Chapter 25
The Charmings' Apartment, 10 pm
Very little happens in Storybrooke that Regina doesn't know about. In fact, until two years ago when Henry ran away to Boston, very little happened in Storybrooke, period; it all went according to her script, right down to which night of the week (Saturday) Mary Margaret would go home to her empty apartment with a carton of Rocky Road and a rented DVD (always a chick flick) and sob salty tears into her ice cream as another heroine suffered a broken heart.
Those were the days, Regina thinks now, ignoring the fact that when she was living those days, she found them screamingly boring. But as she rifles through the medicine cabinet of the tiny bathroom that three adults and one pre-adolescent share, she wishes Henry hadn't taken that first curse-crumbling step. Life would be so much easier now.
The alarm on her phone goes off. It's ten o'clock; Emma's off-duty. She'll be home in less than fifteen minutes. Regina speeds up her efforts. So far in the apartment, she's found a secret stash of candy under Henry's bed (infuriating! Doesn't Emma know what sugar can do to a sensitive child?), a secret stash of romance novels (the bodice-ripping kind) under Snow and David's bed (Regina gets a chuckle out of imagining that the books belong to David), a package of birth control pills (Emma's or Snow's?) and an overdue Boston Public Library book (three years overdue; Regina wonders if she can use this against Emma during the upcoming election. That and job abandonment—the good sheriff did, after all, run off to the Enchanted Forest for nearly a month, leaving in her place an untrained, non-city employee who, now that Regina thinks about it, probably doesn't even have a license to carry a gun).
Regina's anxious now. She's pretty sure she's searched every corner of every drawer, cupboard and closet in the apartment. If—no, she shakes her head firmly: when she gets her hands on the compass, she'll enchant it so that if she ever mislays it, she can summon it to her, maybe just by whistling. She hears the squeak of floorboards in the hallway outside the apartment and the scrape of a key in a lock, and she vanishes. She'll have to come back later tonight when Emma's asleep, and just hope the sheriff isn't a light sleeper. Maybe a little soundproofing spell will help.
As she returns to the sanctity of her own bedroom, Madame Mayor suddenly wonders what if Snow hid the compass someplace else? A safe deposit box at the bank, her classroom at school? With a heavy sigh, Regina resumes her search.
Rabbit Hole, Saturday/Sunday, midnight
"Sorry, Mr. G., but I think you need to see this." Slightly emerges from the darkness. The neon lights of the bar's overhead sign make his skin look Pepto-Bismol pink, while Gold's skin appears green (or maybe that's not the neon, Slightly thinks: maybe Gold's skin is turning back to its Rumplestiltskin state. He'd like to see that. He's heard the imp described many times, but every describer comes up with a different description). "Were you losing?"
Gold flashes a brief grin. "Miserably. But at least I got my shoes back." His cane taps against the Ferragamos. "Now, what brings us to this vile place in the middle of the night?"
"They tried to call Red, but she didn't pick up, so they called me." As Slightly yanks open the door, Gold gives him a quick look, having noticed the reference to Red, not Ruby. Then the two men are blasted back by raucous music and laughter, cigarette smoke and the assorted scents of various kinds of alcohol. When their eyes adjust to the light (it doesn't take long, as the light inside is purposefully kept dim), they enter.
Mitch looks up from a shot he's pouring and nods them over to the bar. Gold draws his body in tight, as though concerned that a drunk might pick his pocket or spill Budweiser on his Ferragamos. Mitch says something to one of the waitresses and she takes his place behind the bar as he comes around to meet the new arrivals. Beads of sweat form above his upper lip as he sees that it's not Ruby who's accompanying Slightly this time. "Mr. Gold. Sorry for the disturbance. We wanted to keep you out of this." Mitch scowls at Slightly. "You dragged him out of the hospital for this?"
Gold interrupts, "A poker game, actually. Why did you call, Mr.—uh—"
"Alvarez." Mitch wipes his upper lip with his sleeve.
"Ah, yes. The three-bedroom Colonial on Second and Sycamore."
Mitch nods reluctantly. "Please don't raise my rent because of this, Mr. Gold." He leads them to the pool room at the back of the saloon. It's so crowded Slightly wonders how the players can manage to make their way around the tables.
"What am I supposed—" Gold starts, then his eyes fix on one of the players and he clamps his mouth shut.
Slightly follows his gaze. She isn't playing pool; she's sitting on one of the pool tables, her legs splayed, and a player is cuing up with the obvious intention of shooting the eight ball right up her tiny skirt. She's laughing, her head tilted back, and stuffing balls down her blouse as another man pours beer down her throat.
Gold mutters a profanity.
"Please, Mr. Gold, don't bust the place up," Mitch begs.
"Then Emma would have to arrest both of you," Slightly points out. "She needs help, not jail."
"She needs a cure for this bloody curse," Gold hisses. He starts forward, his cane raised and ready to attack, but Slightly holds him back.
"Let me get her." Slightly elbows his way through the crowd, and with a few quietly menacing words to the men that Lacey has been amusing, he grabs her by the waist and pulls her off the table.
"Freckles!" She greets him with a sloppy kiss. "You're looking for a threesome, huh? Where's Ruby?" As he hauls her over to Gold and Mitch, she points, though her finger has trouble focusing. "I seen you somewhere. A foursome, huh?"
"Good gods," Gold groans. "Belle. . . ."
"You still calling me that?" the woman pats Gold's chest. "Well, I hope you find her."
"She thinks her name is Lacey," Slightly explains.
Gold grabs her other arm and he and Slightly drag her from the pool room, through the bar and out into the parking lot. Mitch has followed them. "Please, Mr. Gold, it's not my fault. I didn't want to involve you."
"Consider me involved, Mr. Alvarez." Gold ducks as Lacey tries to plant a wet kiss on his mouth. "If this ever happens again—"
"Gods forbid," Mitch and Slightly pray in unison.
"Call me." Gold opens the back door of his Caddy and Slightly pushes Lacey inside. Gold runs his hand through his hair; Mitch has never seen him ruffled like this. "You'll be rewarded for your discretion."
"Thank you, Mr. Gold." Mitch backs away as Slightly climbs into the back seat to prevent Lacey from crawling out the window she's just rolled down.
Gold starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. "Where has she been staying?"
"Red gave her a room at the inn." Slightly pushes Lacey back down into the seat and struggles to fasten her seat belt. Every time he gets it latched, Lacey giggles and unlatches it until he finally gives up. If Storybrooke has a seat belt law, it doesn't seem likely the sheriff's going to jump out of bed and chase the Caddy down in her pajamas.
This stranger—Gold forces himself to think of her that way, and tonight it's not difficult: she has very little in common with Belle—demands he turn on the radio. He ignores the demand but she seems to think he's obeyed her because she begins to croon along to a song she thinks she hears, banging her head against the window in time to the music.
"Fill me in, Mr. Slightly." Gold's voice is weary as he makes eye contact through the rear view mirror.
She leans into Slightly. "You wanna party? Fifty for you, seventy-five for ol' stick-up-the-arse up there."
"Red says it came on suddenly, yesterday afternoon. One minute everything was fine—well, not fine, I mean, she didn't know who she was, but Archie had taken her out of the hospital and she was starting to get adjusted. She and Red had lunch plans, but when Red went to get her, she suddenly took off, didn't say a word to anyone. Last night Mitch called Emma, and Emma called us to come get her. She seems awfully determined to get herself into trouble."
"I've got to do something before some sleaze takes her offer seriously."
Slightly gives Lacey a push to force her off him. "Before Emma has to arrest her. Last night it was just drunk and disorderly. If Emma had seen what went down tonight, she'd have no choice but to arrest her for solicitation."
Gold slams his hand against the steering wheel. "This is my fault. I did this to her."
"What makes you say that?" Slightly is surprised.
"I know the laws of magic. I knew when I brought magic to this land there'd be hell to pay, but I did it anyway, and with her—" his voice locks up. "With her standing right there beside me, in slippers and a hospital gown. Not ten minutes out of Regina's secret torture chamber. I promised to protect her, and not ten minutes later I'd hauled her out into the woods so I could—" he sucks in a breath. He can't or won't finish his explanation.
Slightly accepts that. He's come to realize that Gold has been alone, emotionally if not always physically, all of his long life, and the small confession he's just given is a major step forward for him. "There's a way, Mr. G.," he says quietly. "And you'll find it."
Just a twinge of hope mixes with the bitterness in Gold's answer. "I take it Belle's part of True Love's plan for Henry?"
"For Henry," Slightly replies. "And for you."
Gold's head snaps up and he glances over his shoulder. Slightly adds, "The boss has gone all in on you."
"That's a sucker bet," Gold mutters.
"No. I told you, we know you're already a believer. You just got to be converted to the cause."
"Is that your job, Mr. Slightly?"
"No, that's yours. I'm just here to provide some resources." Lacey is attempting to crawl into the front seat and Slightly drags her back. "The main one being Belle. It might not seem like it now, but Belle's the pitcher I was talking about."
Gold raises an eyebrow. "Indeed?"
"There is a way," Slightly repeats. "A man who spent three hundred years learning how to bottle True Love surely won't let a piddly little curse stand in his way."
Storybrooke General, parking lot, 12:30 am
He shuts off the engine and rests his forehead against the steering wheel, trying to think. Something on the floorboard on the passenger side catches the light from a street lamp; he bends and fishes around for the object. It's a silver comb, and as he holds it reverently in both hands he remembers that Belle had mentioned losing it. That was weeks ago, before Hook and Cora arrived; that was before he had Bae, but when he still had Belle.
Is this the law the Fates have set for Rumplestiltskin? A son restored at the price of a beloved. If, somehow, as Slightly seems so sure, Gold manages to bring Belle back, will Bae be taken away?
Gold runs his finger across the teeth of the comb, remembering how it sparkled against her dark hair. He finds a strand of her hair caught deep in the teeth; he unravels the hair and holds it up to the moonlight, admiring—
And then he conjures a vial and drops the strand inside, and with a shrill giggle he plucks out a strand from his own head.
"A man who spent three hundred years learning how to bottle True Love surely won't let a piddly little curse stand in his way." A hint if Gold ever heard one.
Storybrooke General, Room 666, 5 am
"How long has she been dead?"
Emma's voice is thick with sleep, and her clothes—the same ones she wore yesterday and dropped onto the floor before she collapsed into bed five hours ago—are rumpled, but her mind's firing on all cylinders. She's about to launch her second murder investigation since taking office a year ago, and already it's pretty certain this case won't work out as well as the previous one.
"I can't be sure till we run tests," Whale says. "Last time the orderlies looked in on her was 11 p.m. She was sleeping peacefully." His arms are folded and he's staring down curiously at the body. Emma notices that he doesn't seem the least fazed by the murder that's taken place on his watch; she also notices a wad of small bills stuffed into his lab coat.
"Where'd you get the money?" Emma indicates the wad.
"Poker." Whale smirks. "Most of it's Gold's."
"Gambling's illegal in this state. Class D crime, one to three years in prison." Emma points out. "Next time you play with Gold, invite me." Leroy comes running in, pushing his way through the hospital staff that have crowded into the room. "Push 'em back, Leroy," she orders. "No one comes in unless I say so, and nobody touches anything. Until we find out if this was due to natural causes, this room is a crime scene. I'll need a list of everyone who was on duty tonight, doctors, janitors, everybody."
"Should we notify the next of kin?" Whale wonders.
Emma growls, "Damn it. Not yet. Not till I get a full squad out here; she's liable to tear the place apart. Somebody take care of him," she indicates Bashful, who's holding his aching head as he scrambles to his feet. "And get Gold up here."
"Gold?" Whale is perplexed. "I don't think Cora needs an attorney at this stage of the game."
Emma shoots him a nasty look. "Get me Gold."
Storybrooke General, Room 666, 5:15 am
The crowd of hospital workers hovering in the hallway falls silent and parts at the tap-step-tap-step-tap-step approaching from the hallway. Gold steps into the room, pauses to assess the situation, then, his footsteps heavier and slower, he joins Emma at bedside.
Emma is a fount of questions and she's anxious to get to work, but something in his silence makes her wait. She glances sideways at him. So wrapped up in thoughts of procedure—this time she won't make any mistakes: if this turns out to be a murder and not death by natural causes, she will learn all that can be learned during her investigation, and the killer will be brought to justice—she hadn't given much thought to the human element. Gold is standing there, typically dressed in his tailored clothes (sans jacket and tie), typically holding himself stiffly, his cane front and center, a not-so-subtle reminder that though he has a disability, he can and will defend himself quite capably. He's typically silent, requiring others to pry words from him, but atypically, a muscle in his cheek is twitching and his eyes have glazed over. Emma dares to look more closely—he barely seems aware of her—and decides that glaze doesn't mean he's checked out: it means he's fighting off emotions.
It makes sense now: sure, someone like him would know all of the Enchanted Forest's possessors of magic. Probably even taught some of them. But it had just never occurred to her that Gold might have feelings for some of them. Respectfully, she returns her attention to the deceased and gives Gold a shadow of privacy. She doesn't understand him: Cora would have literally stabbed him in the back, and she's sure he wouldn't have hesitated to kill her to stop her, yet here he is, staring at the witch's body as though she's a beloved sister or. . . .
She's got to get started. Every minute that she allows to pass is another minute for the killer to get away. "Mr. Gold?" she prompts. "Would you look at this?"
Gold and Emma bend over the body to examine two tiny round marks on Cora's neck. "Burn marks," Emma observes. "Whale says they weren't there when he examined her at 9 o'clock."
Gold goes all-business. "But Bashful was here?"
"Yeah. Until someone knocked him out, around midnight. He didn't see his attacker."
"You can scan his memories, as you did Pongo's," Gold suggests. "Perhaps a sound or a scent will provide information."
"Magic was used here," Emma says, rubbing her arms. "I can feel it. Makes me itch."
"Eventually you'll learn to differentiate between types of magic, sometimes even the individual mage." He rubs his nose. "Magic wasn't used here but it was expelled. Those marks weren't caused by magic." He lifts Cora's hand and studies the fingertips, running his own fingers over them. "Her magic is gone."
"Is that to be expected? Does magic die with the magician?"
"No. It remains in the body until the body decomposes, and then it dissipates. And we prefer the term mage or sorcerer or practitioner of magic. A magician is an actor who pulls rabbits out of hats."
"So what happened to her magic?" Emma rubs the back of her neck: all this information is giving her a headache.
Gold shrugs. "I have no idea."
Despite Emma's orders, someone on the hospital staff has snuck out and phoned Regina, and the queen arrives by way of magic, her nightgown and hair in disarray, her eyes frantic. "What happened?" she asks in a cracking voice. She bumps against Emma, who steps back, and she shoves Gold out of the way so she can crouch beside the bed. "Mother? Mother?" She stokes Cora's cheek to awaken her, and when that fails, she grabs her mother's hand and pats it. "Mother! Wake up, Mother!"
"Regina," Emma reaches for her, but Regina slaps her across the face.
"Leave me alone! You will not touch my mother!" She keeps stroking Cora's hand and talking to her in soft, encouraging tones.
Whale steps in, clasping a hand on the queen's shoulder. "She's gone, Regina." When she doesn't fight him, he slides his hands under her elbows and lifts her to her feet. He urges her to turn so he can embrace her, but she will have none of it: she pushes him away. "This is your fault!" she shouts at Emma. "You were supposed to protect her. Where are your deputies? They were supposed to be guarding her."
The guards had been called in not to protect Cora, but to protect the public from Cora, but Emma doesn't correct Regina's assessment of the situation.
Regina notices Gold for the first time. "You! You killed her! You used her and threw her away, and when she came back, strong and powerful, and faced you down, you feared her. You attacked her in her sleep, when she was sick and couldn't fight back!"
Gold doesn't respond.
"Arrest him!" Regina swats at Emma. "Go on! He's the only one who'd do something so diabolical."
"Regina," Emma shakes her head. She doesn't know what to say.
"See if he has an alibi. Ask him where he was tonight."
"I don't have to ask," Emma argues. "He's been in Room 304 since Thursday."
"Except when he was playing poker with me and three other doctors," Whale adds. "That was around ten to—" He stops suddenly.
"What is it, Whale?" Emma urges.
"Well, he got a phone call and he left early. Around midnight, I guess. But we'd cleaned him out of cash, so there was no point in him sticking around."
Emma's spitting nails. "We can settle this right now. Mr. Gold, where did you go when you got your phone call?"
Gold's grip on his cane tightens, but so do his lips.
"Gold," Emma pushes. "Where did you go?"
He doesn't reply and Regina demands, "There! Arrest him! With his magic, he has the means to kill, and he had motives galore."
"I didn't kill Cora," Gold answers.
"Did anyone see you after you left the poker game?" When he remains silent, Emma presses, "Is there anyone who can vouch for you after you left the game?" Still, he doesn't answer and she sighs. "Come on, Gold, this is a big staff. Someone must have seen you. Just give me an alibi and we can stop wasting our time on this."
He raises his chin and stares off into space. He's not about to tell Emma or anyone else where he was an hour ago, especially in front of Regina. He'll go to jail first. And if the sheriff decides his silence is impeding an investigation, jail is a distinct possibility.
"She would have killed him to take his magic," Regina continues. "He was afraid of her, so he killed her in her sleep, like the coward he is. Are you a coward too, Sheriff? Are you going to let a killer walk away?"