This is a first season story. It's a sequel to my earlier story, "Away from Monsters" (hence the title, "Monsters Return").
Rating: PG-13 for adult language and some adult content/themes. This deals with raw issues (such as child abuse); if you are in anyway uncomfortable with these themes, I would suggest looking elsewhere.
Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Monsters Return
Part Four
He felt like he'd been watched all day. He knew he was supposed to be--Captain Bridger had mentioned that he'd have several people posted around him as long as his father was still on board--but this was getting ridiculous. There was Kristin, always hovering at his side. Ben wouldn't let him out of sight. Crocker's "security patrols" swung his way every twenty minutes or so. Even Tim was making a habit of watching over him. His main comfort was that his father seemed to have even more "tails" on him: Ortiz hadn't left Doctor Wolenczak's side for hours. But it still made him feel like a criminal, as if Lucas himself had committed a crime. It was with some relief, then, that he finally escaped to his quarters for the day.
Lucas entered his room, sighing heavily as the day's events ran through his mind. It had been a long one. The poisonous gases being released into the ocean's water, the very reason his dead old dad had been called into the area in the first place, were making their jobs somewhat difficult. Taking samples was dangerous; it could only be done after hours of preparation, it seemed. The gases also weren't behaving in any of the predicted patterns. They seemed to possess some sort of demented minds of their own. Every time he looked at a sample under microscope, he could almost bet it would completely mutate thirty minutes later. It was almost impossible to find a solution to the problem when the variables kept changing so rapidly.
And then . . . there was the matter of his father. They'd worked side-by-side for about four hours, not speaking a word to one another other than, "please pass the slide" or "please verify my math on this equation." Those researchers and scientists not acquainted with the son-and-father-Wolenczak scenario had openly stared at them, wondering why this "happy reunion" wasn't quite as happy as it should have been. Lucas didn't care what they thought, though. The only opinions that mattered to him were his own and his friends' . . . and he knew with no doubt what his friends thought of his father.
Lucas had found it easy enough to ignore his father even as the man stood right beside him as long as no physical contact was made, but the few times his father's hand had slid across his own . . . he'd felt certain his skin would drip straight from his bones. He'd literally flinched one time. With his friends surrounding him and keeping wary eyes on the doctor, Lucas had intellectually felt quite secure. However, that was only intellectually. Emotionally, he'd flipped between simply ignoring his father as the least significant person on the earth . . . or wanting to scream in terror every time he looked his way. How his father was able to send him into such an emotional roller coaster without as much as a raised voice was beyond him . . .
No, on second thought, it wasn't beyond him. Lucas knew what it was. It was years of mistrust, years of apprehension, years of abuse. He'd learned his lesson well through those years. Unfortunately, unlearning that lesson seemed nearly impossible.
Thanks, dad, he thought sourly, picking up an entertainment magazine and flipping through it. He didn't see the pictures or words before him, though. Instead, he kept thinking of his father . . . the man who was, even now, somewhere on this ship. Thanks so much for ruining everything for me. Thanks for making the seaQuest look less secure than a Non-Allied Powers security camp. His father always seemed to know how to hurt him, to make whatever security he had relied upon crumble at his feet.
He sighed, finally throwing the magazine to the floor and simply staring at nothing. He couldn't seem to think straight now. His mind was a mass of confusion. On the one hand, he felt he'd escaped his father's abuse: he felt his father wasn't truly a threat, not with his friends surrounding him and willing to protect him. Not with Bridger there to watch over him. But on the other hand, he felt somehow that this was all false security--some type of mirage covering the truth from his mind. It seemed he'd never escape his father's fists, as if those fists were permanently engraved in his own flesh.
Would he always feel this way? Would his shoulders always tingle with the feeling that someone was behind him, preparing to hurt him?
He didn't know. But he certainly hoped this wasn't the case.
With a sigh, Lucas rubbed at his eyes. Lord, he was tired. He wanted sleep. His head ached, his eyes ached . . . he swore even his brain ached. After a moment of silent contemplation, sleep the main thought on his brain, Lucas stared at his door. A frown creased the corners of his lips, furrowing his forehead as he continued to stare.
Then Lucas did something he couldn't remember doing on the seaQuest: he locked his door.
With a troubled expression, Lucas finally slumped onto his bed and fell into an exhausted sleep--one plagued with his father's yelling voice, pounding fists, and angry eyes.
*****
Early the next morning, after a night's sleepless tossing and turning and screaming himself awake one nightmare after the other, Lucas forced his eyes open.
He stared at the ceiling above him, looking at its metallic surface with sleep-dimmed eyes. He then swallowed hard, thinking of the day's work, of the day's trials, ahead of him. After a moment's thought, Lucas groaned; he wanted to stay right here in bed all day. Perhaps even as long as his father remained on the boat. Perhaps even a year or two. All he knew was that his body simply didn't want to move from its comfortable position on the bed.
Lucas's eyes drifted shut, sleep lulling him back into blissful senselessness.
Tap, tap.
They sluggishly reopened at the sound of beating. Hmmm?
Tap, tap.
Oh, of course . . . Lucas sighed as he transferred his gaze from the ceiling to the aquatubes running through his tiny quarters. Darwin's mischievously smiling face floated before him (though there was no scientific evidence for his hypothesis, Lucas swore that dolphin always had a mischievous smile curving his beak). He supposed Darwin was feeling left out. He hadn't played with him for awhile now.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, buddy. As soon as this mess is over, I'll play a few games of squashball with you. But until then . . ." Lucas yawned, then blinked his eyes, ". . . Until then, you'll have to wait."
He closed his eyes momentarily, thinking to give his eyes a bit of rest . . . only to open them once more.
Tap, tap.
This was getting . . . interesting. He looked at Darwin, then followed the dolphin's gaze to his clock . . .
Then tried jumping out of bed, only to bang his head on the wall and nearly trip over his own feet. Damn! He was late for work. He'd been due in the lab at 8:30, and it was 10:05 right now. Doctor Westphalen would probably want his scalp for this one.
He hopped around getting dressed, then--pulling his baseball shirt over a wrinkled turtleneck--ran out of his room towards the science lab. He was almost positive this day was going to really suck, given its beginning.
His assessment of the day seemed well founded as his father, who was (of course) dutifully at work on his second or third batch of tests that morning, looked up and scowled at him.
Just great, Lucas thought grumpily. Now I'm going to have him harping on me, too. He just hoped his father didn't get it into his skull that "harping" included beating, kicking, gouging, or any of the other wonderful punching activities his father had tried on him over the years. That was about the last thing he needed right now.
Lucas gathered his supplies and started working on his latest sample, trying to block his father's ugly frown from his mind. He had cleared several batches of samples already, and was well on his way through the fourth batch. The morning had slid into afternoon when a shadow dropped over his work area. Before Lucas could move away, his father's voice suddenly hissed in his ear, "I see your work ethic hasn't improved, you lazy shit. I'm amazed they've put up with you this long. What do you do--bribe them?"
Lucas's head snapped up, his eyes widened in amazement. But before he could say anything, his father had already disappeared, walking smugly out the door and on his way to lunch.
Lucas simply pounded his fist into the cabinet, then winced as the pain throbbed through his arm and fingers.
God, he hated his father.
*****
"Well . . . I guess this is it," Tim began, smiling slightly as he looked at his "charge" treading wearily beside him. Lucas smiled slightly, nodding. "I'll see you later. Remember . . . give me a ring if you want to go anywhere tonight. Though, the way you're looking, the best place for you to go is straight to bed."
Lucas groaned. "No doubt." He sighed, feeling like his head was going to shatter into a million pieces any moment now. His father was literally giving him a headache. However, he'd long since concluded that the only real form of pain killer for this pain was getting rid of the problem. That meant, of course, sending his father along on his merry way back home. Or excising him from the human race, whichever was easier.
"Okay, see you tomorrow. Take it easy!" Tim waved briefly, then continued on his way to his own quarters. Lucas sighed, wishing he had more energy. He really should be working on his vocorder program, or, at the very least, reworking some of his other programs. Crocker had put in a request for a new security alarm program. Katie had asked for some coding on her latest designs. Even Krieg needed him to finish a "project" . . . though not necessarily one Bridger would approve of (he suspected the captain might blow his top like an angry volcano if he learned that Krieg had talked him into designing a somewhat shady bookkeeping program). Yes, he had a lot of work to do, and he really should be doing it . . . not simply going home and collapsing on his bed. But that was exactly what he intended to do.
As he swung open the door to his quarters and shut the door behind him, though, his eyes staring tiredly at the floor, all thoughts of rest flew completely from his mind when he heard the mocking chuckle. He looked up, alarm hitting his gut and tying it into knots.
In front of him, standing just feet away from him, was his cursed father.
Ah, hell.
*****
They stared at each other, silent, closed to one another.
Lucas considered his situation. If he tried to run from the room, his father was too close to escape. His father, though not in the best of physical conditions, was certainly able to cross a few feet in the amount of time it would take him to reach the door. However, if he simply stayed and spoke with his father, things could get nasty--and very quickly, too. He knew all too well how quickly things went from bad to worse with his father. His broken bones and trips to the hospital proved it.
There was one other option, though: if he stayed and talked with his father, perhaps he could eventually reach his PAL and call the bridge for help. Of the options available, that seemed best. Not great, but better than immediately having his legs turned into kindling for him.
Finally, Lucas advanced into the room, warily eyeing his father as he approached him. He cleared his throat. "So . . . dad. What a surpise to find you here."
His father smirked at him, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at his son with a hard, cold stare. "I'll bet. The way you and your friends have made it impossible for me to get near you . . ."
Lucas inched his way towards the PAL, never removing his gaze from his father. "They thought it was a good idea."
"Oh, they did, did they?" His eyebrows rose cynically. "Who told them they had any say on this?"
Lucas swallowed hard. The PAL wasn't too far from him now. He could almost--almost--reach it. Just a few more inches and he'd be there . . . "Bridger is captain here. You're not. He has the right."
The instant the words were out of his mouth, Lucas regretted them. His father's face immediately darkened, the eyes turning a dangerous olive, a storm of violence raging within them. Oh God. Almost convulsively, Lucas swallowed; he'd seen that look before. He'd pushed too far this time. Way too far.
"He has the right to tell me how to take care of my own son?" His father whispered. Lucas rose a shaking hand to his hair, fingers trembling as they stroked several strands of hair out of his eyes. His father continued to whisper, "You are my son, not his. He can't change that, no matter how much he might try."
Lucas's eyes looked towards the PAL: a quick flicker towards the device. He watched in horror, though, as his father's smile suddenly widened. His horror turned into terror as his father--watching him with amusement, with triumph--grabbed the PAL, flung it to the floor, then, eyes still pasted on his son's expression, crushed his heel against its plastic form.
Lucas heard the crunch like a death knell.
He started backing away, slowly, carefully.
His father's eyes were now glowing. Lucas shivered at the almost insane light reflecting from the depths of the hazel irises. It was the insanity that he'd seen ten, fifteen times: the insanity that continuously put him in the hospital.
Minutes passed as they stared at one another--frozen. Then, suddenly, his father launched himself at him: fast, almost faster than Lucas could have imagined. Anger, hatred, loathing . . . all rushed towards him as his father's body crushed into him. Lucas lifted his fists against the onslaught: one, two, three . . . four, five. The fists rained down upon his body, but he hit back with as much anger, with as much rage, as his attacker.
Years of pain: hit.
Years of anguish: strike.
Years of self-disgust caused by his father's hatred of him: pound.
Tears streamed down Lucas's cheeks as he felt pain spread through his limbs. His father's face blurred in front of him, distorting into a monster's mask . . . into something inhuman, something unrecognizable.
As the fists continued to pound into him, Lucas was knocked onto the floor. He rolled blindly away from the crushing weight on top of him. Kicking, striking blindly with his fists, his elbows . . . Lucas warred against his father.
Sharp pain suddenly exploded through his head. Darkness threatened to descend, hovering on the edges of his vision. Lucas saw something metallic and tubular swaying above his head, then fought franctically as the metal came crashing towards his head once more. Blood began to trickle into his eyes . . . from what, he couldn't even begin to imagine. Everything was so hazy, so distorted.
Cracking pain in his head. A voice screamed out, then again, then again . . . he finally realized it was his own voice. It reverberated in his aching skull, echoing throughout his being: through every nerve, every fiber, every cell. He struggled as the darkness increased, as the light began to dim behind his eyes.
A sob escaped his lips. With it came a new sound, a whisper ripped from his throat: "N-n-n-o-o-o!"
His fumbling hand finally found something it could grasp: a computer part, something heavy, God alone knew or cared what. He lifted it into his hands, then, with increasing momentum, rammed it into the dark shadow above him.
Thwack.
Silence.
Moments passed. Lucas lay staring at the ceiling, but not seeing it. His vision wavered around him, a crazy distortion of size and shape and color. He swallowed hard, trying to focus.
More moments slipped past. Lucas almost fell asleep, but forced his eyes to remain open: clouded, but capable of seeing something rather than nothing at all. He inhaled, exhaled . . . listening to the sounds, trying to calm his mind, listening to the fact that he still lived.
Something trickled down his forehead, then down his cheek. His trembling fingers wiped it from his face. Red. He swiped at it again, streaking the red across his palm.
He began to crawl: one foot, then another, then another. He could faintly distinguish the door's markings in the wall. Just a little bit further. Just a little bit more . . .
He forced the door open and tumbled into the corridor, blood again seeping into his eyes. With his voice barely raised above a whisper, Lucas cried for help.
*****
Five hours later, Lucas awakened to find himself in MedBay. He groaned as the realization struck, then winced as pain reawakened in his skull. His hand reached up towards his head, but was quickly knocked back away.
He steadied his vision enough to see who had swatted his hand, then smiled slightly: Captain Bridger. Captain Bridger was better any day than the nightmare he'd just had. His father, somehow on the seaQuest, attacking him in his own quarters . . .
It had been a nightmare, hadn't it?
He looked questioningly at Bridger, then--seeing the concern written clearly across the captain's face--knew it hadn't been a nightmare at all.
His father had really attacked him on the UEO flagship submarine, his home, the seaQuest. His father had really done it.
As the enormity of his father's actions struck home, Lucas realized something. Vaguely, he remembered that--with his father's fists pounding down upon him, with everything turning to hell before he could do anything to stop it--he had fought back. He had actually fought back against his father's abuse.
It was a revolutionary idea for him. He'd fought back . . . and, somehow, he'd won.
"Hey, there," Bridger greeted softly, seeing Lucas watching him. He smiled slightly. "How are you feeling?"
Lucas thought for a moment, then replied, "Like a--a herd of rhinos just stampeded me."
Bridger's smile widened, and he squeezed Lucas's hand. "Understandable. If you'll forgive me for saying it, you look like it, too, kiddo." He watched for a second as Lucas's free hand floundered for the cup of water sitting to his side, then--seeing him miss the cup two or three times--carefully lifted it for him, helping him up a few inches to drink. "There you go . . . slowly, now . . ." Bridger coached, still supporting the struggling patient.
Lucas laid back, again wincing. He rubbed at his head. "My head feels like it's going to explode. And everything is--fuzzy."
Bridger chuckled softly. "You have a concussion. Thankfully, you have a relatively hard head, so it's nothing more than a concussion . . ." He abruptly stopped, realizing belatedly that teasing Lucas right now might not be the best idea. He anxiously watched Lucas's face and was grateful to see a slight smile on Lucas's face.
Lucas glared at him (or the blur he assumed to be him). "Ha, ha. Very funny, sir."
Bridger decided to keep the words light for the time being. He simply said, "Why, thank you. I thought so."
Lucas would have thrown something at him, but--considering his current dilemma--decided such a move wouldn't be in his best interest. He'd probably miss by a few feet, anyway.
After a brief silence, Bridger cleared his throat. He studied Lucas's pale features, then asked softly, "About your father, Lucas . . . do you want to talk about it now?"
His father was about the last thing Lucas wanted to talk about, but he knew . . . well, it would need to be discussed sooner or later. He supposed sooner was better than later. He sighed. "Yeah. I guess."
He paused, trying to think of what to say. Bridger simply waited beside him, silent, patient.
"He . . . he was waiting for me when I got to my quarters. I didn't have much of a chance against him." He played with the covers for a moment, pulling at a few strands, then said, "I tried to get to my PAL, but he stepped right on it. Then . . . then he attacked me, sir."
Bridger squeezed Lucas's hand, but remained silent.
Lucas felt tears well in his eyes as he remembered his father hitting him--over and over. He sniffled. "He kept hitting, just like at home--just like it had always been. Hitting without reason. I don't even know why--just that it happened."
"Perhaps he doesn't look for reasons, Lucas. I don't think you gave him any reason for hitting you, for striking out at his own son. I'm sure there can't be a reason good enough for that," Bridger said gently. As he pulled a long strand of hair out of Lucas's eyes, he smiled slightly. "You know you're not at fault, don't you?"
"Yeah, I know. Now, I think I even believe it . . ." Lucas paused, wiping tears as they trickled down his cheeks. "I always tried to figure out why he did it, but . . . I don't know if there is a why in this, sir. I just don't understand it."
"Me, either," Bridger agreed with a sigh. He thought of the man sitting, almost catatonically, in the brig that moment; after the attack, Doctor Wolenczak had collapsed into an unmoving, unspeaking shell. He'd stared blankly at his hands, as if wondering what those hands had done. While Bridger could never excuse his actions, he did wonder what had caused such an extreme reaction. Right now, the brilliant man seemed incapable of human speech or intelligent thought. Was it just a clever guise--or was there something . . . mentally wrong with the man? To this moment, the stupor hadn't broken.
Lucas abruptly continued his description of the fight as if he had never stopped: "And then . . . then, sir, I started hitting back. I didn't want to be--the old me again. I didn't want to be the old Lucas who'd been hit over and over, who'd had no chance against him. I wanted to show him that I could fight him."
He tried remembering what had happened, then said, "I hit him with something on the floor--a computer part, I think. And then . . . then, I crawled towards the door and asked for help." He paused. "That's all I remember, sir."
Nathan nodded, squeezing his hand. "You handled this well, Lucas. Even hitting back was the right thing to do. Otherwise, with him in . . . whatever frame of mind he was in . . . it's hard to say what could have happened." Silently, Nathan amended, You could have been killed if you hadn't fought back. He would have killed you. But he simply said, "Don't hold this against yourself, kiddo. Don't think yourself a monster because you struck back. You needed to. I don't believe you had any choice."
Lucas nodded slightly, then, after a moment's thought, asked, "What--what will happen to my--my father?" He struggled over the final word, confused, as he often been, that his father could act in such a way.
At this, Nathan lowered his head for a moment. He stared at the floor, then looked up at Lucas--noticing that the boy was staring at him (or the shadow of him) with sudden fear. To ease his mind, he quickly said, "Your father . . . your father shouldn't be a problem again, Lucas." He paused, again looking at the floor as he decided how to put this. He settled for the easiest path: the simple truth. "Right after Doctor Westphalen assured me you would be all right, I called Admiral Noyce and read him a version of the riot act that set his ears flaming."
Lucas smiled slightly at the description; for some reason, it made him feel better that Noyce got chewed out for his behavior. He'd deserved it.
Nathan continued: "When he learned what your fath--" Nathan stopped, refusing to call Wolenczak by that term. Clearing his throat, he said instead, "--what Doctor Wolenczak had done, he called in the Attorney General and went over the case with her."
Lucas was literally staring at him, his skin paling.
"She decided that Doctor Wolenczak had earned a one-way ticket to the closest prison installation, pending psychological testing." Bridger added this last phrase somewhat hesitantly, worried at Lucas's reaction; in Lucas's place, Bridger wasn't sure if he'd want his father to get a moderate prison sentence because of "psychological ailments."
But Lucas surprised him. The teen nodded his head, seeming to agree with the plan. "Psychological testing . . ." Lucas whispered, then said, "Every time he has hit me, sir, he hasn't--looked like himself. It's like I'm seeing someone--or something--other than him. I know it could be entirely his fault, I know a lot of people use insanity to get free of a charge . . . but I'm not so sure it's a trick with him."
Lucas paused, then looked at Bridger. His blue eyes pled for understanding. "You've never seen his eyes when he attacks, sir. They're mad. Crazy." Lucas shivered. "I think this terrifies me more than anything he has ever done to me."
After a moment's silence, Bridger finally nodded. He hugged Lucas to him, then pulled the covers back up and shut off the light above the bed. He brushed hair out of Lucas's eyes as the teen watched him. "You could be right, kiddo. I can't say." He sighed, then tapped Lucas's nose. "But what I do know is that you need some rest. And I also know it's safe for you to sleep in peace now."
Bridger started walking towards the door, then glanced back, saying softly, "Your father won't be returning again, Lucas. Ever."
He then left, smiling as Kristin silently took a seat at Lucas's side.
*****
Monsters Return
Epilogue
- Four months later, Captain Bridger lay with a pillow covering his head in what he knew to be a vain attempt to block out any sound on his ship. He hadn't slept well in the past few days, having rather stupidly sampled a tasty exhibit of crab someplace off the New England coast . . . only to realize the crab was bad. Kristin had just looked at him archly, giving him several bottles of pills, a shot, and a lecture on watching what he ate while on shore leave. He'd simply taken the medicine with a frown, retreating to his quarters and crashing on the bed.
Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .
Nathan groaned. He smacked his hand on the vidlink. "Yeah?" he growled out, rubbing at his head. He hadn't realized that bad crab could give someone a headache that made a hangover look like child's play.
"Nathan . . . good to see you." Bill Noyce's happily smiling, sun-tanned face came into focus. All Nathan could offer in response was a tired moan. Noyce's eyebrows rose quickly. "Not looking so good, are you, old chum? What's up?"
Nathan was glad Bill could at least spot the obvious: he knew he looked like death warmed at slow roast over a barbeque. He rubbed at his forehead. "Food problems. Crab. What'd you need?"
Noyce rolled his eyes, but chose not to call Bridger on his assumption that he only called when he needed something. At least a good . . . ten percent of his calls were just to say hello. The others . . . well, they were for official business, but that didn't mean he always called needing something. He smiled slightly, leaning in towards the vidlink. "You know, Nathan, you're going to positively think I'm a saint after this."
Nathan simply looked at him with obvious cynicism, eyebrows raising despite the humming in his ears. Noyce would never qualify as a saint in his books. A friend, yes. A saint, no.
Noyce shook his head. "You will . . . believe me on this one!" He grinned. "Well, Attorney General Mattonn has done it at last!"
For a moment, Bridger stared at him; then he shook his head, wondering if he'd missed something in between "I'm a saint" and "Mattonn has done it at last." What, precisely, was "it" that Mattonn was supposed to have done?
Noyce frowned. "Nathan, Mattonn was handling the Wolenczak case--the Doctor Wolenczak case, that is."
At this, Nathan's attention snapped from near-oblivion to keen interest. He stared.
Delighted that he'd at last caught his friend's attention, Noyce continued, "Wolenczak has been found guilty of child abuse, neglect, and mental/psychological abuse. He's been sentenced to ten years in prison, with ten of them actually spent in hard time confinement."
Nathan rubbed at his chin. He frowned. "What about the other five years, though? I don't get it."
"Ah, that . . ." Noyce sighed, leaning back in his chair. He shrugged, running a hand over his nearly bald pate. "I'm sorry, Nathan, but Mattonn had to accept reduced sentencing because the defense came up with the usual defense-line: innocence by reason of insanity. And the jury, unfortunately, bought it. He got a reduced sentence--but at least the defense wasn't able to get him completely clear of charges. That was their original aim."
Bridger struck his palm against the table, then glared back at his friend. Noyce met his eyes without a flicker.
"We couldn't do anything more, Nathan. You know it as well as I do. In fact, you know we're damned lucky to have gotten this much." He paused, then added, "It's not much, but it's at least ten years Lucas won't have to see his father. Ten years, Nathan. He'll be almost twenty-six when his father gets out. He'll be able to deal with it then. He can't now."
After a moment's silence, Nathan nodded--slowly, unhappily, he nodded. "Yeah . . . I know." He sighed, wanting to strike something, but finding nothing to strike: no Doctor Wolenczaks were currently in sight. All his fist could find to hit was furniture, and that did no one any good. He looked back at his friend. "Thanks for letting me know, Bill. It's not perfect, but I guess it's better than nothing." He sighed, then said, "I'll talk to you later."
Bridger flicked off the vidlink, seeing Noyce hesitate, then nod as he disconnected the link.
He knew Noyce was right. They were lucky to get ten years for the bastard. They were lucky Mattonn had somehow managed to keep Lucas out of the courtroom. They were lucky--damned lucky--Lucas wouldn't have to face the creep for another ten years.
But ten years just didn't seem enough for a lifetime of abuse. Ten years just didn't seem enough to pay for the nightmares, for the horror, for the pain. Ten years was nothing in comparison to that.
But, then, perhaps nothing could pay for Lucas's past.
Bridger simply didn't know.