The Long Way Home

By

E. S. Young

Chapter Eighteen: Perché non Dormire Pi

(in awe) Eighteen chapters . . . oh my gods . . . wow. And to think I was getting hyped about writing nine chapters. Seems like nothing now, really. And, as I stated earlier, I believe, I'm now on summer vacation and therefore have even more time to write. =D I'm just glad everyone has been sticking with this fic for so long, albeit, to me it seems like things are going fast. .

- - -

"Uhhm, Adam," Liam said nervously into the phone, his eyes still on Sands, "I'll . . . I'll call you back . . ."

"Tell him you'll get back to him in ten," Sands told him, "That's how long I'm allowing you two to clear things up a bit."

"I'll call you in . . .ten," Liam told Adam.

"And make sure you tell your secretary you're expecting a call from us," added Grace, who didn't look nearly as fearful as Liam did. Perhaps she was used to Sands and how dangerous he could look when he was kept in the dark.

'In the dark, right,' Liam thought grimly, hanging up the phone. 'That's what we're trying to get him out of if he would just cooperate . . .'

"Fusco?" Sands called tauntingly, "The clock IS ticking."

"Perhaps the kitchen would be best," Grace suggested, taking Sands by the arm and guiding him carefully through the door that led from the living room to the kitchen. "I'll make coffee."

Liam wasted no time in rushing after them and seating himself at the small kitchen table. Sands sat across from him, resting his elbows on the table and leaning on them carefully so as not to test the wound in his arm.

"So," he began conversationally, "there's a doctor."

"My brother," Liam explained hastily. "He's trying this new type of surgery –"

"So he's experimenting is what you're saying," Sands cut in. Liam fell silent.

"Yes . . ." he said after a moment, "Yes . . . see –"

"No."

Liam flinched but pressed on, "He's trying . . . he's . . ." He stumbled for the right words but came up empty.

"It's reanimation . . . of organs . . ." Grace explained as she set a cup of coffee down in front of Sands. Liam nodded vigorously.

"He thinks it'll be a success," he began but Sands interjected smoothly.

"What's this I hear about a patient dying?"

Liam winced again and cleared his throat distractedly.

"Um, yes, about . . . that . . ."

"Yes, about that," Sands said pleasantly. He leaned across the table, trying and succeeding to intimidate the other agent. "What about that?" he asked in a dangerously calm voice.

"It was blood loss," Grace informed him, once again coming to Liam's rescue.

"Oh," Sands said mildly, "well, I'm familiar with that having had six holes put into me over the last three days."

Grace gave a shuddery breath of despair, but said nothing else. Lifting his coffee cup with both hands – he didn't think his left arm could support it by itself – Sands continued.

"So, the patient died on the operating table due to blood loss –"

"– not the surgery," Liam assured him.

"– which was brought on by the surgery," Sands finished, looking over his cup at Liam but seeing nothing but darkness.

"Well, yes," the other agent admitted fairly, "I suppose that IS true, but Adam made it sound like the surgery wasn't the cause of it."

"Maybe it was an allergic reaction to the medicine they injected and that triggered the blood loss," Grace suggested. "Although I've never heard of such a reaction . . ."

"Believable or not, it's a much nicer theory than the one about the surgery going wrong," Sands pointed out. He took another sip of coffee, letting the warm liquid flow throughout his insides. He was freezing again – 'Damn blood loss' -- and was grateful for anything heated.

'I'd better not be getting sick again,' he thought bitterly, 'I'm getting just a little tired of this on and off shit.'

"Well, about the surgery," Liam began testily, "Adam thought that he, well, he . . . his patient was blind," he stated suddenly, not wanting to have Grace bail him out again. "They were born that way, and they had tried many treatments but none of them had worked.

"Then they heard about my brother, Adam, and about his new . . . experiment. They said that they were willing to try it, and Adam agreed but . . . when they went into surgery today . . ."

"They danced that last tango in Paris, right?" Sands asked placidly.

Liam nodded, forgetting that the man across from him was incapable of seeing his actions.

"So, what's the plan?" Sands asked abruptly. "You two signed me up as a potential volunteer for Frankenstein's shot at reanimation, telling him that I was ready and willing to go through with his little experiment, that right?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Grace answered quietly, tracing her finger along the rim of her cup. "Although we didn't sign you up for it. We just told him that we knew someone – no names, of course -- who might want to try the surgery. That's all. It's up to you whether you go through with it or not."

Sands fell into silence. Staring down at the table, but really seeing nothing, he was running through everything in his head. He had seen too much, gotten too close . . . the cartel had caught him, taken him to some building in God Knows Where, and strapped him down to a table . . . He had listened as Ajedrez told him how she had sold him out . . . betrayed him . . . all for her father . . . Barillo . . .. Doctor Guevera stood next to him, holding something he must have whipped up in his spare time.

At first he thought it had been some sort of drill, like the kind dentists used, but . . . as he dug deeper into his mental inventory, he remembered that it had been a drill, but not the kind he was thinking off.

It was a corkscrew, that sick fuck. He took a corkscrew, powered it up somehow so it'd spin around on its own, and stuck it riiight into your --

'Shut up, shut up, shut the hell up,' Sands ordered his thoughts feverishly. 'I know what they did, I don't need reminded of it.'

But the thoughts came anyway. He couldn't stop them. The dam he had been building over the past four days finally broke, allowing every little thing he did not want to think about escape, and for once, he had no control over it.

First went the left eye, then the right eye; each one just as painful. They had let him go, after all, gunfighter or not, he was blind, what harm could he do? A lot. He shot three of Barillo's thugs, getting himself shot three times in the process but that didn't matter . . . then, she had shown up. She had shoved his sunglasses back on, they had fallen off whenever he had been shooting the cartel members . . . He listened as she taunted him, toyed with him, messed with his mind. She was very good at that; he had to admit it. She had managed to manipulate the master of the craft; he gave her props for that before he shot her.

Everything else was hazy; Sands had no visual memory of what had happened on the Day of the Dead after a wine bottle opener had been dug into his head. But Lynné had shown up . . . taken him back to her place . . . and gotten him out of Mexico, something he had planned on doing for her. Instead, it was the other way around. Funny how things work out.

And now . . . now his fellow agent and his stepsister were telling him about some doctor who thought he could bring back what was dead. He could take eyes, eyes that someone had donated, . . .stick them in his head . . .and hope for the best. Oh, there were some side effects to go along with this little experiment, too. He could regain his sight, he could remain blind but this time he would at least have eyes, or he could die, there was always that option.

Decisions, decisions . . . the voice muttered mockingly.

Liam and Grace were still there. He could hear them, smell them, feel their presence . . . if there was one thing he had to thank Barillo, the cartel, and Ajedrez for . . . it was how loosing his eyes had enhanced his remaining vital senses significantly.

I'll remind you to send them a fruit basket, the voice told him. Oh wait, scratch that. They're dead!

Ignoring the voice, Sands suddenly snapped out of his broodings and looked up from the table.

"When do you think he'd be able to do it?"

He tried to sound as though he was just throwing the question out there without making it seem like he was even the slightest bit interested in Doctor Liam's Brother and his experiment.

"I'm not sure." It was Liam who answered. "I'll – I'll have to call him back and ask."

"You do that," Sands replied tiredly, bowing his head and hiding it in the palms of his hands.

"Sands?" Grace asked, sounding concerned. "Are you okay? You don't look so good."

'Well, I dunno about that, Gracie, but I sure as hell feel like shit,' he thought in a falsely cheerful voice. Out loud he said:

"I'm fine . . ."

He heard Grace get up and push in her chair. He followed the sounds of her footsteps as she walked around the table and stopped at his side. His stepsister snaked a hand through his arms and placed it against his forehead, noticing that he was covered in a cold sheen of sweat.

After she withdrew her hand, Grace bit her lip and shook her head.

"Has he been like this since you left Mexico?" she asked Liam.

"Um, well, the night of the Day of the Dead he started getting like this," he attempted to explain. "Then the next day, but that was because –"

"– that bastard, Miller, shot me," Sands said sharply to the table, his head still in his hands.

Grace gasped and looked from Sands to Liam.

"CIA showed up," Liam translated. "They were looking for us, some shots were fired . . ." He trailed off, impulsively rubbing the shoulder Agent Miller's bullet had hit. "Nothing, uh, major . . . Then that same night, the night before we got on the plane, Lynné said he was sick again . . ."

"It comes and goes," Sands told them carelessly. "Sometimes I'm fine, sometimes I'm not."

"Well, this is one of those times," Grace said matter-of-factly, taking Sands by the arm and carefully easing him out of his chair. "How much have you eaten in the last four days, by the way?"

"Lunch Friday, then the cartel got a hold of me so I didn't get anything else –"

"Not even after you'd escaped?" Grace asked, looking outraged.

"I know," Sands said, worn out but still managing to stay sarcastic, "You'd think that if guys like Barillo were nice enough to drill your eyes out with an electric corkscrew, then they'd be able to feed you as well, but no."

Grace sighed, worried.

"What about after that?"

"Nothing until late Saturday night," he said, "but then we were getting on the plane the next day so I didn't want to eat a lot . . ."

"Then we ordered take-out when we got here," Liam put in. "But the stuff we got wasn't exactly good for you."

"That's right," said Grace, narrowing her blue-green eyes. "I wouldn't have suggested fast food if I'd've known all of this."

"Why?" Liam asked, looking confused.

"Well, anyone should know that lack of sustenance makes a person we -- tired," Grace said, with a nervous glance in Sands direction. Her stepbrother showed no sign that he had heard her near mistake, so she continued. "Plus, you said he was shot four times and" – she looked sadly up at the dark glasses that hid Sands' injury – "I can't imagine how much blood he's lost. So," she continued, shifting so she could support Sands better. The man was beginning to sway uneasily, and she knew he wouldn't want to fall over in front of her and Liam. "No real nourishment for four days, combine that with loss of blood . . ."

Sands moaned softly and placed a hand to his head. As he swayed dizzily, Grace gnawed on her lip, looking as though she was going to cry again. Liam desperately hoped she wouldn't. He was terrible at dealing with anything that involved tears.

Liam looked desperately around the room, searching for something -- anything -- that would help him. The answer came flying through the kitchen door just as he was about to give up. He couldn't help but look relieved even as Lynné glared up at him and demanded to know what was wrong with everyone.

"I cannot believe you let me sleep that long," she was saying, one hand on her hip, the other waving around in the air haphazardly. "I can't believe I actually slept that long. What is wrong with you people? D'you know, this whole household is fuc—"

"Um, Lynné?" Grace called pleadingly.

Lynné started to turn around, perhaps armed with a sharp-tongued remark, but her irritation vanished and her eyes widened considerably when she saw what was behind her. In her cloud of calm vexation, Lynné had stormed through the door of the kitchen and straight up to Liam, not noticing that her brother was nearly an inch away from collapsing.

Now, she rushed over to Sands and quickly swung his arm around her shoulder, much to the relief of the noticeably smaller Grace. Sands drew in a sharp breath, wincing a bit as his wounded arm was jostled by the sudden movement, but made no other sign of pain save for his shallow breathing.

"What happened?" she asked severely, her eyes narrowed.

"Nothing, Lynnie," Sands murmured quietly, "I'm f—"

"Don't say you're fine," Lyn told him sharply before turning to her stepsister. "Grace, what's going on?"

"Well . . . with all the blood he's lost, plus the fact that he hasn't had a lot to eat . . ." the other woman's voice faded as she adjusted Sands' other arm carefully around her own shoulders.

"How . . ." Liam began, there was something that had been nagging him about the woman for the past few minutes. ". . . how d'you know all of this?"

"I'm a doctor," Grace answered distractedly as she felt Sands' pulse. "It's slow, but he should be all right if we get him to bed right away," she told Lyn, who nodded.

Together, the two young women half-led, half-carried Sands back to the bedroom.

- - -

"Here."

Sands felt Lynné gently shaking his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. He sat up carefully, feeling as though he was back on the plane instead of in bed. Suddenly, Lyn took his hand and gave him a mug of some unknown lukewarm liquid.

"What is it?" he demanded, suspiciously.

"Tea, just tea," she answered, rolling her eyes.

"You know I don't like tea," Sands said. He attempted to glare but after finding out that it made his head pound, he quickly stopped.

"Yes, but Grace said that it'll help," Lyn informed him, "so drink up, yo ho."

"Not you too," Sands muttered, grudgingly raising the mug to his lips.

Lynné quirked an eyebrow. "What d'you mean by that?"

"Nothing." He waved her off, taking a sip of his tea. "Did Liam tell you about his brother's experiment?"

"Yeah," Lyn said after a moment, "yeah, he did . . . . . . .. .So," she sighed, "are you gonna do it?"

"I could die, you know."

"Yes," she agreed, nodding, "but are you gonna do it?"

Sands sighed, handing her the mug he had just drained. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Lynné absentmindedly drummed her fingers along the side of the mug, seemingly lost in her own musings. Sands leaned back against a small mountain of pillows, deep in thought and trying to ignore the fact that his body was begging and screaming for sleep. Finally, he knew he couldn't fight the urge much longer.

"Tell Liam to call his brother," he murmured finally, "and find out what he has to say about this."

- - -

Lynné dropped onto the couch as she watched Liam walk over to the phone, pick it up, and dial his brother's cell phone number.

"Is he still asleep?" he asked while he waited for someone to pick up.

"Mmmhmm," Lyn replied, once again absorbed in her copy of 'The Da Vinci Code.' "Have you," she said suddenly, looking up from her book, "ever heard of a song called 'Nina?' It's Italian."

Liam frowned as the phone continued to wring but said to Lynné, "I don't think so . . . who's it by?"

"That's the thing, no one knows," she told him, frowning slightly, "which is really unfortunate because it's a nice song."

"What's it about?" Liam asked, narrowing his eyes at the phone as it continued to ring.

"Uhh . . ." Lynné closed her eyes and tilted her head back in an attempt to jog her memory. "Okay, the basic idea of the song is that there some girl, Nina, and she's sick – love-sick, more specifically – and she won't get out of bed, which is distressing her lover who happens to be the person singing the song."

"Oh," Liam said, looking mildly bemused, "what made you think of that?"

His partner held up her book for him to see.

"Da Vinci," she said shrugging. "Plus my dear brother is much in the same position as Nina is, so that may have had something to do with it. The only thing is . . . I just – can't – get – that goddamn song – out of my head."

Liam nodded but said no more to Lynné. At that very moment, Adam seemed to have finally decided to answer his phone.

"Hello?" he said, yawning.

"Adam?" Liam demanded urgently.

His brother yawned again. "Of course."

"Where were you?"

"Liam!" Lynné looked up from her book, aggravated. "Get to the point; never mind where he was."

"Okay, OKAY!" he shot back, looking both worried and slightly irked. "Adam, we need to know, how slim are a person's chances of surviving this?"

He heard Adam sigh on the other end.

"They have about a fifty percent chance of regaining their sight, twenty percent chance of staying blind, and a thirty percent chance of . . . well, you know."

"Death, yes," Liam murmured. "Okay . . . what about dates? How soon d'you think you can do this?"

"Uhhh . . . about . . . a week, I'm sure, but you should get your volunteer here as soon as possible because we'll need to see just how bad their eyes are before we even THINK of performing the operation."

"He has no eyes, fuckmook," Lynné snarled quietly from her seat on the couch. "That bad enough for ya?"

Liam waved at her to be quiet and she obliged, albeit, not without muttering a few choice curses under her breath.

"We'll also need to run some tests," Adam continued, not having heard what the ex-CIA agent had said.

"Tests?" Lynné repeated, raising her eyebrows at Liam. "What sort of tests?"

"Uh, Adam," said Liam into the phone, casting a nervous glance back at Lyn, "could you be a little more specific when you say 'tests?'"

"Sure," Adam replied, "uh, it's just your basic physical examination, really. Y'know, blood test, hearing examination, we have to make sure that there aren't any allergic reactions and that the patient's health is up to scratch."

Liam exchanged an uneasy glance with Lynné, who gave him an 'oh-well-what-happens-happens' look before turning her attention back to 'The Da Vinci Code.'

"Uh, okay, sure," Liam said, still looking a bit apprehensive. "We'll . . . we'll . . . we'll talk this over with him and, um, if all goes well . . . we'll see you in a couple of days."

"All right," Adam said, sounding slightly suspicious. "Hope to see you soon, then. 'Bye."

"'Bye," Liam responded distractedly."

"Ta," Lynné called from the couched, seeming unperturbed by the information they had just gained. Liam rubbed his injured shoulder unconsciously again, contemplating everything his brother had told him. Something was bothering him about this whole plan, and he knew exactly what it was.

"Why do I get the feeling that Sands is going to be difficult?" he asked his partner finally.

Lynné looked up from her book, smiled passively, and posed the simple question:

"When is he not?"

- - -

Okay, that's done. A surprisingly short amount of time, too. Well, like I said, I'm on vacation so I have a lot more time now. Oh, and I don't own the song 'Nina,' by the way. Like Lyn said, no one knows who wrote it, sadly. Though it's a very popular song in Italy from the opera 'Three Silly Suitors.' The strange thing about the song (aside from the mystery of who wrote it, at least) is the fact that in the opera it is sung in, no one in said opera is named Nina nor does the song have any real connection to the plot. Funny ol' world, innit?

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