A/N: Real quick, 'cause I have to eat dinner...damn dinner. Er...mm...what is there to take care of...nothing?
OHMYGOD! I JUST KILLED AN INSECT! This does not reflect well on my karma...(sob)
Thanks to all my reviewers:
xXxSarahxXx: You beat TNPD...yay! Um..a fairly lengthy review that I greatly appreciate. I'm glad you found the slap scene funny, I found it highly approriate. How do you know Gretchen and Vince love each other? I don't think they do. It's not really my favorite of couples from the series either...
TNPD: I don't care who takes Francis so long as I get TJ. You and RavenForever can fight over him. TO THE DEATH!! heheh...er...about the Finster/Dettwieler connection, look deeper. Erm...OH! You do not go unnoticed here, you are a very special person on my review board because of your loyalty and kindness...though I do admit that sometimes I feel like Gretchen in that part of the story as well.
DarkAngelGaudianLight: Reviews getting shorter. (grin)
mischeif-maker: I have no sanity left, why should you?
RavenForever: (sniffles), no long review...how will I get through the day without your long review...I'll understand this once because you have kept to your vow.
RT(the anonymous): welcome to my review board and I'm glad you stumbled upon my story and liked it rather than put your foot all in a great deal of crap because that would be bad...I have no idea what I'm talking about, hope to see you review this chapter.
THANKS EVERYONE!
In regards to my little contest. I should put a few rules: It ends next chapter, I'll reveal the connection if no one gets it, the prize goes to the first person who discovers the connection, and...um...
Music, the background music I'd recommend for this fic are as follows, To Be Free by Emiliana Torrini, Let Go by Frou Frou, or Broken Bridge by Daughter Darling.
Burn baby burn, ENJOY!
Chapter 22: Killing the Fire
Francis frowned at the sulking, black clad form sitting in the lobby. He, like everyone else at Third Street, had not been fond of the little snitch. Randall had been nothing short of loathsome in grade school, getting everyone in trouble just for the slightest of attention from the hall monitor, a beastly woman by the name of Finster. But now, looking at this small huddled man, Francis felt remorse, pity. Randall looked pathetic, lonely, broken and Francis couldn't muster the strength to hate him.
Francis moved through the small crowd of people gathered in the lobby towards Randall, slinked into a seat next to him, and fell silent. Randall turned, acknowledged him with a nod, and then looked back down at his hands, which seemed to fascinate the younger man. Francis looked to the ceiling, searching for the words.
"What happened here?" Randall beat him to it. Francis looked back to the curly-topped boy.
"A lot," Francis shrugged, "From what I can figure, we're all in serious trouble. We have no idea who's behind all of this."
"The fire, at the library?"
"Yeah, that. Dead birds, kidnappings, fires...broken dolls."
"Broken dolls?" Randall's face twisted, contorted with some odd emotion.
"You all right?" Francis asked, straightening in his chair. Randall nodded, but his face and manner said otherwise. "Randall..."
"I said I'm fine," Randall snapped, his voice cracking, "I just...I'm tired, that's all. There's nothing else wrong."
"I heard you saved Gretchen's life, and helped Theresa give birth," Francis chuckled, "Definitely not what I'd have expected from you."
"Then forget it happened," Randall muttered. Francis raised an eyebrow at those words.
"The Randall I once knew would have milked that kind of heroic action for all it was worth," Francis said, "You're not all right, Randall. Tell me what's wrong."
"Why the hell do you care?"
"I don't know. I've got nothing better to do."
"Don't waste your pity on evil."
"I'm not wasting...what? Evil?" Randall sighed, burying his face in his hands once more.
"Yes, evil. That's what I am isn't it?"
"You were a pain in the ass but I wouldn't go so far as to call you evil," Francis mumbled, glancing precariously at the younger man, "I mean, well, I kind of thought it was evil when you busted me in fifth grade for selling contraband Winger Dingers, but I got over it."
"Sorry about that," Randall muttered.
"Hey, you were just doing your job."
"I'm always just doing my job, huh?"
"I don't get what you're saying," Francis closed his eyes, "So why don't you start by telling me why the hell you're here."
"I came back," Randall started, scrunching his nose, "For time off."
"From your job?"
"Yeah," Randall looked up, "My job."
"Why didn't you go somewhere else? Like, the beach or something?" Francis gave Randall a once over, imagining the younger man on the beach all dressed in black pants and a long black trench coat. It was a funny image and he broke into a smile. Randall shot him a quizzical glance.
"Do you know what it means? To be a part of the CIA?" Randall asked. It was an odd question, but Francis was willing to bite.
"Sure. Espionage, anti-terrorism, saving the world as we know it, hunting down kids downloading music illegally," Francis shrugged, trying to remember all the small time crap he knew about the CIA from TV shows and movies.
"Homeland Security with a gun to your head," Randall chuckled cynically, "It means killing, death, don't fuck with the government or you'll find yourself with a sniper's bullet right through your goddamned eye."
"Jesus, Randall," Francis muttered. What had that kid gotten himself into?
"I was the best. The clean up man," Randall continued, "I took care of what other agents screwed up. They would hand me an assignment and assume it was done in a day or less."
"What kind of assignment only takes a day?" Francis questioned, though almost certain he'd regret the answer. Randall raised his index finger, cocking his thumb, shaping his hand like a gun and pointing to some far off distance.
"Bang," he hissed in a mock report, jolting his imaginary gun back from the fake force of the nonexistent bullet. He lowered his hand, looked to the slack-jawed Francis, smiled sadly, and whispered, "See, evil? The evil kill, don't they? Evil."
"That...um...it doesn't make you evil," Francis choked out.
"Doesn't it?" Randall stared blankly into the empty air, "My last target was this man. He was helping to fund the illegal shipping of guns...something like that. He was supposed to be our inside man, but he double-crossed us and we had to take him out before he screwed everything up. So, of course, they sent me in," Randall's eyes seemed to glaze over at the memory, tears quickly dribbling down to his chin, "I took a hand gun, it was nothing a small pistol and silencer couldn't handle. I was always best at stealth work, making my way in with no problem. The man was alone, he saw me before I could take my shot, knew automatically why I was there. He begged. I'd never been faced with a begging man before...I'd been trained to deal with one...but it's different. The real thing is different then the practice. They don't tell you everything the desperate targets will say. He told me of his family, of his pregnant wife, of his five-year-old daughter. He shoved the pictures into my face.
"There was one picture in particular that caught my eye, of him and his little girl at the park. I hesitated, took the picture from his trembling hands, inspected it. They looked happy in the picture. I couldn't recall ever being as happy as they looked. Too late, from the corner of my eye I saw motion. He was reaching for a gun. I dropped the picture. He took his shot and I took mine. My aim was better, which would be why I'm here right now.
"There was blood, splattered across the picture, staining his little girl's face," Randall's voice broke, his bottom lip quavering, "I heard guards outside, they'd heard his gun go off. I had to get out of there; of course, they'd kill me if they found me. He'd got me, right through here," Randall touched the side of his waist gently, "But I had to escape. I'd never messed up like that. I'd never found myself running out of a warehouse with guns firing erratically at me like that. I dragged myself back to headquarters, dripping of blood and so weak. I'd forgotten long ago why I'd gotten into it...why I'd gotten into the CIA. I guess I'd forgotten to care...
"They would tell us that those guys...those targets were the bad guys. That what they'd done was wrong. With them...with the government, two wrongs do make a right. Killing is wrong isn't it?" Randall closed his eyes, leaned back into his chair, "I've forgotten." His breathing was haggard, his eyes sunken in, his lips dried and cracked. His weasel features had long ago given away to years of misery and turmoil. He was unfortunate, a poor forgotten remnant of a once cheerful past. Francis could think of nothing to say. He had expected something shady to become of the once beady-eyed snitch, but not this.
"There's always hope, Randall," Francis finally said, "Even when you're facing the grimmest of fates, there's hope. Pandora's box, right?"
"If there is hope, it's not for me," Randall muttered, shaking his head, "I went to church the other day. I was mere inches from entering the confession box. A flicker caught my eye. There were the candles...you know, that you light for the dead. A woman was there; lighting one for god knows whom. I'd went to the man's funeral, a couple days after I'd shot him. His widow was there, dressed in a thin black dress, her stomach big from her pregnancy. Her daughter was beside her; she seemed so jaded, as though she had no idea what was going on. I had no right to be there, but something had come over me, I had to be there. They went to lower the coffin into the hole...the little girl burst into tears, she ran to it, threw herself on it...I..." He lowered his head, eyes shadowed with shame, "I wasn't supposed to go to that funeral, it was against the rules. They sent me back here...sent me off to re-center myself...to compose my emotions. It was that bitch therapist's idea."
"It wasn't a bad idea," Francis told him, "You're away from it all now, back home where you belong."
"I know where I belong and it's no where near here," Randall muttered. He shook his head, pulled himself to his feet, "I need something to drink. I think I saw vending machines over that way..."
"Randall! Francis!" Both men turned, eyeing the large blonde young man bounding upon them.
"What's going on?" Francis asked.
"It's Gus..." Mikey choked out between trying to catch his breath, "He's come to his senses. Come on, we have to...what's wrong?" Mikey looked between the two young men, both seeming more so distressed then when he'd last seen either of them.
"Nothing," Randall mumbled, glancing warily towards Francis, hoping he wouldn't share the little information that Rnadall had let slip.
"Yeah, it's nothing," Francis pulled himself to his feet with a sigh, "Let's find out what Gus has to say."
"Alright," Mikey nodded, "I have to get the others. The Ashleys are all still with Ashley T. right?"
"Yeah. I don't know where Vince is, but I don't think you'll have any luck finding Ash...er...I mean Spinelli," Francis told Mikey, "If she doesn't want to be found, trust me when I say you don't want to find her."
"Alright," Mikey nodded.
"I'll go get Gretchen," Randall muttered, turning down the hall.
"Right, I can go search for Vince," Francis volunteered.
"Thanks, I'll go round up the Ashleys. We'll meet up in TJ's room, he's the only one who can't move," Mikey agreed. The three turned their separate ways, disappearing down the white hallways of the hospital.
-0-0-0-0-
Theresa stared blankly at her husband. She had never been afraid of him before, but that wild look in his eyes, that hungry desperate look, threatened to crush the mighty courage her small frame held. She wasn't certain of his meaning. What doll? The only doll she knew of his breaking, or at least he had a hand in breaking, was Mary Anna's doll.
"Gus..." she started. He turned from her.
"I can't..." he whispered, his body trembling, "You don't know...I'm not strong enough."
"Gus, I need you," Theresa whispered, "Please, don't do this. Focus...focus on me."
"No," he mumbled, "Theresa, it won't matter. It'll never matter. I can still feel it...she can still feel it..."
"Feel what?" Theresa asked, hesitantly reaching for her husband.
"The flame...that damned fire...why won't it die...?" he turned to her, "I'm afraid."
"What happened to you, Gus?" Theresa whispered. Gus reached into his back pocket, pulled out what appeared to be a folded piece of paper warped from being wet, but now dry. He handed it over to his wife's outstretched hand. She unfolded it, stared at the paper with narrowed eyes and a rutted brow. A picture.
"Gus..." she whispered, "Is this..."
"I..." Gus swallowed hard, "Can't...don't know."
"Oh my god..."
-0-0-0-0-
Spinelli buried herself in a heap on the floor of the women's restroom. She sat, staring unsure at the white tiles. Why is everything in the hospital white? She frowned. Didn't white mean purity? This hospital was anything but pure. She wrapped her arms around herself, stared across the small room at the offensive sterile white toilet, the plastic trashcan with the fresh plastic garbage bag, the porcelain sink, and the mirror. She didn't like what she saw staring back in that mirror. Dirty, disgruntled, ragged. The reflection was nothing more than a young woman with large bags and red eyes from lack of sleep and crying too much too often. She had a pale pallor, despite her natural even tan. Her lips were chapped, broken, bruised and bleeding. She had cuts along her face, neck, and arms. Scars, bruises, scratches.
"No wonder TJ doesn't want me," she whispered, "Look at me." She wasn't pretty, or cute, or beautiful. Why had TJ stayed with her so long? She remembered this Clara, only attended three of the painting classes. Blonde curls, perfectly powdered and all dolled up. She wore cute skirts and trim blouses and all the boys noticed when she walked in. Her lips were perfectly painted, her nails prettily manicured. Spinelli tugged at her hair, unwashed and tangled. Clara always had beautiful silken curls, not one strand bent, not one split end.
Spinelli tried to imagine TJ with Clara. She closed her eyes, chewed her lower lip, and fought the tears threatening to spill. She imagined the bruising kisses, the clothes carefully removed. Clara had appeared the type of girl who liked things to be soft and delicate, that if you weren't careful with her, she could break into a million pieces, or simply rip right through her. TJ himself had always been gentle and a bit shy. He seemed almost afraid to touch Spinelli sometimes, for fear of leaving a mark on her skin. Spinelli sunk her head to her knees, wrapping her arms about her face, shaking with the sobs that wracked her throat.
How could TJ do this? For all the things he'd say. I've only ever loved you. Were they all lies? He lied...he was best at lying. Spinelli could never tell when he was lying.
This Clara must have been a spectacular person, Spinelli decided. From the looks of her, Clara had probably been with several men, probably knew all the tricks of the sexual game. Spinelli had only ever been with TJ. They both learned together. Maybe he'd grown bored with the way Spinelli did things; maybe he'd wanted to try new things the whole time. The idea mortified Spinelli. She'd never wanted to explore, she'd always simply wanted to be with TJ. Was that so hard? To want to lay with the same person every night? And love them the same way, beautifully and passionately?
Spinelli looked up again to the mirror. She couldn't cry anymore. She was too tired, too worn out. She had no more tears. I'm sorry. What right did TJ have to be sorry? If he was so goddamned sorry he wouldn't have done it in the first place. She stood up, moved wearily towards the sink and turned the water on, splashing some of the cool substance against her face, scrubbing it into her cheeks. She looked up and started. For a moment, she'd seen another person's reflection staring back at her. A little girl perhaps with sullen eyes and parted lips, gaping back at her. But it was gone now. She turned around, leaned against the sink. What was wrong with her? She hadn't had enough sleep and she still felt ill. Running around in the rain, what had she been thinking? That was right, she hadn't, been thinking that is.
Spinelli could see the image clearer now in her mind, vivid. TJ with Clara. It disgusted her. Their flesh against flesh, their bodies melded as one. She could see Clara dig her nails into TJ, cry out in orgasmic pleasure. She couldn't stop now, that image. Would she ever be able to stop it? I'm taking him from you. Spinelli shook her head.
"No..." she whispered. Because you don't deserve him. "No," more firmly. I just wanted you to know. "No!" Spinelli screamed, new tears dampening her face, falling to the tile, staining that perfect white with those dirt smudged droplets. She slipped to the floor, too tired to fight it anymore, "Hell...you can have him..." she muttered, "Maybe he wants you..."
-0-0-0-0-
Vince pushed the glowing plastic buttons. G...5...he watched the metal spiral whirl, and the package drop. He bent, pushed open the black flap, pulled out his purchase, and frowned at it. He wasn't hungry. He walked to the trashcan, dumped his purchase, and began walking away, sighed, turned back to the machine and stared indecisively through the clear plastic at the selection of packaged goods once more. He pushed in his money, sixty-five cents, compressed the plastic buttons engraved with letters and numbers. Watched the spiral twirl again as it relinquished the packaged product, again; stooped, sighed, stood up, and walked away.
"What is wrong with me?" he mumbled beneath his breath. Everything. Nobody's perfect. The eye of the beholder. Stop it. He stared through the thick glass into a patient's room. He must have stumbled into the children's ward, because behind that glass was a little girl that couldn't have been older than eight. She was sleeping, a machine beside her humming, appearing to be breathing for her. She was so small, helpless. Her hair was matted, frayed, and pressed beneath her against the soft, white, cotton pillow. Her eyes fluttered every now and then. If you could save the world, or just one life, which would you choose? You would say the world, of course, because it's so much grander scaled, arguably so much more important. But what about that one life? Was it not important too? What is the world without that one life? Nothing changes. It'll always be the same. It always changes. But we don't change, not fast enough. The fires, the floods, they'll wash it all away.
Vince refocused his vision on his own reflection in the windowpane. "I've changed," he noticed, searching that reflection for the child he'd once been. He'd never noticed before how time aged. One life. "I'm sorry," he told that reflection. Who was he kidding? That life. Who was he trying to fool with this confident façade? There is no world. Who was he trying to prove himself to? Not without that one life. "TJ's my best friend," Vince muttered in an almost silent realization, "I could never hate him." He choked on those last words, his face breaking its stone clad hold on anger, "And I can't keep living with that lie." Wrinkled grudge gave way to a silent smiling young boy. You save that one life. Vince touched the glass carefully, tracing an outline around his face. And you'll save the world. "There I am," he smiled, streams of tears racing down his face, "I've been inside him all along." You are perfect. Vince turned away, breathing softly. There was so much he had to fix. So much he had to forgive himself for, and seek forgiveness for. Things he didn't think he could be forgiven for. At least to him. He had to go to TJ, to talk to TJ, to tell TJ everything. To all of them. He had to apologize to TJ, to give his friend, his best friend, that piece of both of them that he'd taken. Behold us for we are perfect. Vince made his way down the hall, at first in a hasty march, but breaking into a run before he'd turned the final corner. Cast from the fire. Vince paused, halfway to the room. Right into the flood.
-0-0-0-0-
Ashley B. sighed; slipping into the room Ashley T. had been put in previously. She looked about that room, searching for her purse as well as the other Ashleys' things. She hadn't so much been elected to go as volunteered. She was tired of being around "sick people" as she had put it. In truth, she'd been curious. A "perverse" part of her, as she would have referred to it, wanted to see the stained sheets and dead birds. The macabre frame for the ghastly portrait of the shattered doll. Ashley B. eyed the red stains with disapproval and disgusted interest. She knelt beside the bed, noting the feathers, most likely from pigeons, broken, bent, and held in place on the white sheets with the sticky blackened red substance that could only be identified as blood. With tentative fingers she lifted the sheet, revealing the dead birds underneath. She squinted, eyeing the birds with a delicate inspection.
No eyes. Not one of the birds had eyes. Ashley B. felt her stomach lurch. They were for the most part pigeons, but there were a few sparrows as well. She let the sheet drop back down, pulled away from the bed and knocked over her purse. The sound caused her to jump.
"Calm down, Ashley," she coached herself, "Just calm down." She lifted herself off the floor, frowning. She'd gotten a dirt smudge on one of her shoes. She shook her head, and startled again when the deet-deet-a-leet of her cell phone went off. Scrambling for her purse, she dug the small object out and flipped it open and on. "Ashley here."
"It's me, Morgan," a husky voice filled her phone.
"I can't talk right now," she muttered.
"It's about the papers..."
"Not right now. I'm on vacation," she strained each word with a dangerous hiss, and then flicked the phone off. Morgan P. Dower, her lawyer. She shook her head, surprised to find little drops of wetness splatter from her eyes. That little reminder of her situation had riled her up yet again. She looked at the ring on her finger. That golden band with the small diamond stone. Weddings were beautiful. Marriage was pathetic. She ripped the ring from her finger with distaste and held her arm tense, ready to fling it across the room. With a reserved sigh, she slipped the ring back on.
Ashley B. took a moment to regain control of herself, and then turned her attention back to the dead birds. They couldn't be left there. Something had to be done with them. Imagine the questions should a doctor or nurse or even a patient come across the dead birds. She pulled the sheet back entirely, covered her mouth and tried to control her gagging. There was so many, so much blood. Carefully, she touched one of the birds with trembling fingers; the feathers were so soft and pure. She gently lifted it, examined it. Glass. Glass was imbedded beneath the feathers, in the flesh. She shook her head, dropped the bird, and backed away again staring repulsed at her hand. She took a deep breath, stood up, wrapped up the sheets and pulled them off the bed. She stumbled to the window, looked down below. The room faced the back of the hospital and while there were no dumpsters underneath the window, there were no people walking below. She shoved the window open with a great deal of difficulty and braced herself against the chilling wind of the outside. She flung the sheets out the window and tossed them down, watching them fall. She turned away, unable to watch the birds scatter and splat to the pavement below.
Ashley B. made her way across the room, dug through her purse and retrieved a hand wipe, which she quickly used to clean her hands. Then she took the stuff and marched out of the room, nearly colliding with Mikey.
"Sorry," he told her quickly, "Come on," he grabbed her arm and she looked at him with disdain, unmoving.
"Where are we going?" she asked snidely.
"Oh, sorry," he chuckled, "TJ's room. Gus has come to his senses and we're meeting there to hear what he has to say." Ashley B. rolled her eyes.
"Fine," she hissed, ripping her arm from Mikey's grasp, "But I think I can follow fine without your help."
"Sorry."
-0-0-0-0-
Vince nearly collided with Francis and caught a glance of Gretchen walking along with Randall, both silent and looking positively miserable. Three of the Ashleys bounded around the corner and Mikey appeared with Ashley T.
"What is going on?" Vince stammered.
"It's story time," Francis exclaimed, prodding Vince onward, "And Gus is sharing."
They made their way into TJ's room, opening the door and all regarding one another with little more than a nod. Theresa and Gus were already seated in the room beside TJ, who had his eyes closed and appeared to be sleeping. Vince was about to say something about needing to let TJ rest, when the young man's eyes opened.
"Is everyone here yet?" TJ asked in a small whisper that Mikey had to lean in to hear.
"Yes, they are," Theresa answered gently, "Everyone except..."
"Spinelli..." TJ filled in the blank, and Vince seemed to be the only one curious about the far away look that came over his eyes.
"So, Gus has something to tell us," Gretchen spoke up, "Is it of any use to us?"
"He has a lot more than something to say," Theresa stepped up to defend her husband, "He has something to show everyone.""TJ has something to share as well, doesn't he?" Randall interrupted, "Like for instance, who the hell Clara is?" TJ turned away.
"She's someone I work with..."
"Really?" Francis perked up at that, crossing his arms over his chest, "Now I have to hear this."
"Shut up, it isn't like..." TJ mumbled, then trailed off. He'd slept with her, it kind of was like that, "She's my boss's secretary. I don't know her that well, I hardly ever see her...I hardly ever have to go in to work. She's connected to all of this...I think she's Mary Anna. Clara was the name of Mary Anna's doll. I never...I never saw it before..."
"So that's what that meant," Ashley A. mumbled, "TJ knew all along."
"What?" TJ shot her a questioning look. She shrugged.
"Sorry," she smiled, "It was something Gus said...when he was out of it. But we aren't gathered to hear me talk. Gus, go ahead." Everyone turned to Gus, and Theresa took his hand gently.
"Mary Anna...she isn't..." Gus lowered his eyes, studying the floor though it was all a blur without his glasses.
"Try to start from the beginning," Theresa suggested in a loving whisper. Gus met her eyes, nodded.
"It was when I found the glass...I think it was glass...in the rope that held me. I used it to break the rope..." Gus closed his eyes.
"Is that how you escaped?" Vince spoke up. He didn't usually interrupt people when they were telling a story, but Gus was taking so long to get the words out, and, honestly, Gus wasn't that clear when it came to story telling, especially in his current situation. Gus seemed torn with emotions. He looked uncertain, scared, shaken. He focused entirely on the floor.
"I didn't escape," he confessed, "I was...released..."
END A/N: Another cliffy...poor momo-chan will not be happy...
How'd you like Randall's little story? Shocking, surprising, heartwrenching? And the hint at all the problems in poor Ashley B.'s life. Maybe I can delve a little deeper into the Ashleys and Randall's personas later, same with all the other characters. And that little part with Vince, I apologize and take full responsibility for it's murky clearness. SO SORRY!
I have to go eat dinner, and I hope you enjoyed this little chapter (EMPHASIS ON LITTLE, is it just me or are my chapters getting shorter?) PLEASE go forth and REVIEW!
And...please excuse any grammatical and typing errors.
Love, as always, from me. THANKS for READING. Later days...er...I don't watch the Weekenders...