The Long Way Home

By

E. S. Young

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Question of Who is Standing

Darn it! This chapter was supposed to be shorter, especially because I originally intended on leaving about two scenes out, but no. Now I think I'm going to leave them in here. And, of course, I just had this trés nifty idea for a dream sequence. Ah, you know you love 'em. Or at least I do. =)

- - -

Timothy Rhodes flipped his cell phone shut, staring out into space. Beside him his sister-in-law shook his shoulder impatiently.

"Well?" she demanded. "Did she say anything about her lack of calls?"

"Cat?" he said quietly.

"WHAT?" Catherine practically shrieked, glaring up at him.

"Now I – I could be wrong but . . ."

"But what?"

Tim sighed. He had just gotten off the phone with his wife after not hearing from her for five days straight. It wasn't like Grace at all. She rarely went on any sort of trip without him, and when she did she made sure to call him once a day at the very least. But now when she had finally called, she sounded tired, strained and had been rather short with her responses.

"Tim!" Cat was screeching in his ear. He winced as her shrill voice tore him out of his stupor unpleasantly.

"What?" he asked stupidly, "Oh. Yeah. Um, well she just . . . she asked me if I'd heard anything about him, y'know, Sands and all . . . and I told her no, there wasn't anything new about him or his whereabouts."

"And?" Cat pressed, exasperated and certain that he wasn't giving her every little detail.

"Well, she seemed sort of . . . relieved to hear that," Tim explained, looking confused.

"Relieved HOW?" Cat narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

"Well, after I told her that we hadn't heard anything about him she, uh, she did that little 'oh' sigh thing . . . that she does . . ." His voice faded when Cat continued to glare. "Well, y'know . . . she sounded sorta . . . happy to hear that we hadn't found him . . . yet," he quickly added.

"Where is she?" his sister-in-law wanted to know.

"Well, she said she was just needed in downtown D. C. at first," Tim explained, "but now she tells me they wanted her at some hospital in New York City."

"Where in New York, which hospital?"

"Uh . . ." Tim racked his brain, trying to fathom the name of the hospital his wife had mentioned. Come to think of it . . . he didn't think she had given a name . . .

"Never mind." Cat waved an impatient hand. "Just call her back again."

- - -

The streets were deserted, completely empty. There was no talking, no singing, no yelling, no music . . . The only sound remaining was the breeze occasionally blowing through a wind chime or two. Other than that, there was no noise whatsoever.

The houses had been removed of all their residents, the only things that showed there had ever been life inside the stucco walls was the furniture, clothing, and food. These things alone appeared undisturbed amidst the chaos that had certainly gone on earlier that day.

All of the people had fled it seemed. The dust, however, stayed. It covered everything, drying out any source of moisture it could find, choking a living thing whenever it went to breath. Apparently dust did not know the key to existence. And if it did, it didn't seem to care. Everything was coated in a rough powder of burn orange dust.

But no . . . the little town was not as empty as it seemed. Up ahead, there was the dark silhouette of a child, wearing nothing but black even though it must have been at least 90 degrees outside in the heavy Mexico air. The child's head was determinedly thrust toward the ground, giving off an icy air despite the heat of the day. Their shoulders were hunched, their long brown hair hid their face, and they had their hands clenched tightly in fists at their sides, as if trying to shut out everyone around them as they walked. But there was only one person the child could be trying to push away, and she wasn't going to give in.

Lynné sprinted up the street, her footsteps inaudible on the cobbled ground. She wasn't sure who the little kid was – a younger version of herself, perhaps. She didn't know, but she knew the child from somewhere. But before Lyn could catch up, the child suddenly stopped. They lifted their head ever so slightly to glance around, as if they weren't sure where they were. Then, without warning, the child turned.

Placing a hand over her mouth, Lynné just managed to hold back her gasp of horror. She stood there, shaking her head in disbelief at the gruesome sight before her. She had witnessed many gory, grisly, unimaginable things in her life but this . . . . . . Nothing compared to the butchery that was standing directly in front of her.

It was Sands, she now realized. He was younger; only about seven years old . . . . Lyn's teeth went down on her lower lip . . . that's what made everything seem more terrible. He was only seven and yet . . . where his eyes should have been there were only two hollow caverns, each colored a deep shade of crimson. There were equally dark streaks of red rolling down his scared and confused face, some dry, and some not. Lyn barely contained another gasp as the skinny, pale little boy raised a shaking arm and tried to feel what he could no longer see.

He jumped suddenly when Lynné took his hand in hers, but recovered just as quickly. She had crouched down to his level and was looking into the empty, black cavities intently. Carefully, Lyn lifted his hand to touch her face, hoping he would be able to read it for she seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

Younger Sands ran his long fingers over the mystery woman's features. Even at age seven he showed signs of having a great intellect; figuring out a person's face should be easy . . . . Her nose was small, dainty, if a bit long . . . high, somewhat sharp cheekbones that made him think she couldn't be very old . . . her lips were full, like his . . . and the light fluttering against his fingertips let him know that her eyelashes were long.

He took a strand of the woman's hair in his hand, the other still placed gently over her ageless face. It was soft, silky, and most definitely long. Taking a piece of his own hair, Sands realized . . . she was older, taller, but that didn't change anything. He knew, somehow he knew who she was. He released her hair and dropped his arms to his sides, stunned.

For the second time that day, her brother caught her off guard. Lynné started when the little boy let out a short breath of relief and nearly tumbled backwards when, the next thing she knew, he had thrown his arms around her neck. The little boy let out a hollow moan, burying his mutilated face in her shoulder.

Lynné listened raptly as the little boy's heart beat frantically in his chest. She could feel it pounding in fear against her own and it worried her. For once she had run out of ideas. Awkwardly, she put her arms around young Sands' shoulders, not sure what else to do.

The blood that was trickling down young Sands' face was now steadily seeping into the black blazer she wore, but for once Lyn didn't mind. She was in complete and utter shock at what her brother had just done – what he was still doing. She couldn't blame him but . . . she had never been good with children – she didn't even LIKE them – but somehow, this was different . . . For some reason she knew exactly how the little boy, her brother, felt. She had been through this, after all, or at least something similar . . . she knew what if felt like to be lost . . . helpless . . . hopeless . . .

"Yeah, well, I'm glad you finally admitted it," a voice said, cutting through the eerie silence.

Lifting his head at the sudden noise, young Sands looked around wildly for a voice he couldn't see. Lynné felt a sudden sharp pang inside her body. It seemed to have reverberated from the very center of her being, but she was not sure of the cause of it. Lifting her dark eyes she scanned the dusty city in search of a voice that until now she had thought disembodied.

Suddenly, a flash of movement off in the distance snared her attention. She had seen it out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned her head around it was gone.

'Damnit, I KNOW who that is . . .'

"I would certainly hope so," the voice said again. This time, it sounded closer. Narrowing her dark eyes suspiciously, Lynné turned her head with caution. When the owner of the voice fell into view, Lyn let out a long breath that sounded relieved, though the nervousness of her expression would say otherwise.

The . . . thing in front of her was a woman as far as Lyn could tell, but it had no definite shape. Instead of looking like a normal person, it's face kept changing, becoming a different person every few minutes. Some of the faces she knew, some she recognized vaguely, and some she didn't think she had ever seen before. One second it would be Liam, then his face would suddenly melt and it would become that of Ajedrez's. But before Lynné could take in this phenomenon, Ajedrez's visage began to swirl and the next thing she knew, she was staring at Cat – no, Grace. Now it was her father, but he suddenly turned into some random cartel member . . . Doctor Guevera . . . and now Barillo, the cruel bastard . . . Oh, Christ . . . now he had gone and changed into that annoying little snob . . . whatshername . . . who thought she was better than everyone else when they were in school. Well, she had gotten her comeuppance, Lyn had seen to that.

The strange thing was, even though the faces kept changing, the voice itself remained the same. And even stranger still, Lynné knew she had heard the voice before. She had heard it many years ago right after her mother died and her father started ignoring her entirely, right when she had become the invisible daughter. It had come to her one night when she was by herself, shunned and lonely . . . but now it seemed as if . . . almost . . . but no . . . that couldn't be right . . .

"No," Lyn whispered murderously. At last, it seemed, she had finally found her voice, and in more ways than one.

"Yes," the voice told her, reading her mind like an open book, "I now have a body . . . or . . . something of the like, as you can see." The swirling mass of faces and shapes in her life gestured up and down itself by way of explanation. It gazed down at her evilly before its eyes darted to Sands and its grin widened in a way that strongly reminded Lyn of Ajedrez even though it now wore the face of her stepmother, Melinda.

Lyn blinked, impulsively pulling the quaking, seven-year-old Sands closer to her. If the voice had found a way out of her head – which was the only explanation that even made even the remotest bit of sense – then no good could come from it.

"It was really getting annoying, you know," the voice told her, "being trapped in a head for twenty-seven years. Unfortunately that head turned out to be YOURS and you and your wild thoughts nearly drove me into insanity."

"Nearly?" Lyn scoffed.

The voice, now wearing the face of the late Agent Miller, glared at her.

"I'm still saner than you," it informed her huffily, "That's something."

"A very small, miniscule, almost microscopic something, but still something? All right," Lyn agreed, "but I should warn you that it doesn't take a lot to be saner that me."

"You're saying I have a firmer grip on my sanity than you do?" the voice hissed venomously.

"Okay," Lyn said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with what her voice had said. Its eyes narrowed in rage. Lynné rose from the ground, suddenly unmoved by her voice and its half a body. It was still just a voice, whether it now had a defined form or not. Nonetheless, she pushed younger Sands behind her gently, so her slender form hid him from view; no use in getting him involved in this.

"If you're done with your little . . . comparison of the brains lecture . . . I really must be going –"

"Not until I get what I want," the voice said sharply.

"Excuse me?" Lyn asked, in a tone that was mingled with boredom, sarcasm, and disbelief all at once.

"YOU always get exactly what your heart desires," the voice said slowly, calculating, "Why shouldn't I?"

"Look," she began, "if you want something off of me I'm in no mood to strike a deal today, sorry."

"That's fine," the voice told her nonchalantly, "I didn't want to deal with you're so-called bargaining skills anyway."

Lynné's eyebrows arched.

"Oh?" she inquired placidly, "Well, in that case, I bid you adieu."

She turned, intending to leave right then and there, but instead found herself stumbling and the next thing she knew, she had fallen ungracefully onto the hard, dusty ground. Beside her, Sands flinched at the sound, but carefully reached out a hand and tentatively began feeling the air around him, trying to, in a sense, see where Lyn had fallen. It didn't take him long to find out.

"I'm fine, don't panic," Lyn assured him distractedly as she attempted to right herself. But as she pulled herself into a sitting position, she made a startling realization.

"Oh fuck . . ." she muttered, her voice full of spite as she closed her eyes in agony. Her face was harsh and pained even though she felt nothing. That made sense . . . . She hadn't felt anything for a while now . . . Lifting her head abruptly, she glared up at the voice from her crumpled position on the cobbled stones.

"Like it?" the voice asked in an innocent tone that deceived no one. "I thought you would."

"Oh, yes," Lyn agreed, pushing herself up on her elbows and narrowing her eyes hatefully. "Yes, my leg looks muuuch better on the fucking voice in my head than it ever did on ME."

Despite Lynné's obvious sarcasm, the voice flashed her a grin full of triumph, satisfaction, and malice. In return, Lyn glared daggers at it.

'Fuck, I thought I'd gotten over this . . .'

The voice laughed coldly.

"Face it, honey, you will NEVER be over this no matter how well you can disguise it." It gestured to the prosthetic leg that was so lifelike it now made the voice seem more like an actual person than a mere figment of a twisted CIA agent's imagination. If only it had a permanent face . . . then it would look almost human.

Cackling mirthlessly again, the voice said, "Oh, didn't I tell you about my body?"

"Must've slipped your . . . mind," Lynné said airily.

The voice scowled but went on with its little speech.

"By taking your leg, I have started to become whole. And with a little more ammunition," it continued wickedly, "why, I'll be complete."

"And just where are you going to find extra limbs and organs?" Lyn asked, sounding bored but already knowing (and dreading) the answer.

"Oh," the voice sighed casually with an evil smile, "I think you and I both know the answer to that."

- - -

Blinking slowly, Lynné gradually began to wake up. It took a few more blinks for everything to come flooding back to her. She was had fallen asleep in one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room of a hospital. Sands had gone into surgery . . . how many hours ago . . . ? She didn't want to know, she just wanted to know whether it was over or not, then maybe these goddamn dreams would fuck the hell off.

That last one had been particularly disturbing. As memories of the dream came flowing back to her full-force, her eyes narrowed and tilted upward as if looking at the ceiling, but in reality, she was really trying to glimpse her own head.

"Stay the hell in there," she mouthed, her words both silent and deadly.

Glancing around the small lounge she took a few things into her mental inventory. Across the room, Grace was avidly watching the little ten-channel TV the waiting room contained.

'Oh Christ . . . not The View.'

In the chair next to her own, Lyn saw that Liam was still clearly asleep. All around her doctors and nurses bustled around, wheeling or walking patients to rooms, or answering innumerable amounts of calls – the phones never stopped ringing in the place.

Nothing ever stopped in New York, she noted absentmindedly. The lights never turned off, the noise never died . . . everything just kept going and nothing stood in its way.

'New York, New York, it's a helluva town . . .' she thought dryly.

Out of nowhere, an electronic rendition of 'Ode to Joy' broke through Lynné's thoughts. Turning her head towards the sound, she found that the noise was coming from Grace. The woman blushed and glanced around the room uneasily. Embarrassed, Grace pulled her cell phone out of her purse and held it to her ear.

"Hello?"

Aroused by the sudden ringing, Liam looked around the room blearily.

"What time is it?" he yawned when he looked down and saw Lynné.

After picking up her partner's wrist and glancing down at the watch he wore she told him, "About quarter after five."

"That late?" Liam asked in disbelief. "Adam should be done by now . . ."

"Well he hasn't come back," Lyn said, "I don't think he has, anyway."

They were interrupted by a sudden loud gasp from Grace. Lynné and Liam both jerked their heads away from each other and to Grace mechanically.

"Did . . . didn't I tell you?" she was stammering breathlessly.

Liam shot his partner a quizzical look but she ignored him, focusing all of her attention on her stepsister.

"Oh," Grace said nervously, "I could've sworn I did . . . but I didn't? Oh. W-well, we – I'm at, uh . . ."

Lyn would have given her other leg if only Grace had been sitting just four feet closer. That way, she could have just reached across and snatched the little silver phone away from her, smashing it on the floor into millions of metallic paint-coated plastic crumbs. But she couldn't. Grace was sitting four feet away from her and she could not just reach across the room and stop her from telling anyone anything.

". . . the . . . the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary," Grace finally said after what seemed like ages.

Throwing her head back dramatically, Lynné let out a groan of frustration. She then held up an imaginary gun and mimed shooting herself in the noggin with the air of one who was just fed up with everything an everyone in their life and felt that ending it all would make things a lot better.

And then Dr. Adam Fusco strode into the waiting room.

Liam jumped up as if he had been electrocuted, Lynné's head snapped up, and Grace sprung from her seat and threw down her phone without turning it off.

"How is he? What happened?" Liam demanded urgently. Grace began biting into her lower lip while Lynné could only stare.

It seemed as if the whole world held its breath as Adam sighed, wiping his hands on his white doctor's coat. Christ, why did they always do this? They got some sort of pleasure out of making people wait? Was it some sort of perverse doctor thing? They always – every doctor she had ever encountered -- seemed to adore building tension. Doctors could have a real flair for the dramatic when they wanted to. But now was not the time. Anticipation was killing her, and Lynné was in no mood to die today.

"Dr. Fusco, I . . . hate to sound impatient but if you'd mind telling us today?"

Adam looked up at her, and though his face was serious, his eyes were an open book. He was pleased.

"Now, we're not sure how things are going to turn out," he warned them, "but so far so good. If things work out well . . ." He hesitated, thinking of the right words. ". . . there is a good possibility Mr. Sands will recover his sight."

A great wave of relief swept over Lynné as closed her eyes as if in prayer. Liam seemed stunned beyond words, though he did lay a hand on his partner's shoulder. She seemed not to notice. And Grace fell back into her chair, touching a hand to her forehead wearily. As though the words were causing her a great effort, she sighed tiredly:

"When can we see him?"

"Tomorrow," Adam replied.

Grace smiled, her eyes still closed, and nodded.

It wasn't until long after they had heard the news that any of them remembered that Grace's phone was still on, and that the two people on the other end had heard everything.

- - -

I lied! Ahhh! XP I know, I know . . . this was supposed to be the last chapter but I just liked leaving it off at that. I did write about three more scenes after that last one, mind, so that means that chapter twenty-five is already started. O.o How 'bout it. Okay, sorry once again. Y'know . . . I really should stop saying 'this is the last chapter!' or 'Only one more chapter left!' cuz, maybe . . . just maybe . . . I'm wrong. (blinks) Oy vey . . .

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