Chapter 3: A Night at the Symphony

I will play the swan and die in music.
— William Shakespeare, Othello, act v. sc. 2.

Crawford rapped lightly on Schuldig's door. He heard Schuldig cursing faintly, then after a moment, the door swung open. Crawford's eyes widened at what he saw. The formal look suited Schuldig well. Schuldig had gone all out— hair tied back into a discreet braid, coat with tails, black silk vest, snowy-white tailored shirt and hand-tied tie. The tie hung around his neck, the only unfinished touch to a polished Schuldig.

"I can't get this damned tie," Schuldig snarled as he stalked back over to the full length mirror that hung in his hotel suite. Crawford watched him make another attempt, then came over and turned Schuldig to face him.

"Let me do that."

Schuldig tilted his head and watched Crawford in the mirror. Crawford's hands were brisk, efficient. In seconds, he had a neat, perfect bow. He straightened Schuldig's collar. Schuldig indicated their paired reflection in the mirror. "We are a pair of good looking devils, ja? We'll knock them dead."

Crawford studied their reflection. The two of them did look lethally elegant in tailored black tails and ties. "Knock one dead, at least."

----

Schuldig sat back in his seat. "Not bad," he said as he looked around the hall.

"This venue was built in 1900 and is famed for its acoustics," Crawford told him.

"Nice view," Schuldig said as he leaned over the balcony to get a view of the people filing in below. "But why the balcony? Doesn't your family have a reserved box?"

"Yes, they do," Crawford told him. "But it's probably being used. Someone in my family is here, I'm sure of it. The Crawfords put in an appearance at nearly every performance as their way of showing they support the arts." He took off his glasses and began to clean them. "Not to mention, my mother loves music. She is quite an accomplished pianist." He put his glasses back on, after one last check for smudges.

"With the good acoustical properties of this venue, there isn't a bad seat in the house. However, the balcony can get you quite close to the orchestra and commands a great view, a fact that is overlooked by many." Crawford indicated with a telling glance to a seated figure on the other side of the balcony. "A fact that isn't overlooked by the friend we came here to see."

Schuldig studied their target, then shrugged. "He isn't going anywhere. I can keep tabs on him, no problem." He sat back to view the orchestra. "Let's allow him one last performance, shall we?"

"We can wait," Crawford agreed. "We'll take care of our business with him at intermission."

----

Richard Rochelle closed his eyes as he listened to the last notes die away. People were starting to move around, taking advantage of the intermission to go explore the gift shop, mingle, or just use the restrooms. He pulled himself out of the music to realize that he had to go to the restroom himself. There was a long line at the main restrooms, so he jogged to the one in the Cohen wing. As usual, it was almost deserted, except for a pair of elegant gentlemen in black tails and ties.

He gave them the barest of nods as he passed the man wearing glasses washing his hands at the sink. The redhead gave him a look that he didn't like from the bank of urinals. He took the urinal furthest from the smirking redhead and did his business. He was just zipping up when two sets of hands grabbed him. He tried to fight back, to find something to throw with his mind, but everything was bolted down in the restroom.

A cold gun barrel wiped away any thought of greater effort. The redhead grinned at him and patted him on the head. "Good, good," he said in German-accented English. "Ah, ah, ah," he warned, wagging his finger in his face when Rochelle tried to gather his energies to wrench something off the wall. /I see you,/ a voice sang in his head.

A telepath! Rochelle froze, his eyes rounded in fear. The other man behind him, the one holding the gun, spoke quietly. "I hope you've enjoyed the performance so far. I'm afraid we must detain you from the rest. We have a few questions to ask you. . ."

----

"Feh," Schuldig said with disgust. "Who do they think they are, secret agents?"

"Inconvenient," Crawford agreed as he swung the door to the restroom closed and put the "out of order" sign in place.

Schuldig rubbed his head against the headache that was coming on. He'd run into few shields as good as this man's were. In the end, though, the outcome was never in doubt. The information gleaned was. It had been disappointingly scant. Richard Rochelle and the others had separated as soon as they had turned down Esset. It hadn't taken a genius to know that they put themselves in danger with that refusal.

So they had separated, but as an added measure of safety, none knew where the others were. Rochelle also didn't know who their "benefactor" was. It had been the leader, Vela Berdan, that had been the only one to have contact with that mysterious figure. Schuldig wondered who would be gathering psis and not doing anything with them. Rochelle had done nothing with his talent. He was working for no one. All he was asked to do was to go to a local university and participate in a study on paranormal talents.

"I guess the university is next," Crawford said.

"I guess so," Schuldig murmured absently, still rubbing his temple.

"Did you overexert yourself?" Crawford asked, a frown on his face.

"On him, no," Schuldig replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the dead man they were even now leaving behind them. "Trying to keep anyone from coming to that restroom and finding it locked, yes." He rubbed his eyes. "And there's something, something dragging on me." He made a swimming motion with his hands. "I feel like I'm trying to swim against a strong current. It's strange."

"There must be a cipher out there," Crawford theorized. He had felt the effects too. Ciphers worked off of proximity. The closer you were, the stronger the effect. It was a strange talent, impossible to refine. For some reason, the moment that you convinced a cipher of what he or she was doing, the talent would disappear, usually permanently. Esset was uninterested in them because of the passive, limited nature of the talent.

He'd had first-hand experience with them and didn't like the way they shut down his foresight. So far, he could deal with it, even though it was a struggle. He wanted to get out as soon as possible. In a wordless burst, he conveyed that sentiment and its urgency to Schuldig, who began to apply himself to clearing the path of any potential witnesses.

/This way,/ Schuldig sent, darting down a narrow, metal stairwell. Their descent made a loud clattering on the iron grating, but Schuldig appeared unconcerned about the noise, so Crawford didn't worry about it. If anyone had noticed, the telepath would let him know.

He was more concerned about the fact that his pre-cognitive sight had suddenly disappeared. Sometimes he had moments of perfect present clarity, but they never lasted very long before the future-ghosts and the white auras returned. He hadn't seen the present so clearly in years. Not since he had left home.

Schuldig grimaced, pulling Crawford out of his thoughts. "Damn this headache! It's just getting worse." He cast an apologetic glance at Crawford. "I'm going to have to shut down."

Crawford nodded grimly. "We're nearly out. I think that we can depend on our physical talents from here on out." He subtly pressed his arm against his side, feeling the gun holster strapped under his jacket. Schuldig saw the tiny gesture and nodded slightly. He unbuttoned his jacket to allow access to his gun too.

Schuldig had picked up on Crawford's unease but didn't comment on it. He wasn't worried. He hadn't picked up any alarm, any sign that the murder had been discovered yet. The narrow stair dumped them out into a blind corner, near the exit. Schuldig pulled his tie straight and made sure his jacket was neat, then rounded the corner. Crawford followed, a little more warily. Schuldig frowned. What was Crawford's problem? The American was acting rather off tonight. If it was anyone other than the Oracle, Schuldig would have said he was jumpy.

When Crawford saw the exit, he sighed in relief. They were almost out. He didn't like being locked away from the future. That meant something unexpected could happen. Crawford hated the unexpected. And the cipher. Here, in his hometown. . . He hoped fervently it wasn't—he cut off that thought. No, he wouldn't think about her. Not during a job. It seemed wrong somehow. His step quickened, and he pulled ahead of a more casually strolling Schuldig to grab the door handle. A soft, questioning voice stopped him in his tracks. "Brad?"

Frozen with his hand on the exit, he saw out the corner of his eye Schuldig turn to the speaker, reaching into his jacket. Reaching for his gun. His heart, which had stopped, sped up again, twice its normal rate. This is what fear feels like, he thought to himself, as he whirled around to stop Schuldig. What was he doing, trying to stop him? Then he looked at who hailed him and saw his answer. No, he was not mistaken. It was her. He took in a quick breath. "Mother?"

He felt Schuldig freeze in astonishment, his gun thankfully still concealed. Crawford took a hesitant step toward the petite, white-haired woman. Her pretty blue eyes, which had been rounded in disbelief, now turned joyous. "Brad!" She raced forward and touched Crawford on the cheek, his jacket, his arm, as if she was trying to reassure herself he really was here.

Crawford merely stared blankly, struggling with this unexpected turn. Schuldig could only stare too. If he tried to picture Crawford's mother, which he never had, this would not be what he would have imagined. She was birdlike, porcelain-doll pretty, classy yet fragile. She was swathed in jewelry and blue fox fur, her head crowned in a complicated braided twist, slender neck and fluttering hands the only things visible.

Her smile faltered as she realized that her son didn't seem pleased to see her. "Brad?"

Crawford stood there like a statue. Schuldig shook off the surprise. Crawford's mother or not, she was starting to get suspicious. He had to do something. "Crawford," he said, with a pleasant, polite smile for the lady, "aren't you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?" That shook Crawford out of his shock, just as Schuldig had known it would. Good breeding ran too deep in him not to respond to the social prompt.

"Mother, I'd like you to meet—" Crawford froze again. He couldn't introduce Schuldig as "Schuldig!" His mother had spent a year as a student in Germany. Her German may be rusty but not rusty enough to miss such an odd name. /Aric Rudiger,/ Schuldig sent, understanding the dilemma immediately. "Aric Rudiger. Aric, my mother, Claire Hallibourne Crawford."

Claire Crawford gave no indication that she had noticed that infinitesimal pause. She inclined her head regally. "Herr Rudiger," she said, extending her hand.

In a move that surprised both Crawfords, Schuldig lifted her extended hand to his lips. "A pleasure to meet you, Frau Crawford." His amused gaze flicked over to Crawford. "A shame my associate didn't tell me how beautiful his mother is."

To Crawford's further surprise, his mother giggled and blushed like a schoolgirl. "Danke, Herr Rudiger. You flatter me."

Crawford finally collected enough of himself to act normally again. "Mother, I'm sorry I haven't been by to see you while I was in town."

She smiled sadly and shook her head. "I understand, Brad. You and your father. . ." she gave Schuldig a small laugh. "My son and his father sometimes don't get along. They are both very strong-willed."

"If his father is anything like Crawford, I can understand and sympathize," Schuldig said gallantly. His smile was easy, but Crawford could see the strain in Schuldig's eyes. He was used to it. But those unused to the effects of a cipher could find the encounter near painful, especially if they tried to use their talents around them.

Crawford leaned over to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. "I have to go. You ought to go back. You're going to miss the rest of the performance."

"Ah! Yes," Claire laughed lightly. "Your father is probably wondering where I am by now." She put a hand on Crawford's sleeve. "Won't you meet me for lunch? You and your associate," she smiled at Schuldig.

Crawford put his hand over hers for a moment. "I have a very busy schedule. I don't know—"

"Of course we will," Schuldig broke in with a smile. "Tomorrow? One o'clock, perhaps?"

"At Jake's," Claire said, jumping at the chance before Crawford could refuse. "If you've never been to Boston, Herr Rudiger, you have to go to Jake's. I've been going there since I was a girl."

Crawford was forced to concede. "Very well. We'll see you at one." He gave her another kiss on the cheek and accepted one from her in return before shepherding Schuldig out the door.

----

A/N:
Herr – German for Mr.
Frau – German for Mrs.
Danke – German for thank you

Thanks to:
TrenchcoatMan – Hope you're enjoying "To Overcome Fear." Chapter 2 is on my beta's desk, and I think next on her agenda.
RoseRed5 – Thanks. I recently saw clips from the Westminster Dog Show and thought of that analogy. But I couldn't remember what to call someone that was scared of dogs. This works just as well.
Yanagi-sen – You have that right. The Saiyuki boys do love to make a scene. They forced me to divert my efforts to a side fic, which is on my beta's desk. Along with a few other things. None of my muses will shut up nowadays. It's just a matter of who is loudest. And which my beta wishes to look at.
Lonecayt – I really, really hope that I can do some justice to Brad Crawford. This story took some strange turns I didn't expect. And you're right. It's not fair. I say that the Schwarz boys deserves some equal time in the series. Fanfics are all well and good, but I would love to see some canon on them.