Volatile Times

III

...

8, 11, 1928

Dearest Charlie,

I've misbehaved a little and bought myself some quiet time in solitary. They're still letting me write to you, but they're watching me and they take the pencil away as soon as I've finished. It's nothing to be worried over though, Cher, all just a matter of propriety. I can handle anything... Speaking of which, I'm on a seafood diet now... I see food and I eat it! Ha ha! Ha... Jokes aside... I want to say importantly that I miss you immensely, Charlie... The more time that passes without seeing your lovely face is the most cruel and unusual punishment I could ever endure. I'm starting to feel it so strongly, it's like suffocating. Are you doing well where you are, Darling? It may be selfish of me, but I hope I'll be able to see you soon...

Ton sourire me manque...

With Love,

~Your Alastor

...

Charlie forces herself to put the letter down. The tears in her eyes are making her make-up run down her face horribly. Truthfully, she's gotten a French dictionary just so that she could translate Alastor's sweet whispers through the pages. I miss your smile the most... She can almost picture him right here with her, a delicate hand in her hair and deeply emotional French pouring from him like a song meant only for her.

"I miss you too..." she says, alone in her apartment. It's such an awful feeling swelling within her. She wants to hold him in her arms again. She's never fallen this hard before, for anyone before she knew Alastor. His passion was beautiful and alluring as much as his handsome face and velvety voice. There wasn't a day, or even an hour that went by where she didn't think of him and how far away he was.

Charlie retreats to the vanity in her bedroom to wipe away the ugly black drips of makeup marred with tears. Even as she does, her hands shake a bit with nerves she never had before. It's not until there is fresh blush on her cheeks, and lips painted a pretty red, that she hears the shallow knocking on her door. She takes her time gliding from her chair to receive her guest. As soon as she opens it, it is Bernadette standing on the other side. The woman's hair is a completely messy bun, falling out and tangling in places. Her beige and green frock is dusted at the hem with mud as if she ran all the way here, laced up boots in a similar state of disrepair.

"Bernadette? Are you alright?"

"Yes, Cher," she takes a deep breath and smiles widely, "I've found someone who can help us, I think."

"With Alastor!?"

"The very same. He told me I could come by his office this afternoon. I thought you might like to come with me, and keep my head on straight, dear."

"Absolutely! Let's go! Right now!"

There is no more pomp or circumstance involved as Charlie rushes to get her keys and lock up the place to leave. They both quickly hop into the dark Ford Model A that her parents bought for her. It was unorthodox to see the two women driving down the streets, but it was a necessary trip for a good cause.

The New Orleans police station was in the nicer side of town. It was still just as likely to hear jazz pouring out of every window around here as it was anywhere else. The buildings were well-kept and the streets clean of most debris. Although, it wasn't surprising to find stings of beads laying around the bushes here and there. The building itself looked to be about three stories, divided with a very slightly different color of brick around the outside with white window ledges. There was a wooden sign hanging over the glass doors at the bottom. It was appropriately labeled Police, engraved right into the wood and painted over with black lettering.

Bernadette had never once been to this station. Not even in the time of her rocky marriage. Charlie on the other hand has seen the interior at least once, to report her ex boyfriend for his rampant stalking. As such, it seemed the man at the desk only had to take one look at the blonde woman to find her familiar.

"My my, is that Charlie Mange?"

"Yes! Hi Darryl!" The bubbly blonde waved politely.

"You cut your hair, didn't you!" he observes with a warm friendly smile, "Last time you were here, it was clear on down your back. It looks great like this too!"

"Thank you so much!"

"And you must be Miss Bernadette, right," the young man checks over a clipboard of apparent reservations, "Chief Wallace is waiting for you upstairs, Ladies. His office is the first on your right up those stairs there."

"Thank you, Darryl! We appreciate it. Let's go, Bern."

Charlie links her arm with her would-be Mother-in-law. Bernadette is thankful that Charlotte is such a likable and outgoing girl. She herself isn't sure if she could form the words right now while her mind is occupied thinking of what to say to Wallace when they meet him. Over the phone, he had been a stern but reasonable man. She'd even met him back in the day, when he was just a traffic cop. He'd always been kind to her, and often helped Alastor cross the street on his way home from school.

It anyone can help... she hopes it's him.

Bernadette and Charlie edge up the white stone steps, heels echoing off into the stairwell. A few men in uniform pass them on the way, but they don't interrupt the two women going up. Bernadette isn't sure what any of the other rooms around the station would be used for. They're labeled with numbers and letters that make up a bunch of gobbling gook for all the sense they make. The one labeled Police Chief Wallace is clear enough though. His is a silver plaque, below an opaque white window made specifically so that it can't be seen into from the outside. The older woman glances once at Charlie, who nods at her in return. Then she timidly knocks on the door.

Wallace appears there immediately. Bernadette is amazed how different he looks now, with four o'clock shadow on his face and graying mustache to match his decaying hair color. He escorts the two women into the office, a spacious room with a cool breeze coming in through the window. Charlie lets her eyes wander as they both sit down across from his desk. There are photos of Chief Wallace there in frames, black and white memories with a woman and a little boy in them. Aside from the file notes and paperwork left out, there was also a cork board on the wall covered in some kind of research notes, a city map, and officer information.

Bernadette meanwhile folds her hands in her lap. She tries to make steady eye contact with Wallace, despite society beating into her the fear of turning away from men out of respect. Her mission is too important to waste on being self conscious, she wagers. She must be calm and confident if she is going to get anywhere.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Dapremont, Miss Mange. My name is Judd Wallace," he says, clearly for Charlie's benefit of meeting him for the first time, "I'm heading up the investigation on Alastor's case. Mainly leading other people around, but so far, it's been a wild goose chase."

"What do you mean by that, Sir?" Charlie asks, innocence in her big blue eyes.

"I can't tell you everything. But I will say that most of the men on the case are certain that there is nothing more to be found..."

A stillness dilutes the air. Bernadette stares at Wallace with the wide eyes of a concerned mother.

"It can't be..." she says aloud to herself, a whisper vying into despair, "It can't be true. He didn't do this. What's going to happen to him...?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Bernadette..." Wallace removes his glasses and meets her eyes before going on, "If his case goes to trial as it stands, he's going to get a guilty verdict by jury count on lack of evidence. Currently, I'm looking into all aspects of clemency to lessen the life sentence if necessary."

"Is there really nothing we can do then...?"

"We definitively need another suspect, and more information if we're going to turn this thing around."

"But Mr. Wallace... That criminal investigator seems Hell bent on saddling my son with the life sentence. He's not lookin for other options!"

"I know, Madame..." Wallace rubs his forehead as a line of tension threads over his brow, "LeBoeuf is one of those young 'idealists' that don't believe in justice anymore. He's trying to get Alastor to confess, whether he committed the crime or not."

"What if..." Charlie begins to ask, one delicate finger tapping her cheek, "What if Robert committed suicide! Could he have stabbed himself?"

"That's very perceptive of you, little Miss. I expect someone will bring up the prospect during the trial. However, judging by the angles of the many lacerations on the body—it's almost definitively a homicide."

Wallace hesitates with this information. He knows he's being a bit liberal, and these are two women besides. His fond affections for Bernadette and her son puts him in a frustrating position. Seeing Bernadette looking down into her hands, Wallace knows how shaken she is. She's hiding her nerves well, but this case is destroying her. He knows exactly how she feels, having watched his own son held up at gun point not five years ago.

"Mr. Wallace..." Bernadette utters. She lifts a hand to brush her hair away and leaves it to rest on her forehead as she goes on, "My Alastor is innocent. He has to be. If you can't help us, I don't know who else could..."

Wallace lays his hands on his desk. Linking the fingers together he sighs heavily. He can see the tears peeking from Bernadette's dark eyes. Even Charlie can see it now, and gently puts her hand on the woman's arm as a show of support. For as long as the chief can remember, the mother and son have had each other. She needs that boy back.

"Bernadette..." Wallace says it so sincerely that he can feel it like a rush of hot water after a long stressful day, "I promise you, I'm going to do everything in my power to get Alastor out of there."

.

...

.

Husk lies alone in his cell for the third night in a row. His sleep is uneasy. He had this cell all to himself for about a month before Alastor came. Now he almost misses the chatter of the scared little prisoner above him looking for a distraction from his nightmares. And Alastor was scared. Even Husk, a mask of apathy, could see it a mile away. He's known that youthful face for so long that any time it makes an odd expression or a pitch shifts—it's all sign for something the man is trying to hide. It leaves Husk with a moral dilemma on his hands... sure, Alastor was a criminal. But he wasn't built for prison. Husk is sure that his friend wouldn't last for more than a few short years on a leash in this pen. If even that long.

That morning, Husk gets up to go about business as usual. He changes into his regular black barred uniform and combs out his hair. Without the immense amount of hair gel, it's doomed to hang in his face no matter what he does to it. After the morning roll call, he's let out to do as he pleases and so he lumbers onward to get the breakfast slop into his system. He's surprised to find the dining hall so quiet today, until he notices the familiar big black man standing in the line. Mars. Most people avoided him out of respect or fear... though Husk walks right up to him.

"Hey," he greets simply with a bored wave of his hand.

"Yo, Harry, just the man I wanted to see," the deep voice beckons to him.

It's not hard to pick Mars out of a crowd. He's a mountain of a man at an easy seven feet tall and beefy as a tree trunk. Even Husk has to look up at him to meet his dark eyes. Most people would focus on the deep chocolate black of his skin, or the tattoo on his face. It covers the right side, an etching of a spear striking down like an arrow. It draws the eye so seamlessly that just looking at it could make anyone feel like a target. Husk has no problem with that, meeting the man's eyes as soon as he approaches him.

"Back from the infirmary huh?" Husk nearly teases. Mars chuckles at the show of friendly rivalry in Harry's golden eyes. The big half African man runs a hand through the sheered short Raven hair on his head as he remembers the headache he had after Harry threw him.

"I'm better than ever," Mars says with a grin, "I had a chat with Harvard on my way out of there yesterday. I hear your new twink took him down with just a single fork."

"Seriously?" Husk's large brows both raise at that. He knew Alastor had been sent to solitary. But the reasons and details behind it all, he had no clue. He can only imagine how stir-crazy his friend is going. Solitary is a mental mess. Even for smart-alec types like Alastor, most came out of that box looking like a completely different person. A broken shell of a man. He has a strong feeling that Alastor will be let out soon though. He's a fresh face... it's his first offense... Husk is, remiss to say, worried about whether or not his friend can handle the intense mental strain.

"Yeah," Mars continues when Husk doesn't dispute the knowledge, "The guy must have some real skill if he can cripple a big dude like Harvard with a fork... What do you think about putting him in the dog fight?"

Ahh... the dog fight... This was a loose code around the rig for an event the inmates put together on their own every so often. The dog kennel was emptied out for cleaning once every month. Three hours before the nightly roll-call—two men were thrown into the circular pen to duke it out fist to fist. An all out, high stakes brawl, competing for cash and goods off of the prison black market. The guards never bothered putting a stop to their fun either, sometimes they even entered in on the betting. Husk tries to picture Alastor of all people, standing in a ring listening to other inmates barking like dogs and cheering for his pain.

"Alastor isn't really a physical fighter, man," Husk says, rubbing his neck to get rid of the mental image of his bloodied and bruised friend, "He probably just got lucky with Harvard. I haven't seen him since he's been put in solitary for it."

"Well, you never know... That lucky streak could go a long way."

Something draws both of their eyes from down the hallway. A lone figure walks towards them from the doorway at the far end of the space. Small and sad looking, Husk can barely recognize it as Alastor. The brunette stares vacantly at the floor until he spots the two men standing there, only looking up when he seems stirred out of his own inner thoughts. Alastor is dressed in his dark gray work out clothes with his number printed over his heart. There are deep dark circles beneath his eyes. The pretty brown sienna color is dulled somehow, like a man that's lived through the death of a loved one.

"Alastor!"

The brunette turns his head to face him, looking startled until realizing it's just Husk. He cards a hand through his hair before saying a word, an incredible brown mess. It looks longer than it normally is too. The brown locks are a mere few inches away from brushing over his shoulders.

"Husker! You sure are a sight for sore eyes, my friend," Alastor says quietly.

"No kidding. You look rattled."

"That's what solitary does to a man, huh?" Mars chuckles with a mite of sympathy. Alastor then shifts his attention to the stranger beside his friend. He might be the biggest man Alastor has ever seen in his life. Mars was built like the Roman God of his namesake. In fact, it was easy to picture his hulking broad chest covered in golden battle armor. As it was, his gray sweatshirt clung to his body in such a way that his abs and shape were very well defined underneath it. Alastor barely reaches his top pecs in height, and finds it necessary to look up at him to meet his eyes.

"Alastor, yeah?" he says in a voice that rolls off the tongue like velvet, "I'm Marshal."

Alastor reaches up to shake the large black hand offered to him. It's a strong grip around his bone thin palm. Husk can see the respect on Alastor's face already, and understands where it comes from.

"Nice to meet you," the little radio host says politely.

"Careful, Al," Husk tells him jokingly, "Mars here is trying to get you into the next dog fight."

"Really...? Isn't that just a brute fest?"

Mars rubs his neck a bit as he laughs at the comment, going on to say, "Well, you're not wrong. But it would be interesting to see a little guy like you bringing in some actual strategy for once. I saw what you did to Harvard, man. That's talent. Just give it some thought, yeah?"

"Sure." Alastor smiles with the most friendly expression he can muster.

"Great! Get some rest, man, you look like Hell~"

Mars pats Alastor on the back, giving him and Husk a cheerful wave before he treads off down the hallway. Now that Mars is out of sight, Alastor buzzes with such mercurial temperament that he starts walking back to cell thirty-three without another word to his dear friend. Husk is so perplexed that he follows the walking pile of bones all the way there. The walk isn't far. But any lingering silence with Alastor around creates an eerie uncertainty in the air.

Husk steps into their shared cell and takes a seat on the bottom bunk. Alastor takes up the spot directly next to him, as if he's less on edge with Husk staying close. Even so, Alastor rests his back against the cold wall and draws his legs up to curl in on himself self-consciously. Husk watches him curiously. This is totally new. Alastor had always been perfectly at ease with his body language. He spoke it like poet, drawing upon the motions to add an extra level of charisma to his actions. Seeing him crouched like this is a warning sign. Now Husk is absolutely sure that something happened to him.

"Alastor?" he lightly prods, "What happened?"

"What...?" Comes the quiet reply.

"What did they lock you in solitary for...?" Husk clarifies hesitantly. Alastor tenses up even more. As the quiet stretches on into oblivion, Husk thinks he won't get an answer at all. Finally, after a solid minute of waiting, Alastor looks over at him with a heavy sigh.

"I... attacked that man..." he elaborates, unhelpfully if Husk has to complain about anything. It's sort of funny that Alastor of all people isn't talking his ear off about every minuscule detail. Any other time, he'd be going on for at least an hour about how hilarious the whole thing was. This in mind, Husk wills himself to be patient. He takes a moment to make sure his voice isn't gruff and judgmental.

"Did he hurt you?"

"He groped me... Tried to..." Alastor presses a hand to his forehead, sudden headache returning. Husk can't help but notice that he looks much smaller than usual like this. He's pale and thin in a way that's almost gaunt. He can almost swear his clothes are two sizes too big now. Husk doesn't need any more than that to understand. Alastor never finishes the thought either. He only wets his lips and tightens his arms around himself.

"Husk..." he turns his head to look at him, large worried brown eyes striking through the bigger man's thoughts effortlessly, "Would you teach me how to be strong?"

"Huh?"

"Train me, I mean. In case I need to fight."

"Huh... Why do you want to get strong? You always make fun of what a brute I am. And how brain is more important than brawn. It's never bothered you before."

Alastor swallows thickly and looks away from him. He wraps his arms around his knees and rests his chin on them. It's just like the pose of a child, trying to hide from the demons in the closet after a nightmare. Of course, The radio star's demons were always a little more literal than that.

"I..." his voice stutters, "I need... to be able to defend myself. As I am now, I'm just too.. weak... I haven't got a chance..."

Husk stares at him, at the honesty on full display. A swell of pride rises in his chest. Alastor is taking his advice for once. The bigger man hesitantly reaches out to put his hand on Alastor's shoulder. It's weight doesn't make him flinch at all. The warmth makes him breathe a little easier.

.

...

.

It's one in the morning. The same routine has happened to him at least once a week now, so he expects the bright flash of blinding white in his eyes. Wordlessly, Alastor climbs down from his bunk and steps into his shoes. He hasn't seen Radcliffe in a while, due to his confinement in solitary. The break was nice. But he swallows a knot of nervous tension as the guards slap metal handcuffs onto him again—this time in front. He quirks a brow at the choice. It doesn't change much in the grand scheme of things, but being able to see his hands and move his arms more comfortably in front of his chest is small mercy that he's thankful for.

The guards don't bring him to the interrogation room this time. He knows better than to ask them any questions that would only go unanswered. But his heart stutters as they unlock the door leading to the execution chamber. The hallway is pitch black, illuminated only by the burning electrical torch in the guard's hand. Alastor takes note that there is one small holding cell back here, and further down the hallway—the lethal injection room. He's glad he can't see inside that room, at the end of the hall. But he can hear the whispers of the damned spirits who have died there. Lingering and frozen in time forever.

The guards shove him into the holding cell, door creaking shut behind them as they lock him in. He swallows the heat in his throat. It's perfect black without their light. He can't even make out what the cell around him looks like. Only that it's small, and so temporary that there is only a dusty metal chair instead of a cot.

He jerks his head towards the door when he hears footsteps approaching. There's a dim light there, from a lantern. His chest does a somersault when he sees Valentino LeBoeuf holding it, wearing a calm smile on his face. The bigger man traces right up to Alastor's cell and unlocks it with a thunk of a key sliding into the lock. Once he enters, it's promptly locked again behind him. Alastor stands still, staring at the eyes raking up and down his body. Valentino sets the lantern down on the unused chair. It floods the cell with just enough light to see a handful of spiders slithering away back into the cracks of darkness.

"Hello Alastor~ Having a good evening?" The man says casually. He takes a moment to roll up the sleeves of his blue collared shirt. Hair still long and held back behind him by a neatly tied ponytail.

"Why the new arrangements?" Alastor asks cautiously.

"The interrogations haven't been very successful with you... So I thought we'd try a new approach," he smiles thinly, "Speaking of... I recently had a chat with your mother. And your girlfriend."

Alastor stares dumbfounded, eyes wide with worry that he can't hide fast enough. Valentino paces towards him as he stands there stiffly. He has nowhere to run. He's forced to accept it when Valentino grabs the chain between his tight metal cuffs. They're easily pulled over Alastor's head and secured to a metal link embedded in the dark slate. It forces him to dangle on the wall with his arms stuck in the awkward position above him. He keeps a steady glare leveled on the colossal man as he's maneuvered there like a doll on strings. He can't help but notice that they're alone in this part of the prison, utter silence making it clear that no one would hear them here. Every tiny chink of his metallic chains echoes off down the rounded hallway like the ghostly wails of a fog horn at sea.

"Your girl..." Valentino muses, "Charlotte, right? She's beautiful. What a sweet little flower she is... Must be nice to keep such a pretty woman in your bed, hmm?"

"Don't talk about her as if she's an object," Alastor snarls, genuine hate pooling all the way up his blood stream.

"That's a touchy subject, huh? Funny... she mentioned that Robert Mumford made a pass at her too. Just before you killed him." Valentino reaches his hand out. Alastor flinches as if he's about to be hit in the face. It forces a shocked gasp from the core of his chest when Valentino's hand cups his cheek instead. It's nauseating. Like a chilled snake skin creeping over his skin. Radcliffe is too close. Alastor shouldn't be able to feel the body heat pouring off of the other human being. He tries to move his head to get away from the ghastly touch, but the man merely slips his fingers under Alastor's chin to grip him forcibly.

"I didn't kill him," Alastor forces himself to say coolly.

"You're sticking to your story?"

"Let go of me."

Contrary to the request, Valentino places his other hand on Alastor's chest. His head is pounding now. There's an immense burning sensation right behind his eyes, like a tapeworm trying to burrow it's way out of the socket. He hates the way his entire body is shaking. There's a flash of uncomfortable white clawing at the corners of his vision, memories of how horrible it felt to be pushed down like this before. The hand on his chest gropes downward slowly until the tanned fingers brush over his hip. Right under the hem of his shirt, they tickle over the pale hidden flesh there. The brunette shudders a breathy gasp that stings right down to his lungs.

"I'll let go if you confess, Alastor," the criminal investigator licks his lips and steps even closer, "It would be so easy... You could cut your life sentence down by a few years... maybe even earn parole..."

"You're lying to sweeten the deal. Even I know that."

"Clever, hmm?"

Valentino keeps talking, but the blaring sirens of panic in Alastor's ears deafen him to whatever bull philosophy the man is spewing. His wrists strain hard against the metal cuffs binding him in place. The joints at his shoulder sockets are already sore from being held over his head for this long. The brunette twists his face away from the other man. Pressing his chin hard into his arm, he doesn't want to acknowledge the hand feeling him up. As cold fingers slither across one of his expansive pink scars, his breath catches uncomfortably as if he's choking.

"Ohhh~" the criminal investigator practically purrs. Alastor can feel his hot breath right up near his thread-bear collar. It's worse that the tone is a wake-up call to the brunette's system, like a blast of ice water down the spine. "Does that little minx Charlotte touch you like this?"

That stirs up a toxic acid down Alastor's throat.

"Don't you dare say her name like that!"

"Hmm... the longer you're stuck in here, the longer that poor girl has to go unsatisfied. She might just find another lover to treat her right~" Valentino emphasizes the statement with a putrid thrust of his hips. The man presses his knee right between Alastor's legs as a finishing touch, and the former star has to suppress the urge to vomit.

"Charlie is not that kind of woman," he spits.

"Every woman is that kind of woman, Al... Especially the cute little rich girls. I bet that blonde little beauty would spread her legs for any man, wouldn't she~"

Alastor won't accept those words. To hear such vulgarity aimed at Charlie... the dear sweet and innocent love of his life—it won't stand. In his precarious position, Alastor can't lash out the way he'd like to. He does draw up his knee though, kicking violently at Valentino's chest to knock the man away from him. He feels the hard chest connect with the heel of his flat shoe- thrusts outward with every enraged muscle of his high-strung body. It brings him an immense sense of satisfaction to see the taller man fly backward. His back and shoulder blades smash against the metal bars of the cell. And if the ringing "ding" is to be believed, his skull definitely cracked back into the silver surface of one of them. There's a considerably dazed look in the man's dark eyes, difficult as they are to see from Alastor's restricted place under the cover of the shadows. The brunette steels a hardened glare as the broad shouldered man simply rolls his head as if the blow didn't affect him.

This time, Valentino does smack him across the face. It's an incredible swift strike that blasts Alastor's vision to a blinding white for a few seconds. His teeth rattle like a rolling skeleton's jaw. He's quick enough to recover afterwards, only to have the back of the man's hand crack into his cheek a second time. A large red mark sears hot over his skin. It stirs a shrill wince from the strained depths of his throat and the reaction alone makes Valentino laugh softly. Then once again Alastor's personal space is invaded the way it was before. This time with a thick hand around his thin throat- jerking his head viciously into the stone wall behind him. If he wasn't already seeing stars, the dark Gaussian blur combined with his naturally impaired vision is like trying to stare out a impossibly frosted window pane. Then that hand at his throat squeezes.

"Alastor... shame on you. I thought a chivalrous man like you wouldn't resort to violence."

His answer is a defiant glare and his best attempt of a smirk. The restriction of oxygen is making short work of him. The irresistible promise of a black out waiting for him at the end allows him to embrace it. But then, like an adrenaline high abruptly crushed under a booted heel—Valentino releases him to breathe again. He could hold it just to spite the man. But his natural human panic for survival has him gasping in greedy lungfuls of air so fast that it burns.

"Here's the deal, Alastor..." Valentino says slowly, drawing out every last syllable, "Confess to your crime. Or give me some helpful details from the point of view as a witness. Then I'll let you go back to your cell. What do you say?"

There is no better option in that deal, Alastor doesn't fail to notice. Either way, Valentino wins. Normally, the prospect of wheeling and dealing at a high stakes game would elate him. Now that it's turned against him though, it leaves an acidic taste in his mouth. Alastor draws up his head as high as he can. His smile is, against all odds, still in tact. And it even sharpens at the curve to the manic expression of a monstrosity.

"Fuck you~"

Alastor says it simply, with no room for debate following the icy silence between. It's a phrase he's heard from Husker any number of times, the hurtful disinterest lacing the tone like arsenic. He is forced to take a pained swallow or realization though, when he sees that Valentino's calm demeanor hasn't been breached whatsoever.

"Wrong answer, honey~"

...

.
...