Chapter 4 - An Exercise in Futility

Early that morning, right after a breakfast as quiet and awkward as dinner had been the night before, Mark let Susan and Wallace know that he was going for a walk. Where, exactly, he didn't know.

At least, not at first.

For the moment, he found himself walking along the top of the low stone wall that lined the seaward side of the driveway, something he'd done with Henry on his first full day in Maine. But unlike then, Mark now had to brace himself against a stiff, cold wind tinged with salt spray and hunch down into his jacket. When he finally reached the small stone pillars that marked the end of the driveway, he hopped off the wall and began wandering aimlessly up the road.

As he walked along the shoulder, Mark passed several gated driveways, all of which were either chained up or marked 'Private Property'. A few were half-overgrown with dead plants and covered in a heavy blanket of unbroken snow, likely indicating that their former owners were long gone.

Were he feeling a bit more daring or adventurous, Mark might've tried scaling one of the wrought iron fences and exploring an abandoned house or two, but he wasn't really in the mood. Besides, he didn't really fancy himself as an adventurous type, anyway.

Unlike most kids his age, Mark wasn't really that scared of an old, abandoned house, though he did find them kind of sad in a way. Everything you found inside was a reminder that a family had once lived there, and made you realize that life could change in the blink of an eye.

They each had their own story to tell, and said stories rarely had a happy ending.

Before he knew it, Mark found himself on Quarry Lane, heading in the direction of that road's ill-fated namesake. The well-trampled path through the woods that led to the quarry itself was empty of people, save for him.

When he finally reached the top of the incline, the frozen surface of the quarry below was utterly devoid of life, and in sharp contrast to the noisy chaos of yesterday, the near-silence that now hung over the area was eerie, to say the least.

As he slowly and carefully made his way down the slope, Mark could see where he'd gone off the path yesterday, indicated by a single set of footprints – his – and trampled underbrush.

Mark suddenly stopped in his tracks roughly halfway down the slope.

At the far end of the ice, the immense hole where Connie and Henry had fallen in was still there, and somehow not frozen over. In front of what remained of the barrier, several men in overcoats watched on as a dark figure emerged from the water. Seconds later, another followed in his wake, and both were carefully hauled up onto the ice.

It didn't take long for Mark to realize that they were divers.

Probably looking for Connie...

For her sake, Mark hoped that she hadn't suffered. Drowning was a horrible way to die, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even Henry.

A loud whirring noise, followed closely by what sounded like an overworked semi-truck engine echoed through the cold air, originating at the far end of the quarry. As Mark squinted for a better view, a glistening, oblong white object suddenly broached the surface of the water and slowly rose into the air.

What was it?

He could hear the faint, incoherent shouts of men as the object swung towards the far shore and promptly disappeared from his line of sight.

For the moment, his curiosity got the best of him, and Mark advanced a bit further down the slope. Still, all that he could see was the backs of the men in overcoats and a thick line of trees and dead underbrush. Once he realized that he was getting too close to the ice, he gave up. And after a few more minutes of staring out at the old quarry, the boy finally rounded on his heels and retraced his steps back up the incline.

There was nothing that he could do here anymore, and there wasn't anything left except the miserable, depressing feeling of failure.

Roughly a half an hour later, Mark found himself in the hospital parking lot, staring up at the four-story building's stained, dull-gray façade. As he slowly made his way toward the front entrance, he kept glancing up at the windows on the fourth floor, as if expecting Henry to be leering down at him from on high.

Fortunately, as far as Mark knew, his cousin's room didn't even have a window. That was a small relief.

Once he was inside, and finally out of the miserable cold, Mark stood in the relatively quiet lobby and eyed both the elevator and the stairs.

He quickly settled on taking the elevator.

Most people might've called it lazy, but after walking as long and far as he had, Mark knew that he'd have to save his energy for the trip back.

And for facing Henry.

With that, he stepped forward, depressed the 'up' arrow, and waited. He stood there the better part of a minute, and when the elevator finally arrived, Mark was immeasurably relieved to see that it was empty. He hated those awkward moments of riding in an elevator with a total stranger who would try to have a conversation with him.

Mercifully enough, no one else got on, either, and Mark rode in silence all the way up to the fourth floor.

When he finally reached Henry's room, the door was ever so slightly ajar, and the light inside was half-on, but from what Mark could tell, his cousin seemed to be asleep. Maybe. You never could tell with Henry.

Mark quietly slipped in through the door and closed it behind him. He made his way around the periphery of the bed and for the longest time, he simply stood there, staring into the sleeping and deceptively angelic-looking face of his cousin. The only audible noises were those of Henry's breathing, and the steady, rhythmic beeps from the heartbeat monitor.

Henry was as peaceful as peaceful could be.

It just didn't seem fair to Mark. Here Henry was, all warm and safe in a hospital bed, while poor Connie had never been given that chance. In the prime of her childhood, she had been unmercifully sent to a cold, watery grave that she never could have seen coming. Connie had only been six years old.

She didn't deserve to die.

Of all people, why her?

It wasn't fair.

In the dark and dusty recesses of his mind, some small part of Mark wished that it had been Henry instead. That same part of him soon became almost like a small voice whispering in his ear.

And that was when something inside of him snapped.

Henry was completely helpless at the moment. And since he was asleep now, and Mark wasn't, he was more vulnerable and exposed than ever before.

Just like Connie, who he never even gave a choice.

Mark was close to his cousin's bedside, close enough to choke Henry or smother him in his sleep.

No mercy.

He certainly hadn't shown Connie any.

Mark's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles turning white and fingernails painfully digging into his bandaged palms.

It would be so easy right now...

To stop Henry once and for all, and to avenge Connie...

Mark finally unclenched his fists, hands trembling like a caffeine addict.

No.

This was wrong.

This wasn't him.

Horrified and ashamed that he had even contemplated such a heinous act, he dropped quite heavily into a nearby chair that creaked as he sat down. Mark slumped over, head in his hands, and once again almost on the verge of tears.

What was I thinking?! Am I no better than him?

Were their positions reversed, Henry wouldn't have even hesitated.

A split second later, unseen by Mark, a crooked grin formed on Henry's face, and then he laughed aloud. Mark's head shot up at the noise.

"Couldn't do it, could ya?" Henry asked, his tone dry and inappropriately lighthearted.

Mark audibly ground his teeth, but remained silent.

Henry scoffed. "Pathetic."

With that, he finally opened his eyes and almost instantly focused on Mark.

"Did you come to see me of your own free will?"

Silence seemed to be answer enough for him.

"Aw. How cute," Henry said mockingly.

Mark cast a withering glare at him.

"I'm – I'm touched..." Henry said, his tone suddenly emotional.

Mark scoffed in disgust.

"You're sick," he muttered.

Henry's grin got even bigger, and he added a lilt to his voice as he talked.

"You know, I kinda like being in the hospital. The food's not bad – mystery meat aside – you get waited on hand and foot, and, if you get your head at just the right angle, you can see down the nurses' shirts when they take your temperature."

Mark visibly recoiled, and scooted his seat backwards a couple inches in the process.

"And you know what? If I wasn't just some little pre-pubescent puke, I'd be asking 'em out in a heartbeat. I swear, a few of these girls are straight out of Playboy Magazine."

Mark's eyes went wide.

Playboy?! Good Lord...

If Susan ever knew about that...

But he was only twelve years old. They both were, and Henry seemed to know far more about all of this than he should for a kid their age. This was straying into territory where Mark didn't really want to go.

Not that he didn't know about it, he just didn't want to hear Henry's undoubtedly gut-turning take on human reproduction.

"Why'd you do it?" Mark suddenly blurted out.

Henry screwed up his face in confusion.

"Do what?"

Mark audibly gulped. "Connie. Why? Why did you kill her?"

His cousin fixed him with a blank stare.

"'Kill' is an ugly word," Henry said in a mockingly serious tone of voice. "If anything, I did her a favor. The little brat's finally out of her misery. She always knew that she couldn't compete with me, anyway. I had her right where I wanted, and she never did anything to challenge me. That is, until you came along, and started putting ideas in that warped little brain of hers that she could potentially be an equal with me."

"And just who were you to determine that for her? Connie had every right in the world, just as much as you or me."

"Ha." Henry scoffed openly at Mark's statement. "She deserved nothing of the sort."

"She deserved to live her life!" Mark said, raising his voice.

He was incensed.

"Well..." Henry said coolly, "Life is a fragile thing. If you push it the right way, it can be broken. It's a simple matter, really."

A cold chill ran up Mark's spine.

Death was just another game to Henry.

He had no regard for the sanctity of life, and rules mattered nothing to him. That much was now painfully clear.

Mark was feeling more and more disturbed by the second.

"And do you know what?" Henry asked, giving that crooked, leering grin of his. When Mark didn't respond, he just kept on going. "The best part is, no one will ever know exactly what happened. No one except the two of us, that is."

Henry was going to get away with it.

And he knew that Mark couldn't stop him.

Trying his level best to appear calm, Mark lifted himself from the chair and started walking toward the door. He'd heard enough.

"Leaving so soon, are we?" Henry called out.

Mark paused about halfway to the door, but still, he said nothing.

An obviously fake sniffle sounded from the bed. "I'll miss you," Henry said, his tone mocking and voice quavering.

Mark turned around and stared his cousin straight in the eyes.

"You win," he said.

A sinister grin split Henry's face.

But Mark's shoulders weren't slumped over in defeat. Not this time. He kept his gaze steady and unwavering and his voice as neutral as possible.

"But you're not going to get away with this forever, either." Mark said. "Sooner or later, they're going to find out about you."

"Who's this ubiquitous 'they'?" Henry asked. "My parents? Dr. Davenport? The cops?"

He didn't seem the least bit worried.

Mark shook his head ever so slightly.

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

With that, Mark turned on his heels and left as quietly as he had entered.

Well, that was a waste of time, he thought to himself as he stalked down the hall toward the elevators.

It was worse than he had thought.

Henry was beyond hope.

A slim, trembling hand came to rest on the old brass doorknob and gripped it until the knuckles turned white. After a few seconds, the grip relaxed ever so slightly, the knob was finally turned, and the door swung inward, creaking ever so slightly as it did so.

Susan took a deep, shaky breath and walked slowly into Connie's room.

She gently ran her hand across the wall, brushing by several of her daughter's earliest works of 'art', most of which were finger paintings from when she was just two years old.

Four years ago...

It seemed like an eternity to Susan, from when she was still pregnant with Richard. She tried her utmost to recall details from that time – a happy time – before the suffering. But a combination of grief and time itself had conspired to cloud her memories like a cold winter fog.

Everything after the fact was painfully clear.

She soon found herself standing over Connie's dresser, atop which sat a decent spread of knickknacks – everything from colorful beaded necklaces and scraps of cloth to a box full of book-on-tape audiocassettes – and already, they seemed to be gathering dust.

No, Susan told herself.

Connie just never got around to cleaning her room, ever since Christmas Break had started just over a week ago.

Though more or less a typical six year old girl, Connie had never been a poster child for neatness. In fact, Henry was far better at keeping his room clean than his sister, a fact that had almost always been a surprise to Susan and Wallace, but pleased them nonetheless. However, like the rest of her family, Connie was a bit of a pack rat, and, in only six years, had acquired quite the collection of keepsakes that most would consider junk.

Well, one person's junk is another person's treasure...

Some of those objects had, in fact, been Susan's from when she was a little girl herself, the dolls, especially. Having a daughter to pass them on to had been her dream. And six years ago, that dream had come true.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Connie's lifetime.

Susan finally sat on the edge of the bed, wistfully and tearfully gazing around at all that remained of her baby girl.

A shoebox wrapped in crinkled yellow tissue paper and adorned by colorful stick figures drawn in crayon.

A crude paper-mache figurine that Connie had made in Sunday school roughly two years ago.

Or, a largely unrecognizable lump of hardened clay Connie claimed was supposed to be a dog lying down. Try as she might, Susan had never been able to see the resemblance.

But in the case of young children, it wasn't the accuracy that really counted. It was more the devotion and effort that they put into their creations that made them so special.

In other words, it was the thought that counts.

Then Susan's eyes came to rest at the foot of the bed, where lay one of Connie's favorite stuffed animals – an old bear with faded fur, a missing eye, and that had been patched up more times than anyone could count. She reached for the bear and hugged it tight to her chest.

No matter what, she would never let Connie go.

Her daughter's room would stay the same.

Just like Richard's.

Now, Henry was all that she and Wallace had left.

Wallace had been in his study, with the lights out and the curtains drawn, deep in thought himself when a loud, heavy knocking on the front door brought him out of his stupor.

Was Mark finally back?

No, we gave him a key. So why would he knock?

Maybe he lost the key?

Wallace sighed and reluctantly heaved himself from the chair.

He sincerely hoped that Mark hadn't gone and lost the key, because he simply didn't have the heart to be angry with Jack's son right now. It was plain as day to Wallace that Mark was somehow blaming himself for Connie's death. It didn't entirely make sense, but Wallace could very easily understand where his nephew was coming from.

After Richard's drowning, in some ways, he had – and still did – feel responsible. If only he'd answered the phone for Susan instead of leaving it to her, their little boy might still be alive right now. And Susan still blamed herself for leaving Richard alone in the tub.

He'd always tried to convince her that it was nothing but a freak accident, but now, after Connie... Wallace was losing faith in his own words.

A second, somewhat heavier knock sounded on the front door.

He hurried up a bit, steeling himself for a potential confrontation with Mark over losing the house key.

But when he finally went to open the door, it wasn't Mark that was waiting there.

Two men, wearing suits and heavy, button-up overcoats stood on his front porch. The first was an older man, with graying, dark brown hair, and a deadpan face that was pockmarked by a few small scars. His eyes gave off no sign of emotion, either.

All business.

The second man was black, with very short-cropped dark hair, and an equally deadpan look on his face. He seemed quite a bit younger than his counterpart, probably by about ten to twenty years, if Wallace was judging his age correctly. But the man's brown eyes were a different story altogether.

Wallace had seen that look before.

From his own father.

But before he could think any further on it, the first man started to speak.

"Wallace Evans?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Evans, I'm Special Agent Robert Nicholas, FBI."

He flashed a badge before nodding to the second man.

"And this is my partner, Special Agent Phillip Broyles."

Broyles raised his badge as well, before pocketing it.

Wallace glanced at them curiously.

"What exactly are you doing here?" he asked.

The two FBI agents exchanged a brief glance before Nicholas replied.

"Mr. Evans... We may have reason to believe that your daughter is still alive."

A/N: As always, opinions and reviews are encouraged. I hope that I'm still staying true to the characters of TGS, that Mark and Henry haven't acted out of character yet. It may seem like Mark contemplating killing Henry in his sleep is out of character for him. The big difference between him and Henry is that Mark can usually control any violent impulses he may have (as seen here), whereas Henry has absolutely no control over those same impulses whatsoever, and almost always gives in to them.

I don't think it'd be much of a surprise that a kid like Henry would have something along the lines of Playboy Magazine hidden away in his room or his workshop.

For those unfamiliar with Fringe, Broyles is one of the main characters and is in command of what is called 'Fringe Division'. In the series, he is portrayed by Lance Reddick. To fellow Fringe fans, he should be quite familiar.

Robert Nicholas is an OC.

The next chapter will deal largely with Broyles and his background story.