Today seems to be a fitting day to post this. I just got back from my city's tiny little Christmas Parade—and it snowed!—which happens to be the final high school marching band event of my life (teardrop), plus all my college apps and tests are finally done. Huzzah, huzzah, I have free time once more!
And on a completely unrelated note, I was about this close to labeling this a drama, but then I reread the first three chapters and said to myself, "Eh…no. Angst." So yeah. And the POV hasn't changed. Ben's pretty excited to have a mind-reading device strapped to his head again.
Disclaimer: I wished upon 47 stars. Guess what I still don't own.
Chapter 1"The best prophet of the future is the past." (fortune cookie)
XI, Benjamin Franklin Gates, believe that I may have just come up with something to help the current energy "crisis" or whatever they're calling it now. How could it have evaded me all this time, when frustration has simply been oozing from me into the atmosphere along with all the wasted fossil fuels?
We should get rid of traffic jams: that way, the environment and Ben are happy. But alas, no such utopia exists, so I am not so happy.
Craning my neck over the top of the station wagon in front of me, I note how the line of cars, shimmering and wavy from the humidity and engine heat, extends for blocks—maybe even a mile or so. All I did was give a couple guest lectures today at University of Maryland. Does that really warrant this type of punishment? I can hear Abigail now—
"I told you that you should have taken the metro; there's a stop right outside the campus…"
Well maybe I wanted to drive, which, in retrospect, makes no sense in my case. Riley was quick to point that out…
"Ben makes another weird decision," he said with a shrug. "No changing his mind now."
Just then Wes shuffled in, eyes glued to one of those rip-off daily calendars. "Uh-oh!" he chuckled, turning it around so we could see what it said. "Uncle Ben's being obdurate!" His statement was a quick and simple formula for silence: clearly none of us had ever heard that word before. "It's on the word-a-day calendar, see?" His slender, tan fingers tapped the definition as a silly grin splashed onto his face. "It means 'inflexible' or…'persistent in wrongdoing.'"
Somehow Riley found himself bent over in a fit of brief laughter. "Ahem," he coughed, a hand running through his dark hair. "That could, uh…y'know, in some circumstances, be a pret-ty accurate description of you, Ben."
We locked eyes, and Wes and Abigail stared between us, only the former completely in the know. Every couple seconds, the corner of Riley's mouth twitched.
"Dad…" Wes finally said. "Did Uncle Ben do anything else other than steal the Declaration of Independence?"
"He kidnapped the president, too," he stage-whispered.
"That was you?!"
"Uh, uh…" Riley quickly shot me an apologetic grimace before clapping Wes on the back. "I challenge you to a Monopoly marathon!" And at that, he dashed down the hallway, disappearing from view.
Wes followed hastily, calendar dropped at his feet. "I call the doggie piece!"
Not even bothering to hide her grin, Abigail slipped her arm around my waist and pecked me on the cheek. Suddenly my jacket pocket sank with unnatural weight. "Even after four years, I can't get over how cute they are together," she chuckled. I tried to come up with a response, but the emotions were uneasily translated; instead I grinned.
"Good luck with your lectures," she continued. "I love you."
"I love you, too." Upon our parting kiss, my pocket felt as if it was about to bust at the seams.
Quite abruptly I'm jarred back to the present by impatient foghorns from a fleet of fire trucks at the end of the line. In the setting sun, their strobe lights cast flickering, multi-colored shadows onto the surrounding city buildings. They screamingly imply, get out of the way! Where are we supposed to go—the sidewalks? Must we run down innocent pedestrians so the safety of others can be ensured? The paradox turns my taxed brain upside down.
Even if I wanted to, I can't do anything; I'm stuck in the center lane. Over the tops of distant buildings, I can almost see a faint glow. Is that their destination? Another look into the rearview mirror tells me that they're resorting to a side street to maneuver around this mess. Lucky…
And then my phone rings, as if this day could not get any more bizarre. Lately, my cell phone as been reserved strictly for emergencies, like if someone gets locked out or if Wes and Riley run out of Cookie Crisp.
"Hello?" In the background is a mélange of voices.
"Ben, OK—you picked up," Sadusky says hurriedly. "Here. Talk to Lynch."
OK. That wasn't weird at all. As their phone gets shuffled around noisily, I can pick out Sadusky's distinct tone over the din. I hope they're not trying to accuse me of something, because believe it or not, I haven't done anything.
"Gates, right?" Lynch says at last; he sounds really familiar.
"Yeah…"
There's a pause. "Um, excuse me for asking, but have you ever had a British accent?"
Oh—now I remember Agent Lynch: Mr. Open Book from my days of trying to impersonate "Michael Howe." Yup…he's the bright one.
On the other end, there's more commotion, and one by one his fellow agents, I assume, begin to fight over the phone. Oh boy, here we go…
"What kind of question is that?" Dawes says with frustration coloring her voice. "'Have you ever had a British accent'? That's like asking if I've ever been Chinese!"
"It doesn't matter," sighs Rucker, who I think is the blond. "He just needs to make small talk with Gates while we figure this out." Now they've got my attention. But elaboration's probably at the bottom of their list right now.
"This plan would work out a lot better," she replies. "if we had another person on the squad to help." There's another awkward pause.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I hear Hendrix say. "It's not my fault Carlisle's not here."
"Hendrix!" Dawes snaps. "She's your fiancée and she's seven months pregnant. You better hope it's your fault!"
"This is true."
"Wait—" Rucker says suddenly. "Isn't Gates still on the line?"
Over the couple murmurs of "oops," the phone shuffles back to one person's control. I swear, that squad is rather peculiar when they think no one's looking.
"Sorry, Gates." It's Rucker, and he sounds pretty stressed. "Where are you?"
"Stuck in traffic downtown," I say with a fit of worry bubbling in my chest. "Why?"
"How soon can you get out of it?"
At this, the worry begins to flat-out boil. "With or without collateral damage?"
"Without."
"Not very soon."
Under his breath, he mutters a few mild curses. "I know this will sound odd, but just listen. Leave your car in traffic, get out, and walk over to the metro to go home, all right?"
This isn't making any sense. "But—"
"Gates, please." The line goes dead and sends the worry to magma-like levels. Ever since the events of four years ago, I have hated feeling clueless, but thankfully the sensation hasn't been all that common. Now however I feel the uncertainty, the fear roaring back from its grave, fangs bared. Yet that's all it is—a feeling, a foreshadow. Nothing's certain. It's probably nothing. I'll just follow Rucker's instructions to calm their nerves.
As soon as I get out of the car and make it clear that I'm not coming back, my ears are met with a cacophony of car horns. I bet these people wouldn't be honking at me if they knew I'm acting on FBI orders; the conspiracy still weighs heavily on the mind of the general public. Every so often we have furtive side glances cast our way—some curious, others sympathetic, a few even suspicious.
The metro, for once, is somewhat empty. (They're probably all up in that ridiculous traffic jam.) With nothing else to occupy my brain than the blurring lights lining the concrete tube, the anxiety Rucker and the rest of the squad planted begins to take root and grow faster than kudzu. What could they be "figuring out"? And why would they have to call me about it, unless it involves me? That's it, I'm calling Riley. Thank goodness he rigged my cell to work in subways.
The monotonous ringing does not immediately begin to invade my eardrum; how unusual—
"Hello?"
That was a quick response. "Hey," I say quickly in the pause. "Listen, is there something going on—"
"You've reached the cell phone of Riley Poole. I trust you know what to do from here."
"Dammit, Riley!" I say loudly, snapping the phone shut before the tone could beep. I've forgotten he has that irritating trick voicemail message. Collecting myself after that little outburst, I sweep my gaze across the metro car—the only other occupant is a very elderly lady with a large grocery bag. Her small eyes are wide and wary.
"Sorry," I apologize awkwardly. "My friend, uh…his voicemail on his cell phone makes it seem like he answers, and, um…I really needed to, uh…" Wow. Where are the words going?
"It's quite all right, dear," the lady says, fingers curling tighter around the brown bag.
As the train slows for the next stop, I flail to make another stab at conversation. "I see you've got some Wheat Thins."
She smiles more out of politeness than anything, I suspect. "Oh yes, they're my favorite." The doors open, and then she scurries out. That also wasn't weird at all. Conversations with older women about salty cracker-like food products—isn't that normal?
And now I'm alone with the knowledge that even my most constant, perpetual lifeline and contact is unable to be reached. Since when does Riley recognize the existence of an off switch on anything?
What if something happened to him? What if that's what Sadusky and them are investigating? Before I realize it, I'm up and pacing the fast-moving car; as it careens around a curve, my unsupported body tumbles to the ground.
"Ouch," I murmur to myself. There's definitely going to be a bruise to remember this day.
Needless to say, I attempt to call his cell a few more times, refusing to stand back up and reposition myself in a seat. Although it's probably not all that sanitary, I'm more preoccupied with why Riley won't pick up.
For a change of pace, I dial Abigail—also no answer.
"Hello, you've reached Abigail Chase—" I already know it by heart; why listen to it another six times?
The metro whistles from stop to stop, snaking beneath the city, cut off from the real world. Over each bump and jar on the track, simple questions sprout from the planted worry—what? Why? Now?
Eventually my stop is reached, and the station is a ghost town. It's not that surprising seeing as it's the end of the line, though the stillness is much too eerie for my tastes. Isn't there at least one other weary traveler?
Starring up at the staircase to the outside, my fingers absently trace over the keys to my phone once more. Maybe I should call Mom and Dad, see if they know something, anything. No…they'll just work themselves into a tizzy—like I am.
The short walk from the station to our driveway seems to stretch for miles, and my hazy thoughts have made hazy visions. Fog isn't common around here in August; and being this far from civilization (as Riley tends to put it), there shouldn't be this white noise, this unidentifiable, low grumble teasing my eardrum. Most likely I'm hearing things.
Wrong: it grows much too loud—and much too hot. Until I rounded that final corner on the driveway, I was never aware that brick could burn.
All movement halted, my eyes drift up this bonfire to the heavens, or perhaps it's a leak in the earth from hell. Twisting around and scathing all it touches, the violent orange tentacles angrily, noisily devour our once-safe haven. I can barely think beyond the waves of heat rolling towards me like an army.
Is this what Sadusky and the agents were calling about? To send me home to this?
"Ben!"
The roar of the flames nearly drowns the solitary voice out, but its light carefully etches the figure's silhouette running my way. Still, my feet have grown roots.
"Ben!" He finally reaches me and jostles my shoulder, right as an arm of the fire envelops the last surviving car by the wreckage. In seconds the gasoline explodes into a billowing mushroom cloud, sending shrapnel of gleaming red-coated metal high in the air. The blast illuminates his face, even from behind—lens of his glasses holding a splintering crack, face smeared with soot, hair splotched orange, the dye having been burned off from the heat.
Yet more is being screamed in his eyes than could ever be determined from his physical marks. There's confusion. There's a tad of relief. There's also pure, unadulterated fear. However, while he whispers words of comfort to the boy in his arms his tone buries his own anxieties.
"Riley," I finally choke. "What…?" Pointing as words fail to suffice, I lock gazes with his emotional stare.
"I don't know," he mouths with a shake of the head; the expression his face crumples into sends a bomb to my gut. "Wes, it's OK," he murmurs. "We're safe; see, Uncle Ben's here—he's fine."
Eyes cemented shut against the spectacle, the poor boy's arms remain latched around Riley's neck. He can probably see the flames through his eyelids.
"Have you…" I have to pause, and I take them by the arm and stagger further from the house. "Have you heard from Sadusky?"
Perplexed, he raises an eyebrow ever so slightly. "That you're smelling is the burning silicon chips from my cell phone. So, no." In any other situation, I would have at least grinned—but all good humor is fuel. "Why?"
"He and his old squad called me a while ago," I say. "and told me to go home. Do you think they knew?" I add at the last second, not even needing to clarify.
"If they knew anything, they would have said something," he says simply. I still must look antsy about it because he continues, "Come on, Ben. This is Sadusky we're talking about. He's not like that."
I try as hard as I can through my shell-shocked senses to imbibe the truth of his words. Yet I can't help this nagging presence in my chest that I'm missing something, that this inferno is blotting out the key piece…
"You're right," I sigh finally to his clear relief. Suddenly a thought strikes me. "Have any fire trucks been by here?"
Slowly his eyes gaze at me, then the blaze, and back to me once more, his eyebrow raised. "No…?"
Then where were those in town going?
"That's OK," he sighs, trying to expel all negative tension, a futile attempt if I do say so myself. "All that matters is we all made it out in one piece."
His last statement seems to hang in the air like the clouds of tar-colored smoke around us. Racking my brains takes nearly a thousand times longer than usual as he keeps on talking.
"I mean, how lucky was it that Abigail went to listen to one of your lectures and run errands today?" he says quickly, his composure slipping. No doubt the thoughts of what could have been are—wait.
"Riley," I say carefully. "Abigail's heard those lectures hundreds of times. She didn't go with me."
"I haven't seen her since you left. She's not one to just sit around the house—she had to go somewhere."
"Dad." Although the lone syllable is muffled, we hear it as if it was amplified through a speaker. "When you went to the bathroom before lunch, Aunt Abigail told me she was going to lay down." Wes' eyes, now open, flicker between us as my own dart to the fire.
The frantic panic is slow to take hold. Riley, too, whips toward the burning brick, wood, books, memories—person?
Mechanically I begin to step up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath my feet, while I hear Riley in the background trying to talk to Wes—"Did she come out? Where was she?" My chest has caught a stray spark showering down from the sky, enflaming me with fear and dread. God, no—
"ABIGAIL!"
Setting off at a full sprint, I dash toward the fire, her screamed name getting lost in the raucous crackle. Sweat bursts onto my skin as the temperature rockets, but I don't care. If I can get inside, I can save her, right? This is being faked—if I cant get to a café, maybe she'll show up! History repeats itself, does it not? Isn't that what all my experience shows? Who cares if the hair on my arm is being singed…I need to at least try—
"Ben, stop!"
Suddenly my arm jerks with resistance and my face falls to meet the crunchy, crisp grass poking up from around the rocks. They feel like coals. Why can't I move? I need to get to Abigail; she needs me—just a little further…
"Abigail…" I hear myself choke out.
"Ben," says a voice behind me; it sounds like Riley, and a similar choking sound comes from him as well. Far away on my wrist, I sense someone's grip tighten.
"Riley, let go! I need to get in there!"
"It's too late," he groans, sniffing.
"No!" I shout. "I'm right on time, I'm right on time—"
"If you go any closer, you're going to start cooking," he yells back. "Think! For once I'm asking you to put instinct aside!"
I finally tear my eyes away from the light and stare blindly behind me until my pupils adjust. His gaze, shiny from the tracks under his eyes, reasons with me faster than words ever could.
"I'm sorry," he says simply, hand still secured around my wrist. Shakily he pulls me up, and in the distance I glimpse Wes gawking at us with a cocked head, index finger held between his teeth.
A chasm just ruptured the center of my ribcage and its yawning scream is lost in the crackling behind me.
"Where's Aunt Abigail?" the boy asks hastily as soon as we get back. Riley shakes his head, pulling Wes into an embrace.
"It's all right," he lies.
"Where is she?"
"It's all right," he repeats.
"Why won't you tell me?"
They break apart and stare at their broken faces. Only after eternity passes do the floodgates behind Wes' eyes open—the cry rips me apart. I want to join him, to scream so my voice might be heard and my throat shredded to pieces, anything but have this bomb in my stomach.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch flashes of blue lights; the sound of slamming car doors vaguely registers mentally but we turn around anyway.
"Oh my god…"
The entire squad of agents hangs loosely on their ajar doors, gaping up at the spectacle. Unless I'm mistaken, it was Dawes who spoke, and again she's the first to regain her tongue.
"Rucker," she barks. "Call the office and have them research if these incidences are related!" The blond sprints back to another vehicle, her close in pursuit.
Wait—was that plural? No…I'm hearing things…I hope…
On the far end of the pack of cars stands Sadusky, studiously examining the sight with a hand tracing his jaw and cheek bones. After a moment he sighs deeply and spits, "Holy mackerel."
"If you don't mind me saying, sir," a nervous Michaels says beside him. "I'd say this is more along the lines of 'holy ocean's entire fish population.'" And at that, he dashes back to help his comrades.
I barely notice the senior agent approach us. "We had—" He pauses, words burned away in the heat. Meanwhile his face scrunches into things inexpressible. "We had no idea," he manages. We can't respond, and he knows it, even though he waits to continue. "Is everyone all right?"
Again we remain silent, but the silence is enough to answer his question. His eyes dart with uncharacteristic panic at each of us in turn and back over to the manor, eventually squeezing shut. "Abigail…" he mumbles poignantly. But when he swivels around to face his old squad, any signs of cracks are sealed. "Get back to the office!" he shouts, halting their frenzied efforts in mid-motion. "Or…just…" he sighs. "Go back to your families. Hendrix, make sure Agent Carlisle hasn't gone into labor—"
"Uh, she's not due for another two months," he says feebly.
"I don't care," Sadusky replies curtly. "Stuff happens. Go anyway. And someone go check that Lynch didn't destroy the place being left alone, all right?"
One by one, they slowly lock gazes and nod, heading to their respective cars. They sense whatever vibes we've been omitting.
As soon as the final taillight disappears beyond the hedge, Sadusky's leaks burst forth once more; I can't even see his face, as he doubles over, clutching at his head. Watching the normally composed man's anguish is hard to bear, yet I can't remove my eyes, and neither can Riley. Wes has buried his head in his father's pants leg.
"Dammit!" The agent's exclamation echoes even despite the roar of the fire. "I'm sorry," he croaks as he shuffles up to us. "But…"
"But what?" Riley says hurriedly.
"There's been another fire," he murmurs. "Ben…" His face is alight with regret. "Your parents…"
The gorge splits deeper, further, and I'm almost ready to split in half.
"The fire department…" he continues. "They got caught up in traffic…too late…"
Except for the lone cool streaks down my cheeks, I can't feel anything—the world, or at least my world, is burning into unidentifiable ashes and cinders.
"What's going on?" Though still halfway attached to the pants seam, Wes peeks out uncertainly, sniffing a bit.
The agent's pained visage softens as he looks down at the boy, but words are fleeing from the scene at an alarming rate.
"Go with Sadusky for a minute, all right?" Riley mumbles; Wes hesitates but eventually shuffles over to him, wide blue orbs staring up expectantly.
"Do you want a piggy back?" Sadusky says with the closest thing to a smile that he can manage, which still isn't much and isn't returned except in a sigh and a nod. The two head awkwardly over to his lone vehicle down the driveway, leaving Riley and I alone.
"Coincidence, perhaps?" he murmurs, unconvinced. After a moment he lifts his gaze from the gravel to my face. Seven times I count him open his mouth to try and say something, but instead end up stuttering silently. "Oh, Ben…" he finally groans, and soon his arms are flung around me; I return the gesture. Collecting on my shoulders are puddles from his eyes. Still I feel so disconnected.
Can this be real?
Over the top of his black-and-orange speckled head, the fire has taken on the shape of a glaring demon, a smiling, glaring, demon. And in its dull roaring growl of a voice, it's cackling—
"Of course it's real."
Suddenly I sense Riley's hand on the lump in my jacket pocket. Without asking, he reaches his hand in and procures the minuscule box. He opens it, and one would think that the Great Flood was upon us once more.
Laying still in his soot-covered hands, the golden band shines while the single diamond sparkles brilliantly with the light that has destroyed its wearer.
XXX
OK…so. Warning: Character deaths. (A little late, but I hate putting warnings like that at the beginning because it gives too much away.)
Ahem…I promise the bulk of this story's not this intense. But hopefully you've found it interesting? Maybe?
Review and tell me. Berate me for killing off people if you wish. Whatever suits your fancy.