"Sick?" Kellerman speaks the word like it's a mouthful of bogeys.
"That's what his assistant said. If what Sara Tancredi told us is true, it's more likely he's taken the weekend off and gone on a trip."
Kellerman kicks into a pumpkin that must have rolled down a doorstep amidst the leafy orange ground. It gives under his shoe like an egg, and Michael is momentarily shocked at how much like a bully Kellerman looks.
This might have been high school, and Kellerman might have been holding Michael's head down the toilet, calling him 'Retard'.
Bright pumpkin guts spill all over Kellerman's leather Derby, but even that's only half-satisfying.
Kellerman curses. "Can't believe Halloween, of all things, is causing that much trouble. Is there no other coroner in town?"
"Just the two we've called."
Kellerman shakes his head. He and Michael are on the walk back to their car, after treating themselves to a takeaway breakfast at The Witches' Cauldron. The name amused neither of them, and they ignored it in tacit agreement.
Kellerman bites into his sandwich – eggs, bacon and cheese drip savagely from the bread – while Michael sips his coffee.
"Didn't the daughter say her first job out of med school was as a coroner or something?" Kellerman says.
"Or something."
"You think we could get her to do it?"
Michael shrugs. "That's a big favor to ask someone we hardly know. And someone who's involved in the case."
"Now, you have qualms about breaking protocol?"
"It's one thing to get her to trust us," Michael says. "But to ask her to cut open the body of a man who worked with her father? A man she probably knows?"
Kellerman looks nonplussed. Probably, he'd cut through the entrails of his grandmother if it could lead him to break this case.
"If I've read her right," Kellerman resumes, "she'll jump on the opportunity. From what I gather, she's eager to be a part of this."
"Too eager?"
"Maybe she likes my rugged good looks."
Michael groans.
"Anyone ever tell you you can't take a joke, Scofield?"
"Anyone tell you you can't tell one?" Michael stops, and the coffee down his throat turns bitter. Kellerman can be annoying as hell, still he can't believe he'd enter that game and say something so childish.
"Well, we'll just have to ask her," Kellerman says. "We're short on options, aren't we?"
Kellerman dumps what's left of his sandwich inside the trash. After what? Michael thinks despite himself. Two bites? Though he struggles against it, the thought snakes into his brain: himself, cold, starving, sifting through trashcans for precisely such finds. Twenty years ago, he could have kissed Kellerman for what he just did. Now, he wants to punch him for it.
…
"Oh my God. Sara?"
Sara freezes. Her insides turn to liquid then ice, and if her feet would move, maybe she would do the ridiculous thing and just run.
I'm a grown woman, she thinks, not a teenager.
How come, with every year that goes by, she seems to turn into more of a coward?
Sara turns back. A pair of unpaid-for trainers dangle from her arms. She's promised herself to stay tucked in all day, not to risk running into anyone from her old life, but her sore feet finally pushed her to go buy herself more comfortable shoes. She's gone through the trouble of driving for not ten but twenty minutes, thinking if despite the precaution, a ghost from the past decided to wait for her there, that'd be just her luck.
The cashier still has to deal with a couple of customers before he gets to Sara. At first, the voice that spoke rang no bell at all in Sara's memory, but as soon as she sees her, she can't believe she even needed to turn around.
Gretchen Morgan's looks are striking at twenty-eight as they were at eighteen. Her direct blue eyes scan Sara avidly, and Sara does her best not to reciprocate. Frank's voice scolds in her head: Don't stare, Sara. It's rude.
But there are times when staring comes as the most natural thing, and to see a familiar face again after a ten-year absence features at the top of the list.
The long raven hair Sara remembers bobs primly an inch above Gretchen's shoulders. The cut suits her, embraces the sharp angle of her jawline, and emphasizes Gretchen's red smile – the same red as in high school. Perversion.
"Look at you," Gretchen says.
As Sara takes in the woman's black suit, she becomes aware she's still in the clothes she picked randomly from her drawers before she scrambled for the airport.
"What brings you to town? Not the Halloween spirit."
"I, uh –" Sara opts for the first escape she can think of. "Long story."
"Are you staying long?" Gretchen asks. "I would have thought you'd give me a call. High school was a long time ago, but we were inseparable. You remember." The words don't sound like a question.
Sara swallows. "I'm not here for – it's a work thing. I won't stay long enough to catch up with everyone."
"Not long enough for coffee? Lunch?"
Sara relents. "Honestly, I didn't think I'd find you in Salem."
Gretchen's grin drains from joy but widens at the same time. "Right," she says. "You expected I'd flown away on the wings my teenage dreams."
Sara lowers her eyes to Gretchen's purchase – a child-sized box, with a smiley on the side. Her cheeks glow hot when she looks up at Gretchen, because of course, she's seen her.
"Eight years old," Gretchen answers the unasked question. "A bit of a brat, but she's a cute little thing." Sara rakes her brain for something appropriate to say, but the air flies from her lungs as Gretchen adds, "I named her Sara." Silence falls heavy as a wall of butter cream, thick enough to slice through with a knife. Gretchen's mouth breaks into a laugh – her girly practiced laugh from high school. "I'm just fucking with you, S. You still fall for it, every time."
Her last words turn into Sara's memory, like a key inside a lock. She remembers it, the way she remembers old nursery rhymes, magic spells spoken in hushed tones to ward off the monster inside her bedroom closet.
You fall for it, every time.
Though Sara can see Gretchen's teenage face precisely as she says the words, Sara can't remember what they mean.
"Your turn's up," Gretchen waves at the cashier behind Sara. "We'll catch up later. Won't we?"
…
"I hate to ask you this," Michael says, during the silence that settles over the phone. Silence makes him uncomfortable. That is, when he's having a conversation, and it always carries with it the rank smell of personal failure.
Fortunately – small mercies do count for something – he's waited until Kellerman was out before he called Sara. Michael's not very good at asking people for their help, but he'd rather that than wait for Kellerman to do it. His partner might be a jerk, he's right when it comes to one thing – they aren't crawling under options.
He hears Sara's breath against the phone. "All right. I'll do it."
She takes the rejection out of the air and Michael's lungs suck in long-needed oxygen. "Thank you, Miss Tancredi. I can't tell you how much we appreciate this."
"I need you to find my father. If I can help you get to the bottom of this sooner – of course, I'll do it."
Except she didn't agree as a matter of course, did she?
Now that she's said yes, Michael can almost forget the few seconds of silence that stifled the air in the room. She does want to help, that much's for sure… but it costs her. Why? Michael wonders. At first, he thought it was just her father's disappearance – arguably, enough to unhinge anyone. He invokes the image of their first conversation, in her father's office. She twitched, let her eyes linger to sharp objects, as if the air was crawling with hostile things that might bite at any moment.
Michael knows the feeling too well not to recognize it.
His past, too, has teeth. Probably, the longer Sara stays in this town, the more of herself might be devoured by the darkness.
Outside the car window, a couple of teenagers with wolf masks over their faces break into giggle as they tear a scream from an unsuspecting girl.
Michael realizes that he hates this town, and he can't get back to Washington soon enough.
"Thank you," Michael says.
"Don't thank me," she replies. "Just find my father. Please."
…
Few faces cry out 'friendly granddaddy' as loud as Bruce Bennett's does.
"Gentlemen," he says, as he welcomes them inside the stunning study of his equally stunning house. "What will you have to drink?" He glances at his watch, which is probably worth twice as much as the car they came here with. Four thirty. "A little early for scotch, perhaps. I never used to have any before six o'clock, but when retirement hits, the rules lose their shine a little."
"That's very kind of you," Michael says. "But I'm afraid we aren't here for a social call."
"I should think not," Bruce says. "When a former senator gets a visit from two FBI agents, the weather broadcast isn't generally hopeful. I never thought it should happen to me, though, if I can be straight with you."
This doesn't surprise Michael. Bruce looks like the kind of guy who's scrupulous about paying his taxes – in fact, from what Michael's read online, the man is some kind of 'benefactor'. Gives to charities, and probably spares what change he has in his pocket when he sees a homeless person in the street.
Of course, looks can be deceiving. That's the kind of lesson you only need to learn once.
"Then you thought correctly," Kellerman says, flashing a smile. "We aren't here to talk about you, Mr. Bennett. It's my understanding you are very close to Frank Tancredi?"
"Frank?" Bruce's brows arch, giving his face an owl-like air. "We haven't talked in a long time."
"What's a long time?" Kellerman prods.
"Years. I can't remember."
Michael weighs his words in his mouth before he speaks, "We heard you and Frank were inseparable. Good friends."
"Whoever told you that is lying."
"And if that someone is Sara Tancredi?" Kellerman says.
The venom drains from Bruce's face. In a split second, he's that caring old man again, who loves nothing more than to read stories to his grandkids while they nibble cookies by the fireside.
"Sara," he says.
Michael and Kellerman stay silent. Bruce doesn't seem aware that he hasn't formulated an actual question.
He touches a hand to his hair, a dazzling white, and looks puzzled for a second. Maybe he expected to find more hairs on his head. Maybe for two seconds, Bruce Bennett was ten years younger.
"You talked to Sara," he says.
"Yes," Michael answers.
"Why?" Bruce's face focuses again and he squares his jaw. "How could a girl like Sara possibly interest the FBI?"
The two partners stay silent. Despite the profound dislike Michael feels for his partner, he's grateful that Kellerman senses how crucial it is for them not to look at each other, when what they're both thinking would appear black on white on their faces.
The question Bruce just asked, shaking with anger, tells them that while Bruce acts as if the thought of the FBI investigating Sara is ludicrous, the reverse is true. To Bruce's eyes, at least.
But who is he trying to protect? Sara? Frank? Himself?
"You say you aren't close to Frank Tancredi," Kellerman resumes. "What about his daughter?"
Bruce's face takes on an indignant look, like Kellerman is accusing him of something. "What about her?"
Kellerman doesn't relent. "Were you close to her?"
"I loved her like she was my own daughter."
Kellerman looks taken aback. Maybe he didn't expect honesty after that hostile turn in the conversation.
Michael seizes the window to start over, "Look, Mr. Bennett, I think you misunderstand us. We aren't here because we suspect Sara of any wrong doing. We spoke to her about her father – and we came here to speak to you about him as well."
Kellerman's hands turn to fists along his sides. Probably, he would have liked to play on Bruce's emotions a while longer, thinking maybe his anger would have unlocked more secrets about the Tancredi family. But anger has its limits. If they hadn't resumed a more pleasant tone, within five minutes, Bruce would have kicked them out of his office, and maybe even called his old friends to warn them not to tell them anything about the Tancredis.
Whatever Bruce is covering up, about Frank or Sara – it's best he doesn't think the FBI cares to unbury it.
"Well," Bruce says, "I don't know what I can tell you. I haven't spoken to Frank in many years."
Michael wonders if 'many years' means ten.
"But way back then," Kellerman says, "you spent a lot of time at the Tancredi house, right?"
Bruce nods. "Yes. There was a time when I considered Frank a dear friend."
"If you don't mind us asking, was there a reason for this falling out?" Kellerman visibly makes an effort to be his least obnoxious self.
"I forget," Bruce says.
Michael clears his throat. Interrogation 101: when someone feels cornered, the best way to relax them is to shift attention away from them. "What can you tell us about Gregory Ness?" Michael asks. "He was around Frank's house as often as you were, correct?"
"At least as often. Ness was a state senator in Massachusetts when he struck up a friendship with Frank. Eventually, he moved on to Washington."
"You liked the man?"
It's plain from how Bruce spoke his name that he does not. Still, Michael wants to know if the old man will lie to him.
"We share very different values," Bruce says. "Besides, I didn't like his boy lurking around Sara."
"Jacob Ness?" Kellerman prods. "He had a thing for Frank's daughter, would you say?"
"I should think so. They dated for maybe six months."
Again, Michael represses the urge to exchange glances with his partner.
"And did they stay close?" Kellerman asks. "Gregory Ness and Frank Tancredi, after you stopped seeing him?"
"You'll have to ask Ness," Bruce answers. "But don't be too surprised if you find he's a difficult man to reach."
…
It's five p.m. by the time Michael and Kellerman sit back in their sedan and drive to the morgue. The motor's still cold when Kellerman asks, "What are you thinking?"
Michael bites back a groan. God, he misses Sucre. Sucre would give him time to sit alone with his own thoughts, and Michael needs time; the present is like a puzzle, and he needs distance to put all the pieces in the right order. But Kellerman always wants to know what he's thinking, all the time.
"That it's not a coincidence Tancredi went missing, right after we were sent to Salem to dig up his past."
"You think the key to this whole thing depends on what happened ten years ago?"
"Maybe," Michael says.
Silence settles, no longer than a minute. "Sara didn't tell us she dated Jacob Ness."
"No."
Kellerman pulls out his phone and starts typing. "She might not have wanted to embarrass him, now that he's a U.S. senator. He's eight years older than she is."
"You think the relationship happened while she was underage?"
"The fact she didn't tell us certainly points that way."
The tires make a squishing sound as they crunch through wet leaves and Michael parallel parks behind the morgue. Only two cars beside theirs in the parking lot, and one of them is Frank Tancredi's Bentley.
Michael would never have thought the building was a morgue if not for the letters carved on the front. The walls are the color of melted vanilla ice cream, so inoffensive it would have looked more plausible as a kindergarten or a kids' library.
The cold night air hits them when they step out of the car, and the smell of damp earth and leaves. There's a kind of magic to it – maybe some kind of Halloween spirit.
"Hurry on, Scofield," Kellerman says. "I do hate to keep a woman waiting."
