They didn't have long to wait. Sylar heard the car cruise into the driveway to park there even though they owned a garage. He tried not to get distracted with curiosity about why the man of the house parked outside, but he had to think about something as he listened to Noah exit the car, open and shut the back door, walk to the door of the house, and jangle the keys such that Sylar also noted the family must typically lock the front door even while most of them were home. It was an interesting slice of suburban life and much better to think about than how Claire's unclaimed ability was in the kitchen behind him. Oddly, Peter's presence wasn't bothering him. It was as though Peter were simply not a target. Then the front door opened and Noah walked in, interrupting Sylar's internal speculation.
The man stopped a bare step into the room, the door half-closed behind him. Sylar gave it a little nudge with telekinesis so it finished the arc and shut. His abilities still weren't functioning well enough for the motion to be as effortless as it should have been. Noah stared at the two of them for a long moment, then glanced around the rest of the room. There were no signs of violence or the other inhabitants. As far as Noah could tell, they were alone.
"Remember us?" Peter said, stepping forward.
"Of course," Noah said conversationally. He set down the briefcase he'd been carrying. A jacket was slung over his arm, one more suited to the cool fall weather of New York than the Indian summer of Odessa.
"How likely is it that he'd forget the people he kidnapped and had raped while he rubbed a few out watching?" Sylar pretended to talk to Peter, but the ugly taunt was clearly intended for Noah. "But then again, maybe he's done it to so many that we all sort of blur together for him." He turned to Noah. "I want to hear from your lips why you did that to us."
"You're a serial killer, Gabriel," Noah said. He walked over to the fireplace, posing with it behind him. Sylar scanned over it quickly for threats. The fireplace poker would make a good weapon, but it seemed unlikely that Noah would try to attack them with one. Surely he wasn't that stupid, but if he were carrying a gun or any other weapon, then it was awfully small. Sylar saw no traces of one. Noah went on, "I can do whatever I want to people like you." He spread one arm along the mantel. Sylar glanced at the clock on top of it, looking at it for a few seconds longer than the photographs next to it. There was something not right about Noah's behavior.
"And him?" Sylar waved at Peter. "He saved your daughter's life and yet you abducted him the same as you did me!"
"He was convenient. His memory would have been wiped at the end anyway. Neither one of you are human. Nothing I did matters." There was a sound from the kitchen – the scuff of a shoe on the tile. Noah glanced in that direction, his hand falling to the bottom of the mantel. It hung in mid-air like he couldn't decide what to do with it. "Where's my family?" There was dread in his voice. Delicious as that sound was, Sylar knew the game was up. Both he and Peter turned to watch as Sandra, Claire, and even Lyle, still carrying the dog, came into view.
"Noah?" Sandra's voice was barely a whisper.
At the same time, Claire was saying, "Not human?" in a heart-broken tone.
But those weren't the only things happening. As Sylar swung back to relish Noah's expression, he got to see the man yank a gun out from some hidden compartment built into the mantel. Finally, the odd posturing made sense. Sylar had time to think that before a bullet was fired directly at him. Instinct, fear, and disbelief flooded into him as he reached for his ability and found it still maddenly unstable. There was no way to instantly summon the concentration needed to make it work flawlessly. He tried to block the projectile – he really did – but the thing that made the most difference was Peter shoving him to the side. The lead still ripped through the side of his chest, pain lancing through him with an icy-hot sting. For those first few seconds, he was surprised more than hurt. He looked down, staggering from the shove, trying to figure out if that was a lethal injury or not.
Another bullet tore through the air, hitting him in the shoulder after first passing through Claire's body. She'd thrown herself in front of him to stop the attempted murder – the surprises just weren't stopping. Sylar blinked as she crumpled into Peter's arms. Sandra threw herself forward at Noah with the scream only a mother can make when her child is taken right before her eyes. She seized the gun. Noah yelled at her. They struggled. Sylar narrowed his eyes with concentration. He ignored the blood streaming down his side and the pain that surged stronger with every racing heartbeat. He could compartmentalize the unnecessary physical sensations now that he had a moment to do it. What he focused on, instead, was the twist of his fingers and the flow of his power. In his peripheral vision, he knew Peter was looking up at him from where the other man was crouched over Claire's body. Peter knew what he was doing. The barrel of the gun rotated as Sandra found herself unexpectedly getting the upper hand. A moment later, the trigger was pulled.
It sounded louder, somehow, than the two shots Noah had fired trying to kill Sylar. The man with horned-rimmed glasses staggered back, eyes wide. He fell, clutching at his chest. Sylar's hand tightened into a fist. Peter stood and wrapped his hand around Sylar's. It was red with Claire's blood. "Let him go," Peter whispered.
Sylar exhaled and released his grip. Noah's body jerked and gasped, but he wouldn't make it. "He's dead anyway." Peter glanced back at Noah's form, then to Sylar, and nodded once as though in affirmation of what Sylar had done.
To the surprise of her remaining family, Claire sat up. Lyle, who had taken cover as soon as bullets started flying, saw her first and yelped. The gun clunked to the ground as Sandra dropped it and rushed to her daughter, sobbing hysterically as she embraced her, then released Claire to search for the rapidly-disappearing gunshot wound. The dog barked in agitation, squirming free of Lyle's arms to rush around the room erratically. Lyle stood and walked forward towards his father as though in slow motion, unable to do anything but stare at him as Noah gasped, bled, and twitched with agonal respirations.
Peter looked Sylar over, checking both wounds. He dismissed the shoulder as soon as he saw it, but lingered over the one to the left side of Sylar's chest. "How's your breathing?"
Sylar glanced around, but the Bennet family was fully occupied and accounted for. "My lung has been punctured. How do you think it is?"
Peter snorted softly. "You're such a wonderful patient. We need to get you to an emergency room to get you stabilized."
"One thing," Sylar said, going to one knee next to where Claire sat, holding her mother who was crying and rocking. He met Claire's eyes over Sandra's shoulder. The hunger that had previously itched in his brain made not a stir as he looked at her. "If you need us, or want the company others who … aren't human, look up Nathan Petrelli in New York. He's running for Senate. He'll be able to find us." He locked eyes with the girl until she nodded in understanding. Then Sylar stood, leaving her to cope with the family tragedy.
No one stopped them as they left.
