<div class="floatleft">(http://img819.imageshack.us/img819/3311/filmnoir3.jpg)</div><strong>Drake Holland</strong><br/><strong>Age:</strong>35<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Aggravated assault, torture, attempted murder<br/><strong>Location:</strong>New New York, Public Library<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Natalie<br/><hr/>Drake winced as Natalie dropped the hacksaw and flinched in pain.  In the light of the refrigerator that Sarah opened, he could see blood welling up on the palm of her hand.  He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief--fortunately, it was clean--and pressed it into Natalie's good hand.  "I'd wash that cut, if I were you," he advised her.  The hacksaw blade didn't look rusty, but you never knew.  The wound didn't look particularly egregious, but there was always the chance of infection.<br/><br/>He watched as the blonde woman--who he had either correctly or incorrectly labelled in his mind as the "motorcycle dyke"--ascended the stairs, followed by Phaedra.  Between the blonde woman and Natalie, the two of them had confirmed his suspicions: that they should have also been part of the group that had met in the library, but had, for whatever reason, arrived late.  It also explained the fire alarm.  At the time, he had been glad that someone (Natalie, as it turned out) had raised it; but in retrospect, it had probably been a mistake.  It had summoned the cops, who had immediately arrived on the scene with guns drawn.  Drake had no idea what had happened to the other members of their group that hadn't escaped.  Probably they had been tossed into the clink.  Oh well.<br/><br/>"I'll go look for a first aid kit or some gauze or band-aids," he told Natalie.  Suddenly, however, something she had said came into clear focus in his brain.  He had heard her when she said it, but hadn't been paying attention, distracted as he was with Tim.  Now, however, it seemed important.  He whirled on her, staring into the young woman's face.  "Wait--did you say that you heard voices? In your head?"<br/><br/>As if right on cue, the voices in Drake's own head started talking. As usual, they gave conflicting advice: one trying to fan the flames of suspicion and paranoia, the other reassuring and encouraging.  He grimaced, touching his temple, trying to shut them out.<br/><br/>Once they were quiet again, he returned his attention to Natalie.  "What kind of voices do you hear?  How many?  Does one sound gravelly, deep and rough, like a man who smokes cigars?" He studied her reaction intently, intensely.  He had always been afraid that he was going insane, that the voices were a symptom of his mental health unravelling.  But if the others could hear them as well, then that meant that something else was going on, something with far more sinister implications.