Chapter 13: Ghosts of Christmas Yet to Come (partie deux)

At that very moment, Charlotte Charles realized she was very much a fan of French hip hop. And also fancy wine. She had already struggled through a cigarette in her youth, so it was something she could comfortably exclude from her Parisian experience. Still, she liked to watch others partake...

There was something to be said for the sight of a Frenchman with a coffin nail perched precariously between his lips. Careless and effortless, with smoke curling to the ceiling…

"See something you like?" Gwen quipped, and Chuck realized she had been staring openly at the stooped man across the room.

"No!" she laughed. "I mean...yeah. He looks like a painting, don't you think?"

"Mm," the flight attendant smirked from her perch on the armrest. "That's Henri; this is his house."

The house seemed more like a nostalgia shop, stocked with all manner of pretty and mismatched things. A dusty gramophone; a mannequin in flapper garb; a hulking case of tattered books; a stained-glass window glowing with street light...she wondered vaguely if he had taken that from a church…

"Do you want me to introduce you?"

Yes...but not for the reasons Gwen had in mind.

"I have a boyfriend," she said, already starting to wonder what the Pie Maker was doing just then. Sadness seeped into her once again and she resolved to call him as soon as she got home…not that this was home…

Gwen shrugged and drained what was left of her Rémy Ginger, seemingly unconcerned with any boyfriends.

Soon after, Eugene emerged from the crowd, with one more drink for her and another for the Alive Again Adventurer.

"Chuck thinks Henri looks like a painting."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he flopped down between them. "You're not alone. Lots of other artists want to paint him, but I think he's more comfortable doing the painting."

"He'd want to paint you, Chuck, you're beautiful."

The pilot groaned and dropped his head back. "You're not trying to set someone up again, are you?"

"No," Gwen grumbled. "She has a boyfriend."

"Good. Gwen's got terrible taste in men."

"Yeah, that's why I dated you."

"...you two dated?" Chuck piped up, smiling knowingly. The instinctive detective in her had suspected as much.

"For all of three months," Gwen said.

"Mostly because everyone thought we should," Eugene added. "But it was like kissing my sister. I don't even have a sister, but if I did she would be Gwen."

"Damn right," she grinned, reaching over to give punch his bicep. Then, spotting someone she knew, the redhead hopped off the couch and dashed away squealing...

"Definitely better as friends," Gene muttered, rubbing his arm. He turned to Chuck and asked: "So what's his name? Your boyfriend?"

"Ned."

"Huh. I knew a Ned."

"You did?"

"Yeah...weird kid. We both were, to be honest. I probably still am..."

"He definitely still is."

"Heh. So what does he d-?"

"We're starving!" Gwen reappeared suddenly, with a leggy blonde woman in tow. "Let's blow this pop stand and head to the Soul Kitchen. Chuck, they have these blue cheese croissants that'll make you think you've died and gone to heaven."

She choked on her drink at that, prompting Gwen to thump her on the back.

Died and gone to heaven indeed…

XXX

Only three bodies had been claimed so far. Collected by families tired of waiting for a reason, tired of listening to speculation. 'Lightning strike' would suffice for those who needed something comprehensible to hold onto. It was a stormy night after all. And they had gone to the graveyard in search of death, which seemed more important than the fact that they died…

But the Pie Maker knew what they never could. And it made him feel a completely new type of guilty in the presence of the perpetually grumpy coroner. Even as he paid him off…

Ned didn't know for sure, though. Not yet. There was some sense of reprieve in this...this frozen moment in time, when he did not know.

"Schrodinger's cult-leader?" he murmured, fingers trembling as they reached for the first drawer…

Terry Marlowe was wizened, fair-skinned, with a salt-and-pepper beard and wild dark hair streaked gray. He looked only vaguely like the picture the press had gotten their hands on, swiped from the website for his failed scuba-diving business.

He was too tall. His body seemed to stretch on into the storage space and beyond. Ned could imagine him towering over a crowd of followers, and he dreaded the thought of hearing him speak. But he had to know...

A tap on the nose and Marlowe sprang to life, proclaiming: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today...to die!"

The Pie Maker sighed. "You're not in the cemetery, Terry."

Marlowe was quick on the uptake. He looked around, then down... "Aw, hell."

"Yeah, probably. Do you remember what happened?"

"I lead my congregation to the landing zone, where the great Zaphod Beeblebrox was prophesied to join us for the first time in-"

"Terry, you're dead. And I'm not buying it. You didn't drink the Kool-Aid, did you?"

The cult leader tilted his head, then smiled, wolfish and beguiling. Like Ned was in on some clever joke.

"You mean the Elixir of Enlightenment?" he laughed, and it sounded like a bark. "Do I look like someone with a death wish?"

Ned grimaced. "You're a very bad person."

The laughter died on his lips, and something dark clouded his eyes as he snarled: "I'm a survivor. I got nine liv-"

Ned touched him and he toppled back unceremoniously. "No. Just the one."

Next, he talked to a portly man named Philip, who seemed very distressed by the fact that he had not "died right".

In the neighboring drawer was a freckled teenager that reminded him of Maurice and Ralston. The boy had enough time to be confused, then scared, then dead again.

An older woman was convinced that this must be the "Great Waiting Room", and that the Pie Maker was some sort of gatekeeper. He couldn't tell her otherwise, so he kept his mouth shut.

Then came a near hysterical man expressing regrets for things Ned didn't understand. But he was eager for a second chance, insisting he had never really wanted to die, insisting he had changed his mind as soon Marlowe started handing out cups.

Ned barely found his voice to apologize before the man grabbed him by the collar, accidentally grazing the Pie Maker's neck.

He collapsed and started to slip off the edge of the drawer. Ned struggled to shove him back on, and in, shaking harder than ever...

"Enough," he croaked, to no one and everyone.

He was only hurting them more, pulling them away from whatever peace they might have found. And he knew now. This was what Olive and Emerson were trying to protect him from…

But who would protect everyone else from him?

XXX

"Hey, at least he can help us work the case!" Emerson piped up, breaking their long silence.

He was not one to look on the bright side of life, but Itty Bitty seemed so uncharacteristically grim that he felt obliged to fill in for her. It was a very uncomfortable position to hold, like trying to touch his toes...

"I never should've left him alone," Olive mumbled, pouring two more fingers of whiskey. She had intended to send it to her father for Christmas, but decided that they needed it more.

"Well, what were you planning on doin'?" the PI grumbled, tilting his glass towards her. "Disconnecting every TV forever? Burnin' all the newspapers? Dumping radios in landfills? He was always gonna find out."

"He should've found out from us."

Emerson figured as much from the beginning. Ignorance was not always bliss.

"This is what happens when you care too much," he muttered. "You make dumb decisions, based on emotion..."

"We."

"...we," he conceded.

The PI drained his glass, trying to steel himself. They still had work to do…

And right on cue, the Pie Hole doors swung open.

Ned shuffled in, looking like he just ran his brain through a tumble dryer. He seemed as out of it as a person could be without being inebriated. But he swiped the whiskey off the counter for good measure.

"Can I have this? Thanks."

"Boy, do you even drink?"

"It's medicinal." He took a swig directly from the bottle, then coughed and spluttered. The Pie Maker turned to his waitress, eyes already getting glassy.

"We're sorry, Ned."

"You can't keep secrets about me from me." His voice sounded hollow and distant, like a tin can rolling down the street. "I don't need your protection."

"And I didn't need yours. But that didn't stop you from trying." Emerson could see him trying to find a response for that, then- coming up empty- he took another swig instead. "What good is the truth anyway?" she hastened to add, eyeing him worriedly. "The truth made us dig up Dwight. The truth made Chuck leave with Lily and Vivian. The truth hurts people. And I hate seeing you hurt."

The pair stared at each for a moment, before he sighed and set the bottle back down on the tabletop. "I'm done."

Emerson rubbed a hand over his eyes. Not this again...

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm done. I'm done investigating, I'm done pie-making. I'm done with dead people, dead animals, dead food...it makes me feel gross. And wrong. Whatever this thing is in me, it's wrong."

With that he shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets and ascended the stairs.

Emerson stared after him, more than a little concerned.

This was not The Pie Maker deciding to be 'normal'. This was something else. Something much worse...

A/N: Ned is freaked out, y'all. He spent his whole life coming to terms with his ability, and learning how to handle it responsibly, only for universe be like 'hey, you can maybe kill a bunch of people at once if you're not careful, mmkay, byeee'.

So...yeah. He'll be looking to change some things.