Chapter 53
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-The Courtyard Hotel
Walter snapped his eyes open to the darkness of the hotel room. He blinked for a moment, and then wiped the rheum from under his eyelids and around his mouth using the back of his hand.
Directly above him, the popcorn ceiling was faintly illuminated, glowing with a ghost-like texture from the dim moonlight allowed entrance by the thick curtain covering the room's only window. Across the room, Peter's outline was visible on the couch, twisted in his white sheet. He could hear his son's steady inhales and exhales. The hotel's ventilation system purred softly in the background. Its sleep-inducing white noise was pleasing on the auditory nerve, but he did not feel drowsy at that moment. Outside the room, he could detect no noises in the hallway, or through the wall to the adjoining room behind the headboard, through which he sometimes heard the nocturnal activities of the various guests that passed through the hotel.
It was pity. The carnal noises had coaxed him back to sleep on occasion in the past when he would wake early. As he had on that night—or rather, that morning—he thought, and rolled on his side to get a look at the digital clock on the dresser.
The red digits on the display read 4:08 A.M.
Feeling wide awake, he sat up and let the blankets fall in a clump around his waist. Peter's form was fully visible on the couch from his new vantage, his son's hands were tucked under the pillow doubled over under his head. A ray of silver moonlight from the part in the curtains lay across Peter's chest, which he watched rise and fall for several moments, then glanced over at the door. There was a sliver of light visible underneath the its edge, with no breaks in continuity that might indicate the presence of another human standing outside in the hall. He had not expected there to be.
It was the third night that week that he had awoken in the dark, before the sunrise. Each occurrence had been between four and four-thirty in the morning, and on each prior occasion he had stayed in bed, letting his thoughts flit between past and present, until the room had grown steadily lighter with the rising sun. It was time wasted. He needed to be more efficient, to be bold and take charge of his own future. He was a grown man, after all. He shouldn't require his son to hold his hand.
He would be better served by making use of the extra hours, and starting his days earlier. His mind would be occupied with the mundane routine of rising, of preparing for the day. There were advantages for all parties involved—no fighting over the shower with Peter, and as an added bonus, he could have some peace and quiet for once as he ate his breakfast and read the paper.
Throwing back the blankets, Walter swung his legs over the edge of the bed and onto the carpeted floor. It was decided then. Changes were a-coming.
His slippers were where he'd left them, side by side on the floor at the edge of the bed, in the perfect position to receive his questing feet. He slipped into them, left then right, and pushed off the bed and rose to his full height. Glancing around the room in the tenebrous light, a dark patch on the floor between the small coffee table and sofa caught his eye. Peter's clothing, dropped haphazardly on the floor the night before. He frowned at his son's messiness, then scooped them up and tossed them toward the dirty clothes pile next to the door. Once the space between the foot of the bed and the couch was clear of any obstacles, he started into his morning exercise routine.
Walter began by raising his arms above his head, stretching with his fingers as high as he could possibly reach. He kept straining upward until the burning in his protesting tendons became too much to bear, and then lunged downward, toward his toes which seemed out of reach, until he gritted his teeth, and fought his way through the fire in his hamstrings and his fingertips just brushed the furry edge of his slippers. With a grunt, he repeated the process until he was limber enough to grab the tip of his toes, and hold them for a count of thirty. In the middle of one rep, he glanced over Peter's form on the couch—still asleep. He considered performing several rounds of jumping jacks, but determined that the likelihood of waking his son was greater than average, and instead continued stretching for a while longer, until he was nearly able to palm the floor between his toes, but never quite managed to do so. When he finished, he straightened up, stretching his back out one final time, and then dropped his arms and rolled his head on his shoulders.
He felt great, flexible—like he could run a mile.
In the bathroom, he leaned in close to the mirror above the vanity, and inspected the skin of his face. He pressed the flesh of his cheek between his thumb and forefinger, testing the elasticity. His skin wasn't as firm as it once was, but he thought he could still pull off dignified.
He reached for his toothbrush—the white one—and applied the toothpaste. The toothpaste brand was the competitor of his cover story for much of the eighties, and he noted with some satisfaction that they were still the inferior product. Their ratios between fluorides and solubles was way off from the ideal, never mind the flavor, the least important ingredient, which Peter had always preferred.
After brushing for several minutes, he rinsed and spit, and then checked his teeth, pulling his lips back to expose his gums. There was a little inflammation along his gum-line, but nothing too serious, so he reached for the mouthwash and took a long swig straight from the bottle. He swooshed it around for a few minutes, then swallowed, enjoying the bite that ignited his throat on the way down.
Finished with his teeth, Walter grabbed the nose hair plucking tool off the counter and went to work. The pain was sharp, intense, and brought tears to his eyes as he yanked several stragglers free and deposited them in the sink. If he wasn't fully awake already, the pain finished the job, and cleared his mind to a crystalline lucidity. The plucking has become a morning ritual for him since getting out of the asylum, and he found it relaxing despite the bright torture it brings with it.
When Walter was finished in the bathroom, he moved back out to the living area and stripped off his clothes. He selected a comfortable flannel shirt to wear, along with his favorite pair of slacks from his dresser and pulled them on slowly, careful to remain as quiet as possible. His socks and loafers came next, and he slipped into them with practiced ease, glancing at the alarm clock as he finished.
The numerals on the display now read 4:36 A.M., just under a half an hour since he'd woken. He considered his options for a moment, then moved carefully toward the door. Perhaps the morning paper had arrived already. Quietly, he opened the door and stuck his head out. He peered up and down the hallway, and then down at the usual space the paper occupied on the floor in front of the door.
It was empty, the time obviously still too early for it to have been delivered.
Damn it. The paper had been a vital component to his plans.
He thought for a moment, frozen in the doorway. Maybe it still could be. Would the paper not be delivered to the lobby first, then the rooms?
Of course it would.
He glanced back in the room at Peter, still asleep on the couch. His son would sleep all day if given the chance. The odds of him waking before he returned were negligible—at least twenty-to-one, by his estimation. Those were odds he would take in Vegas.
Walter pulled open the door wide enough for him to pass by and slipped through the crack into the hallway. The card swipe above the latch caught his eye as the door swung shut, and his heart leapt in his chest as he stopped it with his toe, just before it could close all the way. He exhaled a low sigh as relief flooded through him. Getting locked out of the room was not at all part of his plan.
He crept back inside the room, and after several minutes of searching around in the brackish light, located the keycard, sitting on top of the television set next to his son's wallet. He slipped the card into his pocket, and then left the room again, making sure once more to close the door quietly behind him.
.
The corridor outside the room was vacant, and Walter rapidly made his way toward the elevators at the other end of the hall. His footsteps were muffled on the short carpet, and other than the wisping of his pants legs rubbing together, he could detect no noises coming from any of the rooms he passed them by. Considering the time of night, the silence was not unusual. He didn't particularly care for the lighting though, it was overly bright, and clinical, and reminded him of other lights in other places, where he had not been free to move about as he was at that moment.
Ahead of him, the corridor came to a tee, with the elevator to the lobby off to the left, and more guest rooms to the right. A familiar tune came from one of the rooms near the intersection. Walter stopped, and crossed silently over to the door where soft music could be heard. He leaned close, almost touching his ear to the door, and listened.
It was the theme song for Bonanza.
Smiling, Walter nodded his head at the twangy guitar, and the sound of Lorne Greene's stern voice. He stood still next to the door, and the let the song play out. He had been addicted to the show at one time—had watched it religiously every Sunday night from 1963 through 1967. Elizabeth had despised the program, and had never understood his fascination with it after they were married. He found it pleasing that the show was still aired, even relegated to the middle of the night as it was. It solidified a piece of his own personal history in the present reality, and his place in it.
He was real. His past existed. Each moment preceded the next moment, in linear fashion.
The creaking of bed springs, of a body shifting on a mattress, and then heavy plodding footsteps drew him from his contemplation, and he pulled away from the door, as the thrill of possible discovery sent a thrill racing down his spine. He fled toward the bank of elevators, and jabbed at the down button repeatedly.
None of the silver doors slid open, and he glared up at the floor indicator, where the 'L' is illuminated in yellow. Why isn't the blasted thing moving? He looked back toward the room he'd been eavesdropping on, and could almost see the door handle begin to turn.
Tendrils of panic settled over his synapses, sinking their icy hooks into his motor cortex, where escape was the priority. Without thought, he spun away from the elevator doors, and his feet carried him to the emergency stairs on the opposite side of the hall, and then through the door in a mad rush. The stairwell was lit by a single overhead incandescent bulb, enclosed in a wire cage full of cobwebs, and painted fire-engine-red. His heart yammered in his ears as he passed underneath it, then rushed down the steps toward the first floor, taking two treads a time.
At the bottom of the stairwell, he peered out through the small window in the door to the lobby's upper half. Through the grid of diamond-shaped filaments set in the glass, Walter looked right and then left, and upon seeing no one, stepped out in front of the elevators. The indicator light showed one of the two cars stopped at his floor. Satisfied, he straightened his shirt, then slipped his hands into his pockets casually and strolled around the corner toward the front desk.
The hotel lobby had tall, vaulted ceilings, with circular recessed lights that were dimmed slightly due to the late hour. The floor was a plush, off-white carpet that he'd always imagined to be quite difficult to keep clean. Several groups of lounge chairs with burnt-orange fabric—a color he found to be absolutely dreadful—were grouped around coffee tables of dark cherry wood, all which were unoccupied. He passed them by disdainfully, and moved across the lobby toward the customer service desk—an extravagant monstrosity covered in a granite-like surface, a greenish in color, and speckled with white and gold flakes.
The wide, high-backed desk was manned by a single associate, a woman with curly, graying hair, and seemingly of an age with him. She was seated behind the counter, head tilted, and eyes downcast on the desk before her. As he approached the woman, he wondered if she might be asleep, so still was her posture. His footsteps were silent on the carpet, and he managed to reach the desk undetected.
He put a friendly smile on his face, and then cleared his throat. The woman's head swiveled upward slowly, until her hazel eyes rested on his.
"Can I help you, sir?" Her voice was a dry, raspy-sounding Bostonian drawl, and he suspected she had once been a heavy smoker, from the yellowish discolorations on her teeth.
"Yes." Walter grinned affably. "I am looking for our newspaper. I couldn't find it outside our room this morning."
The woman glanced down at her watch. "It's not even five yet." she said. "The paper isn't delivered to the rooms until six. You'll have to wait till then." She returned her gaze to the desk in front of her, a clear dismissal.
Walter hesitated, then grabbed the edge of the counter and leaned forward, over the high back until he could see what the woman was intent on. It was a newspaper. The Boston Globe. The date on the header was current, and the crossword puzzle the woman was working on nearly complete, with only one vertical column remaining. He scanned the number and the riddle, reading upside-down.
"Ah…a crossword puzzle, I see." he said, then added. "Marsupial."
"Marsupial?" the woman said, then looked up at him with annoyance.
"The answer to your remaining riddle." He nods down toward the puzzle. "It's marsupial."
The woman frowned, and then read the question again. "Oh…you're right." she said, and looked up with a smile. "Thank you."
"I'm Dr. Walter Bishop." he said as she filled in the missing word. When she was finished, he extended his hand over the counter.
The woman eyed it for a moment, then grasped it lightly and released. "I'm Maggie." she said. "You're a doctor? What kind? You work down at Boston General?"
"Not the medical kind, I'm afraid." he said. "More of a scientist. I work over at Harvard, with my son, Peter."
"That must be nice." she said, and then glanced around the empty lobby. "You know what? Here." She leaned to the side, and pulled a folded newspaper from under the desk, then held it out toward him. "There's no reason for you to wait until six."
Walter took the paper, smiled toward the woman. "Oh, thank you, my dear. That's very thoughtful of you." He tucked the newspaper under his arm. "Have a pleasant remainder of the night."
Turning away from the desk, he wove a path through the lobby, around the ugly orange chairs toward the side corridor with the elevators. He paused at the wide opening, and looked back at the woman, Maggie. She was watching his departure, and he tossed her friendly wave, then turned the corner.
Both sets of elevator doors opened after he pushed the call button, and he hesitated, unsure of which car to take. His left-handedness called for the car on the left, but the right car would deposit him nearly ten feet closer to his room by his estimation.
Walter stepped into the car on the right—after deeming the extra ten feet to be of higher value—and then pushed the metal button for his floor.
.
The elevator arrived at his floor with a ding! and Walter peeked around the edge of the opening, toward the closed door he had stopped at before. He watched it suspiciously for several moments, then gingerly stepped out onto the floor when the coast seemed clear.
There was an entirely different sound audible through the door when he approached it for the second time. The grunts and groans, accompanied by a catchy tune seemed at odds with each other, but he could still picture the action taking place. He grinned at the image, and hoped that whomever was in the room was enjoying themselves, and then moved past the door toward his own room at the opposite end of the corridor.
Outside the door to his room, he fumbled with the keycard and the swipe device for a moment before finally managing to open it, and slip inside the room undetected. He leaned back against the door. He'd done it, and had even made a friend in the process.
Peter was still asleep on the couch, with the white sheet covering him pulled all the way up to his neck. Walter stared down at him silently, and experienced a powerful urge to check his breathing, to make sure he was still alive, but resisted the notion. The boy was fine. His chest rose up and down evenly under the sheet.
He moved away from the couch to the kitchenette, and grabbed a bowl and a box of corn flakes from the cabinet, along with the carton of milk and a spoon, and then carried them over to the table under the window. He switched the small light on above the table. The light it cast was directed downward, but still managed to illuminate most of the room. He glanced toward Peter, then poured the cereal in the bowl, followed by the milk.
He sat down and unfolded the paper in front of the bowl, then began to eat. The corn flakes were fresh, not at all stale, and he relished their crunchiness, gulping down several large spoonfuls.
"Walter…"
He looked over at the sound of Peter's voice from the couch. "Ahh…you're awake, son. he said, and crunched down another bite.
"Not by choice." he said through a toothy yawn, and then stretched his arms out wide and groaned. "You're aware that it's the middle of the night, right?" He twisted his head, and looked back over the arm of the couch.
Walter nodded. "I've decided to shift my circadian rhythm to the nocturnal cycle." he explained, gesturing with his spoon. A large drop of milk fell on the table next to the bowl. "In order to make the nights more productive, you see."
Peter yawned again, and rolled on his side. "Could you try to make the nights a little quieter, also?"
Walter frowned down at the bowl. He thought he had been quiet. "All right, son." he said. "I'll try to be a little quieter. You should go back to sleep." He took another spoonful of the corn flakes, and savored the crunchy morsels.
On the couch, Peter sighed and then covered his head with a pillow. Walter glanced over at him, and thought about offering get him another blanket if he was cold, but discarded the idea after a moment—the only other blanket in the room was his own. Instead, he picked up the newspaper, and looked over the front page.
The national headlines held little interest for him. There was a new president with new promises, wars in the Middle East. The subjects were ponderous to dwell on. The world had changed very little since he was last in it—the same battles took place under different names, different regimes.
Back in his day, it would have meant more interest in his work, more research grants, military contracts. William most likely had that market cornered at present. It was not an envious thought exactly, though the potential was there, brewing beneath surface of this thoughts. It would only require the proper trigger to bring it forth.
He skimmed the local news, then the sports page, and saw that the Celtics had defeated the Knicks, the Bruins had defeated the Maple Leafs. It had been a good for Boston sports teams, though the subject could only hold his attention briefly. He flipped to the back of newspaper, to the comic section, where he could find his old friends—Beetle Bailey and Andy Capp, and others of their ilk. He giggled as read through the panes, chewing enthusiastically.
He felt good, great even. It had been an excellent idea, to be productive instead of lying abed. Perhaps later, once Peter was awake, he could convince his son to take him shopping. Thanksgiving was drawing close, and he'd seen ads on the television for an electric turkey fryer. The device had not existed prior to his commitment to the asylum. The idea of frying a turkey whole intrigued him, and he felt the need to test it as soon as possible, if he were to have a recipe perfected by the holiday season.
As soon as Peter wakes, I'll ask him, he thought happily, and finished off his cereal. He looked around the room, and considered finishing the game of solitaire he'd started the night before, but discarded the idea. The game could wait until Peter was awake.
He flipped back a page to the obituaries. Maybe he'd recognize a name.
Olivia was already awake when the first light of morning cast its auspicious rays through the open curtains of her bedroom window. She watched the light grow steadily brighter from the comfort of her bed, burrowed deep under the covers against the chill in her apartment, and waited for the alarm clock to announce the start of a new day. It would be happening soon—it was not the first time that week she'd awoken before her alarm and watched the sun rise, or the second.
She rubbed her at eyes, then yawned, and stretched out under the heavy quilt, arching her back like a cat, and grunted softly with the pleasure of it. She glanced over at the alarm clock on her dresser across the room.
The time was 5:28 A.M.
With two minutes until the alarm would sound, Olivia still had a little time to spare, but she sat up anyway, stretching her arms out once more, and then throwing back the blankets. She had things to do, and there was no time like the present to do them.
The hardwood floor was chilly beneath her bare feet, but she was used to the sensation—having lived in the apartment for several years—and paid it no mind. Her apartment was dark and full of shadows, but she moved confidently through the dimness, navigating by memory around any obstacles to the kitchen, where she switched on the tiny light under the hood, and went about preparing her morning coffee. It would be the first of many she would no doubt consume over the course of the day.
While she waited for the coffee to brew, she returned to bedroom, and quickly changed into her workout clothes. With winter just around the corner, she'd chosen the heavier variety, a pair of thick, black sweatpants and a matching shirt to wear over her sports bra. When she was fully clothed, she pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, and then grabbed the pair of running shoes that were peeking out from under the bed and slipped them on.
The aroma of coffee was beginning to suffuse the apartment as she finished tying her shoes, and she returned to kitchen just as the coffee maker switched itself off, the glass receptacle full underneath. Olivia poured herself a cup, then added her usual spoonful of sugar and stirred it in, watching idly as the white granules disappeared from sight. When she was satisfied with the sugar's dispersion, she lifted the mug to her lips, and then moved out of the kitchen to the living room.
Her mail table was overflowing with envelopes, and she sipped at her drink while going through the stacks—several days worth that she'd been putting off sorting through. She gathered the various stacks together and flipped through them, most of which was junk—credit card and insurance offers, cable and internet upgrade packages—and went straight into the small trash can she'd set near the table for just that purpose. There were a few utility bills, and a magazine renewal form that she had no intention of returning. The Cosmopolitan subscription her sister had surprised her with for her birthday the prior year had been building into a precarious pile on her end table, mostly unread and collecting dust.
The errant thought of Rachel, and her odd gift choices drew her glance to her answering machine, and its blinking red light. Her sister had left several messages over the last week, the most recent of which had been a chastisement for her failure to return her phone calls. She made a point to do so soon. Her sister and Ella would be visiting in a few weeks, and she needed to work out the details, preferably before their arrival. There had been no anger in her sister's voice, just frustration—Rachel was aware that her job with the FBI was time consuming, with odd hours and little sleep. If she only knew the truth—how little Olivia actually slept, of how often she was up until three in the morning working on cases, or just lying in bed wide awake, she would have been horrified. It would be difficult to keep that information from her when they were in town, but she would have to manage it somehow.
Putting her sister out of her mind for the time being, Olivia drained the rest of her coffee. She pumped out her daily regimen of sit-ups, and then headed out the door.
.
The morning was crisply cold, and bit at her skin through the fabric of her sweatshirt as Olivia pounded down the sidewalk, away from her apartment building. She didn't mind the chill—it kept her motivated, and intent on her purpose. She had been slacking on her running ever since she'd started working for Broyles, and with the current lull between cases—the last of which was just over a week ago—she'd been trying to rectify the situation.
Her breath rose in short puffs of condensation as she loped down Strathmore Boulevard, heading west toward Commonwealth, and the Chestnut Hill Reservoir running path. It was her route of choice, her old standby that she could practically run with her eyes closed.
Though the stars had winked out for the day, the sun had not yet risen above the horizon. There was a faint aura of yellows and oranges and reds at her back that provided enough light for the ornate street lights to seem redundant as she passed underneath them. The high-pitched chirping of crickets, along with an abrasive, low-pitched, repetitive call of some other night creature—Peter could probably identify it for her, if she asked him—intermingled together, a final curtain call at the end of dawn's twilight.
There was very little vehicle traffic, being early as it was, but she was not alone. Parked cars bordered both side of the street in a never-ending line, broken only by the occasional fire hydrant. She passed by an older woman, wrapped in heavy coat and out walking her dog—a black and white wire-haired terrier. The terrier let out a growl as she moved past it, and the woman gave its leash a sharp jerk, and then let loose with a tirade of curses directed at the poor animal. Olivia glanced back at the woman, and wondered why she even had a dog if she was going to treat it that way. In front of her, another jogger approached, heading toward her from the opposite direction—an attractive man with dark hair and chiseled frame wearing all black. He was about her age, and she'd seen him before on her morning runs on several occasions. He tipped a nod in her direction as they neared each other, but was beyond her before she could contemplate whether or not to respond. It was probably for the best that she had not. She had no time for any more men in her life—even when she wasn't on a tight schedule.
Commonwealth Avenue bore down her, and she turned south at the intersection, toward the reservoir. The street was wider than Strathmore had been, with less parked cars, and more vehicle traffic. It was not rush-hour yet, but cars and trucks passed her by with some frequency, creeping along at a steady pace, their drivers hunched over the steering wheels. She could imagine their tired faces as they made their way home from the late shift, struggling to keep their eyes open. Maybe they had cracked a window, letting in the cool air to shock their senses.
She was glad she wasn't one of them. Her job might full of the worst things imaginable, but she loved it just the same.
After a short while, the path to the reservoir approached on her left, and Olivia increased her speed as she swerved off the sidewalk, and onto an asphalt path that angled away from the street. The running path passed through a narrow gate, and then bisected a thin line of tall trees that surrounded the large open area that contained the reservoir. Through the tree line ahead, she could make out the silvery surface of the reservoir itself, reflecting the sky above. She passed through the gate with another burst of speed, and then the tree line shortly after. The path forked as it neared the shoreline, and she took the counter-clockwise course, running at a flat-out sprint down the cracked asphalt trail. Her chest was on fire by the time she reached the quarter point around the circuit, but she maintained her speed, forcing herself keep the up rapid pace for as long as she possibly could, beyond the point where every muscle screamed at her to stop, or just to slow down, at least.
She had heard of foot chases where a suspect had escaped, simply because the agent giving chase had been unable to outlast them before becoming winded. Foot chases were often lost at the beginning, where straight-line, all out sprinting stamina came into play. She didn't intend for that to happen to her. Ever.
So she ran.
The city kept the reservoir grounds well maintained, with professional-looking landscaping all along the lake's perimeter. Large, irregular shaped boulders were arranged along the shoreline like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle, with tastefully arranged shrubbery and flowerbeds inter-mixed among them. Decorative wooden benches with ornate ironwork were set just off the path near the shore every so often. In the summertime, they would often be occupied on her morning runs, but not so much in the cold weather.
She glanced across the lake, and saw with some surprise that one of the benches was occupied at that moment—by two men wearing suits, no less. They were sitting side by side, staring out over the water. Staring at her, she might have said, if the idea wasn't ridiculous. The light was still too dim for her to make out much of their facial features—beyond that they were both pale—but they seemed similar to each other in some way, beyond that of the dark suits they both wore. Maybe it was their stillness, or their light complexion, or the similar set of their shoulders, the way their hands rested in their laps. Either way, the men seemed out-of-place for the time of day, and the location.
The men disappeared from her view for a moment as the path jogged around a copse of weeping willows set close the water's edge. The drooping tree branches dipped down into the water, obscuring the far side of the lake for several seconds, until she was clear of them, and the path returned to its former course.
When she looked back across the lake at the bench and its two occupants, she nearly stumbled—the men were gone, the area near the bench they'd just been sitting on empty of people. Despite her protesting muscles, she strained to go even faster, and bounded down the path in great loping strides, keeping her gaze on the bench. The mens' sudden disappearance had piqued her curiosity, and with that curiosity came a fresh burst of adrenaline that carried her around the lake to the bench's location—just past the halfway point.
Olivia came to a skidding stop in front of wooden bench, and nearly lost her footing on the tiny pebbles of gravel that scattered in all directions at her arrival. Chest heaving and hands on hips, she peered down the path ahead, searching for any sign of the missing men.
They were gone, vanished—seemingly into thin air.
What the hell? She frowned, and looked both ways down the path again. There was nothing, no indication that the men had ever been there.
A narrow strip of grass ran behind the bench, and beyond that was a metal guard rail at the curve in Beacon Street where it came close to the reservoir edge. Traffic was beginning to pick up, with cars and trucks passing by with regularity. Across the street was a row of residential housing, red-bricked colonials with short steps up to well-groomed yards, and fenced in by coifed rows of bushes running parallel to the sidewalk.
She peered across the street at the old houses, most of which were dark, their windows unlit. The men could have jumped the guard rail and crossed over to one of them, she supposed, but had there been time? She thought not. Traffic continued to zoom past her, the gap between cars never more than a few seconds. It had taken her less than a minute to reach the bench, after they'd disappeared.
Maybe she'd imagined them. The thought was disturbing, and brought to mind that she'd had other hallucinations recently. Could it be happening again—John's consciousness, trying manifest itself once more? Trying to show her something? Why there? On an impulse, she stepped forward, and touched the wood of the bench with her palms in several places. The rubbed-smooth surface was distinctly warmer under her left hand, than that of her right. Olivia straightened, and stared down at the bench for a moment.
So she had not imagined the two men.
It was something of a relief, but the fact that she had seriously doubted herself, even for a moment was a worrying development. She returned to the path, and looked up and down its length once more, turning in a slow circle. Across the lake, at the fork in the path, a woman jogged into view, and took the same counter-clockwise route that she had. The presence of another person on the path pricked her uneasiness like a bubble, dispelling the sense of wrongness that pervaded her feel for the situation.
She chuckled, and shook her head. She was being ridiculous. There had to be perfectly logical explanation. After all, it wasn't as if the men could have disappeared. They could have had a car waiting for them on the shoulder, or something equally mundane that she hadn't thought of.
Still shaking her head at her own obtuseness, she took off down the path at a steady trot that quickly transitioned to a fast gallop. Her mind moved on to other matters as the bench receded behind her, taking the strange men with it.
Her thoughts turned to her sister, her upcoming visit, and the preparations she would need to make—restocking her kitchen being the most important task to remember, along with cleaning her spare bedroom. Rachel would worry to death if she saw the current state of her refrigerator. She hadn't prepared a real dinner in weeks, not since the one she'd shared with Peter awhile back. That had been before her birthday, and it had been a steady diet of takeout and scotch, ever since. Her sister would be outraged if she knew.
Olivia approached the final quarter of the nearly two mile loop around the reservoir, running at close to her top speed once more. The change in direction put her against the wind, and the icy fingers that caressed her skin sent chills down her spine. The sun was rising ahead of her, just peeking over the horizon. There was a picturesque halo of deep red reflecting off the low clouds, before fading into a purpley-blue that curled her lips into a wide grin.
She lifted her wrist, and winced at the time on her watch—quarter till seven, later than she had anticipated. On another day, she might have stopped to admire the sunrise, but her foolish unscheduled stop had thrown her timing off. If she was still going to beat the Bishops to the lab, she would have to hurry.
.
It was just after seven o'clock when she jogged back up the steps to her apartment. Her body ached from the run, and she took the elevator to her floor, foregoing the stairwell in rare display of weakness. She had to do better, try harder, if she was going to have the stamina when she needed it most.
After a quick shower, she was buttoning up her white work shirt when her phone vibrated on the dresser under the mirror.
"Dunham." she said, holding the phone with her shoulder as she finished the last few buttons.
"It's Broyles."
His voice was grim, a tone she'd come to recognize. They had a case.
"Pick up the others and meet me at the Federal Building." he said abruptly.
"Will do." she replied. "What's this about?"
"There's been abduction." he said, and then added, "A young boy."
An abduction. She grabbed her suit jacket off the bed. "We'll be there." she said. "I'm leaving now."
Peter woke with a start, his eyes flying open.
He is lying on his back on a flat surface. The surface feels unfamiliar, hard an unyielding. His eyes shift in their sockets, looking around, trying to establish a frame of reference.
The space in which he finds himself is dark, and empty. There is no sound, other than the thumping of his heart, and it echoes loudly between his ears.
He is lying on a table.
There is a light source outside of his field of view, behind him, over his shoulder. Overhead he sees a rotten ceiling, black, moldy, sagging under its own weight. There are gaps in the ceiling, holes, through which he can make out only differing shades of darkness. It is place where things unimaginable reside, making their homes among the indistinct silhouettes cast darkly in shadow.
Heart thudding louder in his head, Peter tries to sit up, but is unable.
He is being restrained. Hands and feet are stuck in place, a pressure across his chest. He is strapped down.
His head remains free however, and he swivels it around, trying to pinpoint the source of light. The room is full of odd equipment, strangely unfamiliar electronic devices stacked on shelves around the table upon which he lies.
It is an operating table.
The light source is beyond the shelves of equipment, throwing jagged shadows across his chest. The shadows are menacing, unfeeling. They swim in his vision, wavering in and out of focus, resembling heat waves.
A shadow moves nearby, somewhere off to his left.
He hears the scuffing of heavy-soled boots on a rough surface, and a man steps into view to his left, moving along side the gurney. His wide frame is covered in a dark trench coat. The trench coat is filthy, ragged, with long, stringy threads trailing out behind him. The man moves past him, toward a table at Peter's feet. Above the table, a clock is mounted on a dingy tiled wall. It is a mini-grandfather, with a gold gong and large, black Roman numerals for hours. The clock looks familiar to Peter. He has seen it before, somewhere, somewhen.
The hour and minute hands are stopped at 11:35.
Peter opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his mouth has grown solid, stopping his voice. He feels his teeth fall out, one by one, falling on to the dry surface of his tongue, forming a little pile. Molars, incisors, canines, he can tell them apart by their weight. He coughs, and his teeth go flying, showering out over his chest in slow motion, white shooting stars flashing through the gloom. He feels them land through the fabric of his shirt.
The man turns around. He is wearing a black stocking hat. Upon his brow, there are four small dots sewn into the fabric of the hat.
GREEN GREEN GREEN RED is their color from left to right.
The man is Walter.
"Peter!" Walter says jovially, holding his hands out wide.
Peter jerks at his bonds. "Is this really necessary?" It is his voice he hears, but he hasn't spoken. His tongue runs along his empty gum line, the tip probing into their empty depths.
"I'm afraid so." His father stepped close, wrapping a thick leather strap over his forehead, and tightening it down. "We're going to have to increase the voltage…I'm sorry." Walter produces a pair of long, straight wires from the inside pocket of his coat. The ends are wrapped in cloth, twisted around to form a nub.
Peter stares wide-eyed at the two wires. They are familiar, his only association with them is one of pain. Pain beyond his endurance. He tries to jerk his head away as Walter reaches toward his face, holding the wires in one hand. The strap holds him in place.
"Hold still, Peter."
…
Peter!
…
His father's hands are cold on his cheeks. The first of the wires descends toward his face, and Walter's grip shifts, sliding roughly toward his nose, stretching it open.
"Hold still."
…
Peter!
…
Peter!
…
He hears an odd doubling of his name as the wire starts its journey upward, stretching his nostril wide. Peter tries to scream, but he has no voice, no teeth. The wire reaches a fleshy resistance. He sees his father's grip tighten on the wire, preparing to push it through.
"I'm sorry son," he mutters with a snarl. "you're going to have to…" Walter shoves the wire home.
"Wake up!"
…
…
…
"Peter, wake up!"
Peter jerked awake with a gasp, chest heaving as he searched for breath.
Walter was bent over him, with one hand on his cheek. He recoiled away from his father's touch and reached for his nose, then checked his fingers.
They were clean, no blood.
He took a breath, and then scrubbed his eyes, trying to clear his head of the strange dream that was already fading from his memory. His gaze moved past Walter's concerned face, to the familiar confines of the Courtyard Hotel's extended stay suite, which had been his home for the last three months.
"Ah…you're finally awake, son." Walter said, straightening up. He gestured toward the door with a coffee mug. "There's someone at the door, and they're quite insistent." He crossed over to the small table under the window and sat down, then glanced over at him again, holding up one finger. "Oh, I nearly forgot! Your phone has rung several times now. The last time was only a few minutes ago." Having said his piece, he picked up the newspaper, and began to read.
"Walter, you're a grown man…" Peter said with yawn, and propped himself up on his elbows. "You can answer the door and the phone."
His father shrugged and nodded, but said nothing in his defense. Peter's gaze narrowed on Walter as a hazy memory of waking to him eating cereal in the dark surfaced. He'd said something about shifting to the circadian cycle. What the hell had he been doing? Before he could ask, a knock at the door startled him upright.
Shit. His father's words about the phone and the door, hadn't registered in his sleep addled mind until that moment. The combination of his phone ringing, and someone at the door could only mean one thing—they finally had a case, and Olivia was standing outside their door, no doubt growing irate at their lack of response. She could probably hear them talking. The knocks grew progressively louder with each strike.
Peter scrambled for the pair of jeans he'd left on the floor in front of the couch but they were gone. He stood up, and found them in the dirty clothes pile next to the door. His father had been cleaning, apparently. He scooped the jeans up from the pile and pulled them on, then squinted out through the peephole in the door while he zipped and buttoned.
Olivia stood outside—as he'd known she would be. His grin at the sight of her was involuntary, despite her pursed lips, and her irritated pose, with hand on hip. Though he couldn't see her feet, he suspected one of them was tapping away impatiently. Her badge was visible through her open suit jacket, dangling from a nylon cord about her neck.
They definitely had a case.
He pulled open the door, and squinted at the obscenely bright lighting in the corridor outside the room.
"Lemme guess. We have a case." he said.
Olivia nodded. "Yep."
He winced internally at her clipped tone—she was not happy at being made to wait—and stepped back from the doorway, giving her room to pass him by. She hesitated before entering, her eyes lingered on his face, then flicked downward for an instant before she stepped past him. Her hair was damp, as if she'd just showered, and the faint odor of her shampoo wafted in her wake. He swallowed, and tried to banish the mental image of her in the shower that formed to some distant corner of his mind, before she made eye contact with him again.
"Good morning, Agent Dunham!" Walter said, glancing up from his paper.
Olivia gave him a terse smile, and then nodded.
"What is it this time?" Peter asked as he swung the door shut. "Viral outbreak? Creature from outer space?"
"Oh, I hope it's an outbreak!" his father said. Peter found his excitement at the prospect a bit disturbing. "Though a true alien life form would be something to see as well…" Walter amended, then glanced over at him. "Peter! We have a lady present. Put a shirt on, son!" His head shook with disapproval.
"There's been an abduction." Olivia said. A reddish tint rose to the surface under her freckles. She kept her eyes on Walter. "A young boy, that's all I know. Broyles will brief us at the Federal Building."
Walter dropped his newspaper. "A boy?" he said, pushing back his chair. "Abducted, you say?" There was seriousness to his tone that was surprising.
"Yeah…" she said. "We need to go."
Peter nodded, and then moved to the dresser. "Do I have time to jump in the shower?" he asked. "I'll be quick."
Olivia considered his request, eyeing him up and down in a critical manner. "Fine." she said after a moment of introspection. "You have to hurry though, Peter."
"I'll be out in less than five minutes." he said as he pulled fresh clothes from his drawers. "You can time me if you want."
"I will. You've already lost almost fifteen seconds."
"Very funny."
"I'm not joking." Olivia said dryly.
Peter frowned, and then rushed to the bathroom. He couldn't decide if she was being serious or not, but thought better of testing her on it.
.
In the end, it took him just over five minutes to shower and get ready. The need to scrub a towel through his wet hair and then brush his teeth took an extra minute or two, extending the running clock to nearly seven minutes by his count.
Peter exited the bathroom and found Olivia standing red-faced by the door, pointedly turned away from his father, who was moving about the hotel room, gathering his things. He suspected Walter had said or done something to embarrass her, most likely something crude, or full of innuendo, or both. Anything was possible—his father had no sense of propriety.
"Everything okay?" he said, glancing between them as he walked out into the living area.
"Yeah." Olivia said stiffly. "Can we go now?"
"Let me grab my coat." He grabbed his jacket off the couch and slung it over his shoulders, then glanced over at his father, who was staring at himself intently in the mirror above the dresser. "Are you ready, Walter?" he said. "We need to go."
Walter turned toward him sharply. "For your information, Peter, I've been ready for hours." he said, sounding indignant. "You're the one who overslept."
Peter opened his mouth the argue, but caught a glimpse of Olivia's glare and reconsidered. "Whatever. Let's go."
In the corridor outside the room, Walter raced ahead of them, muttering to himself about calling the elevator. Peter matched his pace to Olivia's, who seemed content to walk at a normal gait, in spite of her earlier insistence that they must hurry. She glanced up at him, and arched an eyebrow as if she'd read his thoughts.
"Problems with your phone this morning, Peter?" she asked. Her voice was deceptively casual, and he sensed she was still a bit peeved at being at being ignored out in the hall.
"Walter was up before five this morning." he replied as an ill-timed yawn forced its way out. "Shifting his circadian rhythm. You want to know how I know that?"
"I can guess…" she said, a trace of a grin breaking through her stoic mask. "Does that happen often?"
"More often than you know. Luckily, he let me fall back asleep this time."
Olivia looked as if she might say something more, but chose silence instead. She nodded, and then increased her speed as they approached the tee at the end of the long hallway.
Walter stuck his head around the corner. "C'mon you two!" he said impatiently, and disappeared from sight. They found him holding one of the elevators' doors open with one hand. "I thought we were in a rush!"
"Calm down, Walter." Peter said as they stepped past him into the elevator car.
He moved to the rear, followed by Olivia, who seemed content to stand shoulder to shoulder with him as the car descended toward the first floor. He caught another whiff of her shampoo in the enclosed quarters, a lingering aroma of jasmine that tickled at his nose pleasantly. It brought to mind an article he'd read once in Scientific American that had postulated that the smell of jasmine oil had a natural calming effect, similar to that of Valium. He shot a surreptitious glance down at Olivia, who was chewing on her lower lip absently, as she waited for the car to arrive at the lobby. Maybe the article was wrong, he thought, and looked away from her. Either that, or he was just immune to its effects. It was something of a relief when the car stopped, and the doors slid open.
As they walked through the lobby, Walter threw a friendly wave toward an older woman with graying hair working the customer service desk. Peter vaguely remembered seeing her before—he'd never had too much interaction with the front desk—and was surprised to see the woman smile wide, and then return the wave. Her eyes followed Walter across the lobby.
"Did you know that woman, Walter?" he said, exchanging a confused glance with Olivia as they approached the glass doors at the hotel's entrance. He pulled one open and let the others pass him by.
"Who, Maggie?" Walter said as Peter joined him on the sidewalk. "We met this morning. I helped her with her crossword puzzle. Marsupial." He grinned, and then marched down the sidewalk toward Olivia's SUV, parked not far away at the curb.
Peter blinked at the response. "Wait…what?" he called after him. Olivia covered her mouth, and he suspected she was hiding a smile of amusement as they followed after his father. "You met that woman this morning?" He grabbed his father's arm when they finally caught up with him. "When?"
Walter looked back at him, then tugged his arm free. "When you were sleeping, Peter." he said. There was something dignified in his posture that seemed new, and not something he was used to associating with his father. "I was looking for our newspaper, and Maggie was kind enough to give me ours early—after I helped her complete her puzzle."
Peter considered the ramifications as they piled into the SUV, and Olivia pulled the vehicle away from the curb, and accelerated toward the highway.
His father had been wandering outside the room, mingling with civilians, making friends…like a normal person—without his help. And no disasters had befallen, no fire or police department involvement required. He watched the streets slide past out the window, storefronts, and the young people with backpacks hanging from their shoulders as they walked toward the Harvard campus. They dwindled in the passenger door mirror, and then disappeared. Walter began humming a tune in the backseat, and Peter snuck a glance over his shoulder, observing him as he stared out the back window. If he hadn't known it already, he would've never suspected the man was a mad scientist, literally.
It was progress of a sort, and any progress in the area of self-reliance was a good thing, music to his ears. He wondered if Walter would ever be able to be on his own again, and live his own life without need of his son for a guardian—and what he would do if that day ever came.
Walter leaned forward eagerly, gripping the seat backs in front of him as he stared up at the sleek, towering structure of the Federal Building approaching ahead. The morning sun's reflection glared off its mirrored exterior, and burned into his retina. He shielded his eyes with one hand on his brow, though the damage was already done—a splotchy purple after-image that floated across his vision when he finally looked away.
His stomach growled as Agent Dunham circled the block, guiding her miniature sport utility vehicle toward the gated entrance of the government building's parking garage. Shifting in his seat uncomfortably, it occurred to him that eating a second breakfast might become a requirement in order to meet the caloric needs of his new day-night schedule. He would have to gauge how the day proceeded to know for sure—as it was, it was not looking good so far.
Olivia pulled her vehicle to a stop at the security checkpoint, and flashed her identification to the young man stationed there. He watched the transaction from the back seat. A certain amount of pride swelled his chest as they were waved through without hesitation. It was good to be important again, to be wanted by those who recognized his particular brand of genius, though he tried to temper some of his enthusiasm. When he was a much younger man, the doors had been opened by those in power all too quickly, for him and William, and had led to more than a little scientific egotism on both their parts. It was easier to admit in hindsight.
He smiled and waved at the young man as the gate rose in front of them. Getting out the lab once in a while was a nice change of pace. The last time he'd been to the Federal Building of his own free will had been when his former test subject had been hearing those voices in his head—he chose not to think of when he'd been brought there more recently in handcuffs. The boy's name escaped him, though he'd been fat, like he'd expected Peter to be, with droopy cheeks and a barrel chest.
As they descended under the building into the concrete labyrinth, his stomach rumbled again, accompanied by a sharp hunger pain that he found rather unpleasant and distracting. He rubbed his abdomen absently. If he could only have a light snack, it might be sufficient to curb the sensation, temporarily.
"Will there be any refreshments made available, Agent Dunham?" he said.
"Refreshments, Walter?" she said, and glanced up at him in the rear-view mirror.
She really had lovely eyes, he thought, noting the green with goldish specks around her pupils. It was no wonder that his son was captivated by them.
"Walter…" Peter started, and twisted around in his seat. "Haven't you eaten already? I distinctly remember that."
"That was hours ago, Peter." Walter said as the agent guided the vehicle into a parking spot. "It's just that…that I'm experiencing awful hunger pains. They're quite distracting. A bagel, or…or perhaps a popover…either would be more than sufficient to ease the pangs."
Olivia turned off the engine, then glanced over at Peter, who looked somewhat guilty in Walter's opinion.
"I…could probably use a little something." his son said, and shrugged diffidently. "Coffee, at least."
The agent shook her head, then exhaled audibly. "You two…" she muttered under her breath. "There's coffee in the break room. Sometimes people bring food in. You can help yourself if there's anything there."
"Excellent!" Walter said, rubbing his hands together. He pushed open his door and got out.
Agent Dunham and Peter followed him a moment later. The parking garage lighting was bright and intimidating. Out of the blue, a high-pitched chirping sound echoed through the garage, and Walter jumped at the noise, then spun around, searching for its source. The lights on Olivia's vehicle flashed and went out. He stared at them suspiciously as Peter and Olivia approached, regarding him with what looked like amusement.
"Car alarm, Walter." Peter said as he came abreast of him. "Here. You'll need this." He pulled a white a laminated card that dangled from a black cord from his coat pocket.
Walter took the card from him and inspected it. The picture of himself under the clear plastic was passable, and maybe even good, after taking a second look. "Thank you, son." he said, and slipped the loop over his head.
He cast another glance at Olivia's vehicle, which remained silent and dark. It may have been a car security device, but he didn't trust that noise; it had sounded like some poor animal was dying a torturous death from somewhere close by. He reluctantly turned away from the vehicle, and hurried after his son.
They trailed Olivia inside the building, and down a stark corridor to another security checkpoint, where a young man near his son's age was standing guard. Agent Dunham, he seemed to recognize and let pass without comment. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, though Walter observed that his gaze followed her closely as she moved past him. He scanned Peter's ID card under an infrared scanner of some sort, then motioned him through after her.
When it was Walter's turn, he lifted the card from his chest proudly. "I'm Dr. Walter Bishop." he said politely, holding his hand out toward the other man.
The security guard hesitated, then took his hand awkwardly for a moment, giving him a confused look. "It's…nice to meet you." he said, and then held the scanner up to the ID card. "Have a nice day, Dr. Bishop." He smiled, and waved him through the checkpoint.
Peter and Olivia were waiting for him a short ways down the corridor, near a bank of elevators. Walter hurried over to them.
"Make a another new friend, Walter?" Peter said with a grin as he joined them.
"Yes, I did." He nodded. "Though I didn't catch his name."
Other men and women arrived to wait for the elevators, most of whom were dressed in similar fashion to Olivia, with nice suits and slacks, and stout shoes that would work just as well in an office setting as they would to chase down a suspect.
"Now, where is this break room you mentioned, my dear?" he said, glancing over at Olivia as one pair of elevator doors slid open.
.
Agent Dunham pointed to an open door on their right as they moved down the corridor away from the elevator. "In there, Walter." She stopped and poked her head in the room, then glanced back at them. "Looks like you're in luck."
"Excellent." Walter said, and moved through the doorway, followed closely by Peter.
The break room was fairly large, with several wide tables scattered throughout, and a row of televisions mounted on one wall, each on a different news channel. On the opposite wall, was a wide kitchen area with a large refrigerator, a full range, and several coffee makers with colored labels. Sitting on one of the tables in the center of the room, he spied a box of donuts from a donut shop of the same name.
Donuts! The only thing better would have been a strudel. Walter hurried over to the table and checked the contents of the box. Inside he found several glazed that looked appetizing. He licked his lips and glanced over at Peter, who had headed straight for the coffee machines and was busily preparing a cup for each of them.
"None of that decaffeinated travesty now, son." he called over to him.
"I'm aware, Walter." Peter replied with a chuckle. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Walter swallowed the rest of the donut he'd taken, then grabbed his coffee, and in a moment of inspiration, another of the donuts from the box.
"Hungry?" Peter said, chewing around a mouthful. He nodded toward the second donut. "I thought you said you needed a little snack."
"It's not for me, son." he said, and set off toward the door through which they'd entered, carrying his burdens of coffee and donut carefully.
Outside in the hall, he glanced in both directions for Agent Dunham, and found her standing not far away, talking with the bald man, Agent Broyles. The bald agent was holding a manila folder in one hand, and looked up as they approached. He had on a dark brown suit jacket and matching tie, both of which closely resembled the color of human feces.
Very old school, Walter thought, appreciating the man's stylistic daring.
"Dr. Bishop, Peter." Agent Broyles said, nodding at each in turn. "Thank you for coming."
"And thank you for these wonderful glazed donuts, Mr. Broyles." he said, and then turned to Olivia. "Here you are, my dear. Have one." He pressed the donut into her hands, and then pulled back before she could refuse. The girl was painfully thin, and could certainly put on a few pounds.
"Umm, thank you, Walter…" she said, and looked down with uncertainty at the donut.
Walter observed her confusion worriedly. It was no wonder the girl was so slim.
Agent Broyles's eyes narrowed on Olivia, and then shifted to Peter. "If you'll follow me." he said, holding a hand out wide. Interestingly enough, he saw that the man extremely long fingers.
They followed the agent down the hallway, lined with private offices on both sides, some with darkened windows, and some that appeared were occupied. Walter checked the name plates next to the doors as they passed by, and peered at the figures moving behind frosted windows. The corridor seemed to be a main thoroughfare, as dark-suited agents moved past in both directions. Walter smiled and nodded at those who cast curious glances his way.
Peter moved around him, inhaling a large portion of his donut in a single bite. "Olivia said there's been an abduction." he said after swallowing.
"I'm afraid so." Broyles said, glancing back at him as they walked. "We received word several hours ago…"
The rest of the agent's response was lost to him, as the gap between himself and the others grown wide. He trailed behind them, sipping at his coffee, eager to explore the new environ. He'd not had the chance on his prior visits to the Federal Building. At random, he stopped at one office window and squinted through it, cupping his free hand against the glass.
"Are you lost, sir"
The stern, unfamiliar woman's voice was startling, and he hastily pulled away from the window—he hadn't been able to make out much in any case. He turned to find a woman regarding him, dressed in a dark suit nearly identical to one he'd seen Agent Dunham wear before, and her dark hair was up in a severely professional manner that women seemed to favor at present, curled into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck.
Walter grabbed the ID card from its cord inside his cardigan and held it up for the woman's inspection. "No. I…I'm here with my son…" pointed with his coffee cup down the corridor, just as Peter turned a corner and disappeared from view. The woman frowned disapprovingly. "Excuse me, miss." he said, and darted away from the woman before she could object.
He hurried down the corridor, glanced back once at the woman, who was watching him suspiciously, and then rounded the corner into a large open area, full of cubicles and desks packed closely together. He recognized the space—he'd been there before, the night Peter had been abducted. The atmosphere of the room was tense, he noticed, and sensed a firm determination from the male and female agents alike, some clustered together in groups, others talking on their telephones or tapping away their personal computers. It was loud, and hectic—exactly how he'd imagined an FBI situation room to feel—exciting and movie-like.
His son and Agent Dunham were circling the perimeter of cubicles, following behind Agent Broyles. Walter skirted the desks behind them, increasing his speed to catch up. Peter seemed unaware of his absence, his attention was focused on the older agent as he spoke of the missing boy.
"His name is Ben Stockton." Broyles was saying. He stopped, and handed the manila folder to Agent Dunham. "According to his father, they were driving home last night when he saw a woman having car trouble. The father claims that while he was looking at the woman's car—something happened. He said it was like time had jumped. And then his son the woman and her car were suddenly gone."
Walter perked up at hearing the description of events. Time…jumped. The phrase tickled at something in his memory. He'd heard it before…somewhere. Where had it been? His feet slowed as images of Christmas came to mind, with carols and snowflakes and icicles. And Elizabeth's eggnog, and Peter whooping at all the presents under the tree. It was clear that Santa Claus was not responsible for the kidnapping, yet he kept coming back to Christmas, for some reason.
He blinked, as awareness of his surroundings returned. The others were moving away from him again. He moved to follow after, and witnessed Agent Dunham discreetly depositing the donut he'd given her on an empty desk's laminated surface as she passed it by. Walter rushed forward to retrieve it before anyone else could lay claim to the sweet desert—if she didn't want it, he would gladly eat it for her.
"So…what?" Olivia said as she opened the file folder and glanced down at it contents. "The father just—blacked out?"
Agent Broyles stopped in front of a row of large windows, oddly raised off the floor, and turned back to her. "In the statement he gave the police, Jeremy Stockton insisted that he never lost consciousness." he explained. "His story was why this case was brought to my attention—and to yours."
Walter finally caught up to the group, coming to a stop behind Peter. The story of the boy's abduction was intriguing, and again reminded him of Christmas. Why Christmas? The recurring thought was like the purple after-image from earlier, hovering in front of him wherever he looked.
"So there were no other witnesses to corroborate the father's story?" Olivia asked, looking up from the file.
Broyles shook his head. "No. But this isn't the first time this has happened."
"Really." Peter said, rubbing his unshaven chin. "Now why doesn't that surprise me?"
.
The agent led them up a short flight of steps, then down a corridor lined with offices like the first. Walter scanned the names next to the doors as he had before, and grinned triumphantly when he spotted Agent Dunham's name next to one of the doors. He was tempted to try the knob—curious to see the confines of her office—but thought better of it, as his presence would likely have been missed, so he followed Peter's dark jacket through an open door on the opposite side of the hallway. Special Agent Phillip Broyles was written on the name plate next to the door.
The agent's office was spacious, with a wide desk occupying one side of the room to the right entrance, and a small sitting area opposite it against the far wall. The wall across from the door was hexagonal, and comprised entirely of windows, spanning from floor to ceiling. An interesting, circular light fixture hung close to the ceiling overhead, and provided more than adequate lighting for the space.
He gazed at the light with envy, then crossed over to the window and looked out. Below the window was the large, open area from which they'd just come. He watched for a few moments as the agents scurried about, moving to and fro. With a grin at their drone-like behavior, he turned from the window and sat down on one of the comfortable straight-backed chairs in sitting area to observe.
Peter and Agent Dunham had taken the two seats in front of the wide desk, and waited as Agent Broyles went through a file cabinet behind, flipping through the drawer with practiced efficiency. A moment later the agent found what he was looking for.
"These are from the files of three other missing person cases dating back ten years." Broyles said. He opened several files on the desk, and Peter and Agent Dunham scooted forward to get a better look. "In each one, witnesses describe seeing the same woman. We've tried running sketches through facial recognition software. So far, nothing."
"So what happened to the other victims?" Olivia said.
"The first was found wandering the shoulder of I-91 near North Hampton." Broyles replied. "The second in a supermarket, curled up in the freezer bin."
"Meaning what? They were let go?" she said, picking one of the files off the desk.
Broyles nodded. "Apparently, but not before whatever had been done to them drove them insane." he said grimly. "Two weeks after she was found, one of the victims actually tried to lobotomize herself using a butter knife. And all of them were completely incapable of recalling what had happened during the abduction. Even under hypnosis."
"So they're all academics." Olivia said after a moment. She passed the file to Peter, and then picked up another. "A probability theorist, structural engineer. If we're looking at a serial abduction—unless the M.O. has changed—then a ten-year-old kid really doesn't fit the bill."
"No, it doesn't." Broyles agreed. "But other than that, the details surrounding his disappearance are identical to the others. Interacting with the woman in the sketch, then experiencing an interval of lost time."
Time jumped. Lost time. Driven insane.
The words reverberated through Walter's mind, repeating one after another. Phrases triggered by other phrases, and the associated memories that trailed after. They flashed across the surface of this thoughts and disappeared before he could fully comprehend what he'd seen, what he'd remembered.
He kept coming back to Christmas.
Christmas trees.
Christmas lights.
Lights.
A voice echoed in his head, dredged up from somewhere in his past. The voice seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it.
The lights. They put me asleep. Green, green, green, red they flashed, and then I was somewhere else...somewhere horrible, Walter!
The lights.
He sucked in a sharp breath. "Peculiar flashing lights." Walter blurted suddenly. Peter and the two agents looked over at him, confused. "Green, green, green, red, like Christmas lights."
The Special Agent's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "How did you know that, Dr. Bishop?" Broyles said.
Walter focused, and tried to recall again where, and when the voice had come from. "I don't know." he said shortly. "But that's what happened, isn't it?" He realized he was still holding Olivia's donut, and took a bite.
"Yes. It was."
"Think you might be able to jog your mind, Walter?" Peter said. "It might be kind of helpful.
He shrugged, and bit into the donut again. "Christmas lights." he said, around a mouthful dough. "That's all I can recall. Sorry."
Agent Broyles glanced between his son and Agent Dunham. "He's right." the tall agent said. "In his statement, the father claimed that he saw lights flashing under the hood of the woman's car in some kind of pattern. Three green flashes then a red. They were the last thing he remembered seeing before a tow truck driver found him standing on the side of the road."
Walter finished Olivia's donut while the agents and his son continued discussing the boy, and the circumstances surrounding his abduction. Their faces faded out after a minute or two as his thoughts turned inward.
The father had obviously been put in a kind of trance, hypnotized in some fashion. Long enough for the abductor to make her getaway, with his son. Flashing lights. He thought of a project he had worked on with William, long ago. Images between frames. Undetectable coercion. Mental domination. The project had failed on almost every front. William had been absent for most of the work leading up to its culmination. Him and his business trips.
He waited for a comment from Belly, but he remained silent. His old friend rarely spoke away from the lab. or the other one, though it had not always been that way. The thought made him uneasy.
"Walter!"
Walter jerked in his seat, surprised to find Peter looming over him. Behind his son, Agent Broyles was seated at his desk, and Agent Dunham was standing by the door, waiting with narrowed eyes.
Waiting for him, he realized.
"Olivia is going to drop us off at the lab." Peter said. "You coming?"
"Oh…yes. The lab would be nice." Walter said, and rose to his feet. His hand was sticky, and he wiped the donut glaze off on the inside of his pocket. "Several thoughts have occurred to me during your discussion with Mr. Broyles."
"…You mind sharing them?"
"No. Not really."
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Hi, there. It's been a while since I updated last. Here's the first chapter of 1x08. Updates should be more regular now. Thanks for reading!
