I dedicate this chapter to my grandfather.
Here's to the bravest man I'll ever know. A true soldier in mind and spirit. Mom's hero, my superhero. Get well soon… I love you. :)
… 104 reviews? Wow. $h!t. Come… come, let me kiss you… *cackles*
I see the sparkling little diamond on your hand
It's plain to see that you've already got a man
I can see you're not about to fall for any of my lines
I see the want to in your eyes
Deep in your smile there's a quiet, soft desire
Like the embers of a once raging fire
You know I could light that fire again,
You know it isn't wise
I see the want to in your eyes
- Conway Twitty
Carter Blake had never quite forgotten that breezy autumn day fifteen years ago. And it was not because he was a nature worshipper, mesmerized by the poetic beauty of God's creation. He had been jogging down a narrow pathway when he heard a woman shout, "Hey, you! Stop!"
Blake looked around. Nobody. Strange… he thought.
"Up here!"
He looked up. She was a beautiful young blonde, wearing a red jacket and jeans. "I'm stuck!" she wailed, though she did not have to. It was evident to anyone who looked up to see that she was trapped high above in a few tree branches. The woman was flat on her stomach against a thick one.
"What the hell were you doing? Parachuting from the skies?"
"Helping a cat."
"Where's the cat?"
"It jumped."
Blake rolled up his sleeves and began climbing the tree.
"Oh… oh, you can climb trees! Oh, thank God!"
He effortlessly clambered up the trunk with well coordinated movements till he reached the branch she was resting on.
"You still there?" the woman asked.
"Approaching from behind."
"I don't think I like the sound of that."
"My intentions are strictly honorable."
"I meant the sound of the branch."
Blake was still for a moment. He heard nothing and slid closer to her. She stiffened. Blake felt hesitant too and hoped that no one from his department would see him.
"I'm gonna try and pull you up now."
"The branch!"
"What?"
"The branch! The branch!"
"Try to - "
It snapped like a twig under their weight. The woman screamed and held on to the branch. Blake braced himself for the impact. They went crashing through the foliage till the never ending drop was cushioned by a rose bush. There was a deathly silence except for the chirping of birds. It was a long while before they dared to move again.
"I could've done this on my own," the woman muttered while pulling herself out of the bush.
"You're welcome," Blake managed between a few coughs.
Once out of the bush, they collapsed next to each other. He craned his neck to where she lay.
"What's your name?" he asked her.
"Sarah. Sarah Avila."
Lieutenant Carter Blake could never have imagined that fifteen years later the name would still mean something to him. Back then, the young detective was more concerned about getting to work on time. He swore during the shave and shower session, to never ever help another woman stuck in a tree. Ever again. He still looked a mess. Resigned, he threw on his uniform and rushed out of the door.
Scott Shelby reminded him of his disheveled state for the rest of the day. When Blake had staggered into the P.D., he gave a reluctant smile to his partner's keen and probing gaze. "Moral of the story," said Scott, gulping his third cup of coffee (he wasn't a morning person), "always pay the hooker."
Blake kept the smile frozen and grabbed himself a cup.
"What's wrong, Carter? Cat got your tongue?"
Blake's lips expanded into a genuine smile now.
"No," he chuckled and took a sip, "but I do blame the cat."
Scott Shelby understood the reference only later that day, during a long-drawn stakeout.
"So Sarah Avila's the woman in the wallet?" Kathy asked.
"Touché," said Scott, eyes still on the road.
"Why doesn't Blake talk about her?"
"No one talks about her, Kathy. And you won't either, if you've got a brain or half."
"Am I the last person in the department to hear about this?"
"Not really… one of the few, I'll say."
The traffic light turned red. Scott released the steering wheel and leaned into his seat. They looked straight ahead. Kathy would follow one droplet of rain at a time as it crawled down the windshield. Scott gazed absently at the rows of cars ahead of him.
"What will you ask Paco?" Kathy finally asked.
"About the car. And his employees."
"We don't have a warrant. Or evidence."
"We have a recording of Paco's conversation with Minelli in my wireless."
"It's not exactly ethical evidence, Scott. And you know that!"
"It's still a conversation starter."
The traffic began to budge. Only fractionally, but it was progress, nevertheless. Kathy threw her hands up in exasperation. "Don't they know we have a frickin' child to save?"
"Cool it, Blake Jr."
Kathy gave Scott a look. The Look.
"We'll be there soon," he said, arms crossed and foot applying the pressure on the accelerator, ever so slightly.
His eyes burned with chlorine. He could almost smell the pool water. Ethan wondered if it had been deliberately thrown in excess for additional sadism. He swung his arms, threw his legs forward, one foot at a time in a frustrating slow motion. Water never seemed a more daunting barrier. Nor did oxygen a more indispensable component.
Ethan could feel some of it at the back of his throat. It was beginning to burn. His nasal passage stung too. And the friction around his ankle was not comforting either. He leaned closer, his leg still strapped to the grey metal. Greedy fingers snatched up another red balloon as he hungrily sucked in more air.
He nearly swallowed the balloon in his desperation and wasted a few precious oxygen bubbles in coughing it out. With his left leg relatively immobile and useless, the pressure shifted to his right leg. The disbalance was infuriating. The time he had left, terrifying.
This is what hell feels like…
Grace walked up the stairs, ice pack in hand. She was nervous now. Nervous about what had happened. About what would if they weren't careful.
She found him, sitting on the floor. He was wearing a pair of shades and waving his arms about. It looked scary, given the situation.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"ARI. Added Reality Interface. Experiment. Long story. Confidential."
She stood at the door, toying briefly with the ice pack.
"So… you're a lab rat?"
He didn't answer. She saw him halt in his movements briefly when she said that. It was difficult to gauge a reaction with his eyes behind the glasses. Grace wondered if she should apologize.
"I've… got your ice pack," she offered as a truce.
He paused again.
"I'm working… right now…"
"Do you want me to… to hold it to your face? It would save us some time."
Maybe she could have framed it better. She was almost certain that the last thing they needed was any kind of physical contact. But she was wrong. At least from Norman's end.
"Alright…" he said, hoping to hell that it didn't sound brazen. It would have been better if they stayed away from each other. Far away. Separate rooms. But he didn't want that. He wondered if she did.
To his relief, she complied with an "Okay," and settled behind him, on the bed. It was distracting. Having her sitting right behind him, turning his face gently to press against the ice pack was very, very distracting. His breath caught, and Norman was almost certain that his hands stilled for a visibly longer time. It was something he wanted and did not want at the same time. And it was killing him.
Grace was not a visible constituent of the ARI. She stayed outside, a reminder of the real world, while he sat in his. A world of bright sunlight and rustling leaves. It was so much better. He would have liked to show it to her if he didn't already know what it could do to her. He'd never let that happen.
His hands dismissively struck away clues he had already pored over. They opened a map for geolocalization, instead. With a rapid flick of his wrist, he blew the illustration of the tattoo onto the map. The address said 3819, N Fairhill St, Philadelphia, PA 29120-2710. The salon belonged to a Steve Wyland.
Getting somewhere… 'somewhere' is good.
Her hand had stopped moving. The prolonged sensation of ice was getting painful. He reached to gently move it away from his nose. There was a piercing silence in the air.
"Norman…"
He felt afraid of what she would say next.
"What's wrong?" he tried to ask. Unfortunately, there was no voice to substantiate the contortion of his lips. It came out as a gasp.
"Your nose is bleeding."
The headache had set in long ago. It was just getting harder to ignore. And his painful, shallow, yet, heavy breathing was a result of withdrawals. Not desire.
"Norman… can you hear me?"
She sounded surreal… as if the words were carried on wind. His hand reached his face. It was damp and sticky, with that tinge of rusty iron. He shouldn't have… shouldn't have slipped the ARI off repeatedly. It was fatal… like a diver surfacing too soon for air. Norman felt his body crumbling. A boneless mass.
He pulled the ARI and kept it aside. Impatiently now, he pushed Grace's hand away from his face. Norman clutched to the edge of the bed, struggling to get up. His knees seemed to buckle under the sudden pressure. Grace cautiously rose from the bed, an arm hesitantly mid-way to steady him, if required. "You're in withdrawal," she began, "let me help you."
"You have to leave," he said, in a voice barely audible.
"I'm not leaving you!"
He raised his head and Grace saw his eyes burn with a fierceness; like from the night before. His arms found her waist before crushing her body against his.
"Norman!"
"I'm saving you from me."
With a reeling head and a thickening nose bleed, he dragged her off the edge and carried her out of the room. Norman tried to dump her outside the adjacent room, where she bravely latched tighter around his shoulders. He stumbled till they both fell back against the corridor wall.
"Let me go!" he snarled dangerously. His shaking hands tried to pry her fingers loose.
"I won't let you take it!" she shot back.
"Fucking hell… let me!"
Need overtook civility. He grabbed at the cotton belt of her robe. It split open in a forceful tug.
"Hey!"
She caught the robe before it completely slipped down her arms. Grace looked up to see that he was gone. She burst into the room. The water was running in the bathroom. And the door had not been bolted. Grace hesitantly checked his jacket which was drying on the heating rods.
The vial of Triptocaine was inside. She put it back. Grace looked at the wall clock in the room. If Norman was not out in the next few minutes, she was going in.
Inside, crumpled against a tiled wall, Agent Norman Jayden grappled with the pain and the unbearably cold shower, which sent merciless jolts down his weakening spine. The torment was entirely self-inflicted. He found his release a few moments later, when he slipped into a state of semi-consciousness…
It was all a good thing, he felt. For it was an essential distraction. From the mind-numbing headache. From the bleeding nose. From Grace. From everything.
Carter Blake never liked the rains. Then again, he never liked any season. Crime sucked the joy out of every single one. What Carter Blake did like was driving over puddles. The muckier, the better. Also, arguably, the best punishment for jaywalking.
On his drive to the City Garage, he was proud and furious over having soiled the attire of nine citizens on the way. It was a more entertaining substitute for running over them. Smeared apparels were inconsequential to corpses.
Blake knew he wouldn't be long. The maximum time he had ever spent during his personally conducted interrogations for the case, was at the shrink's. And that was mostly because Pansy Jayden did not want to get his sanitized paws dirty.
He entered the garage after double-parking next to a Toyota Tourer. It seemed familiar… belonging to someone. Someone he didn't like…
Blake found a lone mechanic working furiously over a car engine. He cleared his throat. A fair warning.
"Excuse me."
No answer.
"Excuse me!"
The man's lack of response pissed him off. Royally. He approached from behind only to see him swaying his head to some crap ass music. He could almost hear the lyrics himself. Losing patience, he knocked the support off the bonnet, and had it collapse over the unsuspecting man's head.
"Holy shit!"
He half-lifted the thing off him and just about managed to get his head out of there. The mechanic (nametag: Barry) noticed Blake, although partially due to the disorientation.
"You gotta be careful with the support," Blake said, "they tend to slip."
He flashed his badge. Any resentment or suspicion Barry may have had against Blake for any possible internal bleeding was promptly suppressed.
"What… what can I do you for?"
"What does the name Matthew Bowles mean to you?"
"Funny thing… the reporter here was just asking the same questions…"
"Matthew Bowles. Start talking."
Barry tapped his wrench against his palm. "There was a car kept here under his name. Why?" he asked Blake.
"I find this garage address folded inside an origami figure. Unless you gotta brilliant explanation for how it got there, I see good reason to hold you up for being an accessory to crime."
"Whoa, whoa! Slow down! I know nothing about the origami business! What's goin on?"
"Matthew Bowles disappeared the day his son went missing. I'm guessing he was here."
"Yeah, he did. But only to claim his car."
He began walking towards a glass cubicle at the far end of the garage. Blake followed. Barry opened his register.
"See? Car was brought here a week before Matthew Bowles took it for a spin."
"You mean you keep cars for safekeeping, too?"
"Yeah. For a price."
Blake scowled at him.
"Hey, chief," Barry covered up, "it's totally legit. We just see to it that the cars work fine."
"So if Bowles didn't get the car in, who did?"
"Dunno. Guy was all covered. No names exchanged, just cash."
"What were his instructions to you?"
"He wanted the car to be in ship shape. And not have a scratch on that GPS."
"GPS?"
"Yeah, he was darn particular about that."
Blake pulled the register closer to himself. He dialed Ash's number.
"Yes, Lieutenant."
"Give me something on a Ford Mondeo with the number 620-LFR-20."
There was a pause, followed by the sound of a few keyboard taps and mouse clicks.
"Car'd flown off a highway near Paschall's Alley about a week ago. Had smashed a toll booth barricade and police cars while moving on the wrong side of the road. Car crashed a mile later. No occupant was found."
"Where's the car now?"
"5482, Easington Avenue, Southwest Philadelphia."
Blake managed to jot it down.
"Lieutenant?"
"Yes?"
"The garage is owned by a Jackson 'Mad Jack' Neville. And he doesn't seem friendly."
"Don't worry. Not goin' there to have supper with him."
"Be careful, Lieutenant."
"Didn't know you cared."
Blake pocketed the phone and nodded to Barry. He was just leaving the garage when the Toyota there served a reminder. Some people just had to learn the hard way…
"Is there anyone with you in the garage right now, Barry?"
"No. Why?"
"Whose car is this?"
"Must be the reporter's, sir."
"Did the reporter have a valid ID on her?"
Barry looked nervous again.
"Didn't… didn't ask for it, sir."
"What'd she look like? Dark hair, high cheekbones? White woman?"
"… Yes… ?"
"Get me a pen knife."
"Sir?"
"Now."
He did. Blake turned the pen knife around in his hand. He knelt before one of the tires and after a dramatic pause, slashed it open. The tire hissed loudly. Blake moved on to the next one. Another quick slash followed and the hissing sound intensified. The car visibly tilted towards the deflated side. Blake slashed the other tires too, and carelessly tossed the knife back at Barry. The Toyota Tourer sank closer to the ground. Its license plate number was PA PL8S. Carter Blake never forgot such numbers in a hurry.
Barry watched Blake as he drove off before cursing, shocked at the damage. He found any impairment to a vehicle a most distressing sight. Sadly shaking his head, he walked back to the glass cubicle in the garage. He shut the register and put it back in the drawer.
Then he turned to the door and nearly screamed on seeing Lauren Winter there.
"And here I was, willing to pay for the information you just gave that cop," she said.
The hissing sound brought her attention to the entrance.
"What… what is that sound?"
"Uhh…"
Lauren slipped clumsily on a greasy patch before making a wild dash outside.
"No!"
She pounded against the bonnet. It did not stop the air from escaping the tires of the car. Her car. Lauren kicked at the license plates till a part of it broke loose. She put a hand on the bonnet, sinking sideways with the car.
"You didn't do this. Tell me you didn't do this."
"Was the cop, I swear!"
"I believe you."
She shook a finger at him.
"You know what? I really do believe you!"
Lauren bit her lower lip, looking back at the car, then at him.
"How long will it take you to fix this?"
"A while. And it's gonna cost more than you were offering."
"I don't have a while…" she muttered.
Lauren gave a less than feminine growl and sat on the bonnet, sinking it farther down. "Of… of all the fucking things!" she burst out. Barry retreated deeper into the garage, his worldly wisdom too limited to assist a woman with seemingly murderous tendencies.
The deflated tires continued to sink till the last traces of air mingled with the damp moisture on the outside…
Ethan Mars's lungs felt as deflated as the balloon he let go off. For all his elaborate planning, the fucking killer did not invest in a good cylinder. Ethan did not even walk to the next balloon now. He dove towards it, as far as the chain would allow.
For now, he was two balloons away from his 'reward.' He lunged for the next balloon, eager fingers grabbing at the gaseous swelling. It burst open. The bubbles flew out in a shoal of thousands.
No, no no, no, no, God, oh fucking, fucking God, nooo!
His hand frantically grabbed at the bubbles. The attempt was as pathetic as it was desperate. Ethan had never had a lung collapse in all his life. Now he felt he was coming close. His windpipe was burning. Worse than his eyes. He clawed through his liquid obstruction, losing more air than distance.
Ethan slowed down. The water rippled around him, a peculiar dimension. He felt like a flag. The dizziness did not help. He dropped down to the floor of the pool. Slowly. He bounced slightly. But returned on all fours.
The bottom was dark and slippery. His hands skidded with each movement. The water gurgled in stinging bubbles in his ear. He had inhaled a bit of water too. And he felt sick enough to hurl. Even if he did, Ethan valiantly swallowed it. He moved inch by inch. It took longer yet less time than he realized. But he reached the last balloon. Ethan had no idea how.
With forced calmness now, he peeled off the last balloon and brought it to his lips. It flew in with the air. Ethan gagged momentarily, coughing as he float-dragged towards the plastic bag stuck to the wall before him. He coughed. There was a windscreen of bubbles around him. Then, he coughed some more. Far too many times. He had lost his breath. Every trace.
Water poured down his windpipe. It made him cough again. It was a vicious cycle. A deathtrap. Taking his chances, Ethan took a dive. Like the one, two years ago. Save for the bound leg, he surged forward. His fingers nails just about hit the wall. They scraped against the tiles in the agonizing descent. But they caught the plastic bag. Caught and never let go. If he had the breath, Ethan Mars would have blown it on a triumphant gasp.
He hit the ground with a simmering thud. But the packet was his. Trembling, shaking hands pulled it apart. There was a sealed memory card. There was also a key.
Ethan took it in his fist. He punched it into the keyhole and turned it. It opened. He was weightless again. Card in hand, he flew to the surface.
Ethan latched on to the nearest hard surface. He hauled himself over. Ethan lay on his back, then rolled to his stomach. He coughed, wheezed and dry heaved. Then, he lay still.
For a long, long time.
Madison parked her bike alongside a curb. He was sitting there. "Moses, Moses…" she smiled and sat cross-legged next to him.
"Come from far away, maiden?"
"As far as possible."
Moses opened his umbrella when it rained just a little harder, and held it over her head.
"'Preciate it, thanks," she smiled and slid closer to him.
"The car and license number you ask for, passed this way."
"Yes, you told me."
"Said car seemed to have technical… flaws…"
"What kind?"
"What kind? Waddya mean 'what kind, Moses?' Do I look like I own a car?"
"You own this street. It's kinda better."
"Yea, yea… I'm not good with car makes either, buh' it was dark blue and it had 1208 as the license plate."
Madison blessed Charlene with all her heart.
"What grabbed your attention about the car?"
"You just don't see any in this neighborhood. Dead place"
"Uh-huh."
"Yea… that's why the cops put me here the first place! I see some action, I give 'em a call."
"How bad did the car look, Moses?"
"Made funny sounds. I dun' reckon he went too far."
"Which way's the nearest mechanic?"
"Down the road, bit of a distance."
Madison followed the direction of his finger.
"Sure, thanks." She got up. "If there's anything I can do…"
"How 'bout sittin' here with old Moses for a while n tellin' him where you'd run off to lately?"
Madison looked down the road which would, somewhere lead to the mechanic's. Then at Moses.
"Okey dokes," she smiled and ducked back under the umbrella.
"Bum like me gets bumm'd outta his senses in this shitty place."
"So would I, Moses. So would I."
"How's Sam doin'?"
"Great. Absolutely great."
Good will was essential. Madison sat patiently while Moses went on about… things. Short of essential clues, she hadn't really been listening. Madison Paige had mastered the art of smiling politely, while keeping a vigilant eye on her wrist watch.
When the dreadful sensation of helplessness and the draw of a fatal vice ended, a new one began. It was of shame. A terrible, cloying feeling of unspeakable shame. It took all the bravery in all of his being and his spirit to bring Norman Jayden out of the bathroom. He drew the curtains, shut the door and changed in the room.
Norman would never have been able to relive the last 24 hours again. He would've taken a different route if given a choice. Anything that could've kept him away from the humiliation of being… discovered…
Of a stranger knowing what no one, beside a select few, knew within the Bureau. Dying was a better option. If things weren't so desperate and Grace a persistent blackmailer, he would've considered that an option.
He used to, sometimes, in the dead of the night. When he was all alone, in that bare house, the half-ruffled sheets, in a life of self-imposed solitude. The ARI seemed a savior then.
"What you need is a real good woman," his cousin would say. "Someone to tie your knots. And untie the rest. Y'know what I mean."
The recollection made him smile when he was up for it. Brian always winked when he said that.
There was a reason he hadn't seen his family in a long, long time. He knew there would be no open doors for a man who rushed at the slightest inkling; obedient only to the harried beckoning of an aquamarine substance. Enslaved by it. It was a hellish quagmire, a double-edged sword. A battle to be lost.
They thought it was work, his family. Too much of it. Norman pitied their naivety initially, but later, himself. A pity that, then, turned to loathing. He always hurt the ones closest to him. Norman didn't want to do it again. Surely not to the beautiful mother, with the auburn hair and weary, brown eyes.
There was a small knock on the door. Norman opened it. Grace stood outside with his jacket, ready to move, in her dark shirt and jeans. She silently gave it to him. He put it on, a careful hand checking to see if the vial was still inside. It was.
Norman found his tie, which had been drying over the heating rod. He stood before the mirror, conscious of her sidelong glance. Maybe that caused the tremor to ebb and flow through his fingers. That, or the final trace of his body's furious revolt against his denial.
Grace noticed. She took it from him, her eyes never meeting his. A respectable distance lay between them. Norman gazed intently at her eyes, which were deep in concentration. At her firm hands, maneuvering the material. The sheer redness of her hair. He liked it.
A brief look into the mirror prolonged, when Norman saw them together.
Her tying his tie.
Just the idea of them. The actuality of it was like chasing a shadow. A falling star.
It could've been a daily routine. Maybe they did this just before leaving for work. Maybe it was hurried on some days, if the kids were making a racket. Maybe on those days, they shared a quick kiss. Maybe on others, it was gentler. Maybe, more prolonged. A furtive, sensual exploration. Maybe, till she'd nudge him away with a "We'll be late!"
Maybe he needed to see a shrink.
Blake just ruined it for the one I did know here…
Grace was done. She lightly smoothed the front of his shirt.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
Her voice was low, in keeping with the stillness in the room. Norman smiled. What if he did tell her?
"It's nothing."
There was that knowing look in her eyes. Of course, she didn't believe him.
"Let's go," she said.
"I'm sorry."
Grace turned away from the door.
"I'm so sorry, Grace. For what happened earlier."
Grace nodded.
"Don't mention it."
She gestured to the door with her eyes, in a let's go motion. Norman followed her out. He marveled at her restraint. She marveled at his.
If it wasn't for his detachment, the renewed coldness in his demeanor, she could never have borne this. This crazy feeling, an unleashing of all pulsations within, leaving nothing but a dull throb in its wake.
He opened the door for her. She shut it behind him.
The dark clouds were gliding across the sky. They couldn't tell the time of day by looking around.
It was beginning to feel like God's own conspiracy. One that would worsen each day. They looked skyward together. A collective sigh preceded a nod, and then they were on their way.
Blake caught his shoe in a slushy patch while getting out of the car. Mad Jack's 'garage' seemed like a dumping ground for all kinds of goods, recyclable and otherwise…
He could hear a bulldozer in the distance. Blake followed the sound. Somewhere in the back of his head, he could hear Ash's warning.
Be careful, Lieutenant.
Ethan came to. The last thing he needed was a reminder of water. Of any kind, in any form. The thick, grey clouds thought otherwise. He tried to stand, but wound up falling back on his knees. With his burnt out arms, he pulled himself back inside the dank, sheltered corridor of the club. At a snail's pace.
Ethan sat, propped against the wall, breathing heavily in desperate gasps and clutching the plastic bag to his chest. He buried his face into it. The bag swelled and compressed with his breathing. For Ethan, it was the only link between him and his son.
He wasn't sure if he was ready for a visual just yet, but he knew that this wasn't the time to crack emotionally. The more he thought of diversions, the harder things would get. Removing the memory card, he fixed it into the handset…
_ 5 2 / _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _/ R _ _ _ E _ E L T/ _ _ _ _
The next trail had to wait for a few minutes more. Ethan decided to give his body a rest. He did not want to feature on Most Wanted as the jackass who couldn't run for his life.
"I hate this city, Scott… hate!"
"You hate the traffic."
"Which comprises of people from the city."
"Think happy thoughts, Conley. Think about people from outside the city."
"Indirect reference to the profiler. Very smooth."
"I didn't talk about any profiler."
"You said 'outside the city'!"
"And yoouuu got rattled!"
Kathy stuck her head out of the window.
"Fucking thing goes on for miles!"
"No, not really."
"No way we're reachin' the Blue Lagoon before midnight."
"We'll be there by evening."
Kathy reclined her seat all the way to the back. Scott looked at her and smiled.
"Ah, what the hell!"
He followed suit.
"Just need glares and The Beatles," he said.
Kathy pulled out her cell and ear phones.
"Here," she said and shoved one into Scott's ear.
"Living my dream vacation," he said.
They high-fived.
Madison Paige kept wiping the visor of her helmet. The damned rain was having a field day of its own for ruining her bike ride. Wearing swimming goggles would've proved as ineffective. She preferred riding during summers. The rest of the guys in high school liked it too. Summer meant Madison Paige stepping out in denim skirts.
She parked outside a mechanic's garage.
"You Bradley?" she called out to the mucky pair of shoes under a car.
With a quick swing, he slid out from underneath; the wheels missing her feet by inches.
"I'd be anything you wan' me too," he grinned, sizing her up.
Madison sighed. If she were dead drunk, she would have replied with a 'so would I.' Until then…
"I just have a few questions…," she said.
They had been silent long enough, when Grace asked a strange question.
"How are you with keeping promises?"
Norman thought about it. He hadn't made any in a while now.
"I don't make ones I can't keep."
"But you keep the ones you make, right?"
"Is something wrong?"
"I want you to make me a promise."
It seemed serious. Norman steered to the side of the road.
"What's bothering you?"
Grace swallowed hard. She held out her hand.
"I… want you to promise me… that… that no matter what happens, we will find Shaun."
Norman looked at her hand, a hesitant mouth almost betraying traces of protest. He put his hand on hers. She held it tight. Norman gave it a final squeeze before saying, "I promise."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Her hand broke away from his. Norman glanced her way, a final time. Grace wondered if she saw regret there. They drove on, through the rain, immersed in their own inner worlds. Vulnerable, fragile and concealed from anyone who dared to look.
It was true. Norman Jayden did not make promises which he could not possibly keep. He had promised Grace that they would find Shaun Mars. Dead or alive was not a pre-requisite she had asked for…
Author's note: Thank you all for reading. :)
It's time for some love and gratitude to all the lovely people for reviewing. Yes, I know, this comes as abruptly as a director saying "CUTTTT!" at the end of each chapter. :P
I don't blame any of you for wanting to bludgeon Grace Garner for her brilliance. :P I remember feeling just as annoyed (British understatement, I'm sure!) when Colin Farell didn't throw Kathryn Morris against the wall and take her, in Minority Report. I also happened to be the only genius who felt there was any kind of tension between them in the first place. :|
I just love Betty Royale for reading two gi-normous chapters and giving reviews of a quarter that size! Royale, your presence is awaited on the site, once you've snapped out of the M.I.A. mode (this is more than just a pun, it's a HUGE HINT!).
Mythstoorfoot – I love you. We all do. And I love that you love shower scenes with Grace. I also love how dirty that sounds! xD And… worry not. I will always remember you for being my 99th. *sexy bedroom eyes*
Chyrstis – OMG, I saw Se7en on your recommendation! It was brilliant! And some of the scenes had been used as montages in the (Fake) Heavy Rain movie trailer! How many of you saw that, btw?
Curiosity's principle – Much love, thanks! :D Hope you liked this one.
Unregistered readers… I hope you'll read my profile. I'd feel pretty darn stupid putting comments up there if you didn't. Detailed gratitude has been expressed there.
Jim Slade and Honky Tonk Man – I actually had to revise my spelling of Ethan Mars after the two of you spelt him as "Eathan." Curious coincidence, though. :D A million thank you's to the both of you for reviewing. I'm just so happy. :))))
Soul Searcher – Thank you. Hope this chapter's been consistent too.
Greased Lightening – I am a person highly capable of making some of the most insane things on this planet. Crazy, deranged statements are my comedy forte. And while your reviews may be amusing, there are certain boundaries, we must, as considerate human beings never over-step. One of them is of religion. The place where Buddhists meditate is called a monastery. It is a place of calm and quiet deliberation. Anything derogatory said about any religion, in any part of this world will always leave a bad taste in the mouth. It is offensive to a person's beliefs. Being an Indian, and living among such diversity, I do realize how strongly people feel about it. So should you. Having said this, I do appreciate your enthusiasm over my updates. For that, I thank you with all sincerity. :)
Urban Cowboy – So, 100th reviewerrrrrrrrr! How does it feel, eh? Eh eh eh? :D Some timing that! And some brilliant telepathy on my end to predict! Gun away for this chapter, pardner! Up, up and awaayyyy!
I love you, my precious reviewers. Please people, if you haven't already reviewed, do so! I look forward to different opinions regarding the chapter. And I also want to improve. I'm pretty regular with replies, so don't worry, I'm here and listening. :D
Readers, do realize that the only reason I delay in uploading chapters is because my course is killing me and because scenes need to be edited till they're, well… digestible. :P