Welcome to chapter 10! Yay chapter 10! (ahem…) Sorry about the wait, as I said before. I tried to get this out as fast as I could (and it's a bit longer than some of the other chapters, so…yeah.) Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Need I clarify? If I have to write this one more time, the sheer concept of it might begin to actually depress me.
Chapter 10I really hate plane rides—from take-off to the food they serve, I simply can't stand it. And once the flight gets in progress, all anyone can do is watch one of those in-flight movies; the engine's too loud for me to sleep, read, let alone think. At least most of the time. Now the only thing I'm capable of doing is thinking, with Abigail and Riley asleep and Caroline absorbed in a book, and information from the past day overloading my head.
After all these new revelations about this situation, you'd think that everything would be falling into place somewhat, but all it's done in my mind is raise more questions. More specifically, raise questions about the whole "running from the police" thing. It's probably just some weird coincidence about Caroline's van and the drug bust, but Abigail being able to get a ticket under Riley's "alias" and having the clerk say nothing about it? That is fishy. If the FBI is seriously after him, wouldn't it make sense to throw out his alias to the public? Maybe they haven't gotten that far, but that doesn't sound like Sadusky. He's always a step ahead of everyone.
My body's really aching form sitting in one position for so long—both Abigail and Riley's heads have lolled onto each shoulder and readjusting myself in any way would jar them awake. And frankly, when either of them are woken up, they get cranky, and it can be kind of frightening. About and hour and a half passes like this, but suddenly Abigail turns away and Riley stirs all in the same five seconds.
"Morning…" he grunts, trying to stretch in the confined space. "We there yet?"
"You haven't even been out for two hours."
"Ugh," he sighs with frustration. "What are we supposed to do for the next five hours? Relish that nobody's currently chasing us?"
"I suppose."
"Well, what have you been doing?"
"Acting as Abigail's and your pillow."
"I'll bet that makes the time fly," he chuckles as he unravels the earphones to his iPod. "I just remembered…I wasn't done listening to that new CD I had downloaded…" The screen flashes to life and a puzzled frown crosses his face. After clicking to start the song over, he listens intently for a little over a minute. Not that I'm timing him, but what else is there to do?
Pulling the buds from his ears, he holds the screen under my nose; it reads "Homesick at Space Camp," the song with the eerie applicable lyrics. "You listened to this, didn't you?" Playing on his lips is a small grin.
"Mm…yeah."
"Aw," he laughs. "Your smile's an 'open wound' without me, is it? How sweet!" Thank you, Riley, for pointing out my emotional stress that that time. My thoughts must have manifested themselves a bit on my face since he quickly adds, smile never ceasing, "You know I'm kidding with you, right?"
"When aren't you?" Almost instantly I regret the words; Riley's eyes fall momentarily before he seems to force a smile on his face.
"Yeah…true…" And in the earphones go, the volume so loud I can hear the song's lyrics clearly in my seat.
"This is the end of a really sad story…don't feel bad for me. I started out alone and in the end, that's where I'll be—"
"Hey," Caroline mutters suddenly. "Turn down your music. It's distracting."
The rest of the words are lost as the volume comes down to a more reasonable level. Honestly, I want to kick myself right now. Of course when I said that, I wasn't thinking of all those moments when he was serious—but I know the few he's probably thinking of.
"Ben, if it was you trying to convince me, you'd have less evidence and I'd already believe you by now."
X
"You're not like everyone else."
X
If I just told him I pretty much never think he's being serious, then what did I just imply that those heartfelt statements mean to me?
XXX
"Dude…I need some coffee," Riley grumbles as he lugs his bag along the sidewalk. He's never been good with sleep deprivation, and the jet lag from the trip is taking a toll on his mood. We just had to arrive at seven in the morning, didn't we? "Can't we just find a hotel already so we can sleep or drop our stuff off?"
"Don't you mean your stuff?" Abigail says over her shoulder with a grin.
"Oh yeah—you guys packed light!" he says, falsely cheerful. "Or should I say…'nonexistantly'? Wait—" He stops in his place in front of a small coffee shop-bar establishment. "I'm going in here. You guys can go on, but I think I might collapse without a large dose of high-octane, caffeine-loaded yumminess."
As much as I would rather just find a hotel first, losing track of Riley is on the forefront of my mind on things not to do, especially now that he's acting normal again. After my "I want to kick myself in the face" comment, he was very…not depressed, but a bit off. Thinking back to my record if such being a "not-so-good friend" comments, I wonder if he has reacted this way every time. If so, why haven't I ever noticed?
He opens the door and heads in, Caroline close behind and exhibiting that same need for a pick-me-up. I, too, step towards the shop but Abigail holds my wrist, stopping me in mid-step. "Is everything OK? You keep looking at Riley with guilt written all over your face."
"I may have…"
"May have what?"
"…may have had a slip-up and said something before I thought about it."
"Ben…" she sighs, full of exasperation. "This can't keep happening—we both need to get a lot better about this…especially now in our current situation. Why don't you go and apologize?"
"Hm?"
"Right," she says with a sarcastic bite that would rival Riley. "Perish the thought that Ben Gates would actually say he's sorry to his best friend."
"Hey…I did that one time under Trinity Church after I had yelled at him…" Unfortunately, any sort of defense starting with "that one time" isn't much of a defense. I could have more examples to make it more like…say "those fifty-three times." But I never really did think to let those two simple words out of my mouth.
"You don't have to yell at him to want to apologize. C'mon…they're starting to stare."
The coffee shop is abandoned except for us and a mustachioed bartender who is lazily wiping off a glass with a towel (as most bartenders tend to do). "I ordered double espressos for each of us," Riley says as we sit down. "They should do the trick."
"Only you're so immune to caffeine that it won't do you any good," Caroline mutters, her nose still in her book.
"Like you're any better! You have to have like…four Frappuchinos and a Caribou Coffee bar every day to keep from crashing."
Will their bickering never cease? Well…I guess not anytime soon since they're both probably still fresh from their confrontation and looking for any reason to claw out each other's throats. The stuff they argue about can be so petty that it's kind of amusing, but I can feel it starting to annoy big time—more than Abigail the night we stole the Declaration even.
"Excuse me?" the bartender says from behind the counter as the sounds from a coffee brewer echo off the shop's wood paneling. His voice was heavily accented. "You are Americans?"
"Yes sir," I reply.
"I saw CNN last night. They were talking of big things."
"Big things?" Abigail wonders aloud. "Like what?"
"No idea," he says, pulling the small TV along the bar so we can see it. "I did not know how to put the Italian words on the bottom until after, but I could tell. They were big things. You want to see if it is still on?" Before we can even nod, he turns the set on and then comes out from behind the counter with our coffee and pulls up a chair. I can only hope that these "big things" don't involve anything with Riley. If they are and it's still on this morning, we're royally screwed.
"—it is quite late, isn't it?" the reporter chuckles. "One in the morning…what are you doing at this hour?"
"Investigating, like always."
Yup, we're royally screwed—maybe even imperially screwed…or dictator-ly screwed. Why, Sadusky, must you be in CNN talking about the case?
"And for those few of you who are just joining us," the reporter continues. "I'm here with Peter Sadusky, who is heading the federal search for escaped prisoner Riley McLaughlin. Now tell me, Mr. Sadusky, how do you personally think McLaughlin escaped? Wasn't he a top-security prisoner?"
I'm just waiting for my picture to flash up on the screen—apparently everyone else is too. Abigail keeps throwing me nervous glances, Caroline finally put down her book, and Riley…Riley's not even looking at the screen. On the other hand, Mr. Bartender seems quite riveted by the subtitles.
"Honestly, my team and I are confounded as well. The measures we instructed his prison take…he couldn't have done it without outside help."
Now my blood's really running cold.
"Any ideas on who?"
Time seems to freeze—at that very instant, Caroline, Abigail, and Riley's eyes all snap towards me with a significant look, a look that says "we better get ready to start running." Monseigner the Bartender still doesn't notice, thank goodness.
"Nope," Sadusky says after a pause. "Not a clue."
I feel my mouth fall open despite itself in shock and watch as everyone else, including the bartender, follows suit.
"Just as a last word, so…y'know, people can help in the search…what sort of hiding places or disguises would McLaughlin be using?"
"He was living as a normal person before all this; all we had to do was go find him. And as for aliases…none come to mind." The screen turns black as the bartender clicks it off in disgust.
"I cannot believe it," he mutters. "Huge American criminal that has been…what is the phrase…'at large' for years and they don't even have any ideas. It is crazy!"
"Certainly is…" Caroline agrees with a sip of the espresso. "Certainly is."
If that little interview taught me anything, it's that Sadusky is a very accomplished liar. He's not stupid—that we all know. Every single question that reporter asked him had a very simple answer that was based on common sense and common knowledge. There has to be a reason for his withholding, but whether it be personal or mandated from higher up no one can be sure. The latter doesn't make any sense, though; the FBI wants to catch Riley, so not disclosing information only hurts them. It has to be personal then—
"It bothers me too, Ben."
"Do you know where we could find a hotel?" I say suddenly.
"Uh…yes, there is one right down the street." The man begins to twirl his dark mustache. What an irritating habit—I'm glad Sadusky isn't prone to twirling.
Thankfully, Abigail has some euro to pay with (I knew there was something I was forgetting) and we head down to where the bartender directed us. The hotel is quite small and out-of-the-way, which is exactly what we need.
As soon as we enter our room, Caroline gasps and clutches her head. "Dammit!" she mutters, blinking hardly. "Dammit, dammit, dammit…." Frenzied, her hands fly across her pockets and into her laptop bag.
"What wrong?" Abigail asks as she closes the door.
"I'm getting a migraine and I don't have any painkillers."
"How badly do you need them?" I ask. Not that she can help it, but this is not thing best timing, seeing as we have no clue where the nearest pharmacy is.
"Pretty badly…if I don't get some now, I'll be almost blind within fifteen minutes, stay that way for an hour and then have to endure an agonizing headache for four hours…plus nausea…" In vain, she checks her pockets for again for what's probably the fifth or sixth time. "Ugh!" She collapses onto the couch, flinging a pillow over her eyes.
"Is there anything we can do?" Riley ventures.
"You should know better than anybody, Riley. I just need some silence, which is quite impossible when you're around, all right?"
"Fine then. I'm gone." With a confused glare he rotates on his heel and marches right back out the door. Talk about a grudge—I can understand that part, but how they react towards each other is another story. Heck, it's another volume.
"You guys don't have to stay, you know," she says, still under the pillow. "I'll be fine."
"Um…you sure?" Abigail seems concerned for her, but conflicted as well regarding Riley.
"Yeah, positive. If something bad comes up, I've got your cell numbers."
I expected him to be further away, but when we step out of the room, Riley's just outside, staring at the strange design on the carpet and tracing his foot along the swirls. I've never seen him so preoccupied with something that couldn't be plugged in or isn't a colorful ancient statue of some random man.
"It's a little golden man!"
"So," I say, but he doesn't look up. "You're the newly freed man. Where to?" Still nothing—I highly doubt the carpet is that interesting. "C'mon, Riley. We're in Rome and nobody knows we're here. Might as well go do something."
Instantly his head pops up and he looks around contemplatively at no one in particular. "Rome. The Pope lives here."
"What…are you feeling Catholic all of a sudden?" Abigail chuckles.
"No, it's not that…is he currently in Rome?"
"The last I heard, he was visiting Mexico," I say.
"Alrighty then!" OK…talk about mood swings—or caffeine kicking in. Now he's all smiles and springy steps. "Follow me!" Abigail and I both have a bad feeling about this; she's giving me these slightly scared looks every so often.
After getting lost twice and asking a confused old Italian woman with an armful of lettuce for directions, we pass St. Peter's Cathedral and stand directly before the Palace of the Vatican.
"D'you think the Swiss Guard people'll be swarming around if the Pope's not even here?" he wonders aloud.
"Probably not swarming…" Abigail says.
And then it hits me like a ton of lead bricks.
"…we've broken into Buckingham Palace and kidnapped the President of the United States. What are we going to do next? Short-sheet the Pope?"
"Riley, you can't be serious," I mutter.
"Serious about what? What's he talking about, Riley?"
"Nothing, Abigail. Nothing," he says, waving away her concern as he steps up to the security pad by the door. Just as he did at our house before the whole Cibola incident, the entire system is disarmed in under thirty seconds. "I keep telling people to get a dog…"
My God, we are going to get so frickin' caught. Nobody—not even us—can just casually waltz into the Pope's place of residence. It shouldn't be this easy, it really shouldn't. Just for good measure, I pick up a vase of flowers. Hey, it worked at Buckingham Palace, didn't it?
"Riley, please tell me why we're doing this," Abigail whispers frantically.
"Nah-ah-ah!" He smiles as he rounds the corner. "Your questions will soon answer themselves!" How he knows his way around this place is beyond me, but somehow we've managed to get all the way to the Pope's bedchambers. "You two wait here." And he promptly closes the door in our faces.
"Ben, what is he doing?"
"Think—what would he be doing in there?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. That's why I'm asking."
"Abigail, just think about it." Turns out she really doesn't have any sort of inkling whatsoever, especially since she's still thinking when Riley opens the door, a broad grin splashed across his face.
"Well?" she says impatiently.
"Well indeed!" He takes a dramatic pause, throwing the door open and motioning towards the immaculate bed. "You, my friends, are witnesses of the first-ever Papal short-sheeting!"
After a brief silence, Abigail says, "You're serious?"
"Absolutely."
Stunned (I less than Abigail since I was expecting it), we wander up to the bed to inspect it. No one would ever guess what's been done; there's no trace…except… "You left a mint on the pillow." There was more disbelief (amused disbelief, I might add) in that than I originally intended.
"Yup," he says, putting one arm around each of our shoulders and leading us out. "It's all about the presentation." Suddenly he stops, right outside the bedroom door, and swivels around to look at us. His abundant cheerfulness—so unlike himself normally—is kind of, in an odd way, starting to worry me. "Geez. I love you guys!" In yet another un-Rileyistic move, he swoops down upon each of us and pecks us both on each cheek.
"Riley…" I say slowly. "What was that?"
"It's a standard European greeting! Everybody does that to everybody, Ben! And well…y'know…when in Rome!"
"Technically…" Abigail says. "We're in Vatican City."
"Psh…" he scoffs. "Still Rome."
"Isn't it its own country, though?" I add, and just to annoy him.
"Still…Rome…" he says again, starting to head back down to the exit, us close behind.
"That is true, Ben," Abigail continues with an amused grin. "Vatican City's actually considered to be the world's smallest independent nation!"
"STILL ROME!"
XXX
"Riley Poole—or…whoever you are…you've got some major 'splainin to do." We haven't even been in our room for half a second before Caroline drags Riley in by the arm.
"And you're not lying down on the couch in agony because…?"
"The receptionist had some Motrin, thank God. But stop avoiding the question, Riley. Look!" Somewhat apprehensively Abigail and I follow them over to the room's television, which is blaring CNN.
"Just minutes ago, officials at the Palace of the Vatican have reported the His Holiness the Pope's bed has been…short-sheeted. The discovery was made upon the Pope's return half an hour earlier. However, the Swiss Guard is more concerned with what looks like a mint that had been placed on the pillow, and they are currently having it tested for poison. The perpetrator is unknown, but the FBI has said that they have reason to believe escaped prisoner Riley McLaughlin may be in Rome at this time—"
"Well?" Caroline says, muting the TV. "You happy? Or was that someone else?"
"It was me…" Literally, he collapses onto the bed nearby and runs his hand across his brow. I can't it was the brightest idea, but seeing him happy and bubbly like that…ii didn't want to be a bubble burster and take that from him.
"The FBI's not going to let up anytime soon, are they?" Abigail sighs with a quick glance at me.
"The only way they'll do that is if I fake my death or something," Riley mutters darkly.
"That can be arranged." Smiling, Caroline looks over at him.
"Y'know, I said 'fake' my death."
"Oh. Nevermind then."
Holy Lord, those two need counseling.
"Or…" I say; the idea struck me quite suddenly, as is their custom. "Or we could go directly to the source of this whole problem. We're going to confront them."
"Wait—" Caroline holds up her hands. "Who?"
"Noob," Riley chuckles. "If you had waited another five seconds, Ben would have clarified himself."
"Does he do this often?"
Again with my declaration patterning—out of the corner of my eye, I see Abigail mouthing "Oh yeah, all the time," to Caroline…until she sees that I'm looking at her. Then she's all cheesy smiles.
"Well…" I sigh. "What I was going to say was that we should go confront that terrorist organization."
Abigail's eyebrows fly up in surprise, but the other two just stare. "Ben," Riley starts. "I don't even know what country they're based out of."
"We can go to your university in Saudi Arabia and go from there. Sound like a plan?" Well…I guess it does since they're not saying otherwise. "Abigail, call the airport. We need tickets on the first flight to Riyadh."
XXX
Woo! So…that whole "short-sheet the Pope" side-trip was going to be its own little oneshot, but I thought it would work perfectly here for some reason. And, just as a random note, I now know why Abigail's from Saxony. It's 'cause Diane Kruger was born in Saxony. Now it all makes sense. Yay!
Thanks for cooperating with my slower updates.
Please review—I'm open for suggestions on anything. Seriously. I want to hear from you! It'll make my day a whole lot better…I too had a migraine this afternoon. (boo)