Claire took one last look around Wesker's room, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to be able to define the phrase "going home" as "leaving the island", but she couldn't. Not anymore. Mont St. Michel was her home, too, and she was happy with that. She only wished it didn't make things so goddamn complicated. What on earth was she going to say to Chris?
"Are you ready, dear heart?"
Claire took a deep breath and nodded.
"You're sure you don't want a private flight? It can be arranged," said Wesker.
"No, I'm sure." Claire nervously checked her passport and crammed it into the mini-backpack Sherry had loaned her for the trip. A cold metal case containing over a dozen syringes was already stowed inside. Claire swallowed, disliking the reminder, and hastily zipped it shut. She patted the cellphone in the back pocket of her jeans, repeating Wesker's private number in her head and trying in vain to continue looking busy. Wesker suddenly took her face between his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes flared red, then gold, gleaming with a dangerous fire.
"I want you to be careful," he said, his voice pitched low and intense. He could feel his emotions trying to battle their way to the surface, feelings he'd locked away a lifetime ago, but no longer cared to control. "Once you're off this island, you're beyond my immediate protection and I can assure you that there are a lot of people who wouldn't waste the opportunity to hurt me through you."
Thinking about Sergei, Claire's stomach clenched into a cold knot. Falling in love with Wesker had been a dangerous thing to do and it left her feeling vulnerable in ways she'd never imagined. Now she realized that she wasn't the only one.
"I'll be careful," said Claire, swallowing the rock in her throat. There was a moment's pause as Wesker slowly reached up to remove his glasses. His golden eyes were dark and dangerously enigmatic, gazing at her with such powerful intent Claire wondered why she hadn't burst into flame already. Cradling her head in his hands, Wesker tilted her face up to meet his lips, momentarily smothering her. The simple pressure, the scent of Claire's body and the warmth of his skin, made Wesker's temperature ratchet up like a furnace.
Not that this fact was lost on Claire. She kissed him back and snuggled into his shoulder, putting her arms up and around the man's deceptively strong shoulders. "I'm going to have to leave more often if this is how you say goodbye," she groaned.
Wesker offered her a brain-melting smirk. "Make certain you come back and I'll show you how I say hello," he rumbled. "Unless, of course, you don't mind missing your flight today…" His hand ghosted down her back.
Far too tempted, Claire cocked her head at him. "So we've decided to get sneaky now, have we?"
"I do have a reputation to uphold, dear heart."
Claire shut her eyes and laughed, willing her hormones to behave. If she didn't leave in the next five minutes, she was never going to. Which was probably Wesker's plan, the diabolical bastard. But still, the offer was dangerously appealing. Claire decided that it would make extra incentive to come back. As if I need any.
Ten minutes later Claire was on her way to the docks, Krauser stomping along behind her, dressed informally in a beige tee and belted cargo pants. Claire was mildly surprised. She'd figured she would be getting an escort, but she'd assumed it would be Ada. Either way, however, Wesker's marching orders had been the same.
"Make sure she gets on the plane," he'd growled under his voice, the implication being that if Krauser failed, the punishment would be unthinkable. Claire suppressed the urge to snort. The absolute power Wesker had over people was a little disturbing, but she couldn't help but find some kind of humor in the way Krauser had literally glued himself to her side, flexing his muscles and glaring to either side as if expecting masked kidnappers to spring out of the bushes. Even the secret service wasn't this agitated. But then again, the President didn't threaten to skip rope with their intestines, either.
"Claire! Claire, wait!"
They stopped to see Sherry hurtling down the hall after them, something red clutched in one hand. Skidding to a halt, she threw her arms around Claire. "Promise you'll come back," she demanded vehemently. "Promise!"
Bewildered and a little embarrassed, Claire patted the younger girl's back. "Sherry, come on! I already promised. I'm just going to visit my brother, okay? I'm not disappearing forever. Really!" she said, trying not to notice how impatient Krauser looked.
"Well, you'd better not forget. We've got school together this spring and everything!" said Sherry, finally pulling back and giving Claire some much needed personal space. Smiling, she handed Claire what she'd been carrying. "I wanted to give this to you before you left," she explained.
Claire knew what it was even before she'd gotten a good look. It was her old cherry-red leather vest, the one Chris had given her as a birthday present. Amazed, she took it with both hands, little chills raking her flesh. "I don't understand," she said to Sherry. "I thought I gave this to you."
"You wanted it to keep me safe and it did," said Sherry. "It got me back to my dad and Uncle Albert, so I want you to have it back so it can keep you safe again." Sherry's eyes clouded. "You're… you're not mad, are you? I mean, we're still friends and all. I'm not trying to get rid of it or anything, I just thought—"
"Sherry, please. It's okay. I think it's wonderful," said Claire, slipping into the familiar garment. The leather creaked invitingly, giving off the warm aroma of saddle soap. Sherry had obviously taken very good care of it. Claire smiled, relishing the sensation. It was like being reunited with an old friend. She and this particular vest had been through a lot together, from her first motorcycle ride all the way through the horrors of Raccoon City. Truth be told, it meant something to her and she really was glad to have it back.
"Thanks, Sherry," she said, sweeping the smiling girl into a hug.
Krauser cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to catch the ferry," he said gruffly, though he didn't sound very sorry at all.
Sherry stuck her tongue out at him, a ballsy maneuver Claire knew the younger girl would never have tried under normal circumstances. As they said, there was safety in numbers if Krauser decided to pounce. Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She said her goodbyes to Sherry and they were off again a moment later, arriving at the docks with five minutes to spare. Claire took a seat at the back of the ferry, trying hard not to snigger. She knew she wasn't supposed to laugh – Krauser was only doing what Wesker told him to do – but watching him furtively check under the seats for bombs was just too good for words. His sweep completed, Krauser dropped into the seat directly to her left. Claire eyed him curiously, tracing the paths of his scars. Besides the one on his face, another scar adorned his right arm, thick and silver, the result of an injury that had almost peeled muscle from bone.
"How'd it happen?" Claire asked, trying for a conversation.
Krauser grunted. "Combat tour in South America. There was a T-Virus outbreak there about a year ago. Got pretty torn up." He flexed his arm, forcing muscles to bunch and bulge. "The normal docs said it would never heal, so I went to Umbrella."
"Is that how you ended up working on the island?"
He smirked at Claire. "Don't worry, Redfield. Unlike some people, I'm completely loyal to Wesker. You'd have to be insane not to be. Officially, governments are in charge of the world, but between you and me, Umbrella's got most of them by the balls. Nothing like the threat of a few dirty secrets to keep the pencil pushers in line, eh?" Krauser let out a gravely laugh. "I'm under orders from Wesker himself most of the time and that kind of command isn't easy to get."
"So you're in it for the power?" asked Claire.
Krauser shrugged his massive shoulders. "Why not? I was US SOCOM once and I got tired of playing second fiddle to all the pretty boys," he said, his gaze darkening. Claire sensed a personal connection to all this that he wasn't telling her, but she decided not to pry. "Besides," Krauser added. "I know what Wesker does to traitors and I've got a very selfish desire to keep my guts in my body, thanks very much."
Claire laughed. It was weird how everybody referred to Wesker. He was a tyrant who demanded 110% out of everybody, but at the same time he seemed to inspire a deep sense of loyalty in most of his subordinates. It defied all logic, but Claire was glad she'd decided to join Umbrella. It felt good to be sheltered in all of Wesker's power instead of fighting against it. She sighed deeply, watching flakes of snow settle on the windows of the ferry. About forty-five minutes later, she'd worked her way through the airport terminal at Le Bourget Airfield and was finally on the plane. First Class, of course. Even after she'd refused a private flight, Wesker had done the next best thing.
Settling into the large upholstered seat, Claire tried to get comfortable. The cabin smelled faintly of Lysol and pretzels, but it wasn't an unpleasant smell. There was an old man seated opposite her, and a young couple further down the aisle, but aside from that she was pretty much alone. Taking her purse, Claire pushed it beneath the seat and raised the shade on her window, peering out over the drizzly airfield. She scanned the terminal, looking for Krauser's red beret, but she was too far away to make anything out. She knew he was there though, waiting for the plane to take off so he could call Wesker and make his report.
Sighing, Claire leaned back in her seat as the plane began to taxi down the runway. The engines cranked up, going from a roar to a finely tuned whine. It was a nine-hour flight back to Colorado. She had that long to come up with a way to explain things to Chris.
"Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking. We are now on our final approach to Harvardville. Please fasten your seatbelts and make sure all luggage is properly secured."
Claire blinked groggily, picking her head off the wall. After a forty-five minute stopover in New York, she'd fallen asleep the rest of the way. Grimacing, she rubbed a crick in her neck, reaching over to click her seatbelt into place. She could already feel the plane beginning to descend. Five minutes later, it touched down on a runway even drizzlier than the one she'd left behind in France. Harvardville wasn't nearly as large as some cities, but in Claire's opinion it was large enough. Nestled in a valley, it was surrounded by granite-boned ridges and white pine forest, divided by a small river cutting through the northern half of town.
Hiking her purse over one shoulder, Claire joined the queue departing the airplane. The sky was slate grey and drizzly, and she could see great heaps of wet, muddy snow piled up all over the runway. Beyond the airfield, the mountains were white with more snow, their peaks obscured by a thick mantle of fog. Claire shrugged into her coat, scanning the brightly lit airport terminal. Here was the domain of linoleum and plastic and fluorescent lighting. All around her, the terminal was filled with the usual suspects: frazzled couples herding their kids, bored teenagers slouched in plastic seats and zoning out to their iPods, uniformed valets leaning on luggage carts.
Claire stomach rumbled, ungrateful for the overcooked chicken and four bags of airline peanuts she'd put into it. If nothing else, she wasn't going to face Chris on an empty stomach. She bought a large cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee at the food court, then found a seat at one of the terminal's sticky plastic tables. On the overhead TV, the local news was on, broadcasting the usual litany of violence and disaster. Doe-eyed local reporter Heather Eisley was standing in front of a huge cathedral, a behemoth structure of steel and distressed concrete.
"—built on the foundation of a Spanish mission believed to have been established in the early 1500s, the Church of Los Illuminados has just undergone a massive renovation due to a sudden escalation their unique religious faith," blared a tinny female voice. Claire absently unraveled her cinnamon roll. "The building behind me, dubbed the Steel Cathedral by local church-goers, is the result of a generous grant from one of Harvardville's oldest local families, though Mr. Salazar has declined to be on camera."
Picking up her coffee, Claire took a long drink. It was scalding hot and bitter, with not nearly enough creamer. She took another bite of her cinnamon roll. Glancing up at the TV, she saw that the image on screen had changed to a man in an elaborate purple cassock. His face was pale, creased with wrinkles, with imposing hazel eyes sunk deep in dark sockets. The video was muted, so Claire couldn't hear what he was saying, but he seemed excited, angry, and exultant all at once. A choir of young men and women were arranged behind him, but they weren't singing. The camera cut to a shot of a rapt audience, a hundred or more people all swaying back and forth in time to some unseen rhythm.
The camera panned up, glass and sculpted metal soaring to a dizzying height above the crowd. Set high in the wall behind the stage was a stained glass window in hues of blue, green and red, bright chunks of color surrounding an angular sigil. Claire suddenly noticed that the inside of the church was oddly dark, with only minimal overhead lighting. Any remaining illumination came solely from the window, its kaleidoscope of colored light offset by a massive number of drippy ivory candles. It was eerie in a way Claire couldn't quite describe and left her feeling cold. She chugged the last of her coffee as the camera cut back to the man onstage. A computer generated title appeared at the bottom of the screen:
Osmund Saddler, Pastor of the Steel Cathedral
Wadding up her napkin, Claire tossed it in the garbage and headed out of the terminal. After breathing recycled air for over nine hours, the cold mountain wind hit her lungs like a physical force. A row of cars and taxis were idling by the curb, clouds of thick white condensation erupting from their tailpipes. Claire hailed a cab and gave the driver directions, turning her attention to the city as they pulled out from under the marquee. It was late November and storefront decorations consisted mainly of brightly colored fall foliage. And, of course, turkeys.
Claire sighed heavily. Another week, and harvest theme would be thrown out in favor of blinking lights and tinsel. It was supposed to be the season for getting together with family, for telling your loved ones how much you treasured and appreciated them, not trying to explain how you'd fallen in love with Wesker. Chris had looked up to the man once, but after Arklay his adoration had turned to violent, bitter hatred. No matter what went wrong in his life, it was Wesker's fault. If anybody in the house got sick, it was Wesker's fault. If they ran out of sugar, it was Wesker's fault. Claire wondered how she was going to even convince her brother to listen to what she had to say, let alone believe it. Did she even have the right to tell him about Alex?
Wincing inwardly, Claire let her forehead come to rest against the window. The closer she got to home, the worse she felt and if that wasn't a sign of impending disaster, she didn't know what was. They crossed the bridge leading out of town, the river churning murkily beneath them, and turned onto a rural highway. Harvardville fell away behind them, snow-covered pines and the occasional oak flashing by to either side, then dropping away to reveal massive vistas of the surrounding valley. Here, the snowfall seemed unseasonably deep and the road was crunchy with ice. Claire took deep breath and grimaced, the beginnings of nausea churning in her gut. The thick, cloying smell of vanilla definitely wasn't helping matters. Scanning the inside of the car, she identified the culprit: an exceedingly ugly yellow air freshener bobbing under the rearview mirror.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and tried not to breathe. She would have opened the window a crack, but the driver was scowling and looking anxious, nervously downshifting around an icy curve. An hour later, they turned down a muddy gravel driveway and Claire caught her first glimpse of home. The taxi stopped and the driver spun pointedly in his seat.
Sighing, Claire dug in her purse and pulled out a handful of crisp bills.
"Keep the change," she said, smiling wearily, and in an instant she saw the taxi driver decide that this trip into the sticks had been worth his time after all. Claire got out of the car, the bitter air cutting through the horrid vanilla stink permeating her brain, and she barely noticed the taxi pulling away. Staring at the house, she noticed the porch was filled end-to-end with cordwood, most of it covered by a blue tarp. Faintly, she could hear music from the kitchen: Jill's favorite radio station. Claire felt a pang in her gut so painful, she had to duck her head and blink away tears.
She started forward. Then with a sharp pang of alarm she quickly reached around and undid the clasp of her necklace, unhappily putting it in her pocket. She wasn't trying to hide anything, but Chris just didn't need to see it right now. I can do this, she told herself, trying hard to believe it. One step at a time.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Claire ascended the stairs to the porch. Drawing aside the screen door, she noticed a wad of pamphlets – a lot of pamphlets, she realized, raising a bemused eyebrow – crammed beside the knob. Gifts from the local Jehovah's Witnesses, no doubt. Ignoring them, Claire stared at the door for several long minutes before finally summoning the courage to knock, her stomach a slippery knot of anxiety. She wanted to see Chris so bad, but she was afraid. Afraid of what he'd say, of what he'd think. A minute passed, but no one came to the door. Feeling as though the universe was taunting her in some way, Claire knocked again, harder this time.
"Go away!" Her brother's muffled shout took Claire by surprise. "We're quite happy being atheists, thank you."
Confused, she stared at the door, her eyes flicking back down to the wad of religious pamphlets. All at once, she understood. A wicked grin spread across her face and she knocked again, curt and insistent. And when there was no answer, she did it again. "Didn't you hear me?" Chris roared. "We're pagan heathens. Now get lost!"
Shaking with silent laughter, Claire rapped on the door for the fourth time. And she buzzed the doorbell, too, just to gall him.
"Sonvua bitch!" she heard Chris roughly get to his feet somewhere in the living room. Claire had just enough time to back off – wondering if her brother was pissed enough to go for his shotgun – before the door flew open with the force of an atom bomb. "Listen you sanctimonious pricks," Chris growled. "Get off my porch before I— wait, Claire?"
Claire's lifted her eyes to her brother's astonished face. He was wearing an AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants, a smoldering Winston in one hand, staring bug-eyed as if he was trying to figure out if she was actually there. She could almost hear what he was thinking: Yeah… that's it, Christopher. You've finally lost it. Welcome to the nuthouse. Claire swallowed an uncomfortable lump in her throat.
"…Claire? What the hell are you doing here?"
"Oh, that's real nice," said Claire, forcing a laugh. "And here I thought you'd be happy to see me, meatwad."
Chris lunged forward with a strangled cry and threw both arms around her, like he was expecting her to disappear in a puff of smoke. Tears sprang into his eyes and rolled down his scruffy cheeks. "Claire, I… oh, God. I thought I'd never see you again!" he groaned.
Claire squeezed her eyes shut, hiding against her brother's massive chest. He smelled just like he always did: soap and sweat and something remarkably similar to crayons, though Claire could never figure out why. "I missed you, Chris," she croaked, hugging him back. Over his shoulder, she noticed Jill come into the hall behind them. Confronted with what was happening on the porch, she stopped dead in her tracks, covering her mouth with a dishtowel. Claire weakly lifted her hand and waved. With a strangled noise of surprise, Jill tried push her way past Chris. "H-Hey!"
It was all she managed to get out before Chris dragged her into the fray so hard she banged heads with Claire, but the pain was sweet and real, a wonderful reminder that this wasn't a dream. "But Wesker…" Chris finally held his sister out at arm's length. "How'd you get away?"
A bittersweet ache settled in Claire's stomach. "I didn't. He let me go."
"…Excuse me, what?"
Claire sighed heavily. "Can we talk about this inside? It's freezing out here."
She let her brother pull her inside the house, various colored pamphlets sticking to bottom of her boots. Claire shook them off in hall and followed Chris into the living room, shrugging out of her coat as she went. Jill eyed it sharply as she draped it over the back of the couch, probably noting the expensive designer label Ada had foisted on her. Claire didn't know what kind of conclusion an ex-cop could draw from $300 dollars of silk-lined cashmere, but she desperately hoped it was something good. Chris laughed incredulously. "Okay, just where did you find that?"
Claire immediately thought he was talking about the coat, but then she realized Chris was staring at her leather vest. Oh, that. It was like taking a step back in time. "Sherry gave it back to me before I left," said Claire, smiling. "Cool, huh? I can't tell you how much I missed this thing."
Chris sat down on the couch, lacing his hands between his knees. "So, uh… how's she doing, anyway?" he asked.
"She's grown up a lot," said Claire, taking a seat beside her brother, "but I swear she's got the craziest mood swings. One minute she's all nervous and shy and needs your approval on everything, and the next minute she's bouncing off walls and telling you what to do and exactly how to do it." She laughed fondly.
Chris forced a wan smile, putting a heavy arm around his sister's shoulders. "So, are you alright? What about the virus you were sick with? Are you cured now?" The utter concern in her brother's voice made Claire's stomach tighten with guilt. All this time she'd been enjoying Wesker's intrigues, her poor brother had been wasting away with worry. She glanced around the living room, noticing the overflowing ashtray and more than a few empty beer cans. Cringing, she picked up her bag.
"Sort of," she said, showing Chris the little attaché case. "Alb— Wesker says that for some reason, I'm almost completely immune to the T-Veronica virus. Pretty freaky, right? What happened when I got sick was that too much of the virus sort of… woke up in me, I guess. Or something like that. Anyway, I've got to take shots every couple of days, but it's mostly under control."
"Mostly?" Chris demanded, frowning. "What's that suppose to mean? I don't like you taking drugs."
The "any of Wesker's drugs" was left unspoken, but Claire knew full well what Chris really meant. "I don't like it either," she admitted. "But that's the way things are. He's already dialed the dose back quite a bit. I had to take an injection every day at first, but now I can get by with one every five or six days. Like I said, we're working on it."
Chris eyed the case suspiciously as she packed it away again. "Are you sure?" he asked. "What if he's shooting you full of something that's hurting you? I mean, are you sure you need them? Have you tried skipping a dose, or not taking any at all?"
Claire held in a sigh. "No, Chris, I haven't. And I'm not going to experiment, either. I got sick once and I'm really not that eager to repeat the experience, thanks very much. If Wesker's says I have to take injections, then I have to take injections. He knows what he's doing."
Her brother's eyes narrowed, but judging by his lack of response, he was forced to concede the fact.
"We're just so glad you're alright," said Jill.
"I know," said Claire, daring to meet the older woman's eyes. "And I'm really sorry you had to worry."
"Forget it. You're home now, so everything's good," said Jill, flashing a subtle look at Chris. The elder Redfield suppressed a snort, reaching across the coffee table for a pack of smokes. Flicking one out of the box, he lit up and took a long drag. Claire sighed gratefully. Jill was just as mistrustful of the situation, that much was obvious, but in the interest of peace she was obviously willing to suspend any and all arguments until later. Claire had never been more thankful.
"So, doesn't anyone what to hear about my adventures?" she asked nervously. Maybe "adventures" was too flippant a term to use in present company, but she was only trying to lighten the mood a little.
"Damn straight I wanna hear," said Chris. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and propped both feet on the coffee table in a would-be image of calm. "Have at it, Claire-bear."
In other words, you know there's the story and then the REAL story, thought Claire, wondering how much she dared keep to herself and how much she dared reveal. "Well," she began, leaning back on the couch. "It all started when I sprayed Wesker in the face with some Lysol."
Chris laughed darkly at the story, proud of his little sister's nerve. And now that Claire thought about it, it was pretty funny. That's how my romance started out, she though dryly. I burned his eyes out of his skull with some industrial strength germicide. She fought back a snort and continued, telling Chris how she'd woke up in Wesker's room. The elder Redfield glared, who knows what running through his head, but Claire had already decided that while she wasn't going to share every single detail, she wasn't going to lie either. She told him about the island next, then how she'd finally gotten to go down to the greenhouse for some fresh air.
"Yeah, like a prisoner getting some yard time," Chris grumbled.
Claire ignored him. It was true, anyway, so there was no point in arguing. She told him about Sherry and how she'd met Dr. Connors, and how she'd eventually gotten an ID card of her own. "I felt bad for the poor thing," she explained, finally getting to the part about the rose. "And you aren't going to believe what happened."
She gave them a short explanation of how her blood had mutated the rose into something that pretty much threw Darwin out the window. "Wesker worked on it for almost a month before I figured out what was going on," she said. "He had this fancy party for all these rich CEOs – you know, the kind where everybody sips champagne and caviar, and pretends their shit don't stink – and announced the news to me in front of the whole room."
"Okay, back up." Chris interrupted, snubbing out his cigarette. "You wanna run that by me again? Are you telling me you were actually there? At his freaking party?"
Claire grimaced. "He dragged me along, yeah," she answered.
"And you went with him why? Were you nuts?"
"I thought if I went along and played his little mindgame I could escape while he was distracted."
"So what happened?" Chris demanded. "You could have called. I would have picked you up!"
"I know! I tried to get away, alright? But something didn't feel right and I didn't want to risk it. He was right there watching me," said Claire, which wasn't entirely untrue. And dancing with me. And kissing me. She suppressed a shiver. Now definitely wasn't a good time to think about that. Chris growled and lit another cigarette, coughing slightly. "Dirty bastard," he hissed.
If he only knew.
"So… what? This rose stuff is on the market now?" Jill asked. "It's gotta be loaded with T-Veronica, let alone what else Umbrella added to it. There's no way it's safe, right?"
"Not entirely, no, but it works. Believe me, it works," said Claire, knowing she was treading on some very tender ground. How could she explain what the serum did without sounding like she actually approved of it? It was way too early to admit her new feelings about Umbrella, but even so, she found herself skipping ahead to the part where Ada took her to see the hospital.
"Beth was really sick," Claire explained. "I mean incurably sick. She wasn't even supposed to live. But Wesker let the doctors test the serum and it worked. It really, really worked. And she's feeling so much better! I even think she was pregnant."
Jill looked torn between unease and amazement. Chris scowled around his cigarette. "Yeah, and I'm sure a shot of T-Virus was so great for the baby," he growled. "She could have died – her and the freakin' kid – just so Wesker could see if his newest little cash crop was gonna pay out."
"She's Birkin's niece, Chris," said Claire. "She agreed to the treatment."
"Whatever. The only thing that means is she actually trusted them to use her as a guinea pig."
Claire glowered at him, irritated for reasons she'd rather not examine too closely. "Well, I'm happy for her," she said. "As long as it's handled properly, I think the serum can help a lot of people."
"As long as it's handled properly?" Chris echoed, disgusted. "You know if I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually agree with this crap. You do realize that the whole hospital was probably an act, right? He's screwing with your head, Claire! Your blood made that rose possible, right? So as long as he's got you to play with, he can create a million more of the things."
"They're called Nightwish," Claire corrected snappishly.
"Nightwish? He actually named the goddamn things?"
"Actually, I did."
Chris gawked as if she'd grown a new head, and Claire hastily snapped her mouth shut as the tension in the living room skyrocketed to new levels. Jill swallowed, her eyes moving between the Redfield siblings. "Oh, really?" Chris rumbled, dangerously casual. "You name any more of his little experiments?"
"No. He asked me to name the rose 'cause it was mine and I just did, okay?"
Chris lowered his cigarette, resting his wrist on his knee. "Did he hurt you, Claire?" he demanded quietly.
"What? No!" said Claire quickly. In the beginning Wesker had certainly impliedthat he'd use bodily harm to keep her in line, but he'd never made good on the threat. His personal code wouldn't allow it. The only hurt he'd ever really caused was the mental anguish, and Claire knew that wasn't what her brother was asking.
"Look, Chris," she began slowly, trying to make him understand. "Wesker saved my life. He took care of me, so there were no experiments or test tubes, or torture." She paused and cleared her throat uncomfortably. "And no, he didn't rape me, or whatever else you're thinking," she added. "I'm fine."
There was a protracted moment of silence. Chris flicked ash from his cigarette. "If you say so," he relented, obviously choosing to give Claire the benefit of the doubt, but it was clear that he didn't completely believe it. Claire decided it was all she could hope for right now. She exhaled softly and frowned, sniffing deeply. "…Is something burning?"
Jill shot to her feet with a cry and sprinted into the kitchen. Sharing a bemused look, the Redfield siblings got up and followed, getting there just in time to watch Jill seize a pair of potholders and wrench the oven door open. Taking out a casserole dish, she hastily put it on the table and pulled the lid off. Inside was the burnt, withered husk of Claire could only assume used to be meatloaf. She stifled a laugh as Jill cut into it with a knife. The only edible meat left was a golf ball-sized lump way down in the very middle.
Leaving his half-finished cigarette on the rim of the sink, Chris got a fork and speared one of the baked potatoes left in the oven, obviously trying to figure out if there was any dinner left to salvage. No such luck. Cut in half, the potato looked as though an extremely large spider had come along and siphoned it dry. "Yum," Chris announced wryly.
Jill groaned and Claire laughed until she cried, sagging against the counter for support. She had no real idea what was so funny, only that it was. And it felt good. It felt normal, just another day examining the questionable remains of Jill's latest attempt at cooking. Chris frowned, trying to work out if he should laugh, too, or be seriously concerned for his sister's mental health. Claire wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Sorry," she gasped. "How about pizza?"
"Pizza?" Jill shifted uncomfortably. "But you just got home. You sure you want to cook?"
"Why not? Somebody find me a bowl," said Claire, rolling up her sleeves and going over to check out the fridge. A hesitant smile appeared on Chris' face as his sister put cheese and tomato sauce on the table. After their parents had died, normal everyday chores like cooking and cleaning had fallen to the siblings. Easy stuff like Mac-and-Cheese, burgers, and, of course, pizza had always been at the top of the list.
"Pizza it is, then," said Chris, extinguishing his cigarette in an empty beer can. Jill shrugged and went to scrape the incinerated meatloaf into the trash and clear the potatoes out of the oven. For the moment, the discussion about Wesker seemed to have been forgotten. While Chris made the dough, Claire grated mozzarella and Jill cut an assortment of mushrooms, olives, and green bell peppers. If nothing else, nobody could say the Redfield household was lacking taste buds.
"I think there's some leftover chicken in the fridge," said Jill.
They put the pizza in the oven and sat down to wait, breaking out the ice and a couple cans of Coke while Claire told them how the Birkins had thrown her a pool party for her birthday. Chris obviously wasn't sure if this qualified as a good thing, per se, he was glad that his sister hadn't been mistreated during her stay. Claire watched him carefully, hoping that he'd see Sherry's continued good health as a sign that maybe he'd been wrong about Wesker's motives, but his brooding expression gave very little away. It was the first birthday of hers that he'd ever missed, Claire realized, feeling guilty all over again.
"I wish you could have been there," she mumbled.
Chris patted her arm. "It's okay, Claire. It's not like you could've helped it."
"Did you get any presents?" Jill asked curiously, ignoring the look she got from Chris.
"Yeah, a CD player and some music, a candle, and bathing suit so I could actually swim in the pool," said Claire. Plus a diamond necklace, she added silently, remembering how shocked she'd felt when Wesker had given it to her. She curbed the sudden impulse to reach for where it usually hung, feeling naked without it. Panic swamped her again as she contemplated actually telling Chris the whole story. She couldn't keep it a secret forever – nor did she want to – but right now, the very idea terrified her. She knew how it was going to sound, how Chris would react.
Just then, however, oven timer dinged to get their attention. The pizza was delicious – thick, heavy, and bursting with flavor – and Jill used the opportunity to tell Claire about the church ministers that had been coming to the house for the last few months. Claire smirked mischievously. "Pagan heathens, huh?" she laughed. "Can I help sacrifice a goat?"
"Don't think I'm not going to get you for that, by the way," Chris growled, reaching across the table to ruffle her hair. Jill snorted into her Coke. "God, I wish I had a camera," she lamented, filling the glass up again. "I thought for sure you were going to blow her straight off the—"
She broke off as Claire quickly bent over her plate, spitting out a massive wad of cheese that had swung off the pizza and stuck to her chin. To her dismay, however, most of it fell onto the front of her shirt. Chris rolled his eyes. Some things never changed. "Eyes bigger than your stomach, Claire-bear?"
"Bite me," said Claire, picking the cheese off and glaring at the fat grease stain underneath. Jill pointed at the sink. "You better soak that right now or it'll never come out," she advised.
With a sigh, Claire heaved herself to her feet and ran the tap, tugging the shirt off over her head. She squeezed a dollop of soap on the stain and tried to scrub it clean under the running water, splashing the counter and the waistband of her jeans.
"Claire…"
Chris' voice was angrier than Claire had ever heard. Confused, she turned around to see him rising out of his chair, his dark eyes burning with such fury, Claire actually got scared. Reaching out, he roughly seized her by the arm and tugged it to eye-level. "Where did you get that?" he snarled, pointing.
Claire felt her heart sink. Chris was pointing to the thick pink scar on her right arm, the result of the injury Sergei had left behind with his knife. Oh, God. Claire looked up at her brother, saw the naked fury in his eyes, and knew exactly what he was thinking. She shrank against the counter. "Chris, it-it's not what you think!" she gasped, covering the scar with her hand.
"Yeah? Then what is it?" Chris growled. "That wasn't there when you left three months ago! What did that sonuva bitch DO to you?" He hugged Claire tight, shaking with rage. Claire desperately cast her mind out for some excuse, some white lie she could tell, but it was already too late. After seven years with STARS and all the horrors of both Arklay and Rockfort Island, Chris was all too familiar with wounds and the scars they left behind. And she knew he recognized that the one on her arm had been made with a knife.
"Where else did he hurt you?" Chris begged, and the broken quality of his voice cut Claire deeper than she'd ever thought possible. "Tell me, Claire. Please. I'll make it better, okay? I promise, I'll make it better."
Claire weakly pushed against her brother's chest, knowing the situation was rapidly slipping out of control and that she was powerless to stop it. "Wesker didn't hurt me," she insisted. "Somebody… somebody else did this. Please, you've got to believe me. I was down in the labs when—"
"The labs? What were you doing down in the labs?" Chris demanded.
"Just checking the place out. Wesker said I could look around if I wanted. We were dissecting a snake, but Birkin came in and wanted to talk to him, and I thought I could head back to the elevator myself," said Claire, grimacing with every word. Dissecting a snake? She wasn't just digging her own grave, but bringing in a backhoe to help, too.
"I was almost there, but the power went out and the leaches escaped, so I had to head back the other way."
"There was a biohazard?" Chris roared.
"It wasn't Wesker's fault! Sergei sabotaged the labs!"
"Who the hell's Sergei?"
"The chief of security," Claire explained. "Look, he found me in the hallway, alright? He's a freaking sadist! He had a knife and he cut me," she showed Chris her arm, "and tried to, you know… touch me."
Chris' eyes widened in alarm, and Claire hastily plowed ahead. "But he didn't, I swear! I got away! I was trying to find help when I ran into an ape. It would have torn me to pieces if Wesker hadn't shown up. He saved me, Chris!"
Chris took a deep breath, his massive body shaking. Claire knew what he was thinking: He was the ultimate failure. He'd allowed his sister to be taken by that monster, allowed her to be manipulated and brainwashed, and probably raped. Claire winced at the thought and Chris immediately looked down at her, mistaking the motion for fear.
"It's okay, Claire," he soothed, trying to hold her close and take away all the pain, like he used to be able to when they were younger. "You don't have to lie anymore. You're safe. I won't let him touch you again. We'll leave tonight, go someplace he'll never be able to find us ever again."
Claire winced. "I am safe," she protested, squirming out of his grasp. "I didn't escape the island. I got on a plane and came home, simple as that. And Wesker's not coming to get me. He knows I'm here." She licked her lips, struggling to find the words to explain.
"He's not a bad person, Chris," she said quietly, and with all the sincerity she could muster. "He's not exactly a model citizen, I know, but he's not the monster you think he is. There's…" she paused, then heaved it out with a sigh. "There's just a lot of things you don't know."
Chris gaped at her. Behind him, Claire noticed that Jill had risen to her feet, twitchy and upset. The older woman opened her mouth, then closed it again as if not knowing what to say. "What the hell is that supposed to mean "there's a lot of things I don't know"?" Chris demanded, staring at her.
"Exactly what it means. There's stuff Wesker never told you – never told anyone. Please, you've got to go with me on this. You know they had him forced into some kind of supersoldier program? Umbrella, Spencer, they did something to him. He's screwed up, I'll admit it, but he…" She trailed off, her words getting more and more uncertain. Claire's heart pounded against her chest, sad and frightened, but too stubborn to back down.
"He never wanted Arklay to happen," her final, damning admission came in a whisper. "He just wasn't in his right mind."
Chris looked as though he'd been slapped across the face. Pain flashed through his eyes, hardening instantly into bitter fury. "Do you even hear yourself?" he growled, voice lower than normal. "He wasn't in his right mind? Who knows how long he was planning it!"
"Months," Claire admitted weakly. "Spencer gave him the idea as soon as the outbreak happened, but he couldn't do it. He just couldn't. S.T.A.R.S really meant something to him. He was actually planning to betray Umbrella, but something… something bad happened. He…" Claire swallowed, her eyes shifting to the side. She wouldn't say it. It wasn't her tale to tell, no matter how badly she wanted to. "I told you," she finished evasively, "he wasn't himself at the time."
"Well, who was he then, besides a two-faced bastard?" Chris exclaimed, growing increasingly angry. "Listen to what you're saying! After everything he's done, after he murdered half of STARS in cold blood, you actually have the balls to stick up for him?"
Claire winced, but refused to back down. "He also saved my life," she pointed out angrily.
"Oh gee, maybe I should get on the phone and thank him for kidnapping you."
"Yeah, maybe you should."
"I… I don't believe this," Chris groaned, throwing his hands up and placing them on the table, his broad back to Claire. For a minute, the only sound in the kitchen was the wet plop of water splashing in the sink. Feeling horribly vulnerable, Claire folded her arms across her chest. "What did he tell you, Claire?" Chris demanded, his voice dangerously soft. "What the hell did he tell you to make you think he's worth protecting?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Claire glowered. "He still has nightmares about Arklay!"
"How cute! He act that one out for you?"
"He had a 120-degree fever," Claire snapped, turning off the water. "You try spending all night watching him thrash around, and see how fast your tune changes. And it's not just that. I knew something was wrong long before he told me. You know Sherry saw him the morning after Arklay? He was crying! Crying over you, over what happened to STARS!"
"How can you possibly believe that?" Chris yelled, completely ignoring Jill's attempts to intervene. "He's a conman, Claire! He tricked us into buying his act for years! That's what he's good at. I thought you were smarter than this!"
Claire grit her teeth. "And I thought you'd at least listen to me," she accused.
"Why the hell should I, when you're trying to sell me this absolute bullsh—"
"How about because I'm your sister and don't have any reason to lie to you? For God's sake, Chris, I'm not a stupid! I'm telling you this because it's the truth. You weren't on the island like I was. You didn't see the things I did. During the first couple weeks I was there, I called him a murderer and a coward, and he just about lost his mind! Do you have any idea how guilty he feels for what happened?"
"Guilty? Ha! You think he felt guilty when he sat in his control room and took notes while we ran around that Mansion, dying and suffering, and getting our asses chewed off?"
"He tried to help you! You think good and hard about that night, and I dare you to tell me that it's not true."
Realization darted through Chris' eyes, reverting swiftly to anger. "Yeah, he helped, alright," he sneered, dashing Claire's hopes to pieces. "Handed us more ammo so we could put his little pets through the gauntlet and get him some proper combat data."
Claire scowled. "Now you're just twisting what happened."
"Oh, I'm twisting what happened?" Chris let out a short bark of laughter. "That's really funny, Claire. You don't even know what you're talking about because YOU. WEREN'T. THERE! But you still got the balls you stand there and try to tell me I'm wrong, all because Wesker fed you some crap on a spoon and you're dumb enough to eat it up!"
"I am not!" Claire hollered. Up until now she'd been dreaming about convincing Chris to forgive Wesker, finally mending all the damage and mistakes, and having him at the wedding she wanted someday, but the fantasy was crumbling before it'd even begun. She felt embarrassed and utterly furious. She balled her hands into fists, struggling not to do something she'd regret. Jill frantically stepped away from the table, interposing herself between the siblings.
"Let's just calm down and talk about this," she said, trying to be the voice of reason. "Claire, please... think about what you're saying. I mean, Wesker… he's—"
"A lying, murdering, sonuva bitchin' traitor! And don't you DARE side with her!" Chris stabbed a finger in Jill's face, clearly remembering how his sister had come into Wesker's clutches in the first place. Jill frowned, finally growing angry herself.
"Look, I know you're still hurting about STARS," Claire said. "But what if I'm right? If you'd just think about it for a minute, you'd see that some stuff doesn't match up. Doesn't that bother you?"
"The only thing that bothers me is the crap coming out of your mouth right now," Chris growled. Panting and grimacing, he jammed a fresh cigarette in his teeth and lit up, hurling the lighter onto the table. "God dammit, pull your head out of your ass! He led us to that Mansion and left us to die. End of story! And I don't know what those drugs are doing to you," he jabbed the cigarette in Claire's direction, "but there is no way in hell I'm going to let you defend that man in front of—"
Chris gagged and suddenly bent double, coughing into his hands. Dead silence fell as he pulled them back, making a choked noise of dismay. Claire's heart lurched into her throat. Her brother's hands were covered in blood. The elder Redfield lurched, staggering and clutching at his stomach. Claire lunged forward to catch him, yelping as his greater weight pulled her to the ground, her knees impacting the floor with a solid crack.
"Chris! What is it? What's wrong?"
He doubled over in what must have been crippling pain, dropping his cigarette on the floor. He coughed, bringing up another gout of blood, and Claire felt him choke back the urge to vomit. Something moved and swelled under her fingers. She looked down as angry red and blue veins suddenly traced visible lines up her brother's arms. Terror and blind confusion clawed at her insides like a wild animal. "Jesus Christ, Chris," she desperately grabbed his shoulders.
Chris groaned, trying to curl in on himself, and Claire froze, shocked by the naked look of accusation in her brother's eyes. How could he possibly think that she had something to do with this? Her heart jumped into her throat as Chris arched back with a cry, suddenly going limp in Jill's arms. She shook him in horror. "Chris? Chris!"
Jill fumbled to see if he was okay. The front of his t-shirt was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding so hard and fast, Claire could see the pulse jumping in his neck. She looked back down at his arms, frightened by the swollen veins showing beneath his skin. She thought about just dragging him to the couch and waiting to see if he came around, but some deep instinct forced the notion aside. Maybe it was her time with Umbrella, her own experience with serious illness, she couldn't shake the sudden feeling that ignoring something like this would most likely make it worse. Everything in her was screaming red alert.
"He's going to the hospital. Help me get him up!" Claire ordered, tugging on her brother's shirt.
Jill swallowed, hesitated a moment, but one look at Chris and she was obviously convinced that now really wasn't the time to argue. Straining, the two women managed to hoisted Chris between them, dragging his unresponsive form out of the kitchen. Twice they almost went down under his massive weight as they struggled across the driveway to the car, turning their ankles in the snow.
Panting, Jill unlocked the door while Claire went around to the other side. She climbed headfirst into the backseat, sweaty palms slipping on the vinyl upholstery. The cold, dark interior was heavy with the smell of dryer sheets. Jill must have lost a box of them under the seat. Reaching out, she grabbed Chris' shoulders at the same time Jill took his legs, and together they heaved him in the car, arranging him on the backseat. In the cast-off glow from the porch, Chris looked ashen pale, blood drying to a crust on the inside of his lips.
"Start the car," Claire urged, shivering. She raced back into the house, seizing coats for her and Jill, and a something to cover her brother with during the long drive. Why did they have to live so far from civilization? Why? Sick and frightened, Claire grabbed her purse off the floor and skidded into the hallway to pick up Jill's wallet, the urge to panic kept at bay by the pounding of oh-my-god-I-can't-screw-up adrenaline. She flew back to the car, leaning in to cover her brother with a blanket. Chris was taller than the room the backseat could provide, resulting in his legs getting folding against the door. Claire did the best she could before toppling into the passenger seat.
"Go," she ordered hoarsely.
Jill threw the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway. The black, icy road gleamed in the headlights, forcing Jill to slow down and white-knuckle through every curve. She glanced down at the speedometer, saw the needle juddering just under 40. At this rate, it would take them over an hour to reach Harvardville. The panicky impulse to get sloppy was maddening and only her years at S.T.A.R.S gave her the discipline to keep it in check and not do something stupid. Like stomp on the accelerator and drive them off the mountain.
Get a hold of yourself, Miss Valentine.
Unbidden, Wesker's voice suddenly cut across her brain and Jill went stiff, unable to help her reaction as the deeply ingrained command suddenly resurfaced. She'd spent several years in the U.S. Army's Delta Force training program, earning top of her class in bomb disposal. By the time she'd been recruited into STARS for her already well-developed fighting skills, Jill had been confident she could handle anything. Within a few months, however, she realized that managing dummy explosives in a controlled environment – where despite all your training you could still mess up and suffer nothing worse than a poor grade – was nothing like staring down a bomb in real life.
It'd been in the devastatingly hot summer of 1995. A group of eco-terrorists had taken over the Raccoon Nuclear Plant, claiming that the plant's operations seriously affected the health and safety of not only the river on which it was situated, but the entire city as well. At the time, Jill had sympathized with their cause, but they'd gone too far when they'd stormed the plant and taken the staff hostage, demanding the complete and utter cessation of the nuclear program.
STARS had been dispatched along with the regular SWAT, and after several hours of planning had managed to slip into the plant via the wastewater treatment lines. The hostage crisis had been averted. Or so they'd thought. SWAT discovered a bomb planted at the base of the main reactor, rigged with enough Anfo and homemade explosives to take out the entire building. To make matter worse, the resulting fallout would easily encompass both the local community college and the hospital, both situated less than five miles from the reactor.
Crouched in front of the bomb, a pair of needle-nose pliers in one hand, Jill remembered the gut-wrenching panic of realizing that a whole lot of people were going to die if she messed up, either by tripping the detonation herself or simply being unable to defuse it in time. Sweat dripped into her eyes, crusting her lips with salt. A younger, more slender version of Chris was pacing the floor just off to the right. "Come on, Jill! Shut it down!"
"I'm trying!" she screamed, scared and exasperated. "Do you have any idea what could happen if I cut the wrong one?"
Her hand shook, hovering over the red wire, then over the blue. Despite being homemade, the bomb was by far one of the more complex ones she'd seen. There were at least thirteen different colored wires, any one of them liable to set off the denotation. Jill dragged both hands through her hair, finally being to tremble outright. She couldn't do it. She couldn't remember, she couldn't think!
"Get a hold of yourself, Miss Valentine."
Captain Wesker's hand came down on her shoulder, fingers digging in painfully. His face was flushed and oily with sweat, clearly feeling the heat, but his hard expression didn't show it. Jill couldn't see his eyes behind his glasses, but she could feel their icy depths boring into her face.
"Panicking will only get you killed," he said coldly. "You need to stay calm, otherwise you'll only end up doing something stupid. I know you have the skill to do this. This team is counting on you," Wesker shook her roughly, "so pull yourself together. That's an order."
Back on a rural highway in the Colorado Mountains, the heater was finally cranking out the BTUs, making the car nearly as hot as it'd been in her memory. Jill flipped the lever down a notch and opened the window. A thin blast of freezing-cold air knifed into the car, cutting through her daze. Claire was twisted around her seat, anxiously watching her brother in the backseat. Jill checked her speed, easing around a particularly sharp bend.
Wesker's voice was so clear, it was if he was sitting in the seat beside her. After all this time, why had that particular memory resurfaced now? She'd defused the bomb and everyone had gone home in one piece, but Wesker's words had stuck in Jill's head. Because when it came down to it the discipline she'd learned at STARS was really his discipline, pure and simple. And no matter what else they'd faced after that she'd never lost her cool again. Even in the Mansion she'd reflected on the bitter irony of adhering to the lessons of a man who was currently trying to kill her.
A nauseating mixture of pain and confusion bubbled inside Jill's stomach. She smacked one hand against the steering wheel, grinding her teeth until they hurt and wishing she could hate Wesker in the same bitter, uncompromising way as Chris. But she couldn't and now Claire was throwing everything into serious hot water. After all, she knew the redhead well enough to know that she would never, ever defend Wesker unless…
Jill violently shook the idea away as they finally turned into Harvardville. In the backseat, Chris was groaning and beginning to stir. Claire nervously patted his leg. Five minutes later, they pulled up to the hospital and the women jumped out of the car, opening the backseat to pull Chris out. He looked pale and sick, groggily looking around in an attempt to figure out where he was. Espying the glowing sign at the end of the parking lot, he gave a cry and dug his heels into the pavement.
"No," he growled, suddenly lucid. "No freakin' hospitals!"
"Shut up, Chris," said Claire. "You don't get a say in this."
With effort, the two women dragged him out of the car. There was a moment, perhaps, when they thought about going home, that they were simply overreacting, but then Jill looked down at Chris' forearm – saw the swollen red veins lacing together under his skin and the tiny dribble of fresh blood making it's way down his chin – and redoubled her efforts to pull him across the parking lot. The blanket flumped to the wet pavement and was abandoned. With Chris draped over their shoulders, his renewed strength already flagging, they stumbled into the brightly lit lobby. Claire shouted for a nurse.
With dreamlike clarity, Jill watched the doctors put Chris on a gurney and wheel him away, bombarding his sister with questions and massive clipboards of paperwork to be filled out. Numb and suddenly very tired, Jill ducked her eyes, squinting against the overhead fluorescents, and looked down at the floor. Around her feet, the red-and-white logo of the Umbrella Corporation spread out beneath her. Our Business is Life Itself.
Chills shivered their way down Jill's spine.