Many, many thanks to AllAmericanSlurp, Swiftie22, Glee Clue Rock 1251, an unnamed guest (thanks so much for those questions!), paquiot899, Lady Cougar-Trombone, Fogfire (thanks to your questions, too!), AlienGhostWizard14, xxWasabiWarriorAlertxx, and Jillie chan for the reviews! A special shout out goes to WatchfulJewel, too! Thanks again ;)
Be warned, guys: this chapter contains a graphic scene, depicting death of a main character.
Fourteen.
Cold drops of rain pelted against Leo's skin as he waited at a bench a few yards deep within the park. The light shower had been falling unevenly since he arrived there, the occasional but sudden gusts of wind causing it to wildly hit various things in its path. That hadn't been something he factored in before he set out of the house earlier, but he didn't consider it such a daunting problem. His clothes and the exposed members of his body were getting drenched, and of course it discomforted him, but it wasn't worth a change in his decision. Not even the decreasing temperature could do that.
With utmost concentration, he toiled to perfect the shading of the birds he had drawn in his sketch book. Around him, nature hummed a lullaby that, as he listened, calmed the jolts of anxiety from his frayed nerves into complete slumber. The rhythm of rain clapping against tree branches eased his mind. Whenever the wind whistled through the lowly blades of grass, it bore a chill that traveled swiftly through his veins but would soon kindle intense warmth, dispersing through every fiber of his being. It rendered him steady and strong.
Even the increasing crescendo of his wristwatch's ticking had become a necessity in that very complex orchestra.
The fluent sound of rain slapping the parchment of his sketchbook intrigued him the most. The drops of water not only added to the harmony but also provided a spectacle for him to watch. These created trails around and along his drawing. Smaller trails emphasized the outline that it hit. Larger trails would lightly blot out the ink. The excess water not absorbed through the paper would take some of the ink with it as gravity pulled it down, pulled it towards him, giving it the appearance of dark tears running through his portrait.
Leo exhausted a breath, and it condensed into a fog that briefly obstructed his view. He was so attuned to what surrounded him outside and the resolve that hemmed him inside that he felt numb. He supposed it was the best state of mind he could find himself in. Focus would distract him from emotions that could provoke panic. But, he didn't want to be so unfeeling, like he was some machine that was devoid of any sensations. He desired to desperately long for his family. He wanted to miss them very bad. He wanted his heart to sink at the pit of his stomach at the image of his loved ones getting ready for bed, still unaware of his alarming absence. He wanted something, anything, to grip him with incredible tightness as he accepted the truth that he would never ever go back home.
Yet, as he pushed the tiny object that he had been turning over and over inside his mouth to the side, leaving an odd taste of mint candy and eraser on his tongue, he felt emptier.
He was alive but had been dead for a long time.
Faint echoes of shoes trekking along the watery pavement whispered sharply in the distance. It approached slowly, surely and sneakily that even the darkness of the night couldn't hide who he was.
Leo mechanically consulted his watch. 11:39 PM, 29 seconds counting. "You're late," he said plainly as he finished his sketch.
An amused smirk pulled at the edges of Douglas' mouth. "You've been expecting me?" he asked.
Leo shot him an empty look as a response.
Douglas crossed his arms. Then, he shrugged. "I was waiting at the wrong place. I didn't realize you've left until I checked the heat sensor and only counted five people in the house," he explained. He chuckled breathily. "I've got to say, putting a dummy in your bed and surrounding it with heat packs to add authenticity is pretty smart."
Leo paused. "Do they know I'm gone?" he asked.
Douglas shook his head. "Donny and Tasha checked on you once. They bought the dummy trick," he said. "Chase even fell for it."
Leo resumed drawing.
"You don't seem scared," Douglas noted.
"Because I'm not." Leo stopped his work altogether before he looked at his step-uncle straight in the eyes. He saw cunning. He saw malaise. He saw demented happiness. He decided he would feel angry and somehow intimidated, but the artifice of those emotions caused him to reject it immediately. So, again, he was back to being empty. "But you look like you are," he remarked instead.
"No, no. I'm not scared," Douglas said. "Just…pleasantly surprised."
Leo watched him as he slowly walked around. Suddenly, the scene reminded him of a documentary he saw with Bree and Chase. An eagle circling around its prey, a tiny, frightened mouse helplessly burrowing itself in a shallow crag.
The eagle's smirk expanded. "How did you know it was me?" he asked.
"A few things told me," Leo responded.
"Oh?"
"Actually, I had no idea it was you until we came to your house," he admitted. "At first, all of us were really convinced that it was Jessi Evelyn Nash who sent the letters, which was kind of frustrating considering that she's been dead for three years. So we tried to see if someone else had been holding onto the letter and had just sent it recently, but none of the people she knew had any idea about it. They didn't even know about me. Then, when we came home last night, something hit me. Chase found a partial fingerprint only on the piece of paper that has my name on it, which was weird. It's too specific. At first glance, it looks like a simple mistake, but, really, it was something deliberately placed there. The letter was to make us worry. The fingerprint was to make us panic."
Douglas nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "But why would you think it was me? Did you think I dug up a decomposing body part to scare you?"
"Oh, but you don't really need to," Leo said. "Anything that has her fingerprint will do." He smiled, but only briefly. "The wax hand in her art box was perfect, and I figured that that's what you used. It's shattered because you used it as a mold to get some kind of fingerprint for the letter."
Douglas appeared impressed.
"The clock in your living room was another giveaway," Leo continued. "Everything is very dusty, except for that, which means that it was placed there just recently and that it's in use. You've been constantly checking it. To time me."
"I'm not the only one who owns a clock, kid," Douglas challenged on a whim.
"I know," Leo responded. "But yours is the only one that's synchronized with the ones in our house. The other people we suspected—or at least I suspected—theirs were either too fast or too slow."
"You've been using that to check?" Douglas nodded towards Leo's wristwatch.
"I just counted," Leo replied. "My memory's not too bad, and I'm pretty decent with numbers." He looked up pointedly. "You're not the only one who can give useful abilities to your kids."
Douglas nodded. "I see Donald's good at something after all," he commented.
For the first time, a flicker of mixed emotions softly jabbed at Leo. It was a concoction of embarrassment, pity and regret. These showed through his reaction, through his subtle manner of looking down to attempt aversion. "I wasn't talking about him," he said almost too quietly.
Only a few seconds passed before Douglas understood. His brows hitched, while his lower lip inched upward, the sides of his mouth downturned. "One-upped by a dead man," he mused appreciatively. "I didn't see that coming."
Those words rang loudly again and again at the back of Leo's mind, but he couldn't understand it. His brain deemed it irrelevant and foreign.
Despite the lowered visibility, Douglas' knowing smirk still came through. "You're just like them," he said.
Leo looked at him.
"You think you can save everybody by pretending to be a hero," Douglas added. He shook his head then scoffed. "Your sentimentality is a downfall."
"So is your pride," Leo returned. "You always underestimate everybody else. You underestimate Adam, Bree, Chase. You underestimate even your brother. And me. And what I can and will do for them. You misjudged it."
"I counted on it."
The blunt honesty and confidence in Douglas' voice and in his expression took Leo aback.
This reaction amused Douglas thoroughly. The demented air of satisfaction lifted out of his countenance, only to be replaced by an unsettling twisted grin. "You think you coming here will stop me from going after them?" he asked. "You think that by taking this on willingly, you will somehow save them?"
"Yes," Leo replied clearly. He got up on his feet with his eyes affixed on Douglas. "This is the only way I can stop them from getting hurt. If I let you remove me from the picture without them interfering."
"Like I said, sentimentality is your downfall," Douglas said. "If you had really thought this through, you would have figured out that you were the only one keeping them alive."
Leo fought the fearful inclinations that surged within him when Douglas drew out a metallic device and pointed it at him. With the dull gray color and trigger, it could easily be mistaken as a weapon. However, its bare body, the skeletons revealing ammunition of tiny syringes, disqualified it from being one. Nonetheless, his lack of knowledge as to what those would do to him raised an alarm.
He swallowed then willed his nerves to stay still.
"Adam, Bree and Chase have no more place in my plans," Douglas said. "But you? Well, let's face it. No matter which side of the chessboard you're on, you're always going to be a pawn."
Leo stared at him. At that moment, he felt calm.
He also missed home.
Leo took a deep breath. "Go ahead," he said. "I won't run. I'm not gonna die a coward."
Douglas smirked. "You're right," he said. "You're not."
Two syringes rapidly whipped past the empty space between them. These landed squarely on Leo's shoulder. The agonizing pain borne by the needles accurately hitting vital nerves caused him to bite down harder and to clench his hands so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. He could feel the chemicals burn through his system, but before he could react to it, air suddenly stopped flowing into his body. He manically tried to breathe, but his airways had stubbornly shut close. His lungs curled up and no longer gave him what he needed.
The very last of his consciousness was lost before his body hit the ground.
Douglas' expression changed from satisfaction to confusion to unease as he watched intense trembling seize the fallen person in front of him. Pale white foam flowed out the sides of the boy's mouth, accompanied by curt but loud choking sounds. His eyes wandered aimlessly, disclosing the fatality that was to come about.
When the scene reached its conclusion, Douglas found himself rushing towards the unmoving body. Kneeling beside it, he checked the boy's neck for any pulse. Then, he checked his wrists. He checked his breathing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Douglas blinked in horror as he stared at the dead body in front of him.
With a desperate yank, he pulled out the two syringes from his step-nephew's shoulders, careful not to touch any part of his garment. He sprang up to his feet after retrieving the small items, and then he ran, farther away from the body, farther away from light.
Thick mist of rain progressively crawled into the park as midnight came into view. Shortly, the great downpour hovered over the trees, the grass, the streetlights and the benches and stayed onto them and around them, permanently claiming them into its domain. Large drops of water angrily and constantly struck each, awakening them to the more hostile nature of nature.
Upon the body, however, these fell like tears, each drop an utterance of mourning for a life that was once attuned with the living.
to be continued.