His father arranged to have a private jet fly him, Ms. Moseley, and the necessary equipment for his continued recovery to the farmhouse this 'James Murphy' owned against his better judgment. Once they landed in Kentucky, a van would make the long trek to the house. According to his father, it was quite difficult to find transportation to the house. The farm was in the middle of nowhere. It made his father worry—that they would be unable to quickly get help if Mackland would need it, but it brought him a sense of comfort. If no one was around him, no one could get hurt.
He carried the Elemental Trap everywhere, like a security blanket. Until he was safely housed, he couldn't trust that he'd be able to hold it together. His heart beat out of his chest in the jet, the fear of somehow causing the plane to crash making the flight mentally torturous. The drive was less worrisome, as there was nothing but fields, cows, and the occasional corner church mixed between the few farmhouses seen from the country road. It could've even been considered beautiful; Mac did not remember the last time he'd seen the sky so clear or breathed the air so fresh. The hum of the van and the lack of conversation gave Mac plenty of opportunity to close his eyes to sleep, but the anxiety of the unknown kept him wide awake.
The driver called out that they'd arrived almost a half-hour later, parking the van in front of his temporary sanctuary. Mac tentatively made his way out of the van, using his crutches for balance; Missouri had already hopped out and had made her way to the front porch. He took the few moments he had alone to look around the farm. From where he was standing, he could see the stereotypical red barn, a white picket fence, and further away, he could make out a lake. He also noticed a doghouse placed beside the fence.
This was the type of place he'd only read about in books; a far cry from New York City or any of the golf retreat and resort areas that he'd frequented on vacations. Mac imagined that this James Murphy was some type of stereotypical country hick that had no clue about the real world… Just a red neck hunter.
"You planning on standin' there all day or you gonna get your skinny butt in here?" His favorite person yelled out from the front door. Biting back an angry response, Mac slowly made his way to the porch. Looking down, he saw that someone had built a sloped ramp up the few steps to the front door. The kindness brought a lump through his throat. A perfect stranger seemed to care about him more than people he had known since his college years.
The door opened and a man stepped out with a welcoming smile. "You must be Dr. Mackland Ames. Missouri has told me much about you. I am James Murphy, but please call me Jim. Come in." Jim held the door open for Mac as he made his way into the cozy home, prying off the dog who'd excitedly tried to jump at him. By the time he'd been escorted to the couch, his legs were trembling. He leaned his head back, panting and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Missouri passed him without a word and sat on the chair across the room, as far away from each other as they could get.
"Can I get you anything, Dr. Ames?" Jim asked him, a worried frown marking his youthful face. "You look like you're in pain."
"No, I'm fine. I just needed to sit down. My legs—they're still weak. I can only walk short distances. And please, call me Mac. I can't thank you enough for allowing me to stay with you. You must be a brave man to risk your wellbeing." He sighed, reaching into his pocket to pull out the black box. Reverently, he placed it on the end table nearest his host. "Do you know what this is?"
"Yes. Of course, it's a black box." Murphy replied, calmly as he picked up the box and turned it in his hands. "What do you think this is?"
"It's an Elemental Trap," Mac explained, "It dampens my psychic powers."
Jim smiled gently, "Yes, that is what an elemental trap is; unfortunately, this," Jim held out the box to Mac, "is not one of them. It's just a box, Mackland."
Mac stared at the box, trying to understand. "What?" He gasped. The realization that the object that had kept him sane was nothing more than a piece of plastic hit him hard. "Do you know what I could have done?" Mac threw the box down and screamed at the woman who'd lied to him. The dog who'd been sitting next to his master suddenly started to growl at him.
"Atticus, down!" Jim ordered the dog before continuing, "You did not do anything, Mackland." Murphy chided. "You should thank Missouri; she has taught you a very important lesson."
"Thank her?!" Mac retorted, "I could've killed us!"
"But, you did not," Jim repeated. Jim stared at the two dueling guests, currently glaring at each other across the living room. "I think that we should call it an evening. You've both had a very long journey and we'll need to get up early to complete the chores before church. Missouri, you can stay in the guest room next to mine. You know the way, I believe." He waited for the woman to nod before he continued, "Mackland, I'll show you to your room."
Mac waited until after Missouri had made her way up the stairs and heard the slam of the bedroom door before he struggled up off the couch. The adrenaline rush left him feeling a little shaky and he felt Jim's hand steadying him. He looked at the older man and tried not to let what he felt for Missouri impact this new relationship. The man had been nothing but kind to him; offering his home, building a ramp, calming him, and now helping him to stand on his own two feet.
"I don't understand," Mac mumbled under his breath, "I don't understand any of this." He wiped at his face, trying not to completely fall apart under the stress.
Jim gripped his arm a bit more tightly, then placed another hand against his back. "Perhaps, Dr. Ames, you are just being guided to your true path. God works in mysterious ways, you know." It was said fondly as if he'd often repeated it.
"Right now," Mac huffed, "You are the one who is being mysterious. You aren't concerned with my being here? According to Missouri, I'm one of the most powerful psychics she's ever met… and that I'm completely out of control. Aren't you afraid of me?"
"No, of course not. For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and self-discipline… I believe that is what Missouri was trying to teach you."
Mac nodded and smiled tiredly, not comprehending any of the religious mumbo-jumbo Murphy was spouting. He hoped that this trip wouldn't turn into a bible-camp; he needed REAL answers, tangible ones—not spiritual ones.
"I think I'll turn in now, Jim." He took one last look at the black box; that small plastic box had held all of his hopes and dreams. With it, he could be normal; knowing that it had only been a hoax—it was more than he could endure in one night.
Jim almost seemed to read his mind, suggesting that they make their way to the room. Mac was surprised, as they walked through the kitchen and into the dining area. Or at least, it had been a dining area at one point. There was a bed placed near the windows, a small end table with a lamp atop of it, and even an old-fashioned armoire. Jim patted his shoulder, "I'm sorry about the lack of privacy, but Missouri had mentioned that you were still having trouble walking; I thought this would be easier on you than the stairs. There is a small bathroom across the room, fresh towels in the cupboard above the sink. But, if you need anything else, please let me know."
"Thank you." Mac was humbled.
"Sleep well. I'll wake you in the morning…" Jim nodded and wished him a good night.
He nodded back and waited for Jim to make his way up the stairs. He flicked on the light next to his bed, then stared out the window for a while. The quiet was strange; it was never quiet in New York. Out here, he could hear the crickets, owls, and other creatures creating their music of the night. He walked around the room, examining the trinkets here and there. They were feminine; not the sort of things that a man would collect. He spotted a portrait of a wedding on the fireplace mantel. Jim was the groom in the photo, a young man in his twenties holding his bride in his arms with a wide smile. Mrs. Murphy was quite lovely, dressed in a lace gown. There was nothing but love in her eyes for the man who held her. The men were dressed in military uniforms, groom included.
There were other photos around the room of the couple at various times of the year. Holidays, birthdays, and other everyday special moments were forever frozen in time. He studied them, trying to figure out what kind of man Jim Murphy was. There was no way he could be for real; no one was ever that nice without a reason, experience taught him that much.
It took a few more hours of tossing and turning before he slipped off to the land of nod. Nightmares woke him a couple of hours later—and kept him up the rest of the night. He stared at the night sky and wondered what the future held for him.
He must've dozed off because he did not hear Jim Murphy walk into his 'room'. "Mackland, it's time to wake up now. We'll be late for church…"
Mac pried his eyes open and blinked rapidly when he saw what Jim was wearing. His mouth dropped open, "You're a priest?" He felt like a fish out of water, mouth opening, and closing stupidly. Suddenly, the bible-camp did not seem so far off.
Jim gave him a knowing look, "I'm a pastor."
Mac sat up in bed, "I thought you were a soldier."
"I was." Jim did not elaborate. He held out a hand to Mac, a silver ring shining on his finger as he helped him up.
He'd stiffened overnight, making the attempts to coordinate his limbs difficult. Mac appreciated the help out of bed. He hadn't even changed from the night before, the suit he wore now wrinkled and a bit smelly. Walking to the bathroom, Mac splashed water on his face and looked at himself through the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was starting to grow a beard. He did not even recognize himself. There was a package of razors on the counter; he assumed that it was for him along with a new toothbrush. He put the razor to use but left the mustache. Perhaps, it was time for a change in his appearance—as well as his attitude.
He spotted his suitcase in the corner of the room; Jim must've brought it in for him. He slipped out of his musty clothes and put on fresher ones. One of the sweaters that his father had packed for him had been a gift from Rebecca.
It only took one thought for his control to break. The windows started cracking and the armoire shook with his power. Missouri ran in, as did Pastor Jim. "Mackland!" Missouri yelled, "Stop that right now!"
He threw the sweater down and clutched his head, feeling dizzy. Mac felt hands grab him as he started to fall. A voice by his ear told him to breathe and to focus—he had the power to stop this. Soon, Mac believed them, and the thundering in his mind stopped; the world was righted. A cup of water was placed in his trembling hand, but he managed to take a couple of small sips before the water sloshed out.
"You notice a trend yet, Ames?" Missouri shook her head at him. "Always that woman! Can't you just get over it, already?"
"Missouri," Jim warned, "Why don't you finish getting ready? We can meet you in the car…"
Jim waited a while before speaking. "You must've loved her with all of your heart to be affected this deeply."
"I did… or at least, I thought I did. And, I am trying to get over this, as Missouri suggests."
"It will take time…" Jim said honestly, "You will never forget her; In a way, she'll always be a part of you. You'll forgive her, one day…" There was a pregnant pause. "Well, if you can, we need to hit the road."
Mac pulled away from the hand trying to lift him to his feet. "No, I don't think I should go… Not after—"
"Perhaps, the church will bring you some peace," Jim suggested.
"No. I don't want to be around anyone right now." Mac argued; fear kept him glued in place.
"Mackland," the pastor began softly, "Do you plan on isolating yourself for the rest of your life? Yes, you lost control—but, what you seem to have forgotten is that you stopped it. Your abilities are within your command; when you believed the black box was an Elemental Trap, there were no flare-ups. Your powers had been contained; it was only after you discovered that it was a ruse that you lost control. If you think about it, you'll soon realize—it's all in your mind."
Yes, it was logical to assume that Jim was correct, but knowing it and believing it was two different stories. "I understand, but I think I'll just stay here for now. I need to think things through."
Jim nodded, "I'm here, you know. If you need to talk." With that, Jim made his way to the car. A minute later, Mac heard the car driving on the gravel road away from the house.
The dog, who he'd learned from the collar was named Atticus Finch trotted over to him and lay his head on his lap. As the only person left in the house, Mac assumed the pup wanted attention. He and the dog had gotten off to a bad start—hell, he'd gotten off to a bad start with all of them and desperately needed a 'reset' button. He started rubbing the dog behind the ears and Atticus's tail started swinging happily.
Mac smiled. It was rare since the accident that anyone was happy around him—even if it was a dog. His thoughts swirled, jumping from one thing to another randomly. His career, his father, Rebecca, and now this Brotherhood… he had no idea where he fit in or what he was capable of now.
He'd destroyed a room in his rage—could he do more damage? What were his limits? There were just too many questions and not enough answers. And now, he was here—in a farmhouse in a rinky-dink town.
In attempts to quench his current mental frenzy, Mac allowed his curiosity to take over. He started exploring his temporary home, studying each room as he roamed. Mrs. Murphy's touches were everywhere. He could only assume the woman was out of town; perhaps Jim worried about her safety while Mac was in the house.
The stairs were too much for him to handle at this point, and he did not want to end up falling on his ass. As he entered the living area, he found a library full of books and decided to explore the texts. For a religious man, Jim Murphy's library contained some odd choices. Books on the occult were mixed in with the Encyclopedia Britannica. The man owned the full set of Jane Austen novels. The Art of War and other military-type philosophies intermingled with fairy tales and urban legends. He picked one up and was shocked to see a pentagram on it.
What kind of people was he working with? Devil worshippers used pentagrams! But Jim was a pastor… and a seemingly good man. He put the book down, eyebrows wrinkling in confusion. Mac made his way back to the couch, Atticus loyally following him—and even steadied his legs when he felt shaky. He petted the dog again. He was glad the animal seemed to understand; he sure couldn't.
He was so exhausted—everything made him tired. He used to spend the majority of the time at the hospital sleeping on and off. There really wasn't much else to do. He'd gotten up not even an hour before, and now, Mac needed a nap. He grabbed a crocheted blanket off the back of the couch and had planned on lying down for a while.
What had ended up happening was not anything he had ever imagined.
Images started flashing through his mind—memories of a life that did not belong to him. He saw a young woman patiently crocheting, her young husband kissing her neck as she laughed. Mac saw her waving, tears streaming down her face as her lover left for war. He felt the utter joy she felt upon his return—and then, in quick succession, saw her death. He even knew where she was buried! 'My beloved Emma' her gravestone read. He saw the tears shed on the throw by the pastor for the love of his life.
Mac threw off the blanket, gasping for air. His stomach turned; the taste in his mouth becoming acidic and he was unable to stop himself from vomiting. He had a hand pressed against his temple tightly, his heart pounding in chest, throat, and head. As a doctor, Mac knew he was heading towards a panic attack and tried to get a handle on it.
"What the fuck?" He swore aloud. "What is happening to me?" He screamed it to the world, so loud the dog got frightened and backed away from him. The dog whimpered as if he had done something wrong to disrupt a guest of his master's house.
Here alone in the house, he could cry, and no one would judge him—ask if he was alright or some other nonsense. And so, he did—he cried out his frustrations, doubts, and fears for the last time. He made a pact with himself; Rebecca would become just a memory. Her betrayal would only serve to make him stronger. Mac promised himself that he would control his emotions and his newfound abilities; no matter how foreign they were to him.
Getting up off the couch took a bit of maneuvering, but he was able to make the journey to the kitchen. He looked under the sink and was astonished by the sheer amount of cleaning products the pastor kept. Grabbing a familiar looking bottle and a cloth, he made his way back to the living area to clean up his mess.
"No!" Mackland screamed!
He gulped to keep himself from making another mess as he spotted the dog licking up his vomit. "That's disgusting." Pushing Atticus Finch out of the way, Mac sprayed the area with a cleanser and quickly wiped away any sign of human vomit and dog saliva. He had to laugh at himself—he couldn't remember the last time he'd cleaned anything himself, instead of just calling a servant.
He looked around the simple home, realizing that the life he'd had may have been a rich one, but it wasn't a fulfilling one. It was now, at his lowest, that things had become so clear. All of his sins—lie out in the open. He'd been selfish—Mac would've never opened his home to a stranger. He'd thought of Edward and his family visiting him at the hospital. If their roles had been reversed, Mac would've just replaced him, never considering him 'family'. He had no loyalty to anyone, not even his father; He'd denied Cullen's right as a father to worry about his son's ill decisions. And Rebecca—his Achilles heel. The woman had robbed him of his logic—poisoning him with her greed, materialism, and vanity.
Mac did not know much of Christianity, but even he knew the seven deadly sins. All of them had visited him in some way, dictating his every move until he couldn't recognize the man he'd become.
Time had lost all meaning, as he was deep in thought. He did not even notice the front door opening and Pastor Jim coming home from the church until the man knelt beside him.
A gentle hand was placed against his neck, "Are you alright? Did you fall?"
"No, I did not fall…" His voice trailed off and he smiled, "You know, Jim—I think I'll be alright now."
Jim ducked his head down to meet Mac's eyes. "Well, that's what I've been saying all along!" The kind man laughed lightly.
Mac laughed with him, a sense of peace filling what was once an empty soul. "Where's Missouri? I need to apologize to her. I treated her horribly. You were right; she was just trying to teach me a lesson. One that I need to thank her for…"
Murphy stood up, his body flexing like a gymnast—smooth and agile. Jim held out a hand to him and pulled Mac up onto his feet. "She's left, Mackland. She was being mysterious, saying something along the lines of you learning the most important lessons on your own. I don't believe she was upset—but, perhaps you could send her a bouquet of roses or something of the like."
He pictured the volatile woman and shuddered; "I think that that is a wonderful idea. A dozen roses, shipped right to her door." Mac arched an eyebrow as a thought occurred to him, "If she's left, who's going to help me with this psychic stuff?"
Jim patted his shoulder, "You're an intelligent man, Dr. Ames. I have the resources that you need to learn about this 'psychic stuff', but most of it—it's practice."
Mac started, "You're saying you want me to use my abilities?"
"There's no reason to deny what and who you are. It's a treasure, one of God's gifts to you." Jim ignored the head shaking in front of him. "Embrace it, my friend."
A part of the doctor wanted to continue his denial, but the rational part of his mind took told—analyzing the pastor's meaning. The man was right—there was nothing to be gained by pretending that he was 'normal' anymore. Mackland had put himself through a grueling medical school program and graduated with honors; it had been one of the most challenging goals in his life. This would be a cakewalk in comparison.