You indeed read correctly - the story is finished. Enjoy!
For those who haven't read the rest of the story, I advise you to do so before reading this. For those who did read them but may have lost the thread of the story in the interminably long period between that part and this, a quick summary:
Fawkes is doing better, but when Hobbes goes into work, he discovers that both the Agency and the CIA are on the hunt for his friend. He alerts Claire, but before she and Darien can abscond from Eberts's place, agents turn up at the door. They conceal themselves, but Darien has lost the ability to go invisible, and with an agent about to discover them, this is one game of hide and seek it will be hard to win...
And now, the conclusion...
For the Good...
part 11
Bobby Hobbes sat in his car, parked on the curb across the street from his apartment, and stared up at the shaded windows.
They had been there already. He had checked with binoculars, verified that the light in the bathroom window he had set to switch off when the door was opened had been triggered. That darkness was proof of their entry, even if the agents since had departed.
He didn't dare go up. He had cased the block twice to be sure and hadn't seen anyone suspicious, no joggers on loops or mysterious parked vans from nonexistent flower shops. So no one watching the outside, but he knew better than to suppose they would leave his apartment uncovered. At the very least they would have a wire, probably a camera, too. If he walked in and started carting stuff out, they would have people over before the elevator brought him back to the ground floor. And that would only be in the event that there wasn't an agent already lying in wait for him right inside the door. They hadn't grabbed him at the Agency, but after visiting his apartment, and learning he had split practically the moment after he had walked into the office this morning, they would definitely be wanting to have a long chat with him. Especially if they happened to sneak a peek at his now-emptied savings account.
Online banking was convenient, he had to admit. Even with all the possibilities it provided hackers, the Internet had its uses. He was thinking of e-mailing his resignation letter to the director. From an anonymous account, of course, one he would close as soon as he hit 'send'. There wouldn't really be a good reason to do it, but he liked thinking of how it would sting. He could picture the director's face and it would be a beautiful sight to behold, even if he couldn't witness it personally.
This was it. Most of his bridges burning behind him, only a couple more left to apply the torch. He couldn't take his eyes off those beige shades, like he could actually see the figurative fire licking at them.
It wasn't that he had any particular attachment to the place. He had lived in the apartment for the last five years, but it had never really been 'home' in his mind. Just the place where he lived. The last time he'd had a home was the little flat he and Viv had shared, way back when. Days long past. There wasn't anything in that apartment up there he really cared about. Well, the latest high-definition TV, he would miss that. Probably wouldn't be picking up another one of those anytime soon, not at those prices.
The Taurus, too. He would miss his car. She was a good little machine. She had served him well, the last year, and been fun about it. A dependable agent, lot of personality for a recent model.
But no telling where they might have stuck a tracker on her, or what else they could have hidden beneath the seats or under the hood. Couldn't risk it, even if he had had a convenient way to take the auto with him.
"Goodbye," he said, and patted the dashboard before climbing out of the driver's seat. He left the keys under the visor but locked the doors. Sooner or later the Agency would find the car and send someone to pick it up.
In the meantime, Hobbes slung his bag over his shoulder and walked a couple blocks to catch the crosstown bus to their prearranged rendezvous point. Claire and Darien had not yet arrived by the time he finished the necessary preparations, but if all went according to plan, they would turn up within an hour or so.
If not...no, he could cross that bridge when he came to it. Now he waited, bought an iced cappuccino and sat on a bench, sipping the coffee with his sneakers propped on his suitcase, watching the people hurrying by while unseen, unheard, his past became ash behind him.
Claire hadn't had a chance to protest it, nor any logical argument to make even if she'd had the opportunity. She had listened to the footsteps in the hall with a fear so primal she felt as if she were five years old again, quivering in terror of her brother's ghost stories. All but paralyzed--not only by fright, but by the sheer lack of options, the stunning realization that there was no way out of this--
And then Darien had grabbed her and hidden them both under the bed. Didn't he know that this was only a temporary respite, providing only a scant moment of freedom--maybe that was all he wanted.
She wasn't really afraid for herself. The worse they could do was jail her--for kidnapping? Aiding and abetting? They might try to blackmail her into doing more of their dirty work, but she wouldn't be party to that anymore; she would refuse. She had already sacrificed her reputation; there was nothing more they could hold over her.
But Darien...he had lived in nightmares for two years, nightmares he now would be returned to. If she felt anything stronger than fear, it was her grief, that she had failed a friend so completely. Wasn't that the cruelest trick of all, to offer hope only to take it away from him again?
She heard the bedroom door open. Darien beside her had squeezed his eyes shut. She wished she could do something, anything, to comfort him, not even a whispered word, she didn't dare, if she could but touch his arm, assure him somehow...
But there were no second chances. Not in this. She and Bobby had known that from the first.
She wished she could apologize.
The footsteps crossed the room. Out of the far corner of her eye she saw shadows as the man passed by. Across the room again, to the door. Then he stopped, and this was the end.
Then she felt something flow over her skin, like liquid nitrogen, so cold it burned against her bare flesh for an instant. It closed over her, as if she had been submerged in ice water. She was freezing, she was drowning--
She was invisible.
And so was Darien beside her. She turned her head, and saw only a scant outline of his form, hazy green-blue, translucent. And behind him--through him--in odd shades of shimmering gray, she saw the face of the agent.
She was vaguely surprised that she recognized him--didn't know him nearly well enough to recall his name, but she had seen him in the Agency's halls. So it wasn't just the CIA, but the Agency itself after its own, and one formerly its own. And now an agent, a former coworker, was staring through her, his eyes focusing on the bedspread hanging behind her.
She didn't breathe, wasn't sure if she even could. Quicksilver allowed the transference of air molecules, she reminded herself, and it didn't feel as if she were suffocating, but all the same she could feel its substance around her. No longer cold, insulated against her skin, but slippery smooth.
Darien's arm under her flexed, his hand, unseen, tightening around her shoulder reassuringly.
The bedspread dropped, cutting off her view of the agent. Then the man was marching away, shoes clicking on the hardwood. He left the door open, so they could listen as he proceeded down the hall, met his fellow agent. They exchanged a few words, barely audible, something about grasping at straws if they even were searching his place like this.
Both pairs of footsteps continued down the hall, the front door opened and closed, and the screen door rattled as it swung shut.
"Wait," Darien whispered in her ear--how strange, to know him so close, but not feel the warmth of his breath. She lay still, breathing shallowly, listening to the faint sounds of a car engine starting up and driving away. They lay there silent and unmoving for another minute, and then Darien whispered, "Stay here," and slid out from under the bed. Still cloaked in quicksilver, he did a quick round of the apartment, then returned.
"We're okay," he said quietly.
Claire crawled out from their hiding place, then shook herself--like shaking off water or snowflakes, and the quicksilver spilled down like shards of a shattered mirror, delicately chiming on the floor. "Wow," she murmured, understanding as she hadn't before why Bobby had never been able to properly explain what it was like to be invisible, why Darien himself had always been so inspecific about the experience. What must it be like to feel that frigid, silken caress pouring from your own skin...
Darien now was casting off his own layer--even as it fell, he sat down heavily on the bed, and medical objectivity reasserted itself over Claire's excitement. Donning her professional care-giver's comportment, she went to her patient. That had been a lot for him to do, more than she would have expected of him. Darien was always surprising her, but he must have pushed himself past his currently limited endurance. "You did well," she told him as she lifted his wrist to take his pulse and check the tattoo. Only two segments turned, and that was after two days and several minutes of continuous quicksilver. Excellent; the new counteragent was as effective as she had hoped. "We're lucky, though," she remarked. "If they had had any infrared equipment they would have spotted us right away--they must assume you no longer can--"
She stopped when she realized that Darien wasn't listening--in fact he didn't seem aware of her at all. His hands, resting on his thighs, were balled into fists, and he stared blankly down at the floor, past her, as if she were still invisible.
"Darien?" she asked gently, laying a hand on his arm. "Can you hear me?" He was trembling minutely under her touch. "Darien?"
"...Claire..." The words came slowly, pulled from him, as he were summoning them from some long unknown place inside himself. "I...I remember..."
"Remember what?" she asked lightly, even as she felt her heart dip in her chest.
"When...the quicksilver fell, and I...I remember...the last mission...oh God!" He flung his arms out, not to push her back, but in a vain effort to keep the memories assaulting him at bay. "I--they made me--I killed a man. I killed a hand with my bare hands!" He was visibly shaking now, shuddering, his fists so tightly clenched she saw a spot of blood drip from the palm. "I went--I don't even know where--who--he was screaming at me. He had a gun, I didn't care, I--I was--I was...I went invisible so when he tried to shoot he missed and I snapped his neck, and he fell, like that, he fell. And I was laughing--I was laughing at him!"
"It wasn't your fault, Darien," Claire said softly, trying to sound reassuring, not sure if there was any way she could. Not sure if he could believe any consolation. "It was quicksilver madness--"
"It was me! My hands! I don't remember--I don't even know who it was! I can't even remember what he looked like--I just remember the sound, that sound, I heard it over my laughing, when it broke--" He was shouting now, pitched high with hysterical reaction.
"It was the CIA," Claire said over him, not as loud but firm. "They could have stopped you--they did, when you'd done what they wanted. He was a dangerous man, Darien, and they wanted him dead. Quicksilver madness was the weapon they used. Not you."
"You knew." Darien stared at her, focusing at last, but the betrayal in his eyes looked more painful than the madness. "You knew..."
"I just found out. Just yesterday. We suspected, but we didn't know--Darien, I'm so sorry..." She was crying. He reached out, touched her damp cheek. Wonderingly, as if he couldn't believe she would ever shed tears for him.
But his voice when he spoke was harsh. "How many, Claire?" Unforgiving, but it wasn't her he couldn't forgive. "How many people?"
"Five," she told him, honestly. She wanted to say more, wanted to tell him they had all been criminals, had all deserved their fate, but she couldn't say that truthfully because she didn't know.
And it wouldn't matter anyway to Darien, now sitting so stock-still he might have been cemented in place. His lips worked without breath for a moment, and when his voice came it sounded damaged, broken. "Five...I killed five--"
"It wasn't you," she said clearly, biting off the end of every word, hoping the force might get his attention. "There's no time to philosophize--you have to accept it wasn't your fault. You couldn't do anything about it. For God's sake, Darien, half an hour ago you didn't even know that you had done it. I don't mean to be unsympathetic, but we don't have time for this." She had to be severe; it was penetrating where her compassion had not. And she was all too aware of the need for urgency. "We have to get out of here. Soon they'll finish searching all the agents' houses, and when that's done they'll go over everything again, more carefully. They'll comb this area from Mexico to LA, and they won't stop turning over stones until they find you."
She took Darien's hands, pulled him to his feet. "That's why we have to get you out of here. Come on. I'll get our bags and then we have to meet Bobby. He should have everything ready."
He blinked at her, the shock still there, but vying with hard-won self-preservation. "'Everything'? Ready for what?"
"You'll see," said Claire, and ushered him out of the room.
Darien didn't really pay attention to where they were going. He gazed listlessly out the window as Claire drove, watching the streets flow past. Trying not to think, to react, to feel. Just watching. Trying not to decide what was worse, the blood he remembered staining his hands, or the blood he didn't remember at all.
It wasn't until she was pulling into the parking lot that their destination registered. "Lindbergh Field?" He followed Claire out of the car, looking around at the airport.
"Here," Claire said, handing him a duffel bag from the trunk. "We must find--oh, Bobby, there you are."
Hobbes was hurrying toward them, looking like he was undercover in jeans and a black T-shirt printed with the logo of some obscure heavy metal band. "There you are," he said. "I was starting to get worried, thought they might've caught you or something."
Claire nodded. "We had a close call, but Darien saved us--he's regained his...ability," she finished, mindful of the people around them.
"Really? Great!" Hobbes grinned at Darien, only to have the expression turn upside down as he got a good look at Fawkes and noticed more than the expected exhaustion in his face. "Hey, partner, what's wrong?"
"I..." But the words stuck in his throat. Did Bobby even know? What must he think, to know his friend was...
Claire came to the rescue. "He's also...recalled certain other things," she said plainly.
Hobbes got it almost instantly. His brow furrowed with concern while paradoxically his eyes darkened with anger. "Damn it...you know it wasn't your fault, right?"
"Claire said so," Darien mumbled.
"Well, you should listen to your doctor. 'Specially when she's a lot smarter than either of us." Bobby studied him for a moment longer, clearly not liking what he was seeing, then gestured dismissively. "Anyway, I was worried you wouldn't show in time. We better move--plane takes off in an hour."
That got through Darien's self-imposed withdrawal. "Plane?"
In answer Hobbes handed him a ticket. Darien squinted at it dubiously. Flight through LA to--"New York City?"
"What, haven't you always wanted to see the Statue of Liberty?"
"I told you, Darien," Claire said apologetically, "it's not safe for you to stay anywhere around here. They'll be looking for you. Not that they won't mount a nationwide search sooner or later, but there's ways to hide in a city that size. And it's safer than trying to sneak you out of the country."
"It's the Big Apple or Canada," Hobbes put in, "and I can't see you as a Canuck. Come on, you go check your baggage while I return the rental car. Airline's at the second terminal."
"But..." Darien stared helplessly at the ticket, trying not to sound like a wretched coward. "What'll I do in New York? Where will I go--"
"Our first order of business will be to find an apartment," Claire said. "After that, I have some connections which might find us employment--"
"I've got a few ideas about that myself," Hobbes said, "especially if Fawkes can still...do that thing he does."
"See, Darien? We'll manage," Claire said brightly, patting his arm.
"We?" Darien repeated in doubtful amazement.
Claire and Hobbes exchanged startled glances. "Well, of course, we," Bobby said. "What'd you think, that we were just gonna send you off with a bag and a wave? We've all got tickets, same flight and all."
"Darien, you're not fully recovered," Claire admonished, "and even if you were, I haven't completed my observations of the new counteragent's efficacy. What if there are some unexpected side-effects? Or what if your extended time without any had an adverse effect? Not to mention we're still not sure of the gland's long-term impact on your physiology. I'm sorry, Darien, but you still need a Keeper."
"Besides," Hobbes added, "she might get that thing out of you yet. Don't give up on her, Fawkes. She never gave up on you."
Darien blinked rapidly, scarcely believing any of this. "You're just...leaving everything and coming with me..."
"Not like we have a lot of other options," Bobby remarked. "The Agency's got our numbers too by now--you're not the only wanted man here. Definitely better for us to clear out."
"You--it's because you helped me..." Darien stared at them, shrinking under the weight of the sympathy in their eyes. None of the resentment they must feel showed, though by now they must realize he could do nothing to repay them. "I--I don't--"
"Ah, crap, Fawkes, we don't have time for this," Hobbes groaned. "The plane, remember? Claire, get him there--I'll meet you at the terminal." About to stride away, he paused, turned back. "Darien...just hang in there, okay? And trust us. We know what we're doing. You'll get through this. Everything's gonna be okay. You got Bobby Hobbes's word on that."
"And your doctor advises you to listen to Bobby Hobbes," Claire added with a gentle smile. "In this circumstance, at least. Let's go, Darien. Our plane awaits."
The layover in Los Angeles was only for an hour, and Darien declined to leave the plane, even though Claire and Hobbes both suggested he at least stretch his legs. In the end only Hobbes disembarked, while Claire stayed with Darien and explained how she had several preparations of counteragent with her, and that Eberts would be sending the rest of her equipment via UPS as soon as they had a mailing address.
"What about everything else?" Darien asked. "Everything at your house--your dog--" What was the little pooch's name?
Claire looked down. "I gave Pavlov to a friend," she said quietly. "He'll have a good home. As for the rest...there was nothing I was too attached to. I brought my important mementos to Eberts--he'll send what I didn't take with me. The most important, my journals and such, are in my luggage."
"But--"
"Darien," and Claire leaned forward, lowering her voice in case another passenger might overhear, "I'm sorry we couldn't recover any of your possessions. We did try. Whatever you need, we'll try to obtain for you."
"That's not the point--I never had much stuff anyway--but you--"
"Hey." Hobbes had returned. Darien stood to let him into the middle seat. "Here, Fawkes," Bobby said as he settled himself. "Saw this in the bookstore and thought of you." He handed Fawkes a thick paperback.
"The Lives and Words of the Great Philosophers," Darien read off the cover. "From Aristotle to Wittgenstein."
"It's even got that other Hobbes guy in it," Hobbes affirmed, nodding. "And here, Claire. Know it's not your normal reading but they didn't have any magazines with more words than pictures."
"Popular Science and Discover." Claire smiled. "Thanks, Bobby. These will be a relief after I get through Dr. Muraki's latest article. The man's work is impressive but the translations are always far too dense. So what did you buy for yourself?"
Hobbes held up Tom Clancy's latest novel. "Just for laughs. I love to see at how wrong he gets it."
"I thought he did research to write things accurately," Darien remarked.
Hobbes rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. But he was talkin' to the wrong people. Think there's ever a mention of the Agency in these? Or Chrysalis? Clancy doesn't know squat. That's what makes it so funny."
They were trying so hard to make it seem like this was ordinary. Just a trip, like they were on vacation. Not as if they had willingly sacrificed most of their lives in one fell swoop. He owed it to them to go along. To pretend this was normal, and not ruin their efforts with his own inconsequential pain. "So how long is the flight to New York?" Darien dug his ticket out of his pocket, scanned the rows of letters and digits for the itinerary.
Then paused, noticing something peculiar enough to make the assumed distraction real. "What's this say here--'Daniel G. Faulkner'?"
"Shh, keep it down!" Hobbes hissed. "Don't act so surprised. That's your name, you know."
"My name--"
"Darien," Claire whispered, leaning over Hobbes to address him equally quietly, "we'd be easy to trace if we kept our real names."
"Yeah," Hobbes said. "So we got new identities, courtesy of a couple friends of mine--"
"--and Eberts," Claire reminded.
"Yeah, and Eberts. I was gonna mention him. We owe the guy big time, I admit that. Maybe we can send him a fruit basket."
"Wait--we all got new identities? You guys too?"
"Yup!" Hobbes grinned and flashed his license, bearing the name 'Robert A. Haber'.
"Daniel Faulkner, Robert Haber--aren't those a little, uh, obvious?" Darien asked.
"Not as much as you might think," Claire said, over the whine of the plane engines starting up. "They're common names, and we want to keep them fairly close--you're going to be using these names, and it will be easier to remember them if they're similar to your originals. And it's easier if initials aren't changed."
"So what's your name?"
She shrugged. "Clara Kepler."
"Kepler?" Darien and Bobby exchanged a look. "So did you keep your initials or not?" Hobbes inquired.
Claire gave them a cheerfully mysterious smile. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"Well, it's not like it matters now. I mean, what would be the harm in telling us, since you won't be using it anymore as it is..."
"No, Bobby. A girl has to have some secrets."
"You mean, a Keeper does," grumbled Hobbes. "You just like playing with us. So, Faulkner, you gonna be as cagey?"
Darien started at the unfamiliar name, then shook it off. "Cagey about what?"
"I've been wanting to ask since I saw it. What's the 'G' for?"
"Huh?"
"Darien G. Fawkes, right? What's the G?"
"Oh." Darien shifted uncomfortably. Damn airplane seats; they weren't really made to accommodate anyone, but for someone of his height they were uniquely designed torture chambers. Now he wished he had gotten off, at least for a quick walk. "It's nothing."
"Nothing?" Hobbes repeated. "You mean, it's just 'G'?"
"Hey, it worked for Ulysses S Grant..."
"C'mon, give. What is it, something really embarrassing? Geraldo? Guinevere?"
"Guinevere? " Darien shook his head, sighed. "Okay. It's Guy."
"Guy? Darien Guy Fawkes?"
The Keeper made an odd snort.
Hobbes was confused. "That's not too bad. Could be a lot worse--what?"
Claire had apparently been possessed by a fit of quivers; at the question she lost control and giggled aloud. "What an auspicious namesake," she managed. "Your parents must've had high hopes. We must remember to do something special next November..."
At Hobbes's still lost expression, she proceeded to explain Guy Fawkes Day. Darien had cause to regret not stopping her, for once Bobby had been reminded of the British holiday, he had fodder to last him a good couple weeks at least.
At least he pretended to regret it. In truth the ribbing was a return to a normalcy he hadn't even realized he missed as much as he did. Hobbes's jibes and Claire's rolled eyes were a balm on a wound deep inside, soothing if not completely healing. With them he could be himself, as much of that self as he recalled. It felt good, even better than escaping from existence in that hospital. As good as the respite from the madness.
The plane roared through the air, leaving California, San Diego, the Agency, the hospital, everything he had known, behind him. No footprints to mark his way, no records to trace him by. Like death--not death. A rebirth. Probably would even get a new birth certificate, to match the new name. A new identity. But old friends still by his side.
And he began to think, in the deepest places in his mind where hope could still grow, that maybe, finally, he truly was free.