Chapter 11

All the Pieces in Motion

Thursday, 1:36 PM

            Willow walked back out the barn, her head slumped down. Her red hair cascaded around her face in limp bunches of largely split ends. A thought occurred to her, just for a moment, that what she really needed was a hot oil treatment. The thought was dismissed as soon as it occurred to her, though. Her hair was as limp as her motivation.

            After awaking in the barn, she had eventually wandered into the main farmhouse for breakfast. She could hear the animated discussion in the house as she approached, but the conversation died as soon as she entered. Gretta tried to put on a brave face, but it was clear that they were all scared. The moment of respite they had been enjoying over the breakfast table was shattered by the stark reality that Willow's very presence represented. She was a human buzz-kill.

            As she walked, she tried to think of clever wording for how she felt. She was a pariah. No, that's not quite right, she thought. She mentally reviewed her mental list of obscure references. If Xander had been with her, he would have found the right words, or at least they would have fed off of one another, generating idea after idea until they had come up with just the right phrase.

            Jonah, she thought. That was the right sentiment, at least. An unwelcome and unlucky figure, who, by circumstance, was thrust upon another group, who would suffer their own misfortune because of it. Unfortunately, she had seen the Veggie Tales version of the story, and she had a hard time picturing herself as an asparagus, even a computer generated one.

            Actually, she felt like Angela Landsbury, she finally concluded. It was like everyone here had figured out the hidden truth to Murder She Wrote: every time that woman shows up, somebody dies. It was like they were all watching her and whispering, Oooh look, Mrs. Fletcher just showed up. That means that one of us is about to get it! Which of us is it going to be? She tried humming a few bars of Bippity Boppity Boo, hoping that the image of a much younger Angela Landsbury as a kindly witch defending England during WWII would change her perceptions, but it was to no avail.

            She simply didn't belong here, no one wanted her here, and the only reason they were putting up with her was that Giles had persuaded them. After all she had done, Giles was still standing up for her. She owed him everything, and she didn't feel at all like she deserved it.

            Because of that, she felt that she couldn't let him down. So despite all her frustration, despite the emotions roiling like a thunderstorm off the coast, she knew she had to do more. She had to study, she had to practice, and she had to master her control of the magic. Only when she could do that could she consider the debt to her mentor paid back, and even then only in part. She didn't think she'd ever be able to pay him back fully.

            After breakfast, which was a miserable affair, she went to spend some time with Gretta. She really didn't understand the English concept of breakfast. Well, she understood it, intellectually at least. But where was the coffee? What she wouldn't do for a double hazelnut non-fat latte! She thought about conjuring one, but both Gretta and Giles had been firm; she was only to practice such magic as was assigned to her by Gretta. No freelancing, no improvisation.

            It was like she was back in grade school again. She remembered first grade. She had been instructed on which letters to print, in what order. Put the vertical line of the 'T' first, then the cross-bar. No, Miss Rosenberg, you're doing it wrong. Florence Topang, how she had hated that woman! Whoever had told her that she should be allowed to teach first graders should have had their head examined. Willow had always been an overachiever, so she had prominently placed the phrase 'Ms. Topang smell like an old fish,' across the top of her paper in cursive. It hadn't occurred to her that, despite all appearances in class, Ms. Topang was perfectly capable of reading cursive. That had been quite an awakening for young Miss Willow Rosenberg.

            This seemed to be the same way. No options, no deviation. Summon this, levitate that. Do it exactly this way. Use this incantation, move your fingers like that. Ugh! It was infuriating – she was capable of so much more. But she had promised Giles, and she was going to keep that promise.

            The morning's lesson had been on bending sunlight. At first, it had seemed like a highly advanced topic. Willow knew enough about quantum mechanics to understand what the physics behind such a project might be. She had been disappointed, however, to discover that the process was actually quite simple. Rather than bending the light directly, interacting with the photons themselves, the witch formed a prism from the moisture in the air. Collect the air, the moisture, the ambient airborne particles, and create a small, delicate prism. Form it, control it, and push it into the path of the sunbeam. Change its shape, turn it, and spread and bend the sunlight to where you wanted it.

            It was, to Willow's estimation, a crude approach. It would be much more elegant, she thought to herself, to form small pockets of very intense gravity to bend the light waves. Or perhaps alter the potential probabilities in the immediate vicinity, so that the light bent of its own accord as it traveled through that space.

            That, however, was not the exercise for today. Today was forming prisms out of moisture, and so she was off to the barn to practice. On the one hand, it presented less of challenge. It had rained the night before, and so she had less of challenge to find the moisture in the air and gather it. She justified it to herself by arguing that the farmhouse wasn't all that well insulated to begin with, so the difference in moisture levels was pretty much academic.

            On the plus side, the barn was private, which was good for her concentration. It was away from the rest of the coven, which was good for them. And she liked the way the sun filtered through the aged boards of the wood. The sunbeams which worked their way through the maze of siding and knotholes was … pretty. It would be pleasant to reflect it around.

            She sighed once again. Not even the thoughts of pretty sunbeams could cheer her up. She was in a funk, and she started again on her cycle of thoughts as she walked through the barn door. So obsessed was she with those inner conversations that she didn't even notice the form of the demon Mr. Gray standing there.

            But then he introduced himself.

* * *

            Jonathan Trimble was pushing his vehicle across the M4 for all he was worth. He thought that by sheer force of will he could make the miles fall away faster. They were doing their best, but the odds were stacked against them. If the ruse was discovered before he could secure the girl, they would miss their opportunity. Jenny Thatcher would call in local support to cordon off the area, and then she and Mr. Turcey would helicopter their way over. If he didn't get to her first, he wouldn't stand a chance.

            He was relying on a handful of circumstance. First of all, Miles Winthrop was unlikely to be missed anytime soon. He was simply too low on the totem poll for anyone to take notice of except his immediate supervisor. That supervisor would be unlikely to report the analyst to Jenny Thatcher. He wouldn't assume that the boy had been kidnapped, he'd assume that the young man was shirking his duty. He would attempt to find him and discipline him before Jenny found out; that kind of action on the part of a subordinate would reflect equally as badly on the supervisor.

            Secondly, Miles Winthrop had been looking in places he wasn't supposed to be. There was simply no way that Jenny could know that he had stumbled across something that had nothing to do with his job assignment. Even if they noticed him missing, they wouldn't immediately connect it with any particular line of inquiry.

            Then there was the fact that Jenny and Mr. Turcey weren't getting on very well. That would limit their efficiency. He was relying on an increasing level of frustration and disorganization in the team. He couldn't imagine how any other pair of fugitives would have been able to evade the net that had been spread by Jenny and her team. But he wasn't dealing with any other pair of fugitives; she was dealing with an experienced SAS commando being supported by a splinter of a government agency.

            It wasn't just any agency, either. Sir Radcliffe Holm, of the Special Projects directorate, was a legend in the community. His influence dated back to before World War II, and no one could confirm how old he really was. Only that he was the very best, and anyone working for him would be just as good.  That meant that the team would have to be at peak efficiency to have any hope of locating them. With all the inner conflict going on, it would take an act of God for the two of them to be found – or an act of a devil, more likely.

            He just wondered who, exactly, that devil might turn out to be.

            In the meantime, he had a huge lead. He put the accelerator down and moved around several other cars in his way. He was pushing it for all he was worth. He had to reach Willow Rosenberg before anyone else did. It seemed to him that the one risk was Analyst (2nd Class) Miles Winthrop. He hoped Eric was keeping him under wraps.

* * *

            "How did you manage to get the fifth monitor running without the video card IRQs conflicting with the sound card?" Miles Winthrop was pointing to Eric's home computer setup. Alicia had escorted him out of Thames House at gunpoint and brought him here. He was, of course, confused.

            These were members of his own team who had taken him hostage. These were people that he was supposed to trust, people whom he had run into in the break room. But what they were doing was wrong … very wrong. And he had an obligation to his country to stop them.

            He realized suddenly that he wasn't paying attention to the other Analyst's reply, so he tuned back in to Eric's explanation. The man was a geek of the first order, and Miles knew that he needed to distract him, to get him talking. Miles needed to give himself an opportunity, and the way to do that was to show how much alike he and Eric were. So he did what was necessary, as his mind worked.

            He had missed the main part of the explanation, and he had to cover quickly. He suddenly realized that this was an opportunity, if only he had the courage to take it. "I don't understand," he stuttered out. "How is it cabled up?"

            Eric thought for a moment, starting to speak twice but stopping when he realized that he couldn't quite explain it. "Let me show you," he said suddenly, inspiration dawning. He bent over to pull the mini-tower out from under the desk. That was last thing he remembered.

            Miles stood over the crumpled form holding a cricket trophy. He was shaking, but he had done it. He had seized the opportunity. As soon as Eric had bent over, Miles had grabbed the trophy from the desktop and struck him on the back of the head, just as he had been instructed in the self-defense class. It had worked exactly as they had predicted. Eric lay motionless on the floor.

            Miles looked around. He was cuffed to the radiator, and he had barely managed to get Eric close enough to strike. Now he had, and he wasn't sure what to do next. He looked around, trying to determine his options. Just out of reach sat a cordless phone. He reached out.

            Slowly, painfully, he stretched. He could not quite get to it. But he had to, he knew that. There was little choice in the matter, he knew what had to be done. It was only a matter of inches. Gritting his teeth, he placed his foot against the wall. He breathed once, twice, three times. He leaned in … and shoved. The pain was blinding, almost disabling. But with a dislocated shoulder, he was able to reach the last few inches and grab the phone.

            He dialed Jenny Fletcher.

* * *

            Jerome looked around Charing Cross Station. The crowds were thinner than at the height of the day, but they couldn't in any way be called thin. He flipped through the paper, being careful to give the appearance of movement. People would notice if he never turned the page, and that would give him away as sure as anything.

            He identified a dozen likely suspects. He was looking for a Russian immigrant, and the type was easy to identify. The Slavic features were slighly different from the other Englishmen around him, but to the trained eye he could tell what he was looking for. It was suspect number nine who finally made contact with Sir Blackwell.

            To anyone else, it was nothing. They sat on opposite sides of bench, back to back and two seats apart. Sir Blackwell was munching on some nuts; Straznikof was doing the crossword puzzle. He couldn't make out what was said, but he didn't have to. The job was to make the contact, and then to follow him.

            He waited, watching them. He turned the paper, and in that brief flash Sir Blackwell saw him. The words he spoke to Straznikof were a sharp bark, and Straznikof was off and running. Jerome was off in pursuit, but Sir Blackwell grabbed him.

            "What the Hell are you doing?" he screamed. He didn't care who was watching. Jerome pushed past him, trying to not lose sight of his prey. Straznikof jumped into the subway tunnel and began running down the tracks. Jerome was in pursuit. It looked like Jonathan was right to not fully trust Sir Blackwell.

            The darkness was punctuated by the occasional safety light. The echoes of their feet were undercut by the distant sounds of the train. Although running through the tunnels of 'the tube' was discouraged, it was not physically impossible. But the trains could be deadly. More importantly to Jerome, having to dodge a train could result in losing his quarry.

            Jerome had played every sport there was to play, between prep school and college. He played football, rugby, and lacrosse. All of them required extensive running. As a result, he had no problem outpacing Straznikof. It was only a question of what would reach him first, Jerome or the train.

            Jerome reached him just moments before the train. He reached out and grabbed Straznikof from behind and slammed him – hard – against the concrete wall of the tube tunnel. Jerome held him tightly against the wall as the train passed them. Just inches from Jerome's back, a hundred tons of metal shot by at eighty kilometers per hour.

            When it passed, they were both breathing heavily, nearly in shock. Jerome recovered first. He spun the man around and slammed him into the tunnel wall. "I'm here to help," he managed to squeeze out between gasps. "Why are you running?" He knew it was a dumb question – the man was an informant on one of the most powerful organizations in the country, one that was literally above the law.

            Straznikof smiled, a bizarre, almost mad smile. "There is no help," he said, his own breathing ragged. "You don't know. You don't understand. There is no help for me any longer." He started to laugh, a crooked, twisted laugh.

            Jerome started to protest, but as he watched Anthony Straznikof began to smolder, and then he combusted. Literally. He burst into flame, and laughed until he began to scream. Jerome stepped back and watched in shocked disbelief as the man spontaneously incinerated. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

            Another train was approaching. He had no choice, he had to head to the next station. He ran, the image of the dying man fresh in his mind.

* * *

            Darla sat at her desk trying to look busy. In truth, she was worried. They were way beyond the limits of anything resembling intelligence. She was sure that it was all going to go wrong, but she wasn't sure when. She knew that it was only a moment until the proverbial 'other shoe' would drop.

            She wasn't wrong.

            Jenny Thatcher approached Darla's desk with two officers. "Darla, where's Jonathan?" she asked. Her tone allowed no misinterpretation. The deceit has been found out – they were caught.

            "I don't know." Darla lifted her head with the declaration. She was going out with pride, with dignity. She wasn't going to be cowed by this young woman. She kept her head up as she was escorted from the room, officially in custody. She held her head up until she was placed in a cell, alone. Then she began to cry.