A SECRET CHORD

Chapter Thirty Seven

Arizona, 1985

Footsteps. Urgent, from the sound of them, marching up the path to the front door.

Adam crept to the window and huddled to the left of it, peering out through a sly gap where the curtain almost met the wall. The angle was an awkward one. He cricked his neck trying to catch sight of the figure at the door. Even now, he couldn't help fearing that, by some magical insight, his father had found his hiding place and come to take him back. In the end, it was a sound that reassured him; the snick and rattle of a key in the lock.

Not Daddy, then. Only one person had the right and, more importantly, the ability to enter the house that way.

"Mister Thomas," he sighed with relief. Shuffling across the room, he made it to the hallway just as the front door opened, revealing his friend at last. Thomas was laden with bags. It was very exciting. Adam tried to stay calm, but there was a fizzing in his chest, like the feeling he got from swallowing sherbet powder far too quickly. He was, after all, a seven year old boy and presents weren't a common occurrence in his short life. "Did you get…?" Pausing, he shook his head and tried to restrain himself. "Want me to help?" he offered instead.

It was the right thing to say; he knew that. He also knew he could peek in the bags if he was carrying them…

Thomas set his load down on the floor. He shut the door and locked it, sliding the chain home for good measure. Then he turned and stared at Adam. For a while, they stood like that – the young boy with his eager face, and the tall man, so quiet and thoughtful.

Rattled by the silence, Adam decided to break it. "I was perfec'ly safe on my own. Mr. Boo an' me, we played the piano. I hope that's okay…" he added cautiously.

"Of course." The words were positive but, at the same time, Thomas shook his head, which confused Adam even more. He looked like a man waking up from a puzzling dream, who can't quite be sure that he has made it back into the real world. "And yes, take some bags if you want to. This way." He gestured to the piano room.

Adam's injured back protested when he bent down to pick up the brightest and most appealing bags. He gave a muffled squeak and straightened quickly, hoping Thomas hadn't heard him. "Did you have fun?" he enquired, leading the way with his heavy load. "Did you see lots of in-ter-esting people? What…?"

What did you buy me? That was the question he yearned to ask. Greedy, said the mean voice in his head; the one that always pulled him down to earth again when he was floating, happy and light-hearted, like a balloon rising into a bright blue sky.

Running out of confidence, he shut his mouth with a snap and looked back at Mister Thomas. The man hadn't answered any of his questions. That was odd. His gaze was steady but his face was pale. That was peculiar too, because it was sunny outside. "Are you sick?" he asked with deep concern, dropping the bags on the floor beside his nest.

"Sick at heart," Thomas muttered. Adam almost missed the words, so softly were they spoken. He didn't understand their meaning so he thought about them carefully. Your heart was part of your body – he knew that - and it kept you alive. Momma said the heart was where you loved people, too. So, if Thomas was sick at heart – was he sick of caring about Adam? Or was he broken on the inside, like Daddy's car when the engine stopped working?

Adam swallowed. Neither idea was comforting. "Can I help?" he said. "D'you want to go to bed, an' I can bring you milk or something? Or, you know, a sandwich?"

"I forgot the bread." Vaguely, Thomas looked down at the scattering of bags around his feet. "I couldn't… Look, Adam." He took a deep breath. "There's something I have to tell you. It's very important."

"Okay." Now Adam was afraid. He felt sure that Mister Thomas didn't want him there any more. He was going to tell him to leave; that had to be it. Adam clenched his fists and tried to stand up straight, but his legs were shaking. "Jus' say it," he suggested bravely. "That's the best thing to do. Please?" he added. Please get it over with…

"I made a bad mistake. I met… your father."

There was a ringing in Adam's ears. He thought it was shock – but when Thomas turned his head towards the front door, the young boy realised that his friend could hear it too. The sound of the doorbell was quickly followed up by the hammering of an angry fist. The front door rattled – and held firm.

"I didn't tell him," Thomas hissed. "Whatever happens next, believe me."

"Okay…" Adam's eyes were wide and he clutched his hands together. The beautiful dream was about to end. He knew it was.

Inside the nearest bag, he could see a smart red box. It bore a picture of a pair of sneakers.

"I believe you," he whispered, feeling a rush of love for the man who had taken him into his home without question and bought him such a wonderful gift.

Mister Thomas never heard him. With the chain still firmly in place, he was already opening the door...

-x0x-

New York City, 2005

Joseph Darrow was a mystery begging to be solved. He was also a man in shock, which meant that Mac couldn't simply pin him against the nearest wall and demand to know everything. Not that I would, he told himself - and then, with a tiny smile: not without provocation…

No, this problem required a far more subtle approach. After all, Darrow's strange behaviour in the morgue didn't automatically make him a villain. As for Mac's gut instinct, strong at the time but fading now – how many times had he been mistaken in the past? Don't jump to conclusions, he decided. Look for the truth instead. What was that curious saying? The one about catching a monkey?

Softly, softly…

Dawn was already breaking over Manhattan. In some ways, it had been the longest night imaginable – and yet, how quickly it was ending.

"Take a seat," he said, leading Darrow into his office and gesturing to the brand new couch. Stella hovered in the doorway, uncertain for once, and he waved her in as well.

The agent seemed to have lost his voice somewhere between Autopsy and the Crime Lab. He sat down with an air of obedience that rang yet another alarm bell in Mac's head.

"Coffee? Tea? Or something stronger?" You look like you need it, Mac thought.

"Just water, please," Darrow answered thickly. His voice sounded distant, as though he had dragged his concentration back from somewhere very far away.

"I'll get it," Stella suggested.

"No," Mac said. "I will." He needed space for a moment, and time to think. What better opportunity than a simple errand?

Leaving Darrow in the capable hands of his colleague, he strode to the break room, which was blissfully empty at this early hour. Mac filled a cup with water and moved to stand in front of the window, staring out at the city and letting his mind do the work, as his body relaxed.

Questions. He had far too many, and he needed to decide which ones were urgent.

What made me trust Darrow? Mac thought, forcing his way to the heart of the matter. And why don't I trust him now? Darrow's noble quest to convict Allan and save the children felt like something out of an old story. His passion had inspired Mac – but here at the end, with the monster dead before him on the table, Darrow was faltering. Beneath the mask of a hero lurked something darker and not altogether good. Mac sensed its presence, even though he barely understood it.

Where are the children? That was the question the agent should have asked. That was the question Mac asked himself right now.

What if…?

He hardly dared to put his theory into words. It was crazy – and yet, somehow, it made sense of everything.

What if Darrow already knows the answer?

Startled by a cold sensation, Mac looked down. His grip had tightened around the fragile cup, destroying it completely. Water dripped to the floor, released by his own hand – released like the children, all of whom were victims from the start. Had the Piper truly kept his word to them? Mac stared at the growing puddle and caught his breath at what he now perceived to be the sheer audacity of Darrow's plan.

If I'm right, he cautioned himself. Please, let me be right.

Because, if he was, then this tale could still have a happy ending…

-x0x-

Bed was a mattress in a quiet alcove, and a pile of blankets. To Adam, in his weary state, nothing could have been more welcoming.

"You didn't bring anything with you," Georgie observed. She folded her arms. "Will you manage?"

"I didn't know I was coming here," Adam confessed with a shy grin. He liked this girl. "I'll be fine."

"Okay." She gave him one last, furtive glance, and then slipped back into the shadows.

Now he was free to let go.

Dropping down in a heap, Adam reached for a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Exhaustion bled through his body, thick like treacle, and overwhelming. "So tired," he murmured to himself, as he turned off the nearby lamp, curled on his side and dragged the blanket up to his chin. "Sleep first…"

Worry later.

That was the plan, and it seemed like a good one – but as sleep took him, Adam's brain rebelled against it. Dreams came quickly, and in quick succession. He fled from one to the next, always running, always in darkness. There was a shapeless fear behind him, driving him onward. Pain was the spur; phantom memories that made his body ache in sympathy. He thrashed against them, tangled in the blanket, twisting and turning until he awoke with a tortured cry.

"Daddy, no!"

So stupid. Dreams couldn't hurt him, and the man he feared was far away. Adam knew the logic. Stubbornly, he slowed his breathing and tried to relax but the strangeness of his situation, and the threat of further nightmares, kept him teetering on the brink of sleep, unwilling to let go again.

He was done with being a victim.

Instead, he lay there in the dark like a homesick child, longing for daylight and planning a thousand improbable ways to escape.

-x0x-

Left on her own with Agent Darrow, Stella tried to coax him out of the shell in which he was slowly encasing himself. After a moment of careful reflection, she sat down beside him on the couch and reached for his hand. It was warm to the touch; so warm that she almost pulled away. Instinct made her hold on, and she knew that her decision was the right one when he turned and met her gaze.

"Kind of you," he said.

"Not at all." She matched his brevity, and waited.

Darrow stared down at their two hands, clasped together. "You're lucky, Stella," he murmured. "Being here. Part of a strong team like this one. It's hard…"

"…to be alone?" she guessed, understanding the leap that his thoughts had taken.

"Yes. For far too long." His pale eyes narrowed. "No one to help me, or share my decisions. They thought I was mad, you know."

"I know." You told me that before, were the words she chose not to say. Let him speak. Let the mystery unravel itself, through his own words. Over the agent's shoulder, and beyond the glass, she saw Mac returning from the break room. One tiny shake of her head cautioned him to wait outside. He frowned – and halted, trusting her impulse without question. Part of a team…

"And maybe I am mad," Darrow continued softly. "I do wonder, sometimes." He smiled at Stella but it was not a comfortable smile. She drew back, ever so slightly. At the same time, out of nowhere, a noise broke into their conversation. It was raucous and intrusive; rock chords blaring in a tune that Stella recognised, repeating in a loop. A ring tone, maybe, or some kind of alarm?

"Yours?" she said, in astonishment.

Darrow looked equally startled. "Oh…" was all he could manage. His pale eyes were shifty. Pulling his hand away from her grasp, he froze as the music continued to play.

"I suggest you answer that," said a steely voice. Mac had entered the room at last, and he was glaring at Darrow.

When the agent failed to respond, Mac stepped in front of him and reached into his pocket, removing a mismatched pair of cell phones. One was silent. The other was vibrating merrily, dancing along in his palm to the tune of 'Sweet Child O' Mine' by Guns and Roses. An early morning wake-up call – and who would chose a song like that?

I really hope I'm wrong, Stella thought.

Mac dismissed the alarm. A grinning picture on the screen made the owner's identity painfully clear. He held it up for everyone to see.

Stella's heart sank. For a moment, there was silence. When Mac spoke again, his voice was tight with suppressed anger.

"Agent Darrow," he growled. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want your answer to be very clear. It's a simple question. Why exactly is Adam's cell phone in your pocket…?"

-x0x-

A/N: Apologies – the next chapter will be delayed, as I have to go on a trip next week. I'll post it as soon as I can. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this update!