Chapter 4

Pete sat still and silent in the metal chair.

The room was empty, except for the table situated in front of him, another chair, four bare cement walls, and a dark red door. This was the interrogation room. He had been in many, but usually as the interrogator, never as the interrogatee.

Pete had spent his first hour in the Police station inside one of their cells. He had even caught a few minutes of sleep before he was aroused by the young Officer Lawrence. He had been shuffled quickly into this room and left alone.

Lawrence had asked for his wallet and other belongings, identification and such. He kept his cell phone to himself, not wanting to find out the consequences of showing a piece of technology that was thirty-some years before its time. Pete reluctantly imagined that the result would be the 1970's equivalent of being burned at the stake.

Pete rubbed his sore wrists and leaned his head back... only to be startled by the loud sound of the door opening. It was like they had waited.

It wasn't Lawrence this time. He wore a tan suit, and a black tie. His hair was classic 70's middle-aged combover, with some discreet sideburns. He had friendly features behind the graying stubble, and tell-tale signs of a hard life. But Pete had a good vibe about him for some reason. Pete was happy that they hadn't sent in some hardened, soulless cop to do this interrogation; he wasn't sure he could handle it. But a cop is still a cop, he had a serious look on his face, ready to do his job.

The officer dropped Pete's wallet on the table with a slapping sound that lingered for a few seconds afterward.

"We have you on some pretty serious charges, Mr. Lattimer." He said matter-of-factly, leaning on his hands. He took off his tan jacket, draped it over the other chair, and sat down across from Pete.

"Counterfeiting, trespassing, resisting arrest, assault of an officer, the list goes on and gets much more serious."

Pete looked from his wallet to the man's eyes. "I can explain."

"I had a hunch that you could. After all," He stopped, tapping Pete's wallet, "you are a Secret Service agent." He had a smugness about him that indicated disbelief. Pete just sat, staring angrily.

The officer stood up, and paced slowly up and down the room.

"There is not, nor was there ever, a Secret Service agent named Peter Joseph Lattimer."

Pete was growing impatient. "Look-" He tried to interrupt. The officer disregarded his attempt.

"Impersonating a federal agent is a crime that can land you in a place where you won't see the sunshine for many long years."

"Hey." Pete said, annoyed. Again, ignored.

"I mean, not to mention this counterfeiting job." He took a moment to laugh and pulled out one of Pete's twenty dollar bills. "It's like you didn't even try." He regarded it for a few more seconds. "A great work of art though."

Pete almost found it laughable.

He felt his anger melt away to slight dizziness. "Why are you here?"

"The feds are already on their way. I thought I'd get some face time. You are the most high profile case to come through here in a while."

Pete was silent.

"I'm Detective Allen Casablancas." He raised his hand to shake. Pete did not reciprocate, but Casablancas did not seem to mind.

They didn't say a word for a few minutes.

"You know, Lawrence thinks you're a nut."

Pete rolled his eyes, not surprised at all. "What about you?"

Casablancas was silent for a moment, judging the man before him. "I'm not quite sure yet."

"Well, If it's any consolation, I'm not crazy." He paused. "At least, I don't think so."

"Your situation sure as hell is, Lattimer. And, like my fellow officers, I find it hard to understand what a federal criminal such as yourself would be doing passed out in a middle of a train yard in St. Cloud, Minnesota."

Pete laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He had waited two years to say that line.

Detective Casablancas cracked the smallest smile. "I trust that."

At that moment, the red door opened and Officer Lawrence peeked his head in.

"FBI's here for our friend." He shot a glare at Pete, which was gladly mirrored.

"Alright." Casablancas said with disdain. He hated dealing with the FBI and all types of federal officers. Which was his reason for taking this job. In a small town, he rarely conversed with them. He re-cuffed Pete and escorted him out of the cement room.

They were waiting near the entrance. Pete felt a deep anxiety in his core. Partly from his lack of sleep, and partly from the knowledge of the absurd facts he would be trying to explain soon.

They were your stereotypical Feds. Clean cut and proper. And hard, penetrating stares. They were like machines designed to intimidate the normal folk. Usually, it was Pete in their position. It was quite unnerving to be on the other side of that situation.

He felt a flutter in his chest as Casablancas handed him to the two agents. It nearly made him topple, but he regained his composure without letting them know he had lost it. They walked out of the building into the parking lot.

It was as if he saw the future. The hopeless interrogations and accusations. He would undoubtedly be sentenced to federal prison for the majority, if not all, of his life. From their point of view, he was an imposter and a criminal. And it would be hard to convince them otherwise. Unless...

"Irene Frederick." Pete said. The agents ignored him.

Pete shook his body, which resulted in tightened grip. One that hurt his arms.

Their black van was looming at the other end of the parking lot.

He shook again, with more force. He yelled, "I want to see Irene Frederick!"

They struggled. The two agents were trying to pin him to the ground, but it was no use. Pete was using all of his tired energy. He exerted himself to the edge. He was able to escape and run a few steps before he heard guns drawn.

Pete turned slowly. Their pistols were aimed effortlessly in his direction. He didn't feel afraid though. Pete had had all manner of weapons pointed at him over the years, supernatural or otherwise. They were going to take him, and there was no hope.

He thought of Myka.

At the very instant Myka's visage passed his mind's eye, his heart went into overdrive. Pete started to hyperventilate. Pete dropped to his knees and looked to the sky. His palms were sweaty and shaking.

If he did not do something right now, he would never see her again.

Soon, the panic left and the heart-wrenching euphoria began. It all was very familiar to him. It was the precursor of time travel.

"Go get some help!" One of the agents yelled. The more dominant one, Pete had assumed back in the station.

In some small part of his brain, he was excited. The part of Pete that was kid-like was rejoicing.

The remaining agent still held his gun at him, unaware of what was about to happen.

Pete's heart was beating though his chest again, with each pound a disabling wave of euphoria. His breathing was out of control, with a speed that wasn't present when he faced Telford. Physically, it resembled a panic attack, but there was not a feeling of panic, only of extreme, debilitating pleasure.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the agent disappeared. Along with the entirety of the police station.

All of the pre-trip feelings were gone, and had reversed. It left him dead tired and ready to collapse.

Pete cursed silently, he still had his handcuffs on. But they were very loose. Too loose. With some tactic he could probably get out of them. It took a little more work than he anticipated, but he eventually squeezed his slightly swollen hands out of the metal cuffs. He tossed them over his head with pleasure.

Pete thanked Detective Casablancas aloud, out of breath. He decided he would have to find him and thank him once he made it home.

That is, if he ever made it home.

He looked around. This place was oddly familiar. He couldn't place it in his mind. That was unusual for Pete. He usually recalled things, places, and people instantly, without much thought. Time travel must have been messing with his head. The after effects were quite unfavorable, so Pete was not too surprised.

The fatigue then hit him in a painful wave, in stark contrast to the time travel feelings.

Speak of the devil.

The last sight he took in before dropping to the sidewalk, on which he now kneeled, was the bright blue color of the bookstore in front of him, the white sign that read Bering and Sons, and the bespectacled, curly-haired, teenaged girl reading inside.

Tension gripped the man as he walked up the hotel corridor. The odd wallpaper pattern only furthered his unease. Roses, daisies, roses, daisies. The same sketched, watercolored, reprinted pattern over and over again.

He used to be an artist. That was a lifetime ago; and yet he still held onto the pointless idiosyncrasies of a man infatuated with the expression of oil and canvas. Seeing the wrong colors together, a shoddy painting, or, in this case, badly designed wallpaper, made his mood plunge.

As he walked down the hallway, he could feel the flowers staring at him, biting too. The events of the past twenty-four hours had turned every step into a battle, every thought suicidal, and this very hallway into a spiraling corridor of doom.

He truly hated himself for what he had done.

Finally, he approached room 523. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key. The trembling of his hands made the task of putting the key into the lock nearly impossible, but after a few deep breaths and heavy concentration, he managed to insert and turn the key. He entered and shut the door behind him, leaning on the cold, maroon-colored surface, blocking out the hallway and the evil it held.

The room matched the door. The dark maroon the seemed to shrink the space around him. It didn't bother him though. He much preferred it to the bland beige and generic framed artwork of your garden variety motel. Relief swept over him, thankful that the malevolent floral pattern of the hallway was nowhere to be seen.

The man walked past the beds and to the window, closing the blinds, and leaving the room in semi-blackness. Night was on its way.

He walked backwards to one of the room's two beds and sat. He removed his black trench coat and placed it on the table that was right next to the bed. With a click, he turned on the lamp, flooding the room in dull yellow light.

He debated whether or not to lie back and enter what would probably be a sweaty, nightmare-filled sleep, but his body refused to move for the moment. He lifted his arm and traced figure eights on the dark maroon comforter, while simultaneously blocking out the memories of the past hours. After a few minutes of sweet ignorance, he stopped and faced the certain truth.

A single tear fell onto his tie, followed by many more. He put his face in his hands and let out a sob. He cried for nearly an hour, all the while berating himself for allowing the tears in the first place.

The raw flow of years of stunted emotion poured out of him, turning him into a sad heap on his bed. Regret, guilt, regret, guilt. An even worse pattern then that of the floral wallpaper.

Then, the phone rang.

He stopped, eyeing the black telephone. He did not want to talk to anybody at the moment, but after the seventh ring it was clear that they weren't giving up. He coughed, and took in some breaths, essentially erasing his previous emotions from existence.

He put his hand to the phone, but froze. His hand hovered over the black receiver, unable to pull away, but also unable to pick it up. There were only a few people who knew he was even in this room. And although he knew this moment was inevitable, he expected it to come later.

But, like he had stepped out of his own body and watched himself do it, he picked up the phone.

"H-hello?"

"Gemini." The calm voice responded. The man dropped his head, almost crying again.

"Yes."

"We were very disappointed by your actions today."

Gemini sighed hopelessly. "Look, I can explai-"

"No need to explain, Gemini."

"Just listen, please." Gemini pleaded.

"Your termination is effective immediately." The voice said, without hesitation or warning.

Gemini could barely understand the words said. "What?"

Silence and slow breathing was the response.

Gemini gripped the receiver hard, and roared, "You can't fucking do this to me!" It was a burst of anger that he did not expect from himself, but his entire brain cheered in approval.

"There's no need to shout."

"Aww, go to hell!"

There was a pause from the voice on the other end. The tiniest bit of agitation seeped out, "We have come to the consensus that your actions merited this consequence. If you cannot come to terms with that then we might just go back to our original plan."

Gemini heard a murmur of another voice. It seemed to be trying to calm the man on the phone down. But, Gemini knew the man on the phone was right. He deserved whatever punishment they had ready for him. But he couldn't bring himself to confess.

"Look, the guy knew we were coming. We were ambushed. I was lucky to make it out of there alive."

"Don't try to fool us, Gemini. It's not working." He said, calmly again. "You watched your team walk into that building, and then you ran. You heard their screams, and you still ran. Your cowardice cannot go unpunished."

Gemini was silent.

"You leave for your new place of residence tomorrow. Your new job, identity, and life is waiting for you."

"What? You can't do that to me." He spoke, feeling his fighting energy lessen.

"You'll find that we can. Whether you go willingly, or if we arrange for you to wake up in your new bed."

Gemini didn't respond. He had no hope, but to surrender in this situation. He hadn't thought about the consequences when he ran and left his team to die. Not only the Regents' punishment, but the emotional punishment he would have to endure. This evil little bug would crawl inside him for the rest of his life. He put his head in his hand again.

The other voice spoke, "Don't bother contacting your family or friends. They don't even remember you existed."

Another tear fell onto his tie. "I'm hanging up now."

A pompous breath. "Very well."

Gemini slammed the phone down so hard that he broke the receiver in half. He felt like he needed to scream, but he had no more energy left. There would be many more years in the future for screaming. But he would have to wait.

He waited through the plane trip, the taxi ride, and the elevator ride to his floor.

His room was white and bare. And it would stay that way, he decided. There was a black couch, and a glass table in the center of the living room. He sat down and saw a yellow piece of paper stuck to the walk opposite him.

Gemini walked to the wall and beheld a brief note, written in pen.

I'm sorry,

L.

He then screamed as loud as he could for as long as he could. He screamed until his voice was dry, until he nearly passed out from exertion. He screamed until he laid breathless on his cold, unused bed, not ready for the years to come. Such lonely years.

Before he drifted into another night of restless sleep, he saw a brand new wallet on his nightstand. He rolled over to the other side of the bed and picked the it up, noting the quality leather and expensive aura.

He saw a brand new credit card and drivers license. All of the information was the same. Date of birth, eye color, et cetera... They used the picture from his old driver's license. He was amazed at the speed that they had produced it. He had been forced to hand all personal objects and identification of his previous life to a goon that waited at the airport. That was only hours ago.

The only thing that was different on the license was his name. He had to laugh.

Edwin J. Aries.

"Son?"

Pete was aroused from another death-like sleep, "Dad? Dad, I don't wanna gmr a prgnoe a haba there."

"Had a little to much to drink last night? C'mon, I have some coffee inside." The voice said, with a few polite slaps to Pete's face.

The slaps caused Pete to shoot up in full alert mode. He refused to be put in the same position as last time. He looked side to side, breathing heavily.

After he realized that it wasn't another cop, Pete looked at his waker. He was younger, had more hair, and some black stubble, but it was definitely Myka's father. Warren Bering.

Pete squeezed his eyes with his fingers and laughed, trying to play that he wasn't immensely sore at that moment.

"It's alright. I'm sorry about that. I'm not crazy." Pete assured, more convincingly than he expected.

Bering's hand came down to help Pete up. He stood and dusted himself off.

"I think I fainted. It's quite a... hot day." It wasn't. But Bering didn't seem to mind. He assumed Pete was one of those guilty drunks. Bering walked to the door of his shop/home and opened the door.

"Myka, grab this man some coffee, will ya?" Bering said, as he and Pete entered the store. She got up without looking at Pete and walked away, rolling her eyes.

She was younger. Sixteen or seventeen, maybe. But he could still see the Myka he knew and loved in her. The woman she would grow to be. Pete was thankful that in some weird, space-time twisted way, he was with her again. It put him at ease. Gave him a feeling like he would get out of this messed up situation somehow. A very good, doubt-busting, evil-conquering vibe that reverberated, drowning out all the bad ones.

"What's your name, son?" Bering repeated, holding his hand out.

Pete shook out of his own mind. "Pe.. Pe.. Artie." He felt the need to disguise his own name. After all, he was going to meet them sometime in the future.

Pete uneasily shook his hand.

"You got a last name Artie?"

"Umm... Donovan."

"Warren Bering." He said, squeezing the life out of Pete's hand.

"Nice... to meet you."

Suddenly, a phone rang.

"Sorry, Artie. Myka'll be right down with your coffee." He walked off to a phone somewhere. Pete could hear his incomprehensible murmurs.

Pete stood awkwardly near the doorway. Even though he had been here before, he felt like he hadn't. Time travel was messing with his instincts. It was unnerving, but he could deal. Especially when he was here. In the same house as Myka, even though she had no idea who he was yet.

Not yet.

Crap.

Pete heard her footsteps on the hardwood floor. She came around the corner just as he disappeared behind a nearby bookcase.

She stopped and looked funnily in his direction. A book in one hand, and a mug in the other.

"I hope you don't mind it black." She said.

No answer.

"Mr. Donovan?" She walked closer, nearing the corner.

"Stop!" He shouted, startling her. A bit of the coffee spilled over the edge of the mug. She let out an irritated sigh.

"Uhh... Sorry." Pete said. "I just don't think it's a good idea if you see me."

She walked to the corner. "Why not?"

Pete walked quickly around the other side of the bookcase, she followed him. They went full circle around the same bookcase until she stopped.

"Do you want your coffee or not?" She asked, annoyed.

Pete thought, and that thought brought a headache. He brought his hand to his forehead.

"Yes. Yes. Yeah, I do." He paused. "Just... pass it through the books."

Myka tilted her head to the side, and started to sprint around the bookcase after Pete. They made four full circles before she stopped again.

"Why are you acting like such a child?" She yelled.

Pete smiled. Some things never change.

He stuck his hand through the top of the books.

"Coffee, please." He felt the porcelain thrust into his hand, and some hot coffee splash on his hand.

"Jeez, Myka!" He peered over the top of the books and saw her with crossed arms and a satisfied look on her face.

He sighed, taking his coffee and sitting down against the bookcase. There was less than half a cup of coffee left in the mug.

He heard a sliding sound against the other side, and then a dull thud.

"So, what brings you to this hole of a town, Mr. Donovan?"

Pete thought about it, over a heavenly sip of coffee. "Well... Work."

"Alright." She said, laughing. "Is that why you were passed out drunk in front of the store?"

"I wasn't drunk, Okay? It was just-"

"Hot. Right." She interrupted, sarcastically. "That sixty degree weather is a killer."

They didn't talk for a few minutes. Pete just listened to her breathing. She may have been younger but her breathing was still the same. He wondered whether, if he asked future-Myka about this moment, she would remember him. Probably not. But if she did, she would most definitely make the connection. She's a smart one.

With another sip of his coffee, his thoughts turned again to the cause of all this.

Pete still had no idea. He considered artifacts from the warehouse. There were limitless amounts of objects containing unknown power. Pete could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong artifact. Some ancient time travel juju could have rubbed off on him. But, sadly, Pete knew that there were not, in all of the artifacts of the Warehouse, any that made time travel possible. He knew because he'd once made a search for a time traveling artifact. That led to Artie berating him, and then lecturing him about how the "fragility of the space-time continuum can't allow for the possibility of time travel." Pete's reason for looking was expected. He'd wanted to see his father again.

His head dropped, feeling sadness. His theories were no good to him here, so far in the past. He needed Artie.

He needed Myka.

Those thoughts just depressed Pete further. He set the mug on the hardwood floor, sighing. He could still hear Bering talking on the phone to some unheard stranger, his voice echoing softly throughout the store. He could still hear past-Myka breathing, followed by the turn of a page.

Pete absent-mindedly rubbed his chest. He could feel the lump of a scar protruding through his shirt, wondering what kind of damage all this physical activity has done to his arteries.

Then it hit him.

"Of course!" Pete shouted. Myka turned around and peered over the books, questioningly.

He was so utterly stupid. How could he have not made the connection? That a bullet fired from an artifact gun, a gun that had unknown power, had done this to him. Artie had said himself; the gun was linked to several disappearances. Maybe the reason they disappeared was that they had simply jumped through time. There is no evidence, and no precedent for evidence.

"Of course what?" Myka asked, with her hands on top of the books, trying to look down on him.

Pete sunk lower to the floor, and replied, "Nothing."

"Bullshit nothing! You don't just yell out 'Of course' for nothing."

"What did I tell you about swearing Myka?" Bering had returned, looking angry.

She stood up quickly, with a bit of fear in her eyes, and walked back over to her chair. "I'm sorry."

Bering said nothing, walking over to the other side of the bookcase where Pete sat.

"You know, we have chairs over there."

Pete stood up, bringing the coffee mug with him.

He handed the now empty mug back to Bering. "Thank you for the coffee Mr. Bering, but I really have to be going."

Bering looked a little confused, as did Myka. "Well, okay. Be careful out there."

"Will do." Pete said, before exiting the store.

He stood out front for a moment,wondering what exactly he was doing. While thinking, he patted his jacket down. He pulled out his sunglasses, and gave a laugh of victory while putting them on. He walked down the sidewalk to his left, not exactly sure where he was headed. Probably to find a taxi. He needed to get to Warehouse 13.

He patted himself again.

"Dammit." He whispered. The cops had left his sunglasses, but Pete had neglected to snatch back his wallet from the interrogation table. Any transportation he would have to pay for was out of the question. He didn't want to get arrested for counterfeiting again, though that would be a good way to get ahold of the Secret Service.

So, with all other ideas out the window, Pete stuck his thumb out to traffic. Who wouldn't pick up a guy in a nice, albeit a little dirty, suit?

"Mr. Donovan!"

Pete recognized the voice of past-Myka. Very similar to future-Myka's voice. It made his heart hurt. He froze on the sidewalk, not turning around.

"You forgot your... whatever this thing is!" She was right next to him now. He had no choice but to turn around.

He was amazed. It was Myka, no doubt about it. He smiled. A few inches shorter, and definitely a few more years to grow, but it was Myka Bering.

She held his cell phone in her left hand. Pete cursed in head head and grabbed it.

"Thank you, Myka. Buh-bye."

He turned back around quickly, but she stayed.

"So, will I see you around here?" She asked, like a little girl with a crush. How Pete would love to tell future-Myka about this.

Pete looked over his shoulder. "I won't be back in this town for a while."

Her head dropped.

"But, I have a feeling I'll be seeing you again sometime in the future."

She smiled. The same as future-Myka. She turned around slowly and floated in the direction of the store.

"About fifteen years in the future." Pete whispered, as she walked away.

"What was that?" She wasn't as far away as he thought.

"Uhh... Nothing. Bye, Myka." He said, a little embarrassed. He started to walk further in the other direction, sticking his thumb out.

His heart beat quickened.

I'm thinking about rewriting the first chapter. I need to fix it. I feel like I'm getting into the groove of the story now, and the first chapter just doesn't fit.

Also I'm not sure about the quality of it. If you saw the number of reads from the first to second chapter plummet, you would know why I say this.

Any suggestions?

Anyway, THANK YOU to all who stayed, not only for the second chapter, but the third, and now the fourth!

Fifth coming soon. I have more inspiration now!