Chapter Nine

"Thanks a ton," Gwen said, leaning in through the open car window to look at Jack.

"No problem. We should do this again sometime."

She shrugged, grinning. "I'm free tomorrow. You can take me out for breakfast! There's this little pub called Voltaire's Fish and Chips, that sells absolutely no breakfast food…"

"Ha ha, you're funny." He rolled his eyes and twisted the key into the ignition. "Okay, gotta go. See you later, Gwen."

"You too. And… Jack… stay safe."

Frowning, Jack glanced up at her, and was stunned to see the concern in her eyes. Then he remembered: only six hours ago, she had thought he was dead. His voice softened as he replied, "Oh yeah… I can come in with you, if you…?"

"No way." She shook her head and took a backwards step towards her apartment door. "I can take care of myself," she said dismissively. "Besides, it's not as there are terrorists swarming D.C. or anything. It was just one Nazi bombing. And it's not as if they're going to bomb an apartment complex."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Well… bye, then."

"Bye."

She raised a hand in goodbye, took a couple backward steps, and then turned on her heel and walked through the apartment door.

Jack watched for a long time after she left. He wasn't sure why. He found himself just staring at the door.

Because I'm scared. That's why. I'm scared something's going to happen to her and I won't be there.

Shaking his head, he pulled out into the street and began the drive back home.

/

When Jack arrived at his house, he pulled the car into the garage, slammed the garage door shut, and staggered out of the garage towards his house. He was tired past the point of logical thinking, so his brain failed to process that the front door was cracked open until the key was already in his hand and he was twisting it into the lock.

"Oh," he said, after a moment. "Oh, no."

It wasn't wide open; only a crack. Now why would they do that? he wondered. He tried pushing the door open, but it was stuck. At first he thought that the chain was attached, but when he slid his hand upward, he found that it had been ripped off. Of course it was. Grunting, he rammed the door with his shoulder. He could feel himself pushing something heavy behind the door. Exhaustion swallowed up in adrenaline, it only took a couple more shoves to get the door open wide enough for him to slip through.

All the lights in his house were off. Early morning light filtered through the curtains in the dining room to his right, casting a faint glow over the foyer. Through it, he could make out the forms of upturned furniture, pictures lying on the floor, and—No! Not my vase!

Falling to his knees, Jack pawned through the remains of a Chinese vase that had formerly occupied the table now shoved against the front door. It was in tiny blue and white shards on the floor, far past the point of repair.

If the Germans had invaded and everybody in America had been dead for years, Jack thought, this is what my house would be like. Except people probably would have stolen my food. Which would stink, because I went shopping only two days ago.

Suddenly feeling a bit idiotic, he shook himself mentally and made his way to the light switch. He flicked it on and surveyed the room.

Unless Tintin went on a drunken rampage, somebody's just broken into my house.

Everything had been overturned, smashed, or shattered. An end table and two salon chairs lay upended on the tile floor of the foyer. To his right, the dining room china cabinet had been opened and ravaged through. Small china figurines, candlesticks, and pieces of his parents' antique tea service were strewn on the floor among the chair legs; to his left, the living room curtains had been ripped from their rods.

Jack picked his way through the debris that was once his living room. Nothing had been spared. Every drawer, every cabinet, every shelf had been opened, cleared, and their contents tossed aside carelessly. Both couches were flipped on their sides. Strangely enough, nothing had been stolen. He could only assume that the intruder was looking for something—although he couldn't imagine what, since they'd completely ignored the few valuable objects in his house.

With a sharp intake of breath, he spotted a small picture on the ground and picked it up. It was an old photograph from when he was about eight or nine, giving a sunny smile to the camera while his mother and father looked on approvingly. He remembered when this photo was taken: almost ten years ago, on the family vacation to Florida. They'd stayed at a hotel in Miami and sunbathed all day long. A pleasant trip, all in all, but after his parents died, the photograph had suddenly seemed priceless. So he'd had it framed and hung in the living room.

Now it was on the floor, its frame broken and glass shattered. The picture was obviously damaged, and one of its corners had folded. Jack gingerly picked up the photo, brushing away the glass fragments, and placed it on the coffee table. There would be time to deal with that later. For now, he had to assess the rest of the damage.

Knowing that the intruder could still be in his house, he walked cautiously up the stairs; but a thorough sweep of his house revealed nothing but more destruction. Nothing was even taken. Just ruined. He couldn't imagine why anybody would do that. He didn't have enemies. He only had a few friends at the Daily, but as far as he knew, nobody there actively hated him.

Or maybe they came for Tintin.

Jack's blood ran cold.

Maybe they sent an assassin, a whole team of assassins, all to fight Tintin, and they'd fought, and their fighting had caused all of this.

Tintin would be dead.

And it would be Jack's fault.

Jack's fault for bringing him here, for saying his name in public, Jack had killed his childhood hero.

"Tintin!" he screamed, struggling past sofas and overturned tables, "Tintin! Where are you!"

No reply.

/

Gwen stood, searching her bookshelf, rocking back and forth from heel to toe. After a moment, she pulled out Lady Chatterley's Lover. It was a good old book, radical for its time, with lots of sex, passion, and unapologetic commentary on Britain's social conflict. It was very honest and unashamed, just like her, and she appreciated it for that reason. Gwen tucked it under her arm, took her mug of tea from the countertop, and made her way to her bedroom. She had a small apartment, only four rooms total—the kitchen and living room were pretty much the same—but it was comfortable, and it was bigger than what she had had in London. At least it had an office. Gwen wondered if she would even be able to afford it now; her boss was in jail, after all, and she didn't know of anybody else in The Washington Daily who needed a secretary. She could look in other places, of course, but she didn't really want to leave. She had friends at the Daily. Leaving would be awful.

Well, no use worrying about that right now. She took a sip of her tea and flipped open to page one.

Gwen was curled up in bed, totally absorbed in the novel; she had just gotten to Chapter 3, where Lady Chatterly was beginning her affair with Michaelis, when Gwen heard a footstep.

Her heart stopped.

Time passed, but the seconds went unfelt. They ticked on, slow and steady, out of sync with the beat of her heart.

Another footstep, softer now. She couldn't tell where it was coming from- maybe the hallway, behind her?

Don't be stupid. You're tense because of the book.

Heart thudding, Gwen ducked her head back down, pretending to keep on reading, but her eyes darted frantically over the room.

Okay. Just think. Who would want to kill me?

Nobody. She knew the answer was 'nobody.' She hadn't done anything. She wasn't mixed up in anything. So she was just imagining. It was the only possible answer.

Forcing herself to keep calm, Gwen flipped to the next page of the book. She stared at it as if with uncomprehending eyes, as if it has ceased to make any sense.

But she couldn't keep her eyes on the page. The strange, childish fear was still there. Every few seconds, she thought she was hearing a footstep, but she couldn't be sure- maybe she was imagining it.

But what if somebody really is in here?

Her hands twitched, moving towards the phone, but paused halfway. Should she call the police? Or would—whoever it was— panic when he saw her pick up the phone, and shoot?

She couldn't let him know that she was aware that he was here.

But then what do I do?

/

Jack's head whipped up as a familiar ringing sound came from the office, only a room away. He frowned, glancing at the hallway grandfather clock—lying on floor, but still operational. It was just after quarter to 7. He thought that was pretty early for a social call. Jack debated not answering for a moment; after all, it could be a trap. On the other hand, maybe it was Gwen, or Tintin, letting him know where he was. Or maybe it was Harry; he always got up pretty early— But Harry wouldn't be calling. A slight sinking feeling came in the pit of his stomach, but he shook himself mentally, trying to force away the memories that instinctively rose. There was no point thinking about that right now. Jack didn't debate for too much longer; he picked his way through the fallen furniture and walked into the office.

His hand hovered above the phone for a long moment, before he finally picked up. He put it cautiously to his ear.

"…Hello?"

"Jack?"

Gwen's voice was a whisper. Hushed. Panicked.

Her obvious fear was infectious; Jack could feel his heart start to beat harder. "Gwen? What's the matter?"

"There's somebody in my apartment."

"What?" The phone drooped from his hand momentarily, then he clapped it harder against his ear, barking into the receiver: "Who?"

There wasn't a reply. He put the phone closer to his mouth and tried again.

"Gwen, are you there?"

There was a click, followed by a soft buzzing sound. "I'm sorry, sir," came a professional sounding voice on the other end, "the call has been disconnected. Would you like me to try again?"

He stood there for a moment, the phone dangling from his hand, icy dread slowly closing over his entire body. His heartbeat seemed to slow. It limped painfully forward, as all the energy in Jack's body slowly drained, leaving him feeling cold and hollow and sickeningly afraid.

Gwen.

Jack didn't know what he was doing. Everything seemed a blur. Tripping over overturned tables and furniture, he stumbled out of the office, down the hallway, and out the front door.

Gwen.

His car was right there; the garage door was still open. He leapt into it, twisting the keys into the ignition.

I'm going to be too late.

Author's Note: Wow. That chapter gave me what was probably the worst case of writer's block I've ever had. Sorry for taking so long to write this! :P It literally took me 11 days. And it's not even that long of a chapter...

Reviews would make it all worth it, though. :D