10. Zombie (Head in a Box Revisited)
Another mother's breakin'
Heart is taking over.
When the violence causes silence
We must be mistaken.
~Zombie, The Cranberries
He stared at the photo of two blond children sitting with their parents. "Nice family picture . . . maybe we could have that someday."
A thrill of energy zinged up her spine.
He approached her with questioning blue eyes, his long legs crossing the Miami apartment with fluid grace.
Her body had felt different, and she'd wondered if some amazing transformation was taking hold. But it was unconfirmed and unshared with the man gazing at her from across the kitchen bar. After taking a swig from a water bottle, she paused for a moment, not knowing what to say. Then she walked into her friend's bathroom.
There she learned the truth.
Sara sighed. Now that she was alone in the Costa Rican bungalow, the cascade of memories wouldn't stop.
Lincoln should have already made it back with LJ and Sofia, and the tiny knot of apprehension in her gut swelled by the minute.
She looked down at her still-flat belly. Their child must be at least two months along by now—two months of sheer trauma; two months of fighting and clawing for life. Her medical training had taught her stress was unhealthy for a fetus. She knew this baby, resting under her cupped palm, only the size of a peanut, had already endured a lifetime of stress.
Her head bowed. Worry weighed down her single-parent shoulders. She whispered to tiny, unformed ears: "Stay strong, little peanut. You can make it through anything." She felt her upper lip tremble. "Your daddy always did."
Listening to the rolling waves lapping onto the sand outside her window, her mind resumed drifting.
"I thought I'd never see you again." The warble of his voice made her look up from the box of Chinese takeout to find him staring from across on the bed. His eyes glittered and seared into her. When he leaned closer, her breath hitched. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth before his lips crashed onto hers.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she reveled in the caressing and sucking and stroking. The tip of her nose pressed against his stubbly cheek as she inhaled the essence of one Michael Scofield. She'd been apart from him for too long, and reuniting with him—kissing him, hearing his intake of breath, feeling his palpable presence on her skin and in her heart—lent a surreal quality. She fought the urge to stop and scan the room for Gretchen ghouls or nefarious fiends trying to tear them apart.
But there were no barriers this time, and she clutched the back of his neck as their tongues dipped and danced in the bottomless kiss. She crossed her wrists behind his head, drinking him into her. Could her desire for him be any stronger?
They ended the kiss and held completely still as their foreheads touched. They gazed into each other's eyes. Crystal-blue locked onto mahogany-brown. Sara's mouth furled up into a giddy grin and Michael responded with a full smile. He was real. He was present. He was hers.
Moments later her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder as they discussed the impossible task of taking down the company in exchange for his freedom. She rested her cheek on the warm cotton of his navy-blue shirt. He hesitated, then confessed, "I love you; that's all I know right now."
She rubbed her palm over her belly, feeling more lost than ever before. "I love you," she whispered as tears slid down her cheeks. "That's all I know right now."
In your head, in your head, they are dying.
~~ o*o ~~
"God this car's a piece of junk," Lincoln muttered, feeling the vehicle strain and shudder under his lead foot.
"Maybe you shouldn't speed," LJ said. "If we get pulled over, those papers might not work again."
Lincoln patted his pants pocket, hearing the satisfying crinkle of the folded exoneration papers inside. The Panamanian police had detained them for several hours while they'd checked out the U.N. pardon they'd found on Lincoln, and finally they'd let him go. In turn, Lincoln had provided Blue Phillips' phone number in case there were further developments identifying Sofia's killer.
"This car ain't the sweet ride we had in Utah, huh?" Lincoln winked and reached across the seat to ruffle his son's hair.
LJ shook his head. "It sucked having to abandon that epic car." This old beater didn't have air-conditioning, and despite the wind whipping through the open windows, he could see beads of sweat sliding down his father's exposed, muscular chest. He hoped criminal behavior wouldn't be the only trait he'd inherit. He wouldn't mind being ripped like his dad one day.
"We're getting close," Lincoln said. "Read the article to me again?"
LJ grinned as he unfolded the wrinkled copy of La Prensa lying next to him. In halting attempts to translate from Spanish, he read, "Mr. Scofield is in a location that is, uh, hidden . . . oh, an undisclosed location, probably a cárcel, um, a prison. An agent from the Information of Agency Federal . . ." He stared at the newspaper. "FBI! An FBI Agent, Mr. Todd Wheatley, said, 'Mr. Scofield is no stranger to prison escape. This is his . . . third attempt. But this time, we will . . . obtain justice. He will not escape this time'."
Lincoln's prominent eyebrows furrowed. "Wheatley—that tool."
A clunking noise cut LJ's chuckle short.
When the Chevy decelerated on its own accord, Lincoln had no choice but to guide it over to the shoulder of the two-lane highway.
"What's happening?" LJ asked.
"Dunno." As the car slowed down, some wisps of smoke leaked out of the hood. "Must be the radiator," he growled. "Dammit! We're only about a mile from the house." The car rolled to a stop and Lincoln reached down to pop the hood, resulting in more smoke billowing out of the engine.
Lincoln snatched a rag from the back seat. He marched to the hood and lifted it with the rag. LJ stood next to him and coughed from the acrid smoke rolling toward him.
Lincoln scowled. "We just passed a town a couple of miles south. Gonna walk there and get some help." He glanced at his son. "Sara's waited long enough. You run ahead and tell her."
"Really?" Excitement revved his heart. "But how will you get help? You don't speak any Spanish."
Lincoln grunted. "There's got to be somebody who speaks English down here."
"Repeat after me, Dad: Hay una problema con el coche" (There's a problem with the car).
When his father butchered the words, LJ held up his hand. "Forget it," he laughed. "You're helpless. Just tell them you have a problem with the radiador."
"Got it. Now go tell Sara. Get to her as fast as you can. She's in serious need of some good news."
~~ o*o ~~
LJ burst into the bungalow. He found Sara around the corner, in the living room.
She'd jerked up off the sofa, though seemed to calm down when she saw him. She wiped her cheeks but couldn't hide the tracks of tears. Nor could she conceal the flat shimmer of her tired, hollow eyes.
"Sara." LJ panted from his jog.
"Come here." She opened her arms and he stumbled forward.
At first he felt awkward in her arms, but then her embrace reminded him of his mother, and he leaned into her. She was his aunt now, and it just felt right to be hugged by her.
It felt right for both of them.
"I guess I should call you Aunt Sara now, huh?" His face was buried in her shoulder, muffling his words.
She swallowed, feeling the tears start again with the reminder of his uncle. She let him go. "Where's Lincoln?"
"We had car problems. Dad went south to get help, but he sent me up here to tell you something."
Noticing his heaving chest, she asked, "You ran here?"
"Yeah." His eyes bowled her over with their resemblance to Michael's. "Aunt Sara, I got big news. You, um, you better sit down, since you're pregnant and all."
She tilted her head as his jittery energy halted her tears. "I'm not incapacitated just yet, LJ. What is it?"
He bit his lip. "Uh, Uncle Mike . . . well, he's alive."
Her face fell. Lips parted, eyes blinked, heart stopped. Her mouth quivered in an attempt to form words.
"He's alive, Sara!"
"H-H-How?"
"I don't know how, but he's in a Miami prison. There's an article about it in the newspaper—damn, I left it in the car. We got a computer here?" He started canvassing the small beach house, striding from room to room with Sara trailing numbly behind him. "Hold on." He frowned. "There's not even a TV here! What the hell we going to do all day?"
"LJ?" He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned around to find Sara standing there with tears streaming down her face. "Michael's really alive?"
"Yep. Can't believe you and Dad thought he was dead. That's crazy!"
She cradled her face, weeping into her cupped hands. Her slender frame shook with sobs.
"Um, Sara?" LJ squirmed, then stepped closer and clasped her wrist. "Why are you crying?"
She forced her hands down and away from her face, giving him a clear view of her blotchy, tear-stained skin, her body still trembling. "One day. He said, 'One day'." She shook her head. "He really meant it."
He squinted at her. His hand darted up to trace her collarbone then he twisted to the side to peer at the back of her head.
She squinted, too. "What are you doing?"
"You're acting kind of strange. Just checking to make sure there aren't creepy Frankenstein stitches—no head reattachment scars or anything."
A dazzling smile lit up her face—her first smile in days. "Seems like I'm not the only one around here coming back from the dead."