Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story. I am not making money with this story, I am dirt poor, so don't sue me. The song lyrics posted through out are not mine. They belong to the label, the producers, the artists, the writers, the band, and anyone else who is associated with their genius. I don't own them, I never will, I am not making money off of them, and I take no claim to them at all.
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A/N: Well, this update has taken awhile. Between recovering from being sick, mandatory drama rehearsal, and hockey practices/games I really haven't had a lot of time. (Not to mention that I have been updating Frostbitten more than this one. It is the prequel to this story, so you might want to go read it right now. It isn't bad, so make sure to review too.) All right, that was a shameless plug, but it is good. I hope that this update was worth the wait. Oh yeah, and now that you know that Frostbitten is the prequel to this story, there will be references to it in this chapter. So if some things don't quite make sense in some parts, that is why. ^_^
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Warning: Rated PG-13 for underlined themes, profanity, and violence.
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Chapter 12: Daydream Believer
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"And sight out of blindness…."
-- Sidney Lanier
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//I need some distraction,
Oh - beautiful release,
Memory seep from my veins,
Let me be empty…//
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Moving Spot was harder than they had expected. Though they knew that it would be a delicate procedure, it was slower and more grueling than they had every dreamed. The two doctors had the most able bodied and strong of the lodging house boys to help them, but only after they had properly scrubbed and cleaned themselves. While they boys had been doing that, Doctor Cunningham and Doctor Ervin had tracked down a wagon that they would be able to use to transport him.
They had to rent it from the livery, but they had gotten it and had to clean out the inside. After they had done that, they drove it back with the pair of horses they had borrowed also. A fairly costly venture, but if this surgery was a success, it would be revolutionary to the way people looked at procedures sure as this.
The complexity of all of these happenings was confusing the newsies back at the Manhattan lodging house. Why couldn't Spot just stay there, wake up, and see? Then he could go back to Brooklyn and beat the hell out of those Queens newsies before they even had tasted what it was really like to control the ruthless Brooklyn territory. Spot was, in a way, one of the untouchable gods of the newsie realm. More of a being from another world than a human, he was. The reality of his disability was staggering to say the least, so much so that few were really able to comprehend the full ramifications.
Finally, when Spot was in the sanitized wagon wrapped in a clean sheet and Doctor Cunningham in the back with him, they left the Manhattan lodging house. The course they set out for was the office of Doctor Cunningham. It was the place where they could keep him the safest from the numerous infections he would be susceptible to. Normal operations of the time were dangerous enough, but operations that actually exposed the brain….
Let us just say that they were rare enough that real statistics weren't available. The facts that were around weren't good though. That didn't matter right now though, Spot wasn't a statistic, he was a living breathing patient that was going to need a lot of care so that he wouldn't become one of those statistics.
Both of the doctors had seen the looks on the faces of those as they had tried to peer at the pale boy as the large, clean boys had transported him carefully to the wagon. Their eyes had held fear, respect, and even if they would never admit it, concern. Somehow, this unfortunate soul had managed to gain all of these from those around him. Even if he had never met him, Doctor Ervin knew that this was someone worth fighting for. So onward they pressed, careful to not jar the unconscious boy as they moved him somewhere that he might be more comfortable. Both prayed that this hadn't been a mistake in judgement.
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//We may rise and fall,
But in the end,
We meet fate,
Together…//
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"Dammit Winston!" Mr. Van-Morris exclaimed. "Where are those papers?" He searched angrily through the stacks and stacks of papers on his desk and the tables around it.
"I don't know Sir," Winston answered, looking through his own stack of papers. "They must be here somewhere," he comforted as the man in his thirties continued to look frantically.
Stacks of papers and files were strewn about the lavishly decorated room. The walls were lined with thick, hardbound books and the floors covered with rich carpets. At least the parts of the floor that weren't covered with papers were covered with carpets. The thick draperies on the windows were pulled back to reveal the setting sun, and the need to soon light a lamp. Two men were looking through the multiple piles and stacks of leaves of papers and files. The oldest of the pair seemed to be quite impassioned on his search, while the younger looked more out of duty than personal interest.
"They aren't here!" Mr. Van-Morris slammed the last stack he had been looking through onto the floor, sending the papers flying everywhere.
"Then where would they be?" Winston asked, seeming genuinely concerned.
"I don't -" Mr. Van-Morris started but paused. "Blast!" he muttered.
"What is it, sir?" Winston questioned.
"They do have them," he muttered under his breath and Winston looked puzzled. "But how in the devil did they get them?" he asked rhetorically and Winston stood uncomfortably, waiting for his next command.
"May I help you with anything else, sir?" he asked obediently and Mr. Van-Morris looked up from his pondering.
"What?" Mr. Van-Morris looked slightly flustered. "Oh, no, no, not unless you can get those papers," he frowned and the younger man turned to leave when the older called him back. "Wait a moment," he came around front of his desk and stood very close to the younger, lowering his voice. "What of that other option," he said quietly and Winston smiled slightly.
"I know of a man who can help you with that, sir," he kept his voice equally low.
"You might consider contacting this man," Mr. Van-Morris instructed. "I may have some things to discus with him," he chose his words carefully.
"Certainly sir," Winston stepped back and gave a slight bow from the waist. "Your order shall be carried out," he kept the light smile on his mouth.
"Make sure they understand that this is a secret matter," Mr. Van-Morris instructed. "And if they are up to the task, they shall be handsomely rewarded," he added and Winston nodded.
"No need to worry, sir," Winston smiled. "These men are professionals.
"They'd better be," Mr. Van-Morris sank down into a plush chair, his head throbbing. "It would be very unfortunate for those involved if they were anything but," he directed the underlined threat towards the younger man and Winston swallowed heavily.
"There is no reason to worry," he assured.
"For your sake," Mr. Van-Morris said. "I hope you're right."
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A single lamp was lit in the bank as a small man moved with a mouse-like meekness. The steps he took were soft, slow, and nearly silent as he slipped across the polished stones of the floors. The last of the tellers and accountants had left for the evening, going home to family and the bright hope of tomorrow. One man, however, had stayed.
Making the quick rounds of the entirety of the banks premises, checking until he was satisfied that he was alone. Completely and thoroughly alone, nothing else would do. His rounds had finished in the same place they had started, before a large oak door. A brass plaque proclaimed that this was bank president's office, making it clear that intrusion wasn't welcome.
With shaking hands, the man took out the large ring of keys he had in his pocket and flipped through them, muttering under his breath. The handlebar moustache that he kept so meticulously twitched nervously as he inserted the proper key into the gaping hole. Turning it, a satisfying click met his ears and taking one more cautionary glance around, he pushed open the large door. The hinges protested as the heavy door swung open and the small man jumped at the noise, but quickly calmed himself, trying to gain control over his fear.
Still muttering incoherently under his breath, he began to search through the dark area for his prize. Different files were on the desk and the mahogany cabinets shone in the dim light of the lamp. A thin sheen of perspiration coated his forehead and balding scalp as one shaking hand held the lamp and the other prodded weakly into the different piles. Why had he ever agreed to do this again? The thing he wanted was not out in the open, and was most likely to be well hidden. Using this logic, the small man went over to the small safe in the corner of the room, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room.
How would he get into this thing? What had his partners said about breaking into safes? Right, left, right… or was it left, right, left? There was something about listening for the click too, wasn't there? What would the click sound like though? This was the job for a criminal, not a gentleman. Swallowing for about the hundredth time since he had entered the office, he reached out and touched the cool metal of the safe. The cold jolt that went through him at the contact was startling and he gasped. Closing his eyes, he leaned as close as he could to the safe and listened for what he thought to be the 'click.'
After what was an eternity in hell for the man, he heard what seemed to be the unlocking of the small metal box. A shuddering breath that he hadn't know he was holding escaped from his thin lips and he gripped the handle. Turning it, he opened the safe and maneuvered the lamp so he could see more clearly. There they were. The papers he had wanted. These were the records that the accountants never got to see and the thing that his partners wanted. Licking his lips, he reached in and drew them out.
Then a thought came, surely they would be missed. Missing papers such as these would cause a heated search, at least on Mr. Van-Morris's part. Of course he couldn't have anyone else look for them or else they might discover his treachery. Though he knew that an open search would never occur, he knew that Mr. Van-Morris would open this safe tomorrow and see that these papers were missing.
What was there that he could do? Looking around he went to the desk and pulled out a small pile of blank papers, nearly equal to the size of the papers that he was taking. Opening the envelope that held the real documents, he replaced them with the blank and resealed it before putting it back in the safe. If the bank owner simply looked into his safe, nothing would seem amiss, and that would give them more time to utilize this newly acquired playing piece. They already had some blackmail, but this was what would clench it for them.
As quietly as he could, he shut the safe door and made sure that everything was in place. Nothing could be altered. Satisfied, but always nervous and wary, the man left as silently as possible. Returning to the office that was his own, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it heavily. Even though he knew that there was no one there with him, it felt like a million eyes had been watching him the entire time. Collecting himself, he went to his briefcase and deposited the newly thieved documents. Then with one final sweep of the building making sure that Mr. Van-Morris's door was locked, he left.
Making sure the bank was securely locked, he went out the gates that surrounded the entrance and made his way to the carriage that he knew would be waiting for him. A footman came off of the perch he had made for himself and opened the door for his master. This didn't even register in the small man's mind as he moved into the cool, dark interior of his ride. The dark leather of the seats offered little comfort in their familiarity as the carriage started forward with its usual lurch.
Three more weeks, he thought to himself nervously. Just three more weeks…
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//If that's all you will be,
You'll be a waste of time,
You've dreamed a thousand dreams,
None seem to stick in your mind…//
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It was raining. The heavy drops of water blurring all of the images around him as it streamed off of his face into his eyes. Blood, sweat, and rain soaked through his clothes, leaking onto the ground around him. Every part of his body was injured, every part but the ones that should be damaged the most. His hands were perfectly fine, though the knuckles should have been red and cracked from fighting. One would have to fight to have damaged hands though.
Through the pain that racked his body, he somehow managed to lift his head. The assault had seemingly stopped for an instant. What he could see was hazed, but at least he could see. Lifting his head, he looked around and saw a dark blur moving. Something glinted gold before a crashing pain came over him. Then it was black.
"He's shaking again," Dr. Cunningham informed his nurse beside him. "Help me hold him down," he grabbed the young man's arm and leg and the nurse on the other side did the same.
"What do you think is causing this, Doctor?" the male nurse asked as he looked down at the boy.
"It's the head trauma," Dr. Cunningham said sadly as the boy stopped shaking and he released him. "I don't think he is going to make it through the night," he added sadly.
"No," another voice cut in and the pair saw Dr. Ervin had entered. "He's going to make it," he stated firmly and Dr. Cunningham looked skeptical.
"How can you be so sure?" The older, real doctor inquired.
"Look at the boy," Ervin pointed and the pair looked. "He's a fighter, and he's going through the fight of his life," he assessed and Dr. Cunningham looked at his questioning.
"You can tell all of this by simply looking at him?" Cunningham sounded indignant.
"Yes," Ervin said confidently.
"And how do you know?" The nurse challenged and Dr. Ervin looked at him with a steady gaze.
"Because," Ervin replied, "He reminds me a lot of myself."
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//And I thank God that he let you,
Lay be side me for a moment that lives on,
The good news is im better for the time we spent together,
And the bad news is you're gone…//
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Distraction was one thing that Emily wanted as she sat upstairs in her room. The weather was nearly suffocating as the heat was closing around her. It was sweltering, the rain had cooled off the weather for a few days, but now it was just as hot as it had been before. There was no problem with the oppressive humidity anymore as the scorching heat had consumed the last of the puddles days ago. The rain would have been welcome to come again as the weather would then better suit her mood.
For it seemed that she was a little rain-cloud. It wasn't that she wasn't thankful to her father for all he had done for her over the years, in reality she was lucky compared to some, but to others she was cursed. So many of the boys and girls in this lodging house alone were orphans or runaways from much poorer circumstances then her own. That however wasn't on her mind as she stared out the window to the view of a lonesome brick wall.
Spot was on her mind. It seemed strange to think that a little over a week ago, she was happy, content, falling asleep in his arms. Strong arms, warm arms, arms that would never hold her again. Bitterly she remembered that no matter how much she wanted him back, it would never be so. The sadness reflected in her green orbs as she sighed deeply, trying to forget the only things worth remembering.
Opening the window, she was hit by the intense heat and she crawled out onto the small roof space. The noises from the streets did little to distract her from her thoughts as she curled into a ball in the same place they had slept. Squeezing her eyes closed tightly, she could still imagine what it felt like to be there, on that night. Then she would open her eyes, half expecting to see his smiling face, but he wouldn't be there.
Silently, she stood and went back inside and shut the window behind her. A lonesome tear rolled down her pale cheek and she brushed it aside. The time for tears was over and she had to face the truth. Spot was gone, he wasn't coming back. She was getting married to a man she had never met… but if now wasn't a time to cry, when was?
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//Of all the things I've believed in,
I just want to get it over with,
Tears form behind my eyes,
But I do not cry…//
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It was equally hot in Manhattan as it was in Brooklyn as the sweltering August night offered little if no relief from the constant discomfort. No wind or promises of rain helped to alleviate the hellish temperatures that made even the most heat tolerant of the boys to drip with sweat. It was as hot in the summer as it was cold in the winter. New York was an oven that would soon turn to an icebox.
The icebox months seemed a very distant memory this night as many of the boys and girls found minor relief on the roof above the Manhattan lodging house. Decency was forgotten as the two groups stripped down to their lowest layer in hopes of cooling themselves slightly. Kloppman was unaware of this, but if he had been, it was most likely that he wouldn't stand for it. Already, the boundaries were stretched as he let girls stay at his lodging house. To find them up on the roof to the point of immodesty would have thoroughly riled him.
A pair however were not on the roof with the others, they were down in the bunkroom. The temperature from the outdoors wasn't the only heat that they were feeling as his mouth came down on hers again, driving every logical thought from her mind. She gave up the idea of trying to stop him long ago as his strong hands held her face firmly. Her long red hair was already mussed from where he had held and she could feel her body forming to mold against his like she was made to be there.
Breathlessly, he pulled back, his piercing dark eyes, heavy with arousal, looking into her gray ones. Soft gasps were the only sound radiating throughout the room as they tried to catch their breaths, shaken from the kiss. It was the girl that stepped away first, putting some space between them as reality began to take hold of her passion-clouded mind. The feelings that this boy could invoke were startling, frightening, and completely appealing.
"I have ta get back ta Brooklyn," she said quietly and he frowned taking another step towards her but she held up her hand to stop. "I gotta talk ta Ghost," she informed. "I'se still his goil ya know," she reminded and the boys face fell.
"You knows we'se can't go back ta Brooklyn," the boy's shaggy dark hair fell into his eyes before he brushed it back. "Lice'll kill us."
"But until I'se talk ta Ghost, I'se still his goil, an' we'se can't be doin' dis no moah," she took another step away from him as if to accentuate her point.
"He doesn't have ta know," the boy offered, his voice low, and she shook her head.
"I ain't like dat, Shadow," she looked down at the floor. "I'se a'eady done moah dan I shoulda wit'choo," she looked back up at him. "I ain't a whoah," she said quietly, but her words were passionate.
"I knows dat," he tried to approach her again but she pulled back. "I cahah about yous Spit," he used the shortened version of her name.
"An' I knows dat," she said, trying to be rational, knowing that if she was in his arms rational was the last thing she would be. "I'se cahah 'bout yous too," she smiled slightly. "But I ain't goin' ta be kissin' yous till I'se can talk ta Ghost," she stated firmly.
"Dere ain't no way yous goin' ta go back ta Brooklyn," Shadow crossed his arms over his chest.
"I'se gotta go back dough, Shadow," she insisted. "I'se gotta talk ta Ghost," she already knew the risk she would be taking even setting foot onto the Brooklyn bridge. "An' I'se gotta let all o' dem know dat I'se a'ight."
"Send somebody else ta talk ta him," he suggested. "Write him a note or sum't'ing," he offered and she shook her head. "It ain't safe ta go back dere, no mattah whot youah reason is."
"I knows it ain't safe," she replied. "But I'se got friends back dere, an' when ya end somet'ing ya gotta do it youah self, in poyson," she set the standard.
"I won' let yous got back dere," Shadow stated finally and she looked at him indignantly. "I cahah too much 'bout chu ta let yous get hoyt."
"You ain't goin' ta let me?" She gaped. "Who ah yous tellin' me whot I'se can oah can't do?" she set her arms akimbo.
"If yous don' wont me ta tell ya whot ta do, why'd ya tell me yous goin'?" Shadow challenged and Spitfire looked at him intently.
"I don't wont ya ta stop me," she said frankly and he looked confused for a moment.
"Den why did yous tell me, ya coulda just left?" Shadow pondered aloud.
"If yous really cahah 'bout me, you'll let me do dis," she said and her words hung in dead air. Their eyes stayed focused on each other and Shadow's jaw locked. Tension was thicker than the heat that surrounded them, and it was clear that Shadow wasn't going to give on this one.
"I won't let yous go," he said tensely and Spitfire's eyes hardened.
"Den yous don' cahah," she said through clenched teeth and he stalked over towards her, his stance taut.
"Yous won' go ta Brooklyn," he ordered harshly and she looked up at him defiantly, not backing away this time, but looking at him with an open challenge in her eyes.
"Whot ah yous goin' ta do, chain me ta da bunks?" she laughed haughtily and dark fire flashed in his eyes.
"If dats whot it takes," his voice was smooth with underlines of thunder.
"I'se goin' ta Brooklyn whethah yous try ta stop me oah not," she felt angry tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
"Fine!" He relented. "Go an' get youah self killed, but I ain't goin' ta come an' save yous when ya get caught," he growled and she could hear the pain in his voice.
"Fine," she hissed and then they simply stared at each other, the power of their emotions swirling out of them and slamming into the other.
They were very close, their bodies nearly, but not touching. His face hovered above her own, his dark eyes flashing with the rage that he felt and hers with the betrayal. No matter what, she was going to return to Brooklyn and end it with Ghost even if she wouldn't have Shadow. There were plenty of other boys around the lodging house, and she would be free to chose. Finally having enough, Shadow whirled sharply and went to the window with the fire escape, climbing up the rusted old stairs.
Blinking rapidly, Spitfire tried to process all of the things that had happened in the short time they had fought. It hurt her that she knew that he wouldn't let her go. Why had she bothered telling him at all? She was a fool to think that he genuinely cared about her. It was clear to her that she was attractive, but she had been used enough that she didn't want to make any more mistakes. Though it hurt to know that she had made a mistake with Shadow, hadn't she? Well he hadn't stopped her yet, it was still yet to see if he would, but something inside her warned her not to get her hopes up.
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//I believe,
In self assertion,
Destiny,
Or slight diversion…//
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For the second time, Spot's eyes opened to see nothing that he expected. This time, instead of the blinding white, he was in what he thought to be a forest. Though he had never been in a forest for himself, this is all that he imagined it to be. The trees and overgrown foliage cluttered around with masses of green and brown. Occasion patches of wildflowers added splashes of color and life to the otherwise strange foreign surroundings.
Standing, he looked around. This place seemed strangely familiar. Though he knew that there was no way that he could recognize this area, it seemed hauntingly familiar. Cautiously, he began to walk, picking his way through bushes and trees that surrounded him. Tree after tree and bush after bush the confused Spot moved through the clutter. Where was he? Hopefully this wasn't another one of those weird dreams.
After what seemed an eternity of walking through the woods, he came to a large open field, another thing he had never seen. The grassy planes waved in the gentle breeze as if to great him and he looked over the sweeping meadow. Much like the woods, it was a large green expanse with splotches of wildflowers springing up and bringing life to their surroundings. Putting one hand on his hip, Spot scratched his head. Where was he?
"Don't worry Patrick," A voice came from behind him and he whirled around. Instantly he was on a beach. Though he had been on a beach before, this one was different. There were no people or building lining the coast, it was simply he and the woman that had haunted him before.
"Dammit," he swore, knowing that since he was seeing her, there was going to be something radical effecting his life. "Whot do yous wont dis time?"
"Silly boy," she smiled softly, almost laughing to herself, the surf pounding loudly behind her. "Must you always be so impatient? Come and walk with me," she held out her hand and Spot eyed it warily. "Come boy," she said in a motherly tone, and hesitantly Spot took her hand.
It was warm and soft just like it had been the first time he had met her. Instantly on contact, Spot was overwhelmed with a sudden surge of peace. It was like what he had felt as he had sat on the roof with Emily. He was content to simply be where he was. So with that said, the two started down the endless beach, walking slowly without speaking for quite some time.
"So why ah yous heah?" Spot asked finally, not desperate for the answer as he had been before, but simply mildly curious.
"I'm here because I need to be," she stated calmly and they walked for awhile longer before they spoke again.
"Why do yous need ta be heah?" Spot inquired, looking at the woman beside him.
"Do you remember your mother, Patrick?" she asked suddenly and Spot frowned. What did his mother have to do with this?
"Yeah," he answered honestly, because he already knew that she knew the answer. Being anything but truthful with this woman was futile.
"Tell me about her," the woman commanded gently and Spot hesitated. He hadn't told anyone about his mother, ever. It was not something that he did, his past was his, and no one else needed to hear about it. There was something different about this woman though, he knew that he could tell her, and in fact he felt the compulsion to tell her. The ethereal ways of her nature made it easier somehow, as though he was under a spell. So after a few moments, he offered what little he remembered.
"She wos beautiful," Spot reminiced slowly. "An' kind, an' she smelled real good," Spot closed his eyes briefly as he tried to remember everything he could.
"Good," the woman said as they continued to walk. "What else?" She prodded and Spot continued without thought.
"She wos always doin' somet'ing wit' her hands," he remembered. "An' she told evahy one dat we'se had a differ'nt last name cause nobody liked da Irish," he opened his eyes and looked at the sand. "Smith," he chuckled. "Dat's whot she said."
"Did you love your mother?" The woman asked and Spot's head swiveled to her instantly.
"O' coyse I loved me muddah," he gripped the key that hung around his neck and showed it to her. "I weah dis key ta remind me o' her," he said frankly, sharing something he had never told living soul.
"Just like you wear that cross to remember Frost," she deducted and Spot's face grew soft. "Yes, you loved her, too," the woman nodded, but kept walking.
"Why ah yous heah?" Spot asked a third time, uncomfortable with the way the conversation was turning.
"I'm here because I need to be," she said again, just the same as she had before and Spot didn't say anything else. They walked along the beach in silence, the surf pounding the shore.
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//I don't give a damn,
About my reputation,
I don't give a damn,
About my bad reputation…//
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Upon coming into the circle and finding that the Brooklyn boy had already passed out again, Lice swore vilely, slamming his fist into the face of the boy who had drawn him back here. He had been in the middle of something with a particularly pretty girl when he had been called and he was now not very happy about his disturbance. Though, if Outsider had been awake, it would have been worth the loss of a kiss and a memory, but he wasn't and he definitely was upset about it. Turning his wrath upon the messenger seemed like a reasonable outlet for his frustration.
The boy fell backwards, gripping his nose as the blood flowed from it freely. A string of vile words flowed from his mouth as he didn't dare look up at his leader, afraid what punishment would come if he saw the anger in his eyes. Defiance was one thing that Lice would never stand for, stupidity was another. In fact there was a whole list of things that set Lice on edge. Overall, failure was probably the worst.
"If he wakes up again, give him some watah ta keep 'im awake," Lice ordered, scanning the room with his two-toned eyes. No one said a word, and he stormed out of the circle.
After he left however, discontent murmurs could be heard as the boys quietly voiced their dislike of their leader's brutal approach to things. Now that they had Brooklyn, did they really need him around anymore? As always, when things got boring, the boys got restless. The iron grip that Lice had held over them was slipping and he knew it. Desperately, he was using fear and intimidation to try and hold them at bay, and it was working, sort of. The constant approval was something that was needed to keep the control over the boys.
Sadly, since they had taken over Brooklyn without the promised bloodshed and violence that Lice had guaranteed, they were very dissatisfied. If it wasn't for his unrelenting violent attitude or the stupidity of the group, Lice might have to worry more. The group was full of talkers, but not anyone that would act. All it would take though was one boy to take the stand and Lice would be in trouble. The problem would be finding that one.
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//I wanna be a millionaire,
Someday,
But know what it feels like,
To give it away…//
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"Here they are," Lindstrom placed a stack of papers in the middle of the table and a large man grabbed them, thumbing through them hastily.
"You got them all?" The large man growled, and the Lindstrom nodded.
"I don't know why you needed these, we already had-" The small Lindstrom started, but was cut off.
"It wasn't enough," O'Malley interrupted. "We needed more proof," he greedily grabbed the papers from the larger man as he offered them.
"Well, what of you, Mr. Black?" Lindstrom asked. "Have you gotten your part set?"
"Almost," The large man, now labeled Black, replied. "There were a few - complications we had to - work out," the twisted smile on his lips told more than the carefully chosen words he spoke.
"You mean you…" Lindstrom drifted off, feeling a little sick.
"Yes, we killed a few people," O'Malley said bluntly. "But they needed to be quieted," he looked back down at the papers in his lap.
"Are those papers in order?" Black asked, changing the topic, for which Lindstrom was grateful.
"Everything seems ta be…" O'Malley frowned. "Here," his frown deepened as he flipped through a few of the pages. "Where did you get these papers?" he lifted his head and looked at the small mousy man.
"From the safe in his office," he replied. "Aren't they the right ones?" he sat forward and looked very anxious.
"I could be wrong, but it seems that these are different than the others," O'Malley frowned as he looked back down at the columns of figures.
"What do you mean?" Black asked.
"Some of the numbers are different," O'Malley replied.
"How different?" Lindstrom probed.
"Very different," O'Malley said solemnly.
"Good different, or bad different?" Black questioned.
"Good different," O'Malley's frowned turned into a smile as he looked over some more of the figures. "A very good different," he began to chuckle and soon Lindstrom and Black joined him. Whatever the different was, as long as it was good, that was all that mattered. It seemed that everything was going their way.
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//There can be miracles,
If you believe,
Though hope is frail,
It's hard to kill…//
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"Do you believe in miracles Patrick?" The woman asked after they had walked for some time without words.
"Miracles?" Spot asked, frowning slightly.
"Yes, do you believe in them?" She asked and Spot continued to frown.
"I'se not shuah," he answered truthfully.
"Of course you are," the woman assured, and Spot looked at her skeptically.
"I guess dat dey could happen ta oder people," Spot shrugged.
"But not to you?" She inquired as they continued to walk down the seemingly endless beach.
"Nah," Spot shook his head. "Dey don' happen ta people like me."
"Why not?" She prodded and Spot looked at her curiously.
"Why ah yous askin' me all dis?" He frowned.
"Because I need to," she said simply and Spot felt a surge of frustration.
"Don't yous evah ansah questions?" he asked, pulling his hand away from hers. Immediately he felt the anger, frustration, and pain he had felt before as he lost contact with her. The peace that had been there was gone and the power of the emotions that replaced it were staggering. Shutting his eyes, he swayed slightly, a little off balance, before opening his eyes again to find that he wasn't on the beach anymore. No he was somewhere very familiar.
It was a small tenement room. A tiny table with five chairs around it sat off to the side. A bed was over by the window and the kitchen was clean as it always had been. The wooden floorboards creaked in the same places as they always had and the same prized light fixture hung from the ceiling. Spot could almost hear the familiar voices from his past echo through the room with a realism that struck him with a fear that chilled his innermost marrow.
"Why did yous bring me heah?" he swallowed heavily, knowing the even though he couldn't see the woman, she was there.
"I didn't," came the reply. "You brought us here," she said calmly and Spot turned, looking to see where she was, but didn't see her.
"Wheah ah yous?" he asked, his heart beating heavily in his chest.
"Right here," came the reply and he swung around to the direction of the voice, but there was no one there. "Look down," she instructed and he did, but still saw nothing.
"Stop playin' games wit' me," he growled out the warning and she laughed slightly.
"I play no games, it is you that insist on jesting," she laughed softly and Spot felt a chill run down the back of his neck. Whirling around, he came face to face with the woman, he stumbled back in shock. "Dammit, don' do dat!" he swore and she smiled slightly.
"Do you remember this place?" She asked and Spot looked at her incredulously.
"Remembah it?" he snorted. "O' coyse I do," he looked around, inhaling deeply. Imagining that he could still smell the bread his mother was baking. "But why ah we'se heah?" he asked, looking her in the eye, something that he rarely did.
"Many miracles happened in this place," she told him. "You were born here," she informed and he nodded.
"I mighta been boyn heah, but dat ain't no miracle," he snorted.
"What about the night your mother died?" she asked and Spot's eyes darkened.
"Dat woyn't no miracle," he growled and she nodded.
"It was a miracle that you got away," she pointed out and Spot shook his head.
"I shoulda died wit' da rest o' dem," he said bitterly and the woman's expression was blank.
"If you were supposed to die, you would have," she told him and he surveyed her as he would a lunatic.
"So yous sayin' dat me muddah, bruddah, and sistah weah supposed ta die?" he spat. "Yous sayin' dat I wos supposed ta kill me own faddah?" he felt his shoulders tense as he said those words.
"You must understand," the woman spoke calmly. "That no matter how many bad things happened here, there was at least one miracle that occurred here on a regular basis," she said and Spot looked at her curiously. "Love," she answered his unspoken question. "Love is the greatest miracle of them all," she smiled.
"Why ah yous tellin' me all dis now?" Spot's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Because you needed to know that before you wake," she informed and Spot looked around the apartment again. "There are such things are miracles, even if they are different than we expect them to be," She reached out and took his hand once more and he looked at her, feeling the peace flooding him one more.
"I'se not goin' ta see yous again, am I?" Spot was struck with this understanding.
"It is not for me to say, Patrick," she smiled briefly. "But know this, there is someone out there that loves you, and that was made to love you," she said with great solemnity. "Though they might not be who you think, they are out there," she let go of his hand and he reached out for it again, but his hand went right through her. Gentle pricks of pain could be felt behind his eyes.
"Wait," Spot pleaded, as his head began to throb. "I'se got some questions," he watched with horror as she started to fade.
"It is time to wake up Patrick," she informed. "You will find the answers then," she promised.
"Will I'se be able ta see?" Spot asked frantically and the room around him began to melt into the darkness along with the woman. Suddenly he was becoming very dizzy and his leg couldn't support him.
"Wake up Patrick," she said.
Spot was immediately struck with an immense pain over his whole body. It felt like he was being ripped in two and a flash of light brighter than the sun erupted in his mind. The questions that he had would have to wait as consciousness began to take control of his mind. The pricks of pain that he had felt were intensified a thousand-fold, and he gritted his teeth only to find that even that hurt.
Through all of this pain, Spot couldn't help but wish for a miracle.
. : ^_^ : .
A/N: I broke my thumb about halfway through typing this chapter, hence the large delay in posting. I've been trying to learn how to type with basically one hand. Dang it. It is harder than you would think. This is going to be awkward because I am in Sleeping Beauty and I am going to be up there in a renaissance dress and have a big old cast. This is going to suck dang it. The stupid guy only got a two-minute penalty for slashing my thumb and breaking it through an NHL quality glove! Two minutes! Okay, not even a major penalty! [ Sigh ] Sorry for the little rant, I am just mad.
Bottles: I understand about the thinking you reviewed and then realizing that you hadn't. It's okay, I'm not offended or anything. You read this story religiously you say? Well, well, well, what an interesting fact. Too bad I don't write it religiously. [ hides ] Aw you're sweet to say that my fictions are among the "best," but I think that is a slight exaggeration. I'm curious to see where the muses take this fiction, because I honestly don't know where it is going. Subplots are really fun, but sometimes confusing for me! I think there is some rule that somewhere in every story there needs to be a love-triangle. It just makes things so much more interesting. Thanks for the review, take care. ^_^
Kaylee: You are forgiven for not reviewing, just don't forget it next time, and don't forget to update your story! I'm glad that you enjoyed this chapter and the last one even if you didn't review it. Take care.
Red Cinnamon: Yep, it is a cliffhanger. Anyway, I hope Spot is okay too. You only got to see a little bit of what happens, and you got a little more now, but you will have to wait to find out about the rest.
Priscilla: Yep, Spot wasn't to live, yahoo! I'm glad that you liked the chapter, the plot is getting interesting. All right, I think I am going to be keeping the longer chapter and less updates. I'll try to keep this up, I want to finish it, but who knows. It all matters what the muses wanted.
Ireland O'Reily: Ha, ha, yep, Spot made it through, but he is still far from recovery. I love "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." It is an awesome movie that has gotten far less attention than it should have. West Side Story is great too. I sang part of "Tonight" for a drama audition, it rocked. Woo hoo, I've never seen "Cats" but I love that song. Memory that is. I think I am going with the longer chapters and the less frequent updates because people seem to like the longer chapters and it would be hard to fit in all of the subplots and everything in shorter ones. Hey, D+… that is better than I would ever get in French. The language of the devil I say. Spanish is better. ^_^ Well, just try your hardest and hit those books a little harder. Maybe something will click for you and it will all be easier from then on. Sometimes you just need that little realization or that first little understanding and then it all gets better. I hope all goes well for you. Take care. ^_^
Rae Kelly: Well, I am going to stick with the longer chapters and see how it goes from there. ^_^ I'm glad that you are enjoying this story and hope that you continue to do so. Take care and may the muses be kind to you. ^_^
There were a few more of you and I am sorry that I couldn't get to you right now, thank you for your review, but I just couldn't type anymore. I love you all, please review and make my poor broken thumb feel better. ^_^