OK. I'm back, and a little later than expected due to internet malfunctions. (Woo.) And here's another chapter, of which there is now a definite number. (So yes, on vacation I did finish it. Amazingly enough.)
Disclaimer: I'm the anti-Finding-Nemo-Pelican…NOT MINE.
Chapter 28
I've never really appreciated just how big this house is, with its multitude of hallways featuring room after room—now all empty. From the living room to my own bedroom, all I hear is nothing, not a TV, not the flipping of crinkley pages, not even my own voice. I don't think I've spoken in the past four days.
And Riley had said forever ago that I could have purchased a bigger house with the Templar treasure money. Why would I have needed to? What I have now is already overwhelming.
Riley—in my oh-so-deep introspective thought these past four days, I've come to the all-too-obvious conclusion that just maybe these issues that Abigail said I needed to work through have to do with him. She never did get a full explanation of our argument as I was still a little…y'know, upset and worried and such. I didn't want to talk about it anyway; heck, I still don't. But my mind won't let it go.
All I can see are his fingers brushing off the thin dust on his embossed, yellow lettering and his face falling as discreetly as possible. All I can see is his hurt, rightly accusing stare…and his car leaving…and the ice cream melting and Abigail dashing out the door before she can change her mind…and Sadusky, too.
It's back to square one, then—the square one, as in before Ian showed up with his funding: I have an insanely far-fetched entity to contend with and no one to contend with it alongside me.
This was always the part of a board game I absolutely detested, when you're almost at the finish and then you draw the card that sends you back to the beginning, or to jail (and I'm sure I didn't collect my two-hundred dollars).
Suddenly the phone rings and I'm grudgingly aware of my surroundings—ceiling before me, mushy couch beneath me, glasses askew. The usual. And I really don't want to get up; let the answering machine get it.
"Beep! Ben, seriously, pick up the damn phone—I know you're there, OK?"
That has to be the tenth message from Sadusky this afternoon and most definitely the most concise and colorful.
And again a-ringing it goes, not four seconds after he hung up. Let's see what he says this time.
"PICK UP."
Make me.
Hm. Well, I can't have him filling up my answering machine…so…that's unplugged. He can call, but now all it'll do is ring. Fighting to keep a grin off my face, I wander to the kitchen to stare in the fridge in hopes that new food will have materialized since the last time I checked.
Nope. There's some Jello, some (how typically) pot roast, a grapefruit, and some expired Slim Fast. Where the hell did those come from? Oh wait—Sadusky's diet courtesy of Hendrix. Suddenly that's extremely funny.
Geez, I'm losing it.
What else is new?
Right on cue, the grating jingle of the phone sounds once more and keeps on sounding…and sounding…and sounding…
Hey look: there's some cherry Jello, not any of that nasty blue kind. They call that stuff blueberry? It's more along the lines of ew-berry. Seriously.
Wow, Mr. Peter Sadusky is quite persistent this time around. Even after five straight minutes, the man's still holding out. Well news flash: I'm not answering. In the back of my head I can almost hear him respond, News flash: I'm not hanging up.
Maybe I should just unplug the whole phone.
No, then he'll probably come over in person.
So here I sit, and with nothing better to keep my attention than a plastic spork and empty cup of cherry Jello, my mind wanders.
I wonder where Riley is.
My God, that phone is so irritating.
Is he still angry with me?
How I want to smash that device with a sledgehammer!
Well, duh, of course he's still angry. He would have come back otherwise, right? 'Cause he's like that. Right?
I thought I knew. Don't I still? I hope—that's all I have left anymore, these past memories. Sighing, I meander to the godforsaken phone and pick up the receiver.
"What?" My voice cracks with disuse.
"I was just about to hang up," Sadusky says in his usual manner.
"No you weren't."
"Why do you say that?"
"Pete," I say flatly. "Cut to the chase. What do you want?"
The sound in my ear rattles roughly as he sighs right into his receiver. "I just wanted to check and make sure you were all right, because…well, that day you were—"
"A wreck, I know. See? I'm alive. Everything's fine." On the other end, I hear nothing but eerie silence. "How's Abigail?"
"She's…iffy. She was asleep the last time I checked. And Ben, I realize these arrangements are awkward—"
"I understand. You aren't together."
"Other things worrying you?" he probes gently.
"I don't have to worry about a preponderance of blueberry Jello taking over my fridge anymore."
"Ben."
"Hi."
"Playing with Jello's fun for only so long."
"And you would know?"
"You've got to face what we're up against eventually. I'll be in touch later, OK?"
A dull click and he's gone, along with the constant clang of the ring. Now it's just me, and that infernal clock keeps on ticking away, not only marking the time that's passed but also the dwindling time from my hourglass of opportunity.
My guilt-meter having heaved its last breath during the infamous argument, the full onslaught of what seems like everything cascades upon me. I need to work on these issues, these Riley-issues. As I collapse back into my mold on the sunken couch, my mind begins—or at least attempts—to whir.
Let's stop and think for a moment: why was Riley so upset in the first place? That's simple enough to pinpoint. He thinks I don't care about him, even when he obviously is fiercely loyal.
How do I fix that?
Well…that's easy, too: show him I really do.
The gears slow to a standstill at that one. I don't know where he is, what he's doing, anything. Worry creeping up my veins, my fingers twitch as they rest on my knees. What is he doing? Maybe he's attacking another tiger with a metal pole and cereal battle cry. Maybe he's hacking back into the Archives for the hell of it. Maybe Ingram's not currently stepping over his dead body.
I can't stand this.
Where's his book?
Still lying precariously on the edge of the side table, it seems to stare back at me as I peer at it over the arm rest. I should at least read the first chapter. It's not like I have anything else better to do—
I didn't just think that. No, I have to do this. It's the first step in making this right again.
Let's see…the gray dust coats my fingertips as I brush it off and open to page one: "The Templar Treasure: What They Never Told You." Hm…honestly, hearing Riley's account of that adventure will probably be quite entertaining…
"About the time we had a ship explode around us, I knew things were not going to go smoothly anymore. What ship, you ask? See, all the news coverage on this skipped over the multitude of wonderful historic details, which I'm sure as you the reader, who bothered to pick up this book, are sincerely interested in.
"This too, among the content of the rest of these chapters, is about a conspiracy theory—per se…"
XXX
The next thing I know is charcoal blackness with peppy green numerals creaming that it's two-something in the morning; unfortunately the rest of the time is blocked by a large quantity of bound pages laying on my face.
As my eyes readjust with the help of the limited moonlight streaming through the window, I note I got all the way to the end of chapter four—something about Roswell, which surprisingly enough was very intriguing; I'd never read much about conspiracy theories.
But while my mind shakes off the fog of sleep, I briefly wonder what woke me up.
Then I realize someone's staring at me from a few feet away. Falling off the couch, I scramble to my feet and grab an ornamental paperweight off the coffee table. The person never moves.
"Ben, I would really appreciate it if you didn't bludgeon me to death," Sadusky chuckles.
OK, what the heck is he doing here in the middle of the night? "It's two in the morning, Sadusky," I grunt as I sit back up on the sofa.
"Actually, it's two-fifteen. And I said I'd be in touch." He comes to sit down beside me.
"At two in the morning?"
"Two-fifteen."
"Whatever," I mutter, waving my hand dismissively. "What do you need?"
"No, no, no," he laughs again, but I really don't see what's so funny, honestly. Maybe he's punchy; Riley had a "punchy test," where if you went up to someone and said, "pudding." If they laughed, they were punchy. However, if I gave this test to the agent, that would only give him and Abigail more probable reason to declare me off my rocker.
"I have something you need," he continues, and then clearly waits for a response. Too bad he's not getting one—it got delayed due to a bad storm of "it's just a tad too early."
"I got Michaels and Dawes to do me another favor," he says lightly. "It took a couple days, but they just got back to me on it about an hour ago." Turning his head in my direction, he raises his eyebrows. How is he so awake? "They found where Riley went."
"Really? Where? Is he all right?" I instantly choke out.
"Yes," he sighs. "As far as they can tell he's fine—they would have told me otherwise—and reports how he flew into Cayenne, the capital of French Guiana, within the past week."
"Tell them thank you for me," I mumble. French Guiana—he's really doing it, then? What exactly is he planning on accomplishing, though?
I don't realize I'm almost doubled over until Sadusky gently shakes my shoulder. "You all right?"
"You asked me that already today."
"This one's from Abigail." He pauses, sighing. "Ben, Ingram noticed Riley's movement as well, and I think part of the plan has been implemented. Banana prices in the colony have shot up in the past few days."
I let the news—troubling as it is—sink in. "So he's moving in?"
"Yes, and—"
"So should I."
My interruption silencing him, Sadusky stares at me with his mouth barely parted. It's had the same effect on me as well—all at once things seemed so incredibly clear, even after my subconscious must have been laboring away since his departure. In that respect, epiphanies are quite annoying.
"Ben," he says, standing with cautious worry. "That's not what Abigail meant by 'resolving issues.'" What did she mean then? "L-listen to your father: Riley's what, twenty-six?"
"He can't do this alone!"
"You can't play superhero like this, Ben! Saving everyone—it's not possible, OK?"
"If I save him, this likely World War II can be prevented—thousands will be spared!"
"And what are you going to do when you get down there?" he shouts, more out of emphasis than anger. "You have no clue exactly where he is, and once you find him, then what? Two people can't take on Ingram and his forces alone!"
"What do you expect me to do then? Just sit here?" I too get to my feet, but my voice remains at normal volume.
"I—I…I'm worried about him, too, but there's only so much we can do. We're not his family." By the time he finishes out the phrase, his speech has faded to a sigh, his eyes full to the brim with conflict.
"He never had a family, so we're as good as." Without meeting his gaze, I turn on the spot, grabbing my coat, Riley's book, and my keys, and march out the door. In the distance I hear the ex-agent call my name until the thundering growl of my engine overshadows it, and instead a different voice fills my ears, one that had accompanied a slightly confused face of the past…
"Go contradict the world, why don't you?"
Caroline, I won't let what happened to you happen to Riley: I don't think I could take it.
XXX
There was no sense in heading straight to the airport at—what time is it now?—two-forty in the morning, and seeing as we've spent way too much time in them these past few months, that's pretty much the last place on my list to go. At least not until it's completely necessary.
So I came here, to this old, slightly bizarre, twenty-four hour diner on the outskirts of town. The fluorescent light above my lacquered table flickering, I look down the long row of empty pastel-shaded booths, thinking of the last time I came here, when the place was bustling and noisy. In other words, when I came with Riley—it was right after I met him for the first time in Mr. Hebrews' office…
Among the clanking of plates and silverware, he looked sort of uncomfortable, which was to be understood. I had known him for a grand total of three minutes before I invited him out here.
"So, Mr. Poole," I began, and he started to fidget a bit. "Uh…you OK?"
"You can call me Riley. 'Mr. Poole'…makes me sound, uh…old." Suddenly he found the salt shaker to be quite intriguing; I thought nothing of his request, though it makes sense now…
"Well then, Riley," I said. "Do you know much about history?" With a grimace, he shook his head. "That's OK, really. But…have you heard of the Knights Templar?" Again he shook his head. "How about the Crusades?" Clearly relieved, he nodded a bit more livelier. "Well then…there's this story that my family has…"
He listened patiently, soaking up every word; once the last syllable of "treasure" was out of my mouth, however, his eyes lit up immensely and he became completely engrossed. But once I concluded the tale, explaining how we needed someone good with computers, the spark almost literally dimmed as he seemed to mull the idea over.
"Wh-where did you say you got my name from?" he asked quickly.
"Your boss. Mr. Hebrews, wasn't it?" He nodded, eyes closed and definitely more calm.
"This sounds really interesting, Mr. Gates," he said with a chuckle.
"Please, call me Ben; 'Mr.' makes me feel old, too." For a second he didn't catch the reference, but then he nodded once more, and hastily too. "Let's get some food before I dive into the nitty-gritty details, since I already talked your ear off." The sticky laminated menu fell open in front of me. "You said you've been here before. Is the chicken sandwich good?"
"Yeah," he said, eyes scanning the selection but looking up momentarily. "Don't get it, though."
"Why?"
"It takes forever," he said with his eyebrows perked. "Honestly, I think they have to kill the chicken. And then when they have the feathery thing running around like the headless horseman, they have to recruit the local high school's track team to chase it down. Only after that can they even begin to prepare your sandwich."
Silence.
"You serious?" I muttered, wary glance cast at the kitchen door.
His gaze met mine, and still he said nothing. After about two seconds he burst into laughter which he instantly tried to contain. "Sorry, sorry," he said as he regained his composure. "That was a little thing I like to call 'sarcasm,' Ben."
And so it had begun.
"Sir?"
A fatigued waitress is staring down at me, pen in hand. For a moment I wonder how long she's been standing there.
"What do you want to order?" she asks, probably for the second or third time.
"Um…" I haven't even looked at the menu beside me. "I'll have the chicken sandwich."
"We stopped carrying it…something about how it always took so long to cook…" Rolling her eyes, she gazes back down expectantly.
"Uh…just a coffee then."
"Decaf?"
"No, thank you though."
As she's leaving, I call after her, "Does Dulles airport carry flights to South America?" Surprisingly, she stops and just stands there, then rotating back around.
"I wouldn't know," she says with a shrug. "But I always thought you could get to anywhere this side of Asia from that airport." Over the brim of her heavy glasses, her speculative eyes scan my face. "Why?"
"I just need to get down there."
"Y'know…" she sighs as she heads to the coffee pot behind the counter. "'Bout a week ago some young kid was in here and asked me the same things—right down to the chicken sandwich, even. Cute kid…he had the brightest pair of blue eyes I've ever seen." I'm sure the only reason this lady can get by with calling Riley a kid is that she's got to be sixty years old.
"If you're chasing after him, you'd better hurry," she keeps on. "He looked a little jilted." When she turns around to find me staring with eyebrows raised, she merely laughs. Somehow lately I've been missing a lot of jokes. "I was right on the money, wasn't I? It was just a guess, though, hon. Thought the coincidence had to be related in one way or another."
As the steam from my coffee rolls skyward in wispy white streams, the fact that both Riley and I came here to this restaurant won't leave me alone—it was probably just on the way, but what if he, like me, sought it out specifically? I can almost see a phantom hand in mid-motion, demonstrating the long, drawn-out process of preparing the chicken. Maybe he was trying to cleanse himself completely of those memories, and those spectrums I see are their residue, a remaining imprint on the surroundings.
I'm using the word "maybe" quite a lot recently; nothing is certain anymore.
Soon the teal mug is being slid across the table and the strong scent drifts past my nose.
"So…what is he to you?" the waitress probes.
"He's—" My throat catches and forces whatever I was about to say down my esophagus. Bowing my head, I clutch the mug until my palms are most likely red with the heat.
"It's complicated?" she supplies, nodding.
"Yeah." More than she'll ever know.
"I'll call and check on flights for you. Where exactly are you headed?"
"Cayenne, French Guiana."
XXX
Wow. This was longer than usual. But I had fun with Ben in the beginning, and I hope it wasn't too incredibly boring or uneventful. (sweatdrop)
Please review.
