A/N: Okay! Here we go! Getting into the stuff right here!

Chapter 3: The Journal

All in all, it was a pleasant ride. Chuck marveled a little at that, on the ride back to the premises of 'Bartowski and Son'—now sadly reduced to 'and Son'—marveled that he could find pleasure in anything at all this day, but Sandra was there, pressed against his side, her arm looped around his waist. That alone could probably put a smile on his face with the world ending, mildly inappropriate as it was for two people who had just met. They didn't talk much, Sandra seemed to have an uncanny knack at guessing his moods, and as the hackney bounced through the streets, slowly their hands crawled along the leather seat. At first they merely hooked pinkies, but Sandra's fingers slipping gently against his spurred him on, until they laced their fingers together fully. She squeezed his hand in gentle reassurance and sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. It felt more than good; it felt right, as if some part of the horror and chaos of the day had fallen away, or as if a rather large piece of a puzzle had snapped into place.

The coach juddered to a halt and the driver spat a gob of tobacco juice into the macadam of the street. Chuck and Sandra glanced at each other, and their eyes caught. She leaned in, lips parted slightly, and Chuck could feel the deep blue wells of her eyes pulling him inexorably down into them. "Oy! We're here!"

Chuck straightened with a jerk, and they pulled apart immediately. Sandra blinked in consternation, and then blushed slightly. Chuck frowned and shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was a full three seconds before he remembered they were still holding hands, and even then, it was only because Sandra gave his fingers another gentle reassuring squeeze. The door flipped open at his touch, and Chuck leaped to the ground as if trying to escape, tearing his hand free. Sandra looked down at him, a hurt look marring her features. That wasn't his intention, and Chuck winced, held his hand out to help her down again.

The odd moment passed as if it had never been, she flashed him a toothy grin that made his heart melt and they walked toward the storefront. The sign, proclaiming 'Bartowski and Son' sliced through him. It would have to be changed, if he was going to keep it open. That was a new thought. Chuck closed his eyes and dug in his coat pocket for the house keys. Sandra's hand on his wrist brought him out of his reverie.

"Did you leave the door unlocked?" she said in a hoarse whisper. This city bustled around them, and the sound of the hackney coach driver shouting to his team as he pulled back into the flow of traffic, muscling past pedestrians. He remembered when he was a child, his father would take him out, putting him up on his shoulders as they walked the streets. Chuck's father would point out things, architecture: the way buildings were structured so that they stood up, the processes behind the macadam streets that they walked, the little details that everyone always overlooked.

Everything reminded him of his father. Chuck blinked and looked more intently at the door. It was open several inches, with a dusting of wood splinters fanned down the frame where the deadbolt had been torn loose. "No," he said, and shook his head. "I always lock it..."

Sandra produced a .45 caliber derringer from her handbag, the little pistol smaller than the palm of her hand, looked out of place in her hand. Because she held the gun, and herself with such poise, Chuck thought the derringer looked almost silly; too small by half. He shook himself, took a step toward her, and plucked the derringer from her hand.

"Hey!" she snapped. "What are you doing?"

"It's my home," Chuck said. "I should be the one to make certain the thieves have fled."

Sandra pouted briefly, and then a thought came to her. "Do you even know how to fire a gun?"

He shrugged. "I just squeeze this little metal bit here, don't I?"

Her eyebrows went up. "I really don't think you should—" But Chuck was already starting up the steps. Sandra rolled her eyes and grunted, and followed. Chuck stopped at the door to glance over his shoulder.

"Wait here," he said. Sandra gave him a very level look, then arched one eyebrow and produced a second derringer from God knows where. The movement by which she retrieved it was too fast for him to follow. Chuck swallowed. They were getting worked up for nothing. No criminal in their right mind would have stayed inside. Whoever it had been had smashed a display case full of gold pocket watches and run off long since.

Chuck inched forward and nudged the door open, it swung halfway open before the top hinge gave out and the door hung crazily in the portal, wedging itself to a stop. It took a hard shove to dislodge it, and the door snapped back with a clatter against the far wall. He winced and tried to grab the door, but he still had Sandra's derringer in his fist, and he just made it worse, banging the door with his hand and stumbling in his haste. Chuck fetched up against a broken display case, only just missing slicing himself open on the shards of glass. Sandra grabbed the back of his coat and helped to steady him; they took in a scene straight from bedlam.

Over-turned and shattered display cases made a maze of broken glass, splintered wood across the tongue and groove flooring. The old persian rug Stephen Bartowski had brought home from his travels after the war was bunched up in the corner carelessly, with large rents in the fabric, possibly where it was torn out from under the display cases. A debris-field of the former contents of the ruined cases stretched lengthwise across the chamber, with the silk cushions the watches had been laid out on split open by a blade of some kind. It didn't make sense, jumbled as the picture was. It was impossible to tell how much was missing, if anything. Chuck glanced around, trying to do a mental inventory, but the order of the shop was too disrupted, case-clocks tumbled to the floor amid shattered glass and bent gold and silver and steel.

"Oh my God, Chuck," Sandra said as she took in the carnage. "Can you tell what they took?"

He shook his head mutely, too stunned by everything to really process what he was looking at. His father was dead, and now this, all in one day. It was too much. And then it got worse.

"I think the pair of you had better drop those little girly guns," a man said as he came out of the kitchen. He had a sawed-off lever action gun of some kind. Chuck couldn't place it, but the yawning gap of the barrel looked too big for a rifle. He froze, derringer forgotten and another man came out behind the first, a revolver of some kind in hand. "I said drop it," the first man said, and extended his gun in Chuck's direction. "Both of you."

The second spoke for the first time. "Hand over the journal and we'll let you live."

There was a loud crack, concussion next to Chuck's ear, almost deafening, and red exploded out of the first man's arm at the elbow. His gun went spinning away, and then something hit Chuck in the back, taking him straight to the floor. He realized a moment later, it was Sandra, her weight pressing into his back. The man with the revolver dove aside, and the air was split again. Wood chips and tiny scraps of wallpaper burst from the wall behind the man. He rolled and came up to his feet in stride, running for the door. Chuck's mind reeled with the rush of violence, unable to catch up with what was going on around him. Someone was tugging at his fingers. "Chuck, give me the gun," Sandra grated, and he felt her fingers cool against his hand; he let go of the derringer, and felt a knee press into his back, keeping him down. The first man had recovered his weapon, and spun, gun extended in his left hand. Sandra's second derringer barked twice, and blood bloomed on his chest. Chuck closed his eyes tight against the image, but couldn't blot it out of his memory.

He shook with the horror of it, and eventually realized the knee pressing him into thefloor was gone. His eyes came open, to stare at the pool of blood expanding under the man. Sandra's voice brought him back to himself. "Chuck. I need you to listen to me."

He blinked half a dozen times, coming up to his feet with her aid. It took a moment for him to focus on her. She looked as she ever had, though there was a tightness to her face that hadn't been there before, her eyes held a sadness that he hadn't noticed before, but Chuck realized it had always been there, the attack had just brought it out to the surface. "What," he mumbled. "What happened?"

"Chuck, listen," she said, fixing him in place with her eyes. Sandra pressed the derringer back into his hand. "You killed him."

"What, no I didn't," he protested. Then a realization. "You saved my life."

"Shhh," She murmured, finger touching his lips, soothing. "And now you have to help me. A man protecting his home from thieves is one thing, but it will be suspicious if you say I shot him," She hesitated, as if... he couldn't decide what, just something odd about the pause. The answer snapped into place. She was about to lie to him, and she hated herself for it. Or maybe something else; he couldn't be sure. "I need you to protect me now. It will draw attention I cannot afford. My father wasn't like yours. He was a bad man, and if the police look into me... I'm sorry to put this on you, but."

"Don't," Chuck heard himself say. "Don't apologize. I shot him. Of course I did. Was the derringer mine as well?"

She smiled weakly and nodded. They could hear the policeman's whistle in the street. Then another gunshot, far away. The second man firing at a pursuing officer? Or the police shooting at him? Another shot, a third, then more whistles.

Chuck looked intently at Sandra again, marvelling at her calm demeanor. She was handling the incident far better than he. It took him a moment to understand his own thoughts. He'd referred to it as 'the incident' a cold and antiseptic to talk about nearly being gunned down in his own home, especially so soon after the fact. Maybe he was in shock, yes, that must be it. Another puzzle solved. The police arrived shortly, shouting and stomping around on the wreckage of 'Bartowski and Son,' Sandra explained in halting sentences what had occurred, and Chuck merely nodded along at the appropriate points.

It was nearly an hour before the inspector arrived, a narrow balding man with dark hair and dark eyes, and a pompous carriage to his walk. "I'm Lieutenant Inspector Milbarge," He said, glancing around. His eyes took in everything.

"Sandra Bower," She said, and extended her hand. The inspector took her hand and kissed the back. His eyes narrowed and darted up to her face.

"And you must be Mr. Bartowski, the titular 'Son' I suppose?" Milbarge said.

Chuck nodded vaguely, though the reminder of his father's death tore at a scab that hadn't ever been allowed to heal, even if shock had forced it from his mind. "Yes, we were just at the hospital, my father—"

"Yes, yes. I'm aware. My condolences on your loss," Milbarge said. There was something oily about his voice that Chuck found distasteful in the extreme. "You can see how this looks of course. One Bartowski gunned down, one Bartowski gunning down another man, all with the the span of four hours. I mean no disrespect, but it seems likely the two are linked."

Sandra bristled, "Just what are you implying, Sir? I'll not stand for it. Charles saved my life, both our lives."

Milbarge opened his mouth to reply, when a commotion outside interrupted.

"I demand to know what's going on in there," Bryce's voice cut through the babble of voices. "Chuck, are you alright?"

Milbarge turned to the door, "Let him in, let him in. Maybe he can shed some light on this," he said, and the patrolman led Bryce in, one hand holding the shoulder of his coat in an iron grip. "And who might you be?"

Chuck found his voice at last. "Bryce Larkin, my father's ward. I don't know if he's even heard about—"

"I was at Jill's," he explained. "God, I couldn't believe it. Do they know who... what the devil? Who's this dead man here!"

Milbarge tapped his chin with a finger in thought. "That's exactly what I intend to find out," his eyes flitted around the shop, from Bryce to Chuck, to Sandra, back. It put Chuck in mind of a rat, but there was an intelligence at work behind those eyes, vicious and petty as it was. He really could not make himself like the man. "I will get to the bottom of this, Mr. Bartowski, mark my words."

He pestered the three of them with questions, and Chuck answered as best he could, keeping to Sandra's story. Bryce made an incredulous sound when he learned that Chuck had shot and killed a man, but when Milbarge turned to him, he merely shrugged and kept silent. At last the inquisition was over. "Hmm... something is at play here. But, nevertheless, I find no fault in your actions here, Mr. Bartowski. The other man has fled, though Patrolman Elridge insists he may have grazed the man." Milbarge tucked his little notebook away and shrugged. "At any rate, I'll leave a man here. Do an inventory to see if anything is missing, and he will file the report with my office in the morning. He tipped an imaginary cap vaguely in Sandra's direction and left.

"Odious man," Sandra whispered. Chuck supposed it was meant to be under her breath, but he found himself fighting a grin somehow.

"I'm so sorry about all of this," Chuck said. "I never meant for you to be involved in—"

Sandra cut him off with a finger to his lips. "Shh... none of this is your fault. Do not apologize."

Bryce grinned from behind Sandra's back and winked at Chuck. He gave a thumbs up.

Chuck cleared his throat. "Anyway. Without father, I don't know that the investment opportunity will still be—"

She rolled her eyes and 'Shh-ed' him again. "Don't be silly, Chuck. I wish we could have met under different circumstances as well, but life never gives anyone exactly what they wish." Something in that made her smile sadly, and she bit her lip. After a moment's contemplation, Sandra dipped into her little leather and blue needlepoint handbag, produced a tiny square of cardstock and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. "I'll expect to hear from you when things are more settled. If I'm not there, you can leave word with my landlady. I need to see you again, I don't mean to be overly forward. You've suffered a terrible loss, and I'm sure the last thing on your mind is... but, I—" She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment longer, then went up on her toes and gave him a brief peck on the cheek. Sandra swept out without another word, even when she had to pause for Bryce to get out of her way.

Chuck stood stock-still, utterly confused for a long, awkward moment after her departure. The room seemed dimmer somehow, but that was nonsense. Bryce's grin faded as the enormity of the day's events seemed finally to seep into him. "God," he said at last to the empty room but for him and Chuck and the ruins of their stock in trade. "What a day. Have you checked, is the upstairs like this as well?"

He shrugged. "The police went upstairs, one of them said something. I believe it is."

Bryce sighed. "We might as well get started cleaning up."

Chuck nodded numbly. It took them long into the night to catalog everything; all the damaged stock, and display cases. But miraculously, nothing was missing. Even in the upstairs, though his worktable was swept clean and his drawers turned out on the floor, neither Chuck nor Bryce could find anything that was missing. At last they sent the policeman away. Chuck fretted a little what Milbarge would make of the lack of thievery. Bryce volunteered to check Stephen's room, but Chuck insisted. He very nearly made the mistake of saying 'he was my father,' but he stopped himself. Bryce seemed to hear the words anyway, but he merely smiled sadly, and it looked so like the smile Sandra had worn in speaking of her own father, that he nearly asked for forgiveness.

Stephen Bartowski's room had doubled as a study, workshop, laboratory, and there was just as much broken glass and crockery and bits of twisted metal as there was in Chuck's workshop. Chuck went over to the desk and sat heavily. He wept, briefly, in silence, and when he'd cried himself out, he stood to look for a broom.

Sweeping was relatively mindless and let him put his swirling thoughts to rest. He swept the wreckage into a series of small piles, leaving under the desk for last. Chuck stuffed the broom head under the desk, trying to get all of the broken glass from the empty oil-lamp that Stephen had been trying to fix before the break-in. The broom snagged on something, tugging at the skin of Chuck's palms. He thought nothing of it at first, but a second stroke tugged in the same way. He frowned and looked down, making sure the floor was clear of glass shards before he knelt and put his head under the desk. It was dim under the desk, with his bulk blocking most of the light from the lantern hanging from the wall by the door, but he could see where the straw from the broom had pulled out. Several sticks of straw were trapped between two of the floorboards.

Chuck felt his eyes narrow. He fished in his pocket briefly for his pocket knife, snapped it open and stuck the blade between the floorboards. Wiggling the blade managed, after half a minute, to dislodge one of the boards, and Chuck put the knife down. He stuck his finger in the gap and tugged, revealing a small cubby, pitch black in the dimness. The leather cover of a small book met his fingertips when he plunged his hand in. Chuck felt around, and found a second cover with his hand. He tugged both free and held them to the light.

Simple leatherbound journals, much like the one Milbarge the police Inspector had used, but worn with use. The words of the second robber, the one who'd slipped away came back to him, echoing over and over. 'Hand over the journal and we'll let you live.' Chuck's hands shook as he opened the first journal. In his father's hand, he found the title page.

Property of Stephen J. Bartowski.

Technical Journal Vol 114:

Notes concerning the theoretical basis

of the Tesseract Lens.

His throat felt dry. Chuck's mind spun and clanked like a steam engine, working at the problem faster than he could have expected. The first policeman's words: two men accosted his father in the street, killing him. Later that same day. Two men broke into the store. This was what they were after. This journal. This is what his father had died for. Chuck closed the first journal and his heart was hammering in his chest. Just the words 'tesseract lens' sent a chill down his spine. The second journal was a near twin to the first. Save for one difference.

Technical Journal Vol. 115:

Notes concerning the construction and operation

of the Tesseract Engine.

Chuck felt bile in his throat. It was a bad joke. A tesseract was a mere theoretical construct, a four dimensional object, when reality was made up only of three. The chill was back, his nerves shot all to hell. His father had died for a joke. But, something in the pit of his stomach told him something else entirely. He swallowed back the bile and closed the second journal.

He crossed over to the door and grabbed the lantern, before returning to the desk. He read until the lantern burned out, then he refilled the lantern and read some more. Chuck read and read, on into the early hours of the morning, as if a fever had taken him. Finally exhaustion pulled him down and he slept with his face pressed into the journal. He dreamed a nightmare landscape of fiction straight out of Jules Vern. And when he woke, he was sick with mortal dread of what his father had wrought.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: Let me know what you think. This story needs input, so please review.