Chapter 13: The Man Pulling the Strings
Walt was up early. The violent thunderstorm had left him with nothing to do all evening, so he had gone to sleep. Now that the rain had cleared, he was eager to get back outside.
He wasn't sure what drew him to the beach. He rarely walked in that direction, and he rarely walked that far from the Barracks without a good reason. But when he saw the capsized sailboat stuck in the shallows, he knew he'd only done it because it was what the Island had wanted.
He was tempted to explore the boat on his own, but it wasn't safe to wade out alone, and no one knew where he was. He decided to go to tell Hurley.
He found Hurley having breakfast in Ben's kitchen.
Hurley was surprised to hear about the boat, but only mildly.
"Have you been expecting someone, Hugo?" Ben asked suspiciously.
"Not exactly," Hurley replied, "but I had a feeling that storm was up to something, you know?"
Ben shrugged. He'd had his suspicions as well.
Ben drove them in a van back to the spot on the beach. The sailboat had been pushed further up the sand. He glanced at the name—The White Rabbit. It was a nice-looking boat—definitely pricey—small, but well equipped.
Ben waded into the water and banged on the hull.
"Hello?" he called, to no response.
Walt helped him open the hatch, and he crawled in the cabin.
Everything was sideways, and there was about a foot of cold water inside the boat. There was some obvious damage towards the bow, which was clearly the source of the water. But that's not what Ben noticed first.
What caught his attention were the plastic wrapped bricks of cocaine and stacks of cash that appeared to fill the cabin. He stumbled through, plucking wads of $100 bills from the water.
Then he saw the woman, slumped over in the corner, bleeding from the side of her head.
"Hey, Hugo, there's someone in here," he called over his shoulder. He wasn't sure if he had been heard.
He made his way over to her with some urgency. Her face was covered by long, dark hair—and for a moment he was reminded of his daughter, hoping against reason that the Island had brought Alex back to him. But when he pushed the hair out of her face, he could see that this woman looked nothing like her.
He slapped her cheeks a couple of times to try to elicit a response, to no avail. She was cold—very cold—and her lips were nearly blue. He wasn't even entirely sure that she was alive. But he heaved her over his shoulder and trudged out of the boat.
Walt helped him to pull her out of the hatch, but Ben felt compelled to carry her to shore. He held her limp body in his arms, her head hanging loosely on one side, and her legs dangling on the other.
He carried her all the way into the van. Ben sat with her in the backseat, cradling her head in his lap. Hugo drove them back to the barracks, and not a word was said between the three of them.
They set her up in the spare room in Ben's house, dusting off the medical equipment—relics from a lifetime ago, after Jack had operated on him. They dressed the wound on her head—it was ugly, but shallow, and likely not serious.
She didn't wake up for more than a day, but Ben kept watch until she started to stir.
It wasn't that he cared about her wellbeing—he had changed, but not that much. His primary interest was asking about the money, and the drugs, and how she came to wreck her boat on the Island—if it was her boat at all.
She began to wake up late evening, a day after they had pulled her from the wreckage.
"Where the fuck am I?" she mumbled groggily.
"You're in my house," he replied crisply.
"What happened?"
"You capsized and washed up on shore."
"Where?"
"It's a small island in the South Pacific. Doesn't really have a name."
She frowned.
"I'll be back in a moment," he told her. "I need to go get the boss."
He returned with Hugo a few minutes later.
"What's your name?" Hugo asked gently.
"Valerie," she replied slowly. She didn't offer a last name.
"What happened to you?" Ben interjected.
She looked back and forth between them before answering.
"My boyfriend—he stole from some bad people." Her voice was weak. "We had to get away. He took that boat. There was a storm—I think he might have gone overboard. I went into the cabin and I just tried wait it out, but the waves were too much. I got knocked around. That's the last I remember."
Hugo started to speak but Ben interrupted him.
"You're lying."
"Ben!" Hugo chided. "She's been through a lot, man—we can sort out the truth later."
Ben didn't waver.
"She's been through an ordeal, yes. But there was no one else in that boat." It wasn't a question.
She frowned at him. "You seem sure about that," she replied, an eyebrow raised. The weakness in her voice had disappeared. He imagined that she'd recognized him having seen through her, and she had calculated that continuing the charade was pointless.
Hugo seemed surprised.
Ben put both hands on his hips and stared her down.
"Who are you people?" she asked.
"You're not in any trouble," Hugo reassured her.
"That remains to be seen," Ben corrected. He turned to Hugo. "I think you need to let me have a few words with Valerie."
"That is my name," she noted casually. She then started coughing—a deep, chesty cough that was unmistakably real. "I'm fine," she told them, after the fit had stopped. She locked eyes with Ben and continued. "He can talk to me all he wants. I'll tell him what he needs to know."
Hugo gave Ben a look that suggested much of the conversation had gone over his head. But he shrugged, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
"How did you know I was lying?" She seemed more curious than anything else.
"Why didn't you keep the show going?" he countered.
"I could tell you were certain. I didn't want to waste your time with bullshit. What are you going to do to me?"
"Well, Valerie, that depends."
"On?"
"What you tell me."
"Tell me how you knew I was lying."
"You didn't ask after anyone else when you woke up. That was all I needed to know."
"Wow, three seconds into meeting me and you already had me pegged as a liar," she retorted.
"It takes one to know one," he replied, raising an eyebrow.
She nodded and started coughing again. "Yeah, I figured it was something like that," she told him, after the coughing had cleared.
She'd seen through him too.
"That really is my name, by the way. Valerie Bonaventure."
"How did you end up sailing a boat full of drugs and cash across the Pacific all by yourself, Ms. Bonaventure?"
"It's a bit of a long story," she said adjusting her position in the cot. "I'm a federal prosecutor for the Southern District of California—in LA." She said it quickly—not in a phony way, but the way that one does after years of formal introductions. "Or—I was, I guess," she corrected, continuing her explanation. "I got in a bit of trouble. Had to leave in a hurry. I knew where this boat was—none of the stuff in it was mine, it just gave me some options."
"How much trouble?" he asked.
"Well—I can't go back," she said simply, "and people are dead."
It was the brief version, and obviously riddled with understatements, but he believed her.
"Will your trouble try to follow you here?"
"I doubt it. I left before things really escalated. I don't think anyone will have even realized I was gone until it was too late to find me."
He frowned at her, considering the situation she was in. "You can stay for a while. Until we fix your boat."
She forced a smile. "Thanks."
"I suppose we could probably use a good lawyer around here." he added, half-joking.
She laughed, but it immediately devolved into coughing.
"Get some rest," he told her curtly, and left the room without waiting for a response.
She was a strange woman, he noted, walking towards his office. She hadn't lost her composure around him. He'd always had a way of putting people off balance—it hadn't worked on her. He'd never really met someone so self-assured in his presence.
Ben stared at Valerie in stunned silence.
"What do you mean, I sent you?"
"You know what the Orchid is capable of," she began. "You know that time is malleable in this place."
He nodded, frowning. She let her words sink in. Wordlessly, she picked up his gun and handed it back to him. He stuffed it back in his waistband.
"In some other version of things," she continued carefully, "Jacob will die. You will be the right-hand man to the person who replaces him." She dropped her voice to a low whisper. "Most of the people here will be gone—dead mostly."
He eyed her, wondering whether she was spinning another lie.
"Some years from now—from then, I guess—a sailboat wreck will wash up on the beach. There'll be a lot of cash inside, and some other questionable cargo—and an unconscious woman. You'll carry her out and take her back to the Barracks to recover. That's how we will meet—how we met. Later—much later—you'll ask that woman to help you correct the greatest regret of your life."
"Alex," he breathed. He'd known the dream was significant—he'd started to believe it was some kind of premonition. But it was a memory, he realized—from a future that Valerie was trying to prevent.
She looked up at his face. His natural inclination to disbelieve her battled a growing sense that her story was true.
"You can put the zip ties back on if that helps."
He shook his head, unable to find words.
They sat in silence for a while, both wordlessly leaning against the wall. Ben tried to find some reason not to believe her—but as wild as it was, her story explained everything that had been bothering him.
"I suppose we should go home," he suggested, standing up. He offered her his hand—a truce. She took it and pulled herself to her feet.
They walked quietly out of the room, leaving the hectic slideshow playing.
He escorted Valerie back out of Hydra over Richard's objections—refusing to explain how or why the state of things had changed so dramatically.
"I got the answers I needed," he told Richard. "She's not a threat."
"You're sure?" Richard asked, eyeing the wound on Valerie's cheek.
"I am."
Valerie shot Richard a look over her shoulder. Richard frowned back at her but nodded conciliatorily at Ben.
Ben didn't really understand the gravity of what she had explained right away, and she seemed to know that it was best to leave him be while he came to terms with the truth.
Still, he had her continue to stay at his home—it seemed wrong to send her away. They tiptoed around each other through the awkwardness, rarely speaking save for the occasional pleasantries.
Alex, wisely, hadn't asked too many questions. Valerie had assured her that everything was fine—that there was nothing to be upset about. The altercation had been a misunderstanding—Ben may have overreacted a little, but he wasn't entirely out of line. All had been forgiven.
In spite of those assurances to Alex, however, Valerie avoided him. He wasn't sure if she was giving him the space to process what she had told him, or if she was giving herself time to forgive him for how he'd treated her. He knew she'd been a bit hurt by the way he'd reacted, but she had seemed to understand it. She knew him, after all.
After a few days of tortured silence, Valerie stepped out for a walk in the middle of the night. She made no effort to hide that she was leaving—so he didn't find her departure suspicious—but he felt compelled to follow her all the same.
He caught up with her on the beach. She was staring sadly out at the ocean, her knees against her chest.
She didn't seem surprised to see him.
She shuffled over, inviting him to sit.
"Do you believe me?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the waves.
"I suppose I do," he conceded. "It's a lot for a mind to adjust to."
"I know. That's why I couldn't tell you the truth, Ben. You didn't want me to—it's too much to swallow."
"I suppose it is," he agreed, still wrestling with the idea. He was silent for a while, lost in thought. She didn't interrupt him.
"In your time," he asked finally, "what sort of man am I?"
She smiled to herself. "Well, you'd never pistol whip me," she offered, "and trust me, I tried your patience."
"I believe that," he replied quickly. The corner of his mouth twitched into a grin. "Apologies, by the way." He glanced meaningfully at the swollen wound on her cheek.
"I forgive you," she hummed.
He nodded in acknowledgment.
"You were a good man, Ben, really," she added, her voice filled with a wistful joy. "You were kind—and I think you were happy."
He didn't believe her, but he understood why she would refrain from answering with perfect honesty.
"Who were you, really, Valerie? Before the Island?"
"I actually was a lawyer. I was a federal prosecutor in Los Angeles. I'd gotten myself into a bit of trouble. The Island needs people with some sense of justice and nothing to lose. It's a tricky thing to find—a decent person with nothing left to lose. Not many people reach that point without making some awful choices."
He looked over at her, expecting to see shades of regret on her face. Instead, she seemed amused by the memory of the person she had been.
"You and I really aren't all that different, Benjamin. I've always found that in the shadow of a just cause, all sorts of ruthlessness can be justified."
"Saving Alex is a just cause."
"It is," she agreed. "You and I both learned to stop finding excuses to control other people. I think it took you a while." She grinned to herself. "I arrived here—the first time—already resigned to the idea of atoning for who I had been. It's one of the reasons I wanted to do this for you."
"How are you going to stop it from happening?"
"Honestly, I don't know yet. I think she trusts me. I'll stay with her as much as I can—we'll have to play it by ear. If I can't stop it, you'll have to. You've seen what happens. You'll have a choice. You just have to make the right one."
He nodded slowly, his mind wandering back to the horror of that recurrent nightmare.
A question popped into his mind. "How are you going to get back?"
"I'm not going back," she replied quickly. "It was always a one-way trip."
"You don't think I'd want to know how it went?"
She glanced at him and blinked a few times before answering. "You died."
He raised his eyebrows and leaned over his knees as she continued.
"You had a lot of regrets. Saving Alex—that was the last thing you asked me to do. Or try to do."
"Don't you have anything to go back to?"
The look on her face told him that it was a stupid thing to ask. She shook her head.
A suspicion he'd been harboring began to crystallize in his mind
"Valerie—who was I, to you?"
She flashed him a sad little half smile and looked out at the ocean. She didn't answer.
"I don't have anything to go back to," she said instead.
He watched her graze her fingers through the sand. He reached over and rested his hand on her shoulder. It was an instinct—one he wasn't familiar with. She leaned into his touch.
He stood and offered her his hand. She took it and pulled herself up. She didn't let go. Instead, she squeezed as if her life depended on it.
He squeezed back reflexively.
She smiled sadly and let her hand fall to her side.
They walked in silence back to the Barracks. He was overcome with a wistful, nostalgic sadness. A memory brushed at the edge of his consciousness. It felt familiar—but incredibly distant, like the memory of a childhood dream.
He held the door for her. In the threshold she stopped and turned to look at him. She tried to mask her sadness with a smile, but he wasn't fooled.
"I'm sorry," he told her quietly.
She frowned at him, biting her lower lip.
"I should have figured it out sooner. I'm not sure why I couldn't see it."
She nodded and turned to go to the makeshift bed in his office.
"And Valerie," he interrupted, with a sudden urgency, "I'm sorry that I'm not him."
Tears filled her eyes. He knew it must hurt to hear him say that—to be standing in front of her, looking just like the man she must have loved, telling her that he wasn't the person she knew.
But he wasn't so sure. Part of him wondered how great the difference could have been. What made him a different man? Had his experiences shaped him so dramatically? And—perhaps most importantly—how did she see him?
He put his hands in his pockets and took a few steps into the hallway. At the halfway point, he looked over his shoulder at her. She stood by the door, arms crossed, jaw clenched in a stoic grimace, as the tears rolled down her cheeks.
That night, Ben woke with a start. He'd had a vivid dream—not the dream about Alex. A very different dream.
He realized upon waking that he'd had the dream several times before, but that, until tonight, he had failed to remember it clearly.
It was clear this time—so crisp and solid that he was certain it was not a dream at all, but was a memory, just like his vision of Alex's death.
It had been a cool night—Thanksgiving, he thought, though he wasn't sure why. She was standing in his foyer. It was very late—or very early. Dawn hadn't broken, but they had been awake all night, talking on the beach. He had walked her home—to his home—and he had invited her in.
She stood there, leaning against the wall across from him, staring at him with a confident intensity. He remembered the hesitation he felt—the fear of rejection battling his desire to touch her skin. He remembered the way he had stared at her in silence until he managed to convince himself that she had accepted his invitation—at that quiet hour—for the reasons he hadn't dared hope. He remembered the courage it took to close the space between them, and the moment that his lips first found hers. And he remembered the breathless, frantic fumbling to be with her, and the way that it had so profoundly changed him.
He got up and took a cold shower.