Just the same familiar scene as ever. Swinging down the staircase to the plank floor of the cafe, shining beneath the shaded lights.
His mother sits in the corner booth with Nelson Davies, quietly talking, and the normalcy of it hurts. He does want his mother to be happy.
"Angus, what on earth are you doing awake at this hour?"
"Couldn't sleep. Mother, I wanted to talk to you- both of you," he adds, as Mr Davies motions to rises.
"It would have been better left until morning. Disobedience will hardly aid your sleep."
But he does sit; Mom's taught him a thing or two herself, it seems.
(If it was just him, maybe this would work out; but he has never, ever seen his sister this distraught, not even after the car crash. And Jack Dalton...)
"The truth shall set you free," he says, sitting down next to his mother. Watches the always-flickering anger in Nelson Davies' eyes resolve into defined hostility, along with a certain, reluctant admiration. Somebody is talking his language at last. "Have you told my mother about your wife, yet?"
"Of course he has. A hard cross to carry, losing someone he thought he knew- it's only made me love him more," Ellen MacGyver says stoutly.
Mr Davies nods in agreement. Says nothing; awaits the next move.
"Mother, it wasn't like that. He abandoned her."
"Now, I did no such thing," Mr Davies interjects, between breaths. "She made the decision. I divided our possessions fairly, gave her more than enough to live on. If she hasn't frittered it away, though I can't hold out much hope for that."
"It wasn't her decision, it was who she was. You loved her. She loved you back, and you threw all that away, left her when she needed you more than ever. When she wanted you more than ever, to help her come to terms with who she was."
"Stop talking in riddles," his mother says impatiently. "What's this about?"
"Jack's Uncle Charlie. His name was Charlotte, once."
"I don't understand."
"It was a morbid, blasphemous fantasy," Mr Davies confirms. "Lie upon lie upon lie. Nothing more."
(Jack, don't fail me now.) "But there'd be nothing blasphemous about it," Mac says, very softly, "if she was just your wife. You knew it wasn't. You knew she was telling the truth, that she'd been a man all along in a woman's body."
"Why, that's just sick," Ellen MacGyver says, with utter incomprehension. "You left your wife, when she was sick and needed you?"
"She was not a fragile woman," Mr Davies says. Is it with a spark of long-cold passion, Mac wonders, or is he reading love into a man who never had any to give? "I was given a ultimatum. Participate in her blasphemous fantasy, or leave, and I left- she couldn't even stick to the same lie," he says, cold and calm. "Those playbills that Jack carries, with my wife blazened across them as Juliet- of course she's still a woman!"
"I bet he didn't show those to you," Mac says, with an eye to his mother. "Jack doesn't let anybody touch his rucksack, you must have stolen them when he was sleeping."
(Mr Davies doesn't even notice the point; but he can see it's hit home. Ellen MacGyver wouldn't dream of spying on her children, or the nightly liquor sessions would never have worked.)
"And her child- even more lies! This nonsense about being his aunt- Jack's the spitting image of her, every ounce of her selfish, lying willfulness. I wish the Forresters joy of it!"
That one, Mac is positive, is just plain wrong. Jack's very wistful about the mysterious Francine who mailed him and Uncle Charlie a captain's flight jacket. To grow into, the note had said.
"Your son," Ellen MacGyver says; and breaks the tension by knocking over her coffee cup. Cream-brown liquid rolls slowly over the table.
"Not my son. Another man's."
"Your son," Ellen repeats, mopping away with napkins. "Your wife's child. You're that ready to abandon him?"
"Under the circumstances? He hates me- what more would you have me do?"
"I shouldn't need to tell you that! It ought to be in your heart and soul already- kidnap him, bribe them, anything!" she says, waving the damp mass in the air with no regard for decorum. Mac ducks a flying drop of coffee. "Do you think I'd have let Angus spend every waking moment with Jack for the last month, if I hadn't known how soon they'd be siblings? Our whole Wisconsin plan, to leave this town for somewhere we could look after our three children- didn't you understand any of it?"
"I never said anything of the sort," Mr Davies says, with baffled anger. Mac almost feels sorry for him. His mom's logic makes sense to him, but he's had a lot of practice in untangling it.
"I can't marry you," Ellen says flatly. "A woman who thinks she's a man, I don't know that I understand that in the least. But I know this. I have two children, who I'd do anything for, and I will never, ever abandon them to anybody who wouldn't fight for them just as hard, and long, and- viciously, as I would. As I am," she finishes, and pointedly hugs Mac.
For the first time since coming downstairs, he feels safe again.
"That's-"
"No."
"I-"
"No."
"You'll feel differently, when-"
"Absolutely not."
"Then there's an end to it," Mr Davies says, and picks up his hat. He is an extremely practical man, Mac thinks. "I will ask one thing, before I leave."
"Oh, go on then," Ellen says, with the twang of an impatient waitress in her tone.
"The prayer sessions I've had with Angus- I've found myself searching for guidance as he has, found comfort by watching the innocence of a child finding the divine. I should very much like to experience that one more time, before I leave Mission City for good."
Her face softens. "Of course. Angus, go with him."
That...that is not something he wants to do. It's been a confused and terrifying and ecstatic night, and he's very much aware it's past his bedtime. And now he's feeling better again finally, the idea of another guilt-ridden, sob-filled session sounds more than a bit horrible.
But his mom's asked him to do something, so he'll do it. "Okay."
Even pushes his tired body into action, so he can make it up the stairs with enough time to warn the others. Hopefully they'll have been smart enough to have left, or hidden-
they have, he sees in relief. Nobody in his room, nobody under the bed. Allison's probably waiting in her room; he'll go tell her afterwards that it's all right, even if he falls asleep mid-sentence.
"Give me your key," Mr Davies says, shutting the door.
He relinquishes it, looks on in confusion as the adult locks them in. This is new, this is different.
This is not right, some instinct whispers; and just like that, the exhaustion switches off and a sudden guarded watchfulness kicks in. It's an unsafe situation, and he'd better be ready for anything.
Mr Davies pulls him over to the window, kneels down on the carpet a foot away. Starts to murmur prayers- that bit's all the same as normal. Mac starts double-thinking, repeating the familiar patterns obediently while his mind's racing. Key went into the trousers pocket, left side- he's on the right, no chance of getting round. Too big to fight, not without a weapon or something- he's got stuff in his room that would serve but not within arm's reach. Can't do anything until there's a provocation, and by then it might be too late.
Course, there's always the window, but at the thought of that drop his new-found mindfulness seems to desert him. Maybe he's just being overtired and silly.
It's getting harder not to think about what he's saying. Begging forgiveness, confessing his iniquity. He comforts himself with thoughts of his sister's warm hugs, Jack's grinning fun.
"We are both sorry for what we've done, are we not?" Mr Davies utters.
"Yes," he says. Automatically, but very convincingly.
"Sinners of such hard hearts, that we shall never find hope again- I know that, now. You knew it when you killed your friend."
There is a rather long moment during which, if Mr Davies had brought out a gun and shot him, Mac wouldn't have done a thing to stop him.
But everything is so topsy-turvy now: he finds himself clinging to the thought of those liquor indulgences, like a guiding gyroscope- of course they were sinful, wrong, but they tell him which way's up. That if it's that way or this, long nights of anguished woe, he knows what direction he wants to be going-
A sudden scuffle in the corridor, pounding on the door. "Lemme in! Mac!"
That's Allison screaming. He jumps up, runs to the door unthinkingly.
"Allison, stop it! You're being hysterical!"
That'd be mom. He's about to call out and says his sister's right, when instinct stops him. Allison's determined; she'll get this door down whatever it takes. If he can give her enough time to come rescue him.
Which will probably be less time if he shouts for help, because Mr Davies over there is insane and it'll probably set him off.
Mac moves back to the window. Settles down into the accustomed spot.
"Not a martyr's death, that's too good for us," Mr Davies says, as though without a break. "A sinner's. The death of Jezebel, that should suit the purpose."
"I'm afraid."
"Of course. But you understand, don't you? How we both must make our redemption in death, since there will be none for us in life?"
Unbidden, a sentence floats across his mind, Jack at his most sarcastic. "Geez, can you believe this guy?"
"Yes. Only," he adds, quickly, "before we do...will you tell me the verses? I've read them, of course...but just so I can hear them one last time?"
To a rather honest, genuine smile on Mr Davies' face. Just somebody with a hobby that absolutely nobody can be bothered with, being asked to show off at last.
"Of course," Mr Davies says. "And when Jehu was come to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; and she painted her face, and tired her head, and looked out at a window..."
Damn damn damn, why'd he have to start there? Doesn't give him much time. His sister's stopped pounding on the door; how long is it going to take her to come up with something?
"...who is on my side?"
Maybe he'd better go back to the weapons plan. There's a hockey stick in the corner.
Wait, no. Maybe there's a better idea.
"'but they found no more of her than the skull, and the feet, and the palms of her hands.' And there we are, then," Mr Davies concludes.
Very to the point, him.
"I'll go first," Mac says, and jumps onto the windowsill. Twists himself round and slams the window, holding it tightly shut.
He's looking at a brick and mortar wall. Just bricks, and mortar, and if he doesn't move an inch he doesn't have to think about the drop behind him-
"Help!"
there's a shattering of glass beneath him. Apparently Mr Davies has found his hockey stick.
"Angus!"
That's Allison; she must have run all the way down to the backyard. Too late.
"Let not your heart be troubled."
The Badger sounds almost contented about it. Knocks him off the ledge, and jumps out in a long, surprisingly elegant arc. Just the climatic ending he must have dreamed of.
Mac's own drop is straight down and undignified and isn't much to look at, asethetically, but it has one tremendous advantage; it stops about a foot underneath the window.
Cos he's caught hold of a lifeline. Jack Dalton's rope.
"Actually," he says aloud (this is going to make such a story at school, and he wants to get the quip right). "Heights aren't nearly as bad as I'd thought."
Not when he has the security of his own sure handiwork to trust in. He slips down it until he's nicely settled on one of the knots, considers whether he's feeling capable of going either up or down, and decides he actually can't.
"I'm climbing up to get you!"
"Never mind about me! Somebody better call an ambulance for the Badger!"
"You go do that, Allison. Angus, where's the key?"
"I think it's still in his pocket!"
"Now, you just hold on tight," his mother calls briskly. "I'll be up in a minute."
He watches her calmly retrieve the key from the man's pocket, and walk away without a second glance. Waits patiently, enjoying the night's breeze.
And then his mom's pulling him up and he's safely back in his bedroom on the nice solid carpet, and he's too happy for words.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, over and over again. He wants to reassure her.
But it really is way past his bedtime, and before Mac can say it he just goes straight to sleep.