Chapt. Nine: (Sine Qua Non)

Peter could feel a molar crush under the force of his fist against Walter's jaw. The ankle chains rattled as the old man contracted, his face against the cold floor as he spat out blood, saliva, and bits of filling. After a few moments, he cleared his throat, shaking off the pain, "Bullet to the brain, boy. We agreed on that," he panted.

Peter took the opportunity the land a sound kick to Walter's side, causing a yelp and weak attempt at shirking away. A grin found Peter's face, a small, nearly silent chuckle of sadistic amusement emerging from his throat, "That doesn't mean I can't amuse myself beforehand," he said, kneeling to draw up his father's head roughly, looking him in the face.

"Peter-"

"The Pins used to remind me of praying. Did they ever look like that, to you? I remember sitting in them for hours, when I was a kid- this is probably isn't the same set, it's way too big. They haven't made many of them. Just ones for you and I, I think. But now…" Peter stood, drawing out the pistol tucked into the waistband of his stolen uniform slacks, "They remind me of the guillotine."

Walter could not look up, only staring down at the way that blood darkened and hardened around the scuff-marks from countless heels on the floor. He was struggling mutely with his restraints, the chains around his legs clicking with his efforts, his face tight with pain and concentration.

"Pay attention to me, Walter," Peter warned.

"I am, son."

"No, you're not. You're trying to get away again."

"I can't look at you when you address me, Peter, and I'm sorry, I know it's terribly rude," Walter strained to give him a sidelong glance, "And I fear that you may not be yourself, right now."

Peter considered breaking his nose, but settled on a pistol whip to the back of the skull. Walter issued another cry, reeling as his motions slowed with pain. Peter thought he looked like an overturned beetle, squirming. As he thought of this, he set his foot to the back of his father's drawn shoulder blades, grinding in his heel, thinking perhaps he could crush this bug. Walter growled helplessly, his shoulders twitching in a spasm of pain.

Enough of this. However pleasurable it was to see this man in pain, Peter wanted to end his own suffering much more than to prolong Walter's.

Peter removed his weight, stooping to grip Walter by the collar and pull him back upright, "Sit up," he commanded gruffly. Walter sat back on his knees, tilting to the side only slightly to look up at his son. Blood oozed slowly from the corner of his mouth and one of his nostrils. The bruises from their previous encounter paled in comparison to the dark, crimson lines.

"Are you going to kill me now, son?" Walter questioned with a smile.

Peter bared his teeth, pressing the barrel to the old man's forehead.

Walter sighed softly, shutting his eyes.

Peter's breath caught in his throat as there was the bright sound of metal striking cement, and a steel pin clattered on the floor behind Walter. Peter stepped back, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Oops," Walter grinned.

Peter felt the gun fly from his grip as Walter ripped his arms from the bloody leather sleeves, the second pin falling as he rocketed to his feet, seizing his son by the throat and slamming him backward, onto the floor. Sparks exploded in Peter's vision, his senses throbbing with raw pain as Walter drew him up by the collar again, slamming his head on the floor once more. Walter scrambled to seize the lunch tray, sitting on Peter's chest as he reeled momentarily, and Walter raised the flat piece of steel above his head, driving it down with all of his strength. Peter felt teeth forced down his throat, and gurgled blood loudly, as Walter slammed the tray again with both of his fists, issuing a cry.

Peter's leg gave a twitch as his jaw was forced loose of his head, and his throat was crushed. Walter pounded the tray again, crushing his spinal cord. Peter did not move, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Walter sat on Peter's abdomen for a few moments, trembling and panting. At last, he gave a curse, rolling off of him and beginning to work on the locks of his ankle chains, "I don't like doing this to you, Peter," he said, a note of bitter anxiousness in his voice, "but you simply won't listen to reason, in times like these. It seems the only time I can talk with you is when you're…" Peter could only assume his father was looking over him, "like this, I suppose. And even then, I don't know if you're listening…but they shouldn't be able to correctly identify you, like this. It should give you some time to get clear of them… " the ankle chains gave a clatter as he doffed them onto the floor and got to his feet.

"I see you've averted the cameras somehow- very convenient, I shouldn't be detected, in my departure," Peter could feel him pawing at his clothes, seizing the keys of the cell, the extra few speed-loads in his belt, and the badge. "Oh, Peter," Walter sighed, sounding as if he were shaking his head, "I do hope you haven't gone and killed some poor Customs agent for this. At least make it FBI- the less of those morons, the better. Ah, well." he kept the badge.

Peter at last gave a twitch as Walter stooped to collect the discarded firearm, and return to unlocking the door. His bare feet were nearly silent as he returned to his son's listless form, stooping to smooth back his hair tenderly, "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered. There was a hesitation, in his touch, and the soft feel of lips graced Peter's forehead.

Peter reached new levels of fury, in his incapacitation, as Walter crept out of the cell, locking it behind himself and hurrying off down the hall.

xXx

It had been an odd, slightly creepy feeling, going through the things in Walter's room for his car keys. Astrid had only hoped that they hadn't been on him, when he'd been arrested, and hesitated when she had opened his black leather bag, shirking away from a collage of syringes. She'd exclaimed brightly when she had discovered the keys in the pocket of a pair of discarded slacks.

Astrid got down the steps of the hotel before she gave herself a chance to look at the CLOSED sign in the window, lest a sense of reason somehow drift into her head. She carried with her a large, brown-paper grocery bag of assorted requests from Walter's list, and her hands were quaking slightly, as she sifted through the old keys and an eight-ball keychain to find the Station wagon's door key.

She unlocked the door and glanced around the vacant parking lot, the sky a cold, steel-grey color of twilight, and she suddenly wished she were back in her kitchen, complaining about the humidity and smelling mac-n-cheese cooking. Astrid climbed into the car. The last scene she would remember of her kitchen was the letter she had written to whoever found it, under the pasta tongs she had purchased at a yard sale. The envelope would be soft, from how long she had kept it in her sock drawer.

Astrid wound the engine to life and ground the stick shift into drive, pulling out of the empty parking lot and onto the side street that let to the main drag. She glanced down at the fuel gauge and frowned- this tuna boat needed gas.

She pulled in under the flickering fluorescent bulbs of the corner gas station, parking the car and pulling the seat forward before she climbed out. Her steps were quick as she ventured past the advertisements that littered the propped-open glass door. Distantly, a bell chimed, "Forty on pump two," Astrid mumbled, placing the cash onto the counter.

"'You getting out of here?" someone asked as the cashier dialed up the till, and Astrid jumped in surprise.

"Yes," she replied.

A shapely blonde woman watched her with her hands in the pockets of her jeans, her thumb fiddling with the keys on her belt. "Just traveling through?" she asked with another smile. The artificial light accented her freckles. Astrid thought she was very pretty, and had an accomplished look about her, even if it seemed strained, at times.

"Yeah," Astrid lied.

"Me, too. My name's Olivia," she held out her hand, and Astrid shook it, muttering her own appellation, "Well, I mean, I'll probably be going tomorrow morning. It's a little late to be heading out, don't you think?"

"Yeah- I mean, no. I've… I've got somewhere to be, I'm in a hurry."

Olivia nodded agreeably, "I don't envy you. Do you know a good place to stay, in this town?"

"No," Astrid said. It was half-truth; the Lux sucked.

"Hmm. Where are you headed?"

"Los Angeles," Astrid answered, the first city she could think of emerging from her lips. She did not know what it was about Olivia that made her feel as if she were on the chopping block, and she struggled to shake the menacing feeling away, "What about you?"

"Dunno," Olivia sighed, "I kind of don't care, you know? So long as I'm not where everyone expects me to be, d'you know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I've taken up more than enough of your time. It was nice meeting you, Astrid," they shook hands again, and Astrid departed to her pump to take on her purchased petrol. Were all of the people outside of this town as coldly calculating as Olivia had been?

Well, it had been an interesting distraction, and Astrid soon found herself pulling into the back-street of the police station, the squat brick building seeming sound enough, and she swallowed.

And all at once, reason struck her; she should go back now- what was she even thinking?! She didn't have a plan, to get Walter out, and even if she had, was she expecting to go with him? To where? Was Charlie right- was she really that stupid? The man was wanted by the freaking FBI! He'd killed people! Who's to say he wouldn't simply kill her-

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an arm snaking through the open window, seizing her by the collar, and she gave a small scream, struggling away.

"What are doing in my car?!"

"Walter!" Astrid exclaimed, and he released her. She did not have the time to ask why his hands and face were bloody.

"I don't care, just scoot over! Move, I haven't got much time!"

"Don't scare me like that, you dill weed!" Astrid cried as Walter pulled open the door, pushing her across the bench seat to climb in.

"What did you do to my seat? Don't fiddle around with my seat!" Walter huffed, pulling down the seat lever and setting it back as he started the engine and turned to look out of the hopelessly cluttered back window to back out of the narrow drive.

"You're welcome," Astrid grumbled, crossing her arms across her front.

xXx