On the Run
Chapter 1: Real Men
It was a warm September day in a typical American subdivision in a typical town. A typical town filled with typical people. Its name was Shady Grove. The subdivision was called Golden Meadows.
Joe Young was a typical American bachelor. He drove into Golden Meadows and found his house three blocks down, 411 Sycamore Drive.
The town was almost perfect. You could imagine white picket fences between the houses. You could almost see neighbors talking to each other over the fences while one weeded the garden.
But with anything perfect, there must be a dark secret behind all this perfection. Everyone in the subdivision was a wizard or witch, or at least married to or a child of a wizard or witch.
Joe drove into the garage of this small, seemingly perfect house, next to the car of his brother, Kevin. Joe stepped out of the car and walked into his living room.
"Hey, Kev," he said as he took off his shoes and put them by the door. Kevin was watching ESPN. It was about 5:30. The day was Thursday, September 7, 2000.
"Hey," Kevin said as he turned the television off and got up off the couch. He was a year younger than the twenty-five year old Joe.
"I picked some dinner up," Joe said as he set a McDonald's bag on the kitchen table.
"Good," Kevin said. Kevin yawned and proceeded to the kitchen table. "You got drinks?"
"No."
"Why?"
"It's cheaper to get the food without the drinks," Joe answered.
"We're out of drinks," Kevin told Joe.
"Do we have water?" Joe asked.
"No more bottles. And I don't think you want to drink tap water, do you?" Joe recalled the recent environmental situation with the tap water in Shady Grove.
"No, not at all. I'll run down to the gas station and pick up some Cokes and some water. Cool?" Joe was already walking out the door before his brother responded.
"Okay." Joe did not hear his brother as he was already in his car, starting it up. He opened the garage and backed out. He was back in a few minutes, carrying two paper bags, one with a pack of water battles, the other with Cokes.
"I'm here," Joe said as he walked into the house. His brother was eating a chicken nugget.
"Thanks," Kevin said as he got up and helped his brother with the pack of Cokes. They then ate their dinner.
At approximately 9:07 PM, Kevin headed to bed. Joe went to bed at 10:03.
Joe woke up that morning at about 6:24. He rose up from his bed and noticed what appeared to be men in black suits walking in Kevin's room across the hall. Joe rubbed his eyes. The image came back into focus once more. It was the same thing. I can't be seeing this. Joe stepped into Kevin's room.
"What's going on?" he asked one of the sharply dressed men. The man was wearing silver sunglasses as well.
"Nothing, Joe. Name's Michael Bay. You see, I received a report from your neighbor a few hours ago. Seems she heard some screams coming from your house. We came over here at once," Michael said. Joe's heart sank. And that name...where did it come from? He knew he had heard it before.
"What happened to Kevin?" Joe asked. The man in the suit sighed and looked down. He swallowed and looked backed up.
"Your brother's dead. You're under arrest."
* * *
Nathan Talon lived in a small English town, much like Joe Young's, only British. He drove into his house, greeted by his wife, Leah. He kissed her and greeted his son Clark, age ten.
It was Friday, September 8, 2000. The time was 6:49 PM. Nathan could smell the sound of roast beef and potatoes, along with green beans.
"Thanks," he said. His wife smiled. He sat down and began to eat, discussing the latest football game with this son Clark.
Nathan lived in the Wizard District of London, England. He had been keeping tabs on the upcoming election, unlike Joe Young, whom he had never met.
They ate dinner, and Clark went off to do his homework. Nathan cleaned up the kitchen for his wife, who had a headache. His wife went on to bed. The time was 7:15 PM. Nathan was finished cleaning the kitchen at 7:30. He took a shower and read some of The Daily Prophet. He then discussed a Quidditch game with his son.
"Dad, Chuck Leon couldn't catch a Snitch if his life depended on it. He's old, and he stinks," Clark said.
"The championship game against Rome...he was great in that," Nathan said admiringly.
"They were lucky," said Clark. "Very lucky. It was a bad year for the Premier League anyway."
"Chuck was the MVP," Nathan pointed out.
"Another sign of the bad year," Clark countered. Nathan sighed loudly as he continued another futile fight with his son. They argued until nine o'clock about the strategies and games of their favorite teams. Clark wasn't that bad of a Quidditch player himself.
At nine, Clark went off to take a shower and hit the sack. Nathan took a long hot shower and went off to bed.
That night, Leah Talon had to use the bathroom. It was approximately 3:00 AM when Nathan's wife was killed walking back to his bedroom.
At 3:01 AM, Nathan's son Clark was murdered near the bathroom by magic.
The approximate time of death for Nathan's neighbor, Melvin Quincy, was 4:13 AM. He had been stabbed through the heart with a hunting knife.
Nathan Talon awoke at 5:56 AM. He yawned and stretched. The first thing he noticed was the group of men wearing black suits, and one was wearing silver sunglasses.
"Get out of my house," Nathan said while yawning again. The man pointed to Nathan's wife. Nathan gasped and began to cry.
"Do you know what happened, Nathan?" the man asked.
"Who are you?" Nathan asked.
"Just answer the question."
"She's dead," Nathan said.
"Yes, that's obvious," the man said in a monotone.
"Where's Clark?" Nathan asked, scared for his son's life.
"Nathan, you see...we have evidence..." the man in sunglasses began.
And then Nathan knew what these men were here to do.
* * *
A man known simply to prisoners as Charlie led Nathan through the holding chambers on September 10. He was scared. The rooms had an eerie lighting, but he did not know whether or not that was his imagination. There were few men in the holding cells, which surprised Nathan, who had always figured that there were lots of folks that would be in where he was.
Charlie was a large British man that Nathan would not want to mess with; Charlie was at least twice the size of him.
"Cell 122. This is yours." Charlie took out a key and opened the cell. He let Nathan in and slammed the door shut. Then Nathan saw Charlie crush the door key, eating the remains. He's a giant.
Charlie walked back. He had another person to escort. That person's name was Joe Young.
* * *
Joe Young was thrown into his cell, and he saw Charlie eat the key. He was in Cell 123. The justice system was screwed up; he had to wait till early December for his trial to start. The cell had walls of steel. There was one lone bed, and it looked as if the mattress was made of plastic.
Joe landed on the bed. It was rather hard.
"Hey, you over there," said the man in the cell next to him. Joe looked around before identifying the voice. It was rather British.
"Oh, hi," he said in his American accent, which contained a hint of a Cajun accent. "Who're you?"
"Nathan Talon."
"Hi, I'm Joe Young," Joe said. "Yes, like the gorilla. My dad was a huge film buff." Joe sighed and stared at the floor for a second before looking back up at Nathan. "What're you here for?"
"I was framed for murder. My neighbor, my wife, my boy." Tears began to swell up in Nathan's eyes as he began to remember them. "Same here. Just it was my brother." Joe looked down. He was trying not to cry.
"It's alright, poor it out," Nathan said. "Real men..." His last word was drowned out by his sobbing.
But Joe couldn't cry. He tried and tried...but he couldn't. Did this make him less real? Less emotional? Uncaring? Joe hoped not.
* * *
Joe Young woke up, screaming in pain and agony. The entire hallway awoke, yelling and cursing.
"What's going on?" yelled Charlie in his low bass voice. "You stupid Americans are always doing something..."
"I gotta go peepee!" Joe whined. Charlie stared him in the eye. He's not a criminal, Charlie thought. A bad guy would know how to hold it.
"Come with me."
* * *
Joe stepped into the stall and locked it. He began to unzip his pants, ready to let it out.
And then the door was pulled back, producing a series of sounds Joe thought never would come from a bathroom stall door?
"Can you let me do my thing, man?" Joe asked. "I don't know how you take a leak in England, but we like to do it in privacy down home."
"You're a criminal. I watch you and your friends for a job. And I don't lie down on the job," Charlie replied. Joe couldn't help but wonder if his last name was "Angel."
"Charlie, are you, you know?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know...are you like that? One of those kinda guys?" Joe asked.
"I don't know what you are talking about," Charlie replied.
"Are you like that purple Teletubbie?!" Joe screamed, demanding an answer.
"I talk comprehensibly, thank you very much." Charlie apparently did not understand the question. He's hiding something, Joe thought to himself.
Joe sighed to himself. He had to get out of here.
* * *
Time seemed to pass quickly in the holding cells. Nathan couldn't help but wonder if the rest of his life–likely to be spent in Azkaban–would pass as quickly as the past week had.
Charlie's loud footsteps echoed through the hall. Joe hid himself as far in the corner as possible.
"You," Charlie said, pointing at Nathan. "You have a visitor." Who? Nathan thought, not asking aloud.
Charlie unlocked the door, which left Nathan wondering about the key the guard had swallowed his first day here. Either way, there was a key, it had unlocked the door, and Nathan was out.
However, his hands could not move. It was as if he were wearing invisible handcuffs.
Charlie's beefy hands grabbed Nathan around the arm, dragging him down the hallway. Nathan could only help but wonder who would want to see a man accused of murder.
* * *
"Nathan!" yelled the man sitting behind the anti-magic field. He was a balding man wearing a purple polo shirt, which seemed to accent his pot belly.
"Max, it's great to see ya'," Nathan replied calmly, taking a seat.
"Take as long as you wish," Charlie said aloud before leaving the room.
"This place gives me the creeps, man," Max stated, looking around. "It's so depressing."
"Try living here."
"Nah," Max replied, motioning his hand as if he were pushing something away.
"So what's the talk around town? Do people think I really killed three people?" Nathan asked quickly.
"Nathan Talon, no one thinks that you–even if you do support Merlin O'Brien–could possibly kill your neighbor, your kid, and your loving wife. Heck, not even that old Mrs. Crumpet thinks you did it." Max was referring to the seemingly psychic witch who lived down the street from Nathan. They had known her all their lives.
"Good," Nathan said, wiping his brow. He sighed. "Look, there's not really any evidence. I mean, I wasn't having marriage problems–" Nathan saw Max raise an eyebrow–"okay, maybe I might have been; but it wasn't that bad. Why would I kill my neighbor? Why would I kill my own son? Why would I, Nathan Talon, take a life?"
"I dunno why you would take a life. Or three, for that matter. But the fact remains, someone thinks you did. And when you get out of this place, you'll find him," Max said. "Or her," he added.
Charlie watched from the window, listening to the conversation. What were they planning?
Charlie stepped out of his room, grabbing Nathan by the arm. "I know what you're thinking about," he whispered to Nathan. "And you're not going to get it."
It appeared that Nathan's conversation had been cut short.
* * *
It was November. Joe sat in an interrogation room, staring at two men in sunglasses and black cloaks.
"Mister Young, were you having any problems with your brother?" asked the first man. Joe did not know their names, but these two men had been at his house that morning. They certainly appeared to be the men assigned to the investigation.
"No, not at all. I love my brother."
"I believe the verb should be in the past tense," said the second detective. "Your brother is dead. You killed him."
"I still love my brother. I can love a dead guy, can't I? And what are you accusing me of? All I know is that–"
"IS THAT YOU KILLED HIM!" replied the detective, shaking his finger at Joe. "You know you did, you little kid." If you are twenty-four and have supposedly committed a serious crime, you are apparently a mere child, Joe thought to himself.
"All I know is that I DIDN'T KILL HIM!" Joe stood up and kicked his chair into the table.
"Hey!" shouted the first detective. "You can't leave like that! We're trying to help you here!"
"Help me do what?" Joe asked. "Help me rot in Azkaban for all eternity? That doesn't sound like much help to me."
"We're only doing our jobs," came the reply from the first detective. "We have to make a living, you know."
"Well, go ruin someone else's life. I'm innocent." And with that, Joe picked up his chair and threw it at the wall.
"You can't do that!" yelled both detectives at Joe.
"Watch me," Joe said. The last thing he saw was a flash of green light before collapsing, unconscious.
* * *
"Joe!" Nathan yelled to the cell next to him. It was the middle of a cold December night.
"Go Saints..." Joe murmured in his dream. "Get the ball...score...you can do it...come on..."
"Wake up, Joe!"
"What?" Joe said, jumping from his bed. "Where's the rabid Rams fan?"
"Joe, over here!" Nathan said, waving his arms. "Today's the big day," he said with a sigh.
"Oh my God...I've lost track of time...you mean?"
"Yes, Joe. We're going to get their excuse for a fair trial and go to Azkaban."
"Stop thinking so negative, Nathan. We're gonna be innocent, man. Don't worry."
"Joe, I've got my sheets tied to the bar on the window. If I'm guilty, I'm hanging myself."
"What?!" Joe asked. "Nathan, are you crazy?!" Joe kicked the bars separating him and Nathan. Nathan shrugged.
"Maybe."
* * *
Joe sat in his orange prison jumpsuit, his hands magically bonded. He was in the courtroom, staring at the fat judge on the stand. He didn't seem to want to give the mighty Joe Young a chance.
"Joe Young, you young Americans disgust me," he said in a slightly French, slightly English accent.
"You don't think anything of violence. All you do is kill people for fun. Your culture, your media promotes this.
"And you are just a victim of this. I can't help it. However, I hereby pronounce you guilty of all charges. Life in Azkaban. Get out of my sight."
The gavel was pounded. Joe couldn't believe it. His "trial" had lasted about twenty minutes.
* * *
So this is it, Nathan thought as he was escorted into the courtroom. He passed Joe, who was trying hard to cry–something Joe couldn't seem to do–and had apparently been sent to Azkaban. They're gonna mock me for about twenty minutes and then tell me I'm a psychotic sick guy who killed three people.
Nathan was shoved into his seat by a guard he had never seen before. The old judge adjusted himself in his seat, looking over the docket.
"Order!" he said. "The trial of Nathan Ethan Talon will begin." The judge turned to face Nathan.
Who is this guy? Nathan thought to himself.
He looked at the nameplate. "Keyser Soze," it read.
"You're a piece of trash, Mister Talon. You're supposed to be a loving neighbor, a loving husband, a long father. However, after looking at the evidence, it appears you are none of these things. You're a victim of society. I've seen your kind before. The loving person on the outside, but on the inside they're full of hatred. I know why you killed these three people, Nathan. You know why. We all know why, Nathan.
"How do you explain yourself, man?"
Nathan took a deep breath before beginning. "I didn't do it. I loved my wife, I loved my son, I liked my neighbor."
"That's the past tense!" the judge said, coming to his feet and pointing his gavel at Nathan. "You loved them. You liked them."
"I believe you are leading me," Nathan said. "Like leading a witness."
"I believe you're guilty, Mister Talon."
And the mockery began.
* * *
The mockery continued for ten minutes. It's like a witch-hunt, Nathan thought to himself. They think what they want, and nothing's gonna change that.
"Mister Talon, you are no different than the man many years younger than you who I just saw. You both are liars. You both are idiots.
"You both are cold-blooded murderers.
"It is my pleasure to announce to pronounce you guilty of all charges. Goodbye, Mister Talon; and I hope you have a pleasant time rotting in Azkaban."
Joe exhaled deeply and stood. He would take his punishment like a man.
He cried.
Author's Note: Just to let you know, I've been meaning to do this for like, forever! Like since Election forever! Yes, folks, as stated before, this is the sequel. Don't be scared, it works just as well standing alone.
And as for the A/A genre, don't worry. This is merely setting up the characters and getting them where they need to get for the action to begin. There will be tons of action, tons of suspense, tons of my trademark stuff. (Even the sick jokes!) I started out in the A/A genre, and this is my return to it.
And the Saints lost! Can you believe it? And the Titans! My dream Super Bowl lineup has been kicked out of the playoffs! Ahh....guess I won't be pulling for a team this year.
Special thanks go out to Virgo, Madd Spammer, Draca, Slytherin Dragon, Chix, Colin, Ninamazing, and everyone who reads my stuff. (Even if you hated I won't be Home for Christmas.) But anyway, thanks for reading! (And reviewing! ::grins::)