EDIT: A.N. - So if you enjoyed the previous story (Interlude) and you loved the ending and you didn't care for "Jason Bourne" (the movie), you might not want to go further. This story picks up a few years after the events of *that* movie, but borrows from the "Interlude" universe. So if your head canon is a happy Nicky + Jason, you might not want to read this pseudo-sequel. I was just curious if I could make something work out of the post-"Jason Bourne" world that felt less GAHHHHHHHH than the actual movie.
Two weeks ago
My father disappeared two weeks ago.
I was at school when it happened. His secretary called me on my mobile to tell me he never showed up for work. They were worried because he was never late and had never missed a day since starting work a year ago. He'd never taken sick days or doctor's appointments.
I told her I'd try to reach him and have him call her back. I called his phone. Instead of my father's voice, I got a general voice mail message. Shaken, I hung up, tried to calm my breath as my heart raced. I leaned against my locker as my classmates hustled past me, on their way to third period.
"Hal, you coming?"
Sharon Davies, one of my fellow juniors, walked towards me, books in hand. We were friendly; but I think Sharon thought more of our friendship than I did.
I don't have friends. I can't.
"Go on ahead. I need to grab some stuff."
She smiled and took off, catching up to other friends as they headed to Trig class. I waited until the hallway thinned out, then slung my backpack over one shoulder. Instead of walking toward the math wing, I beelined for the exit, moving as quickly and as carefully as I could to leave campus without a teacher or administrator noticing.
Then
My parents love each other.
It is a living, palpable thing, especially now, at the end. All my life, I've watched the tenderness with which they hold each other, the way they still look into each other's eyes. They are still tactile with each other, holding hands, touching, always touching: her hand on his shoulder, around his waist, touching his face; his hand always at the small of her back, around her shoulders, pulling her in close. As her disease progressed and she lost her motor facility, my father would lace his fingers through hers and his hands would keep hers still. Their love is quiet, engaged, and deep.
My mother is so beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and melancholy, green-hazel eyes. Her hair is dark and wavy, in contrast with her flawlessly pale skin. I wish I looked more like her, but I'm a feminine version of my dad: light brown hair, blue eyes, and an angular jawline. I'm most grateful for his nose, which is straight and aquiline.
My mother has Huntington's, a disease which causes the degeneration of nerve cells in the brain. It's a genetic mutation and it is fatal. She will die from this disease while she is still young and beautiful, before she's had a chance for a life long-lived. There's generally a ten-year period from when the symptoms first manifest to when the disease overcomes the person; as their brain deteriorates, everything that made them who they were disappears, impairing physical, cognitive and emotional abilities.
It's rare and affects 30,000 people in the U.S., though some two hundred thousand more are at-risk. Why? Because here's the kicker about Huntington's: it's a familial illness. There's a 50/50 chance of inheriting the mutated gene from an affected parent.
My mom's mother died of Huntington's long before I was ever born, long before my mother reached adulthood. My mother is repeating this pattern, and this is why she spent all her time with me. I've been home-schooled all my life because my parents wanted to travel the world and explore everything they could before my mother's illness took effect.
The last few years have been tough, as her disease has progressed rapidly. We moved to Oregon four months ago, when things finally got bad enough. We're almost out of time.
I wake up because I hear shushing sounds. I'm curled up in the armchair where I fell asleep earlier, while talking to my mom. I've taken up coffee because I want so much to have every moment I can with her, but my teenage body doesn't understand my need to stay awake and despite my best effort every night, I fall asleep much earlier than I want.
It's dark in the room, but my eyes are adjusted and I can make out the shadows beside my mom's bed. My father is carrying her, cradling her against him tenderly. Her body is jerking uncontrollably because of the chorea that accompanies late-stage Huntington's. Dad gently sways back and forth, heedless of her involuntary twitching. She's gasping, her exertions causing her pain and exhaustion, but Dad just holds her tight, making soft comforting sounds.
"So…tired," she whispers to him when her body settles, in between bouts of shaking. I breathe slowly. Mom is having a lucid episode. Her cognition and behavior have recently become so erratic.
"You tell me when, Doc," he says to her gently.
He calls her doc because they met when she worked as a biochemist for a drug company. He was in operations.
"Not yet. I want…I want just a little more…with you and Hallie."
"You just tell me when," he repeats.
Oregon's one of the states that permits terminally ill patients to voluntarily end their lives, subject to some stringent conditions. We're about to cross the point where Mom won't be able to meet the criteria of the Death with Dignity Act, which means our time with her is limited. We're talking weeks, not months.
"Thank you, Aaron." She pauses. "Not for…the end. But for everything before it. For Hallie. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have had her and the best fifteen years of my life."
He chokes, and my eyes well up hearing his pain. "I'm so happy we had her, Doc."
Two weeks ago
The morning my father disappeared was like any other: we ate together and chatted about our respective schedules. He made my favorite breakfast: crispy thick-sliced bacon and Belgian waffles warmed in the toaster oven.
"I'll be a little late tonight," he'd said, refilling my coffee. I added milk, stirring until the blackness gave way to a light brown. After Mom died, I gave up caffeine, but found that I missed the warmth and bitter taste. It reminded me of those last nights with Mom. "I have a meeting that might run over, so let's grab pizza at Riccardo's tonight."
We moved to southwest Georgia a year ago, and Dad took a job as a mid-level manager for a financial services company.
Then he kissed me on the forehead, said good-bye and left.
That was the last I saw or heard from him.
Within fifteen minutes of hearing the recorded voicemail message on his phone, I was in my Jetta on the road to Atlanta. From the car, I made a call to a number I'd long ago memorized, and provided the agent with details.
Three hours later, I eased my car into a long-term parking facility in Atlanta Hartsfield Airport. I grabbed a small, packed suitcase from the trunk, and a backpack stuffed with items I'd need – passports, identification cards, burner phones, Visa and MasterCard gift cards, and cash – and walked over to the terminal. MARTA, the rapid-transit system, was located right inside, near the shuttle buses, and I got on the northbound rail. It terminated in Dunwoody, at which point I took a cab to a mall in Alpharetta, a dense suburban area an hour north of Atlanta on the GA-400 toll road. From there, another cab took me to an airfield.
Calling it an airfield was a bit of a stretch. It was actually a 2,500-foot sod airstrip in the middle of a shorn grassland plot. There was nothing as luxurious as a baggage or terminal facility. It was literally a strip in the middle of nowhere, north Georgia.
Fifteen minutes of walking took me to a hanger where a white Cirrus SR22 G2 waited. It was a smart, single-engine light aircraft and famous because it came equipped with a parachute system. Also because Angelina Jolie had one. It was one of the safest planes ever built for private ownership and that was why my father bought it. In the U.S., the minimum age to receive a student pilot's license for flying powered aircraft is 16. Luckily for me, when I started flying, we were living in England, where the minimum age is 14.
In the pilot's seat inside the cockpit of my plane was a burner phone and a sprig of dried lavender. When I turned on the phone, it scanned my fingerprint and unlocked. A moment later, the phone beeped, alerting me to new text messages.
The first text comprised a set of numbers: 44.0145° N, 6.2116° E. The second text was simply: JULIET, and the third text another series of numbers: 227772888666.
The first set of numbers were coordinates – longitude and latitude. The name JULIET was the phonetic alphabet word for "J." The second set of numbers represented the position of the letters on a telephone key pad – 2 = ABC, so 22 = B; 7 = PQRS so 777 = R; and so on. The decoded word: BRAVO. This was the phonetic alphabet word for the letter "B."
J.B.
My parents told me if I was ever on the run, I needed to find this man.
Now
"Hello, this Aaron Prescott. You've reached my cell and I can't answer at this time. Please leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."
This was the message I normally got when my dad's voice mail picked up. But the generic, built-in version, the one that comes with all phones, was the one he employed when he was unable to contact me, and needed to tell me something very specific –
And that is: Run. You're in danger.
This is why I am now in Provence, France, looking for Jason Bourne.