Chapter 14: Sins of our Fathers
Schuldig bit his lip hard enough to draw blood but in his worry he didn't even notice that sharp sting. Ordinarily, he would have been fascinated to visit the house that Crawford had lived in and see a glimpse of the man's past, but now all he could feel was fear. Fear and guilt. If anything happened, it was going to be his fault. He should have questioned Berdan further, found out the exact nature of her connection with Crawford's mother.
What he had learned in that last wild outpouring from Vela he still was trying to sort through. The overlying theme, the main thought that had been in her head before she had died was the thing that consumed him now. Claire Crawford had been an overstressed vessel that should have shattered years ago. The tireless efforts of Vela Berdan had been the only thing that had held her together.
Claire was a hollow crystal, handled carelessly by those who had so casually determined her life without regard to her wishes or desires, overheated by her religious zeal and her constant fear of losing her beloved son. Inside was a hot dark tide, concealed by the bright and sparkling exterior. Without Vela to draw off the heat, Claire was undoubtedly going to explode. The only question was when, and what would set her off?
With a brusque wave, he released the cab driver and sent him on his way. Cold gathered inside him when he saw the dark house. No lights were on, and it was too quiet for his peace of mind. The cold spread further when he saw Crawford's car parked in front. He skirted the car, drifting his hand over the hood. The hood was still warm but cooling. He had been here for a few minutes. Maybe he still had time. He didn't know what Berdan did to reach the cipher, but he had no choice but to try and take Berdan's place until they could find some way to stabilize Claire.
The front door was locked. The lock pick came out for the second time that night, and Schuldig coaxed the lock open. He glided in, listening intently in the dark. His glance darted around, seeking any sign of a security system. No blinking lights or alarms greeted him. He hoped that meant that it was off. He didn't want to warn Claire, make her feel threatened or cornered. He was going to have to tread very carefully—his thoughts scattered when the odor hit him.
Blood. There was no mistaking that scent; the color of it, black in the moonlight. He made a panicked sound and with a flailing hand, fumbled for the light switch. Golden light flooded the room, revealing the source of the blood pool. He had dark hair, wore glasses like Crawford, and his dead staring eyes were familiar. But the dark hair was liberally streaked with distinguished white, the lines on his face were deeper and his features rougher.
Schuldig slumped in relief, catching the doorframe to keep from falling. It wasn't Crawford. It was Crawford's father, the senator. From the stickiness of the congealing blood, the man had been dead for a while. This was bad. "Crawford," he whispered, then began to run up the dark stairs and searching down the inky hallways, all the while whispering half-forgotten prayers under his breath.
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Claire dropped to her knees next to her fallen son. Tenderly, she gathered him up in her lap. "You've grown up to become just like your father," Claire said sadly. "I had to save you from Esset. Don't you see I had no choice?" Tears fell from her eyes as she stroked his hair back from his brow, leaving a smear of blood behind. "Don't worry, Brad. Mother's here. She'll always be here for you." She put the gun to her own head. "My baby. I'm afraid neither one of us is going to heaven now. But at least I could stop you before you could further damn your soul." The gun report was loud in the still night. The gun fell with a thud from Claire's now slack hand.
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Schuldig's heart stopped at the sound of the gunshots; one, a long pause, then another. He froze in shock. "Nein," he snarled. "Nein!" His hoarse denial broke him from his frozen state. He ran towards the origin of the fading sounds.
When he opened the door, he smelled blood again, but this time he knew it wasn't going to be a lucky case of mistaken identity. Fatalistically, he felt for the switch. With a deep breath to brace himself, he flicked it on. What greeted him made him slump against the wall.
If it weren't for the blood splattered over the scene, it would have looked Madonna-like, a mother cradling her son's head in her lap. She was still half upright, held up by the piano behind her, the gun she had used on husband, son and herself lying where she had dropped it. Schuldig knew that she was dead, even though he couldn't see the bullet hole in her temple. He couldn't feel anything from her; the white noise her talent had given him was silenced. Crawford, on the other hand. . .
A drop of blood fell onto Crawford's face. He blinked. Schuldig dropped to his knees beside Crawford. "It's okay, Crawford," he said. "I'll take care of you. Don't worry. Just hold on." Schuldig swallowed hard. The blood was everywhere.
"Don't worry, Schuldig, I'll hold 'im 'til ye can get us to the hospital," an Irish-tinged voice murmured.
Schuldig hissed in surprise. "Farf!"
"Aye. Quit yer flappin' and get movin', ye twit." He frowned slightly, then closed his eyes. Schuldig carefully scooped Crawford's limp body into a secure hold and raced out of the house, panting under his burden, the smell of blood and death like an added weight.
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Diane Halveck was just getting off her late night shift when she was almost run over on her way out. The intern jumped at the sight of the disheveled redhead with wild blue eyes that suddenly appeared before her. When she saw what he held, she gasped. The man snarled at her, but the words were strange, foreign. She blinked at him, stupefied. He hissed when he saw that she didn't understand and took a deep breath to steady himself.
"English, English," he muttered. "Get me a doctor! Move!" Shocked into action, she ran into the emergency room to get one of the doctors on call there. Schuldig laid Crawford on a nearby gurney. "Don't die on me," he said to the too-still figure. His tone was threatening and pleading. Too soon, but not soon enough, he was shoved aside by the emergency crew at the hospital.
He watched as they wheeled Crawford away, their frantic activity scented with desperation. The sound of someone clearing her throat made him reluctantly turn away. A nurse stood there with a clipboard. "If you could fill these out, sir?" Slowly, Schuldig took the clipboard and stared at it as if he hadn't seen such a thing before. And he hadn't. Whenever anyone in Schwarz had been forced to be admitted to a hospital, it was Crawford who had taken care of the paperwork.
Diane, on her way out the door a second time, saw the redhead's dazed, overwhelmed expression. She suddenly remembered the foreign words he had spoken to her and stopped. "Can you read English?"
Schuldig stared at Diane blankly for a moment before nodding. Shock, the intern thought to herself. She led the man to a nearby chair. "Here, sit. I just finished my shift, so I can spare you a moment. I'll go over them with you." Schuldig followed Diane's instruction distractedly; he was busy darting from mind to mind trying to gather information about Crawford's condition.
He lightly brushed Crawford's mind, and the faintness of that strong presence frightened him. The clipboard slipped from his hands. The intern took one look at his face and told the nurse to get a sedative. Schuldig was barely aware of them rolling back his sleeve and giving him the injection before everything grew fuzzy.
Intern and nurse helped the now groggy redhead onto a nearby stretcher. "He's a good-lookin' one," the nurse said approvingly. The intern took the man's pulse as she perused the face.
"Yes, he is. Let's see how lucky his friend is."
"His friend?" The nurse perked up in curiosity.
Diane smiled in satisfaction at the steadiness of Schuldig's pulse. The smile dropped off her face at the mention of the other man that the redhead had brought in. "Yes. Gunshot to the head. Bad case."
The nurse winced sympathetically. "He's lucky he's not dead."
"He might be before the night is out," the intern replied grimly. Her shift was over, but she waited in the lobby next to the sleeping redhead and waited for news on his friend.
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Schuldig blinked blearily. Why was he sleeping in his clothes? Where was he? Suddenly he remembered. He shot upright. "Crawford!"
"Oh, you've finally awake," a female voice said. He turned towards the speaker, the movement almost sending him tumbling off the stretcher. Gentle hands steadied him. "Easy there."
Schuldig shoved her away and tried to stand. He would have fallen on his face if those same hands hadn't caught him. "Whoa, there. Where do you think you're going?"
Schuldig clung to the woman for balance. "Crawford?" He tried to scan for the Oracle but couldn't seem to focus. He tightened his grip on the intern's coat. "Where is he?"
She sighed. "Stubborn, aren't you? All right. Come with me." She led him to a wheelchair and shoved him into it. "Don't even think of getting out of that," she said warningly. "Otherwise, I won't take you."
Schuldig's head lolled back and he glared at her. Who did she think she was dealing with? He still felt wobbly, though. He closed his eyes. He would let her take him to Crawford. If she didn't, he would deal with her then. He swallowed. He hoped that Crawford was okay. He hoped that he would be able to talk to the American again, to look him in the eye once more. Even if he told Crawford that it was all his fault and Crawford never wanted to see him again, he just wanted the chance. He could deal with the consequences, if it meant Crawford was alive. All he wanted was for Crawford to live, to be the Crawford he knew.
She took him to a room filled with hissing machinery and beeping monitors. Crawford lay in the middle of it, cocooned in tubes and wires. Schuldig lurched out of the wheelchair and stumbled, catching himself on the bed's railings. He lightly rested quivering fingertips on Crawford's forehead, between his eyes. It was the only skin he could touch from the brows up. The top of Crawford's head was wrapped in bandages.
"Your friend is a very lucky man," the intern said. "The bullet missed the brain. We had to operate to stop the hemorrhaging. It's too soon to tell the extent of the damage, but he will live."
"Live, yes," Schuldig said. "Crawford always has been a survivor. Live how, though? He would rather die than be crippled, or even worse, a vegetable."
"Where there's life, there's hope," Diane said.
Schuldig laughed sardonically. "Such an optimist." He closed his eyes, shutting the woman out. His fingertips firmed, ceased their trembling as he sought contact. There! It was faint, like the dim flash of a fish's scales in a dark pool, but what made Crawford 'Crawford' was there. He sought it desperately, swimming through the dark layers of coma, of pain, of his own drugged stupor. His mind prevented him. Like a swimmer with too short a lungful of air, he couldn't reach it.
Between his battle with Vela and her overwhelming outpouring of memories, the stress of what happened to Crawford and the drugs still in his system, he just didn't have the stamina. With a gasp, he broke off the effort. Spots swam before his eyes and he felt his legs folding under him. The woman caught him before he fell. She was stronger than she looked. She managed to haul him back to the wheelchair.
Schuldig felt the weight of all the night's events roll over him like a stone. The intern's lecture ringing senselessly in his ears, he slumped his head forward and passed out.
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A/N: Well, here I am, back again. I finally figured out how I wanted this story to go, so I was at long last able to get back to this. Hope you enjoy the new chapter. A big thank you to all who reviewed, especially Kye Syr and Stace, for giving me kicks in the rear when I needed it and preventing me from giving up on this story in frustration. My apologies for the long hiatus. Now, I've untangled Schuldig, I need to get back and fix Farf. . .