So of course it stood to reason, given my sometimes-pathological inability to keep promises, that someone who could only be Dr. Richard Marks was waiting for me to get home. I didn't see him until I'd locked the car door. He came swooping out of the shadows between the garage and the house just like he was Count freaking Dracula or something similar.
Except that he was on the short side, sandy hair fading. Not even a long set of fangs, black cloak, maniacal laugh to chill my young blood. But I guess the point of having a nice, shiny switchblade is that it does all the intimidation for you anyhow.
And what could I do? Faced with such a monstrosity? I cursed loudly and dropped my keys. Or maybe it was that I dropped my keys and then cursed loudly. At any rate, I pounded up the front steps, wondering how I'd manage to dig up the spare house key dad kept in the pot of begonias on the porch. Too slow. Too slow. He was behind me. I plunged my fingers into the dirt at random, wishing to god that we hadn't decided to go all creative with the spare quite so damn much. I mean, really, one of those fake rock things is good enough for most people.
That's when he caught me, fingers pulling at my hair. Hard enough to bring tears to my eyes and the world dissolved away into a pretty watercolor blur. My neck twisted back. For one cold instant, I knew for absolutely certain that he was going to kill me. Cut my throat like John's and leave me to bleed to death on the front porch.
Except no. No. fucking. way. I stomped hard on his instep and felt his hands loosen. Throwing myself forward, I was free (and judging by the pain alone, missing a lawn-sized chunk of hair from the back of my head). At that point, I was operating on about a million instincts I didn't even know I had, and so even if I couldn't see him behind me, I felt him reaching. But my feet, happy feet, were pelting away from him. I vaulted clumsily over the side railing on the porch and remembered at the last second to roll as much as possible. Good thing dad had put down a new layer of mulch, but I'd have a lot of 'splainin' to do about his smooshed irises. The scent of earth and cured wood chips filled my nose and mouth.
For one crazy moment I considered stopping. Turning, arms raised, white flag in hand. I didn't know anything, honestly, and yeah, maybe this time I was in way far over my head and could we just forget this whole thing ever happened? Honest I will, Mister. If you'll just let me go back to biting off exactly as much as I can chew from now on. And I promise to forget all about you forever and never give you anymore trouble.
What a load, huh?
Staggering upright, I forced myself forward. My ribs ached and I had a funny kind of twinge in both ankles. Open, oh-so-treeless lawns in every direction and that hedge maze, thickety thing straight ahead.
My breath was so loud in my ears, I almost couldn't hear Dr. Marks behind me. I didn't want to hear him. When aerobic respiration isn't enough to bring oxygen to your muscles, anaerobic respiration kicks in. Lactic acid build up. Burning muscles. Thank you seventh grade biology.
I reached the tiny creek that ran along the back of the housing development. When we moved in, I'd thought it was so very picturesque. Sylvan and sparkling and a whole bunch of other pretty woodland adjectives. Those moss-covered rocks were a little slice of heaven right then, you bet.
One of my feet slipped and I went down hard. The only thing that kept me moving at that point was that I could see the brush just beyond the water. My strength was fading. But, oh, that thickety thing was lovely, dark and deep. (I'm stealing, but I don't think Robert Frost will mind one little bit.)
And then I was inside. This is always the point in the Nancy Drew mysteries where her dad, her spunky friends or her boyfriend are on their way with approximately eight bajillion cops. Nancy never knows it, but we always do. I wasn't deluding myself that any of those people were coming for me. Carson Drew and Ned Nickerson wouldn't know what on earth to do with me if they got me anyhow.
I wound a crooked path through the bushes. They were probably scratching me, but I don't really remember. I can only say for sure that I found the raised, red marks on my skin later. After everything else. Like some crazy roadmap to nowhere. My breath sounded loud in my ears. Gale force. But I heard Dr. Marks crash through and that was enough for me. I dropped to the ground and crawled for all I was worth. Nevermind the rocks and thorns and piles of rotting leaves. Nevermind the bugs. Nevermind that I still sounded (to me) like Hurricane Chloe. There was definitely a point where I had to stop and try to quiet my breathing. Although I wasn't exactly fabulously successful. My chest felt like it was about to pop. And when I'd gotten my inhalations down to big, silent gulps I moved again.
In the end, turned around and exhausted, I found myself in a smallish clearing. Completely unplanned, but I stood up quickly. Because he was still coming and Dylan Thomas says "do not go gentle" etc. Who was I to get on the wrong side of Dylan Thomas?
I was absolutely at the end of my strength. Chloe's Last Stand. I could only pray that it'd go better than Custer's. My kingdom for a spray container full of mace.
The branch I picked up from across the clearing did the job in a pinch. It was heavier than it looked. Or I was more tired than I felt. But I had to do it. What kind of reporter would I make if I couldn't even save myself every once in awhile? And how could I let him get away with anything he'd done? I hadn't been lying when I told Lex that catching John's killer would be a good thing. Maybe good with a capital "G" even.
Ready as I'd ever be, I waited.
Time seemed to stretch like taffy. My legs felt fluffy underneath me, like my whole body was suddenly made out of cotton candy and might tear at the slightest provocation. Slowly, infinitely slowly, I raised the branch over my head. My arms shook. Sweat dripped into my eyes and the salt stung. I blinked it away as best I could.
He was coming. I could hear him.
The instant his head began to poke out of the underbrush I started my swing. Pouring all of my strength into my arms. Down. Down. Down. For that moment, that lasted far longer than it should have, I was strong. Rooted. Blooming.
My breath caught, but then he fell. Oh thank god. My own legs crumbled under me and I eased down after him, still trembling. Aftershocks of my own personal earthquake.
The first time my eyes drifted closed, I snapped them open. My head was tilted at this funny angle. I could see a trickle of blood, like a tiny river, slipping out from under Dr. Marks' hair. I could hear the wind and the stream. Eucalyptus and pine.
And voices calling my name. Calling for me. The intrepid girl reporter. I tried to respond, but my own voice came out in a reedy gasp. There wasn't anything left in me for yelling. In the dark under my eyelids, the world seemed to be spinning and spinning.
Next thing I knew, I was being hoisted up. I peeked. Lex. He supported me, cradling my elbows, shoring me up like he was a flying buttress and I was a French Gothic church. If he'd let go I would have fallen. I could feel the muscles in his forearms shifting under his clothes.
"Would you believe I was trying to do exactly what you told me?" I managed.
I'm still not sure if the odd little strangled sound that came out of him would have been a laugh or a shout. The air filled with static. He was looking at me in this way that was definitely intense and maybe a tiny bit beautiful.
And this is about where we came in: exhausted, filthy, lost and kissed. If this were a painting, it'd be a surrealist one, no doubt.
* * *
It was one of the harder things I've ever had to do, but in the end I told Dad everything. Even though everything I knew wasn't awfully much at all. But Pete and Clark insisted. And Chad and Heinrich. Lana insisted.
I insisted.
I don't know what Lex would've said. He's been making himself studiously scarce. Developing an uncanny knack for breezing out of a place just as I've set foot inside. Not in any crass I've-seen-you-and-now-I-must-go way, but in a very spookily well-bred precognitive way.
But anyway.
Dad listened to my story. Hugged me fiercely, bruised ribs and sprained ankles be damned. Kissed me thoughtfully on the forehead and grounded me for two solid months.
So it's Saturday afternoon (cruelest of all cruel days for the grounded girl, so far from a weekday where she can go to school and at least pretend she's free) and I'm nearing the end of my sentence. At the moment, I'm sitting on an overturned milk crate, putting the last coat of chartreuse paint on my dresser, a chocolate biscotti clenched between my teeth. The thing about being cooped up in the house for so long -- you realize just how much certain things could use a change. The sun is warm on my shoulders and there's a twinge of honeysuckle in the air.
We've successfully negotiated the springtime rainstorms without any of the good people of Smallville getting washed away in the process. No one even had to build the tiniest of arks this year, although there was (as always) good work to be had for those whose business involves pumping water out of flooded basements. Dad and I were wading a couple times, but we made do with buckets and mops and elbow grease.
He's in the process of tearing up the back garden. He dreamed up an elaborate system of multi-tiered rose trellises this year and when I suggested that it looked like nothing so much as the lost city of the Aztecs, he tossed a clump of freshly-mown grass in my general direction. Right now he's gone off to the nursery to pick up the climbing rose plants he ordered way back in March. Although I suspect he won't hurry straight home. Because I also suspect that he's sweet on Laurel, the nursery manager. Not sure what I think about that one, but I don't have time to dwell because the hand that settles on my shoulder surprises the hell outta me. My head snaps up, sending the long portion of the biscotti flying off into the grass a good twenty feet away.
"That was certainly unexpected." We stare each other down for a while. I bite down on the butt of the biscotti and chew thoughtfully.
"Dad's not here."
"I'm not here to see your father."
"Come to visit me in the pokey then?"
Lex makes a minor show of looking around at the sunlit yard. "Some pokey."
"Stone walls do not a prison make..."
"Nor iron bars a cage. Trite but appropriate."
"Ouch."
The silence is fairly uncomfortable. Shame that. And Lex is businessing up, which I now realize is less his natural state and more a highly-developed and flawlessly executed defense mechanism. It makes me sad to think about, really.
"Richard Marks' case is in appeal," he tells me quickly, skirting as close to awkward as I'm sure he'll ever get.
"You'll get him," I say, not so much as encouragement, but because it's a fact.
Lex shakes his head slightly. "I wouldn't be so sure. Dr. Marks and Dr. Richter were working together on an independent project. Alternative energy with domestic and...foreign applications."
I understand that by "foreign applications" he means "weapons." The math on that one is ridiculously simple. Division leading to subtraction. Profit divided one way instead of two. Laid out like that, it's all so petty and sordid and awful.
"Why?" That didn't come out right at all. I mean, could I sound more naive? Only I don't want to give Lex that impression. Because I know why two people are dead. Even if I wished for there to be more, just to make it so all of it had any kind of greater meaning, beyond enhancing someone's net worth.
For the moment, I'm intently studying the way the blades of grass cast shadows on my bare feet. I pick up one of my yellow-trimmed work gloves using only my toes and drop it again. The leather sticks to my skin a bit. When I gather my courage enough, I'll be ready to face Lex. Not that I'm afraid exactly. It's the certainty that he'll be disappointed that keeps my eyes down. There's a door that shuts somewhere, I've seen it happen before, and it'll lock away that weird, beautiful face from before. All for the price of one dumb-kidism.
"Ambition gone to seed becomes mania," he suggests quietly.
"Is that personal experience?" I ask automatically before clapping both hands over my big, stupid mouth. God.
"On the contrary, I'd say the experience was on the impersonal side."
When I look, he's wearing that half smile. I'm pretty shocked by how familiar and comfortable it seems. "You're laughing at me."
"You're brandishing that pop psychology like a weapon. I can't sit idly by and do nothing."
"Perish the thought. I don't imagine finishing your story about Dr. Marks and Dr. Richter ranks up there with antagonizing me, but..."
"There's not much to tell. Their research was funded privately, personal funds. Although there are still funding sources unaccounted for. Misappropriation of..." And here's the businessman again, ladies and germs.
I tear some grass out with my toes and take pity.
"Hedgehogs."
"Hedgehogs?"
"They're very popular right now. Do you know how many hedgehogs are in a litter?"
"My education suddenly seems lacking."
"Do you know how much they sell for?"
"Are you trying to say that Dr. Richter funded his research with hedgehogs?"
"Maybe partially."
And the most amazing thing happens. Lex laughs. Not a weird, underdeveloped thing, but a genuine laugh. It's only once, but it's rich and full and good.
It's gone almost as quickly as it came and I miss it immediately. It's a little disturbing to think that I might make a serious hobby out of trying to get Lex laughing. He's über-serious now, though. Uh oh.
"I want to apologize for the other day."
I try my darnedest to wave it away. "Not necessary," I say lightly.
"No. I was out of line."
"If you really want me to accept your apology, I will. And thank you."
"For...?"
I open my arms as wide as they'll go and then let them drop against my sides. "For helping to put everything back in place. And for half-rescuing me. For visiting me in the pokey." I hold out my hand and he takes it. We shake. His palms are smooth, except where I can feel the little callouses from where he grips the fencing foil. I can't tell if the soft tangle of fingertips at the end is entirely accidental or not.
One of his eyebrows twitches up. "You can return the favor someday."
I'm not sure if it's him or me or both of us together who silently add: "Will you?"
"You never can tell," I reply.
end.
* * *
the author's note at the end of the story: Thank you to everyone who read/reviewed! I really appreciate the feedback. Chloe's voice is amazingly fun to try to capture and I thought it would be an interesting challange to write a story with Chlex-ish leanings that wasn't a future fic per se. Despite my moment of disastrous computer idiocy, this was a lot of fun to write. I'm currently weighing my options for a sequel, so we'll see. Thanks again for reaching the end of this with me!
