Yes, I'm back! I'm horribly sorry that it's taken me almost four months to update, but my computer monitor was conking out on me, and I had to wait until I could replace the items in question. Here is the next chapter, and I just threw another wrinkle into the equation. True, it won't bear fruit for sometime, but it'll give you something to chew on! (grins) Also, I was recently informed that Champions and my LOTR one-shot, All Save One, have both been nominated for MEFA awards, much to my excitement. This is only the second time any of my stories have been nominated for fanfiction awards, so yes, I'm very excited (and very grateful to she who nominated me).
BTW, this chapter is dedicated to my best friend and ebil twin (not evil. Ebil). . .Sam, whose birthday was Thursday and to the Carolina Hurricanes, who won the Stanley Cup Championship. GO 'Canes!
And on with the story!
Chapter Six
Interludes
For half an hour, Megan Rafferty and Elena Gutierrez did nothing but relax. No work was discussed. . .not Bethany Lawson's death, not the finding of the mysterious John Doe. Not even what they would do for their next visit to the elementary school, late the following month. They ate their candy bars and drank their sodas, choosing instead to talk about little things. It didn't matter if they already knew about it-such as the 'little' gift Megan got for her parents, which they would find when they returned home from their cruise. . .a porch swing for their backyard. Or Elena's youngest niece Angela adding a new word to her ever-growing vocabulary. It didn't matter. They needed to talk about the small things, the mundane things. It helped to keep them both sane.
And with the most recent insanity, there were a lot of little things they didn't know about each others' lives. Little Angela was learning words at an alarming rate. Especially words that she shouldn't know. (At this, Megan couldn't help giggling. Yes, they caught onto those naughty words with amazing aptitude. . .as she remembered from other babies she was around over the years). But it came to an end, just like always. Once the thirty minutes were up, the partners rose to their feet, gathering up their trash and throwing it away. As soon as they left the cafeteria, 'Lena asked softly, "So. . .what do you think we should do next? It's getting late, and I dunno about you, but I'd just as soon wait until tomorrow to take Nico out into the alley." Megan nodded her agreement, popping a mint into her mouth.
Once she could speak around the mint, she answered, "Totally agree. One thing I wanna do, tonight or tomorrow, doesn't matter which, is set up a timeline. Maybe it won't help us figure out who this guy is or where he came from, but it can only help us clarify things. We also should get a picture of him in the paper, see if someone recognizes him. I figure someone here in the hospital has a digital camera, and no doubt, some contacts with the local media."
"As long as they deal with the media, instead of us," 'Lena sighed and Megan nodded in agreement. The local reporters in Campbell weren't that bad. . .they were locals, after all, and they were more concerned with reporting the news than they were with making the news. But they weren't in Campbell any more, and when you came right down to it, this wasn't really their investigation. As Detective Madsen was soooo fond of reminding them. Megan rolled her eyes at the thought of the younger detective. Her partner said after a moment, successfully distracting Megan, "When we get back to the hotel, I should really call the captain, and update her on what's going on."
"I'm so glad you said, 'what's going on,' instead of 'progress,' Elena," Megan observed, shaking her head, "I sometimes get the feeling that we're missing something so incredibly obvious. . .something right in our face. I just can't figure out what that something might be." She slid her hands into her pockets, shivering a little. The sky was darkening outside the hospital, and the air temperature was starting to cool. Unfortunately, that led to a now-familiar ache in her hips and her knees. Another reason she wouldn't argue with her partner about returning to the extended stay shortly.
Besides, she was exhausted. While the boost provided by the candy bar and the Coke took the edge off her exhaustion and her hunger, it wouldn't last. As the friends reached the elevator and slipped inside, Megan sank back against the wall, closing her eyes. She only slept for a total of four hours, between the naps she took this morning and the sleep she got the previous night. While she was only thirty-two, the lack of sleep took its toll. She was used to it by now, to both the exhaustion and the pain in her leg joints. With the amount of time she spent on her feet, especially when she was walking on cement, it was to be expected.
She sensed 'Lena stepping back to join her, and her friend said softly, "You gonna be all right, querida?" Megan nodded, her eyes still closed. 'Lena continued, her voice soft with commiseration, "It isn't just being on our feet. . .it isn't just the sleepless nights. Putting up with that mujer and her attitude is enough to exhaust anyone. If something ugly ever happens in Campbell, one where we need the help of another department, remind me to be on my very best behavior. Si, I know. . .Campbell is a small town, but you just never do know about these things." Megan opened her eyes and smiled at her best friend. For all of her talk and jokes, Elena had no worries on that account. Megan couldn't count the number of people in town who told her about how nice Detective Gutierrez was to them. So polite and professional when she needed to be, and so kind-hearted when she was just being a neighbor!
"Detective Christine Madsen actually defines the term, 'damn Yankee.' And I think even my mother would have a hard time saying 'bless her heart' for any reason, no matter what came after it. You know I don't say that about just anyone, 'Lena. Captain Anders is a Yankee, and she stayed, but she's not a damn Yankee. Detective Madsen, however, is another story," Megan told her friend as they reached their floor. Elena nodded, smiling faintly. After all, not only was Captain Anders a Yankee, but technically speaking, so was Megan's father. Or maybe he didn't count, since he was actually from Canada. Still. There were categories of Yankees. . . Yankees, damn Yankees, and Southerners raised as Yankees. So far as Megan was concerned, her father and Captain Anders fell into the final category.
This final category wasn't something Megan grew up hearing about, like GRITS (girls raised in the South). No, this was something she came up with on her own, and it wasn't something she was in any hurry to share. Some things were meant to be personal, not meant to be shared with other people. Including the nagging pain in her hip. That didn't stop 'Lena from noticing, however. She said softly, "You know, we've done about all we can do for today. Let's head back to the extended stay, you can get a shower, we can eat, and pick this up again in the morning. He's not going anywhere."
Well, that much was true. Megan asked, "Pizza ok?" Elena nodded as they left the elevator and returned to the John Doe's room once more. He was asleep, they discovered, his face slack and peaceful. Kristin was at his side, lightly stroking his hair. Megan smiled. Their mother did that sometimes when they were sick. Kristin looked up, and so did Nico. It occurred to Megan, more than once, that they knew nothing about this man. For instance. . .what if he was a murderer? It was possible, but she trusted Nico. The dog, like many animals, sensed when there was something not quite right about a human. On the other hand, he probably understood that their John Doe. . .Michael. . . was in no condition to hurt anyone right now.
"We're gonna head back to the extended stay, Kristy. . .nothing more we can do right now. Do you wanna come with, get some pizza, or maybe meet in the morning?" Megan asked her younger sister. Kristin half-turned in her seat, frowning thoughtfully. Even before the younger Rafferty looked at the patient, Megan knew her sister's answer, and offered, "Eight am? Meet you in the hospital cafeteria? Even if they don't have a proper breakfast, I'm sure they at least have candy bars."
"Negatory. . .the hospital cafeteria doesn't open until around ten am. I'll meet you at the extended at nine am, and I'll bring the food with me. Before you ask, Dr. Daly is asking around about a digital camera, so we can put Michael's picture in the paper. He has some contacts at the paper, and he offered to do this. . .unfortunately, he doesn't have a digital camera of his own. Funny thing, that. He's no technophobe. . .has a computer and internet access. . .but he doesn't have a digital camera," Kristin observed with a thoughtful frown.
"Maybe he likes the regular pictures. Elena's brother is like that in some respects. He seems like a nice guy, your Dr. Daly. What do you know about him?" Megan inquired. She wasn't suspicious of him. . .at least, any more than she was of anyone she just met. However, there was something odd about the way he interacted with the vic. . .with Michael. Not bad. Just. . .odd. When she had the opportunity to observe them (and such opportunities were few and far between), Dr. Daly seemed almost affectionate toward his amnesiac patient. But he swore he never met the man before in his life. Odd. Very odd.
"Not that much. . .he's in his early sixties, originally from Ireland. Came to the States when he was twenty-five. Hasn't been back to Ireland in several years, but talks often with his nephew over the phone. His nephew lives in Dublin, even though they're originally from Donegal. While you and 'Lena were downstairs, getting something to eat, Dr. Daly was in here, checking on Michael. He's talking about bringing in the old picture books. . you know the ones, the beginning readers? He wants to help Michael with his English," Kristin answered.
"I remember," Megan murmured. She shook her head, then whistled at Nico. The dog lifted his head and whined a little. The shorter cop said, "C'mon, boy. . .we'll be back tomorrow, but we need to head back." Nico's tail thumped on the bed a few times, then, as if he reached a decision, the dog licked the hand of the unconscious human at his side. He raised himself up to his haunches, and carefully made his way to the edge of the bed, before jumping down. Megan shook her head, muttering, "Honestly, I'd swear sometimes that dog's more intelligent than most humans!"
"Only sometimes?" Kristin asked with a wry smile as she rose to her feet to hug Megan. The older sister rolled her eyes, then squeaked a little. There were times when her little sister didn't know her own strength. Kristin went on, "Okay, y'all drive careful going back to the extended stay. I'll meet you there tomorrow morning, with food. You still like pineapples right?" Oh yes. . .yes, Megan became hooked on pineapples when she went to Hawaii. . .her graduation gift from their parents. To make things even better, Elena went with her!
"Nine am, and we'll go over what we plan to do next at that point," Elena added as Kristin released Megan, and hugged her. The older sister grinned impishly as her partner actually lifted Kristin off her feet. . .it was her turn to squeal. Elena put her down, grinning impishly, and said, "Okay, querida, we're out of here. Come on, pup. . .time to scoot. See in the morning, chiquita." Kristin stuck her tongue out, and as the partners left the room, it was she who had the last word. . .singing Chiquita Banana.
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB
Under the waves of the Atlantic Ocean, in Aman, Haldir had many, many stories to tell Lady Galadriel of the honor, courage, compassion, and humor of Boromir of Gondor. So many stories which Legolas told him on their journeys. He began his own stories with his favorite, of Boromir teaching the two youngest hobbits, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, how to use a sword properly. It was actually a story told to Legolas by the hobbits, years after the quest, when they could finally speak of Boromir without sorrow. At the time, Thranduilion was busy watching the Crebain slowly become larger in the distance, though he knew not at first what they were.
The Lady of the Wood laughed with delight when Haldir, his own voice shaking with repressed laughter, told her of Boromir's accidental wounding of Peregrin Took, followed by the great warrior of Gondor being felled by a pair of hobbits who proceeded to wrestle and tickle him. He so wished he could have seen the incident in question. . .by the time he met the Captain-General of Gondor, Boromir was struggling for his sanity against the Ring. And though he was the MarchWarden for The Golden Wood, devoted to his Lady and his duty, Haldir did have a sense of humor, and Legolas oft told him it was a wicked sense of humor indeed.
Oddly enough, most of Thranduilion's stories about Boromir focused on those two young hobbits. There was the story of their first meeting after Boromir reached Imladris (he was bathing, and Peregrin endeavored to steal his clothes, replacing them with hobbit clothing instead. . .and of course, dragging his slightly older cousin into the prank). Then there was the wrestling story (which, Haldir realized almost immediately, would now become the Lady's favorite as well). Boromir's care of the two on cruel Caradhras, the mountain which nearly killed them all, but especially the hobbits.
But there were other stories, stories which other members of the Fellowship shared with him. Frodo told Legolas how Boromir sought to comfort him while Legolas and Aragorn attempted to gain entrance into Lothlorien for the Fellowship. "Do not carry the weight of the dead," the Gondorian told the Ringbearer. Aye. . .twas good advice. And the hobbit did try to remember it, but by the time the War of the Ring was won, there were so many dead. Boromir. . .Gollum. . .Aragorn's kinsman Halbarad. Many of Faramir's Ithilien Rangers. Denethor. None of whom Frodo knew, aside from Boromir and Gollum. But his cousins knew the others, and their grief made Frodo grieve as well.
Legolas remembered Boromir's awkward expression of gratitude in Lothlorien. The prince saved the Man's life in Moria, keeping him from falling into an abyss. Boromir, Legolas explained, was uncomfortable with Elves, as many Men were. And from Boromir, he learned why. . .it made sense, once the Man explained it. Legolas lived a very long time. . .more than two thousand years, as opposed to the forty-one years Boromir lived. Twas quite disconcerting for a Man not raised among them, as Aragorn was. This Boromir explained after offering his awkward, but sincere, gratitude. Strange, Legolas said much later, after he and Gimli sailed to Valinor, but after all of the Fellowship passed, it was Boromir whom he came to miss most. . .something he mentioned to Haldir more than once.
There were still other stories. For instance, Gimli remembered Boromir's compassionate hand on his shoulder when they found the tomb of Gimli's cousin Balin in Moria. . .and he remembered the young warrior's fierce embrace after Gandalf fell in battle with the Balrog. Gimli, Legolas recalled with a faint smile, wanted to return to Moria. . .to avenge Gandalf, to avenge Balin, to kill as many goblins or orcs as he could find. But Boromir held firm in a warrior's embrace that both comforted and restrained. It was something Gimli never forgot, to the end of his days in Valinor.
The Lady's face grew grave as Haldir told these stories. Gimli was quite infatuated with the Lady of the Goldenwood, and she was touched by the dwarf's devotion. So touched, in fact, that after he requested a single hair from her head, she gave him three instead. She knew, as well as anyone. . .once Gimli gave his love and friendship to someone, that gift was steadfast. Even after he knew that Boromir tried to take the Ring from Frodo, Gimli's loyalty to Boromir's memory remained. Said the dwarf gruffly when asked about it, "Aye, the lad made a mistake. . .but he died savin'those two scamps. Should we remember the mistakes. . .or the triumphs? I've been told, very few have ever been able to free themselves from the Ring, and that places Boromir in exalted company indeed!"
As Haldir related this conversation, his Lady grew even more solemn. At last, she said softly, "I wonder, then. If Boromir was brought forward in time, not for ill purposes, what will happen when the rest of the Fellowship reborn learns of his arrival?" Haldir looked at his Lady, somewhat confused by the question, and she continued, "You see, I believe Boromir was brought to the current Age by design. The Nine are in the world at the same time. This is the first time in three hundred centuries that such a thing has happened. And while the Mirror will not show me his purpose, it does show me his new companions."
Yes, Haldir remembered that. The Lady told him that Boromir had three female companions, and that she was certain at least two of them were warriors. Whether they were actually warriors or the guardians of their society (police officers, as they were called now). . .well, either possibility was equally likely. He wished they had a better place to start. . .but once he and Greenleaf reached British Columbia, and began the search. . . Haldir said suddenly, as an idea occurred to him, "My Lady? Could you describe the women who are watching over Boromir? Perhaps Gabriel can help us pinpoint where he was found."
Like Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel was wary of the two younger Elves using Gabriel Wainwright's aid, but she only cautioned them. She knew. . .she understood about redemption and atonement. She understood that some could break the cycle and start anew. But unlike Legolas and Haldir, she knew Gabriel not, so she could not trust him. Haldir understood. She had Celebrian back for the last thirty thousand years, but she had never forgotten the centuries after her daughter's wounding and torture at the hands of the Orcs. . .never forgot the ache of being separated from her daughter. Though she never spoke of it, Haldir understood that she regarded him as the son she never had. . .and he would not begrudge her that worry.
Instead, she answered his question, "I will tell you what I can, Haldir, but that is very little." Haldir expected as much. And he had time. There was another hour or two before he was to meet Legolas for their evening meal. He sat quietly beside his Lady, hands clasped as she told him of the young women now watching over Boromir of Gondor. Indeed, there was precious little knowledge of the women. But Haldir could take comfort in knowing that the Gondorian was not alone. . .that he was among people who would care for him.
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB
He slept long and he slept deeply. But as was so often the case, it seemed it was far less than what he needed. Worse yet, his dreams were passing strange, and while dreams often made little sense (how did he know that?), these dreams were strange indeed. At the center of them was a huge lidless eye of flame. . .
A change woke him (or perhaps the dream itself?), and his eyes flew open. He gasped for breath, trembling. . .especially once he realized something felt wrong. Empty, even. He looked around, disappointed to find himself somewhat alone in his room. That was what felt empty. That was what felt wrong. It was then that he realized he was somewhat incorrect. Kristin remained with him, but the hound at his side was gone. Disappointment stabbed once more, but he reminded himself that the hound did not belong to him.
As he turned his head to look at Kristin, he noticed something different in the room. Or rather, perhaps it was there all along, and this was simply the first time he noticed. In truth, during his previous times of wakefulness, he was too busy noticing other things. But this. . .it was a large box, sitting high on the wall, and Kristin was staring at it with great interest. He could actually understand why. . .the box had moving pictures inside of it! What was this extraordinary thing? Kristin looked back at him, and smiled warmly. He smiled back, then raised his uninjured arm (which still caused pains to shoot through his chest and the rest of his torso, but he ignored those), and pointed at the strange box with a questioning look.
She followed the direction of his hand, and smiled broadly. Kristin nodded to the box and said, enunciating very clearly, "Tee-vee." Teevee. What, exactly, did a teevee do? Something danced in the back of his mind, about something similar, but slipped away with just a whisper. Mykal stared at the teevee in fascination. There were people inside the box! How truly amazing! A strange thought occurred to him then. The people living inside the box continued their lives, as if unaware that someone was watching them. He wondered, too, if someone could see him. . .and he decided that he thoroughly disliked that idea!
Mykal eventually looked away, for the teevee was making his head throb. Instead, he returned his attention to Kristin, and wondered how to ask about the hound, as well as about Meg and Aylayna. Hesitantly, he patted the side of the bed where the hound. . .Nico, wasn't it? Yes, Nico. . .where he was lying only a short time ago. When Kristin looked confused, Mykal tried again, this time, using the names he was now remembering, "Nico? Meg? Aylayna?" Where had they gone? He was unconcerned about the loud female, the one who treated Kristin badly. She mattered not at all to him.
Kristin understood his second attempt and replied. At least, he thought she did. However, he understood her not. She obviously realized this, for an expression of chagrin replaced her smile. The girl hesitated briefly, then her eyes lit up, as if she had an idea. And she did! She pressed the palms of her hands together, then leaned her head to one side and pressed the back of her hand against her cheek. It took him a moment to understand. . .sleep! Meg and Aylayna returned to their home, then, and took Nico with them. Looking outside, he understood why. It was becoming dark outside, and unsafe for young ladies to be about. She followed that motion with another. . .drawing her lightly clenched fist toward her mouth. He was growing tired once more, but he was alert enough to realize that. . .it meant eating.
Food. When was the last time he ate? To his own chagrin, he realized he didn't remember the last time he ate. However. . .could he eat? He shook his head, regretting it almost instantly as his head ached unbearably. Something seemed wrong here. . .well, more than just a single thing. But as he spent more time awake, he began to remember of what happened since he awakened. And now, the questions returned. Should he not be dead? Some instinct warned that a wound to his belly should have been fatal. Yet, here he was. . .alive. Weak and exhausted, aye, but alive nonetheless. He was grateful for it, of course. Even with the loss of his memories, he was grateful to be alive. But. . .how did he survive whatever happened to him? And given his wound, was it even possible for him to eat? Well, if he was alive, why not? Surely, if he could not eat, he would be dying now, would he not?
Another healer entered the room, with what he thought was a tray of food. This new healer, a man, and Kristin conferred for a few moments, then the girl smiled. Mykal found that he was reassured when she smiled. At the same time, so did the smiles of her sister and Aylayna, though he knew them for a far shorter amount of time. The lass walked back to his bed and touched something on the side. To Mykal's shock and somewhat to his terror, he found the bed moving, taking him with it! This was the first time such a thing happened, and Mykal liked it not at all! However, as it ceased, he discovered that he was sitting upright. . .or, perhaps, more properly, reclining. Kristin pulled a board in front of him, and the second healer placed the tray on the board. Now he understood! Somewhat, at least.
Kristin sat down on the bed beside him and picked up the utensils sitting beside the tray. He had no idea what she meant to do, not at first, then understanding dawned, and he cursed himself for being eight kinds of a fool. He hadn't the strength to feed himself, not yet, at least, and much as he hated being fed like a child, Mykal was sensible enough to recognize that it would be necessary. He opened his mouth obediently and Kristin began spooning the food (mush?) into his mouth. It hardly qualified as swill, but he knew he tasted better in his life. On the other hand, he also tasted worse. And he was quite hungry.
As he took in each mouthful, Mykal once more studied the room he occupied. It was mostly white in color, though there were pretty enough paintings of seascapes. Meant, no doubt, to be restful and peaceful. He remembered such scenery from. . . Mykal's memory failed him then, and to prevent the now-familiar fear from returning, he focused his attention instead on the other items in the room. Each time he woke up, the healer Ronan (why did Mykal think he had another name once?) tested him on items in the room, the new words he was taught. Each time he woke up, he remembered a little more about his previous periods of alertness. He knew several words. . .but several words was not an entire language.
To the right of the bed was a goodly-sized window, and not for the first time, Mykal wondered what lay outside. Was he in a city? Somehow, he thought so. He heard few noises, but the noises he did hear were unlikely for a small village. Kristin touched his cheek, drawing his attention back to her. He ate around half of the food, perhaps a little less, and he was growing tired once more. Aye, when was he not tired? It seemed like he was barely awake longer than an hour before he began falling asleep once more. That odd feeling was returning. . .that strange knowing, and not remembering how he knew. . . twas there once more. Somehow, he knew that this exhaustion was part and parcel of recovery. But he could not remember how he knew.
Kristin rose to her feet and picked up the tray at the same time. She must have done it often in the past. With one hand still holding the tray, she pressed the side of his bed once more and Mykal's bed began to move once more. This time, it surprised him less, but it was still an most odd feeling. The bed seemed to. . .well. . .vibrate under him. But he could not deny that it was actually more comfortable, forcing the bed to do the work for him. The bed changed positions, so he need not do so.
He closed his eyes, sighing a little. For once, the motion didn't send spasms of pain surging through his body. Twas something for which to be thankful. Beside him, he heard Kristin shift in her seat. . .a moment after that, he felt her fingers slipping through his hair. It soothed him, and he began drifting toward sleep. Perhaps the next time he awakened, he would have more than just a whisper of a memory. Perhaps. . .
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB
After the meeting with the town leaders, Lydia Anders took a few hours to drive into the countryside surrounding Campbell. She desperately needed the time away. . .the drive would calm her down, and she was rather lax in keeping a promise she made a few months earlier. Her journey took her to a dirt road, and an old farmhouse. This was the home of Regine Farrell, the mother of Mayor Tom Farrell and the grandmother of young Brendan Farrell. Lydia smiled. There was a story to this house. And like her daughter, Lydia loved old houses. . .she loved the stories behind them even more. This house had a rich history. And that was one of the reasons she was here today. The other reason. . . well, the other reason. . .
Brendan was on the front porch, steadily painting the window frames. His back was to her, but she would have recognized his frame anywhere. He was short, like his mother before him, and slender. The only things he inherited from his father were his bright blue eyes, and his dark hair. Lydia honked and the young man turned, his thin, too-serious face lighting up as he saw her car. He waved to her frantically, nearly smearing himself with paint in the meantime. Six months earlier, as Brendan's life began to spin out of control, he shut out both his father and his grandmother. His mother died years earlier, and Lydia. . . Well, Lydia missed her daughter as keenly Brendan missed his mother. Over the years, she saw and did things that hardened her.
But Brendan was suffering from nightmares that prevented him from sleeping. He could never bring himself to talk about those dreams, but he admitted that they began when he was eighteen. Around the same time he started getting into trouble. He was exhausted as a result of the dreams, and to deaden his heart, he drank. The youngster was on his way to truly serious trouble when Lydia encountered him in a bar, all those months ago. Along with his exhaustion was something else. Rage.
Lydia could do nothing about his dreams, or his exhaustion, but one thing she did know. Manual labor was a good way of dispelling rage. She had a few quiet words with Regine Farrell, who admitted that there was an old house in the family. She wanted to restore it, as did Tom, but neither had the time. . .and Regine hadn't the strength. It would take a great deal of work. Built in 1826 by Regine's ancestor, it remained in the family for nearly two hundred years. Regine, and her brother Antoine, were both raised in that house. But with her brother's death, forty years earlier, it fell into disrepair.
It was the perfect project for a troubled young man, and Brendan attacked the restoration with the rage which so concerned Lydia. One problem led to the easing of another. . .with his tireless work on his ancestral home, the dreams became far less frequent. Still troubling, but he had them in control. . .rather than the other way around. Then Regine decided to make things even more interesting. She wanted the house restored. . .modernize it, as much as possible, but keep the furnishings and the look as true to the original as possible. It required a great deal of research and inventive thinking.
While they worked on the house, the three generations of the Farrell family lived in the trailer beside the house. . .the same trailer where Lydia always parked. She cut the engine and undid her safety belt, before slipping out of the car. Locking it was utterly unnecessary here. Besides, it was a bit of an insult to the family. Brendan greeted her with, "You came! Gran will be thrilled, Lydia! Did you by chance see my father while you were in town?" His blue eyes danced with laughter, and Lydia gave him a mock-glare which only set him to laughing once more.
"You're smarter than that, Brendan!" she scolded as she mounted the steps to embrace the young man. Lydia was rewarded with a mischievous grin, which was so much like the smile she sometimes saw decorating the face of Brendan's father, it made her heart beat double time. And that reminded her. . .she still owed Tom for that little stunt today. Firing a mischievous grin of her own back at the college student, she added, "Oh, and give your father a hard time for me the next time you see him. He worked his usual magic in the meeting this afternoon."
The smile faded slowly from Brendan's face as he asked softly, "Was it about Bethany?" She nodded, and Brendan went on, "You know, she was just a few years behind me in school. I still can't believe she's dead." Lydia squeezed his shoulder gently, and Brendan sighed, sounding more than a little disjointed, "I keep thinking about when we were in school. . .she was always so nice. Everybody says that she looks like Kristin Rafferty, and I suppose she does. . .she did. . .but I always thought she acted more like Megan Rafferty."
Now that was a comparison she never heard before, and Lydia looked at her companion quizzically. The college student explained, "I guess because Bethany and Detective Rafferty were both. . .I dunno. . .shy when they were younger? Bethany. . .she never really saw herself as being pretty, and Detective Rafferty was the same way. I suppose she still is, but she's better at hiding it. Gran always says that it's to be expected, since Kristin and Elena are both gorgeous. And they are. . .it just. . . I never thought about. . .well, never mind, it isn't that important." Lydia thought briefly about pressing her young friend, then decided against it. And it was just as well, for Brendan was opening the door for her and calling out, "Gran! Lydia is here!"
Regine Dennison Farrell, or Jean, exited the kitchen. She was a small woman, standing no more than five feet tall, and looked more than a little incongruous standing beside her six foot five inch son. The daughter of a World War I veteran and his French bride, Regine was born and raised here in North Carolina, and she traced her ancestry back to prior to the American Revolution. Her roots here were deep, and like many daughters of the South, she was ferociously proud of her heritage.
Her new home reflected this pride. Even now, after so many visits to the old Dennison homestead, Lydia couldn't get over the way they balanced the old and the new. The basic structure remained the same. Where possible, period furniture was used. However, there was electricity and running water, Internet access, and of course, that most basic necessity for life in the South during the summer, air conditioning. The diminutive woman beamed at Lydia, saying in her soft North Carolina drawl, "I'm glad to see ya, Captain! Brendan, honey, go to the kitchen and get lemonade!"
The youngster made himself scarce, but not before kissing his grandmother's cheek. Lydia knew, of course, that the 'request' for lemonade was also a barely disguised demand for him to wash up. There was a bathroom off the kitchen, and just off that bathroom were stairs to the second floor. When he returned, Brendan would be in a fresh t-shirt, his hair neatly combed, and he would be carrying two glasses of lemonade. Regine tucked her hand into Lydia's elbow and said, steering her to the sofa, "He'll be a while. . . tell me everythin' that's new!"
Lydia sat down, once more admiring the room. While Tom and Brendan worked on the structure of the house, Regine took care of the decoration. . .and she had many of her mother and paternal grandmother's pieces of furniture. One thing, however, always stood out when she visited. Two things, actually. One was the stone fireplace opposite her and Regine (and after her first Carolina winter, she didn't question the need for it). The second thing sat above that very fireplace. . .a pair of crossed swords. Regine said quietly, "One sword is from the Revolution, the other one is from the War Between the States. And yes, I had ancestors who fought in both. In the War Between the States, I had ancestors who fought on both sides."
The police captain looked at her quickly, and the older woman continued, "Actually, I had ancestors who fought on both sides during the Revolution. When the colonists won, the Tories went up to Canada for a time. Now. Do tell me what my son has done this time. You have that look, Lydia. . .the one that says you aren't sure if you should strangle Tom. . .or kiss him senseless." The police captain felt her face burning, and Regine snorted, "Oh, for heaven's sake, Lydia! We're both grown women, and I can tell by the way you look at my son that you're attracted to him. Of course you are! He's a very handsome man!"
Lydia had to smile at the maternal pride that was obvious in the last sentence. Regine continued, "I don't know if I ever told you. . .Tom looks like my daddy." In a somewhat louder voice, she told her grandson, "Take your time, honey. . .I'm gonna show Lydia a picture of your great-granddaddy!" With that, she seized Lydia's hand and pulled her upright once more, leading her to the second staircase. The blonde woman made a face. . .she hated these stairs! They were steep and they were narrow. Still, she gamely followed her hostess.
Oh Lord have mercy. It was Tom's bedroom. She could tell it immediately. For one thing, it smelled of his cologne. . .or was it aftershave? Whatever. It smelled like him. Then she saw the picture sitting on his chest of drawers, and her heart skipped a beat. It was Tom, only about twenty, maybe twenty-five years, younger. Regine said softly, "My daddy. Sergeant Richard Dennison. It's one of Tom's prized possessions. It was taken when Daddy went into the army for the Great War. He was twenty-two years old." She traced the lines of the man's face with infinite tenderness.
Lydia was on the verge of speaking, though she had no idea what to say. Despite what Regine said earlier, the police captain really didn't think commenting on Richard Dennison's good looks was wise. That was still her father, after all. Just like Tom was still her son. And she was spared the necessity of saying anything, when her cell began ringing. She offered Regine an apologetic smile and removed her phone from her bag, answering on the second ring, "Anders."
"Captain, it's us. We're getting ready to head back to the extended, so we'll call you when we get there," Elena Gutierrez said. Extend. . .oh. Oh, of course. The mysterious case that had Kristin Rafferty's panties in a bunch. Immediately, Lydia chastised herself for being so uncharitable. Gutierrez and Rafferty were helping the Raleigh police, and Lydia was enough of a politician (perish the thought!) to recognize that there might come a time when the Campbell PD would need the aid of their big-city brethren. She told her two detectives to take their time and drive safely, then hung up.
"Elena and Meg?" Regine guessed as Lydia put away her cell phone. The younger woman wasn't sure to be worried or relieved. It was rare that Regine didn't know what was going on around here. Lydia nodded, and Regine continued, "Tom called me at lunch time, told me about that poor girl, and that he planned to have a few words with those old farts in the town council, bless their hearts." It was all Lydia could do to keep from laughing, not just at the rhyming, but at the sentiments expressed. Regine added with some asperity, "And not a word about how I'm supposed to be a lady!"
Lydia simply waved her hands mutely, still grinning, and Regine continued, "Well, all right then. Now, tell me the latest gossip in town. You can't tell me that Dalton Robeson is the only news in town?" Lydia just laughed. It wasn't funny. . .really, it wasn't. But at the same time, it was. Regine was absolutely right. Dalton Robeson and his crime was certainly the top news story, but it wasn't the only one. She decided to answer the question with a recap of the week as a whole. . .because even before Bethany Lawson's mutilated body was found, there were plenty of things going on.
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB
Megan was huddled against the passenger side door, and Nico was curled up in the backseat. As Elena drove back to the extended stay, she thought once more about what little they accomplished. On the other hand. . .well, maybe things worked out better than she thought. After all, wasn't eliminating possibilities part of police work? Yes. . .yes, it was. Ask the question, get it answered, so you can move onto another possibility. Still, she wished they knew more than they did. Still, to be fair, this was their first day of the investigation. And they really didn't have much to go on.
She sighed quietly and Megan asked, her voice equally quiet, "Are you all right?" Elena looked at her friend, smiling wryly. But Megan just returned the look, never blinking, her face solemn. Well, it was worth a try. Unfortunately, Meg sometimes had a one-track mind. When she was concerned about someone, it was damn near impossible to distract her. The question for Elena was, why was Megan concerned? Her friend added after a moment, "Look, I may have been selfish today, but that doesn't mean I don't think about what the consequences were to you." Selfish. . .consequences?
Then it hit her, and Elena shook her head almost angrily, replying, "Now you're being una idiota. You haven't been selfish. . .not even close. Who was it that reminded me to eat this afternoon? Who was it that noticed that I was getting a headache? You would have never picked up on that, if you were focused only on yourself. Don't do this to yourself, amiga. I know you feel guilty about not getting to Bethany before that pieza de mierda. . .I do, too. But don't go down that road."
Nico stirred in the backseat, and Megan was silent for a long time. At last, she replied softly, "I don't want to. But every time I think I have a handle on this, the second-guessing starts again. Did I miss some detail. . .was there something I could have done to save that girl? God, Elena. . .maybe. . .she hadn't been dead that long when we found her!" No. No, she hadn't been dead long at all. And maybe it was just as well that Elena went through this last night with herself. Oh, she was still struggling with it. But she wasn't as close to the atrocity as Meg was. And she learned the hard way, years earlier, when Megan was struggling with guilt over some professional 'failure,' not to ask if Meg thought Elena failed as well. Meg blinked at her, then replied, 'Why would I think that? That's between you and your own conscience.' Point taken. It wasn't about what Elena could have done. . .it was about what Megan could have done, because that was something she could control. To a point.
And the rest of this? Well, it was typical of her friend. . .put up barriers until she could deal with something. Not that Elena had much room to talk, especially not when they were in the middle of a bizarre case like this one. With that in mind, she finally replied, "Maybe we could have saved her. But maybe we couldn't have. Maybe we would have gotten there just as she died. Remember that. We. You and I. We're a team. . .and we both did our jobs. Maybe not perfectly, but we're not perfect. We're human beings. But we did do our jobs. And because we did our jobs, that hijo de una perra is behind bars, right where he belonged. Because we did our jobs, the prosecutor is looking at what should be an airtight case. The only one responsible for Bethany Lawson's death. . .is behind bars."
Another sigh, then Megan replied, "I know that. I do. In my mind, I know that. But, in my heart, and sometimes, in my soul. . ." She fell silent, and Elena didn't press her. Instead, she focused on the road. While she drove in the capital city from time to time, she wasn't comfortable driving in it after dark. She did her best to remain focused on the task at hand. They would do Michael no good if they were in the hospital (or worse). The travelers were nearing the extended stay, when Megan spoke again, "I think she's jealous of us." Huh? Her partner elaborated, "Detective Madsen. I think she's jealous of us."
Oooohkay. . .Elena had no idea where that came from, but she wouldn't argue with the change of subject. Megan went on, "She's jealous of us, because Detective Aubrey was more relaxed with us. She didn't like that very much. She's his partner, he's supposed to be like that with her. While you two were talking, and she was standing over me, she said something to the effect of, 'I don't know why he's even listening to a pair of hayseeds.' That was when I stood up." Hayseeds, was it? Never mind. She would deal with that later. Megan continued, her voice taking on a humorous note, "I told her, 'maybe he listens to us, because we listen to him.' And then I walked away."
So that was what that was all about! Elena had to admit, the comeback wasn't bad at all. No, it wasn't a zinger or a witty one-liner, but Elena had a gut feeling that it was something that would return to Christine Madsen's mind often over the next few days. It was so simple. . . devastatingly so. At first, she would deny it. After all, what would a hayseed from the rural South know? But when she least expected it, it would return to her mind. And she would wonder. . .is it possible? Could she be right? Megan added, "Of course, I added, 'oh, and you'll find that we hayseeds have faxes, emails, and this funky little thing called 'the Internet.' She just scowled at me, and that's when I walked away. She needs to lose that attitude, but I'll leave that up to her partner."
"It's why he's there," Elena answered agreeably as she pulled into her space. Or rather, what she was coming to think of as her parking space. In ten minutes, the engine was turned off, all three were out, the doors were locked, and the trio headed inside. There was no conversation between the humans, though Nico whined ever so often. He probably needed to answer nature's call, and Elena observed, "Go on up to the room. . .I'll take care of Nico. And he'll watch out for me." This was in answer to her partner's unspoken worry. After all, a lone woman, after dark. . .even at an Extended Stay. . .it was best to be cautious as the sun went down during the early winter hours. But Elena knew Nico wouldn't let anything happen to her. Megan still looked worried, but she nodded her agreement and removed her keycard from her purse.
"All right. Fifteen minutes. If you and Nico aren't back after that, I will come looking for you, with hotel security," Megan replied. Actually, Elena couldn't decide if that was a promise or a warning. It really didn't matter, when you came right down to it. The point was, she knew Megan enough to realize her partner would do just that. She might not even wait fifteen minutes, since they were in an unfamiliar setting. . .at least half of the reason for her discomfort. Besides, it was Elena's plan to stay just outside the door, where there was plenty of lighting. Sure, she was a cop, but she didn't plan on taking any unnecessary chances. Her partner added, "And in the meantime, I'll call for a pizza. The usual?"
"In case I haven't told you lately, you rock. Fifteen minutes it is. . .and maybe we could try to heat up those poor turnovers Johanna sent with us this morning?" Elena suggested. Megan winked at her, making Elena smile in turn. Good. That was the first sign of her friend's normal spirit in quite some time. It was good to see. She nudged the dog toward the 'doggie grounds,' and Nico immediately perked up. It was all Elena could do to keep from smiling outright. Poor dog. . .he had been so patient with them today. Though, in truth, he had it fairly easy. . .he stayed with Michael. And as for Michael. Well. It had been a long time since she had a puzzle to unravel in such an attractive package. As in. . .say. . . never?
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB
Dad was worried about him. So was Gran. Sometimes, it seemed that the only one who didn't look at him with concern was Captain Anders. That was reason enough to want her around. Even if she didn't remind him of his mother, that would be reason enough for Brendan Farrell. And it wasn't that he was ungrateful for the concern (and love) of his father and grandmother. On the contrary. He adored them both, especially now, after working on the house with Dad, and listening to Gran's stories about her family. It made him feel connected to this world. But he hated that they worried about him. More than that, he hated that he gave them reason to worry about him.
Captain Anders did worry about him, but she had a different reason to worry. The trouble was, she didn't know the half of it. He told her about some of his nightmares. Some. Not all. She didn't know about the ghostly pain in his shoulder, and in the back of his neck. She also didn't know that the dreams began with his eighteenth birthday. . . his coming of age, in many ways, in many societies. She didn't know that thanks to the terrible clarity of his dreams, Brendan had come to believe in reincarnation. He also believed. . .knew. . .that he was the reincarnation of a tiny being named, 'Frodo Baggins.'
This 'Frodo' wasn't a man. He had pointed ears (like an elf, something whispered in the back of his mind) and furry feet. He wasn't a man. But he couldn't remember what he was, aside from 'Frodo Baggins, Frodo of the Nine Fingers.' Some memories were clear as day, as clear as the last time he saw his mother, so many years earlier. Memories of a wise old man named 'Gandalf,' of a true friend named 'Sam' were especially clear. So, too, were memories of a protector named 'Strider,' and of a loving uncle named 'Bilbo.' There were odd memories, of living in a hole under the ground, or something similar, and dragon-shaped fireworks at a party. There were frightening memories of being stabbed by a ghostly figure, and the all-too-real pain that resulted from that stabbing wound. . .and of a blond-haired man with green eyes, a friend destroyed by something far greater. . .and lesser. . .than himself. Brendan was always most agitated when he had those dreams.
Coupled with the fear, that this man would overwhelm him, take something that he, Frodo, was entrusted with. . .was another emotion. Pity. No. Not pity. Compassion. Horror that such a terrible thing was happening to this man. Brendan, upon waking up, always wanted to weep for that man. Even as he feared him, even as he urged himself not to trust. . .he wanted to weep for that man, because once, he was far different. But that different man never made an appearance in Brendan's dreams. It was wrong, he knew, but if that man appeared in his life today, Brendan would think twice. . .three times even. . .before trusting him.
Sighing, Brendan turned his attention back to the glasses of lemonade waiting on the kitchen counter. Why he looked at them, he didn't know. . .it wasn't as if they would do anything. But maybe that was the point. He just needed to look at something like that. Focus his mind, his attention, on something other than his memories. . .his dreams. Whatever you wanted to call them. Focus on something other than Bethany Lawson's murder, though that was hard to do. Everyone in Campbell was talking about it. Talking about her. Bethany would have hated that. Brendan shook his head, smiling faintly. But the smile didn't last long. As he told his grandmother and Lydia, he knew Bethany Lawson. What he didn't tell them was how much it hurt, losing his friend.
It seemed so odd, to so many people, that someone as pretty as Bethany could be so self-conscious. Brendan had known her since they were both children. . .she was his greatest confidante after his mother's death, and in turn, she told him what she saw when she looked in the mirror. It wasn't anything special, at least not from her point of view. Her mother, Kim, was gorgeous, as so many Eurasian women were, with her Vietnamese mother and French father. Even at an early age, it was clear to all that Bethany would possess the same beauty as her mother. Bethany could see her mother's beauty, but her own was hidden from her.
So, as young girls sometimes will do, she turned her attention to other things. In her mind, she would never be as beautiful as her mother. . .so she studied as hard as she could. What he told Captain Anders earlier was true. . .in terms of attitude and personality and behavior, Bethany was more like Megan Rafferty than Kristin. What he didn't mention was that it was Bethany's choice. The young girl looked up to the cop. She genuinely wanted to be like Megan Rafferty, even if they followed different career paths. And as devastated as he was by Bethany's murder, Brendan took comfort in knowing that out of the two cops who found her, and then caught her murderer. . .one of them was her heroine. He wondered if he should tell Detective Rafferty that. Maybe later. Maybe when it didn't hurt so much.
Brendan wasn't sure how he knew that. It was just. . .there. Like his memories of Frodo, of being Frodo. Well, on the other hand. . .maybe being a cop's son had something to do with it as well. He was in his early teens when his father left the force to run for mayor, and he remembered some of the more unpleasant aspects of his father's job. Brendan knew he was understating things. . .calling those nights 'unpleasant.' That was a friggin' understatement. He remembered nights, especially after his mom died, when his father would come home from work. . .just sit down beside the aquarium that was an anniversary gift from Mom. . .and cry softly. Sometimes it was because of a drunk driving accident that killed a child. Other times, it was a kidnapping in a nearby town, in which the victim was a wife and mother.
There was one devastating situation in particular, in which a mother of three was abducted at gunpoint from a grocery store. She was the same age Brendan's mother was when she was killed. . .only thirty-seven. Fortunately, she survived and went home to her family. Thanks, in no small part, to Thomas Farrell, who was driven to bring her home safely to her family. After that, his father seemed to be more at peace. Almost as if helping to free the woman brought him a closure he didn't have before with the loss of his wife. Or maybe, in a weird sort of way. . .it was redemption for his father. He took his wife's death very hard, even harder than Brendan in some respects, and couldn't forgive himself for failing to protect the woman he loved so much.
Redemption. Thomas Farrell wasn't the only member of the family looking for it. Gran had secrets, just like Mrs. Watkins did. And Brendan himself. The secrets of being Frodo Baggins, once upon a time. But those were for another day. Right now, he had two lemonade glasses to deliver. And even if his grandmother and Lydia weren't ready for them, that wasn't the point. His grandmother asked him to do something. A gentleman didn't let a lady down, and Brendan Farrell was raised as a gentleman.
And maybe, once he could control his anger and grief, he would talk about the Bethany Lawson he knew. The girl who dreamed of being an archaeologist, who loved movies, junk food, and amusement parks. . .who loved Campbell, but ached to travel, as her mother had. There was so much more to Bethany than her beauty and the ugliness of her murder. She was insatiably curious, always wanting to learn more. There was so much she wanted to see, and be, and do (and why did that sound so terribly familiar to him?). He wanted to talk about, wanted to remember, that Bethany.
Brendan picked up the tray, carefully balancing it as he headed into the front room. Maybe he would tell Captain Anders about Bethany, the Bethany he knew. At the very least, it would divert Gran's attention away from her worry about him. . .at the very least, it would divert his own attention away from his dreams, his memories, and why they seemed to be growing in intensity, and in detail. The dream he had, the previous night, was the most detailed yet. And that frightened him. Brendan was reaching a point where he didn't believe in coincidences. His dreams were trying to tell him something. The question was. . .what?
Translations:
hijo de una perra: son of a bitch.
