Chapter 10

The definite proof of his exhaustion was that the phone completely failed to wake him up. He drifted up from sleep very slowly when someone started shaking him.

"Heidi?" he mumbled into the pillow.

"Telephone," Rawan said, pushing said item to his ear.

"Hm." He made a drowsy grab for the phone and somehow managed to get hold of it. "Hello?"

"You could have called home, you know. We were worried."

"Hey, Rim," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry about that. I got sidetracked." He smiled at Rawan, who was in the process of getting dressed. Her expression was inscrutable, but her cheeks burned red.

"Someone followed me to school."

"Huh." Her words slowly sank in, and he blinked. "What?" He should have known those damned posters were a bad sign. The thought of mobsters honing in on the Mansour family made his heart pound. "Who was it? What did he look like?"

"I don't know. I never saw him."

He sank back on the pillow. "Rim..."

"No, no, no, listen to me. I didn't see him, but I heard him. All the way to school. I just couldn't spot him, not ever. He's really good at hiding, whoever he is."

To his ears, it sounded like a little girl's overactive imagination. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" The panic in her voice was very real. "I'm not making this up, I swear! They found you. I'm so sorry!"

"Why would you..." And then he realized the only reasons he would be apologizing. "Rim, please tell me you didn't call that number."

Silence. He rubbed his forehead, trying to force his still groggy mind to work. If Rim had contacted the people putting up flyers, it didn't matter if the man following her was just her own guilty conscience speaking. Sooner or later, someone would trace the call, and he had no way of knowing if that someone was a friend or an enemy.

"You shouldn't have done that." It was a simple statement – yelling at her would serve no purpose.

"I know," she said in a small voice.

"Okay." He rubbed his face, thinking. "Here's what you do. Don't go out unless you have to. If you do go out, wear thick clothes, leather if you have any, and the heaviest boots you have." It wouldn't help much, but anything was better than nothing; she'd have a better kick, and leather might help against a knife. "Talk to the others... is anyone at home now?"

"Mom."

He groaned. Trying to have a conversation with Zaynab over the phone, even with Rim as an intermediary, was not something he looked forward to. "Tell her to be careful, the same as you."

There was a pause, and then she said, "Dardan upstairs has a knife. I could ask him if I could borrow it."

"No!" he barked. "Whatever you do, do not pull a weapon on these people. You don't want that kind of trouble. Don't even think about it."

"Okay."

"Promise me."

"Yes!"

"All right." He drew a deep, shaky breath. The room was dancing before his eyes in a disturbing way, and he closed his eyes for a second. "Will Qais come home at all tonight?"

"Six o'clock."

"Good. When he comes home, tell him..." He hesitated, knowing exactly what he'd meant to say, but feeling rather queasy at the thought. For all he knew, he could be signing Qais' death warrant. "Ask him what he can pick up."

"Pick up?"

"From the guy," he said testily. "The invisible hiding guy."

"Oh. Okay."

It wasn't even remotely close to okay. "Did you at least learn anything?"

"At school?"

That made him laugh, both the question itself and the incredulity in her voice. "No, not at school. When you made the phone call."

"I didn't really talk to him. I kind of chickened out."

"Thank God you did."

"Though he did say his name was Peter Petrelli."

He gripped the phone hard. "Peter...?"

"Petrelli."

Even as she repeated the word, he mouthed it silently to himself, and a shiver of joy and relief ran down his spine. The sensation was accompanied by a bright light and the memory of sharp pain in his hand. He grinned, even as he rubbed the painful spot. This wasn't the mob after him, he was willing to bet on that. Probably best to stick to the precautions, just in case, but he didn't feel half as bad anymore about sending Qais out to take the guy's pulse.

"Thanks."

"Does that mean something to you?"

"Yes. I'm not sure what, but yes it does."

He could hear Zaynab speaking in the background. "Mom says to stay where you are," Rim translated. "Which, hang on..."

She started speaking to her mother in the patented Mansour language mix, and he waited patiently for her to stop. His patience ended when he recognized one particular word that made him scowl. "Rim!"

"What?"

"I know what slampa means, and if you're saying what I think you are..."

"Well, I'm sorry, it's just that you're hardly the first man Rawan has brought home, you know?"

"That's none of your business. Now, put your mom on."

"Why? You can't talk to her."

"I'm not going to." He laid the phone against his neck and asked Rawan, "Could you talk to Zaynab for me, please?"

"Sure."

He tossed the phone to her and sat waiting while she talked. As far as he could tell, the conversation was strictly in Arabic now, but with the mile-a-minute speed she was upholding, it was impossible to tell for sure. There was no mistaking the tone, though. She was clearly distressed and pissed off about the things she heard. As the discussion proceeded, her voice rose to a higher pitch and she started making faces and gestures that were completely wasted on the woman at the other end. He would have found them amusing if he hadn't all but known that he was the reason for the disgust.

She pressed the off button and threw the phone on the bed. "You can stay here as long as you need to."

By the sound of it, she'd just as soon have him walk out the door this instant. He raised his eyebrows. "Thank you. I'm sorry to inconvenience you." Not sorry enough to reject her offer – he'd have to be crazy not to take her up on that one.

"You could have said that the mafia chase you."

"I could have. It would have spoiled the moment a bit, though, don't you think?"

At first she scoffed at him, but then admittedly reluctantly, "Yes. But instead, now I am in The Bourne Identity."

"The born what?"

"A film." She waved that away. "Will you come to work tonight?"

"Probably best not."

"So what will you do?"

There was one thing he really wanted to do, and thanks to his previous attempts to make sense of his memories, he knew just how to do it. "Can I borrow your computer?"

"You borrow it now," she said, crossing her arms. "I will sit with you. And no gangster stuff."

That made him laugh. "None. Scout's honor."

By now, he knew how to find the right site and search for the man's name, but his hands were shaking so badly as he typed it in that he had to hit delete twice and still ended up having the site ask him, "Did you mean Peter Petrelli?"

Well. At least the name existed. He clicked the link and found a newspaper headline at the top of the list of links: "Suicide suspected in death of congressman Petrelli."

He had to support his right hand with the left one as he clicked his way to the article, where his own face suddenly stared back at him. "Jesus Christ."

"That's you!"

"Yeah." The article spoke of a newly elected congressman, Nathan Petrelli. Was that his name, Nathan? Shouldn't it feel more familiar? He tried mouthing it, but was soon distracted. According to the article, the congressman had died almost a week after the election, on November 11, from staph infection. The circumstances around his death were very unclear, however, and insistent rumors spoke of suicide. The paper reminded readers that similar rumors had been in place after the death of Petrelli's father, and mentioned that a younger brother had survived a suicide attempt only a few months ago.

"He didn't try to kill himself."

"What?"

"Peter. He didn't..." The words were going blurry, and he tapped the side of the screen lightly. "What's wrong with your computer?"

"Nothing is wrong with my computer." She moved closer. "Why?"

"I can't read, everything's jumbled."

"Maybe you need glasses."

He shifted to the side, letting her take his space. "Could you read it, please?"

"Why does it say you're dead?"

"I don't know. Maybe if you keep reading, we'll find out."

She glared at him, and as she leaned forward her shoulders showed her irritation. "I do you a favor. If you are mean, I can stop right now."

"I'm sorry. Please, go on reading."

She did, in a monotonous voice and with some glaring errors in pronounciation, which made him wonder just how much she understood of what she was saying. For him, the facts were so riveting that no amount of bad reading could stop him from being submerged into what they told him.

Nathan Petrelli – he wasn't yet capable of equating this person with himself – had won the election for Congress in an unexpected landslide (why did that make him feel slightly guilty?) but had been diagnosed with staph infection early the next morning. The infection had proved resistent to antibiotics, and Petrelli had died a few days later. The family had been very tight-lipped about the illness, and speculation had arisen claiming that the death was in fact suicide. Certain sources even spoke of an assassination, though they were unclear on why such a thing would be covered up.

It was a family with money, with several members working in highly acclaimed law firms, yet with a somewhat tarnished reputation. There had been rumours of mob connections concerning Petrelli the Elder. So this thing with Linderman he remembered was probably right on the spot. As disturbing as that was on a personal basis, at least it meant his scattered memories were working correctly when they worked at all.

Nathan Petrelli had worked as an assistant DA (assistant duh, Rawan called it, causing some confusion) and also served as a Navy pilot abroad. He had a wife called Heidi and two sons called Simon and Montgomery...

"Hang on," he interrupted. "What were their names?"

"Simon and Montgomery," she repeated.

"Son of a bitch. No wonder I couldn't find him! He's two people!"

"What?"

"I remembered the names, Simon Montgomery. I assumed they were the names of one person. First name and surname. But they're my kids. I must've just mashed them up in my head."

"This is really you," she said slowly, staring at him with a disbelief bordering on horror.

"Looks like it."

"How ? How is it you? Okay, you're a lawyer. Fine. We have had lawyers before on the restaurant. But this..." She tapped on the screen and the wide-smiling image of him. "He's like something from a movie."

"Yeah," he said, because he could see where she was coming from. The tale spun in that article was aeons away from his everyday life – and yet he didn't doubt its truthfulness for one second. "I am that guy, though. It's not just the picture, or the details, it's... this is who I would be. This is the sort of man I am, and I have absolutely no idea how to be that man."

She gave him a melancholy smile. "It's not as easy as to clean tables, is it?"

"God, no. It's weird. I spent forty years being this man, and five weeks being Kalle Mohammad, but I'm good at being Kalle Mohammad. I can ace being Kalle Mohammad."

"Okay, okay, skrytmåns, don't get too proud." She laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder. After a beat, he started laughing too, and he pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head.

"Do you want to call him?" she asked.

He thought of the name, Peter Petrelli, and the glimpses he'd seen of a young man with hair falling into his face. Were they the same person? He suspected – hoped – that they were. In either case, he couldn't possibly be in danger from his own brother.

But why did his family think he was dead? No, scrap that, why did they pretend he was dead? The scheme to have him seemingly die of staph infection sounded very elaborate, certainly elaborate enough that his dear ones had to be in on it. What earthly reason could they have to make up something like that? Was it really a plan to get him into safety – from the mob or God knows who else – and in that case, why would they go back on it now by looking for him? Those posters weren't exactly discreet, even if they were an ocean away from where he'd won that election. And while he was on that subject, there was something decidedly fishy about winning an election one day and running away the next. Had he been kidnapped? Or maybe there was something the matter with the election itself. It could also have to do with Linderman's death, he supposed, in which case he'd most likely be better off if he stayed in hiding.

How the hell were you supposed to come out of hiding when you were dead, anyway?

"I want to," he said, "but I won't. Not yet. I'll let Qais sniff out Rim's invisible man first, see if everything's as it should be."

"Sniff out?"

"Make sure he's okay."

His explanation completely failed to clear up Rawan's puzzled expression. "Why could Qais know this?"

Damn. Not the best thing to let slip. "He's good with people." Quickly changing the subject before she could question his sanity on this one, he added, "Anyway, I'll be out of your hair soon."

She bit her lip, looking a bit embarrassed. "Yes. I'm sorry I was so... This is a small place. I like to live alone. And then it was the mafia."

"Yeah, well, if it's any consolation to you, I don't think that these guys are mobsters – mafia."

Her tentative smile suddenly looked brighter than it should, and he threw a glance back at the screen. Once again, the letters were clear and easy to read. "Huh. Seems like my eyes are adjusting."

She gave him a quick kiss and stood up. "I think you need glasses anyway. I must go to work now. Don't leave before I come back. You have no key."

"Okay, thanks," he said, his gaze already drawn back to the screen. Hitting the back screen, he tried another link. "Do you mind if I stay on the computer for a while?"

"Send no email."

"I wouldn't know how."

Interlude 5: Peter

Peter had slipped into invisibility the moment he spotted number 29. The list of tenants had a Mansour on the third floor, just like the Eniro website had listed, and he walked up the stairs with utmost caution, making as little noise as possible.

It only took ten minutes before the door opened, and he tensed, hoping to see Nathan. Instead, it was a Middle Eastern-looking man in his fifties, cautiously making his way down the stairs with the aid of a walking stick. Every instinct Peter had told him to give a hand to the poor guy, but he reigned himself in. He couldn't very well make himself visible to the man, and help from someone invisible was more likely to induce a heart attack than anything else. He sat down against the wall and stifled a sigh.

The next one to step out of the apartment was more promising: a teenage girl who finished putting on her scarf and hitching down her skirt when she was already on the landing. A voice called from inside, and he perked up. Though the words were incomprehensible, the accent and pitch were very similar to those he had heard on the phone.

The girl called something back, and he punched the air. That was most definitely the voice he had heard. He scrambled to his feet, but regretted this rash act immediately as the girl twirled around and threw wild glances up and down the stairs. Talk about jittery. In a way, it was a good sign, since it implied she had something to hide, but it also meant he had to be a lot more quiet.

He followed her outside, grateful that there was no snow where his footprints might show up. She looked behind herself a couple of times, but seemed to relax once she was on the bus, clearly thinking that she'd lost him.

They stepped off in central town and walked a few blocks to an imposing 19th century building... which was surrounded by teenagers. Right. Well, it seemed the past half hour had been a collossal waste of time, unless he was willing to entertain the theory that Nathan was going to high school. Still, it couldn't hurt to ask around. He waited until the bell sounded, and then slipped back into visibility in the shade of some trees.

There were signs around the school, but naturally enough, none of them were in English. He couldn't use Molly's power to locate the principal's office either, since he'd never met the principal or seen his office, and thus only had a vague idea what he was looking for. In the end, he had to do it the normal way and ask for directions – twice, even. The place was full of similar-looking corridors, so he could have taken a wrong turn the first time, but he rather suspected that the kid he'd asked wasn't too sure what a principal was.

When he did find the office, he was let in remarkably quickly and had to search for something to say. In the end, he settled for a much abbreviated version of the truth.

The principal looked closely at the poster – he seemed puzzled by the situation. "No, I can't say I've seen him. But of course you may put the poster up. We have a notice board downstairs. Did he disappear around here?"

"We have reason to think so, yes. There's particularly one student of yours who I think might have met him. Her name's Mansour – I'm afraid I missed the first name. Yea tall, black hair in a ponytail?"

"Ah yes. Do you want me to call her out of the classroom?"

"No." Definitely not, if Nathan was trying to hide. "I was just wondering if you could tell me anything about her. Her family, for instance, or her friends."

The helpful smile immediately slipped away from the principal's face, and he gave Peter a stone cold stare that said 'Perv' as clear as words. "I'm afraid I can't reveal information about my students."

"Oh. No, obviously not, that's not what I meant."

It was exactly what he'd meant, but why had he phrased himself in such a rotten way? Now he'd never get any information from this guy, and chances were that it'd be useless even if he called Noah to come in and handle it in that imposive, effective way of his. Damn it, he was usually much better than this at handling people. What had come over him? Most of his own teachers back in the day had been eager to believe every word from his mouth whether it was true or not, and the few sceptics could usually be distracted when he burst into tears and claimed he was being bullied. Okay, so on occasion he had actually been bullied, but that was beside the point.

Somehow he doubted he could make things all right in this case by crying and saying that people were out to get him. Even if people were out to get him; Sylar might be dead, but according to Noah the Company was anything but.

Oh yeah. That would work out great. I'm sorry, sir, but I have special abilities, and I believe that my brother, who can fly, is hiding from people who want to put him in a lab.

He pushed his chair back and held out his hand. "Anyway. Thank you for your time, sir. I can see that you're busy. I hope you'll let me know if anyone sees my brother."

"Oh, absolutely," the principal said, and he sounded genuine, despite Peter's gaffe about the Mansour girl. He could only hope that it actually was genuine and not a way to get rid of him.

The notice board turned out to have five copies of the same poster on what he concluded was a musical event, so he felt perfectly justified tearing two of them down to make room for some pictures of Nathan. He kept shielding the posters with his body as he put them up, even though the corridors were empty. It was silly, really, the reason he put them up was so that people would see them, but at the same time he didn't want the Mansour girl warning Nathan.

He could follow her around invisibly and see what happened when she spotted a poster – but she must have seen one before, or she wouldn't have made the phone call in the first place. This was ridiculous. The way he figured, his best bet of getting something done was to use Molly's power to keep track of her, and meanwhile get back to the apartment where she lived and see if he could find any traces there. A thought struck him, and he looked around. Across the corridor there was a whiteboard with pens in three different colours attached, and he fetched the black one, writing under the phone number on the poster: "Please help me find my brother!" He hoped if nothing else, it would relax the girl enough that she wouldn't make things harder for him.

Going back to the apartment complex felt like failure, but he told himself that he was just exploring different sides of the case.

The street was empty when Peter returned, but he still went back into invisibility before going up the stairs. He listened at the door. There was no sound from the inside, which could mean that no one was home – or that they were consciously trying to stay quiet.

He tryingly rang the door bell. It would be kind of awkward if someone did show up to open the door, but the apartment remained silent.

Obviously he could break down the door. He'd tried the blonde's power, and she was really incredibly strong. But that strength would only be useful for the ten minutes it might take someone to call the police, which definitely wasn't what he wanted right now.

Could he do it telekinetically? He'd never tried anything as specific as picking a lock before, but it was worth a try. Putting one hand on each lock, he tried to concentrate on making them move. The effort made his head hurt and buzz like it was full of bees, and after about a minute he noticed that his hands were starting to flicker in and out. There was just no way he could concentrate on both things at once, and so he let himself become visible again. Maybe just one lock at a time? The top one seemed easier, he could start with that one. He put both hands on that one lock and focused hard, feeling the bolt slide back slowly, slowly...

"Vafaen gör du?"

The cranky voice made him jump. He had been so caught up in what he was doing he hadn't heard any footsteps, but now a short, white-haired man was glaring at him from two steps up the stairs.

He immediately took his hand down and spread them to the sides to show good will. "Sorry, I was just waiting for a friend."

"Du kan bara ge dig av! Jävla zigenare, komma hit och sno!"

The words were incomprehensible, but the angry expression and the hand pointing violently down the stairs were anything but. Peter hurried to retreat, his hands still spread. "Sorry. So sorry." As soon as he was out of sight, he went invisible, and watched from the corner as the old man went outside, still huffing in anger.

This was the second time in less than an hour that someone had assumed he had some nefarious purpose. He sat down on a bench outside – it was too cold to be comfortable, but he was at a point where he didn't care – and called Noah.

"Do you think you could go to the school and ask around?" he asked after finishing his recount of the day's misfortunes.

"If this were Odessa or New York, absolutely. Even Tokyo, anywhere I spoke the language. But they've already had one English speaker asking questions today, they're going to be pretty cautious."

"Yeah. I guess you're right."

"I don't suppose you could just talk to the girl?"

"No. I know it's the simplest solution, but the way she sounded before she hung up on me... She was panicking. I don't know who she thinks I am or what if anything Nathan has told her, but she's not going to be very eager to talk to me."

"Okay, it's your call."

"If you could just trail her – could you trail her? See what she does?"

"Peter, these days the kids have something called cell phones. If she's gonna contact Nathan..."

"Yeah, I know. But it's better than nothing."

"So what do you plan on doing now?"

"I don't know. Hang around. Wait for someone to come home. Once I know how many people live here, I think I'll be able to find any place they go."

"Peter, it's 9AM. If they're not home, they'll be at school, work, daycare. If you want my advice, take some time off. Come back at four or five when they're likely to come home."

"Yeah," Peter said, his eyes fixed on the door. "That's probably a good idea."

"Are you gonna do it?"

A woman pushing a pram was coming out of one of the other entrances. She was heading in his direction, which meant that he couldn't turn visible without her noticing, and he probably shouldn't continue the conversation in his current state either.

"I have to go."

"Peter!"

He hung up, and thought about what to do next. He needed to pee. And quite possibly, he should go buy some lunch while he had the chance.

All the years he'd spent by sickbeds had given him a great deal of patience. In the final stages, there were often long hours were nothing more was requested than his presence and readiness to step in if and when something happened. He went over to a nearby store and bought some readymade sandwiches, stuffing them into his backpack with the posters, and then returned to the staircase at number 29 where he took a seat, invisible, in the corner outside the Mansour door.

Noah was almost right. It was 3.45, so soon after his next bathroom break that he almost missed it, before the first person returned. At first glance, he thought it was the girl, but it only took him a second to correct the assumption. This woman was older and – he couldn't help noticing – better looking. She walked with heavy steps and seemed tired; the kind of tired he had seen a lot back when he still did his hospital internship. It made him feel a strange sort of kinship with her, and he smiled a little as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. Once she was out of sight, he contemplated his next move for a minute and then took a deep breath, making himself visible as he rang the doorbell.

She opened the door, still wearing her jacket though it was open and with the mittens stuffed in the pocket. "Ja, hey?"

He dug a flyer from his backpack and held it out. "I wondered if you've seen my brother."

Even before her gaze touched the paper, he could see her stiffen. Oh yeah, she had seen Nathan all right. "Your... brother?"

"Yeah." He studied her face closely as she looked at the picture of Nathan, then at him, and then back to the picture. "He disappeared a bit over a month ago. I've been worried sick. Still am."

Her expression was soft, and she looked ready to say something. He licked his lips, his heart pounding in his chest.

"He doesn't..."

"What?" he asked when her voice trailed off.

She took a deep breath and gave him a slightly shaky smile. "I'm sorry, could you come back later? Maybe seven. Seven would be good."

"You've seen him, haven't you?"

"Please. I can't do this right now." She held up seven fingers. "Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed. There wasn't a chance in hell he'd leave even for a second now that he knew that he was onto something, but there was no reason why she had to find that out. Whatever happened between then and seven, he'd be there for it.

Because he suspected that she might be watching through the peephole, he actually walked down the first flight of stairs before doubling back. You'd think that having a deadline would mean waiting was less of a chore, but it turned out to be the other way around. Every minute seemed to drag on for eternity, and Peter had absolutely no idea how to make it to seven.

Right after six, he could hear the girl's voice from downstairs. She sounded alarmed, and there was a male voice replying in tones that alternated from soothing to questioning, from what he could tell. Both voices made their way up the stairs, and slowed slightly as they drew nearer.

He saw the young man's face first, looking right at him with a puzzled expression. Could he see him? It wasn't possible, was it? Peter held his gaze, barely daring to move or breathe, even though he suddenly knew with perfect clarity that everything would be all right, that these two were good people and that he could trust them.

"Qais?" the girl asked.

The young man took the last few steps, still looking straight at him. "Jag tror det är okay."

She looked around wildly. "Han är väl inte här?"

He nodded and said, in quite a loud voice: "Peter Petrelli!" The way he pronounced Peter, it had the same kind of E as Petrelli. "I think we need to talk."

He stood up, causing both of them to flinch a little, and turned visible, which made them jump, and to his surprise the man even cried out. So he hadn't seen him after all.

"So do I."