Chapter 24 Don't raise up the dead

There is no real measure of time.

It was no news for Christine. She knew that whoever thought time was measured in minutes, hours, years didn't know a thing. It wasn't the first time it had happened to her, to become an observer of her own life, her own body, as her mind fought to make sense. She heard the sob that escaped her throat and a small part of her was coherent enough to think, "Now, your brain is taking the extra oxygen it needs to deal with what happened. The extra breath. So that's what sobs are for—"

She registered Dylan's hand on hers, squeezing. He muttered something she missed as the pulse pounding in her ears blocked his words. The all-too-familiar vise around her throat choked her but kept madness and tears at bay as she watched him use the untraceable phone, wait for a few tense, endless seconds before throwing it on the table. No answer. She shook her head in denial.

Christine didn't know if the terror slowly gripping her was evident in her face. She doubted she looked as composed as Dylan looked. Was it his doctor's training? Was he in surgeon mode? Questions the sane, detached part of her asked as if irrelevant thoughts helped, kept her at a distance from a reality she refused to accept. She didn't know if she looked stunned or shocked. She didn't feel that way. There was just that sense of pressure, a first level of silence struggling to contain a deep wail that threatened to erupt, to overcome her. Relief would come if she stopped fighting it but the forced silence had a weight of its own, like a heavy blanket, a body of water threatening to suffocate her.

Was it the shock? It was nothing like the aftermath of that night at the alley. She wasn't worried about Kepler's safety. This time she had heard the explosion. Her own senses had delivered the message loud and clear. Had she lost him? Was what they had that fragile and so frail that it could be lost in a second? She shook her head in denial.

She rushed to grab her phone but Dylan's hand on her wrist stopped her. "Leave the line open. He might call you."

This time she heard him under the heartbeat roaring in her ears. His tone was raw, hard. This time she welcomed the out-of-body feeling that muted the doubts. She catalogued a lot of different details. The economy in Dylan's movements as he retrieved a list of phone numbers from the back pocket of his jeans, trying another, leaving the list on the table as he waited. Another fruitless attempt. She traced the folds of the white piece of paper with the pads of her fingers—not white, cream. The list was in Kepler's aggressive yet neat handwriting. Black ink, no arrows in Dylan's list. She stifled another sob. Kepler was in that paper just under her fingertips but the phone remained silent.

"Have faith in him." Dylan's eyes were warm. Was he feeling sorry for her? The detached part of her asked but she couldn't bring herself to listen or care.

Christine was not new to mourning or loss, but this…. There was a chasm in her, a deep chasm into which part of her threatened to dive, become lost forever, and what would be left behind would be that silly, idiotic yet logical voice that made handwriting observations and counted how many minutes had passed since the blast. Three minutes? Was it only three? She smiled at time's mockery. She honestly felt herself to be on the verge of laughter. Maybe she did laugh, but she didn't hear the sound. Four minutes. Now five. Time had space, volume, weight. How could minutes measure it?

She didn't hear her phone ring. She saw Dylan's hand moving towards it, she saw the screen light, a number she didn't recognize. Her fingers proved unable to answer it. It was Dylan who swiped his finger on the screen and brought it to her ear, staying close enough to listen.

"I'm okay, Christine. Don't worry, I'm okay," Kepler said before she managed to utter a word.

"Kepler? Are you sure?" The pressure, the knot in her throat, was evident in her voice. She didn't know if she was asking whether he was hurt or if he was sure he was Kepler.

"Of course I'm sure. Sam is a bit shaken though. Could you pass the phone to Dylan for a second?" She looked at Dylan but her fingers refused to release the device. "My phone is broken so I had to use Sam's phone. I'll deal with that later. I'm fine, Christine, I swear. Put it on speaker if you want, I have nothing to hide." She nodded in recognition. This really was Kepler, reading her thoughts, her fears even an ocean away. She felt the chasm getting narrower as she turned the speaker on and placed the phone on the table.

"Are you injured?" Dylan's voice was sober, need for evaluation more evident than care in his tone.

"Only mild lacerations. And a constant ringing in my ears. Nothing really." A pause. "Spencer's body shielded me from the glass." Kepler's voice was hard, detached. She wondered what part of himself he'd lost in the chasm.

"How's Sam?"

"He seems okay but he's on and off. He has cuts that definitely need stitches. I'm not sure what else—" She clearly heard the sound of steps on shattered glass.

"You know how to move him—"

"I know. I'll try…I don't want to do more damage but we have to leave this place as soon as possible. I can't assess his injuries here. I have to take him to a hospital."

"Be careful." There was a silent alarm in Dylan's voice. A warning.

"I'll do it the Gallagher way, don't worry. I'd better hurry now that he's unconscious."

"We're coming over."

"No, Dylan. I'm not in the city. Not even close. I'm not even in the state."

"It's been arranged."

There was silence for a while.

"Perhaps it's for the best." Usually, Kepler didn't resign himself so easily.

"Don't do anything rushed." Dylan's tone was a plea and an order. Christine looked at him, puzzled. They were eleven hours away. She had heard Gallagher was living in Europe. What could Kepler do in the meantime?

Kepler's silence alarmed her.

"Kepler?" She checked he was still on the line.

"I'll be careful." The words were clearly for her sake but the tone was grave, unrelenting. The decision had already been taken. "Dylan, I'll text you the details about Sam and Spencer when I know them."

"Do what you have to do but don't raise up the dead." Dylan's words were cryptic, vulgar, even tacky considering the situation and hardly made any sense.

"It's too late for that now, Dylan. Way too late."

The phone went dead and Christine struggled with relief and worry as she replayed parts of the phone call in her mind.

"The 'Gallagher way'?"

"He'll drive Sam to the hospital and leave. Like Gallagher did when I took hold of the Library."

She opened her mouth to ask more, but Dylan's face stopped her. After his previous self-control, the sight of his glassy eyes shook her. He averted his stare as if embarrassed by his weakness and stood, his movements slow, heavy. For the first time that night, the ugly reality registered. Whether by his own hands or another's, a man, a young man, had died. It took another man's pain—Dylan's—for the information to really sink in. Whoever Spencer was, whatever he did, now he was gone and the chances of him changing his deeds, redeeming himself, changing his life, were gone forever. The finality of death, the absolute nature of what had happened was reflected in Dylan's eyes without doubt, without hope.

"Dylan—"

He seemed to need all the support provided by his hands, which were clenching the back of the chair hard.

"I'm going to change, get my stuff—" He looked around, disoriented, confused, taking the details of the surroundings in as if he'd never see them again. As if his world had changed forever. "I'll let Rebecca know, Bea—"

Christine stood and hugged him in an awkward embrace he didn't reciprocate. He was so tense it felt as if she were hugging a huge trunk of tree. She squeezed harder for a moment—she knew how that deep chasm could rip a person apart—and, equally awkwardly, released him. He strode to the elevator without a backwards glance. The door slid shut soundlessly, concealing the sight of his rigid shoulders, his stiff back.

Not allowing any second thoughts to change her mind, she dialed the familiar phone number.

"JC? What's wrong?" Cassie's sleepy voice sounded as if it hailed from another universe.

"Nothing, nothing. I'm fine." She shuddered as she thought of the evening. Completely drained, she didn't know where to start, what to share.

"Who isn't?" Tears of relief welled up at Cassie's insight. She now sounded fully awake.

"A friend of Dylan's and Kepler's died tonight. I won't get into details—you'd better stay away from them—but it's bad. Really bad."

"What do you need?"

A tear slipped out and ran down her face. For Cassie's sharp understanding, for Dylan's pain, for Kepler's.

"Nothing. I didn't really know the man, but it's tough for them. I'm leaving in a couple of hours with Dylan," she hesitated, "I'm not sure what kind of relationship you two have—"

"I'll call him now." Damn, she was good and she had really missed her. "Thank you, JC. Thank you for calling me," Cassie clarified, not assuming that things between them were back to normal.

Ending the call, Christine had absolute faith in Cassie's ability to soothe Dylan. It was her own self she doubted. She wished she had Cassie's easy understanding of people. Her empathy and her instincts. To know when to talk, when to remain silent, when to push and when to listen.

The flight was awkward and uncomfortable. Dylan's worn, pale face and bloodshot eyes kept her questions at bay. When he laid his head back against his seat and closed his eyes pretending he was asleep—something he had claimed he never did during flights—she knew he was shutting her out. Weighed down by the turmoil of the previous day—and night—she surrendered herself to a restless semblance of sleep. Every time she woke up Dylan was quick to look away, but she registered a blanket over her before she closed her eyes again.

When they landed, she watched him take care of the car rental details after texting a message with the efficiency he had always demonstrated in the past. He even looked better now, even though his face was still pale.

"Let's book a room and we'll take one step at a time."

The hotel he chose—"I can't stand the furniture at the Hilton"—had a view of the airport, minimalist design and claimed to have stunning artwork in each room. Christine was not an expert but the marble-like—or was it cloudlike?—enlarged photos covering one wall were relaxing and she couldn't hear a sound from the outside even though she saw the airplanes landing at the terminals. More than anything she approved of the connecting rooms they had acquired. She was determined to listen to every phone call Dylan made and he, knowing that, had left the adjoining door open.

Once more, his movements showed economy and precision as he provided explanations in a business-like tone.

"Do not use the hotel's Wi-Fi." He booted up the laptop he carried and called Dan. "It's slow, unstable and unsafe." He followed Dan's instructions and opened a couple of websites. "It's working," he declared, "thanks," he added before ending the call. "You can use this," he said. He meant the laptop, and turned it over to her after closing the sites.

Surprisingly, Dylan's withdrawal, his detachment, was scarier than Kepler's. It was in Kepler's nature to always be in control, his aloofness was not a façade. Dylan's behavior was understandable under the circumstances but alarming.

"I'll order food and you'll eat, we'll both eat," he said, realizing his tone was abrupt. "We need our strength. You didn't eat anything on the plane."

His phone vibrated, signaling a text message, when Dylan was letting the food in. He checked it and threw it on the bed.

"Sometimes I wish I had Gallagher in front of me. I don't know what I'd do but this has to end. Even jail time can't be worse than this nightmare." He buried his fingers in his hair.

This was more like Dylan, but she looked at him, clueless.

"Kepler is still in the States?"

He nodded as he took one quarter of his club sandwich and gulped it down almost without chewing. She doubted he had a concept of taste at the moment. He seemed more on auto-pilot and Christine couldn't comprehend what was happening. She knew Gallagher was in Europe, so what was so terrible that Kepler could do to him overseas?

"Dylan, please—" She fixed her eyes on him as she saw him pull a fresh shirt from his suitcase. "Don't leave me in the dark." He hesitated on his way to the bathroom. "Wasn't Spencer's death a suicide?"

"JC, Spence is…was a strategist. I've told you that before. He's just set up a game where his death is the catalyst…the trigger. The move that unleashes Kepler against Gallagher. He gives him an opportunity but he also allows him no choice."

She remained silent, urging him to go on. His words made no sense.

"Spencer knew that he couldn't get Gallagher on his own. He was also fully aware that Kepler would never really work with him again. He knew that Kepler would go after Gallagher if the motivation was right. His death was that 'motivation'. The 'push' he thought Kepler needed. And he provided the tools for action."

Without a clear grasp of what was happening, Christine felt the realization slowly sink in. It was a weight on her stomach. Could a man use his own death like this?

"I don't know what really happened either—" Dylan replied to the questions obviously mirrored in her face, "but I believe that in his mind, his own death, the ambiguity of the circumstances, is his 'gift' to Kepler." Christine's eyes widened at his words. "Kepler just sent me the details about his body. I have to take care of this, talk with the police. Bea will be here tomorrow. She told Rebecca that after we left her, Bea called Spencer and told him herself what had happened as he'd instructed her to do in case Kepler found out their role in this. Of course she had no idea what he was going to do. Do you see how planned all this was on his part? If I know him even a little, there were a dozen plan Bs covering every option. Given the short notice, he either set this up all by himself or tried again to lure Gallagher into something, forcing him to act."

"But what can Kepler do? Isn't Gallagher in Europe?"

Dylan's only response was a blank stare before he entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Christine had no patience left. She grabbed Dylan's phone from the bed and called back the number from the latest message. Rushing into her room, she closed the door behind her, and leaning against it, she counted the rings with her thudding heartbeats.

"Dylan, I told you not to—"

"Kepler—" she interrupted the irritated voice with her own thin whisper.

"Christine? It is not safe for you to use this phone number." The words were reprimanding but the tone was warm, full of need.

"Are you safe?"

"Yes, of course I'm safe."

"You won't do anything dangerous—"

"Dangerous for whom?" He was cool and collected again. The need safely tucked away as if it had never been there.

"You don't believe Gallagher planted that bomb, do you?" There was no time to beat around the bush.

"I don't know and at this point I don't care. It's either Gallagher or Spencer himself. Whoever did it, for whatever reason, the point is this: Spencer was drawn past his limits. I don't know whether he was depressed or sick as Dylan claims but the bottom line is that he didn't see any other way out." He sighed, taking a deep breath. He hadn't raised his voice but she could hear the distress under his measured tone. "Do you remember that night you listened to us talking? He told me about his 'death is the answer to all questions' theory and I thought he was talking only about that silly game. I should have listened to him. Truly listened." Instead, that night he'd listened to her.

"You couldn't do anything. I heard him that night. What could you do?" she muttered uncomfortably, uncertainty evident in her voice.

"That's the point, Christine. I don't know. All I know is that I clearly missed doing what I should have done." He laughed, self-mockingly. "Based on the outcome, I blew it."

"Kepler this is the guilt, the shock talking. It's too soon, it's all too fresh to let you see reason. Please don't rush into something you'll regret."

"Perhaps. Perhaps all Spencer wanted was to drown me in guilt the way he felt it weighing on him. Guess what? He succeeded." She hated the pained admission in his voice.

"Kepler—"

"I don't want to, my logic rejects it. I always believed guilt is ridiculous, self-serving, useless but I feel it, Christine," he interrupted her objection, "I can't fight it."

"Let me see you." She needed to hold him. She couldn't endure his suffering.

"I couldn't. At least till everything is over."

"What will be over? Why can't I see you? Wherever you are, I'll come to you."

"I couldn't stand it. Not now."

"You couldn't stand seeing me?" She couldn't restrain the hurt lacing her voice or the anger stirring up.

"Not now, Christine," he pleaded. "I need to stay focused. It'd be my undoing." His voice had dropped an octave lower. There was a hint of shame there. At his confession? At his actions? Did he think she would make him weak? Christine felt her temper rising.

"Then you know what you'll do is wrong and you don't want me to stir any doubts."

"Wrong?" He was composed again. Remote. Impassive. "I went past right and wrong years ago. Way before I tricked you into my life." There was a cruelty in his voice now. Raw. Deliberate.

"I won't let you drive me away, Kepler. Okay, I won't lecture you with right and wrong but I have to doubt how wise acting now is when you don't know all the facts."

"Wise? Let me offer this crumb of wisdom then: In real life there are rarely 'facts', Christine. There are perspectives and possibilities. Either Spencer did it to force my hand, to force me make a stand—do you think the thought hasn't crossed my mind?—or Gallagher interfered. He always felt he had Spencer figured out. Gallagher either knows I survived Phase I or he doesn't. By taking action I may reveal to him I'm alive or not, but if he already knows, who cares? See? So many possibilities. Whoever orchestrated this wanted to push my buttons. Guess what? He succeeded."

"The Kepler I know would not act in the heat of the moment," she stated stubbornly.

"Perhaps you don't know me as well as you think. You shouldn't have come here in the first place."

"I could have been here—" she couldn't manage to utter the rest but it was a fact. If she had accepted his marriage proposal, she'd have been beside him. "What would you have done then? If I was already by your side?"

For a moment there was silence, but when he talked his voice was cold.

"I won't indulge in hypotheses. This is the present. This is the reality we all face. I'm not a free man. I can't divorce my past or ignore my duties. I have to end this," he declared passionlessly and she couldn't believe she could do nothing to shake the finality, the purpose in his voice.

"Please, Kepler. Please don't do anything you'll regret."

"It's too late, Christine. It's already started and I don't believe in regrets."

The breath left her lungs painfully in a resigned sigh. This was Kepler. She couldn't change his mind.

"Wha can I do then? I don't want to leave you alone in this."

"Believe me, I won't be alone."

If you think writing is hard, posting without a computer is even harder.

I didn't want to keep the last chapter without an update this week, so if something is not working you know what to blame.

As this story is very close to the end this is the time to wrap up things but also review! I'd love to hear from you before we say goodbye.

TOWDNWTBN, Vale thank you girls!