A/N: Wow. 114 reviews. Thankeeeeeeeeeeee kindly! It's been fun...but everything has to end. Except the neverending story. And that ladder in the Folk of the Faraway Tree. The ladder Connie runs up. But this isn't a ladder, therefore it must end. Enough of my warped logic!
Having a little dance here because I found the profile button! Wooh! lolol.
Okay well here we go with the final chapter. I'll finish this AN at the end. Oh and sorry that this chap was long in coming. hehe.
Chapter 16: As Was Fitting
There hadn't even been any time to talk him out of it.
It was the only thought she permitted into her head. She had been so sure of her death, had seen it written in his eyes. And now it was all over, and it was not her lying on the floor in a pool of blood. His grip on her had slacked, akin to his grip on life, and he had slithered lethargically to the floor, their eyes locked until the end. Never before had she watched someone die like that. Sure she had seen people die, but she had never looked at them in the eyes as they did so, had never been so close to it. She fell with him, tired, legs shaking like jelly. It was over, all over.
"Jordan?" a voice called out. "Jordan?"
She couldn't answer; her mouth was clenched tightly closed, throat constricting. This did not have to happen, this man did not have to die. She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting it to go away. But it refused to. Still she mulled it over in her mind, still she agonised over it. Was it her fault? And what had he meant? Be careful what you wish for. What was that supposed to mean?
Her question was answered when his face swam before her eyes. She knew she wouldn't forget him this time. She lifted her hands and stared at them, they were covered in hot blood. She could taste it in her mouth; the smell of it was so strong.
She heard a thump, and heavy footsteps running towards them. She heard the door fly open, and was forced to open her eyes when a hand landed on her shoulder. She looked up. Garret held his hand out and she took it, pulling herself up off the floor.
"You okay?" he muttered, not able to take his eyes away from the man on the floor.
"Fine," she said stiffly. She watched as Woody went over and spoke to the officers who had burst in. She heard words like 'hostages' and 'gun shot', but did not really care what they were saying. Woody turned and glanced at her questioningly. She nodded slightly and he inclined his head and turned back.
"What did he say to you?" Garret asked at her shoulder.
"Don't remember," she said. She could not understand why she felt as though she had been punched in the gut, why she felt as though it was a friend who had been killed in front of her, rather than a psychopath who would as soon have killed her as looked at her. Damn, she thought, over and over in her mind. Damn. She felt like slamming her fist into the wall. How could he have this affect on her? She allowed herself to be pulled up and stood, watching through hooded eyes as people milled around, talking in low voices, getting things done.
"I guess we get to hold him hostage now, huh?" she said, voice steady. Garret glanced at her, his grip tightening around the crook of her arm.
"Let's get out of here," he said. She nodded and they walked out. She stared around her at the house that she had been cooped up in for three yet had never seen. Garret watched out of the corner of his eye as she stopped momentarily, leaned forward and picked something up. She tucked it in her pocket and sent him a half-guilty, half-defiant glance, and they walked out of the house together, each taking deep breaths, savouring the fact that the stuffiness of the little room had dissipated, and they were breathing proper, night air again.
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She'd never been one for funerals, and never would be. Not that she would have even been able to justify going, even in her mind. But she had kept her eye on Ayres, knew where he was to be buried. The same cemetery his wife and daughter were buried, as she supposed was fitting. She knew better than most that a body cared not where it was buried, whether it be in Potter's Field or in the best plot of land money could buy. It was all the same, the flesh would still decompose and the bones would still crumble, but still she latched onto the romanticised idea.
Dusk had fallen when she finally made up her mind to go there. All day, the day of the funeral, she had been reclusive, debating with herself whether or not to go. Not really out of respect, just for her own closure and peace of mind.
On the way she thought. It had come out that Ayres had been in contact with a terrorist cell in New York â and while he was not responsible for the train wreck, he certainly knew about it. Which is how he managed to switch the records around so quickly.
She still burned with anger when she thought about it. She had seen the raw look in Woody's eyes and the well-masked one in Garret's when the two of them had found her, and remembered the fervour with which Lily had clung to her once the three of them had returned. Ayres had hurt them all, and had he got his way, she would be a paraplegic mourning the loss of two dear friends, and being bowed down with the guilt of knowing it was her fault they were dead. But yet again they had come out of it, while not okay, certainly alive.
She could still see his face, as though it was burnt into the inside of her eyelids, as though she had just stared into the sun and could still see the effects. She knew it would fade with time, at least she hoped it would. But he had got what he wanted, even if it had cost him his life. He would always have someone who remembered him.
He obviously never heard that you will get more bees with honey, she thought wryly, pulling up.
The cold air blasted into her face as she climbed out of her car and looked around, but she didn't take as much notice as she might have, still being deep in thought as she walked. She loved this time of day. Not too dark so you could not appreciate everything around you, not too blindingly light so that everything hit you full in the face.
His mother had paid for his funeral. Jordan had watched while she spoke to Bug, who had volunteered for the autopsy, neither she nor Garret being able to bring themselves to do it. The mother had not wanted to hear what her son had done, but she didn't have much choice while she was being questioned by the FBI in regards to the security of their files.
'Did you know?' they had asked her, watching her shake her head slowly.
A murderer he may have been, but it didn't cause his mother to love him any less. Jordan sighed with the memory, if only his wife hadn'tâĤ
She stopped that train of thought abruptly. She had gone through the case file time and time again, and there was nothing to suggest that he had not killed his daughter. But she found herself believing him. The story was far-fetched, but what had he to gain by lying? He would have been thrown back in jail whether he had done it or not. She couldn't fathom it.
She tried to put herself in his place. If she had come home and her daughter had been killed by her partner, would she want revenge? Obviously â but would she have been able to bring herself to murder someone? She supposed she wouldn't know until, and if, she ever had children of her own, knowing that the protective instincts of a parent sometimes outweigh rational thought. But it was no excuse, she told herself firmly. If it had been her father, she knew she wouldn't be able to forgive him.
She stopped, having reached the fresh mound of dirt and the new unweathered headstone.
'Jeremy Ayres,' it read. '1958 â 2005. Much loved son.'
Somehow, the words seemed empty, cold. And it had nothing to do with the granite they were engraved on. In another world, it would have read 'Much loved father and husband,' but he had made sure he had no wife and no child left to love him.
He had brought it all down upon himself, she told herself fiercely. He has no one but himself to blame.
She started when she realised she was referring to him in present tense.
The wind picked up again and she rose from her reverie, shivering, having forgotten to bring her coat. She bent down next to the headstone, pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and stood. She turned slowly, not glancing at the paper, which read 'Daddy' in the scratchy, tentative handwriting of a small child, and walked back to her car, not caring to look back.
A/N cont: Sorry to those who wanted me to kill her. But you know. I couldn't have without dragging this whole thing on. Anyway- thanks for reviewing people! Adios until next time!