Author's Notes and Legalese at end. This story takes place after the events in "Reunion."
He'd bent over to take her into his arms, intent upon carrying her to the waiting auto outside. That was when the distinct--- so familiar it instantly sent a dreadful turbulence fluttering in his gut--- sensation of a .45 muzzle tipped with a rather effective silencer pressing into his hair registered. "Why, Samantha? I thought I had already proven my intentions." His voice was surprisingly calm, but then again, this situation was in no way new. Last time it'd been a .50 caliber Desert Eagle.
By the force of her answering jab he mused he probably had a circular indention in his scalp. "What you've done here today is nothing. It doesn't matter!" she spat, punctuating the statement with another prod. "You're one of them, one of those monsters in the stylishly dark suits and the matching rings who tore my family apart for the sake of some precious experiment." The disgust layered an extra inch with the last word, turning it into a profanity.
"Today I did my best to get Sydney and Duncan out of the country, to safety, hoping to keep one step ahead of the Committee and keep all of us alive. I helped get your mother here. All I have done has been for the sake of your family. I am unarmed. You're the one holding a gun to the back of my head. Who's the monster?" he countered.
The thump of combat boots against the rickety wooden steps brought the confrontation into silence. From behind Oliver drifted Duncan's bewildered voice. "Sam, what are you doing? He's on our side." Despite the gravity of the situation---it wasn't every day Dunc saw a man with a gun to his head outside a TV---the young man's voice was still laced with humor that was typically Duncan.
"No, Duncan, he isn't. He's Committee, no better than the people who stole me and Daddy away. Allegiance to the organization is bred into them; given an opportunity he'd betray us. He can't do that if he's dead."
"Samantha, put the gun down." Duncan had that champion quality in his voice again; Oliver had only heard it utilized for Sydney before now. Blinking, he resisted the urge to turn toward the young man---and apparent new friend. "He was Committee, not any longer. If you kill him, that'll only aid our enemies. Totally self-defeating strategy, Sam."
"Our desires might be the same this once, Duncan, but believe me, this man does not deserve to live. He will betray us given the chance. I'm not going to let him."
"I heard your argument the first time, Sam. Didn't jive then, and doesn't now." Her arm tensed a fraction, but in the poor light the man couldn't tell if his words had hit home or she was preparing on dissecting Oliver's brain in a less-than-scientific fashion. He did, however, hear her hand tense so that the thumb safety went off.
Duncan's features contorted as emotions he thought impossible outside the LSD-trip-like realm of VR flashed through him. Pity and disbelief warred in his tone as he muttered, "He is right. You have become a monster. Lady Samantha is added to the Committee's casualties list."
Unlike her old friend no emotion played in her eyes, not a trace of the shocked hurt or rash anger he had expected. The being whose lips did manage a sneer was as close to soulless as he thought possible. First tonight he'd lost Syd, and now was hit with the harsh realization that they'd never really had Sam back to begin with.
His thoughts still rolling in those directions, he barely realized what was suddenly playing out before him until it was over.
Quick and vicious, Oliver's hand shot back, snagging the woman's wrist and snatching the gun downward. The muzzle vacated its perch next to his skull, but the woman fired anyway. Heat exploded in his shoulder, a blast emanating from his back and spilling out his chest. Instead of flame, a dark liquid shot from the ensuing passage, saturating Sydney and her cherished VR equipment in a spray of blackness.
Duncan watched, his mouth agape, a tendril of silky hair resting on his tongue, as the ex- Committee man collapsed domino-fashion. A shadowy lake expanded from beneath his prone body, creeping steadily toward Sydney's booted toe, splashing up on Sam's ankle as she marched to her perceived enemy's side. "Say hello to Alex for me," she taunted, aiming not for the center and his heart as Duncan had assumed but at the base of his spine. If not death, then she wanted him paralyzed, suffering from the physical as well as the emotional scars of such an injury.
He'd never really believed any human being could be so sadistic and be considered sane, but he supposed, the woman before him could probably see some rather wicked Rorschach Inkblots.
And there was no way humanly possible, even with the aid of fight-or-flight, he could reach them before the trigger was pulled, but Sir Duncan the Loyal was more than willing to try. He vaulted over the tottering stair railing, landing so hard that bones shook all the way up to his knees, but he didn't stop.
Until Samantha swung the weapon in his direction. "Don't tell me they've gotten to you too? Not my Sir Duncan. I thought you would outgrow them, but apparently you let the Committee exploit those weaknesses of yours." Chiding him as she quite accurately aimed the gun at the space between his lovely eyes, "I am very disappointed at this turn of events, Duncan. You've grown up into a flight-of-fancy hack who can't be trusted to do anything right." The carefully constructed steel in her voice turned brittle as she grumbled, "And now you've become a liability like all the others. Like Daddy. I've found it's best to do away with those liabilities rather than allowing them to pop up again in the future to yell "Boo." I'm sorry, Duncan, but you did bring this upon yourself."
Not wishing his last sight on this Earth to be the black-holed pistol barrel or Sam's belligerent features, Duncan screwed his eyes shut, mumbling stray literary quotes as his heart beat ceased.
Samantha's screech of distress and along with it, the man's realization that he wasn't about to have his brains splattered across the back wall of the Bloom family basement, sent his eyes flying open. Thank you, Oliver, he thought before the world swirled back into focus.
But it wasn't Oliver standing over Samantha, switch blade in hand. Before him was Sydney, her hair wild where the VR goggles had once been poised on the crown of her head, a lazy trail of blood meandering its way down her hand and forearm. "Like I was a liability," she hissed somberly.
"Syd," Duncan whispered from an abruptly arid throat. "Whoa, what just happened here?"
The clattering of the knife against the wobbly work table drew the younger man's attention, the sheer clarity of its descent something to rival VR. "She'd set a trap, Dunc. I was never supposed to make it out of VR.7." Sydney's normally soft-spoken voice leveled to a tone almost outside the range of human hearing. In a self-conscious or perhaps a gesture of self- comfort ---Duncan couldn't decide which--- Syd brought her dry hand to pull her arm against her side, rubbing absently at her tricep. It was a habit her old friend had seen before.
It took a few swipes before the woman's numb mind registered the blood being rubbed into her pores. That and the fact that two bodies lay at her feet. "Oliver." Desperation etched so sharply in her shadowy features, it made Duncan worry about the extent of the brooding Englishman's injuries.
"Is he okay? He's breathing, right?" Duncan tried his best to look without getting too close; blood made him woozy something awful.
Sydney barely even heard her friend, intent on checking the hurt man sprawled flat on the chilly floor. His jacket was sopping with blood, it rolling across the leather, turning into a sticky, gummy mess. Noisy breaths fluttered from his open mouth, reassuring and alarming the woman simultaneously. Nora Bloom's voice made Sydney jump drastically, and she barked, "Dunc, get her back upstairs." The last thing her mom needed to see after coming out of a seventeen year VR-induced coma was one of her daughters dead and a man possibly heading in that direction.
"Sure thing, Syd. Come on, Mrs. B. I'll fill you in on the happenings around the world since your last day. Reagan was president. Ronald Reagan, the actor. You're lucky you missed that; those were some bleak years..."
Duncan's voice gradually drifted away as he lead Nora back to her living room. Sydney flattened her hand against the sickening mass of blood, giving Oliver a meager nudge. "Oliver, can you hear me?"
The barest of chuckles rumbled in the rib cage beneath her fingers. "It appears I've been shot yet again." His voice was slurred, bringing to mind the last time he was inebriated and the bar where he later took a bullet for her.
The quality of his tone and the apparent fact that he'd lost consciousness for at least a little while mixed with the virtual ocean of blood beneath her feet concerned Sydney greatly. "I think you passed out, and frankly, you're not the most coherent fellow at the moment. How bad is it?"
Her breath fanned his ear; he found the sensation somewhat ticklish. "Cut me some slack, Sydney; I've just been shot," he replied, his voice holding laughter in check. He couldn't comprehend why the entire situation seemed so incredibly amusing but was willing to let good humor take him as far through the pain as possible. He heard her make a sound of annoyance in her throat and knew she was resisting the urge to take a swipe at him. "Hit my head on the way down. Kinda hazy at this particular moment. I'd give commentary, but I'm really not up to my usual wit and not much for half-measures..."
"Seem to be doing a hell of a job at the moment," she muttered wryly, rolling Oliver Sampson onto his back; even without proper illumination he looked pale and a bit nauseous. A grimace popped onto his face which he promptly attempted to camouflage as a smile. Sydney's own lips thinned at the sight, her fingers fumbling to pull away the jacket from the wound, irritated with the realization that the shirt was a pull-over. How was she supposed to get a look? At least last time he'd subconsciously had the presence of mind to wear button-up.
"Just apply pressure, Sydney, and a rudimentary dressing. We'll do a more thorough job when we get to the motel."
At those words Syd nearly pounced. "Motel? What do you mean? We're leaving?"
Feebly he waved off her questions, dropping the hand back to his side almost instantly, the effort tiring him. "Not now, Sydney. I need to talk to Duncan. Get him down here. Discreetly," he added as she jack-knifed to a vertical position.
Sydney walked to the bottom of the secret stairway and yelled, "Hey, Sir Dunc, I need some help dismantling the equipment and packing it for transfer. Give me a hand?" She hoped the question was muffled enough to pass for her sister's voice.
"Sure thing, Sam," Duncan said, leaving Mrs. Bloom and trotting up the main stairs, ducking into the secret entrance, and sliding the metal rails like his initial entrance into the workroom when all this had started. He lowered his voice considerably. "What's the real mission, Money Penny?"
"Oliver wanted to talk to you," she replied with a nod of her head in the injured man's direction. Then she went about to dismantling the three sets of VR equipment and packing them for easy transfer, stashing them in her back pack.
"Okay, M, what's the plan?"
Oliver, his back propped against the table Syd was frantically clearing, shook his head slightly to clear it; from the glaze in his eyes, Duncan assumed he was still pretty foggy in the gray matter. He reached out and took the younger man's forearm in his hand, not really certain if he meant for it to be an anchor to reality or an attempt to let Sydney's childhood friend and confidant know the seriousness of their present situation. His tongue felt thick as he spoke. "Duncan, do you know how to hot-wire a car?"
"Well, I knew this parolee once. We talked about theft and such, and purely in the case of an emergency---like I got caught in a blizzard or something---"
"Do you?" Oliver demanded, too impatient to sit through to the end of one of Duncan's tangents. He shut his mouth and nodded. Oliver let out a breath of relief. "Splendid," he muttered, " now crawl out the window and boost our transportation, Duncan. Some sort of family vehicle that will blend in easily."
"A minivan." Sampson nodded, ushering the long haired fellow off on his quest. He started to leave but turned back with a thought. "You're not going to like, hemorrhage or anything while I'm gone are you?" Oliver's glare was enough of an answer for him. "Right. Be right back." Duncan clambered up to the level of the window, jerking it open with a minimal of noise and scurrying out into the dark night.
Sydney finished her task and returned to the ex-Committee member. At least she assumed by his actions and his apparent disillusionment with his employers that he'd thrown in his secret decoder ring and decided to go home. She dug out some of her older shirts from her bag and set about to wrapping his shoulder the best she could.
"I thought you trusted this keeper."
"I'm not sure who to trust anymore, Sydney. At least not in the Committee. I'm not in any shape to deal with any surprises that might arise; I'd feel much safer on our own away from any one remotely associated with that blasted organization."
"Of course you're excluding yourself," she teased softly. He must have been feeling bad because he didn't even attempt to hurl a retort.
"The most difficult part of our little escape will be getting your mother out. The Keeper's upstairs watching her. Bringing her down here will definitely arouse suspicion. Matter of fact, I'm surprised he hasn't come barreling down here yet."
A soft hissing from the window drew two pairs of eyes as Duncan's head popped through the opening. "Mission accomplished. Queen and country successfully served once more, M. Now what, Chief?"
"Good work, Duncan." The artist saluted smartly at the praise. "Now you help me get out of here with all these bags while Sydney creates a diversion to lure the Keeper out of the house."
"How? I don't know what kind of diversion will work. I'm not the spy here."
Her statement brought a peel of subdued laughter from Sampson. "You're the VR chameleon. In there you fake your way through situations all the time. Be creative." Using his right hand as a crutch Oliver managed to shuffle onto his knees, and from there, with the aid of Sydney and the table as a prop, up to his feet. More or less. "Give us two minutes, then do your thing and get you and your mother out of here."
Duncan slipped back into the secret basement, slinging the various bags over both shoulders before turning to Oliver. From the way he was swaying he didn't look up to getting to the rugrat-mobile by himself. "Wait here. I'll be back," he assured the man as he scurried back out to darkness. At least he didn't attempt a Terminator quip.
"You sure you don't need a doctor, Oliver?"
She opened her to mouth to speak further, but his rather brusque reply shut it instantly. "I'm not a child, Sydney. If I were in need of a physician I would tell you. It's no worse than the last."
Sydney shifted from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence that so often, in accompaniment to the prickly banter, made up the bulk of their conversations. "Last time you weren't shaking harder than the speakers at Duncan's last party." A wilting glance was his only response before said partier's chipper voice filled the room.
"Hey, guys, the Batmobile's gassed and purring like Catwoman. You coming, Bruce?"
"Be right with you, Dick," Sampson muttered thinly. To Sydney, his voice brooking no questions, "Two minutes. Don't get lost." He steered her toward the stairway and went to join Duncan.
From the prolific burst of noise going on behind her Sydney Bloom didn't have to watch to know the great amount of difficulty getting through the window was. Of course even without the other sounds the muffled curses would have been a dead giveaway. She counted 120 "Mississippi"s before charging up the stairs two at a time and into the family den. Before the Keeper could get out a startled exclamation at her appearance she gasped, "Daddy! I saw Daddy in the bushes outside!"
He darted outside faster than the Road Runner. Unlike the nameless man, Nora Bloom instantly took notice of the blood covering her daughter's arms and hands. "Sydney, dear, what happened? Where are you hurt?"
"It's not mine, Mom." The twin took the woman's hand in one of her darkly stained palms and pulled her up. "Just follow me, Mom. We haven't got much time." She glanced once out the front window before making a bee-line for the backdoor. The dark Star Trek shuttle/runabout-shaped vehicle sat idling on the back corner of the adjacent street, the side door open for the two figures who scampered inside. Someone had disabled the overhead light.
As soon as she slammed the door, Duncan put the vehicle in drive and rolled slowly down the street. He'd placed his hair under a baseball cap in a method of disguise Sydney supposed; it wasn't much, but she figured every little thing would help.
"Don't sit up front; stay back here."
Oliver's voice had diminished further, apparently on an incremental scale with his energy level; presently the ex-Committee man fought tenaciously to hang onto consciousness, declining the effortless slide into the more tranquil realm of sleep.
Or at least he did for the first fifteen minutes of the ride; what with the smooth rumblings of steady Goodyear tires on pavement and Sydney's murmuring heartbeat next to his ear Oliver Sampson succumbed to his body's demands and logged off for diagnostics and repairs.
His first sight upon his return to the world occupied for the most part by the living was the ugliest checkered plaid design he had ever seen, and for Oliver, who had frequented some of the most vulgar inns around the world, that was simply astounding. It turned out to be curtains, inadequately shielding him from an equally tacky neon sign with more letters burnt out than were lit. Other than the orangy-green slits of illumination attempting to come through the ungodly drapes, the room sat in darkness. Frankly, the scene made him more nauseous than the live fish one of his friends in Kowloon called dinner.
Turning his head he came up with a pleasant view of Sydney, her face glowing beautifully despite Crazy Eddie's attempts to mar her features, putting him at ease. Although, he supposed, since the letters seemed to dance along her form haphazardly, he might not be up to the task of focusing just yet.
"Nice of you to join us."
Luckily for the young man hovering at the foot of the bed, Sampson came up empty when he reached for his gun. "I thought that we might be safer with your Bat-utility belt in the nightstand," Duncan reassured, rocking his weight slightly from the heels to the balls of his feet, his hands rammed into the pockets of a well-worn-and-obviously-loved pair of shorts.
"What---where are we?"
His obvious discomposure stemmed from the fact that for the first time in quite a while not only did Oliver have no idea what was happening around him, but he wasn't behind the wheel of this little operation. Concerning this brood he usually called the shots and liked it that way. "One of the city's four-rat establishments. Just our luck, it's now featuring towels!"
Sampson scanned the big ache that was his body, surprised to find himself naked from the waist up, his shoulder awash with white gauze. His eyes shot up, holding a look as close to a murderous rage as Duncan had ever seen. "What? I stopped at K-Mart, clear across town. What did you expect us to do, just wait until your arm fell off?"
"I would have been fine," he snapped in haste. He knew that, but injured men never have been known for their charm. "You shouldn't have taken that chance. I wouldn't," he added icily.
"Well, lucky for you Syd forgot her favorite K-Tel record. I picked it up and saw a first aid kit on the way out. Oh, and a "Whatchamacallit."" Duncan fished a candy wrapper from his vest pocket, extending it to the prone form on the lumpy bed. "Want some?"
Oliver replied with a look that said "I think not." Duncan merely shrugged, tearing off a piece of the sticky candy with his teeth and chewing with effort. The food hampered his ability to speak clearly, but Duncan never had been much concerned with manners. "So what now, Ollie? We going to move into the sewers and build a civilization of great thinkers and artists or open us up a strip joint?"
"My name is Oliver, Duncy, not Ollie," he corrected cooly, sitting up despite the raucous screams of his various boo-boos. He hated having anyone looking down on him, even if that person were a friend. "The first thing we are going to do," he started, reaching into the drawer and removing his pistol, checking the clip to ensure it was full and the chamber had a bullet nestled properly in place, "is make ourselves falsified documents. Then, we are going to get, as you Americans so aptly put it, the hell out of Dodge."
"So who do we go see about these documents? What if your contact squeals?"
Oliver silently mouthed the word "squeals" before shaking his head in amusement. "With the help of Sydney and her computer we have all we need right here. No middlemen, no outsiders. Just us, for now."
"So where do we go from here? Kowloon?" Please not Siberia or the Alps. I didn't pack any winter clothes. He almost broke into a snicker at the insipid thought which skidded through his mind but managed to hold it in check. Oliver, undoubtedly, would fail to see the humor. Especially in light of the emotional confusion Duncan saw in his eyes, nearly identical to the uncertainty and fear that had danced beyond his gaze when Duncan had mentioned Abernathy's presence in the VR trio's memories.
"Atlanta."
Simple word really, three short syllables which usually rolled off the tongue without trouble, certainly since it had been dubbed "The International City," home of the 1996 Olympics. When Oliver said it, it seemed ancient Romanian or some other tongue-twisting language of old that refused to be spoken fluently by the English native. That and the fact that Duncan could clearly take Oliver's pulse by watching either the side of his neck or the jumping vein in his temple did nothing to reassure the man.
"Georgia?" he asked in clarification.
"Georgia." This time his voice didn't sound quite so strained. He had resigned himself to the choice, ready to face whatever unpleasantness the location had to throw his way.
"What's in Georgia?"
"A part of my life I thought no longer mattered," Oliver remarked, more to himself than for Duncan's benefit. Overcoming the memories bombarding him, Sampson got to his feet, barely supported by jelly legs and shuffled to the bathroom to clean up. A man covered with blood would undoubtedly draw attention at the airport.
Duncan watched the door slam, studied it for a moment, and went back to his "Whatchamacallit."
He had been the key operative. Duncan had let Syd elaborately braid his hair---a talent he was unaware she possessed---so that it hid perfectly beneath his favorite teamcap. Four first class tickets to Hartsfield International airport were in his coat pocket; Oliver had insisted that if they were going to run, the Committee would find them whether they flew first class or coach, and he didn't see the point in being uncomfortable for the entire trip. Duncan could see eye to eye with the sentiment.
Samuel Foster, Clarissa Hall, and her mother Faith were monopolizing a corner of one of the better terminal lounges, relief evident in their eyes as Charles Martin strode past the bar. "All set everyone. Our call should be coming any moment."
Oliver--- or Sam at the moment---gave Duncan a somewhat hearty slap on the shoulder. It was the best he could manage, Duncan knew; actually, if Duncan had his way, they wouldn't be getting on a plane at all. Oliver looked worse than some of the hit-and-run victims he'd seen in the L.A. crosswalks. When the boarding call did come he walked in staggering steps all the way to the first stewardess.
Mia, the perky blonde who took their tickets and directed them to the correct seats, looked positively haunted at the sight of Oliver. Duncan did his best to put the woman at ease. "Don't worry, Miss, Sam here just got a few too many Long Island Ice Teas at the convention party last night; he was probably soaring higher than most of the folks at the last Pink Floyd concert I attended." Duncan felt Sydney prodding him from behind to shut his trap and get away from the woman, but he just couldn't resist. "Oh, and I suppose it would be prudent to inform you that Sam is absolutely terrified of flying. Don't worry, he only broke the arms of two passengers last time before he settled down."
Sydney gave him a decided shove and shot Mia a wan smile. "But he'll probably sleep most of the trip, Ma'am," she finished, hoping to salvage at the very least the peanuts they were entitled to. Mia probably wouldn't offer any complimentary champagne to their particular crew.
Duncan settled into his seat, checking in on Mrs. Bloom, curious as Oliver whispered to Sydney to discreetly peer beneath their seats. Apparently he was out of the loop on that one. Blinking, he immersed himself in Orwell's world of Winston and Big Brother, truly empathizing with the characters for the first time. After all, Duncan, Oliver, and Sydney had their very own Big Brother now.
Just what Santa had left out of his stocking...
Following his review of Orwell's vision of dystopian society and in the midst of the Best of Bloom County Collection, their captain announced the impending descent into Hartsfield. Encouraging a culinary tour of Atlanta and its Southern heritage, the pilot wished his passengers a pleasant stay and flicked off the comm before his complaints of the seven year old terror given a cockpit tour could be shared with everyone.
"Hey, think we can find some of those pecan logs? Without the cherries. Man, who came up with the notion of adding fruit to everything?" Duncan inquired as he fell into line behind his companions, his belongings slung over one shoulder.
As usual, Oliver ignored the attempt at jovial conversation, marching straight to business. "We'll take MARTA. What with construction and flat out bad drivers, traffic will be sheer hell." Through a chaotic maze peculiar to major airports made up of discarded luggage, disheveled travelers, and disgracefully sluggish escalators the refugees shambled into a waiting subway train on the North track; at one a.m. and at the beginning of its journey, the car was deserted save for four weary souls and their luggage.
Six stations, one switchover at Five Points, and another short interval between stops, Oliver announced, "This is the one." Popular spot considering half the train seemed to empty; eager, sleepy people fought to hold the honor of first out the double doors, disillusioning the grand notion of Southern hospitality for Duncan.
A particularly rushed individual plowed through the crowd, nearly taking Sampson's injured shoulder with him as a souvenir. Grunting, Oliver halted his ineffectual stumble, his hand clinging to the back of a cool orange and beige plastic seat. An arm slipped through one of his, and looking down, the former Committee employee met the smiling features of Nora Bloom, her eyes crinkled in a worry that could almost be designated motherly. Then again, considering she had been almost numb to people and surroundings, ensconced in a convalescent home for seventeen years, perhaps Nora simply clung to the nearest friendly face in the herd.
One thing could be said about Atlanta: its subways in no way reflected the image of rampant urban decay; harsh fluorescent overhead lights sent their shadows skittering across brightly colored murals. Up the steps and out a spinning corral, Oliver paused by a bank of phones. He fished about in his pockets before, exasperated, he murmured, "Anyone have a quarter?"
Duncan's lips quirked; the man had more money on his person than most banks kept in the teller drawers, more than some stored in their vaults, and he couldn't find a measly twenty- five cents. With a smirk that told the Englishman he would never live this little episode down until something better came up for Duncan to torment him with, said fellow fished out the required change and popped it in the waiting slot. Sampson's annoyance was expended on the poor silver buttons he jabbed at in quick succession.
Duncan, perched at Ollie's left elbow, heard the clicks signifying thousands of computer network connections and the soft pings of a phone on the other end making contact. Five pings later the receiver was lifted, and Oliver instantly snatched the phone from his ear. Duncan could hear Glenn Fry crooning about the heat being up or something along those lines, followed by Oliver swearing softly. A voice twittered through the tiny speaker and Oliver positioned the mouthpiece properly, still staying clear of the speaker and its booming music.
Adopting a regional dialect---which brought Duncan's head slinging back toward the man from his watch on Syd and her mother--- Oliver slurred, "Ripley there?"
Either it was a wrong number or the man on the other end was drunk, deaf, or a combination of the two because Sampson repeated the question three times before dropping the phone back into its cradle. "This is it," he whispered, perhaps not meaning for the others to hear, but Duncan possessed hearing capacity rivaling most strict substitute teachers. Directing the troop past a fenced-in walkway which appeared to lead to a shopping mall, they went through a doorway and into the Atlanta night.
Even at the late hour, the heat coupled with humidity rivalled only by south Florida and, according to some of the inhabitants, various rain forests instantly converted Duncan's hair to a limp mop hanging in his eyes and warmed his core temperature a good three degrees. Well, perhaps not, but it felt that way. He only wanted to get to a shower to wash away the sweat that had popped out his pores and a bottle of conditioning shampoo to attempt to bring his hair under a semblance of control.
Up the street and hanging a left at the second corner, Duncan realized Oliver was leading them straight up Peachtree; behind him, he could see the lights of the Fox Theater marquee. "Hey, doesn't Elton John live somewhere around here?" Duncan asked offhand, sidling past exiting theater patrons who littered the sidewalks. "Hey, Oliver, you got connections. Think you can get us a private concert?"
Pausing for traffic, Sampson turned to Duncan, his features strangely shadowed by the bright street lamp he leaned against. "What makes you think I even know Elton John?"
Shrugging, nearly dislodging his pack, Duncan said, "He's English. You're English. It's an island." Perfectly logical assumption; well, at least for Duncan.
Oliver stared at the young man for several beats before shaking his head on an indistinguishable noise trapped low in his throat. That was the bulk of his response before the little walking figure appeared on the lighted display across the street, and he moved forward to the next expanse of sidewalk. There wasn't another risk of being mowed down by the notorious light-runners of Atlanta because half way up the block Sampson stopped before a tall high-rise, corralling himself through a revolving door. His brood followed suit.
Past the lobby, which had a guard desk that was presently vacant, and over to two large glass doors. Little metallic stickers mounted in the corners advised any would-be shooters that the glass was bullet proof. Oliver made his way to a small panel, inserting a card into the waiting slot, watching the pinprick LED turn traffic-light green, and commenced to punching in a set of numbers. For several long seconds nothing happened. "Come on, Ripley. Don't tell me you've changed the code."
The light blinked three times, and the click of a disengaging lock eased the harsh lines that had taken residence at the corners of Sampson's lips. Duncan slipped nimble fingers around the ornate brass door handle, bowing slightly at the waist as Syd and her mom slipped in, jerking his head in a quick motion to usher Oliver through the heavy door. Sydney stood off to the right, jabbing at the "up" elevator call button viciously. It didn't illuminate as was usual for elevators.
Duncan pressed his ear to the slitted doors, listening for the familiar rumble emitted by all lifts. Above and below, the shaft sat in silence. "Had to be broke," he grumbled. "How many floors?"
"Not many," Oliver returned, hedging really as he rearranged the bags clutched haphazardly in one fist. "I believe it's a mere eighteen floors to the penthouse."
Sydney grabbed his arm---the good one---and spun him around. "Eighteen? I don't think Mom's up to eighteen flights of stairs, and you don't look able to get up eight of them at the moment yourself, Oliver."
Her voice, usually so soft and unassuming, was edged with hostility. He understood that fatigue mixed with the notion of her sister's demise--- the memory of the knife clutched in her hand and her sibling's blood congealing on her skin--- was putting Sydney Bloom on the lip of a mental and emotional collapse.
His voice serenely matter-of-fact, Sampson retorted, "If Nora becomes fatigued we will stop and rest. If necessary, Duncan and I will help her." He shot Duncan a look to silence whatever quip was forming on the artist's tongue, wishing he could have turned the hallway into a vacuum so Sydney's little huff wouldn't have reached his ears. "Now, we have quite a journey ahead of us, unless, of course, you would prefer to camp here in the hall. Perhaps I could purchase a bag of marshmallows from the convience store down the road and a Bic to roast them by," he commented wryly. From the corner of his gaze he noticed Duncan's lips quirking in barely-concealed amusement.
Sydney took her mother's hand and flung the stairwell door open, uncertain if she didn't get on the move that she wouldn't just slug Oliver right where he stood, annihilating that irksome simper right off those smug British features. Duncan shook his head, out of sympathy or admiration, even he couldn't have said. Letting go a tired breath, Oliver brought up the rear, where, for the better part of the journey, he found himself beside Nora Bloom.
Until even she began to outdistance him. Ruefully, struck with the knowledge that a woman who had been in a comatose state for nearly two decades was outperforming him on this stairmaster built by one of Satan's minions, Oliver made the conclusion that it was time to settle down into the dull-drab world of regular, everyday civilianship. His fingers wrapped around another section of bright-red stair railing, Sampson dragged himself up another step, reaching once more for a handhold, only to unceremoniously find himself on his butt.
The cold uneven grating below him felt sturdy and stable, if not very comfortable, but right now it would do just fine. He watched as two very blurry forms with wild sprigs of blonde hair knelt on the step below him. Oliver looked down and cussed rather talentedly as the world commenced a tilt-a-whirl around him, sucking his mind under as it left his nauseous stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.
Another, darker, figure hovered behind the apparent form of Sydney, instantly recognizable as Duncan as he ventured closer; the ex-agent wished Duncan hadn't eaten the Greek gyro with extra feta right before their flight. Its pungent aroma stayed with him admirably, nearly emptying Oliver's elevated stomach of its measly contents. Sydney, shaking his arm vigorously, obviously was trying to send him teetering down the stairs or into the region of unconsciousness growling at the periphery of his mind.
He didn't care which as long as it was over relatively soon. Sampson fumbled, his hand locating Duncan's arm only because the young man obligingly placed it in his path. "Go upstairs, knock on the last door at the very end of the hall, and tell Ripley to get the hell out here."
Duncan blinked before letting out a decidedly unsure, "Okay." Oliver certainly knew how to get on the good side of old buddies he dropped in on to ask for shelter from secretive, assassin-happy organizations. He left Syd, Mrs. B, and the jolly green Englishman hovering around the fourteenth floor, trotting up the steps two at a time. Two flights up he became aware of the familiar vibrations reverberating through the metal structures around and below him. Just outside the eighteenth floor he recognized John Lennon screeching out "Twist and Shout."
On his third bang against the solid door, the song died away, instantly swallowed by a more synthesized piece by Van Halen. His knuckles would be raw before someone heard him above the virtual concert in there, so Duncan tried the knob, and finding it unlocked, slipped inside. He opened the hall closet, startled for a moment by coming face-to-face with a sizable arsenal. Then he recalled whose friend he was dealing with and cracked, "Ah, it's the Assassins- R-Us yearly picnic."
Some fellow with a gut clearly explaining why he smelled of a distillery and sloshed beer all over Duncan's combat boots, slipped past and into an alcove. Light filled the dark little space, and Duncan spied a toilet before the door slammed behind liquor-butt. "Business going down since the collapse of the Wall, I see." Attempting to prep himself for the international scum to follow, Duncan made his way through the fringe and toward the center of activity.
A guy so drunk he stood wobbling even as another man held him up from behind swayed before a large screen television, baby-blue gun in hand and legs apart in a shooter's stance. On the picture he dispatched terrorists at an airport; Duncan recognized the game as "Lethal Enforcer," vaguely pondering how many high scores Oliver could blow away himself.
Shady government types and hired guns were a bizarre lot when intoxicated, he concluded. The fellow offering support seemed one of the few sober souls in the room. Above the din of electric guitar, Sydney's childhood friend queried, "Hey, where's Ripley? My friend's downstairs with a broken leg and wants to see him."
The man turned toward him, a strange expression in his deep grey eyes. His pal nearly tumbled like a giant redwood as his human anchor disappeared. "Over there," he shot back, pointing into the thick of things. "He's right over there." Duncan couldn't be certain, but he swore he recognized some amount of amusement in his gaze.
More likely a good batch of Jim Beam.
He moved in the direction indicated, spying the decimated remains of what appeared to be a birthday cake; toy handcuffs laced with white icing sat discarded among a heap of paper plates and plastic forks. More lovely scents---the aroma of too many liquors milling about the internal systems of the folks around him---wafted throughout Duncan's nasal passages, turning his stomach in a perfectly executed flip-flop. It wasn't the most pleasant of atmospheres for Duncan.
Overall, the antics at that Pink Floyd concert grew more and more subdued in his memory.
"Excuse me," he called, unable to push his way through the apparent linebacker who had planted himself across the only entrance he could spy. "I'm looking for a Mr. Ripley. Have any of you seen him?"
The result of his inquiry was a robust round of laughter--- except from the linesman beside him who snickered in what could only be called a girlish-like glee. The crowd parted as if Moses had aimed his staff in their midst, and instead of the Red Sea Duncan came face to face with a woman, appropriately red-headed. Something about her, he couldn't put his finger on it, but this was not the first time he had laid eyes on her.
"May I ask why you are looking for Mr. Ripley?"
"You his sister?"
"Something along those lines." She sounded hauntingly like Oliver there for a minute, her lips curled in a ghost of a smile.
"Well, my friend is downstairs with a broken leg and wishes to see him," Duncan supplied smoothly. It wasn't technically a lie, more along the lines of creative truth.
"Well, there are such things as elevators," flowed from her sugary voice without as much as a beat between his last syllable and her first. Like Oliver, he had to be constantly on his toes for verbal dueling with the lady before him.
"They're, as Cmdr. Data would put it, nonfunctional at the moment."
Anger swept across her face as swiftly as a summer storm. "Which one of you yahoos broke the bloody elevators?" she demanded, only to be met by a plethora of glazed eyes and twitching mouths. Softly to Duncan, "I am sorry about that. I'm the owner of the building and will see to their repair immediately." She let out a deep breath and extended her hand in welcome. "Actually I am Ripley. Gwynneth Ripley. I have no brothers so obviously your friend neglected to relate my gender to you, Mr..."
"Duncan. Just Duncan." He took the woman's hand and in the contact was supplied with a memory. Pale, clearly exhausted and nearly defeated emotionally, the figure of this woman resting in a hospital bed, Oliver Sampson beside her, diligently holding onto her hand and murmuring soft words. This was the woman he had asked Oliver about in VR during one of his first stints inside that subconscious playground, not exactly certain of the man's loyalties at the time. Hell, he'd thought he was a total bastard for what Sydney had told him the Committee man had put her through.
Now he no longer held that opinion. That wasn't Oliver. Not totally anyway.
"Does this friend of yours have a name or perhaps one of those obnoxious symbols like "the artist formerly known as Prince?" " Normally he might have bristled at her comments, but in her eyes he saw a genuine playfulness which quickly passed on to him. He didn't think Oliver possessed that light quality.
"Oh, yeah, right, a name." He leaned in, not wishing to broadcast the man's presence to the entire group; after all, he was amongst assassins and spies. One of them might hold a grudge for Ollie inserting the old hollow point in the base of a skull first and take a crack at him when he was down. "It's Oliver Sampson."
Her mirthful features instantly recast. She pulled a remote from her back pocket and slammed her thumb onto one rubbery gray button, shrieking, "Party's over. Everyone get the hell out before I call your spouses." A grumble went throughout the group in verbal mimicry of a "sporting game wave." Much to Duncan's surprise they relented without further complaints. "Take the freight elevator on your way out. This tenant just informed me the stairs are flooding."
Turning to a tall man with a shiny gold stethoscope pin glinting on his lapel, she murmured, "Get them out of here in five minutes, Jeremiah. Toss'em out a window if necessary."
"And me?"
"Stay in the garage for a while. I might need you." Now she turned her focus back to Duncan, stalking past him and through the crowd. In the hallway she spoke rather straight- forwardly, "Broken leg. Right. What has he gotten himself into this time, eh? Last time this pretty little German agent tried to insert a knife between his ribs while giving him a throat culture."
She took point which Duncan readily forfeited; no way on the Almighty's green earth was he getting in her path. "No medical exams this time. Gun shot, to the left shoulder. Happened a couple of days ago."
"What did the doctors say?"
"Well, unless you count the RN helpline I called in LA, it's a safe bet to say they've been pretty quiet so far."
On the next level down he heard her do a very accurate impression of an infuriated Miss Piggy. "The man is undoubtedly one of the most reckless, impossible, irrational, obstinate fools it's ever been my misfortune to run across." By this time they had reached the prize behind door number one, the lucky recipient stooping on the metal grating and lifting Oliver's pale face toward the meager overhead bulb. "I should make you crawl upstairs on your stomach like the bloody snake you are," she threatened, vigor replacing the lacking substance in her tone. Resigned, she motioned to Duncan. "C'mon, let's drag him to bed. If we're lucky he'll slip into a coma for the next two weeks while his body has a chance to heal properly."
The woman failed to notice the convulsive shudders which ran the ranks of the people surrounding her. Comas were a touchy subject in this group. She motioned Sydney and her mother past, and together, Duncan and Gwynneth Ripley managed to plant Oliver in a waiting bed upstairs. During the tussle he never awoke once.
She gave it half an hour before calling it quits, returning to the strangers in her living room, beaming a gorgeous smile of thanks to Duncan as he moved about her living room, black Hefty bag in hand, tossing crusty plates and sticky glasses into the sack. "He's sleeping, thank God." She collapsed amid the debris in a plush chair, rubbing her hands over her face before settling with her elbows atop her knees. "Well, the gracious Mr. Duncan I have met, but you two ladies remain a mystery..." she prompted.
"Sydney Bloom," the computer expert replied, uncertainty of this whole situation magnifying her trembling voice and fluttery movements. "And this is my mother Nora."
Flipping her loosely braided hair over one shoulder, the woman nodded. "Nice to meet you, Sydney, Nora. You must be exhausted. LA is quite a flight, and Oliver, I'm sure, was quite a burden. If you don't mind, the two of you can share the guest bedroom. Duncan, you can take the couch; it folds out, and is actually comfortable. I'll keep an eye on the patient."
She arose, the strain of renewed contact with Sampson exhibiting itself in her tight muscles. Flicking a switch in a room down the hall, right before the door she and Duncan had settled Oliver behind, Gwynn mechanically droned, "Sheets are clean. Towels in the bathroom. I'll do my best to get out for breakfast in the morning. If you find a drunk hiding beneath the bed, roll him into the hall and I'll deal with him tomorrow." Ushering Sydney and her mom inside, she smiled, whispered a quick goodnight, and allowed the door to shut firmly between them.
Collapsing back into her vacated chair, she motioned for Duncan to come toward her; she immediately wrestled the plastic sack from his hands. "I'll sweep it into the kitchen. You go in my bathroom, take a long shower, change into whatever, and get some sleep. I want you to be fresh for our interrogation session in the morning."
Duncan nodded in agreement; this woman knew how to get her point across firmly, but, he supposed, any acquaintance of Oliver's would need to cultivate that skill. "You must have been a great spy. You like one of those Bond women who hid poisonous darts in their lipsticks or one of the chics who helped Q develop all those gadgets?"
She stared at him for half a second, her face completely blank, before doubling over in laughter. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. Controlling herself, she corrected, "I'm a P.I. who used to be a cop who now runs a bar and owns an apartment building. The most expensive dress I own I was married in, and I spend the majority of my day in ten year old sweats and holely socks. And my Aston Martin is presently in the shop for structural repairs--- heat-seeking missiles can be such a bother---so now I tool about Buckhead in a loner Chevy pickup."
"Guess I asked for that one."
"More like supplied it. Thank you for the much needed levity to this...unbelievably otherworldly situation." She wiped her face, stood and pushed Duncan before her. "Now go clean up, try to relax. Let me keep the eye out for whomever is after ya'll."
Duncan murmured an agreement, wanting to tell her the whole convoluted story but too bone-weary to do more than grin like a fool. If she had milk and cookies waiting when he emerged from the shower, he would beg her to adopt him.
No goodies, but soft, freshly-washed bed linens were more than enough for him to deem her a friend for life. Despite his doubts, Duncan was asleep before his hair had managed to fan out across the pillow.
"Relp, Raggy! Relp!"
More familiar than most acquaintances' voices, the phrase tickled at Duncan's dozing mind, the involuntary stimulation drawing him back to the world of mad scientists, subversive organizations, and assassins he had so dearly escaped. Instead of the terrorists from the night before, the huge television screen displayed the antics of a boy and his dog. Like always, Scooby and Shaggy flubbed the planned trap, but nevertheless, got their ghoul.
Gwynn had been considerate enough to plop a small digital clock atop the coffee table he'd moved aside the night before, its large red numbers reading half past eight. The cotton clogging his mind had obviously set up a dual residence in his mouth as well; Duncan fumbled with the cover wrapped in mummy-fashion about his lean frame, shuffling toward the master bed and bath and its marvelous supply of toothpaste.
The door stood ajar, and inside Gwynn adjusted a butchered oversized sweatshirt over workout clothes. "Good, you're up. I didn't want to go for my morning run without leaving someone in charge."
"You're a jogger? And I was beginning to think you were perfect," Duncan slurred, drawn by his toothbrush like a zombie to living flesh. He attacked his teeth with similar vigor.
"No, I'm a runner. Joggers do it because they like it or want better health and firmer butts. I run cause I don't want to die. Being a PI---a female one at that---doesn't make for larger insurance premiums for nothing." Ripley gathered her hair into a ponytail and peeked into the john. Presently the artist stood in front of a steamy mirror imitating a rabid pooch. "Oliver used to tease me about settling down and quilting," she added, her features bright and sparkly as her eyes. By the time Duncan rinsed the shimmer had decayed drastically. "I'll be back in half an hour," her dull voice informed him. "With breakfast."
Duncan followed her to the door, intending to lock the dead bolt behind her. "If anyone gives you trouble, there's a gun in the nightstand."
"What about you? Running, you'll be an easy target for an ambush." The last thing he wanted to tell Oliver on his return to the physical plane was that his old friend had been abducted by Committee goons.
"You think I wear this shirt cause I enjoy sweating profusely as a hog?" Patting the small of her back, she informed, "Automatic pistols and ammo clips are a girl's best friends. Never leave home without 'em." She slipped outside, poking her head back inside for a moment. "If something does happen, call number three on my speed dial and yell 911. Hang up or Frank will talk your ear off. In two minutes half the Atlanta Police Department will be here expecting donuts."
"Gotcha," Duncan replied, moving to shut the door. Ripley hovered in the entrance, her features shuffling expressions rather like an automatic slide projector possessed.
"I----I realize we don't really know each other..." Uncertain at first, it'd seemed after a weak start she had the confession on a roll, but it stalled despite the momentum. "In spite of my attempts to exorcise that man from my soul, I, for some truly idiotic reason, still care a great deal for Oliver. Take care of him for me." An obvious attempt to lighten the admission, Gwynn mumbled, "The last thing I need is his smartass spirit making the remainder of my existence a living hell."
That out in the air, the landlord grasped the knob in her hand and pulled the door shut behind her retreating form. Duncan obediently rotated the dead bolt until the obliging click of the lock sliding in place echoed throughout the quiet residence.
For some reason, Shag and Scoob had deserted him.
Alone, Duncan vaguely pondered the little items resting atop the entertainment center, aware that it was the nonessential clutter of people's lives that displayed the most of their character. Gwynn had the cake-decoration handcuffs tossed in the midst of a village of figurine houses, cottages, and castles. In the center of the bunch sat a larger replica of an English estate, complete with a tiny car in the circular driveway and a dog waiting on the front stoop. Evidently, she had dreams of settling down, minus the white picket fence; he couldn't really picture her baking cookies in a June Cleaver kitchen anyway.
A muffled whimper weaved its way from the master bedroom and its lone occupant to the artist's ear canal and the structures within. Ah, the baby-sitter is up. Unrushed, he meandered around the living room a few minutes longer before heading to check on his injured charge. Oliver rested in the rude glare of a bright Georgian sunbeam, its harsh light washing away what little color he possessed. Duncan nudged the door open with his toe and went inside.
To instantly be scrutinizing the barrel of a Berretta 9mm Parabellum. Where the fellow had got his hands on it, Duncan wasn't sure. One moment his palm was empty, the next it firmly grasped the pistol, aimed perfectly---quite a feat considering how Oliver's arm was shuddering--- at Duncan's forehead. "Whoa, just me. The Committee hasn't found us yet," he assured, his tense muscles relaxing gratefully as Sampson lowered the weapon to his side.
"Where's Gwynn?"
"Ran out for breakfast. We interrupted her birthday party last night. Cops must be pigs; aren't even any cake crumbs left." Oliver swore softly. "Don't worry; the lady is packing more ammo than Stallone and Arnold, and besides, she seems the type that manages to adequately take care of herself while directing the remainder of the universe."
Oliver nodded, agreeing whole-heartedly with Duncan's assessment. He seemed slightly chagrined as he admitted, "I forgot her birthday. No matter where I was, what I was doing, I have never overlooked her birthday. Until now."
"The Committee has a way of doing that. Hey, I forgot to return three library books myself before we left LA."
Oliver chuckled, the sound low and strained, but obviously relieved. "I'm glad you're here, Duncan."
Shrugging and tucking his hair behind his ears, Duncan acknowledged the comment with a pair of noisily shuffling feet. "Yeah, well, all said, I'd rather be in Disneyland, but Syd and Mrs. B need me... And it's fortunate you're on our side," he admitted, his confession so muffled most bats would have required a repeat.
"Or you might be found with a bottle cap lodged in your throat." A grin split Duncan's features as Oliver brought his own words back to haunt him. A similar smirk weaved its way across Sampson's face. Low, he replied, "Bottle caps aren't really my style, Duncan. Credit me with a tad more imagination, would you?"
Grim subject that it was, Duncan found himself laughing anyway, nearly doubling over as the entire absurd nightmare that was the last six months of his life crashed over him with more force than any surf he'd found himself under in his California youth. His giggles took on a hysterical quality, and amazed, he heard Oliver starting to join him.
Except Oliver's bout of chuckles did not mutate into sobs.
Sampson's mirth died away, leaving him gasping for breath he did not have, and attempting to perceive the abrupt shift in his companion's mood. The amused glimmers in his hazel eyes and the upturned corners of his lips morphed into a frown as Duncan collapsed at the foot of the bed, his fingers hooking the 101 Dalmatians comforter as if grasping the yielding comfort of his mother's arms. Gingerly, aware that any movement on his part might startle Duncan and--- certainly of more importance in his mind---send a jagged lance of pain through his torso and straight to his pounding head Sampson sat up and swung his legs over the bed's side. "Duncan...?"
Long hair draped in front of his face like a finely woven shroud, Duncan didn't bother with the "manly" reaction of wiping the tears from his stubbled cheeks. Emotion took his husky voice half an octave lower. "What happened to her? Samantha... Sammy's gone again. The girl I first kissed, who I followed around pretending to be her very own Lancelot, hoping one day she would stare at me with a fraction of the love I felt. In her eyes..."
A convulsive gulp punctuated the ragged inhalations that made Oliver's chest ache in sympathy. "Instead of love, it was contempt." Hyperventilation became a real threat as he gasped, "She hated me, Oliver. As a six year old boy I prayed every night for a year to marry this woman. And in that basement she looked at me as if I were the worst serial murderer on Earth. Like I was on the same level as a child molester.
"I might be a pacifist, but I swear when I think of what these "enlightened" members of society put her through... who their actions molded... I could put a hollow point into every one of the bastards' frigid hearts."
"Samantha is dead, Duncan. She has been for a long while." When the heavy-lidded blue eyes fixed on him, Sampson clearly recognized the fury in their depths. "And that is a tragedy. But it would be far more..." He found himself fumbling for words, and in his self-directed frustration the Englishman's voice gained back a bit of its customary spirit. "You can't follow that path, Duncan. You should not emulate their image by utilizing their game plan."
"And why the hell not, eh? Seems a better strategy than sitting here licking our wounds."
"Because you'll become me, damn you!" The outburst settled down into Oliver's low, quiet tones again, emphasizing the point. "Is that what you want? Well, is it?" he prompted the mute artist. But Duncan was too busy parting hair and settling it behind either ear to answer. "In my life I have been to almost every country on this planet, interacted with nearly every personality type, but you, Duncan, threw me. You were unlike any other person I have known. Unique, probably the first man I have used that description in reference to in the last five years. Don't let that one rare spark be absorbed by the larger, less vibrant flame of humanity."
Duncan returned to the perusal of his boots and the frayed lace he had been meaning to replace for the last three weeks. "Where did you hear that one?" he inquired hoarsely.
"A little play in a squalid theater outside Paris," Oliver supplied after a beat, searching his mind for the proper answer amid images of grand ballroom affairs and lonely, subhuman interrogation cells behind the Iron Curtain. The artist shook his head ruefully. "Did I swipe the proper soliloquy?"
"It did the trick. For now anyhow." Running one long-fingered hand down his face, Duncan eyed Sampson as he pulled the pistol back into view, turning and settling it in a holster that was positioned---of all places---in the center of the richly stained oak headboard. A puff of mint- scented air escaped his lips in shock. "You keep a loaded gun in a holster on your headboard?"
Sampson glanced back over his shoulder, shrugging. "Doesn't everyone?" Duncan's parted mouth and its invitation to one of Georgia's more arially motile insects brought a barely suppressed snicker to Oliver's lips.
"Safe sex to the extreme, huh?"
"Sometimes, in this business, it's necessary. Protection takes on an entirely new meaning."
Both shared a truly male grin, and Duncan found himself wrestling with the entire situation before him. The two of them, he and Oliver, sitting around and exchanging jokes like a couple of guys in a bar debating whether the Braves would ever win a World Series or if the Cowboys would take away yet another Super Bowl championship.
Of course, in reality he doubted Oliver was much of a sport's man, and Duncan certainly didn't care beyond the fact that he could get unbeatable weinies from the stadium vendors. Duncan had his art and Oliver had his...guns? rare poison collection? string of ladies? Well, whatever Oliver wiled away his days off with didn't really matter. In reality, the only thing the two chaps truly had in common was...
"Since when did you two get so chummy?"
"Syd." His mouth blurted the last of his thought just as his legs shot up from the bed as if a fire had been ignited beneath his posterior.
Oliver was content to let Duncan's tongue fumble to its heart content; he simply settled himself beneath the blanket of cartoon puppies once more and sat back to watch the show.
"Yuh, well, see Syd, I just came in to see if Oliver was okay and all, and we got to talking about...unusual spy habits. You know, the stuff we civilians don't ever have to worry about."
"Such as... finding a boa constrictor in your bathtub," Oliver supplied.
"Yeah, like... You found a boa in your tub?"
He nodded. "At least he was readily simple to spot. The microexplosive implanted in my cellular phone was a bit more of a challenge."
Sampson's tone was seemingly serious, but the hyperactive corners of his lips made Duncan wonder if the Committee man wasn't simply pulling his leg. Of course, a microexplosive was possible; if Oliver had accused Santa of planting it, well, that would have been a bit of a stretch. "And the time that nun tried to blow you straight to Purgatory."
"No, the five o'clock shadow gave her away."
He's gotta be baiting me, the artist concluded, refusing the astonished response the Englishman's statement would have normally elicited. "See, James Bond and Man From Uncle stuff."
"So, Oliver, you're now willing to be more forthcoming with your mysterious past?" Sydney countered, intent to verify Duncan's explanation.
The man opened his mouth, swiftly shut it, and got up from his perch. "I think I should take a shower before Gwynn returns from her run."
"Yeah," Duncan echoed, "she mentioned something about hog sweating when she left. Best go with the safe plan and get out before she comes home with breakfast." He snapped his fingers and mumbled, "Hey, I'm going to go set the table for that breakfast. It probably won't be very good cold so... You want to help me, Syd?"
The woman stalked across plush black carpet and straight to their only protection from and link to the Committee. "Um, yeah, don't worry. I can handle it..." He darted to the relative safety of the kitchen.
Sydney caught the bathroom door as it was closing. Oliver slowly pulled his shirt off with effort before acknowledging her presence. "I can do this on my own, Sydney. Unless, of course, you'd like to scrub my back."
Normally the comment might have sent a nearly fatally flustered Sydney bolting from the room; she didn't even bat an eyelash today. It was almost as if some of the bravado of her VR personas had followed her from her entrapment. "What were you and Dunc talking about?"
"Operatives and gadgets and wet work from my past life in the espionage game, Sydney. Just like he told you."
"I don't believe you."
"That's your choice. Unfortunately you have no way to prove or disprove your suspicions."
"I could always pull you into VR."
Sampson's eyes darkened dangerously with that threat. "Drag me into your VR playground without my consent, and I will take your little toys away, Sydney." Gone for the moment was the man that had gained her trust and friendship; the fellow with the arrogance to show up in her loft bearing more hardware than a regional Office Depot store and a smug countenance to her initial angry welcome had emerged from hibernation. "Now, my dear, if you will kindly leave or else start up the spray, I intend to take my shower now." The Bloom twin took a measured step back, which Oliver matched with a forward one. "Good choice," he muttered, firmly closing the door between them, severing the tension as effectively as a scalpel through sutures.
Sydney's booted toe connected with the frame for a moment before she turned away, admitting defeat for the particular skirmish, but utterly determined to succeed in the next assault. From this moment on, Syd was throwing away the gloves and going into the match bare- knuckled...
"Hey, Syd, this lady has the entire Flintstone tumbler set. Can you believe that? But, Barney here's got a slight crack..." The bemused smile tugging at his lips could be described in no other way but childlike; one of the man's unique qualities was that he had not lost touch with the youth within himself. "Think she'd mind if we used 'em?" His friend didn't as much as slow down, just barreled past him and into the bedroom she and her mother shared. Duncan trailed, Barney Rubble in hand. "Syd, hey, Syd?" She dropped to her knees beside the bed---trimmed with an intricate geometric print rather than cartoon characters---yanking out a storage box and tearing away the duct tape securing its lid. "Syd, whatcha doing?"
"Trying to get some answers," she responded tersely. "Oliver thinks he can edit the truth, dishing out tidbits of information as he sees fit. Samantha is dead. Daddy is on the run. I don't have time for his games, and I refuse to play them!"
"What information do you think you'll find in dusty old boxes stuffed beneath a guest bed?"
"If she's an associate of Oliver's, the Committee can't be too far back in the shadows, Dunc," she stated, tossing aside a dummied diploma from the fellows at Precinct 13.
Duncan studied his childhood friend, recognizing the effects of the multiple emotional traumas she had endured recently, filled with the most gnawing sensation of helplessness he'd ever experienced. "Syd," he muttered as she chunked a delicate dried flower over her shoulder with less care than most New York cabbies paid to a fare's luggage. "Sydney." This time sharper, he moved into the room and dropped beside her, gathering her frantic hands into his own. "Don't."
She jerked from his grasp. "Don't? Don't what? Decide it's time to fight back. To take control of my life instead of letting you or Oliver or Morgan pass around the strings and send me dancing to your tunes like the faithful puppet."
His features collapsed faster than a five-teered wedding cake in a 7.0 quake. "That's what you think, Syd? That I've been riding some ego trip playing your protector and all?"
"Sir Duncan the Loyal," she taunted.
Duncan displayed phenomenal restraint holding his tongue; Oliver certainly couldn't have bottled up the fight that would have billowed out with the destructive power of a mushroom cloud from a single wrong word instead of a lone atom. But Duncan could put aside the emotions searing his guts, inciting more agony than if some truly sadistic transporter chief had beamed sulfuric acid in his thoracic cavity. "I know you're not yourself here, Syd. I'm goin' back to the kitchen and finish settin' the table. When you want to talk, I'll be washing Barney..."
He paused at the door, not looking at her as he warned, "And, Syd, Gwynn's taken us in, hasn't yet bothered to ask what the hell we are dragging her into, but is fully aware she is in danger. Remember that while you're rooting around in her life."
Sydney refused to admonish the sharp twinge behind her lungs as his rebuke connected with her mind and he disappeared from the doorway. Always Mr. Morality, she thought with a mental sneer. "Well, it's not always so easy for us mere mortals, Dunc."
Information, is that what you're looking for, Syd? Or is it ammunition? a teeny voice reproved in her aching brain. "I have to do this," she told herself, "Duncan and Mom have to be protected from the Committee. They don't deserve this."
But you do? "No. I just want to go back to Tel-Cal and our dinner parties catered by Dominos." And Oliver, does he deserve this? "That's different. Oliver went into the Committee with his eyes open. He had a choice."
Did he?
Sydney heard the mocking subconscious whisper echo throughout her head, her eyes slipping shut on a sigh of exhaustion just short of collapse. "And now you've started having arguments with yourself, Syd," came the wry mutter. Perhaps a bit too much time in VR, a few too many jaunts through her subconscious mind... Or she could have just gone quackers... Lost that final screw... But Duncan would tell her if she'd mislaid her mind and common sense...right? Unless, of course, he really was as certifiable as Oliver had always claimed. The neurotic leading the daft... she thought, a strained smile lingering for a millisecond on her face.
"Okay, Syd, that lady won't be gone all day. You have a job to do. Evidence to find." Ferret out if she's in any way associated with the Committee from junk in boxes... Piece of cake. She missed VR already. The ease of it. Well, ease wasn't the right term; VR was never easy, but compared to beating the pavement, sitting at her PC with goggles and her trusty modem seemed a walk in the park.
During her conversation, or verbal duel, with Duncan, she'd paid little attention to the items tossed about at random so Sydney shifted around 180 degrees and picked through the haphazard pile. Diploma. Dried flower. Photo album. Jackpot! She opened the book, startled when the first face she encountered was that of her Committee liaison.
Except the cool, impeccably dressed Oliver Sampson wasn't there.
Clad in worn blue jeans and a Braves T shirt, both of which had to be sporting at least half a gallon of paint, his dark hair hidden beneath a paint-speckled cap, Oliver laughed at the camera and its operator. Beside this one another photo showed him slinging a paint-laden brush at both. Next, Oliver snoozed on a sofa, a black kitten perched atop his chest; both appeared quite content. Rounding out the page, the black kitten pawed at Sampson's nose.
Reams of pictures, all of Oliver, filled the two monstrous albums Syd had discovered; later on Gwynneth Ripley stood at his side. Forsaking the photo albums, Sydney moved onto a huge leather-bound scrap book she'd spied earlier. On the initial page were two airline ticket stubs, both listing destination as Heathrow Airport in London. A small pouch attached with masking tape to the same page held various denominations of English currency.
Touristy postcards, the type all people purchase as souvenirs of trips abroad, were neatly stacked and inserted inside a pocket fashioned from one of the thick brown pieces of paper. Amid the various holiday items, Sydney studied a paper menu to a real English pub, decorated with authentic British grease and ale. The book and its memories continued, many in the form of pictures capturing scenes of Gwynn and Oliver at various landmarks of the British isles. Sydney's hand rested on an old estate, her finger trailing the beautiful architectural designs.
The neon-lit phone resting on the nightstand beside the bed let go a shrill ring. Sydney nearly ripped the coarse paper in her hands in half. Duncan didn't answer, Oliver probably couldn't hear it, and Nora was undoubtedly in the kitchen getting reacquainted with her surrogate son. After the third bell, the machine clicked on.
"It's me. Bought groceries. Someone meet me at the elevator."
Loud machine considering it was in the living room by the main phone and Sydney could hear it clearly. She could have broken a land speed record stashing the boxes back into their niches beneath the bed. By the time Duncan and Gwynn appeared, both hidden behind large paper bags, she'd positioned herself in the main hallway. The ex-cop smiled gratefully as Sydney relieved her a few of the burdenous packages.
Soon the bags found a nice perch on the kitchen table. "I went to Mickey D's, but the line was far too long, so I jogged back here, hopped in the truck and bought some real food." Nora shooed Duncan away from the sacks as he rooted around inside trying to find something to munch. "I'll make waffles after I get out of these clothes."
Duncan volunteered to put away the supplies---he always had been a teacher's pet---, and Gwynn made a dash for her bedroom. Sydney wasn't far behind. Ripley pulled the rubber band from her hair, scowling at the frizzy-headed woman in the mirror. She then moved to the bed, untangling herself from her weapon and its holster, dropping the gun into a drawer. "So Rip Van Winkle crawled from his hole?" she asked off-hand. Sydney, grinding down the carpet fibers at her toe, nodded. "Well, I'm going to hop in the shower," the landlord announced.
"But, Oliver's..."
Gwynn smiled at her halted protest. "Then I'll use the tub. Oliver and I have known each other for a long while. We lost our inhibitions years ago, Ms. Bloom. Sydney? Syd?" she ventured, not quite as at ease with this woman as her male companion. Cute male companion, her mind added of its own accord.
"Sydney or Syd will be fine," she mumbled. Gwynn responded with a quick grin before ducking out past her; she returned with a bottle of shampoo and a tube of toothpaste.
"I think Duncan polished off the rest of both this morning. And with Oliver in there I know there's nothing left," she explained. She knocked on the door and slipped inside---after a grumbled curse and a frantic search for the keys.
Sydney kicked the door frame and went back to her family in the kitchen. Both delighted and troubled to find Nora Bloom whipping up a batch of waffles for their breakfast. "Mom, you don't have to do this. You should be resting," she chided.
"Nonsense, I've been resting for seventeen years, dear. Besides, I like the idea of doing things for my little ones again."
Sydney assumed the "little ones" Mrs. Bloom was referring to be Duncan and herself because Sam wasn't there; Nora Bloom had yet to ask of her other daughter, something that similarly troubled and relieved Sydney. She wasn't quite ready to inform her mother she had killed her twin, even if it was to save Oliver and Duncan. And she was in no way looking forward to relaying Sam's obvious mental instability to the woman either. Rehashing the basement incidents in detail wasn't exactly high priority on Sydney's mental list of goals.
Top of that list was to get something out of Oliver Sampson other than tight smiles and cutting remarks.
"I've really missed your breakfasts, Mrs. B," Duncan announced, flipping an errant strand of hair back from his face.
"What you've missed, Dunc, is food that's not in paper wrappers or delivered by guys in goofy hats," the former Tel-Cal linesman shot to her friend.
"Yeah," he admitted, "but I still've missed the pancakes. Remember how we used to pile whip cream on 'em? Man, my mom only let me have oatmeal. I hate oatmeal. Same consistency and smell as plaster paris. Not an appetiable coincidence, if you ask me." Duncan gave a shudder and sneaked a peek into the bowl Nora Bloom clutched in her hands.
"So that's why Mom and Dad could practically declare you as a third dependant on their taxes?"
"Oatmeal...chocolate chip pancakes. Do the math, Syd."
The former cyberspace queen replied by delicately protruding her tongue past her pale lips. Nora Bloom swiped Duncan's boots off the chair he'd perched them on, scowled at his rear planted on the counter and made her way to the fridge. She produced two glasses of milk, plopping one of each in both her "children's" hands, with the order, "Drink."
Duncan complied, grinning at Sydney from behind a milk and stubble mustache. Gwynneth breezed into the small kitchen precisely as Sydney tossed a napkin at his head. "Mrs. Bloom, you don't have to... Oliver'll accuse me of being an atrocious hostess." She attempted to wrestle the bowl and whisk from Nora's hands, but the psychologist would hear nothing of it. Gwynn added more pecans to the mix, and pouted, "It's my kitchen. The least you could let me do is help."
"You can wash the dishes," Nora supplied with an overly gracious smile.
"I think I just got the short end of the bargain," Ripley mumbled.
"You did," confirmed Duncan as he went back to munching Mr. Planter and his siblings.
Sydney left behind the warmth of the seemingly normal family exchange, Duncan's and Ripley's comments about the impact of cartoon logos on the American societal structure fading to nothing as she approached the bedroom. It was a safe bet to say she couldn't have heard a chainsaw over her pulsating heart. She forced herself to stride into the room and to the bathroom.
Where she propped a shoulder against the door frame, scrutinizing her assigned protector and once-reluctant friend; the reluctance had in no way been one-sided. Oliver Sampson, wrapped in a black robe, peered into the steam-clouded mirror, white foam obscuring his lower face, a pink razor clutched in his right hand. He seemed to be having some difficulty completing the morning ritual.
"Should you have done that?"
Sampson's hazel eyes darted to her reflected image before returning to the task at hand. "It's a bullet wound, Sydney, not an unusual skin condition. I have trudged through jungles, swamps, and the worst intercity cesspools with far more serious injuries. Somehow I doubt the water of Atlanta will pose any greater threat."
Sydney Bloom studied the intricate tiles below, her gaze following the grid until its maze was interrupted by bare feet. "Any more of a threat than trusting this woman in the first place?" she ventured in casual tones, except the insinuation behind the remark was in no way nonchalant.
The rhythmic strokes of blade across skin faltered for scarcely a second. "I trust her implicitly," he replied without hesitation.
"You trusted Abernathy," she shot back directly.
The flinch sent a thin trail of blood cascading down his cheek. He didn't even notice. "That was different, Sydney. Gwynn never has been nor is in any way associated with the Committee."
"Like Alex was never with the Committee?"
Her subdued tones always could be twelve times more effective than most any hot accusation. The borrowed Daisy Gillette razor vanished beneath the frothy ocean in the sink, and he spun on her, anger flashing in his eyes. "Gwynn is not Alex! And frankly, I resent your attitude toward her, your attitude toward me."
"It's obvious you were lovers. I didn't believe Daddy was Committee. An entire part of his life I never knew existed. Who's to say they didn't induct her in the ranks? Seems a popular scenario for the women you know."
"Gwynn isn't Committee. She's never been involved in the game, the Committee's or the spy community's."
"How can you be so sure?" she wheedled.
"Because she's my wife!"
The explosion actually sent Sydney staggering, making her inherently thankful for the supporting beam beneath her shoulder. Oliver instantly reverted to his characteristic reticitence; if not for Sydney's voice, its quiet, hypnotic grace, he would have dropped the subject without further elucidation.
"Your...your wife." Sydney found herself floundering.
"Amend that," he murmured, tugging in a nervous gesture at the earlobe decorated with a single gold hoop. "My ex-wife."
"But I thought...in VR. You and Alex..."
"Yes, well, Alex and I never did anything legal. My marriage to Gwynn was a long time ago. Before the Committee, before my espionage days."
"What happened?"
"Irreconcilable differences." Never had she heard his voice edged with such ice; that was it. Subject closed. Oliver had deployed the bobbed-wire and landmines once more, and Sydney was a bit too rattled to attempt to traverse No-man's Land.
Oliver turned back to the mirror, swiping condensation from its silvery surface with the side of his hand and blood from his face. He then dropped his stained hand beneath the water, coming up clean once again with razor firmly in grip. Soon he was rinsing off and inquiring about his bag. "Duncan put it away last night."
"Well, could you ask him where or is this when I attempt an impression of Karnak?" He was hiding behind that veneer of sarcasm once more. Sydney opened her mouth, not certain what she had queued to come out, but Oliver made certain it never saw light. "Now, Sydney."
Motionless, she watched as he turned back to the mirror, raking his fingers through wet hair, pretending concentration on styling it. Of course Sydney would have bet her virtue on the probability that the entire left half of his profile was practically itching beneath her immobile stare. Not so much as a slight muscle twitch gave way his discomfort, but despite the seemingly cool exterior Sydney had no doubts that Oliver Sampson would have traded his favorite pistol to be rid of her scrutiny.
She had no use or knowledge of firearms, but she left anyway, allowing him the moments needed to compile the facade that he'd so carefully erected around himself nearly from the day she had met him. Gradually he had allowed some of the shields to drop away, but Sydney doubted that anyone had ever really seen the man without some form of protective wrap around his soul. At least since his induction into the nebulous and treacherous ranks of the Committee.
She was beginning to understand the necessity of a thick skin in this business; question was, could she implement it?
The waffles were superb, the conversation stilted, and the music wafting from the living room spoke of London lycanthropes and their sense of fashion. Duncan scarfed down Nora Bloom's cooking with a nearly Guiness-record style while Oliver picked listlessly at his food rather like a little boy pushing various vegetables about his plate and contemplating how long until his parents bided him a reprieve or sent him to the broccoli gallows. Sydney ate enough to appease her mother's worrying eye, and Gwynn polished off her portion in a more lady-like fashion than her male counterpart.
"Help me with these, would you, Oliver?" Gwynn requested as Duncan put away the last squarish bite. "I'll wash; you rinse." She gathered the pile of dishes in only two trips, Oliver following and ignoring the raised eyebrows of the young artist sitting beside him. "Just make yourselves at home," Gwynn called before shooing them into the living room.
"That's a side of him I never expected to see," Duncan commented, somewhat awed. "Never really picture spies doing the mundane task of washing dishes or doing laundry. Eating Spagetti- Os straight from the can when there's no clean dishes..."
"Apparently they had practice," Sydney whispered, eying the door with a will nearly strong enough to disintegrate it from her viewing path.
"Huh? Stop talking in riddles, Syd. I haven't had enough sugar for my brain cells to come completely online yet."
"They were married, Duncan."
Duncan nearly squirted orange juice from his nose; he stood there for a moment, coughing to expel OJ from his windpipe before wheezing, "Marri---you mean husband and wife. Only way out being worm food or a visit before Judge Wapner's cousin in divorce court? The whole shabang?" She nodded, to which he let go a high-pitched, drawn-out whistle, completely stupefied. He stood there, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, until Sydney Bloom brushed past and into the living room. Her eyes were drawn to the computer like a junkie to a piece of crack rock. Even if it were a measly two dollar score in comparison to the virtual drug factory Sydney had sitting in her loft in LA. "Hey, I've seen that look before, Syd. Geez, it was bad enough you pilfered through her stuff in there, but, breaking into her computer... You're evolving into a regular Bonnie, Syd, and I don't want to be your Clyde. I don't need any more ventilation holes..."
"Who said anything about breaking, Duncan? I'm just interested in a little on-line chat with the scientific community, poke around and see if Daddy's left any breadcrumbs for us."
"Yeah, tell it to the skinned up guy from the turnip truck, Syd. I know you. And frankly, you're getting a bit psycho here. Back up, give it a bit of breathing room, Sydney, or you will lose it. Like Sam..."
"Don't you dare say anything about my sister! She was confused and scared. She didn't know who to trust. It wasn't her fault. That's what the Committee did to her."
"Yeah, Syd, I know. And I can see it happening in you. Don't let them steal your soul, Sydney; if that happens, they win. We lose. Simple."
"No, it's not, Duncan. Nothing is ever that simple or clear-cut. Life doesn't work that way."
"Hey, remember who you're talking to here. Mr. Philosophy. Don't try to scam an expert. You're looking for someone to blame, and by-golly, you've decided that Gwynn should have that crown. Why, Syd? What about her automatically propels her into the "Guilty" folder?"
"I simply am intelligent enough to not blindly follow her little red head which ever way it sways."
"Unlike me and Oliver, huh?"
"You said it," she accused, her chin up in defiance.
"You didn't have the guts to say it yourself." Never had he spoken in such a harsh manner to her, but these were difficult times, and he prayed he never had to slap her squarely in the face for her to see reality ever again.
Of course, from the frigid wave which radiated out from her, Duncan might just have lost his best friend in the world. He found himself a bag of M & Ms, ripped into them, and prepared to crash from sugar shock before Sydney could forsake him. He wasn't sure he could handle losing her; he'd already lost Sam, and by God, Sydney wasn't getting away from him. Not even if she hated his guts.
"What is it, Oliver? Who the hell are these folks? What have you gotten yourself into?"
They had spent five minutes on the chore of dishes before Gwynn broke the silence with those little inquiries. Sampson dropped the plate into the drainer beside him, motioning for his ex-wife to put aside the dish in her hand and forget the ritual for a few moments. And simply stood there, gazing at her for a full two minutes; Gwynn's foamy hand found his cheek and that broke him from his spell.
A sigh accompanied a rather familiar roll of Oliver's hazel eyes before they settled on her deep green gaze; he noticed the smudged eyeliner but decided now wasn't really the time for make-up tips. "I'm hesitant to tell you. I think you will be rather ashamed of me."
"More than usual?" she teased, relieved when the tight lines bracketing his lips vanished. "I'll try not to judge you, but hey, I was a cop, still am at heart. You're going to have to bear with me."
"Ah, the old "everyone is guilty mentality"," Oliver moaned. "Dead on in this case," was his barely audible profession.
"We both adopted that creed," she reminded swiftly. "Otherwise we couldn't do our jobs, now could we? Besides, what's worse than the CIA?" she chuckled.
"The Committee," Oliver suggested low in his throat. Gwynn planted her hip beneath the overhang of the sink and fixed him with a wilting stare. "Spill it?" he filled in for her since she'd undoubtedly find it difficult to get those words past her thinned lips. Simultaneously he decided he despised when she set those smoky eyes on him in that fashion. She must have been hell in interrogations, flitted through his mind.
"After my leave from the Agency, I floundered around for several months, actually gave a thought to coming here and hooking back up with the security circuit."
"But?"
"However, an old friend of my father's approached me with a tantalizing proposition. He became my liaison in the organization, my keeper as he insisted upon calling it." A reminiscent smile drifted across his face, where it almost instantly converted into another of those haunted expressions which Oliver seemed to be the poster boy for. "Abernathy taught me the history of the Committee, showed me that it consisted of men and women playing behind the scenes of history in an attempt to shape the world. Alternative solutions to social problems...
"And one of those solutions would mean the end of Sydney's and Duncan's freedom. Quite possibly the end of my life." He'd expected some sort of reaction from his revelation thus far but Gwynn simply nodded him on with an impatient jerk of her head. "The Committee is based on family ties, its power derived from heredity and loyalties of blood. Its power base is circular, one placed within another. Further in you are, the more power and knowledge you possess."
"I'm taking it by the way you're talking you really know approximately squat, but I've got one question so far...if its raison detre is to improve humanity, then why...?"
"Want to imprison Sydney and Duncan and place me in an early grave?"
"Yeah, I mean, darling, there certainly have been days I've been tempted to knock off you and that mouth but..."
Sampson rubbed the drum-tight muscles at the back of his neck, admitting he dearly missed her wonderfully dextrous hands and the magnificent massages that ring had bought him. And they had been worth all three carats of it. "The Committee has splintered. Abernathy betrayed me, my father, my grandfather. He decided to use the Committee and its resources to garner power. Sydney and Duncan and the research of Professor Bloom's that they embody doesn't equate to land or money but minds, Gwynn." Her pale skin drained so much he swore if a light were shined in her direction bone would be visible beneath. "A mechanism for complete domination and control unlike any that has been available in all of history."
"And I have these people in my living room?" she blurted in typical Gwynn fashion. Closing her eyes, she ground her fingertips against the outer lids of her eyes, smearing her makeup but too shook up to really notice or care. Now it would match the eyeliner, Oliver mused. "Oliver. Oliver. Oliver," she breathed, shaking her head with each word. "Would you like me to call Fox?"
"No! The last thing we need is Mulder barreling in here half-cocked and getting us all killed. The man would charge into Hell with a water pistol," he spat in exasperation.
Gwynn snickered beside him. "Gotta admit that sometimes that's his best asset."
"And the most irksome, if you ask me." He settled himself in a chair at the small table before accusing, "And I thought you considered his rear his best asset."
"Hey, tight buns, great face, brilliant intellect. What's not to like?"
"The eating habits of a six year old. Insomnia. Crazy ideas of UFOs, weresheep, gigantic theories of global conspiracies." Gwynn coughed. "Okay, I suppose we can give him that one," conceded the Englishman. "Looney friends."
"What the hell have you got to complain about? They're pretty much petrified of you, and Frohike's pastime isn't drooling on your cleavage. And as for looney friends...he was your buddy at Oxford. What does that say?"
"I am a truly self-sacrificing soul," he suggested.
"Ha! Truly cruel and demented soul. Making the man sit in a damp field all night long looking for weresheep."
"He was gullible enough to---" Oliver quickly interjected in his defense.
"Give you his friendship. And to go as far as to gather the local frat guys to dress up in sheep skins... Definitely sick, Oliver."
"Which is why you accepted a marriage proposal from an arrogant ass like me?"
The question was meant as a joke, but the silence in the room quite adequately informed Oliver he'd stumbled into a subject Gwynn would have preferred kept in the cobwebs. "No," she confessed, "it was your eyes. They used to be open doors into your soul, my method of looking through the dozen or so layers of pompous Brit to view the human which hid beneath dry humor and cutting remarks. I knew who you were, what you wanted and believed. But this mask dropped, Oliver, and I didn't recognize you anymore. You encased yourself in a cocoon, and I couldn't penetrate it."
"Gwynn---"
"You were hurting, I know that." Her tight voice deepened and her accent thickened as unshed tears took residence somewhere in the vicinity of her larynx. "We both were, but dammit, you were there for me, yet it was as if you didn't trust me enough to let me reciprocate." A mixture of sob and laughter burst from her throat. "And of course, you blamed me---"
"No, Gwynn, it wasn't your fault. I knew that."
"Intellectually, I'm sure that's true, but can you tell me that deep in your soul there wasn't one flicker of anger and hatred for what my position and beliefs did to endanger----"
"Hey, I'm done with this glass if you want it."
The voice belonged to Duncan, and along with his easily obtained comfort with this new acquaintance and environment, vanished instantly. "Uh, I think this is where we insert the uncomfortable dialogue."
"How remarkably astute, Duncan," uttered Oliver. Rising all at once, Sampson shoved his fingers through his hair, the abrupt demand on his shoulder issuing a slight grunt. "It wasn't your fault. It was a stupid, bloody, senseless act! That's it, subject closed."
Gwynn shot up rather like a typical Southern Baptist at the announcement that the food line should start forming. "There you go again. Just like before."
He knew he should just follow his instincts and let the comments go unnoticed, simply dart out the door and drown himself in the mindless realm of daytime television, but he was pissed at the world and a good row with Gwynn beat Geraldo any day. He released the swinging door and jabbed his hands into his pockets. In his head he could hear the first round bell ping.
"God, I could walk through the lines without you. The scenery and costumes change, but other than that, the script is identical."
"Well, if you know it so bloody well let's draw the curtain. The lights go down, and the players exit stage right." Nothing sent his beloved into a tizzy quite like stalking away in the middle of an argument. Or even the mere threat of a walk-out.
"Deny it, Oliver. Lord knows you're an expert at self-delusion. You can lie to yourself only so long before you have to accept the fact that your refusal to grieve tore our marriage apart, sent you scurrying into the faceless ranks of the Agency so you could hide your humanity and the emotions you perceived as weaknesses. You ran years ago, and you're still going full-steam."
"Haven't hit an iceberg yet," he quipped. Normally by now she would be digging her nails into her palms, small half-moons of blood collecting there. Today she managed to keep them flattened at her sides.
"Because you're anchored in Figi. You're not only out of the ballpark, you're stalled on the cotton-pickin' interstate!"
Sampson pulled another of his masks from the ever faithful storage bin, his eyebrow arching imperceptibly with the smug countenance tailored to match. "Mixing your metaphors again, Gwynneth? You always did have the tendency to do that."
"Like you turn into the cool, untouchable Englishman every time I tap a vein," flowed from her mouth with fire to rival Oliver's ice.
"Perhaps that's all there is to see." Desolation had taken residence in the vacated spot so often subletted by arrogance and indignation.
"Perhaps that's all you're willing to let anyone see. C'mon, Oliver, I'm not some tart you rolled in East Germany, Belfast, or Madrid. I was your wife. I've been around to hear you cuss up a blue streak when you've stumped your toe. And then there was that bout of food poisoning I walked you through..." A quick, nervous shuffle by the imprisoned Duncan made her exclaim, "It wasn't my cooking." The artist's lips quirked before their hostess turned her attention back to the round at hand. "I'm probably the only person on the planet you shared your childhood with, telling me about your mother."
"Don't you dare bring that up!"
Even before the hot demand left his lips, Gwynn realized her extreme blunder. "I'm sorry, Oliver. It was out-of-line bringing that up in front of Duncan."
More relevant in Duncan's mind at the moment was his own disappointment at himself; if only he'd paid more attention to football, actually took part in a few of the muddy, seemingly useless games in his youth, then he might have been able to dash past these two and to the neutral living room. Oh, wait a minute, just before-hand he and Syd waged a conflict in there. Apparently the war zone was expanding exponentially.
"Not in front of Duncan, not in front of me. I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth again, Gwynn," he hissed, clamping his fingers about her small-boned wrist.
Duncan started. The man before him; it was like some sort of VR flashback. Except instead of Gwynn the damsel had been Sam. He felt himself moving forward, cursing his chivalrous streak which would undoubtedly only get him a busted lip.
"I suggest you let go of me, Oliver," the woman stated calmly.
He complied. Duncan halted mid-stride. Oliver laughed suddenly, the sound bordering on a slice of lunacy, which sent a flare of ice skittering across Duncan's skin. "It seems I'd have learned by now. How incredibly stupid I have been..." Obviously, Sampson had just seen the flicker of illumination which opened his eyes to some colossal cosmic joke. "All my life, every woman I'd ever cared about betrayed me...ended up the vast majority of the time causing me more pain than anything. But you,...I'd always placed you in another category.
"Now I see I was wrong; you are just like the others... Perhaps it was your fault."
"What?"
"Don't act so astonished, darling. I'm tired of it, tired of the poor-little-Gwynn act you've polished all these years, sick of making excuses for you! You were stupid and reckless. You didn't care what you did or who you had to sacrifice as long as you got that damned collar, as long as you showed up all the pigs at that precinct."
Ripley only had one response for his little tantrum. She drew back her fist and let it fly straight at her ex-husband's face. Of course, Oliver easily dodged and swung around behind her as the momentum carried her quite past her ex. In her bouts of anger, Gwynn always had been one to throw her punches far too wide anyway. Oliver was well aware of that fact and prepared.
But since his last visit she had obviously adapted a new trick, because abruptly she swung her leg roundhouse style and slammed Sampson straight into the countertop; dishes rattled both on it and above. Surreally he pondered that this was the second time in so many days his lip got busted and he found himself sprawled on kitchen cabinets.
A charming mixture of green and pale, Sampson peeled bruised shoulders from cheerfully stylized cabinets, his hazel eyes teeming with misery, abhorrence, absolution, pity...too many emotions to possibly share residence in his brain.
"What---what's wrong?"
Sydney barged through the doorway, nearly flattening Oliver in the process. Instinctually he caught the swinging barrier, his accusing stare lingering for countless seconds before he brushed past Sydney. The lineswoman tried to best assess the situation with the scant moments at her disposal, but decided to abandon her lifelong friend and the suspected Committee informant for her assigned protector. She knew where her questions should be addressed.
"Looks like you get to rinse," muttered Gwynn. Duncan nodded dumbly, reaching to switch the faucet back on. But instead of a steady stream of properly chlorinated, flourine-enhanced tap water, the next moisture he saw originated from an equally complex system of pumps and internal piping. Ripley succumbed to the pressure which seemed to constrict every cell in her body and gave herself over to a silent rainstorm of tears.
Sir Duncan. The title was all too appropriate. Truly the bum at first sight, true genius upon deeper inspection, was the ever faithful knight on the white horse. Morally out of time in the day and age where Winney the Pooh flak jackets were a hot item of Penny's back-to-school extravaganza and twelve year old boys pumped tephlon "devistator" rounds into civil servants like this woman simply for gang initiations. The days of honor and broad swords had been supplanted by turf wars and well manufactured Israeli Uzi submachine guns.
Reflexively he reached out to the emotionally distressed woman, taken aback by the ferocity with which she clung to him but willing to sacrifice a bit of his own psychic strength to fortify her crumbling defenses. Her hitching, noisy respirations tickled his throat, her face buried there so snugly it was highly probable she could take his pulse with the tip of her nose.
The ex-cop sniffed loudly once or twice before reining in her runaway senses, unburrowing her face from its niche to gaze at him. "Didn't know we strong nineties women could be such mushes, did you?"
Duncan's eyes conveyed the chuckle his throat couldn't quite produce. "We nineties guys too," he added, blinking at the sudden rush of syrup-scented breath practically soaring up his nostrils. The abrupt stir culminated in a quick sneeze.
He opened his eyes after that miniscule loss of consciousness to discover a thin sheath of air separating his lips from Gwynn's. Within a fraction of a heartbeat that barrier slid aside as their mouths bid each other acquaintance. Rather early in the exchange the conversation ascended the boundaries of trivial chat to a dialogue more along the lines of grand philosophy. After that it adapted the characteristics of a hot debate.
Although not one for the rat race of politics, Duncan took to this campaign management quite naturally...
Sydney spied the object of her frantic though rather short search in the guest bedroom, her bedroom. He stood in the center of the intricately braided rug, obviously wishing that the maelstrom below him would gain substance and suck him out of this hectic world. One hand clamped across his forehead, he had the other jammed into his slack's pockets; it was a stance she had seen before. "Oliver," a voice far too timid to belong to the fiery Sydney of late blurted as she skidded to a halt inside.
"Not now, Sydney." If asked she couldn't have decided which was tighter: his voice or the grimace her entrance plastered on his face.
"I---I just wanted..." Syd's fingers commenced to mangle the hem of her T-shirt as she tried to pry the words past the over-sized, immobile blockage that was her tongue. "Are you okay?" finally snuck past in a rush.
An acidic retort was prompted for escape but the simple reply, "No, Sydney," pushed to the forefront instead. "I didn't anticipate gouging at these wounds again." Sampson dropped like an engineless 747 straight onto the bed, protesting springs spitting out an off-key arrangement of shrill groans. "Of course, nothing has gone to plan as of late. This isn't Kowloon. Abernathy is dead. I'm shot. My ex-wife and I are at each other's throats..."
"Can't keep up that spotless record indefinitely," the hacker offered with a quirky grin.
Oliver expelled a halting breath and nodded his approval. As was par their relationship the humor's lifespan was well below the average, and the Englishman reclaimed the brooding nature Duncan had come to associate with him.
Sydney advanced in baby-steps, her hand shivering as she laid it across Oliver's shoulder. Numerous times she'd put forth similar offers of comfort. More often than not he brushed off her touch. Once, after Alex's VR death he had simply been blind to her presence. In a single instance it had produced a wan smile, but then he'd been courting intoxication so she wasn't sure if it truly counted.
Today, he didn't jerk away from her ventured solace. Cornflower blue eyes studying the soft hair she had dared once to touch, his hand came to rest upon hers. By the time his fingers clasped hers, her gaze had traveled from hair to shoulder to profile. Quivering, the barest sketch of one, Sydney noted the smile on Oliver's lips.
For the first time in their acquaintance the silence could actually be considered companiable.
Elsewhere the abrupt lack of noise was anything but comfortable. Duncan found himself studying a chair leg with inordinate interest while convulsively threading one hand through his hair. Beside him, plastered nearly as closely and almost on the exact counter spot as Oliver had been, Gwynn toyed with a loose thread originating from her third blouse button.
"Hi, Mrs. B.," Duncan coughed; her sweet, amused smile just deepened the flush over his stubbled cheeks. Gwynn, who the artist decided must have truly been Gabriel's personal assignment at that point, was literally saved by the bell. Wonder which one of ya got yer wings then, Gabe, flashed through the gray-matter housed beneath blue eyes, long dark hair, and four days worth of stubble.
"I should get that." Give her a painted white stripe down her spine, a black fur coat, and whiskers, and the ex-cop would have presented a spectacular imitation of that poor Looney Toons feline desperately evading the amorous attentions of a certain French skunk.
To the woman he'd thought of as a second mother he offered, "We were just, uh, about to finish the dishes." Her expression instantly told him she wasn't buying a bit of it. "Um, Mrs B.-- -"
The smile on Nora Bloom's lips widened, and she patted his arm reassuringly. "She is a nice pick, Duncan. Strong-willed, honest, intelligent. So like my Samantha," the psychologist breathed, a contented sigh flaring from her lungs.
Duncan hadn't been willing to venture a theory before now, but one didn't need to be Freud or Jung to know Nora Bloom had not escaped VR.7 unscathed. At times, if he let the little inconsistencies in her behavior slip by undetected by his little pulsing neurons, Mrs. Bloom rather accurately resembled the woman he recalled from his childhood.
Now was not one of those instances; Duncan had forgot to leave a steak for the Rottweiler and Sparky had raised the alarm.
"I'm so glad for you." Her eyes glazed, Duncan had an eerie reminder of a Stepford wife. "And my Sydney as well, finding that nice gentleman..."
If everything weren't bolted down tightly, the young man's marbles would have undoubtedly soared out his ears as fast as his head spun. Of course there was only one person she could be referring to, but although the exterior might give that general impression, "nice" and "gentleman" were definitely not the first terms to pop into Duncan's mind when he thought of Oliver Sampson.
Aloof assassin seemed to fit the bill far more accurately than "nice gentleman." Honey- talking serpent. A stormtrooper in three hundred dollar ties accessorized by a shiny gold ear ring.
"...I remember him helping me. From the workroom the time of that dreadful fire. I told Sydney she shouldn't be playing in there. I told all you children a thousand times, but I swear, it was like talking to a wall. You were all so enthused with Joseph's work, so eager to help..."
Duncan scrutinized her closely, his eyes awash with a stinging sympathy. They would probably never tell her about Sam; it probably wouldn't connect and be deciphered by her mind anyway. Samantha had breezed into their lives for a short while and left again; after all, her father needed her to continue his research, to have a connection with the life they'd known before the abduction. Her Samantha would find the path home once more, and perhaps next time Dr. Joseph Bloom would be tagging along.
Gwynneth swerved to a staggering halt just past the swinging door. "Find Oliver and your friend," she panted. "We've got trouble."
Just inside the doorway paused Duncan, unaware even himself as his hand tightened imperceptibly against the frame at the sight before him. "Hey, guys." His abruptly hoarse voice roused the couple from their private musings.
Couple, sneered one of the multitude of voices in his consciousness, one which normally rented a small space at the fringes of his subconscious. Syd and her nice gentleman friend.
Another facet of himself, this one residing several layers up from the last, shot back, Hey, you were just cleaning the teeth of that gentleman's ex-wife. What right have you got to bitch?
The jealous participant didn't have time to reply because the realization hit that both Sydney and Oliver were staring at the too-long-silent Duncan, namely him, as if doubting his sanity, and Dunc admitted he was about ready to join that bandwagon. "Gwynn says we have a problem."
Sampson rose quickly, deftly acquiring the headboard pistol he'd transferred to a holster at the small of his back. He chambered a round and nodded Duncan out of his way.
Assassin... reverberated in his head.
Ripley spied the weapon from the corner of her eye as they entered the living room and shooed it away. "That was Jeremiah," she offered as she met them just outside the short hall. Duncan vaguely remembered seeing the guy at the party, wasn't really sure who he was, but Oliver seemed to know so he kept his inquiries to himself and let the exchange continue. "I had the machine off last night and this morning after getting back from my run. He says he just got a message from his service. From Fox. He's on his way here."
"What? You didn't call him, did you?" Oliver accused directly.
To which Gwynn shot him a scoffing look for overestimating her masochistic tendencies. "That man must have some kind of blasted radar that goes off if there's a conspiracy in a 500 mile radius."
Oliver rumbled one of those slang terms for a specific bodily function which normally wasn't referred to in polite company. His headache had resurfaced, and this time it'd brought reinforcements. Sydney tugging impatiently at his arm didn't help diminish it one iota either.
"Who's this Fox person? What's the big deal?"
Her words and the naivete behind them issued a sickly laugh from the Englishman. "An old friend of mine from Oxford." Duncan and Sydney both filed away the little tidbit of his past he let slip out for later reference. Before now the artist had been unaware the prestigious institution offered Hitmen 101, 1001 Ways to Kill a Man with a Cocktail Napkin, and other such courses. "Fox Mulder, a psychologist now employed by the F.B.I."
Duncan added a low whistle to the exchange; he subscribed to the Lone Gunmen's "Magic Bullet" and numerous other conspiracy zines and newsletters. One didn't mill about those circles too long before references cropped up about a black sheep Fed who constantly turned over the rocks the government either wanted left alone or simply denied completely.
"To shorten a very long and convoluted story, Mulder is a one-man Congressional inquest. He will root around here until he discovers something too confidential and is found with a bullet lodged in his brain or all the evidence mysteriously vanishes and he has no choice except to return to Washington." The ex-operative brushed an annoying lock of hair from his forehead. "Normally I'd stage the landing of an alien ship in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue or something along those lines, but I don't have the connections I used to..." From his tone, it was difficult to infer whether he was joking or not. And with the Committee... well, one could never tell.
"By all the evidence, you mean us," Sydney spoke in a near whisper.
Oliver met his "assignment's" gaze for several long seconds, not responding to the statement, before fluidly switching back to Gwynn's debriefing. "What is he here for?"
A quick, exasperated shake of the ex-cop's head accompanied, "I don't know. Jeremiah just said he announced the impending visit, said he wanted to see me and him sometime, and relayed his arrival date. And no, we don't have much time."
"How long?"
"Three days on the outside. Probably sooner."
Three days. Not a lot of time but it gave them breathing room. Oliver had worked under far more strict and demanding time-tables than this. He stood there for a second, thousands of items whizzing through his head which he prioritized into a compact list. "Sydney, I need you to work with me on new identities. Gwynn, capital...?"
A tired smile played across her eyes. "Liquidation time. I'll have to go to the office. Visit the safe at the bar. I'll get everything I can."
Sampson promptly snagged her arm. "Just get my share. I will not leave you destitute."
Gwynn chortled loudly. "If worse comes to worse, I'll sell that ring, honey."
Duncan despised feeling discarded; he could know sympathize with the seventies' 8-track. "What---what about me?"
"We're going to need a few things. Different clothes and other essentials. I want you to make a list. Sizes, articles of clothing, and such. You and Gwynn can go after them later. For now, go with Gwynn, watch her back----"
"But I don't need a civilian to watch my back. I haven't survived bar fights, shootouts, sting ops, a prison riot, and our marriage by luck. I can take care of myself."
"I'm aware of that, Gwynn, hearing it from you every day of our relationship, but---"
"But nothing. If something did happen--- and I'm sorry about this, Duncan--- you know damn well he'd be in my way. I don't let clients accompany me in the field because I don't take bullets anymore. I left that job."
"Please, Gwynn, it'll make me feel better..."
The tone, the soft hazel eyes regarding her so pitifully, she never had been able to stop her transformation from strong, gun-wielding, ass-kicking chic to a mush of convoluted feminine desire and motherly impulses. "Fine," she acquiesced, before ordering Duncan, "but if I say the word, any word, you duck, you hear me, cause I swear if you get me shot, I'll..." She stood there, fidgeting, struggling for the proper threat. "I'll make you eat chitlins," she finally declared.
Duncan's face lit with confusion. "What's chitlins?"
Oliver's features had acquired a decidedly greenish tint, rather close to puce. "You truly do not want to know," he murmured thickly.
"I didn't actually make you eat them," Gwynn reminded, and added, a wicked grin painting her lips, "Watching the preparation was more than enough."
"But you'll make me eat them?" griped Duncan.
"I lived with him. Do you think I wanted a husband with chitlin-breath?" Her face contorted with revulsion. "It was bad enough that time I had to watch him eat kidney pie. He doesn't even like kidney pie; he just did it to disgust me."
"True," piped Oliver from behind. "However, this nostalgia will have to wait until a more opportune moment. Knowing Mulder, he might be on a plane as we speak," he growled.
"Meaning, I'm now on the clock," finished Gwynn, casting a quick glance around the room. Apparently the item of her search wasn't in sight because she blurted, "Oliver, have you seen my purse?"
"I believe I spied the strap hanging from your lingerie drawer." One of his more mischievous expressions finally saw light as he added, "Speaking of which, tell me, Gwynn, do you still have that green---"
"Look at the time!" Boisterous, the abrupt cry did little to draw attention from her face, which was rapidly shading several hues somewhere between maroon and crimson. She darted off for her shoulder bag before urging, "Come along, Duncan."
Duncan, himself looking slightly...rattled by the playfulness which easily flowed back and forth from ex-husband to ex-wife, spent several thoughtful moments chewing his lip and chasing errant notions in circles about his sometimes flighty brain. "Duncan!" The impatient cry jostled him from the feed-back loop in progress, forcing his brain to implement the "trot" command.
Oliver tailed him, automatically securing the door before turning back to his charge. With Mrs. Bloom asleep, for the first time since rescuing her mother, they were truly alone.
Sampson strolled past Sydney as soon as the distinct groans of the protesting elevator sifted through the wall, disappearing into her bedroom; she hoped her mom didn't wake up. Sydney made to follow, but within moments he reappeared, her bag in hand. From its folds he pulled our her laptop, as well as one of those Sam had---
The thought was cut off before it finished forming in her brain. "Oliver, what---"
"You think she's Committee," he murmured matter-of-factly. "Well, let's prove it, shall we?"
Of course one didn't need the intuition of a counselor to know who he was talking about and what instigated this particular set of actions. "You're doing this because of the fight, aren't you? I don't know, Oliver; I could be wrong."
"You could also be very right..." he returned shortly. "Look, I don't know who to trust anymore---other than you...and Duncan." She'd heard that tone before, the strain of pending emotions, sitting there in her basement attempting to bandage a gunshot wound which had nothing on the jagged hole in his heart. One which had existed for so long it seemed to take on the characteristics of a blackhole; emotions flooding inward in a steady stream but none of his own able to escape that gravitational well. Until now, where he'd apparently found within himself the ability to defy physics and the self-defensive shell. "I don't think she's one of them, in my heart, but my head is well aware that if Abernathy was the leader of the splinter faction and I couldn't see that... well, maybe I shouldn't trust my heart. Should have learned that by now, you'd think, all things considering," he finished, a hint of a chuckle in his voice from his usual black humor.
Sydney took her equipment, her fingers unwilling to brush against the shiny silver box that had held the key to so many answers...so many questions as well, about her past and her sister. The lineswoman just wished that the price of those answers hadn't been so damn high. Sammy, why didyou make me...? Oliver had produced a cell phone, setting up the modem himself with obvious impatience as Syd stared off in the distance, buried by memories as surely as moist soil.
"When you take us in---"
"Whoa, what do you mean, us? I thought you hated VR."
"I do," he responded truthfully. "However," he added, his words in a rush, "whatever you find in there is open to interpretation. I was married to this woman, Sydney; I think that makes me more capable of sifting through her psyche and its hidden niches better than you."
Besides, there's something else that you're not telling me, isn't there, Oliver? Why do you always have to be so cryptic?
Of course, even if she had voiced the thought, Oliver most certainly would have dodged the question. She knew where she would find her answers. The same place she had defeated her demons...
Oliver dropped a slip of paper atop the keyboard, two numbers scrawled in quick, jerky symbols. One she recognized as belonging to Ripley's cellular phone, which Oliver clutched convulsively in his fingers. The other, undoubtedly, would ring Ripley's investigation's office. Sydney brought up the conference calling symbols on her PC, first dialing Oliver, which seemed somewhat silly to her, calling a man who stood just five feet from her, before punching in the second number. It rang three times before a familiar voice answered--- a male voice. Sydney stopped her reflex action a second before the handpiece slammed into her modem.
"Is a Ms. Ripley there?" Oliver quickly inquired, adopting a different accent than his usual British or the Southern one in the subway station. It sounded vaguely French to Sydney's ears. "This is one of her clientele. I have a question about my...investigation."
"One moment," Duncan stalled politely. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece, but they could still hear as he called, "Hey, Gwynn, there's one of your clients on the phone, probably wondering if the pictures of his wife and the pool boy developed. You want to talk to him?"
There was a rustling on the other end of the line, before a crisp feminine voice said, "Hello."
She glanced to her right, saw Oliver nodding, and slammed the receiver home.
The channel, the swirling vortex which always took her into the only place she had ever felt truly at home in since her family's split.
She landed, became instantly aware of a heavy weight pulling abruptly at her wrists, and from her hands a cold metal extension more commonly known as a Smith & Wesson materialized.
"Freeze! Hands where I can see them."
The bark grounded the rest of her senses; Sydney stood off to the side, strobe lights bathing the scenery in shades of alternating contusions and blood. Gwynneth Ripley, in the uniform of a beat cop, positioned in the perfect shooter's stance, a standard .38 revolver cupped lovingly in her hands. "Against the wall."
"I can explain---" A voice, hinted with the barest flickers of amusement, stated.
"Against the wall now!" The corresponding shove brought the words "excessive force" to Sydney's mind; though, she had to admit, this was a rather large man, especially in comparison to Ripley. "Spread 'em."
The fellow attempted to turn, presenting the controller with a shadowy profile, before Gwynn roughly spun him back toward glass and steel. In the darkened panel of the highrise in front of her, Sydney Bloom was presented with a perfect view of Oliver Sampson. "I've had a really bad night, and I suggest cooperation as your best course of action. Hey, Frank, watch him," she called over her shoulder. "I'll do the patdown."
The cop proceeded to frisk a black-clad Oliver, removing an automatic pistol and a small pouch from beneath his jacket. "Yeah, you can explain it to the desk sergeant." Cuffs were supplied although they didn't really accessorize his attire properly, and Gwynn produced a small card from her polyester pocket. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney; if you can not afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I've read them to you?"
"Yes, quite," Oliver replied, his voice mirthful despite the situation.
"Very well, Mr..." glancing at the driver's license in her hand she continued, "Sampson, you are now under arrest."
"Are you quite done?" Her mouth fell open in the most exaggerated degree of shock Sydney had seen in quite a while; the woman turned to Frank---or rather, at the present, Sydney--- her eyes conveying, Is this some kind of practical joke, or am I in the Twilight Zone? "Ring the owner of the building. He will explain everything," Oliver ordered; some things seemed universal throughout time, and Oliver's apparent delight at bossing people around was definitely one of them. "And remove this silly restraints," he continued in an overly sweet voice. "They're too tight, and you wouldn't want my wrists to chafe."
Gwynn looked ready to cold-cock him with her gun. "That can be your one dime at the station. Come along to the big patrol car; we're going to take a little ride."
"Really? Can I run the siren?"
"In the car!"
Sydney turned to follow.
And found herself in a church.
The scene identical to another she had visited inside this subconscious world of thought and light.
Even down to the dress she wore, the seat she took, the only difference being the bride.
Gwynn, her dark red hair pulled up, scarcely visible beneath the traditional veil, breezed down the isle with a rather attractive fellow; a gold stethoscope pin gleamed on his lapel. They reached the front, stopping before the altar where the man handed Gwynneth off to her husband-to-be. The ceremony commenced, not metamorphosizing as before. Like so many other nuptials, the best man seemed to have lost the ring; Oliver nearly dropped it after the guy finally did make the hand-off.
The clergyman blessed their union, and Oliver and Gwynn kissed.
Pulling away, placing their long-steamed champagne flutes back on the linen covered table; except the glasses were filled with a liquid which in no way resembled that bubbly beverage.
"God, no."
Her head snapped to the right, an anguished Oliver positioned beside her now, staring into a scene of what looked to be a celebration dinner. He watched himself reach out for his wife's hand, gently rubbing his thumb across the back of it. He couldn't see but knew what happened next, could distinctly remember first the confusion, rapidly painted over by shock, and finally the raw panic which bled all the color from Gwynn's face.
He heard Sydney gasp beside him, his eyes focusing on the person who had taken so much from him that night, seeing for the first time his face. Enraged as Jackson Boothe took aim and shot Gwynn point blank as she tried to stand and flee.
She fell, her glass flying from her hand, snapping in half at the stem. A scream clawed its way from her throat, and the mirror Oliver stood, knocking his chair to the floor, rushing to her side. His hands pressed over the jagged hole, trying to stay the rush of blood which flowed out across her swollen belly.
The man beside her simply muttered the word, "No." over and over, backing away from the chaos of screaming patrons, a panicked replica of himself as he tried to do something for his pregnant wife.
With every step Oliver retreated it seemed to take Sydney closer to the spectacle. He stared up in her face, yelling for someone to get an ambulance, to help his wife and child. Sydney Bloom knelt down, her knee suddenly wet with blood, and reached hesitant fingers toward the brutal wound which Oliver's hand couldn't quite cover. He slapped it away, knocking her off- balance; her hand shot out behind her to catch herself before she sprawled on the stained carpet; the tiny champagne glass stem lodged in her palm, and her blood joined the rosy puddle.
The miniature shock of lightning, the swirling pool which drug her from the deepest secret of Oliver Sampson's mind was black.
It matched Sydney's mood.
Unlike so many other of her exits, Sydney came quietly from VR, slowly pulling the goggles from her eyes, her yell bottled up inside her, a mere knot of pain. Equally as calm, she eased the gloves from her fingers, setting them atop the keyboard, closing the laptop halfway. The woman who had been forced into a life of subservience for the Committee, the woman who had resented the organization and anything remotely associated with it for so long, turned her head to meet the gaze of her Committee assigned body guard, her assigned assassin.
The tiny portable phone, an example of the elaborate microelectronics and human ingenuity that allowed her to venture into one of the most secret realms of existence, hung limply from his fingers, barely enough muscles operating to keep the plastic rectangle in his grasp. It was amazing even those few impulses were managing to race up his sensory neurons, into his brain, before then sending the required command shooting back on a different path, along the motor cousins of the sensory neurons to his hand. Sydney wasn't even sure he remembered, most people didn't, but Oliver had seemed...attuned to VR; he might not recall the exact details but the emotional content surely remained floating in his cerebral cortex.
When he did speak, with a low, weak voice, his words answered the question racing about her head. "I'm glad I killed him."
Startled, Sydney turned sharply in the pivoting chair, wincing as the worn and obviously poorly greased seat issued a harsh squeal at the sudden movement. "What...?" tumbled from her mouth before she could form a half-cognizant thought.
"Jackson Boothe. I remember, Sydney, all of it. Not that I ever forgot, her face, the smell of blood and lobster mingling, the screaming in my ears, those voices of panic in my head... I just never knew...I never saw who." That same tight voice, like the one that had spoke of Abernathy, that screamed his emotional outrage at Alex's death, told her of their relationship over five shots of very potent liquor...
Exactly the same.
The eyes were not. Oliver Sampson made his way in a halting gait across the room, opened a polished cabinet, and reaching inside, produced a bottle of amber liquid.
Sydney crossed the room in large strides, yanking the bottle from his hand. Finding herself fighting for it in a tug of war. She knew Oliver wasn't really trying because the man who had been trained by her country and the Committee to do Lord-knew-what under far more unpleasant circumstances wouldn't have wasted more than half a second before forcing the bottle from her small boned hands.
"I think Gwynn would be rather ticked if she came home to find her expensive scotch trickling down the sink," the twin said pointedly.
"I gave it to her."
"Then she would expect more, and we can't afford it." Running for the nearest liquor cabinet, bar, or open bottle wasn't what she had anticipated of Oliver. She had been prepped for... Well, she wasn't really sure what she thought he would do, throwing a temper tantrum and trashing the place didn't really seem his style. Of course she also hadn't considered the idea that she had to worry about a burgeoning alcoholic either.
Unless...?
No, she doubted the Committee would allow that type of weakness in any of their personnel. It seemed the organization frowned upon such faults as a bothersome conscience or shred of compassion. Sydney was sure Oliver would not have lasted so long in the intricate and sometimes lethal games of the C.I.A. or his more recent employers if he was dragging an alcohol dependency around the globe. As easily as he relinquished the decanter she found herself soothed. He knew what she would do, foreseen her response to his initial venture toward the numbing oblivion of brain cells flooded with finely aged ethanol.
Sydney felt a smile, tired and somewhat brittle at the edges, pull at the delicate line of her lips.
Sampson, who Sydney thought was nearly as pale as Lugosi on his worst day, stumbled to a desk, fumbling in the top drawer for forty-five seconds before coming up with a prize. Oliver tapped the cigarette from its paper and cellophane package, flipping it into his mouth, before lighting up and taking a long drag. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he settled on the sofa.
Sydney situated herself on the opposite corner, perched on its arm, staring at him in silence, aware that eventually he would be overcome with the desire to speak. He worked his way through half the cigarette before he did so.
"I haven't smoked in five years," he began, bitter amusement tickling the corners of his lips, the depths of his eyes. "I had my last on the train from East Berlin, before the station pick-up, where I lost Alex. Excuse me, where she left me." The ex-intelligence operative searched for an ashtray, settling for the glass of watered-down tea Ripley had left on the coffee table. "My first was the night I lost my marriage, in the waiting room of the hospital after the doctor laid it all out.
"He calmly told me that the child had been hit directly in the brain, as if the gunman had studied up on pregnancy like a good little student, informed me with such patent sincerity that my wife could no longer have children but that we were lucky because so many options were open to a young couple like us... And like a fool I took the responsibility of telling Gwynn when she awoke that our anniversary would become the worst memory in her life.
"I was so...angry, I say that, but the word doesn't begin to describe how I felt. I was angry at myself for not being able to protect her; I was angry at the physicians for not having the power of God; but I was furious at her, the woman I loved because I was positive she had caused it to happen. She was a cop, and she had done some things, hell, a good many things, that I considered careless."
"You blamed Gwynn," Sydney repeated in a whispery voice.
"When I should have been pointing that high-and-mighty finger at myself. God, I was so supremely naive." The VR prodigy blinked at that; one adjective she had never applied to Oliver Sampson was naive. "I never told anyone of our marriage except Mulder, who I swore to secrecy. My father had died recently and I had no one left except for Abernathy, and I wanted something truly my own for a while, without any ties to my past. He knew... the Committee knew all along.
"My marrying Gwynn wasn't in their plan, the grand scheme. The C.I.A. approached me right after I signed the divorce papers, and I snatched the opportunity up. I thought they would train the humanity out of me, and if I wasn't human it wouldn't hurt so much to remember. I erased all evidence of our marriage practically from everything on this earth with the tools provided by the Agency, and for several years denied that portion of my life ever took place.
"And they took Alex from me, so that I was mentally and physically exhausted by the time Abernathy approached me with their proposition. Through my father's guidance the Committee chose my curriculum at school, my line of work, the course of my life. I knew that such things happened with others, but I was never aware that the Committee had penetrated my life so deeply."
"Like I never conceived of my father being one of them," Sydney offered as he dropped the forgotten and spent cigarette into translucent brown liquid.
He gazed at her for half a minute before sputtering in laughter. Sydney might have joined him if she found anything remotely humorous in the perverse situation; presently she couldn't. She wished Duncan were here; only he could illuminate a light moment in so many manipulated tragedies.
"It's not what you think..."
"What?"
Sydney snapped from her internal musings, realizing that she'd voiced the phrase. "That's what Dr. Morgan said before he died. He knew about Daddy; that was what the file he sent to my computer was about: Daddy's involvement with the Committee. If I'd known of these Keepers then, I would have tried to find his and see if he knew anything about the file but you..."
Her voice drowned steadily beneath the cackling which suddenly overtook her companion. "I see you still haven't quite grasped the interworkings of this damnable organization," he said as his laughter subsided. "I was his Keeper. And at the time I was as ignorant as you. Well almost," he conceded to the look she shot his way. "And I didn't know what they did to his body. Do you think I'd pay for such an elaborate funeral to bury a set of free weights? Cremation would have been much more economical," he noted darkly.
Sydney's brow crinkled with confusion. "You paid for the funeral? Why?"
"Frank Morgan was my cousin, Sydney, my mother's nephew. He was the last family I had. And they took that away too."
Sydney watched the man before her with sympathy, his eyes glazed with a drunkenness supplied by a grief just as numbing as the liquor he'd attempted to consume earlier. The Committee might base its power structure on family ties, but in doing so, it seemed to inherently destroy those bonds with little or no remorse. Abernathy had been unwilling to kill Oliver, but would the Keeper have felt the same way about his wife and child...?
"Oh, God. They know, don't they? They know we're here."
Sampson's features, his thoughts somewhat sluggish, wrinkled as he fought to decipher her words. Slow on the uptake as he was in his present condition, he immediately felt the onslaught of an adrenaline high as her realization became apparent.
"Get your mother up," he instantly barked, diving for the phone on the end table. "Now, Sydney."
The waif-like form uncurled from her position rather clumsily, scooting off to the bedroom where her mother had caught an impromptu nap. It didn't take long to coax a sleepy and confused Nora Bloom from slumber, shushing the woman by explaining that Oliver was going to take them on a little drive, just a bout of sightseeing like normal tourists in most any city. That seemed to conjole Mrs. Bloom, whose face was painted in a complacent smile.
In the living room, Oliver cursed fluently and slammed the phone down into its resident home. "She's not answering her office or the other cellular."
He had that distant look in his eyes, like he was desperately trying to remember the exact location of the rabbit he'd planned to pull from his hat. Standing, the ex-operative turned his back to Nora before removing his weapon and checking it for what seemed, to Sydney, the zillionth-and-one time that day. "C'mon, Sydney, Mrs. Bloom. Let's take a nice stroll."
Sydney opened her mouth to inquire but the look he sent her shut it instantly; he was concerned there were listening devices hidden in the various niches of the apartment. And considering the turn her life had taken these past six months, she wouldn't put it past the Committee to bug a baby's diaper.
He didn't speak in the elevator, didn't say more than five syllables in the lobby. He walked with them to the front of the Fox Theater before waving to a taxi. The yellow car screeched to a halt at the sight of a fifty catching wind, and Sampson opened the door, ushering Syd and her mom inside.
"The Atlanta Public Library," he tersely ordered the driver.
"Wait!" Sydney forced the old, unwieldy door and slid out to stare the Englishman in the face. "And just what are we supposed to do there?" she demanded.
"Wait for me. Or Duncan. Just make certain to remain inside; don't even say as much as hello to anyone."
"But if Duncan is in trouble I want to help," came her shrill retort.
"I am fully aware of that, Sydney, but you would just be in the way." Her next onslaught of objections were trickling from her tongue when he whispered impatiently, "Dammit, Sydney, this is not a game! I've inscribed my own tomb stone, thrown away everyone and everything I remotely cared about to keep you safe. Don't tell me I did that all for nothing." He leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on her cheek; at the same time he slipped a small caliber pistol into her palm.
Her face flushed, her eyes shot downward, and for the life of him Sampson wasn't sure which had prompted it: the diversionary show of affection or the gift in her hand. "If anyone does anything that remotely uneases you, shoot them in the head and run like hell. Don't look back."
"Run to where?"
"In the library, think 007, but if something should happen...go to Underground. I'll meet you by the giant carrot." Her eyes clouded with bewilderment, and he took the opportunity to wrangle her into the car. He slapped the top, and the vehicle barreled its way into traffic.
Sydney turned around in her seat, watching as Oliver stood watching them in return. She saw the two men, dark suits, expensive shoes, both of which could have stepped off the cover of GQ if not for their cruel faces. Banged on the rear window as they came up behind Oliver, tried her best to shout some kind of warning, but the car turned before she could view the outcome.
Sydney slumped into her seat, praying that Oliver Sampson was not lying on the sidewalk, alone, bleeding, staring up into the blank visages of strangers. A chill crept over her, and Sydney Bloom rubbed vigorously at her arms.
In the distance a car backfired. The lonely woman brushed a stray tear from her face.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but what the hell just happened?"
Gwynneth Ripley, clutching the rather plain white sheet to her chest, said abruptly, not looking at the man lying beside her.
"Doesn't exactly say much for my technique," Duncan muttered, a crooked grin on his face.
"You know what I mean," was shot back instantly.
"Well, we got to know each other. In the Biblical sense."
"Thank you, Mr. Webster. I know that. I don't know why."
"You're a woman. I'm a man----"
"Who's in love with another woman." Gwynn pushed up, affixing the artist with a stare which all too clearly told him if he to denied the fact, the PI would take out her gun and shoot him. All he did was wiggle uncomfortably beneath the sheet. Ripley collapsed back against the pillow with a frustrated sigh. "God, what's with her? She's got the both of you following her like a couple of pubescent boys too nervous to make a move."
"You're jealous," came Duncan's abrupt realization.
"Damn right I'm jealous." Duncan's smooth fingertips on her forearm sent her gaze to his gorgeous eyes. The anger evaporated from her tones, replaced by weariness. "She's got two of the most incredible men I've ever met, both lying prostrate at her feet, and she won't accept the...affection either one is offering."
"But that's not the main reason you're so mad," pressed Duncan.
"No, I suppose it's not," she agreed without a fuss. "She cracked the shell, managed to widen the fractures in his armor. Sydney Bloom found the man I fell in love with beneath those layers of ice and doesn't seem to have the sense to appreciate that."
"You still love him," he said pointedly. As much as I love Sydney, his mind added but he managed to keep from flying from his overly-functional mouth.
"Of course I still love him. The last year of our marriage was...turbulent, but if I hated him, I would be hating myself."
"But you're still in love."
A brittle laugh emanated from her throat. "We're kindred spirits, you and I. Both in love with two people who don't share those feelings or aren't willing to risk it."
"Oliver loves you," Duncan began, hoping to ease the hurt in those glistening eyes.
They moved directly in line with his, directly in line with his soul. Her next words stopped the conversation instantly because there was no kind thought the artist could offer to refute it. "But he loves her more."
There was a slight pause, then the whirzing increased and a bass line vibrated the speakers, back-tracking from Bryan Adams' insistence that There Would Never Be Another Tonight to his warning of House Arrest. The noise brought an accompanying blow, the throbbing cadence in his skull overshooting the already precarious tempo by three or four beats.
Oliver ran his tongue along the gash behind his lower lip which, if the last few days were indicative of anything, would become a permanent feature.
"Her location, Sampson. We'll find her, with or without your cooperation. Of course, for all parties concerned, it would be beneficial if you were more forthcoming..." As if giving a former fraternity brother the opportunity to venture back into the clubhouse, the nameless inquisitor examined his long, aristocratic fingers momentarily. "Tell us, Oliver, and come back to your place within the fold. She's a rather beguiling creature, and we can understand how that could cloud one's judgement. No recriminations. You have my word as a gentleman," he concluded, returning to his examination of precision manicured nails.
Eloquent as the offer was, it was a bit difficult to accept such honey-tinged promises from a fellow wiping blood from his knuckles with exceptional notice to detail. Even for the most trusting of souls.
And after so many years in the ranks, Oliver Sampson wouldn't put his faith in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on a dark and snowy night. "Sorry, can't help you. She needed some equipment. Perhaps you should try Radio Shack." Despite the sincere facade which made his remark all the more humorous, the well-manicured man failed to find the levity.
This time he let the Conan clone have the honors. "I can see she has you under her spell far more expertly than any of us considered. Nevertheless, dear boy, you will provide us with answers." From his sinfully expensive suit, the distinguished man produced a syringe, far more modern than his counterparts had used in Sydney's interrogation.
Oliver laughed, a full well-rounded laugh that threatened to overbalance the chair he was trussed up to. "Whatever form of serum you have loaded in there will more than likely do nothing more than give me a rather enjoyable buzz."
Not as much as an eyebrow raised at Sampson's taunt. "Oh, no, my dear boy, we've skipped those useless preliminary measures." A few quick taps against the syringe forced all the air to the top, and one depression of the plunger sent a hiss of air and a fountain of clear liquid skyward. "Epinephrine."
"I'll die before you can get the information," the Agency alumn managed in a reasonably calm voice, he thought. Considering the death held by the deceptively small syringe, most people would have soiled their clothes by now.
"Such concern for my ease. Do not fret; the solution has been diluted. The effects will not be noticeable instantly, but with prolonged contact with your system the symptoms will become more pronounced."
"Translated, that means the suffering will be long and grueling rather than intense and relatively quick."
"Yes."
Oliver gave the response a fatalistic nod, realizing that no matter what knowledge he decided to share or horde, that he would die today.
Painfully.
Unless he managed to get out of the corner they'd backed him into. And bound to the chair with Ripley's nylons, fighting was not a viable option.
"Sydney will not come back here, even after I'm dead. The girl's gotten a bit more savvy since her introduction to the Committee." Oliver, already adept at sarcasm nearly every hour of the day, was presently at the top of his form.
A miniscule smile twitched at the corners of the man's lips; on most it would be endearing. Only thing it did was make him look all the more sinister. "We disagree with your assessment. Humans are sentimental creatures by nature, yourself included. Even if she does run, without your expertise, the silly girl will be within our hands in a matter of weeks, if not days."
"So no matter which way you move, it's check..." Tired, he felt the overwhelming strain of all these revelations, all these ghosts, tugging him downward.
"And mate," he answered like a man who rarely found himself on the other side, experiencing the sting of defeat beneath the better tactics of an opponent or the fickleness of Lady Luck. "The king is about to fall, and without your guidance, all the other pieces will simply be snatched up by our pawns."
And the queen was the one most desired by the Committee, which meant the others were expendable. Including her board mate. "Omnipotence isn't perfected yet by man, not even by all of the Committee's resources in tandem. I have friends, and I have insurance. My death will pry open the coffin lid and symbolically, it will be my hand which pounds the stake into this decaying heart. Secrets can not last forever in this age."
"True, but the next few decades will be sufficient for our plans. By then, we will no longer need all these grandiose schemes. As for your friends, Mr. Mulder, although rather pesky in the past, will prove as unproductive with his resistance to us as you and your charges. Now please end this incessant chatter and die gracefully." He nodded to his companion to move into the other areas of the apartment and begin a check for anything important, namely, Sydney's notes on her father's research. "I doubted you would follow the suggestion. Your father certainly didn't," he dropped nonchalantly.
Oliver shot forward, only succeeding in chaffing his wrists brutally and wobbling the chair nearly to the point of collapse. The epithet which rested on his lips died, Sampson instead choosing to fix his most effective glare on this sorry excuse of a man. "My father sacrificed his life for a friend," he forced through teeth clenched so tight he was positive his dentist would scold him on the next check-up. A vague ache cascaded through his mouth, giving him a point of focus beyond his whirling thoughts. "I thought you were in some sort of hurry here," the Committee turncoat hissed.
"I suppose; however, I thought you might be concerned as to the true events behind your father's demise----"
"I don't give a damn about your vicious lies. And frankly, if I could, I believe I would choose suicide over having to sit here one more moment and stare at your smug, pompous face, you son of a----"
As planned, or rather, as he had prayed, the jab pushed the fellow into action. Oliver bit down on his already damaged lip as the needle punctured his thigh, closing his eyes as he felt the beginning sensation of liquid death entering his body. He flexed the muscle and jerked his leg sharply to one side, increasing the pressure of teeth against broken flesh as the needle snapped and a sudden moisture trickled forth to stain his slacks. Despite the sharp metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the rather sickening sensation of the substance on his teeth, his mouth was positioned in a smile.
All in all, Oliver presented a picture more out of Clive Barker's imagination than his usually well-groomed and gentlemanly self.
"You're quite pleased with yourself, aren't you?" he murmured in a manner which made him seem more like a school master scolding an errant pupil than an interrogator to victim.
Sampson's smile transformed into that smug smirk Sydney had always had the urge to knock off his face. "As punch."
The man pulled his dignity about himself like a coat and shifted downward until mere inches from Oliver's face. "I lied," he shot back in quick, vicious tones which still managed to sound civilized. It only made his words more effective. "It wasn't diluted, and undoubtedly, you probably still received an adequate dose to kill you. What do you think about that, dear boy?"
Oliver's eyes narrowed and his reply was two simple words which in America had probably become the most used phrase since "hello." Then, with the Committee extension still in his face he spat. The blood-tinged fluid hit its mark precisely and that alone returned the smile to Sampson's face.
Next, two things happened simultaneously.
Foremost in his awareness was the blow which the old geezer shot once more to his abused mouth.
Then, as the ringing in his ears subsided, he caught the tail-end of a phrase yelled in a very authoritative voice. "Freeze, federal agent!"
Wide, a sudden disbelief in his eyes, the well-manicured man pivoted slowly, giving the trussed-up man a view of the person who'd crashed the party. "Hello, Mulder. So nice of you to drop by. There's another one in the bedroom with a .357."
Those were the last words Oliver got out before the pain barreled into him harder than a runaway train.
"Oh, forgot my disguise," Duncan murmured, catching the key ring Gwynn tossed his way and disappearing back into her office to retrieve the elaborate disguise which was, in reality, a rather cheap hat. A scant sixty seconds later he came trotting down the steps as his ears discerned an odd noise. Hair stood up on end at the nape of his neck and a ripple of ice climbed his vertebrae as his nervous system reacted to the sound Duncan's conscious mind had yet to identify.
Shrill and crisp, the scream which rose above the haunting tone nearly sent the artist tumbling down the remaining steps; his descent couldn't have been more clumsy if this modern-day knight had suddenly found himself housed within chainmail and armor. His combat boots clopped one last time, loud enough to bring a wince to his features, and he stopped as if the ground had split open beneath him and hot lava was greedily licking at his toes.
Fifty feet away Gwynn's body jerked once, twice, and her eyes spun into her head like some perverse slot machine before her legs crumbled beneath her faster than Jerico's walls. A sickly moan pushed its way past her lips as she hit asphalt.
Duncan watched as a guy resembling PeeWee Herman on acid poked what looked like a cop's nightstick into Gwynn's side once more. Her form convulsed and moved as if attached to strings and manipulated by some sort of sick puppeteer. Lithium-man raised the long, black rod from contact, and that noise hit Duncan's ears again. Blue fire crackled at the far end, and instantly he recognized the sound as electricity. They were subduing Gwynn with a stun gun from one of the lowest levels of Dante's Inferno.
"Hey, stop that!" suddenly erupted from his mouth, and the trio gawking at the unconscious woman spun his way. Duncan's face mimed a rather exaggerated, but amusing expression from the days of silent movies as he abruptly realized the extent of what exactly was happening in front of him. The slimy devil was wearing Armani, and most street hoods didn't have those particular pinky rings either.
They were Committee.
And he was toast.
"Unless, of course, you really don't want to. Tell you what, I'll just turn and mosey back upstairs, pretend I didn't see a thing. What'd'ya think, huh?"
PeeWee took a step forward, followed in perfect syncronicity by his back-up dancers. "Yep, thought not."
Duncan turned and ran, praying that one of the keys on the ring went to the Porshe, and he could double back, snatch up Gwynn, and haul it out that parking lot like Andretti. If not, he knew he had to get away, find Oliver, and hope that the fellow actually had the skills to back up that arrogance.
A high-pitched whirzing behind him assaulted the young man's ears, and issued a reflexive duck, one hand raising to his ear to attempt to block out the irritating sound. Fire sped across the back of that hand, followed by a peculiar wetness which after a moment, Duncan equated with blood.
They were shooting at him!
As well as getting a lot closer, making Duncan instantly wish he had brought along his Nikes, and as pain crept a steady path across his abdomen, he went to measures as drastic as to swear off Egg Creams a dozen times, MacDonaldLand cookies five, and the Double Stuff sandwiched between Oreos at least fifteen. "I sure hope following Alex taught you a bit, Dunc, cause in about five minutes you're either going to drop or die," he wheezed, clutching his side and heaving an internal groan as he spotted a fence straight ahead.
"Up and over, Duncan, piece of cake. Grab hold, give yourself a good push, and flip right on over," he siked himself, knowing full well he'd be lucky if he didn't crack his skull wide open and save the hired killers the trouble. His mind's eye presented him with a rather inspiring movie of himself running smack dab into the fence and falling on his tuckus so when he managed to actually get over the barrier and land safely, though not too prettily, on his butt, Duncan was rather pleased with himself indeed.
He scrambled to his feet, ready to sprint off with renewed energy, and actually took three steps before the realization hit.
Behind him, the alley was empty.
They hadn't bothered to follow him more than seventy feet before returning and gathering their package.
It really did remarkable things for Duncan's ego to know that the Committee thought him too unimportant to even kill.
Winded, and rather disgusted with the entire encounter, Duncan searched in vain for another method back to the office besides playing mountain man of Atlanta, but eventually, clamored back over the fence. He found the Porshe in its space, the key after trying every single one on the ring, and discovered he didn't even have the basics to driving expensive sports cars.
No ex-wife, a shot transmission with every gear stripped, and a tattered old hat. Oliver was going to be thrilled with this escapade.
So much so Duncan wondered if he would get to experience recuperating from a gunshot wound with the Englishman.
He didn't like blood, definitely wasn't into pain, and with a sigh decided that this was not what little Duncan had signed up for when he decided he had a huge crush on the cute twins next door.
If he lived, he concluded then and there, he should just run to the nearest monastery.
Unfortunately, though, he doubted they'd let Sydney tag along.
"She'll be just fine. You didn't have any choice. Oliver might very well be dead, and Duncan heading for a trap; you have to warn him, at the very least," Sydney murmured to herself, slipping past the double doors just as they opened, orienting herself in the MARTA station before heading in the general direction of Gwynn's office.
"It wasn't like you could bring Mom along," she finished, praying that when--- if--- she returned that Nora Bloom would still be lost in the pages of back issue upon back issue of A.P.A. journals. "Mom will be just fine, and besides, she needs some time to herself to think..."
Sydney jogged obediently between the lines of yet another crosswalk, checking the yellow scrap of paper in her hand which she had torn from the phone book--- telling herself it was appropriate for this emergency--- and staring past the glare of reflected sunlight into the third story windows stenciled with the words Ripley & Associates, Confidential Investigations. Vaguely CyberSyd wondered exactly who these associates were, and if they existed anywhere other than Gwynn's imagination, but at the moment, aside from running into them inside, she really didn't give a flip if Oliver's ex was in business with Bert and Ernie.
So the shyer of the Bloom girls trudged up the front steps, passed the less-than-reliable- looking elevator for the stairwell, and slowly made her way to the third floor. Risking a peek through a meager crack in the door, Sydney found herself alone, at least that's how it appeared in the hallway. Of course, an entire squad of Committee cronies could be lurking behind every doorway, skulking in every corner, and her cautious steps were, in reality, a failed attempt to appear rather casual.
When she finally reached her destination, Tel-Cal's finest tried the knob rather than knocking; it moved beneath her fingers, and before she could actually stop herself, a morbid impulse pushed the door inward.
The dead bodies she had expected to confront were not in the reception area, relieving her for the five milliseconds before her pessimistic little shoulder-perching devil added that it wasn't the Committee's style to leave the bodies in plain sight. They would be behind a desk, or perhaps heaped inside a small lavoratory, blood streaming from beneath a stall and an impossibly white hand resting against cheerful yellow tiles.
Outside, a heat to rival the brimstone of Hell rose in visible waves from concrete sidewalks and pavement--- hot enough to melt the tar in some spots; in the office, within Sydney's skin, it seemed as if the absolute lowest level of Dante's Inferno had been transplanted there, as if the little building was one of those hapless souls within Satan's mouth.
But despite a thorough search, the cyber prodigy did not find even the merest sign of foul play; the only thing odd she came up with was a stray sock beneath the couch in Gwynn's private office. Of course, considering her own eclectic housekeeping, the phone repairwoman couldn't throw stones; Gwynn seemed the type to toss off her respectable clothing for torn jeans and old sweat shirts at the end of the business day; lonely socks went with the territory.
She turned to leave before professional obsession snared her and her eyes shot to the computer sitting amid the clutter which Sydney assumed was supposed to be a desk. Files were stacked so high on top of and around it, that in reality it could have been a dining room table, and the woman couldn't have discerned the difference.
"Three gig hard drive. 64 megs ram. T1 line. Enough software to send Bill Gates on a cruise around the world... You like your toys, don't you, Gwynn?" Sydney 's mouth lit in a rather wicked smile as she flipped the pair of buttons to launch the computer into action. The first thing presented to Sydney was a small box requesting a password; of course, this in no way discouraged the young woman. After all, if hacking the FAA mainframe was the equivalent of getting into a box of Cheerios, this would be like picking them up off the floor.
"What pray-tell is important enough to be your password, eh, Gwynn? What would you use? Your birthday? Anniversary of your wedding? How bout the name of your ex, huh? Is it Oliver?" Sydney's fingers danced across the keys, and within half a second she was in.
"Crunch, crunch... Easier than playing Wheel of Fortune after a few beers." As always, the self-assured Sydney sat pecking away before the monitor, completely in her element, the thrill of zigging and zagging her way through the confidential files masking her features with an intense satisfaction.
Oliver Sampson got smug in regards to his ability to shoot near bout anything on the planet, where as Sydney's came from her knowledge that if push came to shove, no system was elusive enough to keep her out. The keyboard was an extension of her hands, the chips housed within an extension of her mind and neurons. Sydney Bloom, as Dr. Hunnicutt had said, was a brilliant organic computer who could efficiently link up to the resources of her inorganic cousins.
After all, she was her father's daughter...
Her thoughts rolled about these ideas for nearly a minute, in that time her hands motionless on the keys. The screen flashed brighter for a nanosecond, followed by a twisting figure dancing against a blackened background. Sydney let the screen saver do its thing, not really excited by pilfering through Gwynn's boring old files any longer. Instead, her eyes obediently followed the hypnotic figure as it pirouetted one last time and bowed before fully facing its audience.
Her breath caught, blood swooshed inside her ears, and Sydney Bloom shot up from the chair, hoping it gouged the wood as it came to a harsh stop against the wall.
On the screen, a deceptively intriguing series of circles played upon by a thin beam of light racing through the endless labyrinth. The crest of the Committee, right there, blatantly displayed to anyone who passed by the unused computer. She admitted that the screen saver and symbol made for a pretty little show, but the audacity of the woman, after all they had put her and Oliver through, to actually be one of them...
Sydney Bloom begged any deity above who was listening for the chance to debrief Oliver's ex. If he had been paying alimony, by the time she had finished her plan, the Englishman might just have a few more dollars in his pocket in the future.
Enraged, Sydney's arm shot out and the pricey monitor crashed to the floor.
"Temper, temper. You really must learn to control that."
Her head jerked up, her eyes falling upon an expensively clad lad with a shoulder planted casually against the door frame. In his hand he held a stylish gun as well. "Now, Sydney, let's take a little ride in my limo, shall we?"
Fox Mulder's features, decorated with a fine layer of stubble, were pinched with the burden of too little sleep--- a norm, a mixture of confusion and annoyance for not knowing the exact details of what the hell was going on around him--- a perpetual state, and worry for his old friend--- a reflection of that man's reaction nearly half the time he and Mulder had studied together in England.
On the Arnold look-a-like he had used his cuffs, but with the other one, he followed the apparent theme and swiped yet another set of Gwynn's hosiery. For the moment he could holster his weapon and see to the needs of his friend.
From the looks of him, the most dire need entailed advanced medical treatment pronto. "What the hell did they do to you? And why? You just work for a security firm; for God's sake, you aren't even an FBI agent..." All of this spiel flowed from Fox's lips as he attempted to unknot unwieldy nylons.
"Columbia House Records and Tapes collecting that three hundred thousand I owe them..."
"Three words, pal. Easy monthly payments."
Oliver's soft laughter succumbed to a sharply indrawn breath. "Mulder, since when are you practical?" he hissed, his words becoming incrementally choppier by the syllable. His vision blurred, and instantly he squinted against super nova light as his pupils dilated. Now, with his stomach churning worse than a dinghy in hurricane waters, Sampson sent heaven blessings to Sydney for not letting him get himself good and tanked. Beneath Mulder's straining fingers, the Englishman's muscles twitched convulsively as he drummed his fingertips against the back of the chair leg.
"Oliver, could you sit still for a moment?"
"Think you can speed things along? I've known corpses faster than you," sped from his mouth before the thought fully formed in his muzzy brain. "You academic types can't do anything worth diddly to the real world."
Normally he would have first teased Oliver about how he was turning into an honorary Georgian through his ex's influence, and then shot back a retort, but he was tired and curious as hell so he immediately came back with "The real world? Since when is getting yourself strapped to the dining room furniture anywhere remotely in the realm of normalcy? Unless, of course, you're into that sort of thing," added the profiler, sneaking a peek up to his old school chum's face. What he saw there was in no way reassuring.
Oliver's skin was tinged blue, his lips nearly purple, and despite the sweat beading his forehead and upper lip, small convulsive shivers danced along his form. Instantly he reached for his ever reliable cell phone and dialed 911. "Hello, this is Federal Agent Fox Mulder. I need---"
"Hang up the damn phone, you fool, before you get us all killed!"
Mulder was certain the operator was privy to that yell, just as he was sure the little gray men he chased with a passion could have heard it from Venus. Pressing the End button, Fox swung around to fully face the Agency man. "Fine, you don't want an ambulance, I can accept that, but I am calling for help, whether you want me to or not." By this time, Oliver was panting, so Mulder took his moving lips as an attempt to acquire oxygen rather than the blue-streak of curses that Sampson was more than likely scathing him with.
He hit the autodial and waited for the familiar tones before shooting ahead with the news. "Yeah, Scully, it's me. Listen, my friend is truly ill, and he's suicidal enough to refuse to go to the hospital." Mulder fell silent as Dana Scully twittered on the line. "Yeah, well, you try forcing him to do anything and see what that gets you," offered the Fed. "Just bring your stuff ASAP to that apartment I told you about. I'll buzz you in. Bye, Scully."
Once more the phone disappeared within the confines of his trench coat. Then he settled back down in a squat before Oliver's trussed-up form. "What did they give you?"
"Ep---Epinephrine," he managed after four huge inhalations. "Not a whole dosage though," he added, mustering up a weak smile.
"A whole dosage. It rarely matters about that. Most people die anyway. Dammit, first I hear you've been murdered, then I come here to find an interrogation of my dead friend, and now he's been poisoned. One thing you don't do is screw around with record companies; I thought my little tete-a-tete with them taught you something," Fox teased, trying his best not to let the whole morbid situation put another kink in his tattered armor.
"I was murdered?" His breathing had eased a bit, giving up top billing to his racing pulse and pounding head. His blood pressure had to be topping Everest by now.
"Frohike caught an article in the one of the LA papers that you and some chic were gunned down. This fellow she grew up with went manic when he found the two of you in bed, blew your face off with a shot gun, ditto for the woman, trashed your apartment, and then turned the gun on himself. Your bachelor digs will never be the same again."
"I'm a non-person. They changed our dental records, finger prints, everything. And it's rather ironic that they set up the pacifistic of our little group as the passion-crazed murderer. Then again, to most people, Duncan is a rather odd character," mused the Englishman. "But likable in a bizarre sort of way."
"Thanks, Ollie. You're not so bad yerself, once you slough off that veneer of gun-happy assassin and pompous, know-it-all, culturally-enhanced thug." Duncan breezed in, eyeing Mulder suspiciously for a second before he registered the face with all the blurry, dark, and poorly resolved shots of the agent he'd seen in the past. "Hey, he's early."
"How astute, Duncan," Sampson muttered thinly while attempting to shake circulation into the one hand the Fed's work had managed to free so far. To his old pal he inquired, "Could you possibly get me a glass of water, Mulder? This poison tastes horrible." Fox's lanky form disappeared into the kitchen, and he was heard searching for a clean glass in Gwynn's oddly arranged cabinets. "Duncan, come here," Oliver spat with a jerk of his head.
The artist hung back for a second, hesitant to lean over. "Hey, you ain't about to kiss my cheek like that Kenneth guy did to Andy Garcia in Dead Again are you?"
"Get down here or you're going to find out if reincarnation is accurate," threatened the former Committee member. "When Mulder comes back, Duncan, I want you to punch him."
"And you wondered why we thought you were colder than the Grinch."
"Knock him out. I'll explain afterwards."
"But..."
"You're going to be a basically dead pacifist if you don't do as I say, you hear me?"
"Sure. Fine. Whatever. Hey, you aren't looking too hot. Find some chitlins in the freezer or something?"
Fox's laughter beat him into the room by a good fifteen seconds, and he was shaking his head as he handed Sampson one tall glass of ice water. "Who'd she threaten with "Death by Chitlins" this time?"
"Me," Duncan murmured, taking it by the agent's reaction that it was somewhat of a norm for Gwynn. "My first. And you?"
"I stopped counting at fifty-nine," he informed, turning basically in the artist's direction automatically so they could make eye contact as they spoke.
Only thing it did was make Duncan's punch that much more effective. As Fox spun roughly about like a top under the influence of demonic forces and dropped to the carpet with a dull thud, Duncan stared in disbelief at his bruised, aching fist. Missing the fact that Mulder's forehead connected with Oliver's knee on the way down to add a bit of umph to the blow, he was practically gaping as Oliver murmured, "Good job. Now finish untying me before he comes to."
"Did you see...? Whoa, that was kinda fun," Duncan sputtered as the realization that he had actually enjoyed the sight of Fox collapsing straight on his back thanks to a well-connected fist made the appropriate connections in his brain.
"You should try it with your foot, against numerous opponents. Punches are effective, but somewhat crude at times. Connecting the sole of your shoe at just the proper angle to send shattered bone fragments from the bridge of a man's nose into his brain...that requires talent."
Some of Duncan's enthusiasm bled from his face, along with three-fourths of its color. "That was a joke, right."
Oliver stared at him with a poker face to fool the Lord Almighty Himself before breaking into a quick grin. "It's true though," he added for clarification.
"We gotta work on that bizarre sense of humor, Ollie."
"I'm British; you're American. It's a cultural thing."
"Too much rain, drizzle, and fog inciting epidemic cases of chronic brain rot."
"Too much Ozzie & Harriet, Chucky Cheeses, and uptight puritan morals causing mass destruction of brain cells."
"Hey, we kicked your butts twice, and once we weren't even a country."
"I'm half American, Duncan. I possess all the inherent faults of both cultures."
"Now that's a scary thought..."
"You're slower than Fox; I have half a mind to wake him up and let him get me out of this blasted chair."
"Tada!!!! David Copperfield, eat your heart out. You're free. Of course, should you violate probation we'll be forced to incarcerate you again."
"Cute, Duncan. Now if you don't mind I will wait until meeting Gwynn in the garage before booking you a Letterman appearance."
"Um, Gwynn isn't in the garage," Duncan informed, his voice rather timid, but Oliver was too busy shaking the circulation back into his hands to notice.
"Then where, pray-tell, is she?" was his immediate, impatient response, followed by a quick cough to mask the chest-deep groan which fought its way past his throat and out his mouth.
Presently, the artist dug his booted toe into the plush carpet, wincing as a smudge of dirt ground firmly into the fibers. "At her office... There were these three guys and they..."
"Gwynn's gone."
The tone of his voice, the raw pain which caused him far more discomfort than the drug flowing like acid through his veins, took Duncan by surprise. Desolation. Oliver did still love Gwynn.
"They stunned her when I went back inside to get somethin' I'd left. I tried to stop them, ran, and they gave chase for all of three feet. I thought I could double back and get her, but when I finally came back to the parking lot, she was gone. They had guns, Oliver. There was nothing I could do..." For some unfathomable reason he really felt the need to know that Oliver understood, that he didn't blame him. He sorely wanted the Englishman's approval of his actions in the confrontation.
Go figure.
Sampson placed a hand on his companion's shoulder---more for his own support as the world turned once more into an amusement park ride rather than any sort of comfort to Sydney's lifelong friend--- and muttered, "You did all you could. For those types of pick-ups the Committee has been known to hire the most unsavory "professionals" they can find. That way, it is difficult to trace it back to us. If they are not actual Committee members, after delivering Gwynn they will receive two hollow points as payment."
Duncan tailed the brooding Englishman throughout the apartment as he gathered various items which, upon inquiry from the artist, he murmured were essentials. Finally the ex-CIA agent stepped over his old Oxford chum, giving him a rather guilty glance, before motioning Duncan out the door. They rode the incredibly snailish elevator to the garage, Oliver pacing its teeny confines the whole way down, before making their way once more to the Porshe. Duncan tossed the keys across the top of the car.
From within, the car phone commenced an incessant ringing. Oliver slipped the key into the lock, frowning that Duncan had failed to engage the alarm, dropped to the seat, and snatched up the phone.
Sing-song voice on the other end, grating instantly on Sampson's nerves. "I can hear the tension in your voice, Oliver. Tell me, when was the last time you had a physician check your blood pressure?"
"Jeremiah." Oliver's fingers spasmed around the small phone hard enough that he clearly heard the plastic casing crack. He flipped the electronic button to unlock the passenger door, tired of hearing Duncan jiggle the handle. "What have you done to Gwynn?"
"Nothing... I'm still brainstorming. Besides, she's still useful. And ever the spitfire, this one. Then again, so is your other little friend."
"What friend?"
He heard the raspy quality to his breathing, the almost inaudible shrillness in his words. He was allowing his emotions to run rough-shod over him, interfere with his cold, calculating mind which was supposed to be in the pilot's chair by now, but appeared to have taken off to Figi without him.
"Why the ever remarkable Ms. Bloom. Sydney and Gwynn don't seem to like playing together, however. There I sense definite hostility. Is it that two alpha wolves have laid claim to the same territory? After all, you seem rather fond of both of them. Gwynn I can certainly understand, but you let a pair of long legs, mane of blonde hair, and of course, the ego of a slug tug at your heart, Oliver, circumvent your mission. That wasn't what the CIA or the Committee trained you for."
Sampson refused to be rankled by this two-bit bad-guy wannabe. "And what did your training consist of, Jeremiah?"
"The ever faithful duties of watcher. Yours. You always were rather the wild-card, Oliver Sampson. We never could decide with any certainty if you had been dealt four of a kind or a busted flush. No matter what you might have thought, you played the uncompassionate, uncaring bastard far too well. The Committee doubted your sincerity, and that doubt brought you under careful scrutiny."
"Who pulled the strings?"
"Your keeper, of course. Abernathy truly was brilliant, utilizing the Committee and its myriad resources to gain followers, information, power. That's the true raison detre for us, Oliver, the goal behind the games. You were a useful pawn, but now that you've gone rogue, I'm afraid to say you must be sacrificed."
In a flash of anger, Oliver wondered at this apparent fetish for chess analogies. "And Gwynn? I thought she was your friend."
Sick laughter cascaded across the line, giving Oliver a quick ripple of ice between his shoulder blades. "You always were superb expressing that moral indignation, weren't you, Ollie? I bet that was the same tone of voice you had for Abernathy before he was killed." Jeremiah waited for some sort of reply, some flare of reaction, but when Oliver graced him with none, continued with his own game. "Friend... oh yes, such a trustworthy and loyal companion. Her own cocker spaniel who was house-broken and able to eat with a modicum of manners. Or at least that's how our darling Gwynneth regarded me. She felt comfortable enough to spend her nights prattling over your pathetic marriage and her poor dead baby, but the second I asked her out, she doubled over in laughter, dabbed the mirthful tears from her eyes, and patted me affectionately on the hand."
"Refusing your romantic advances makes her expendable. I thought you were a doctor, that you took some sort of oath."
"I was sick that day," he replied in a huff. "Now, enough chit-chat. Meet me or the old ball- and-chain will exit this world in a most...unpleasant manner. There's a warehouse, you should remember it. Your old firm stored various electronic doodads in it. You have half an hour, and considering the traffic, I suggest haste."
The line ended, and Oliver slammed the receiver down, snarling a curse. "We have half an hour, no where near enough time even without the rush hour traffic and construction delays." Sampson popped open the glove compartment, accidently banging Duncan's knees, and withdrew one of those blue lights every driver abhors seeing in his rearview mirror. Particularly in Atlanta, the speeding capital of the south and near 'bout any geographic location. "Thank goodness she keeps this in here."
It got propped on the meager dashboard, joined in seconds by its usual wailing accompaniment; Duncan grasped convulsively at the seat belt, praying it was sturdy and that he wouldn't become a rather tacky hood ornament. Although, he reckoned he really couldn't be any worse than one of those swaying hula dolls.
Sampson zigged and zagged throughout obstacles the likes of pedestrians, various motorists, and most dangerous of all, MARTA buses as if the little sports car bore more armor than a Sherman tank. For five minutes Duncan began to realize the thrill of Nascar, until Oliver vigorously shook his head, his eyes slipping shut. The artist let out a squeal and yanked the wheel sharply to the left, narrowly skimming past a garbage truck.
"It's kinda looked down upon by the Surgeon General to nap at 125 m.p.h." Duncan's panicky voice made Sampson's head shoot up once more, his eyes focusing--- more or less--- on the road ahead. Presently, the passenger wished his fearless pilot had eyes in the rear of his cranium because for the life of him, he didn't know how Oliver was going to stop that car about to sideswipe them.
"Little fuzzy out here," Sampson muttered, a wobbly smile on his face.
"Those weren't Flintstone vitamins they gave you, were they?"
"Nope." Goofy was the best description of his present state, both amusing and scaring Duncan. "Epinephrine."
The word tugged a vague memory in his head, and Duncan diligently sifted throughout his various files before coming up with the right folder. "Isn't that some sort of neurotransmitter, endorphin thingamagigy?" An exaggerated nod from Oliver was all he got. "The stuff that can literally "scare-you-to-death?" " Another up and down of the head. "How much did you get?" A shrug which sent the small vehicle hurling in the wrong lane for a second. "Enough to kill you?" And he thought asking Mary-Jane Pritchett to the prom had scored the biggest throat lump he'd ever have to endure.
"Crap's shoot. Minute doses so can't really tell how much got in before the needle broke."
"Splendid. Maybe we should call some of those cop friends and let them handle it," came the rather lame suggestion. The marines probably couldn't handle the Committee. "You should be in the hospital." The rolling eyes had him admitting, "Yeah, I know, that ain't such a good idea. You still should be seen about though."
"Such touching concern..."
"Not really. You're the only one with any accuracy aiming a gun."
"Wouldn't count on it today."
Three pesky vertebrae in his neck popped as fast as his head spun in his companion's direction before he turned back, not even aware of the nauseating sight of whirzing scenery outside the car. "We're dead."
"We're not dead," Oliver replied with impatience, glancing at the younger man. "Where did you get that hicky?" flew past his lips, nearly all of his attention focused on the small bruise rather than the roadway.
"Watch out!" shrieked Duncan. "What hicky?"
"The one on your neck, the one you didn't have before going to the office." Sampson sniffed the air. "I can smell her on you."
"Okay, okay. We slept together, but she started it, and I think it had something to do with the VR thing you and Syd pulled," he quickly said in his defense.
Sampson appraised the fellow for a moment, making Duncan fidget in the small seat. "No visible fingernail wounds capable of leaving pronounced scars. I'd say she's mellowed with age," he commented dryly.
Duncan stared at him in astonishment. "That's all you have to say?"
"Better you than Jeremiah."
Duncan snorted softly, waiting for some sort of teasing smile, but Oliver grimaced in an abrupt spasm of discomfort and stepped on the accelerator at the same instant. With a spark of insanity, the artist wondered if he had designed bell-bottoms in his last life and was now paying penance.
Blood trickled down her arms, the fluid following the outlines of straining muscles as she jerked once more against the secure bonds, a whimper of defeat supplanted by a shriek of annoyance.
"A small Great White did not break that rope on my last fishing expedition, Gwynn dear; you have such lovely wrists, do you really want to be scarred for life?"
"That's what, two, three hours tops? As for your expeditions, I'd say I wished Jaws had gotten a hold of you, but PETA would be sorely offended by feeding sludge to some poor animal."
"Maybe I'll dig up your little baby to supply chum for our next excursion..." Ripley's mouth pantomimed a scream as she threw her legs into the air in a vain attempt to kick that heartless creature in the face; her feet got the elevation, but unfortunately, the slimy eel slithered a few inches back, so all that he got was a rather cooling breeze caressing his face.
Jeremiah sprawled, dirt ruining his expensive slacks and jacket.
Gwynn panted out a thanks to the young woman sharing cramped quarters for tripping him. "That was for Oliver. He didn't know what he was getting into when he was dragged into the Committee's ranks; takes a cold creature to join forces with the people who murdered her child."
Sydney's tone succinctly informed Gwynn exactly what the woman thought of her; wasn't much. "Listen," she started, too damn tired to attempt civility, "I am not one of these Committee cronies. Before Oliver dragged you and your brood here to stay in my apartment, sleep on my sheets, and eat my food, I'd been blissfully ignorant, but now I've found myself living an average week of Fox's life. I just want to get the hell out of this, pick an Uzi up from the nearest illegal gun shop, and do my share of exterminating these vermin before they kill someone else's baby."
Grief like that could not be faked, but then again, Sydney was worldly enough to know that it could be used as a ploy. "I let my fingers do the walking through your computer files. I saw the crest. Didn't think the Committee one for advertisement."
"What crest? What the hell are you talking about? God, you're weaving riddles just like Oliver."
"The screen saver," Sydney shouted in hostility.
"I got it in the mail shortly after Oliver left! It was addressed to him! Sue me for being cheap enough to swipe it." Vocal range being a well-known attribute of most Southern tongues, if her explanation was a norm, Gwynn could safely be deemed the poster girl for the loud-mouthed bunch. "Grow up, Sydney Bloom, and stop being so damn self-centered. You're not the only one who's been scorched by the Committee's desire for power. Me, Duncan, we were just hapless souls who picked the wrong associates. You were targeted for being your father's daughter, just as Oliver was his father's son. We're all victims here, all suffering without cause, but your losses are not any more acute than ours."
Sydney drew several breaths before venturing, "That's your way of saying..."
"Shut up with the whining, and prod that little mouse in the wheel because as we speak Oliver and Duncan are running hell-bent into this ambush."
"Oliver is well-trained. He just won't burst in here." Her assurance sounded rather childlike.
"Yeah, well, love turns the brain to mush; Oliver Sampson is in no way immune to that folly."
"He knows that if he comes unprepared there is a very good possibility you'll be killed---"
Laughter, the weak chuckle of an ill-fated man bestowed glimpses of heavenly insight, drifted through the shadowy warehouse, unease fluttering hummingbird quick in the hacker's stomach. "The divorce was never my idea. Oliver loves me, but he can never look at me without being reminded what he lost. I am his past. You, Sydney Bloom, are his future."
"Oliver--- he doesn't--- we're just friends," Sydney supplied in a voice with as much certainty and conviction as the one which had assured the Britlander that she had no enemies.
"Oliver's greatest weakness: in for a penny, in for a pound. A less-than-rosy life has taught him to bolt the doors to his heart, but like Billy Joel once noted, he goes to extremes. All or nothing. In love and war, so I'm glad to inform you, if you should be unaware, that this Committee picked the wrong person to screw around with."
"I heard my name; so that's why my ears were burning," a soft whisper tickled into Gwynn's ember-hued hair.
Her gasp was barely a whiff of air, unable to carry even as far as Sydney's ears. "Maybe your brain isn't quite the consistency of oatmeal yet," she replied in a mixture of teasing relief. "What's your plan?"
"I'm winging it."
"Then I take that back. You have gone completely and utterly ca-ca."
"Do you care if the man cutting your ropes is sane, if so I can leave you---"
"That's your most endearing quality. Cut away."
Oliver Sampson eyed his ex-wife, her hands raised above her and secured to the steel passenger cage of a forklift. "Actually, I'm rather taken with the notion of you trussed up to heavy machinery," he added, slipping a thin knife between the bonds and her broken skin.
"What is it with you two and bondage?" another voice inquired as a lanky figure emerged from the darkness. "Syd's cuffed, Ollie. I believe that falls in the area of your expertise." Duncan waited for the man to slip past before leaning in toward the woman. "You okay?"
"I have this voracious craving for a two-for-one sale at the ammo shop, but otherwise, things are just peachy." Minute, nearly inaudible bits and pieces of syllables rose above the sounds of traffic pouring through the poorly insulated walls. "I take it Oliver is having problems," Gwynn stated before heading off in the direction of her fellow 24601. "What is it?"
"My hand's shaking worse than a virgin copping his first feel," Sampson hissed disgustedly. Gwynn nodded at the rather succinct answer, Sydney blushed nearly enough to be visible even in the meager lighting, and Duncan merely shook his head. So the pompous Brit could get crude when he wanted, unless, of course, that was the epinephrine talking.
What with the drug coursing through his system and giving hell to autonomic functions and the fresh gunshot to his left shoulder--- when Oliver was just lucky enough to be left-handed--- picking even a lousy pair of handcuffs was proving to be an impossibility. "Here," Gwynn murmured, slipping the pick from his trembling fingers, "I'll do this. You keep an eye out for Baby Bear."
Oliver rose to his feet, screwing his eyes shut as a wave of vertigo washed through him. He felt a hand on his arm--- nearly drew his gun at the contact--- and turned to meet the concerned eyes of Duncan. A weak smile and small waving gesture of his hand, Sampson withdrew his weapon and began to carefully scrutinize the entrances he could spot. The gun felt alien in his right hand, and although he was almost as expert a marksman with it nestled there, he realized these were not exactly the best of circumstances and prayed that he was good enough not to get any of the people he cared for killed.
"Who designed these, the Marquis De Sade?" Gwynn sputtered from her perch on the floor. Sampson felt an amused smile tugging at his lips.
The smile still on his face, Oliver watched Ripley pitch over, hitting the floor hard enough that an audible crack sounded as her head connected with concrete. The gun shot echoed a second later, trailed by Oliver's scream of denial. Spinning he fired in instinct, grazing the shooter enough to throw him off balance. Jeremiah was attempting to scramble to his feet as Sampson came to hover above him.
"You can't bring her back, killing me won't accomplish anything," Jeremiah Taylor insisted thickly.
"True," Oliver piped before pulling the trigger. Taylor's knee disintegrated beneath the impact of metal on bone and cartilage. "I might not be a murderer, but I have no compunctions about seeing you suffer," he replied frostily. Oliver knelt, patting down the man for weapons, finding none besides the gun several feet from Jeremiah's writhing form.
Shoulders slumped, his gait giving away the exhaustion he felt, the extent of the battle he was waging in an effort to remain on his feet, Sampson shuffled over to where the woman he had once devoted his life to lay in a pool of her own blood.
Tears pooled in his eyes, obscuring his poor vision further, and he prayed that was why he could not detect any movement from the unnaturally still form. Oliver dropped down beside her, gathering her into his arms, rocking softly and murmuring quiet assurances. She wasn't dead, she wasn't going to die. He wouldn't let the Committee harm her anymore, wouldn't cause her any more pain.
The woman in his arms didn't respond, and he jerked away from the fingers brushing his shoulder, stroking Gwynn's hair, whispering apologies for all the inane or cruel things he'd done, for pushing her away and goading them into divorce. For blaming her for the baby's death.
"We've got to get her to a hospital, Oliver."
Duncan's urgency gave Oliver something that a tone such as that usually wouldn't: it instilled him with hope. Finally the rattling in her chest and lungs shoved its way through the impossibly blaring pounding in his head. A swift pain in his chest expelled the stale breath he had hoarded, and the grim countenance evaporated. Oliver grunted as he heaved her up into his arms, wincing as the freshly healing tissue in his shoulder wound tore with the strain.
Duncan was there in an instant, relieving him of Gwynn's weight, assuring him that he would take care of her. The look in the young man's eyes told Sampson far more eloquently than his words, and Oliver allowed the artist to carry his ex-wife off toward the direction of the car.
Sydney was on her knees as he approached, fighting against the bonds holding her to a rather sturdy pipe. "How bad is she hurt?"
"She has a chance," Oliver murmured honestly, returning his attention to her predicament. "Turn away from the cuffs," he ordered tersely, aiming his gun in that direction. Sydney felt the urge to put up an argument, but didn't have time before he fired, snapping the chain linking the two metal bracelets together. Oliver sat his weapon down beside him and gathered Sydney's hands in his own, checking for any metal fragments which might have inadvertently penetrated her skin.
Oliver's newly acquired Sig Sauer skittered out of reach, propelled by a well-aimed bullet from Jeremiah. Taylor had managed to keep a weapon despite Oliver's thorough search, truly astounding the Englishman and his charge. Until Sampson reviewed the mental images of their encounter, truly disgusted with himself, recognizing the small pistol he had placed in Sydney's hand scarce hours before.
Sydney found herself nearly crushed beneath Oliver's weight.
"How gallant, the hero willing to sacrifice himself for the maiden. Of course, thanks to the modern efficiency of weapons, the bullet will plow straight through you, Sampson, and into her."
Oliver knew full well the accuracy of that statement, but presently it was the only thing he could think to do. The two men were equally sized, and with his injury and the drug he had been subjected to, Sampson was honest enough to admit that he didn't have a chance. Anyone insane enough to drag himself across a veritable obstacle course with a shattered knee would not respond to the modicum amount of pain that the turncoat was presently able to inflict upon him.
"Fate is a true lover of irony, don't you think, Ollie? Gwynn would have married me eventually if you hadn't come along. But you did, stealing away my only chance to be with the woman I loved!" Spittle flew from his lips as giddy laughter shook him. "And now, I get to return the favor. Oh, the Committee will most certainly not be pleased with Ms. Bloom's demise. Probably kill me, but frankly, I don't care."
Oliver's heartbeat tripled, and no matter how he fought he couldn't quite draw adequate oxygen into his lungs. Vision blurring to the point that a dark haze seemed to be the extent of his world, the Englishman heard Jeremiah's order for him to move away from Sydney. Sampson was in no condition to put up a fight, both men knew it, but he shook his head and muttered a rather vulgar refusal all the same.
Pain flaring in his chest, Oliver doubled over, rolling to his side, exposing Sydney to the physician's weapon. Instead of pulling the trigger and sending Sydney Bloom on to the next life, the man swung his gun in her protector's direction. "Remove your shirt, Sydney."
"Why?" she shot back, prompting a short bark of laughter from Oliver. The woman would question Satan himself.
A bullet discharged, kicking up dust half an inch from Oliver's mussed hair. "Take it off because I told you to take it off." Nearly the same build as Oliver, the tone of voice identical, Sydney was smacked with the abrupt realization that this was the man who had tortured her all those months ago.
Their eyes locked, the perversion of a smile accompanying the light shining in them sickening the lineswoman. Obediently, Sydney mechanically unbuttoned her shirt. Nausea threatened to propel the contents of her stomach and reposition them on the floor in Picasso fashion as she commenced to part the folds of the worn flannel apparel.
Sydney jumped, a short, sharp cry bursting from her hyper lungs as yet another chemical explosion sent metal slicing through air. Before her, Jeremiah Taylor fell to the filthy floor, bullet lodged securely in his brain.
In the distance, arm extended, Oliver's gun in hand, Duncan watched blank-faced as the physician died.
Mournful wailing of approaching ambulances obscured the clatter of the falling gun, and Duncan pivoted, returning to Gwynn's side without a word.
The willowy woman knelt next to Oliver, glancing up sharply in fear as another form entered the complex. Fox Mulder swept the area with his gun before securing it properly in its holster and joining her.
Sydney Bloom brushed a lock of hair from Sampson's forehead, noting for the first time the less-than-attractive blue his lips had become. Mulder watched her a moment, then, "Would somebody mind telling me what the hell is going on here?"
Her laughter, the kind that's the last resort before crying, more than adequately informed the FBI agent he was not getting any answers today.
Doubtful he'd ever really know the truth.
At least some things were consistent.
Organized chaos. The norm of most community hospitals. Fox Mulder sipped stale, overly sweetened coffee and watched the pretty young blonde pace approximately 28.9 miles in the teeny waiting room. Her long-haired companion--- the one who had called him from the car phone--- returned from a short jaunt with an older woman in tow, patiently explaining the reason behind their little vigil at Grady Memorial Hospital repeatedly as her mind wavered. No one bothered to give response to any of the questions he posed.
Repeatedly he was informed that Oliver was the man to talk to as both passed the buck. Of course, with Sampson undergoing more tests than most space shuttle astronauts, it was a bit difficult to approach him with the subject. Especially considering Oliver had somehow wrangled his way into keeping his trusty weapon at his side during every single procedure. Fox wasn't sure what his old friend was dealing with, but it certainly wasn't Columbia Records and Tapes.
A young intern, his face pinched in frustration, pushed Oliver into the room, planting the wheel chair and its occupant nearly on the G-man's toes. "He's all yours. He refuses admittance against better judgement, in my opinion. Make certain he takes the prescription I wrote out for him unless you want to spend more time in our fine establishment."
"Thank you, Doctor," the man offered before turning his gaze to his charge. Oliver, disgusted at being treated like an invalid, had plastered the patented scowl onto his features once more. "As for you, I want some answers, Oliver Sampson, and if you refuse, I will personally march you to jail and slam the door."
"Can't tell you," he replied cooly to Mulder's "bad cop" routine. "Need to know."
"Need to know?" he sputtered. "For God's sake, you're a security analyst."
"Was," Oliver corrected. "I have sworn an oath of secrecy to my present employers. You do not have clearance, therefore, you come out just as blind as you entered."
"Secrecy? What are you? NSA? CIA? Something far more subversive?"
"All and none," he replied cryptically before slicing to the heart of the matter. "I need you to stop asking questions and listen, Mulder. In the future someone may come for Gwynn, may attempt to harm her."
"Like the fellows in her apartment?"
A quick nod. "Or worse. I need you to keep her safe, watch her back."
"I'll keep you updated."
"I won't be back, Mulder. Ever." The finality in his words, the reluctance and pain in his eyes, told Mulder that was by no means an exaggeration. "Swear on your sister's soul that you will try your damnedest to protect her."
Mulder's breath caught, the familiar pain moved from its eternal perch in the back of his mind and into the forefront, and finally, with difficulty, he stated, "I swear on Samantha's soul that I will kill whomever or do whatever is necessary to keep Gwynn safe for as long as I live."
Sampson nodded, content with his friend's promise, awash with quiet assurance that Fox Mulder meant every word. "One more favor." He spoke in hushed tones, forcing Mulder to draw nearer. "If Gwynn should fall in love again, get married, check him out and most importantly, make certain he treats her better than I did."
"That goes without saying. Never could understand what that woman saw in you."
"I wasn't you," Sampson suggested coyly before rising from the chair and gathering his belongings. "Take care of the paperwork, Mulder; you seem to have a flare for those sorts of matters."
"You aren't waiting for Gwynn to return from surgery?" Scully had assured him it wouldn't take too long, as far as surgeries went.
"I'm afraid that's not possible. Gwynn will understand. She always does," he murmured with sad affection. Oliver extended his hand, taking Mulder's in his own. "Good bye, Fox Mulder. I hope you eventually find the way through your maze of demons. Unlike you, I can say for certain that my labyrinth has no end, no exit."
"It always seems that way from the center, but if there is an entrance, there will always be an exit. Trust me."
Sampson smiled one final time at the last man he considered a member of his family and his ephemeral wisdom and lead his new family out the door.
Gwynn's alarm was playing softly as they cautiously entered the darkened apartment. Yellow ribbon decorated the doorway, stenciled with the words "Police Barrier--- Do Not Cross." Oliver, of course, paid no heed to the order, ducking beneath the tape and scanning the rooms diligently, relieved by one scant degree that the place was not swarming with his old counterparts. "Grab everything you can, one trip, that's it," he ordered tersely, making a bee-line for the master bedroom.
Sting crooned about the decadence of their planet, the downfall of man's morals, and Oliver Sampson couldn't help but agree with the artist. In practiced movements he uncovered the safe hidden within the medicine cabinet, barely noticing the items he tossed into an overnight bag.
"Duncan and Mom are ready," came Sydney's melodious voice from the doorway, and the glimmers of an amused smile twitching at the edges of her lips made Oliver realize for the first time that he was singing a duet with his countryman by habit. Tagging along was the doomsday thought that never had he heard anything quite so prophetic.
"Tell them to take the stairs. We'll be down in a few minutes." Nodding, the young woman, who like the lady love of the song's narrator possessed keys to ruin, disappeared with such swift grace that Sampson, for a second, fancied the notion that perhaps he was in that hidden realm of VR with the sorceress decked out in old jeans and worn flannel rather than a bejeweled gown.
Either way, she looked equally lovely.
Zipping the satchel, he walked in long, swift strides to the bed, plucking the extra pistol from beneath and attaching a holster to his ankle. He slipped the weapon within its new home and popped a few clips into his jacket pocket. The bottle of pills within jiggled intolerance at the invaders.
Sampson pivoted, running smack-dab into Sydney, catching her wrist and halting the swift descent precipitated by her loss of balance. "Sorry," he murmured, a self-depreciating quirk of his eyebrows signalling his chagrin.
"In a hurry, are we?" she teased, and for a second, Sampson was niggled by the overwhelming desire to let go and watch her fall onto her butt. In the end, his professionalism won out, adding one more to its astonishing streak of victories.
"Yes," he replied, harsh, instantly regretful as the shimmering light in her eyes vanished beneath his scornful gaze.
Her fitful movements which often accompanied her nearly terminal discomposure returned full force, and she whispered, "Duncan wanted to leave a note," laying a small envelope on the Dalmatian bedspread.
A similar one joined it seconds later, and Sydney looked up, sympathy in her clear eyes. "It's the least I owe her." He didn't offer anything further, snatching up the bag containing his few meager personal belongings and heading for the living room. Sydney followed, heaving her own backpack onto a shoulder.
"Will you miss it?"
Sampson looked up from his task of switching off the end table lamp, studying her eyes with apparent interest before replying in stark honesty, "I always have." As soon as the confession left his lips, he seemed uneased by the knowledge that this woman had once more chipped away at his defenses. It was yet again time to change the subject. "Got everything?" Sydney murmured an affirmative, falling in step behind him.
Instead of the stairs, Oliver motioned her into the elevator. It didn't respond for a moment to his prompting, but with a decidedly tired groan, the car began to descend.
With the speed of a Congressional investigation.
Impatient, Sydney commenced to jabbing the button for the garage, hoping to prod the old lift into speeding up a tad. Beside her, Oliver's exasperated voice exclaimed, "Don't do that, Sydney." He leaned in take her hand away from the poor console she violently abused.
He didn't even get the entire warning out before the old elevator decided it'd had enough and stopped the car entirely, cables above rattling like spectral chains as the old machine gave up the ghost. The box listed sharply, slamming Sydney into the left wall, flattening her even more as Sampson collapsed against her.
"I tried to warn you," he breathed against her ear, and she could feel the beginning rumblings of laughter within his chest. One of the squarish corners of her VR equipment dug unmercifully into her shoulder blade, and Sydney wiggled in hopes of easing her discomfort.
He backed off a little, not nearly enough to ease Sydney's American sensibilities of personal space, and caught her gaze with his own. Oliver moved nothing other than his eyes, tracing the contours of her face, stopping at her mouth, lingering from a sudden difficulty to command his gaze to return once more to hers.
Soundlessly, his lips replaced the caress of his eyes, and one of his hands tangled into hers.
The other remained at his side, not cupping her head, not forcing her face to his, giving her the opportunity to retreat.
She didn't, astonishing herself as she leaned into the kiss, responding with a skill she had been unaware she possessed, one set of fingers sliding into his hair.
Low in his throat, noise finally escaped as his free hand tangled in blonde wisps of hair and the other one positioned itself at the small of her back, pressing their bodies together intimately.
Sydney's vocal cords responded in kind, her fingers clawing at a shoulder at the abrupt invasion of her mouth.
Despite the knowledge that he had no worries of a slim knife inserting its way between his ribs, Oliver's heart pounded with equal parts fear and arousal.
Around them, the car shimmied, before picking that exact moment to renew its journey.
Sampson pushed away from the young woman, leaning heavily against the opposite wall, his mouth open and unmoving.
Sydney studied her companion, trying to catalogue the unfiltered emotions running across his features but unable to even if she hadn't been reflecting them in her eyes. Trembling fingers skimmed across her lips, playing over the tingling nerves which sent lingering commands to various areas of her body.
Neither spoke even as the doors sluggishly parted.
On the other side Duncan stood, poking his head in for a second, unaware of the atmospheric emotions crackling within. "Hey, what happened with the elevator? I thought we were going to have to call fire rescue."
Oliver brushed past, heaving both his bags and Sydney's which had fallen to her feet during their embrace.
Sydney trailed behind, her thoughts churning.
Duncan watched them, confusion, suspicion playing over his face. He stared into the elevator, wishing the old battle horse could shed some light. Silently its doors rolled shut, divulging none of its secrets.
Duncan trotted to the old car his companions were piled into and sat brooding along with the rest of them.
Oliver put the vehicle in motion.
Resolutely, driven by the knowledge of all the lives betrayed, the knight continued his crusade, ever conscious of the dark angels following.
But equally aware of the ethereal young woman beside him and the power embodied within her seemingly shy and self-conscious countenance.
Despite the drastic outlook of the whole sorted affair, as he pulled into the dreadful Atlanta traffic, Oliver Sampson found himself battling a smile.
This is me running my mouth now. You can tune this out. Thanks first to the writers of VR.5 for giving us such rich and emotionally-battered characters to play with.
VR.5, Syd, Dunc, Ollie, Sam, Nora, Frank, Joe, and the Keeper as well as others belong to Samoset, Rysher, & FOX(or Sci-Fi Channel, whoever the hell owns 'em these days). Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, the Lone Gunmen, and the well-maicured man are creations of Chris Carter and FOX. Gwynneth Ripley and Jeremiah Taylor are my dysfunctional kids.