Chapter 10
Joe reclined his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, wishing to somehow get away from the oppressive darkness of the basement. But as he stayed tête-à-tête with himself, the bad feeling only grew. Never before had he felt so feeble and hopeless. Time was flying too fast when he thought about Newman who could come back any moment, but it was crawling on when he listened attentively to the silence, hoping to hear a sound from whoever was coming to rescue them. But nothing's happened for a very long time. Newman hasn't yet arrived, much to the two's relief; Chet hasn't said a word, having dozed off or simply lost in his own world. Only the rain outside stopped and the wind subdued not so long ago. The basement was dark and quiet, but such calmness scared Joe – it was a dead calm. 'The seaside is always still before the storm... I hope they come before the storm begins. I wonder what time it is. It must be so late, definitely past midnight .... Why aren't they coming?... Maybe they're sleeping? I'm so tired, I want to sleep so much, too... No, they're not asleep, I know they're looking for us.... They're looking for us... But what if they come too late?... I'm going crazy... I'm not crazy, I'm just tired and I want to get away from here... And I can't.... Can't... '...Isn't it like gliding on thin ice?... When you're waiting for a helping hand that will pull you to the steady ground, but no one is coming to your aid and you're trying to slither on your own, mentally mustering all your courage and hope because you know it's only up to you to save yourself, but physically dreading to make a slightest move because it can cause the dangerously thin surface crack beneath your feet and you'll fall to your death....' The last thought was a bit clumsy, in Joe's opinion, 'I'm not afraid to move!'. He just couldn't move at all. The more he tried to get his wrists freed, the deeper and sorer the cuts on them were becoming, but the ropes wouldn't give anyway - they were too tight, he had to confess, he wouldn't have loosened them even if he had been in perfect shape and his present condition was far from being at least satisfactory. He stirred, trying to change his pose, if possible when bound hand and foot to the chair, but only managed to move few muscles and it brought no comfort to his stiff body. He ached in every limb and he couldn't already feel his fingers and toes. The temperature in the basement was getting lower and he was freezing, every time a gust of draught blew past him he felt his skin crawl. Joe even tried to breathe shallowly to let as little cold damp air in as possible. Exhaustion was taking its toll on the teen, there was a strange buzz in his aching head – the kind of drone he always heard when going to bed after having a very intensive day. The dull sound was wearing him further off, but at the same time it wouldn't let him relax and nod off. Every time he was close to relaxing and distracting himself from his fears and pains, his senses would remind him of the dank surroundings, the uncomfortable chair he was bound to, he would hear the squeaks of the old house and feel the coldness of the damp air. And then Joe had to struggle with the reality again. 'Sit and wait is all you can do. Helpless, feeble... You're so pathetic, Hardy.... How I hate it...' He sighed and opened his eyes. He looked around the dark room and his eyes stopped at the still figure in the opposite corner. A second later he looked aside, guilt gnawing at him. 'Why should it be you, Chet? What have you done so wrong to have your life screwed up like this? Why did you have to meet me in your life?' Joe shook his head, trying to get rid of the feeling of remorse that was taking control of him. 'What if they're too late to save us and he does start to carry out his sick plan? What if I won't be able to stop him and you'll indeed become the first?... I always make a mess of people's lives. Or even put an end to them... Iola, I'm so sorry...' His eyes swelled with tears at the memory of the raven-haired girl. 'I always wanted to be a hero for you and other people, instead I ruin everybody's lives....' Joe bowed his head, his face wry as he struggled with sudden tears. Emotions that were taking him open were more than he could cope with. Fear for what would happen when Newman returned. Despair, uncertain if the police would find them sooner than their hell began. Panic, being unable to free himself from his bounds, free Chet and run away. Dull pain when trying to untie the ropes. Conscience when looking at Chet. Heartache when remembering his sister.... Two tears rolled down his cheeks and he sniffed, ashamed to cry like a little boy, but emotions were getting uncontrollable. He sniffed again and again, doing his utmost not to break down crying. "Joe?" Chet suddenly called. It was the first time he had said something in fifteen minutes. "Joe, what is wrong?" Instead of an answer Joe only sniffed again, swallowing the tears that had arisen in his throat. He wasn't going to break down in front of his friend, he is strong! "Joe?" Chet's voice was full of concern. "What? What's wrong?" "Nothing," Joe managed huskily between gasps of air. "It's okay, Chet. Really. It's nothing." "But you are..." "I'm not!" Joe tried to sound even, but his voice betrayed his feelings anyway. "I'm not crying!" "Joe, it's okay," Chet said quietly after a pause. "It's me. It's okay. I understand." "What do you understand?" Joe whispered bitterly. "You're so lucky you don't understand anything..." "What do you mean? What don't I understand?" Chet asked and stirred a little to hear Joe better. "Tell me." Joe chuckled bitterly. How was he supposed to put to words emotions that were tearing him apart? What could he say to him, knowing that he was partially responsible for him being here? Was there any way to speak his troubled mind? "Joe?" Chet sounded almost pleadingly. "I'm so sorry...." Joe sniffed again, tears watering his eyes anew. "I'm so sorry...." "Sorry? Sorry for what?" "That you're here." "What? But it's not your fault," Chet replied. "It is!" Joe exclaimed, louder than needed, but his emotions were getting out of his mind's control again. "It is! It's me he wants! It's me and me only who should be here!" "Joe..." Chet wished there was something to say, but words failed him as he tried to reply to that absurd statement. "You're.... There's obviously a serious head injury after the blows. You're running a fever!... What you've just said, you're being delirious to just think such stupid things." "Chet, how can't you understand?" "Understand what?" "Don't you understand what he's doing?" when Chet didn't reply, Joe broke down. "Don't you understand why you're here? Can't you see because of whom it's all happening? Chet, I can't stand it anymore! I'm sick and tired of these bastards hurting the people I love just to get at me! Can't they just come and finish me off and leave the others, who have nothing to do with me and Frank and my father investigating, alone?..." his voice trailed off. "Don't you understand what they're doing?..." "I understand what they're doing. They, not you. It's not your fault," Chet said firmly. "It's theirs." "But if you never knew me, none of this would have happened to you, you'd be home now, safe and sound, if you never helped us investigate then you would...." "Yeah, right, I'd spent my entire life earthing up cucumbers instead of making it interesting, helping you investigate," Chet chuckled. "Joe, you never asked us to help, we wanted to do that ourselves because it was...I dunno, challenging, interesting. Dangerous, too, yes, but it's a part of it, isn't it?" "But it's becoming way too dangerous!" Joe said. "But your 'ifs' can't change it. I have never regretted the fact that I know you, no matter how dangerous friendship with you can be sometimes." "And I have. I regretted it one day a year ago," Joe said in a small voice. "Because...'cause if...if Iola never met me, she'd still be alive..." "And I thought we were past that," Chet let out a heavy sigh before going on. "Do you know for sure?" he asked quietly. "No one can know if she'd be alive now even if she never met you. You knew her, she believed in predestination. Just like I do. It happened, because...because it just should have happened. And if it should it would have happened – the way it did or somehow else." "Rubbish! It shouldn't have happened anyhow! What should have happened is that I should have been killed back then! Not her!.." "We don't decide." Joe threw his head backward, tears flowing down the sides of his cheeks. "Joe, we don't decide," Chet repeated quietly when Joe remained silent. "We can't decide such things. We can't choose when to be born, who said we can choose when to die?... Things happen for a reason, even if the reason remains unknown to us. I can't know why she died, I can't know why I'm here. But what I know is that she wouldn't want to see you blaming her death on yourself, I don't want to see you blaming her death on yourself." "But you do blame it on me, don't you?" Joe asked, afraid to hear the answer, but knowing he had to hear it. "No!" Chet exclaimed. "For God's sake, no! I only blame the guy who set the bomb into your van.... And you know what? If it weren't her, it still would be someone – you or Frank or one of the other guys. And it'd hurt just as much.... Please, Joe, you have to get over that. Leave the past in the past."
"How? Tell me, how?" "Let go of your guilt or whatever you feel about that day. Move on. She had a good life and her last few years were especially happy – thanks to you. Iola was happy. You made her happy. And it's not your fault she loved you, but it's your merit she was happy, loving you." Joe shook his head in disbelief. Chet was so wrong. If she was happy, why did it have it end? What had she done to end her life like that? What had Chet done to end up in this hellish basement? "You gotta move on. Really move on." "Really move on," Joe whispered and chuckled bitterly. Could he really ever move on when every time he tried every little thing would remind him of her – her picture on the night table, her locker in the school, the closed door to her room in the Mortons' house, her favorite swings in the park? Would he be able to move on if anything happened to Chet tonight? How could he move on when something was always pulling him back? "Forget all those 'what ifs', they can't change the past. I know you would save her if you knew what was to going to happen. But you didn't know. No one did... It's been a year, it's time to accept it that she's not coming back. It hurts to say it," there was a quaver in his voice, "it hurts very much, but...but the real her is not here anymore. She's a dream at night, a memory by day. A happy memory...." A memory. A misty form Joe still saw in his dreams. A shadow that still filled his soul with hope that she's alive and he can touch her skin, smell her perfume, hear her voice. Only when he woke up a bitter realization would always hit him like a knife. She was only a memory, a dream at night for a year. In course of time she came to him in his dreams less and less often. But sometimes his pillow was still damp with tears in the morning and he felt sick at heart. "I just can't understand one thing. Why?" Joe asked barely audibly. "Why her, Chet? Why her and not me?" "I don't know," came the reply. "Maybe because it was her time to go. Maybe because it wasn't yours. Maybe because it should happen in your life – and ours, too, by the way – to make you and us realize something. I don't know, Joe. Maybe I'll never know. But the fact remains the same. She's not here anymore, but...but our lives go on. And we should live them." She's not here anymore. She too had a life to live, but someone pulled her out of this world. So abruptly and so cruelly. "Just remember that one day we'll meet her again. She died, saving someone else's life – yours or Frank's or whoever's. And I know that she wouldn't want that saved life be spent on nothing, mourning her. Say, if-if it happened like that – it was our van and you opened the door instead of her and-and...well, you know, would you want her to feel guilty, to mourn you for the rest of her life, to shut herself from the world and never feel happy again?" "No," Joe whispered. "Then what makes you think she feels differently?" "I don't know, Chet. It's just getting so hard sometimes. You know, to play a detective and know that you failed to save someone you loved. Still love. To still play a detective and be shut in a basement with one of your best friends. To know that you're in grave danger and be unable to do anything about it... Is there any chance I can move on when it happens all the time? Will I be able to move on if anything happens to you?" Chet fell silent, as if he had forgotten about where and why they were. The heartfelt conversation was replaced by strain between the two of them. Joe thought he had asked a question his friend didn't have a ready-made answer for. If everything was reversed, he knew 'if anything happens to me, forget about it all and get on with your life' kind of answer would sound too lame. In the awkward silence of the basement the noises from outside seemed so loud that the distant sound of the rising wind, playing with autumn leaves somewhere far away, seemed very near...
"Joe, I don't know how to reply to that," Chet finally said, "but...but can you do me a favor? Promise me something. Promise me that no matter what happens you'll find a way to get on with your life? Please?"
"What?" Joe felt cold shiver down his spine at the words. What was on Chet's mind? 'No matter what happens....get on with your life...no matter what happens...' "Chet, what are you...." He never finished as the rustling sound from outside caught his attention again. It was getting louder and louder- "You hear that?" he asked, turning his head to the window to hear better.
Chet was silent for a second, listening attentively. "It's a car!" he exclaimed. "And it's moving here!"
The crunch of the tires on the gravel was unmistakable now, someone was speeding towards the house – and very fast, Joe could tell. As if the driver knew the road to the hut...
"Who do you think it is?" Chet asked. "Do you think it's...." he swallowed over a lump in his throat.
The next second Joe narrowed his eyes against the sudden light which had burst into the basement through the small window when the vehicle had stopped right opposite it. The thud of a closing door was followed by hurried steps. Of only one person....
"Joe?" Chet's voice wavered. "Promise me!" he pleaded. "Please???"
Pop-eyed with dread, Joe looked at him. The light from outside was dim, but he it was enough to see Chet's face. The expression of terror and entreaty, he knew, would haunt him for the rest of his life. 'My very short life...Mama mia...Dad, Frank!!!'
"Please?"
The rapid steps down the squeaky stairs to the door stopped and the person inserted the key into the keyhole...
"Joe??"
"Sorry, Chet," Joe swallowed, hearing a rattling click and watching, awestruck, the door handle move.... "I can't promise you something I won't be able to do..."
The door opened.
Newman was back....
Joe reclined his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, wishing to somehow get away from the oppressive darkness of the basement. But as he stayed tête-à-tête with himself, the bad feeling only grew. Never before had he felt so feeble and hopeless. Time was flying too fast when he thought about Newman who could come back any moment, but it was crawling on when he listened attentively to the silence, hoping to hear a sound from whoever was coming to rescue them. But nothing's happened for a very long time. Newman hasn't yet arrived, much to the two's relief; Chet hasn't said a word, having dozed off or simply lost in his own world. Only the rain outside stopped and the wind subdued not so long ago. The basement was dark and quiet, but such calmness scared Joe – it was a dead calm. 'The seaside is always still before the storm... I hope they come before the storm begins. I wonder what time it is. It must be so late, definitely past midnight .... Why aren't they coming?... Maybe they're sleeping? I'm so tired, I want to sleep so much, too... No, they're not asleep, I know they're looking for us.... They're looking for us... But what if they come too late?... I'm going crazy... I'm not crazy, I'm just tired and I want to get away from here... And I can't.... Can't... '...Isn't it like gliding on thin ice?... When you're waiting for a helping hand that will pull you to the steady ground, but no one is coming to your aid and you're trying to slither on your own, mentally mustering all your courage and hope because you know it's only up to you to save yourself, but physically dreading to make a slightest move because it can cause the dangerously thin surface crack beneath your feet and you'll fall to your death....' The last thought was a bit clumsy, in Joe's opinion, 'I'm not afraid to move!'. He just couldn't move at all. The more he tried to get his wrists freed, the deeper and sorer the cuts on them were becoming, but the ropes wouldn't give anyway - they were too tight, he had to confess, he wouldn't have loosened them even if he had been in perfect shape and his present condition was far from being at least satisfactory. He stirred, trying to change his pose, if possible when bound hand and foot to the chair, but only managed to move few muscles and it brought no comfort to his stiff body. He ached in every limb and he couldn't already feel his fingers and toes. The temperature in the basement was getting lower and he was freezing, every time a gust of draught blew past him he felt his skin crawl. Joe even tried to breathe shallowly to let as little cold damp air in as possible. Exhaustion was taking its toll on the teen, there was a strange buzz in his aching head – the kind of drone he always heard when going to bed after having a very intensive day. The dull sound was wearing him further off, but at the same time it wouldn't let him relax and nod off. Every time he was close to relaxing and distracting himself from his fears and pains, his senses would remind him of the dank surroundings, the uncomfortable chair he was bound to, he would hear the squeaks of the old house and feel the coldness of the damp air. And then Joe had to struggle with the reality again. 'Sit and wait is all you can do. Helpless, feeble... You're so pathetic, Hardy.... How I hate it...' He sighed and opened his eyes. He looked around the dark room and his eyes stopped at the still figure in the opposite corner. A second later he looked aside, guilt gnawing at him. 'Why should it be you, Chet? What have you done so wrong to have your life screwed up like this? Why did you have to meet me in your life?' Joe shook his head, trying to get rid of the feeling of remorse that was taking control of him. 'What if they're too late to save us and he does start to carry out his sick plan? What if I won't be able to stop him and you'll indeed become the first?... I always make a mess of people's lives. Or even put an end to them... Iola, I'm so sorry...' His eyes swelled with tears at the memory of the raven-haired girl. 'I always wanted to be a hero for you and other people, instead I ruin everybody's lives....' Joe bowed his head, his face wry as he struggled with sudden tears. Emotions that were taking him open were more than he could cope with. Fear for what would happen when Newman returned. Despair, uncertain if the police would find them sooner than their hell began. Panic, being unable to free himself from his bounds, free Chet and run away. Dull pain when trying to untie the ropes. Conscience when looking at Chet. Heartache when remembering his sister.... Two tears rolled down his cheeks and he sniffed, ashamed to cry like a little boy, but emotions were getting uncontrollable. He sniffed again and again, doing his utmost not to break down crying. "Joe?" Chet suddenly called. It was the first time he had said something in fifteen minutes. "Joe, what is wrong?" Instead of an answer Joe only sniffed again, swallowing the tears that had arisen in his throat. He wasn't going to break down in front of his friend, he is strong! "Joe?" Chet's voice was full of concern. "What? What's wrong?" "Nothing," Joe managed huskily between gasps of air. "It's okay, Chet. Really. It's nothing." "But you are..." "I'm not!" Joe tried to sound even, but his voice betrayed his feelings anyway. "I'm not crying!" "Joe, it's okay," Chet said quietly after a pause. "It's me. It's okay. I understand." "What do you understand?" Joe whispered bitterly. "You're so lucky you don't understand anything..." "What do you mean? What don't I understand?" Chet asked and stirred a little to hear Joe better. "Tell me." Joe chuckled bitterly. How was he supposed to put to words emotions that were tearing him apart? What could he say to him, knowing that he was partially responsible for him being here? Was there any way to speak his troubled mind? "Joe?" Chet sounded almost pleadingly. "I'm so sorry...." Joe sniffed again, tears watering his eyes anew. "I'm so sorry...." "Sorry? Sorry for what?" "That you're here." "What? But it's not your fault," Chet replied. "It is!" Joe exclaimed, louder than needed, but his emotions were getting out of his mind's control again. "It is! It's me he wants! It's me and me only who should be here!" "Joe..." Chet wished there was something to say, but words failed him as he tried to reply to that absurd statement. "You're.... There's obviously a serious head injury after the blows. You're running a fever!... What you've just said, you're being delirious to just think such stupid things." "Chet, how can't you understand?" "Understand what?" "Don't you understand what he's doing?" when Chet didn't reply, Joe broke down. "Don't you understand why you're here? Can't you see because of whom it's all happening? Chet, I can't stand it anymore! I'm sick and tired of these bastards hurting the people I love just to get at me! Can't they just come and finish me off and leave the others, who have nothing to do with me and Frank and my father investigating, alone?..." his voice trailed off. "Don't you understand what they're doing?..." "I understand what they're doing. They, not you. It's not your fault," Chet said firmly. "It's theirs." "But if you never knew me, none of this would have happened to you, you'd be home now, safe and sound, if you never helped us investigate then you would...." "Yeah, right, I'd spent my entire life earthing up cucumbers instead of making it interesting, helping you investigate," Chet chuckled. "Joe, you never asked us to help, we wanted to do that ourselves because it was...I dunno, challenging, interesting. Dangerous, too, yes, but it's a part of it, isn't it?" "But it's becoming way too dangerous!" Joe said. "But your 'ifs' can't change it. I have never regretted the fact that I know you, no matter how dangerous friendship with you can be sometimes." "And I have. I regretted it one day a year ago," Joe said in a small voice. "Because...'cause if...if Iola never met me, she'd still be alive..." "And I thought we were past that," Chet let out a heavy sigh before going on. "Do you know for sure?" he asked quietly. "No one can know if she'd be alive now even if she never met you. You knew her, she believed in predestination. Just like I do. It happened, because...because it just should have happened. And if it should it would have happened – the way it did or somehow else." "Rubbish! It shouldn't have happened anyhow! What should have happened is that I should have been killed back then! Not her!.." "We don't decide." Joe threw his head backward, tears flowing down the sides of his cheeks. "Joe, we don't decide," Chet repeated quietly when Joe remained silent. "We can't decide such things. We can't choose when to be born, who said we can choose when to die?... Things happen for a reason, even if the reason remains unknown to us. I can't know why she died, I can't know why I'm here. But what I know is that she wouldn't want to see you blaming her death on yourself, I don't want to see you blaming her death on yourself." "But you do blame it on me, don't you?" Joe asked, afraid to hear the answer, but knowing he had to hear it. "No!" Chet exclaimed. "For God's sake, no! I only blame the guy who set the bomb into your van.... And you know what? If it weren't her, it still would be someone – you or Frank or one of the other guys. And it'd hurt just as much.... Please, Joe, you have to get over that. Leave the past in the past."
"How? Tell me, how?" "Let go of your guilt or whatever you feel about that day. Move on. She had a good life and her last few years were especially happy – thanks to you. Iola was happy. You made her happy. And it's not your fault she loved you, but it's your merit she was happy, loving you." Joe shook his head in disbelief. Chet was so wrong. If she was happy, why did it have it end? What had she done to end her life like that? What had Chet done to end up in this hellish basement? "You gotta move on. Really move on." "Really move on," Joe whispered and chuckled bitterly. Could he really ever move on when every time he tried every little thing would remind him of her – her picture on the night table, her locker in the school, the closed door to her room in the Mortons' house, her favorite swings in the park? Would he be able to move on if anything happened to Chet tonight? How could he move on when something was always pulling him back? "Forget all those 'what ifs', they can't change the past. I know you would save her if you knew what was to going to happen. But you didn't know. No one did... It's been a year, it's time to accept it that she's not coming back. It hurts to say it," there was a quaver in his voice, "it hurts very much, but...but the real her is not here anymore. She's a dream at night, a memory by day. A happy memory...." A memory. A misty form Joe still saw in his dreams. A shadow that still filled his soul with hope that she's alive and he can touch her skin, smell her perfume, hear her voice. Only when he woke up a bitter realization would always hit him like a knife. She was only a memory, a dream at night for a year. In course of time she came to him in his dreams less and less often. But sometimes his pillow was still damp with tears in the morning and he felt sick at heart. "I just can't understand one thing. Why?" Joe asked barely audibly. "Why her, Chet? Why her and not me?" "I don't know," came the reply. "Maybe because it was her time to go. Maybe because it wasn't yours. Maybe because it should happen in your life – and ours, too, by the way – to make you and us realize something. I don't know, Joe. Maybe I'll never know. But the fact remains the same. She's not here anymore, but...but our lives go on. And we should live them." She's not here anymore. She too had a life to live, but someone pulled her out of this world. So abruptly and so cruelly. "Just remember that one day we'll meet her again. She died, saving someone else's life – yours or Frank's or whoever's. And I know that she wouldn't want that saved life be spent on nothing, mourning her. Say, if-if it happened like that – it was our van and you opened the door instead of her and-and...well, you know, would you want her to feel guilty, to mourn you for the rest of her life, to shut herself from the world and never feel happy again?" "No," Joe whispered. "Then what makes you think she feels differently?" "I don't know, Chet. It's just getting so hard sometimes. You know, to play a detective and know that you failed to save someone you loved. Still love. To still play a detective and be shut in a basement with one of your best friends. To know that you're in grave danger and be unable to do anything about it... Is there any chance I can move on when it happens all the time? Will I be able to move on if anything happens to you?" Chet fell silent, as if he had forgotten about where and why they were. The heartfelt conversation was replaced by strain between the two of them. Joe thought he had asked a question his friend didn't have a ready-made answer for. If everything was reversed, he knew 'if anything happens to me, forget about it all and get on with your life' kind of answer would sound too lame. In the awkward silence of the basement the noises from outside seemed so loud that the distant sound of the rising wind, playing with autumn leaves somewhere far away, seemed very near...
"Joe, I don't know how to reply to that," Chet finally said, "but...but can you do me a favor? Promise me something. Promise me that no matter what happens you'll find a way to get on with your life? Please?"
"What?" Joe felt cold shiver down his spine at the words. What was on Chet's mind? 'No matter what happens....get on with your life...no matter what happens...' "Chet, what are you...." He never finished as the rustling sound from outside caught his attention again. It was getting louder and louder- "You hear that?" he asked, turning his head to the window to hear better.
Chet was silent for a second, listening attentively. "It's a car!" he exclaimed. "And it's moving here!"
The crunch of the tires on the gravel was unmistakable now, someone was speeding towards the house – and very fast, Joe could tell. As if the driver knew the road to the hut...
"Who do you think it is?" Chet asked. "Do you think it's...." he swallowed over a lump in his throat.
The next second Joe narrowed his eyes against the sudden light which had burst into the basement through the small window when the vehicle had stopped right opposite it. The thud of a closing door was followed by hurried steps. Of only one person....
"Joe?" Chet's voice wavered. "Promise me!" he pleaded. "Please???"
Pop-eyed with dread, Joe looked at him. The light from outside was dim, but he it was enough to see Chet's face. The expression of terror and entreaty, he knew, would haunt him for the rest of his life. 'My very short life...Mama mia...Dad, Frank!!!'
"Please?"
The rapid steps down the squeaky stairs to the door stopped and the person inserted the key into the keyhole...
"Joe??"
"Sorry, Chet," Joe swallowed, hearing a rattling click and watching, awestruck, the door handle move.... "I can't promise you something I won't be able to do..."
The door opened.
Newman was back....