Yo. Well, ABV's back for another chapter. Now that FLARF is over, I have more time, and I know so much more than I did before; now that I've been working behind the scenes extensively, and I even did two interviews. So that should help a bit. I'm also now getting a feel for what Reanna is going through; my friend that lives with us is a constant alcoholic and has been hauled out of the house by EMTs on several occasions, and I'm depressive-ish more often now, so I can really get into character now. There's a 50/50 chance that I'll be heading over to the Boynton Beach Faire tomorrow, and probably BARF for the two weekends after this, so... three more weeks of ren-fest! Huzzah!
Wizard116- my only reviewer for Chapter Three. -.-;; (Note the hint here, guys. I'm looking for comments.) Thanks for reviewing. This one's for you, dude (or dudette.)
Notes: If you ever get a chance, please listen to Penderecki's Threnody. It's really eerie, and it's like twenty-six or twenty-seven strings players pizz'ing or bowing their way through, each a quarter-tone away from the next. It's really uncanny, and it's basically the seconds in Hiroshima before the A-Bomb hit. There are the sirens, and the plinking is supposed to be the screaming of a thousand voices... it's amazing. Go find a copy and take a listen. In fact, here's a link to it. www-somtow-com/music-html. Just replace the dashes with dots.
The Monroe Ren-Faire does not exist. I didn't want to use an existing one and get arrested on some trumped-up charge.
Who owns what: Ben and Jasmine, and Ms. Anastasio own themselves. They just made cameos 'cause they're special. :-P And the layout for the Faire was this year's FLARF layout.
And sincere thank-yous must go out to BoomerVet, HelocastH, ART4261, RDWink, and Orrngtns, for answering many odd medical, legal, and police questions about certain aspects of this chapter. Even though there is a very slim chance that they will ever read this, thanks guys. I looked for hours to find one person so answer my questions, and I find five all at once. Even though I had to search through what seemed like five-hundred idiots and twenty chatrooms to find you, it worked. And Craig from the Adrian Empire, for telling me what Renaissance people do on their days off. Thanks.
Chapter Four: Rocky Road to Dublin
Chris glanced at the clock. They still had two hours until Brad and Saera would come back.
"What do you mean?" he asked curiously, turning back to her.
"I get headaches when I play," she said, tugging nervously at the sleeve that covered her left arm. "Not bad enough so that I can't play, and not all the time, but sometimes, when I'm doing a solo for a school concert, it's-" she looked like she was groping for the right words. "The headache is deep inside my brain, and it's almost like I can see the music floating on the air." She blushed. "Don't get me wrong; I'm not crazy, please don't misunderstand, but it's just that... I can see the music in the air, and the whole world around me disappears, except for the violin and the music. And when everything comes back, the audience looks like they're in a daze, but... five seconds later, they're all applauding, and nobody ever mentions being spellbound or anything like that. I've set the whole audience crying when I play Time to Say Goodbye, and I can make them dance in the aisles when I play Devil Went Down to Georgia. But...it's like they all forget it. Everyone but me. And I don't think I'm going crazy. Hallucinating, maybe. Crazy- no. I'm not crazy. And the headache I had when I came to yesterday- it felt like the music headaches, only much, much worse. "
He stared at her for a second. Large green eyes full of fear looked back at him, and he felt his stomach do a somersault.
"You don't think I'm crazy, do you?" she whispered. She held his gaze for a second longer, then dropped her eyes, blood rushing into her cheeks.
"No, I don't," he said firmly, tightening his hold on her hand. "You're not crazy, Reanna, because if you're crazy, then we're both crazy."
Flash of memory
He stood in front of the audience at PiperHigh School, holding his flute to his lips, but his fingers weren't moving, and there was only a thin wail coming from the chilled metal. The audience stared at him, eyes gone frighteningly dead and lifeless. The members of the orchestra behind him had fallen quiet, pizzacato'd notes fading into the dead silence of the theatre. Penderecki's Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima died away slowly, the flute's wail dying into nothingness. Christian stared at the formerly restless members of the audience. The parents and sisters and brothers and assorted relatives of the teenagers on stage gazed ahead, chilling him with their blank stares. He turned around slowly, fearing what he would see behind him. It was the same as the people in the audience. The other kids were limp in their chairs, violins and violas hanging limply from slack chins, and cellos and basses resting limply on the laps of their players. Ms. Anastasio, the conductor, was the same way, leaning lifelessly on her conductor's stand. "Miss?" he whispered nervously, hoping this was all a joke. "Miss A?"
He edged over and poked her with his flute. She didn't move. "Miss, please. This isn't funny any more. Please," he whispered. He turned to the still audience. Even his parents and older sister stared back at him with that horrible, empty stare. "Please, is someone alive out there! Anyone!" he sank to his knees, and dropped his flute, wondering why he was suddenly so exhausted. A tear welled up in his eye and ran down his cheek. "What is happening here?" he asked himself in a harsh voice that seemed at once like and unlike his own. "What is this?" Emotion surged through him, and he screamed, a long, thin sound eerily like the flute he'd stopped playing. The flute. Where had it fallen? He looked around frantically for it, finally spotting it under the chair of one of the violinists, a girl with long, dirty-blonde hair named Jasmine. He snatched it from where it had rolled, and raised it to his lips as if to assure himself that it was safe. Of their own volition, his fingers pressed the keys and moved into a pattern he recognized as that of the opening to Ode to Joy by Beethoven. If there were only sound... he blew tentatively into the flute, startling himself with the crystal-clear quality of the Emerson flute in the absolute silence of the theatre. One note followed another, and soon he was playing all out, hoping desperately that the upbeat music would make everything go back to normal. He slowed at the end, and slipped into Spring, from Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Neither songs worked, and he was running out of energy. Somehow he mustered the strength to stand, and valiantly changed the tune to Hame, Hame, Hame, a song he knew well and prayed with all of his heart would work. It did. He vaguely remembered throwing every last bit of energy into the music, and wishing with all of his being for everything to go back to the way it was
He found himself playing from where he'd left off, as if nothing had ever happened- but he felt so weak! He led the orchestra to a screaming conclusion, then they all stopped. A moment of silence ensued- the kind that every musician prays that they'll see at least once in their life, and then the clapping started. He bowed, and dimly heard Ms. Anastasio announce to the audience, "That was sixteen-year old Christopher Banyon, leading the Advanced Orchestra class in Penderecki's Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima!"
He heard the scrape of chairs as the orchestra members stood up to bow and then retake their seats to perform Carmina Burana, and then amidst clapping and cheering, he walked off the stage on trembling legs. Stumbling past other band members, ignoring the occasional whispered, "great job, Chris!" and "are you okay?" He barely made it into the changing room before he collapsed against a wall, legs refusing to hold him any longer. The only other occupant in the bathroom, a stout sousaphone player named Ben, stared at Chris.
"You okay, man?" he asked uncertainly, plainly wondering if Chris had some sort of contagious disease.
"Yeah," Chris muttered. "I'll be fine. Just lemme rest here for a while." He paused. "Hey, did anything weird happen in here a minute ago? Like dead quiet, and it felt like nothing was alive?"
Ben gave him a look. "No. Why? Are you seeing things? 'Cause if you're seeing things, then maybe I shouldn't be around you."
The redhead started edging towards the door, and Chris let his head fall back against the wall. "No, Ben," he said quietly. "I'm not seeing things." But Ben was already out the door, leaving Chris alone with the silent silver flute, and a memory of something unreal.
Memory fades, and is replaced with forgetfulness
"No, Reanna," he repeated quietly, just as quietly as seven years ago. "You're not crazy. And neither am I."
Her brow furrowed, and she stared at him. Her hand felt warm beneath his, and he squeezed it gently. "I don't think you're crazy. Because the same thing happened to me, and no one remembered it, afterward." Quickly, he outlined what had happened to him that gentle summer night in his sophomore year of high school. Her eyes got bigger and bigger as he told the story, and at the end, she finally blurted out the question that had been unanswerable for five long years until he locked away the memory.
Now it was open again, and so was the answer to the question.
"So what was it, then?"
"I honestly don't know. I've ignored the problem for years- it's time to find out what it makes us do, why and how."
"I agree," she said, nodding firmly. "But how? We don't know that we aren't crazy," she said doubtfully. "And this thing- whatever it is, how do we even know that it attacked my dad? What if it's sentient? Or what if it came back after I left?" Her face went white. "Oh my god, I have to get home! What if it attacked him again while he was unconscious? I just left him there-" she pulled her hand from beneath Chris's and threw herself off the bench and towards the door, barely taking the time to pull her shoes on. "Reanna!" he said, finally realizing where she intended to go. "I am not letting you go back there!"
"You can't stop me," she said as she laced up her sneakers. "I have to go home, don't you understand? If I killed him- god- I'll never forgive myself. He's my dad, Chris."
He sighed. "Look, if you'll just wait a minute, I can call your house and find out-"
"We don't have phone service anymore," she said quietly. "I cancelled it after I realized he wasn't bringing home enough to pay for the beer, food, utilities, and the phone." She laced the other shoe on and jumped up. "Do you- do you want to come?" she asked hesitantly. He could see a trace of fear winding into her eyes. But was it fear that he was going to stop her, or fear of going back alone?
"Yes," he said. "Just let me see if we can borrow someone's car. God knows it'll be faster than the bus."
He made a quick call to one of the vendors, a woman named Sally who sold pottery and asked if it was okay to borrow her car. One of her kids was out running errands, but she knew that Jack- another vendor- would let Chris use his Jeep. He hung up and called Jack's camper. Jack's wife picked up and told Chris that Jack was over at their stand, making repairs to a broken shelf. He thanked her and hung up the phone. "You don't have a car?" Reanna asked as she watched him pull his Nikes on.
"No," he said. "I never saw the point. I've got friends who can lend me their car, and I can't take a car with me since I have to drive the camper."
He finished with his shoes, grabbed his keys, cell phone, and black nylon windbreaker, opened the door and ushered her through, then locked it behind them. As he led her down the path between the camping grounds and the Faire itself, she looked around with eyes full of wonder. He could have smacked himself. Of course she'd only been here at night, and been unable to see anything. He started pointing out various groups of tents, explaining who lived there and what they did for a living. As they passed into the Faire itself, she asked what Faires he knew of or had been to, and he began explaining with relish.
"There's the Sterling Forest Faire up in New York- I've been to that one. I really want to go to Scarborough Faire; it's a Faire about a half-hour south of Dallas, and they've got a permanent town set up there. One of my goals in life is to work that Faire for a while." They passed the point where the path divided between the Castle Stage and the lakeside path to the Joust, and headed towards the Joust field and the next fork.
"Oh. Do you ever go home?"
"What, to my parents?" he asked, slightly surprised that she would want to know about them.
"Well, whoever you have at home. Parents, siblings, relatives... girlfriend..."
He almost laughed out loud. It seemed like Reanna was jealous. "No, no girlfriend. I have no brothers or... sisters, anymore. My parents work at a law firm in South Florida. They retired there a few years back, so I visit them there whenever I work FLARF."
"FLARF?"
"Florida Renaissance Festival. It's in Southern Florida, in West Palm Beach. My folks work in Coral Springs, and it's not too far between them. Maybe a half hour if I take the Sawgrass Expressway."
"Ah." She obviously had no idea what the Expressway was, or the places he'd just mentioned, and they lapsed into silence as they walked on the mulch-strewn pathway through the mostly-deserted Faire, passing vendors making more wares, and actors leaving for demonstrations at schools in the area. Reanna received no few glances, even though the long sleeves hid most of the bandages and bruising. They took the last fork in the road leading to the Food Court and the Entrance, passing the Theatre in the G'Round and finally coming within view of Stoneware Goods, next to Perfect Pewter Presents, their goal. Jack's bulk heaved itself up from behind the counter at hearing their approach.
"Chris!" he said in surprise. "With a girl!" He put a hand to his heart dramatically. "It canna be! Nay, say the lad Chris had had the walls about him broken by a lass with curls the color of-" he squinted at Reanna. "What's your hair color?"
"Jack," Chris said warningly.
The man coughed. "Right, right. What can I do for you?"
"Can we borrow your car for about an hour, please?" Chris asked, voice still carrying the warning.
"Uh, yeah, sure. Just let me get my glasses." Jack fumbled with his shirt pocket for the thick lenses and slid the frames over his ears. His expression turned to one of shock as his eyes focused on Reanna's face.
"Oh my god." Faster than Chris had ever seen him move before, the fat man was between him and Reanna, putting her protectively behind his bulk. "Honey, did Chris do this to you?"
"Whu?" She sounded surprised. Chris was even more surprised.
"Chris, did you beat on her?" Jack asked forcefully. "She can't be more than sixteen!"
"What? No, you stupid whoreson! You know I would never hurt someone like that! What kind of a sicko do you think I am?" Chris was fast approaching lividness at the thought that Jack, a friend, would think that he would ever attack a defenseless young woman.
The little altercation had drawn one or two spectators, both of them actors in King Henry's Court, and one of them was one of the biggest gossipers in the Faire; Gordy Smarte, the man who played Peter, Archbishop of Canterbury.
He had to make it clear now that he had not in any way been involved in Reanna's beating. "No, I did not do anything to her. She just- she-" it wasn't his right to say what her father had done to her. "Reanna, do you want to tell him?"
"Not about what happened," she said quietly, and raised her voice. "Chris had nothing to do with- this." She gestured to her face with one hand, and he saw her barely perceptible wince at the sudden movement. "He did not do this to me," she repeated, looking pointedly at the two onlookers. "He actually patched me up after it happened. He and Brad were very kind about it, and he's taking me home now, so please, don't get any ridiculous notions."
Chris glared at Jack, and the portly man flushed and moved out of the way.
"Sorry, Chris," he said, chagrined. "I just thought-"
Chris cut him off and moved to put his arm around Reanna, showing to everyone that he had no intentions of harming her. "Well, you thought wrong, Jack. I can't believe that you would think me so low as to beat up this innocent girl here," he snarled. "Can I have your keys so we can go, please?"
Jack shoved his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out the battered key to his old Jeep. "Just don't crash, kid," he said, trying to make a weak joke.
Chris grabbed the key. "Right," he said shortly, stalking off, Reanna still trapped under his arm.
"Jackass," he muttered under his breath as they neared the parking lot.
"I'm really sorry about that, Reanna," he said. "I honestly didn't think that he'd think something like that."
"It's okay," she said reassuringly. "I got used to it after a while until I started telling people that I'd joined the SCA. I spend so much time at the Renaissance Festival that they believed me after a while, and since nobody ever deigned to check out my story..." she trailed off, looking worried. "I really hope Dad's okay," she said quietly.
Chris decided not to comment, fearing that he'd say something to upset her. There had to be some way to make her see that what her father was doing was wrong.
He was about to mention talking to a counselor when his cell phone rang. "Hold on a sec," he muttered, pulling his phone out with his free hand. He looked at the screen. 'Saeeee' flashed on and off, and he pressed the Accept button on the keypad. "Something wrong?" he asked when he put the phone to his ear.
"Where are you?" she asked, voice muffled by the noise of knocking, apparently at his camper door.
"Borrowing Jack's Jeep," he said.
"Oh... why?"
"Reanna wanted to get something from her house," he said quickly, not wanting to tell Saera that the girl was afraid that some supernatural thing had attacked her abusive, alcoholic father.
"Oh. When will you be back?"
"No idea. Within an hour, I hope. Why?"
"Well, Brad and I wanted to take her- um, to see a psychologist in the area and then maybe go for lunch. You'd be invited, of course."
"'Kay... I was actually thinking the same thing," he said as they approached the blue Jeep Wrangler.
"What is she going to do about school?" Saera asked, startling him.
"School?"
"School, dimwit. High school. Unlike you, she is most definitely not out of high school yet. She has school today. What will she tell them?"
He repeated the question to Reanna, who smiled grimly. "Got it covered," she said. "They all think that my father is very, very sick. So it's perfectly excusable if I'm always staying home to take care of him, as long as I call first. It's also a convenient excuse as to why I'm always so tired. And it's the truth." She looked sad for a moment. "He is very sick. But he's going to get better, with my help."
Chris had to restrain himself from screaming, "But you offering yourself as a punching bag is not helping!" He settled for tightening his arm around her. They reached the Jeep and he pulled the keys from his pocket.
"Uh, Chris?"
"Hmm?" He asked as he unlocked the door.
"You kind of need to let go of me if we want to get into the Jeep," she said, plainly embarrassed by the situation.
"Oh!" He hadn't even noticed the odd feeling of having his arm around someone. Almost reluctantly, he pulled his arm off, and she went around to the far side of the Jeep.
"You need to unlock my side," she called. He couldn't see her face, but he was pretty sure that she was blushing.
He opened his door and tried the unlock button- no go; it was busted. Sighing, he reached over and unlocked Reanna's door. She clambered in and he shut his door.
"Listen, Saera, I have to go."
"Fine. Just don't get arrested or anything. Later."
"Bye." He hung up and wriggled the phone back into his pocket.
The engine turned over on the first try, and he backed out of the parking lot. He made a mental note to get some gas, and another to tell Jack that he'd owe Chris fifteen bucks for said gas.
"So where do you live?" he asked, trying to figure out the shortest route to her house.
"On McNab Road and Farview Avenue. It's- if you go down Straitsman to Minarto..." and she explained their route as he drove, occasionally pausing to point out a landmark or tell him to make a right or a left.
She eventually directed them into a slightly lower-than-middle-class area, and the second the car passed the invisible line between the street and the neighborhood, her face grew anxious, she spoke less, and when she did speak, her words were barely audible. Even though she was obviously afraid, he could see that she was consumed with worry for her father.
'How could she love such a monster?' Chris thought.
"Here." She said the word so quietly that he almost missed it, and he stopped and parked the car on the street in front of the small, two-story house on the left. When he looked up, he was aghast. This- this house, if it could be called that, was so shabby and decrepit that he was surprised that city workers weren't already banging on the door and demanding that the house be fixed. The roof shingles were a faded black, and some were missing. The chain-link fence surrounding the small lawn was mostly knocked down, and it looked like at least half had been stolen. The grass on the lawn was the brown and sere of grass beyond all hope of revival, and as for the house... the paint was peeling off, although someone had obviously made an attempt to put a fresh coat of paint on the lower story up to about seven feet. There were no shutters, but the outside of the windows were coated with grime, and he could see dust covering the inner face, obscuring any view of the inside. The front door was solid wood, though chipped, and it was a faded blue color. He could well imagine the charm that the small house must have had... once upon a time.
He swallowed and got out of the car, noticing Reanna's pallor as she, too, exited the car.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently. "You don't have to go in. All I have to do is knock on the door and see if he answers."
She looked like she was about to faint, but shook her head and said, "No. I have to see for myself if he's okay."
He started to walk up the path, but she motioned him back. "Better lock the car," she said with a small smile.
Feeling slightly stupid, he did so, and joined her in walking up the cracked cement path leading from the sidewalk to the front door. There was a garage, but he didn't trust the asphalt on the driveway.
Together, they walked up the path, and Reanna knelt in the dirt beside the stoop and began digging in it. Before he could ask what she was doing, she held up a small, dirty gold key and unlocked the door. He didn't get the chance to say "Wait!" before she was inside, calling for her father. He darted inside, shutting the door quietly behind himself, following the path in the... dirt... "You live here?" he asked the empty air, appalled. A small feeling of terror and desperation began to wind about him, but he brushed it aside. There was dirt tracked everywhere in the tiny front hall, mixed with a lot of dead leaves. The walls were chipped, and had several holes that looked like they were made by a very beefy fist, and the furniture was similarly battered. Once fine oak pieces, they were now little more than broken boards of varying size held together by bent nails. What appalled him most, though, were the broken beer bottles and what looked like- 'No, it can't be,' he thought in horror. There were rust-colored stains on the wall and floor, and a few that looked like... His mind shut down. Small handprints of old, dried blood were smeared on the wall of the foyer, and there were more on the stairs and on the floor leading to them. Obviously the victim had tried to drag themselves through the broken glass shards littering the floor-
The victim.
Reanna.
"Reanna?" he called, suddenly panicky. The terror had returned full force, permeating the very air of the hall. He glanced around.
There was a small kitchen off to the right, and what looked like a living room through a doorway to the right. Neither held the elusive Reanna.
"Reanna?" he called again, louder than before, more nervously. The desperation wasn't coming from him; it was more coming from the hall...
"I'm up here," she yelled from somewhere upstairs, voice muffled from more than distance or walls.
He stumbled up the stairs, and veered down the right hallway, passing several framed pictures on the wall, and nearly tripped over the filthy carpet that might have once been red. There was a door at the end of a short hallway, and it was ajar. He pushed it all the way open to reveal- nothing. He heard a small sniffle from his left, and turned quickly, expecting to see a large, drunk man holding Reanna hostage. Instead, he just found Reanna, sitting on the floor next to a closet, holding her head in her hands and rocking back and forth, the very epitome of misery.
"He's gone," she chanted. "He's gone, he's gone, he's gone."
"Who's gone?" he asked gently.
"My father! His suitcase is gone, and so's all of his stuff. He's gone, really gone this time. My dad just left me here... alone..."
She sniffled again, and he realized that she was crying into... something. He peered at her, trying to figure out what the thing was, and blinked when he realized that it was a tattered blue teddy bear. Then the fact that she was crying hit him, and he dropped to his knees beside her and gathered her into his arms.
"Honey, I'm not going to lie to you. He left because he probably thought he killed you and he wanted to skip town instead of being convicted for being a murderer."
"But he- but he-" she hiccoughed and buried her face into his shirt. He crooned to her wordlessly and rocked her back and forth, as he had done for his older sister on many occasions, a very long time ago.
"Shh, hon. Shh. Just cry it all out."
Her face twisted into an expression of betrayal. "He left- he left-" and she squeezed the teddy bear tighter.
He stroked her hair in a soothing motion, and just held her. "What did he leave?" he asked quietly.
"Mr... Mr. Teddy."
The bear?
"I got it for him when I was six," she said in a very small voice. "We always used to bring Mr. Teddy to play with Mom, when she was in the hospital..."
Ah. The bear held a very special significance to Reanna.
He was about to murmur more words of nonsense, when he heard the clump of footsteps on the stairs. He stiffened, and she froze. "Wait here," he hissed in her ear. She nodded and clutched the bear as he rose and crept to the doorway. When he peered out into the hall, nothing moved. He took a chance and ventured out into the upstairs hall.
"Freeze!" a voice barked. "Come out with your hands where I can see them!"
'Police?'
He put his hands behind his head and walked slowly out onto the landing. At the foot of the stairs stood a portly female cop who looked to be about forty, holding a gun. In a split second it was pointed at him. "Hands where I can see 'em!" she repeated, and he raised his hands into the air.
"Ma'am, please," he tried to explain. "I'm here with the daughter of the man who owns this house-"
She ignored him and ascended the steps slowly, gun still held in both hands and trained on him.
"Don't move. I'm sorry, kid. I can't believe you until I can verify what's happened here. There's blood on the walls downstairs, and it looks like there was a brawl. I have to take you in for questioning." She reached him and instructed him to turn around. The second he did, she pressed him against the wall.
"Hands behind your back." He groaned and reached around, and felt the cold steel of the cuffs as they locked around his wrists.
"Is there anyone else here?" She asked coldly as she patted him down and removed everything from his pockets and belt, including the change in his pockets and Jack's car keys.
"Just Reanna- Reanna Wyr," he said slowly, trying not to seem like a threat.
She turned and looked down the hallway. He turned and looked too, and felt his heart break as Reanna stood silhouetted in the doorway, pitiful bear still held to her chest.
"Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to drop the teddy bear," the officer instructed.
Reanna dropped the bear, a look of confusement on her face. "Chris?" she asked. Her voice wavered, and tears began to build in her eyes.
"Reanna, please come here and do what the nice officer says," he said.
She walked over slowly, and the officer's eyes softened. "Honey, did this man do this to you?"
"No!" Reanna shook her head violently, wincing at the strain on her bruised neck.
"Who did?" The policewoman's voice was gentle, but underlying the soft tone was a promise of steel, and Chris guessed that she was very angry.
"M-m-my-" Reanna started shaking and couldn't continue. "I can't!" she wailed softly. "You'll arrest him! We should have never come back here!" she cried as tears coursed down her cheeks.
"Reanna, it's okay. Do you want me to tell him?" Chris asked in a soothing voice.
"No- but- no!" she sobbed, voice turning panicky.
He turned his head toward the officer. "She doesn't want to tell you. Maybe if you take us down to the station..."
Reanna shook even harder, and the officer sighed. "Just- come on. Another officer will be here in a minute, and when he comes-"
"Leah? You in here?" A younger male voice sounded from downstairs.
"Up here!" Leah called.
A thirtyish-looking man wielding a gun cautiously made his way through the broken glass to the stairs.
"Leah, did you call a- God!" he exclaimed when his eyes lit upon Reanna. "You got him?"
"I don't know," Leah said. "He says he had nothing to do with it, and she said the same thing, but- look, just help me get them downstairs."
"Right." The man nodded and started up the stairs, holstering the gun.
"You help her downstairs and I'll get him." She jerked her head at Chris, and the younger officer nodded again. He put his arm around Reanna and Chris felt a flash of- anger? Wounded male pride?- and he led her down the stairs slowly while murmuring, "it's okay, honey. We're just going to get you to a hospital, and they'll fix you up."
Leah jerked roughly on his chain. "Let's go."
He stumbled down the stairs while she followed him warily, one hand still holding the gun, even though it was pointed toward the ground. She directed him to the police car and ushered him in, locking the door behind him and leaving him under the guard of the male officer while she asked Reanna some questions and made notes on a clipboard.
Chris sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose when he smelled old vomit, what smelled like stale pee, beer, and old McDonalds. He knocked on the window with his head, and the LEO looked down at him. "Can I come out, please? It really smells in here!"
The man rolled his eyes and shook his head. No can do, he mouthed through the window.
The flautist groaned and sank back onto the seat. There was no way his day could get worse.
x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x
As it turned out, it could. Chris watched in disbelief as a flatbed truck loaded a car that wasn't even his onto the bed and drove off.
'Jack's gonna murder me.'
A crime scene unit swarmed the cordoned-off house under the interested eyes of the neighbors, and he could see flashes from the front hallway as a crime scene photographer took pictures of the front hallway, and dimmer flashes as another photographer did the same with other rooms.
He experienced sudden hope as a uniformed officer approached the car, hopefully to let him go, then felt defeated as the officer went around the car to get to a patrol car parked across the street.
Reanna had vanished with the younger male officer- Chris never had learned his name- presumably to go to the hospital, and he had no idea what was going to happen to him.
Knock, knock. Someone rapped on his window and he jumped reflexively. It was Officer Leah. "I'm taking you over to the station, kid," she called through the thick glass, and opened her door. "You hear me?"
"I can hear you just fine," he grumbled.
She didn't reply, and got into the driver's seat. Another officer he didn't recognize got into the passenger seat, and both shut their doors. "Is he supposed to look after me?" Chris asked sarcastically.
"Yes," came the biting reply, and he decided to shut his mouth. Leah started the car, and the car sped out of the scene, many of the neighbors pointing at the "suspect."
They passed buildings he didn't recognize, and other buildings he did before they reached the police station and Leah pulled the car around the back of the building. She parked the car in an empty spot and got out. "Head in and fill out a report," she instructed the other officer, and opened Chris's door. "Nice and easy," she said warily.
He rolled his eyes and levered himself out of the car, and was amused to see that he was taller than her by at least six inches. She led him up a set of steps and through a back door, bringing him to what looked like a conference room, complete with clean wooden table and two chairs. "Have a seat."
"Don't mind if I do," he replied, halfheartedly, and sat in a heavy, scarred wooden chair with no padding. At least the air smelled clean in here. He jerked in surprise as Leah unlocked his handcuffs and put them back on her belt. "Thanks," he said grudgingly.
She said nothing and retreated to the corner, still fingering her gun. He rubbed his wrists, trying to instill some feeling back into his fingers, and waited to be told he could leave.
A balding African-American man dressed in an ugly brown suit entered through another door and sat across the small table, folding his hands in front of him as he did so. "Mr... Bonyan, is it?"
"Banyon," Chris said guardedly.
"Ah. Christian Banyon, twenty-four years of age, from Coral Springs, Florida?"
"That's right."
"My name is Paul."
"Hi, Paul!" Chris said enthusiastically, trying not to sound sarcastic.
"What were you doing at 5612 Farview Avenue with Miss Wyr?" Paul began without preamble, ignoring Chris's Hello.
"Looking for her father," Chris said with complete honesty.
"Why?"
"Reanna thought he might be hurt, and I didn't want her to go back alone."
"Why was she with you in the first place? She wasn't at home last night."
"Guess she didn't feel like telling you why, hmm?" Chris bit out.
"Why don't you tell me, Mr. Banyon?"
"She was busy getting the crap beat out of her by her father, Mister Paul," Chris sneered.
"Mr. Banyon, please calm down. How do you know she was beaten by her father? Did she tell you this? Was there a witness?"
Chris stared at Paul's suit. Was that... hair? "Just our friend Brad."
"And where is Brad?"
"Back at the Monroe Renaissance Festival," Chris said.
Paul raised an eyebrow. "The Renaissance Festival? You work there?" His tone implied that working at the Faire was the work of an idiot, a slacker, or both.
"I travel with it," Chris said defensively.
"I see. And how long have you known Miss Wyr?"
"I've known Reanna for a few weeks."
"And why was she with you last night?"
"I told you, she came to see me after her father beat the crap out of her. I don't know why she chose to come to me. I know she's afraid that you'll arrest her father and she'll never see him again."
"Why would she be afraid of that?"
Chris shrugged. "You're the professional. She loves her father even though he beats her. She chose not to leave him, she's afraid of everything, and I think she blames herself. I don't know anything else about it."
Paul's eyes glinted. "She loves him even though he beats her, is afraid, blames herself, and doesn't want to leave him, you say?"
Rolling his eyes, Chris responded. "That's what I just said."
"BWS," Paul said under his breath, running his hand over his bald patch.
"Excuse me?" Chris asked, confused.
"Battered Women's Syndrome," Paul said, louder.
"Which would be..."
"BWS is a post-traumatic stress disorder associated with learned helplessness. Essentially, Miss Wyr believes that she cannot escape her situation, that she has brought it upon herself, and is too afraid to leave. She may also be experiencing low self-esteem, anxiety, depression, suspiciousness and loss of belief in the possibility of change. That she loves him- I can't say whether that's usual, but I think she'll need psychological therapy to undo this- if she wants to at all, that is."
Chris stared at him.
Paul continued relentlessly. "Who treated her wounds?"
"Brad and I did," Chris said.
Paul stared right back. "You sewed the wound on her arm?" Chris nodded. "You gave her iodine and gauze and bandaged what needed to be bandaged?" Chris nodded again. "You picked the glass out of the open cuts?"
"No, Brad did that."
"Are you aware that it is a felony for an EMT to treat a wound and not report it? Are you aware that it is a felony to not report child abuse? Are you aware that it is illegal to sleep with a seventeen year old?"
"I was going to file a report as soon as I convinced her to go to the police about her father. As for the second question, see the above statement," Chris said sarcastically. "And what the hell do you think I am to have sex with her?" he growled.
"Then why were you with her?" Paul asked mercilessly.
"Because I'm her friend, and friends help each other out."
"I think you should know that she is currently undergoing a kit, and if it comes back positive, if it turns out that her hymen was breached, you're going to be in a world of trouble."
"A rape kit? I did not touch her, moron! What part of 'I'm her friend' don't you get? I would never in a million years do to her what her bastard of a father did to her!" Chris roared. Leah brought her gun out, and Paul's eyes narrowed.
"Please sit down, Mr. Banyon," he said coldly.
Chris didn't even realize that he'd risen from the table until he looked down at Paul, and back at Leah, and realized that he was staring down the barrel of a Smith and Wesson 9mm, and sat down rather quickly.
"Mr. Banyon, are you prepared to calm down and tell us what we need to know?" Paul asked, ice edging his voice.
"Yes," Chris said, defeated.
Hiron: Wow... a twelve-page, seven-thousand word chapter... ((is proud)) At various points during the writing of this chapter, Bruce had to literally drag me away from the computer because I almost fell asleep in my soup. See how dedicated I am? (Huzzah for Bruce!)
Chris: ((snorts)) Right.
Hiron: Review...