Chapter Three: The Airwaves Crackle with Unspoken Accusations

February 4, 2004

Tracy pushed forward on the treadmill, ignoring the not-so-silent pleadings of her muscles to just give it a rest. She hated exercise for its own sake, preferring to keep trim through sports and hard work. But these late night bouts with nightmares and insomnia were getting to her. She'd learned through hard experience that she was most vulnerable after midnight, when she was alone, when she was tired, when she was upset. The temptation to drink was too much, and she'd had to find creative ways around it.

Thus, the treadmill. It was parked inconspicuously in the far corner of her home office, facing the picture window. She watched the city lights below, twinkling in the rain, refracting and elongating through the streams of water that traced the windows into glorious fireworks of red, yellow and white. She had her computer set up to the stereo speakers; she'd tuned in to the online stream for WINS, a New York City news station, and was listening while she exercised. They were opening three plants on the east coast, and it was smart to be caught up on the area long before they went live.

Tracy leaned forward to take her micro-recorder off the stand. She pushed the record button and spoke into the microphone. "Chelsea, I want you to clear my schedule for the 15th. I'm going to go with Stan's suggestion and fly out to Savannah to review the plant there. I still want Mike and Eleanor on the primary team, but we need some muscle along to remind them that deadlines are deadlines. Oh, and see if you can book me into the Kessler. I know it's short notice, but I really can't work in a Motel 6 with a padlock on the bathroom door." She let go of the button, thought about it for a second, then added, "That was a joke, Chelsea. You're supposed to laugh when I tell a joke."

She put down the recorder and redoubled her efforts. If she could just wear herself out, exhaust her body to the point that her mind followed, maybe she could get an hour or so of sleep before her alarm went off. The radio was a non-intrusive chatter in the background, and she almost missed the story when it started.

"In regional news, a long-lost treasure is being auctioned off in the town of Port Charles, New York."

Her feet stopped cold, and Tracy felt the sweat chill on her skin. She stood motionless, tense and alert to any noise, any movement in the room. It hit her, hard, that this was the real reason she'd listened, this was always the reason she listened. It was so subtle, so subliminal a motivation that it had never occurred to her.

News from home.

"The auction, co-sponsored by local businesspersons Edward Quartermaine and Helena Cassadine, will be held at the historic Port Charles Hotel tonight."

The announcer spoke briefly about the history of the treasure, then went on to a different news item. Finally, Tracy was able to breathe again. "Damn," she muttered to herself as her feet began to move as well. "I thought that was just a family myth." And then she realized, like a punch to the gut, what she was doing.

Anger fueled her actions as she grabbed the remote and turned off the stereo, losing the achingly familiar sounds of New York and the past in a single remote signal sent invisibly through the air. She turned the treadmill from manual to automated, the highest setting she could stand, and began pushing herself as hard as she could. Pain seared through her body, aching muscles unused to such hard exercise resisted, pulled, tightened against her efforts until she had to stop, until she had to limp off the machine to the nearest chair, until her body couldn't take it any more.

She closed her eyes, breathing hard, hoping it was enough. Knowing nothing was enough to blind her to the dream that was still flickering across her mind's eye like a 1920s horror film, pale and sepia-toned and gruesome in its naïve goriness….

She was standing before the Board. It was her day of days, everything Tracy had dreamed of since she was a little girl. All around her were admiring faces, applauding men of standing and power, congratulating her on her success, urging her to join them, for drinks, for advice, for a moment of her time….

Daddy was there. Daddy was always there, beaming with pride. Applauding with the rest of them.

"Give us a few words, Tracy," one of the men said, and he led her to a podium.

She stood there at the microphone, humbled, proud, grateful.

Daddy was behind her, his arms around her shoulder. "Be careful what you reveal, daughter." His whisper in her ear felt like a kiss as he slid the knife across her throat to ensure that she never succumbed to the weakness, to this pathetic need for self-revelation.

That she never told the truth for as long as she lived.

"God, I need a drink," she whispered to the empty condominium as she wrapped her arms around her throbbing legs and rested her head on her knees. She was so tired—it felt like years since she'd slept through the night. At this moment, Tracy thought she'd sell everything, everything she owned in the entire world, just to sleep without dreams for a single night.

A siren blared on the street below, and Tracy followed the sound with her eyes. The rising sun was playing purple and orange light against the horizon.

She wasn't going to sleep tonight.

Coming in Chapter Four: The Rules are Reiterated.