with dark anger and terror.
— “It’s okay, it’s okay…” Carl murmured, sliding his thumb against Foxa’s soft cheek.
The minutes that followed seemed to last an eternity before the drug spread through her veins and Foxa finally collapsed into his arms. When her entire weight slumped against him, Hickman swallowed hard.
— "I promise you, you'll get all the chicken thighs, all the trays of fish, all the biscuits you want. You are so strong, sweetheart."
The vixen had let out one final, desperate yelp, a cry for help that pierced his very soul. Foxa didn’t seem to be sleeping — her eyes were open and glassy.
A tap on his shoulder made him realize just how firmly he was clutching her. Carl loosened his hold on the vixen, finally turning his head toward Louis and Viktor.
— “It’s okay, Carl,” Louis told him.
— “She… is asleep. You can go wait in the waiting room. I’ll take care of the rest,” Viktor said.
— “No, I don’t want to leave her alone,” Hickman replied.
— “You look paler than my patient’s wings. You should sit down,” the veterinarian insisted.
Carl let his arms, trembling with fatigue, drop to his sides, taking a step back. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the small red and white mass lying on the table, for fear she might disappear forever. Ultimately, he stayed silent and left the room, accompanied by Louis.
Louis had used the lull while the anaesthetic was taking effect to roll up his hand in sterile gauze, where the fox had sunk her canines. Hickman brought it up as soon as they crossed the doorway, his voice quivering.
— “I’m sorry about…”
— “You don’t have to apologize, don’t worry about it. I’ve been through much worse than a little bite. She didn’t attack out of aggression. She just wanted to protect herself.”
…
Eighty torturous minutes spent staring at the tiles and the grayish linoleum in the waiting room, listening to the grating ticking of the clock above the counter, enduring a silence too loud for Hickman, who could hear his own blood coursing inside him. His right hand—the one Louis had saved from a certain bite—twinged mercilessly. Now, sweat was streaming down his forehead and the back of his neck, sliding beneath his tousled hair. Hickman had never dozed off. Not for a single second.
As soon as the door handle to the exam room turned, the New Yorker was on his feet in a heartbeat, his knees cracking dryly, cramped. Willems appeared in the entrance, his expression weary, holding between his fingers a set of freshly printed X-rays, arranged in a cardboard folder. His eyes lingered on Carl’s pallid face.
— “The wing is cleaned and stitched up,” the veterinarian began in a monotone, quiet voice, not wanting to break the nighttime tranquility. “I had to apply a light splint. The infection is contained, but I’ll provide you with antibiotics and something to ease her pain on a daily basis. She’s in the recovery room, wrapped in blankets.”
Hickman let out a rasping breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding for so long. An immense burden lifted from his shoulders. She was alive. However, his detective’s eyes squinted when he noticed the veterinarian’s tense demeanor, as he avoided his gaze. He was shifting from one foot to the other, his fingers tapping mechanically at the edges of the medical file, his lips pressed together. He was searching for words. Something was off.
— “Willems, spit it out,” Hickman ordered without wasting any time, causing the fifty-something man to flinch briefly.
Viktor set the file on the low table in the waiting room, pulling out the X-rays to lay them out as one would with evidence from a crime scene. A shiver ran up Carl’s spine as he leaned in to take a closer look.
— “I don’t know where you found this little one, but… whoever had her before you left… Marks that go far beyond her wing.”
The vet’s eyes darted between the two cops.
He pointed to one of the images showing the lower back of the fox.
— “Here, her pelvis for example, the bones… They show signs of a serious blow. The bones cracked slightly. And that didn’t happen on its own. This isn’t the kind of injury you find naturally in a wild animal.”
Hickman wasn’t a veterinarian or a doctor. But he’d seen the results of far too many autopsies in his life to ignore what he was seeing. He clenched his left fist.
— “It looks like it healed on its own… Without any help, without a cast,” he observed.
— “That’s right. She got by on her own.”
— “She has a scar on her muzzle. My theory is that it comes from wearing a tight muzzle,” Carl added, staring at each X-ray with a rage that was far too calm.
Viktor lowered his head, not responding right away.
— “Indeed, I’ve found several scars like that. I almost never come across this kind of mark in my career, except on animals that have been through a lot and were rescued by animal welfare organizations. But she’s really the… Well… The… The bravest of all my patients.”
The vet hadn’t dared say she was the most brutalized case he had seen in his decades of practice. Hickman shut his eyes tightly. A thick silence fell over the room. He took a step back, overcome by a violent nauseous feeling that even the lack of morphine couldn’t explain. This girl. .. this little creature who had refused his left hand, who screeched whenever anyone approached her, wasn’t just a scared animal. She was broken. Someone had tried to tame her, to subdue her through the use of power and the instilling of pure terror. She had been exposed to the worst side of humanity.
And he had brought her to one of the places that must have reminded her of the cages of her past. The clinic with its syringes, disinfectants, and metal tables. He had held her down while she felt as though she were returning to her previous hell.
He didn't have a choice. But he did it.
— “On the other hand, her wings look so naturally attached to her body. I honestly wonder how such a creature came to exist,” the veterinarian continued, breaking the awkward silence in the room. “Oh, and… That’s not all; there’s also…”
Viktor pulled out one last X-ray he’d kept tucked under his lab coat like a forbidden, incomprehensible secret. The fox’s ribcage. A strange, unidentified object occupied its center—an irregularly shaped mass that created distortions on the image.
“What on earth is that…?” Louis muttered.
— “I’ve never seen anything like it,” replied the veterinarian.
— “Is it… dangerous? Serious?” asked Carl.
— “I have no idea. But it doesn’t seem to be causing any damage in the surrounding area. Her body seems to have gotten used to it. Opening her up to inspect or remove this foreign object would be taking even greater risks. Let’s just say it would be best to keep a close eye on it,” Willems suggested.
— “She survived all that…” Carl thought aloud.
He inhaled slowly.
— “And despite everything, she started to trust me. Even though humans always screw her over.
— “Because she sensed that you’re a good person, Carl,” Louis replied after a brief silence.
Hickman wasn’t sure he deserved such a title. He was no “savior”. He was just a poor man in a decrepit caravan in the middle of a trash-strewn carnival, with a dead hand and doses of opium in his pockets. He didn’t answer, his long coat clinging to his massive figure as he trudged toward the door leading to the recovery room.
He was used to horrific pasts. To the most appalling atrocities committed by humankind. And yet, he couldn’t stomach what had been done to his girl. The one he had already grown too attached to for his own good.
When he pushed open the door and stepped into the room, he saw her immediately. The small reddish-white figure inside the recovery box was just emerging from the sedative’s haze, lying on a dense blanket that absorbed all cold surfaces. The injured wing was now securely immobilized in a clean, blue splint.
Foxa moved a paw, then her head, but the substance still numbed every muscle in her body. Her large, azure eyes blinked open, clouded over, staring at one of the unfamiliar walls with a complete lack of orientation. Her black, pointed ears twitched faintly, unable to pick up a single familiar sound in this environment. Disoriented, she let out a high-pitched little squeak that hit Carl squarely in the middle of his chest.
With calculated slowness, he crouched right next to the row of kennels. Very gently, he placed his gloved hand against the thin glass, near the small ventilation slits.
— "Hey little one... It's me, you're safe," he whispered.
At the sound of Carl’s low, raspy voice, Foxa’s pupils wavered before managing to focus, as best they could, on the American’s face. She tried to stand up, but dizziness instantly pinned her to the blanket.
— “Easy, stay still, rest.”
Seeing the scene and sensing that Hickman needed a break, the French commissioner stepped aside.
— “I’ll go start the car and call Rebecca to reassure her. Take your time, Carl.”
Hickman nodded wordlessly, his eyes fixed on the little fox. Louis' footsteps faded down the hallway. Viktor, meanwhile, was busy tidying up in the back. Foxa took a short sniff, inhaling the scent of leather radiating from Carl's glove resting against the crate door. He let this dead hand serve as an anchor.
— "We're going home soon, I promise."
The sound of the vet’s footsteps returning from the storage room brought him out of his thoughts. The profiler’s eyes left the fox’s orange fur and locked straight onto the gaze of the vet. He finally plucked up the courage to say what had been itching at his tongue ever since he had found her.
— "Will she be able to... One day... Fly again...?" Carl questioned in a suddenly unsure voice.
Viktor tightened his fingers around the sleeve of his coat, distracted.
— "Let's say that... It's difficult to determine. The bone wasn't too severely damaged and will consolidate with the splint. But the debris hit nerve endings, and the infection did severe damage to the upper joint."
Hickman felt like he was about to implode. He forced himself to keep his composure.
— “Cut to the chase, please.”
The veterinarian glanced at the American’s gloved hand before quickly looking away; the parallel was too obvious to ignore. It was utterly brutal.
— “The wing risks being unusable. She might be able to use it to balance herself on the ground, but the act of taking off… will require a strength she may never have again, forcing her to learn how to live solely on the ground, to deal with it.”
Carl gritted his teeth and pressed his forehead against the glass of the cage. “No, not that… Not like that.” He didn’t want to consider accepting such a possibility. Learning to live solely on the ground. Dealing with it. Those were exactly the kinds of statements he had been told at the hospital after his tragedy. Until he found himself rejected by his own department in New York, with excruciating and constant pain. He couldn’t imagine the vixen going through such an ordeal.
The vet went on.
— “But you know, she seems like a tough little one. Sometimes there are… Miracles. Sometimes.”
— “Miracles are the kind of hope we give ourselves to keep going when there’s no reason left. They’re mirages,” Carl replied.
— “The fact that you found my clinic, which happened to be within reach before she took her last breath, was already a miracle. If she stumbled upon you, and not anyone else… Perhaps it was for a reason.
Hickman was taken aback, unable to find the proper words. He, broken, had been found by another creature just as damaged as himself. They were bound by a fate that both shared everything and nothing in common.
— “Listen, mister…” the veterinarian continued.
— “Hickman.”
— “Mr. Hickman, you can come back or call me anytime. For any issues. I’d like to do a general check-up every two or three weeks. I can come to you to minimize stress as much as possible. And maybe we can consider some rehabilitation for her wing.”
Viktor Willems handed him a card with his number on it. Carl stuffed it into his pocket, grateful.
— “...Thank you.”
— “You can take her home. But. . . wait a few hours before giving her anything to eat. Start with a little water. Not too much. She needs to rest in a quiet, dark place. She might seem dizzy and lost, and she won’t have her balance, so avoid any physical activity.”
Hickman acquiesced. He waited for the vet to open the compartment. Viktor lifted Foxa, keeping her enveloped in the thick blanket, then handed her to the American. The vixen didn't flinch. She didn't have the strength to growl or run away. She rested her head against the New Yorker's shoulder, and he felt her warm, shallow breath against his ear. The sensation of her faint exhale brushing against the skin of his neck sent a sudden surge of emotion through him.
— “Let's go home, sweetheart...”
As he escorted him back to the front desk, Viktor explained — almost at excessive length — the daily treatment protocol, how to care for the splint, and the first steps to take in case of a problem. Carl was exhausted, his eyelids heavy, but he listened to every word with care and attention.
— “Oh, and, I don’t know how you’re going to handle this, but normally you need a certificate of capacity to keep foxes or… um… parrots? I’m not sure which category she falls into, but… if you want to stay on the right side of the law, let’s just say…”
— “Don’t worry about that,” Carl interrupted.
— “Hmm, yeah, I see. Well… Have a safe trip.”
— “How much do I owe you?
— “Nothing. Don’t worry, everything’s already been taken care of with Louis.”
— “…Thank you, Mr. Willems.”
Carl didn’t linger. Immediately after stepping outside, he was relieved by the cold, refreshing breeze that swept over his body. He held the fox close to him as he got into Louis' sedan, letting out a long, steady sigh.
Louis Daniel, hands on the wheel, had a thousand questions swirling in his mind. He wondered what his friend knew about the projectile he’d pulled from the fox’s wing. How he was going to manage on his own, in a few square meters of a van, while still working for the team. Who was responsible for the fox’s suffering. Whether Carl, in all this turmoil, was drowning in the ocean of his own pain.
He didn’t speak. He respectfully gave his friend the silence he so desperately needed. He simply turned the ignition and drove out of the alley.
On the road, he allowed himself only a few insignificant words.
— “Is that why your seat is all torn up?”
Hickman gave a wry smile, without taking his eyes off the fox.
— “Yeah, she’s the one guilty of the crime.”
Louis chuckled softly.
— “So what about that lock?”
Carl looked up.
— “It’s really rusted.”
Louis tapped the steering wheel.
— “Yeah… You know you’ll have to come up with some solutions, huh? But like I said…”
The Frenchman turned slightly toward his friend.
— “What happens in the van stays in the van.”
He concentrated on the road.
Hickman, for his part, was absorbed by the vixen who had clearly fallen asleep — for real this time — against his chest.
— “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again, Foxa.”
A confession murmured in her ear, so fluid it showed no hesitation, too quiet for anyone but her to hear.