Pete was in a shop supplied with numerous antiques some dating back to the 19th century and earlier. Shelves upon shelves lined the four walls. Tables, chairs, and all manner of furniture strained under what could no more eloquently be described as stuff.
The possibility that one was an artifact increased tenfold with every step taken deep into every dreary store. Pete paid no mind and used no gloves in his own juvenile investigations. All it took was one shiny enigma to catch his attention and soon his feet sauntered in its direction. Of course, there was no reason to search for the stone in these parts. Lewis Webb lacked the stupidity to sell the Rosetta Stone, not because it could easily attract the attention of the media, but because no antique shop in the world possessed the funds necessary to take the thing off anyone's hands. And Lewis Webb wasn't anyone; he had been in the black market business long enough to know the names of those who would pay handsomely.
What assistance the shops could lend to the agents came in the form of information. Hence Myka's light interrogation of the antique store owner. Pete would have taken point on this one, but his partner knew more of the workings of antique dealings. When asked how she picked up the expertise Myka briefly mentioned her father's book business. Whatever reason for the clipped explanation she must have learned well because she got the past two owners talking (though not lucky enough to extract material pertinent to Lewis). Pete did his part and left her to it, letting his childish curiosities wander amongst potential artifacts.
"Sir, I understand this may sound like a strange request but may I have a look at your records?"
"I don't see why not. You said you and your partner are with the authorities?"
There was a thud followed by a resounding crash. Myka peeked behind the owner who had turned to the sound. Sure enough Pete was scrambling to pick up the rusted toy fire truck from its five foot drop from a shelf. His mouth broke into a sheepish grin as the owner watched the wayward fire ladder getting reattached, haphazardly.
The hiss was piercing. "Pete!"
Eyebrows soaring, Pete threw the truck back where his curiosity almost killed it. He touched his chin nervously, searching about for something 'agently' to do that would restore his image. The glare he was receiving was about as similar to his boss' regular scowls. It was scary, actually, how they both gave him that same spine tingling chill.
With a violent thrust Myka's arm pointed to the door. Five seconds later the bell chimed poor agent Lattimer's exit.
"That's right." She gave the owner an apologetic smile while simultaneously feeling the prickling sense of embarrassment. "We are with the authorities. But you're not in trouble. We are not here about any illegal dealings, just information on our suspect. Truthfully, the badge is just to assure you of our good intentions. Now, how about those records?"
It didn't take long. Pete waited patiently as he only could outside the antique shop. Every once and a while he'd squint through the glass, catching Myka looking at some book (what's new?) and indicate to his watch that time was of the essence. She shooed him and used those glare-y eyes. Pete was left to wait some more. Though patience was not his forte, thankfully his place on the sidewalk didn't resemble 'the corner' he so often endured whenever young Pete played a prank on his sister. Not that he was in trouble.
"Well, if you hear from Mr. Webb or get word of his whereabouts please call."
The store owner opened the door for Myka and gave her a good natured smile and wave. Pete jerked his head back at receiving another glare for the books.
"How come you get smiles galore and I get treated like some threat to the royal throne?"
"Because I don't break his things without paying for them."
"Wait, he actually expected me to pay for that thing? The fire ladder was fine. It just needed a little necessary force to stick back on..." his voice dragged off at his partner's squinting eyes and cocked head which could pass for disagreement (Pete couldn't tell this early in their work relationship). With a sigh he threw up a hand and groaned, "Okay. I'll go back in."
"Too late now." She looped an arm around Pete's and guided him in the other direction. He no doubt deserved the cold farewell, but his wallet would go undamaged. She couldn't help herself, but a grin came to her lips. For whatever reason, Myka felt the need to protect this juvenile. "The sooner we find Lewis Webb and the artifact the sooner we can return it to the safety of the Warehouse before anyone else gets their hands on it."
"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"
"Yeah, since you're such a fine example of duty bound law enforcement."
Pete smiled pointedly, shooting back with a snobbery he picked up from their other partner, "At least I'm a real agent."
The smile was annoying and Myka's patience was waning. Disengaging her arm from Pete's she quickened her pace towards their next stop, throwing over her shoulder, "Come on, Lattimer."
"Man, someone has big time authority issues."
The next antique store was just a few blocks away and likely to be more promising than the last. It was a larger business and according to internet reviews received quite a bit of tourist traffic. If Myka were a betting woman she'd say they'd learn something from this lead. That or it was back to the drawing board.
"Where does that come from by the way?"
"What?"
"Those authority issues," elaborate Pete. He receives an innocent look in return. "So punching me in the shoulder is just your way of showing your love and affection? Huh, and you call me the child."
"It was once, and you deserved it after bribing that bell hopper for information. It's unethical," she affirmed with deep conviction when Pete's attention began to wander. "And I do not express emotion through violence. You, however, seem the type that could use a lesson in the department of emotional restraint," Myka muttered, recalling the numerous times her partner flirted with every living, breathing woman. To call him a serial flirt was an understatement.
"Yeah, well it worked on H.G."
Myka stopped in her tracks. "What worked on H.G.?"
"You heard right. Flashed her the pearly whites and turned on the ol' Lattimer charm. She was like putty in my hands."
Something irrational and searing like magma rolled to a boil within Myka. She stepped towards the man, unable to distinguish the need to scream or punch him or push him into oncoming traffic. Anger was so constant in her thoughts she couldn't know for what reason. "You hit on her?!"
"Well, who wouldn't? She. Is. Fiiine. Especially with that British accent. Don't tell me you wouldn't."
Chin dropping, she turned her blazing browns elsewhere and mumbled.
"What was that?"
"I said that's none of your business," she repeated, chin up this time and wildly defiant.
"Oh, hey, HEY, hey! So there is something going on between you and H.G. I knew it!"
"First of all, there is nothing 'going on,'" she punctuated with air quotes, "'between H.G. and I. She's my friend. That's all. Secondly, you were baiting me?"
Pete nodded harmlessly.
Myka punched his shoulder a second time that day.
"Ow!"
"There's a place for people like you."
"What, the bronzer? No, no. See, that's for the Hitlers and Stalins of the world, not roguishly good looking men of my nature."
"I was thinking more along the lines of H-E –"
"Double hockey sticks? Harsh Mykes. That's harsh."
Myka was about to snap about the new pet name, but she was interrupted by a nearby commotion. Down an alleyway a door crashed open against the brick with so much force it almost came off its hinges.
"Oi!" screamed a fragile, studious looking woman. The man she ran out the door was sprinting down the alley and picking up enough speed to evade her. "I'm calling the coppers you little bastard!"
"Hey, is that the back entrance to our antique store?"
"Yeah, and someone seems to know something we don't," Pete said, indicating to the "bastard" fugitive. Hopping on the balls of his feet a few times, he threw himself forward for the chase with Myka close behind.
The new suspect was lithe enough to get some distance on two highly athletic agents and smart enough to lose them in a congested area. Shooting out of the end of the alley Pete and Myka came to a screeching halt. Vehicles and red double-decker buses zoomed right and left on the street, honking against the jogger with a death wish. Myka predicted the man's route and tapped Pete on his shoulder to follow her. Skipping through traffic they reached the other side of the street. They pushed through a field of pedestrians until they rounded a corner into another alley. Slightly out of breath, Myka drew her gun in the deserted lane and pounded the pavement with a newfound burst of speed. Though her limbs were burning from the spontaneous chase, she was gaining on their suspect and acclimating herself to the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Never had she experienced a high risk situation such as this. The only action she used to get was threatening e-mails from the occasional failing student (even if it was in a chair at her desk those messages still got her heart pumping).
When Artie said this was going to be life threatening I guess he wasn't overselling it.
Pete came up beside her, huffing in equal exertion. "Put that thing away," he said through clenched teeth. He drew his own weapon, which had a far more innovative appearance. "I got this."
A stream of sizzling lightening shot from the gun's barrel. The suspect went down like a sack of potatoes and stayed down.
Myka bent down to check his pulse. When satisfied that he was alive, yet incapacitated, she narrowed her eyes at the instrument responsible. "What the hell is that thing? Is that standard issue?"
Pete, beaming with pride and sauntering up like an overzealous extra in a Clint Eastwood film, twirled the weapon around his finger. "It is for Warehouse agents." He blew on the muzzle and holstered it.
Minutes later the apprehended runaway woke up with his back against the alley wall. Shifting in his seated position his head wobbled unsteadily. He held it up with the heel of his hand, squeezing his eyes shut, then opening them and shaking his head.
"The vertigo will wear off." Pete informed, arms crossed. "Happens when you get shot by Tesla's finest."
"Shot by what now?"
"Oh, you don't know? Well, see, years ago there was this scientist –"
"You'll have to excuse my partner," Myka interceded. "He's a bit worn-out from the run." She continued over Pete's sputtering attempts to deny the claim; something about high school wrestling and firm pecs. "Can you tell us why you were running out of that antique store? And from us, for that matter?"
"I'm afraid I can't. It's need to know."
"Oh, I'll tell you what you need to know…"
"Pete." Myka pacified with a hand to her partner's arm before kneeling before the suspect. "No civilian uses those words. You're CIA, aren't you?"
"FBI. But you, however, are not any of the acronyms."
"I am," Pete said and then pointed to the brunette. "She's not."
"Pete! Of course I am. Myka Bering of Secret Service." She flipped out her badge, its gold plate shining before the FBI agent.
"No you're not," he said, staring her in the eyes with shrewd wisdom. He didn't even look at her credentials.
Returning the challenge in kind, Myka's eyes narrowed. She bit her lip through a detailed study of this FBI agent. His hair was closely cut, his eyes a handsome blue. A flight from Washington to London and tireless investigation would explain the two day stubble. His jacket was leather, slightly worn, but average. His build was athletic and he certainly ran like a trained agent. There was also a slight prominence under his arm to suggest a firearm.
Details were telling and they told Myka this man was not throwing them off. "What is your name?"
After clearing the grogginess from his throat, he stretched forth his hand, mouth offering a half grin and soft eyes.
"Steve Jinks."
For the first five years of her life this man was known as "Da." Now, some twenty-five years later after having a child of her own and been reformed from her parent's supervision H.G. found herself throwing the word "father" around rather freely. From her lips it sounded formal and not at all coming from the voice of the Englishwoman he raised. This was the voice of a woman with a new country. She had a family, financial stability, and freedom that was an improvement from her previous life at Atlas House and Webb Manor. Plain and simple, H.G. had choices. For once in her life she could exert power over her own circumstances and change the course of her future. H.G's future, H.G.'s life was not her father's or her mother's or her ex-husband's. It was hers to do with as she willed.
H.G. made note of her father's beard which had outgrown its usual trimmed appearance. It was not the scratchy tuft that could scratch the cheeks of her childhood. H.G. didn't know why he decided to grow out the thing and she didn't care to ask. Perhaps he took the adopted name of "Grizzly Da" a bit too seriously or maybe he was just an old man who hadn't a care in the world for politics much less how his beard was trimmed. For whatever reason, H.G. could still feel the prickly hairs course up against her face.
"Have some cake, love. I baked them fresh this morning."
A platter of H.G.'s childhood guilty pleasure appeared on the coffee table between her and Joseph Wells. Sponge cake flavored with lemon and almond was the perfect partner to afternoon tea. The Wells' children grew up with miniature cakes, their mother baking the concoction in smaller sized loaf tins and cutting then to bite size pieces. Why Sarah Wells continued the tradition when her little ones became adults was a mystery, but then again H.G. never spoke to her mother.
"Thank you, no, Mother."
"But they're your favorite. And you're so skinny! Joe, look at those bony arms and tell her to eat something."
"Helena is an adult." He cracked open the daily paper as he lounged back on his sofa. "She can eat what she wants."
"Will you be saying that when we find her frail, pallid body in some hospital bed? Will you say 'she ate what she wanted' while you stood by letting it happen?"
"Mother, really. I'm fine."
Sarah was already on the move. "I'll just get some jam."
Leaning against the arm of her sofa in defeat, H.G.'s fingers rubbed at her forehead. She sighed and took in the parlor of her childhood home. Having been led through her father's dusty, underused shop into the back, the rest of the house looked just as antiquated: cushions sagged to the ghost of its patrons, walls and floorboards creaked for no reason, lamp bulbs hummed their last wattage, and the smell… Paraffin always permeated every corner of the house, but H.G. forgot how prevalent it was. Blame was placed on her father's constant battle to kill all the vermin in Atlas House. The unforgettable smell tickling her nostrils indicated it was a losing battle.
Her father's stubble and the smell of oil may remain little more than nostalgic memory, but there were other things about her childhood home that brought on more enduring times. Her mother's cakes, for one, and the short scratches in the once polished parquet floor. Running parallel and permanent through the years they were a ghost to her size four shoes making tracks to the front house.
It was those evenings little H.G., strung out on cakes and illusory freedom, would run about her father's shop like a stock repair hurricane. Everything from sports equipment to jam pots were already in poor shape, so the girl took it upon herself to glue (because tools were not within her minimal reach) their necessary parts back to life. It was a haphazard effort not without sticky fingers or the bizarre stares from customers, but for so small a child the behavior foreshadowed the unconventional architect she would become. Even as an adult H.G. still needed the assistance of stimulants such as coffee or the occasional sponge cake, but her devices were improvements from craft glue.
"How is the business?" H.G. asked after an awkward few moments.
Joseph's eyes held the paper. "As good as it can be."
She nodded, hiding her grimace. Talking with her father was like having a conversation with a chess player – sharp as a tack but silent as the grave. Was it too much to ask for a little enthusiasm? He hadn't seen his daughter in eight years and he sat there like he hadn't disowned her, like no time had passed at all. He was treating her like she was just stopping by for a chat and a bite before heading to the market. It hurt H.G. and left her feeling the traditional resentment that came from being a part of the Wells family. Though considering the terms they left on she was hardly deserving of a warm welcome and stimulating conversation.
"And Charles? Is he well?"
Joseph met her eyes for the first time since she showed up on his doorstep. "Charles is with a grandiose publisher in London. Finest book editor if I ever saw one. Dear boy knows his stuff." His grizzly cheeks puffed around a stale grin before he went back to his reading.
"A book editor?" H.G.'s face soured. She almost had to hold back a disgusted yacking sound. It was a bitter taste, the words 'book editor' and 'Charles,' that almost made her get the publishing company on the phone right then and demand what right they had in employing her brother. "But he's too ostentatious to be a book editor. How on earth does he make his deadlines?"
A tongue clucking, "tut-tut-tut" adjoined Sarah and her jars of marmalade and blackberry.
"After what you put your brother through he deserves a bit of fortune and notoriety."
Sarah Wells was not mincing her words. Charles indeed was a frequent target of H.G.'s bitterness. The spoiled eldest of two, Charles Wells knew his reputation before it even became him. He was less precocious than his sister, of course, but he certainly knew what he wanted and his parents cherished his ambition. Before she grew out of such childish fantasies, H.G. secretly resented the light her brother basked in and unquestionably gave him hell for it. Though taller than H.G. he would end up a weekly victim of her childish aggressions. She laid hand on his precious toys when she knew he didn't approve and when he fussed over such intrusions he defended himself and his property with vigor. Charles' valiant efforts, which amounted to hollering, however, were no match for a good kick in the shins and an inflight fork. In short, H.G. made an early career out of terrorizing her brother.
"You were such a tiresome child," Sarah recalled, shaking a head that was obviously in the clouds.
"Yes, Mum."
Joseph sniffed, continuing through the sports section. "She still is."
H.G. sighed and touched a tongue to the back of her teeth. "I was hoping we could discuss why I –"
"Do you go to Sunday church, darling?"
If H.G. was guilty of terrorizing Charles, Sarah was guilty of terrorizing her children with God. Sarah grew up in a family of severe Protestants and instilled the same teachings in the Wells household. If there was anything H.G. didn't miss from living in Atlas House it was her mother's constant pestering on religion. She would almost rather attend the bloody church than receive instruction on English Puritan fundamentalism.
"I cannot say I go regularly," H.G. muttered.
"You should join your father and I next Sunday. Do you remember Walter Hamilton? I've seen him and his mother at Mass a few times. Several young fellows from school stuck around: Thomas Cabot, George Stanway. And Amir Biram, he's still in town, too, you know." Sarah's wink was non-too-subtle.
"I did not know that, Mother, no."
"We should invite him over for dinner. Wouldn't that be splendid?"
Flushed to the tips of her ears, H.G. had finally suffered through as much as she could tolerate. "I would like to talk," she barked through her teeth, "about why I've come."
"Well, alright love. No need to get snippy. You could have just said so."
"Did Lewis send you?"
"Lewis?" H.G. frowned at Joseph. "Why would he send me here? You do remember, father, that Lewis and I are divorced."
"He stopped by a few days ago – or was supposed to. Something must have come up. I assumed he sent you instead."
A shiver passed through H.G. from head to toe. The mention of Lewis could make her blistering with rage but the suggestion that he was looking for her, or heaven forbid seeking out Christina sparked a completely different reaction. Dry mouth opening wordlessly, H.G. went rigid with a fear she found that beaten and bloody man in a room of her own home.
Pete picked the lock with ease. It could have been more problematic had Steve not barreled through the door and weakened the lock mechanism in his escape. They could all thank Matt Brunster for Pete's skills because the agent had an encounter with the wrong crowd back in his rebellious stage as a teenager (Brunster having gone to juvenile detention after picking the wrong door). While he and Steve flipped through records in the back office Myka distracted the antique store manager at the entrance.
How they came to trust Agent Steve Jinks was neither a forgone conclusion nor a decision lightly came to.
"What is the FBI still doing on this case?" Pete asked when they were still gathered in the alley. "Webb was released from prison two years ago. What trouble could he possibly get into this time?"
"A lot. Lewis Webb is no amateur and there is no such thing as reform for his kind of people. Trust me. I've been doing this probably longer than you two combined. Whatever relic he was hired to obtain is still out there. That means Webb is, too, and he is definitely up to know good."
"Wait," Myka held up a hand, "You don't know what this artifact is, do you? How can you be FBI and not know what their prime suspect was illegally trading?"
Steve shrugged. "I know it is made out of basalt and it's old, older than Christ himself."
"Which means he knows nothing. Even more reason to drop him and continue with our investigation." Pete clapped his hands together in finality and turned on his heel. He got a few feet down the alley, but there was no clicking of boots.
"I'm not satisfied," Myka declared. "We've been going in circles ever since we arrived in London. Our leads have all been dead ends until now. We need to know more."
Pete's ears pricked up at the emphasis on "we," and detected a slight pleading in Myka's eyes. She wanted to solve this case just as much as her partner did. She needed to. Myka was a methodical thinker and more intelligent than she ought to be, but Pete knew now that if he needed an extra gun in a tight situation he'd choose that SIG-Sauer for sure.
Although she had her doubts in the beginning Myka believed the nature of the Warehouse and its long spanning history. Loyalty shown in her eyes and mannerisms when she was near. Pete had a feeling – the feeling teenagers bitten with genetically engineered spiders get. Sometimes the feeling came in the form of screaming, other times in a soft whisper. The particular feeling Pete was experiencing in the alley was like sage advice coming from his Uncle Al telling him to be nice to his older sister.
Nodding slowly in understanding, Pete walked back to the other two. "Okay. What else can you tell us Jinksy?"
"Agent Jinks. It was part of my mission to gain access to records from that antique shop you saw me running from. Webb was known to do business on this side of town, so the chances of him showing up there are good. I was trying to explain to the antiquities dealer that I was a federal agent, but she didn't believe me." Steve's eyes wandered shyly like he knew he did something wrong. He muttered, "So I broke into the back office."
"Even federal agents need a warrant to search a premise," Myka pointed out, crossing her arms. "What have you got to hide?"
"Nothing. And I didn't get a chance to find what I was tasked for in case you were wondering. The old lady ran me out of there before I even got to break open the file cabinet."
Eyes diverting to the cement, Myka tapped a finger to her arm. She ran through the pros and cons, using her limited experience in coming to a solution. She may not be a federal investigator but she was a historical investigator. Both professions dealt with analysis and critical thinking and used virtually the same resources depending on what was being researched. Though Artie made it exhaustingly clear that her and H.G. were temporary, civilian consultants Myka was every bit the sleuth Pete Lattimer was. She would prove her worth and solve the case if it was the last thing she would do. Because she could handle it and she was goddamned smart that's why. Most of all, this was the adventure she craved after spending years in her stuffy university office.
"Oh you're not thinking what I think you're thinking," Pete started. "Because if you are you can just go right back to not thinking it."
"Do you actually know me well enough to know what I'm thinking?"
Steve looked blankly from one agent to the other.
"Well, no, but that doesn't mean I don't have instincts. And mine are telling me right now not to trust this kid."
"Kid?" the agent piped up.
"We need all the help we can get. You whine so much about how H.G. and I aren't trained field agents… This is your chance to bond with someone on your level. It would be good to have another agent on the case."
"Bond?" Pete and Steve gaped simultaneously. Neither seemed as enthusiastic as Myka who thought two males and two females rounded out the team rather nicely.
"You can still be team leader," Myka permitted. She did so against her better judgment which was warning her how often she wanted to scream at his whorish tendencies.
"Whoa, whoa. He's in charge? Him? I'm not okay with that."
"You wouldn't be."
"Peeete."
Square shoulders sagged with the exhalation. "Alright. Jinksy stays, but one insubordinate comment out of him and he's out of here. And if he doesn't get my jokes I'm not going to take that well. At all. It's already a downer when you don't laugh at them."
"There's always H.G." Myka threw in and immediately regretted it.
"Oh yeah," he drawled distantly with a smug grin, "there's always her. Now that's a woman who can take a punch line."
Myka rolled her eyes and shook her head at Steve, indicating not to bother asking.
After a few quick twists from a lock picking instrument the two male agents gained access to the private office while Myka took on interference detail.
"Just what exactly were you sent here to find?"
From across the room Steve paged through a thin booklet, using a finger to draw down a list of deliveries and corresponding dates. "A hint, a clue – anything that will lead my people to Webb. Just because he did his time doesn't mean we're done with him. There are still cold cases waiting to be solved. Webb had insurmountable resources, all of which are helpful to the Bureau."
"You actually think you can turn scum like Lewis Webb? The guy's a skeevy lawyer with no morals or respect for artifacts."
"Even skeevy lawyers have a price."
Pete's eyes soared up and over. "Didn't know the government had that kind of money."
Steve just locked his lips shut and went back to skimming data.
Moments later there were footsteps drawing near. And voices.
"Ma'am, I'm really in the market for a new set of silverware. Would you please help me?"
"You'll find them in kitchenware, dear." The elderly antiquities dealer addressed the police officers she hailed, "I knew that boy wasn't FBI when I saw that badge of his. Probably nicked it from the toy store down the street."
"Actually, the badge is real, Ma'am. Mr. Jinks is with the U.S. government, but according to this correspondence from DC he was suspended three weeks ago."
"Hmph. Well, he right deserved it. Broke my door half off its hinges, he did! Children these days are so dreadfully disrespectful. Come along. I'll show you where he committed his transgressions."
"Where is kitchenware? Ma'am, please don't go in there!"
A thud sounded from the other side of the door. Both Pete and Steve froze, eyes wildly roving over the mess of files and papers they had disturbed in their investigation. The door knob jiggled before a stern order broadcasted from the policeman. Though barricading the door wouldn't last long, Pete was impressed with Myka's improvising abilities.
Mouthing to Steve, Pete instructed that they should skedaddle. He received a frown in return and so Pete shook his head exasperatedly and hissed, "Let's. Go."
The office door flew open to reveal two uniformed officers and the abysmal expression of Myka. She gave a shrug of 'Hey, I tried' before all three agents bolted, Myka for the entrance and the other two out the back.
"Aw, come on man!" Pete bellowed as he ran out the door with the police fast on his heels. "So not cool!"
Sprinting around the back of the store the two agents wound their way through the alleys, across streets, and hurdling over fences. It wasn't long before they evaded the officer.
Pete keeled over from the exertion, heels digging into his knees. "I think we lost them."
Steve nodded, catching his breath. "Come on. I've got a contact at the Bureau who still owes me a favor. He'll get us out of the country with little trouble."
"Not so fast, buddy. We still have to find Myka. The other officer followed her out the front so she probably was headed east."
"There's no time for that."
"Hey! First of all, I have friends in high places too. I've escaped worse than the British po-po. Ever hear of the Russian mob? And second, I'm not leaving my partner behind and that is final."
"She's not even a real field agent," Steve argued. His jaw clenched, showing his frustration. "Civilians are collateral damage, but if you're really worried about her I think she can take care of herself. She seemed to catch up to me pretty easily the first time."
"Are you deaf? She doesn't get left behind. And I'm not just going to let her take the fall for something I did. I'm not a traitor like you."
"You want to track down Webb? I'm your best option."
"Hey, can you guys postpone this alpha male rivalry? I'd rather not get arrested on my first trip to London."
The two agents turned simultaneously to the huffing figure of Myka. She pushed back her rowdy curls and gave the wide eyed stares a roguish smile.
"You really aren't with the Secret Service, are you?"
"You're one to talk, former G-Man."
Steve actually cracked a smile before following Myka at a jog.
Pete hung back to throw up his arms and call out, "So you'll laugh at her jokes? She's not even half as clever as she thinks she is." He knew it was a weak comeback because his partners didn't bother responding and because his words were lost to the wind.
"There's one of them!"
The policemen drew out their night sticks and made a scramble for their criminal. With a cringe Pete flapped his arms like a windmill, propelling himself in the direction of Myka's and Steve's fleeing shadows.
"Why would Lewis contact you?" H.G. interrogated. Her knuckles were white as she clutched at the edges of the sofa. "He spent five years in prison. God knows what illegal activities he's been up to. And why on earth would you let him come here? He ruined my life."
"That is arguable."
Sarah's mouth opened in a gasp. "Joseph," she chided.
That seemed to spark a little life in the man who straightened and presented two fingers in a v-shape. "It takes two to end a marriage. And two to create one, for that matter. Helena knew what kind of man she was tying herself to."
H.G. leaned forward, firing back, "But my daughter did not. She would have suffered a fate worse than my own if I stayed." H.G. exhaled roughly, running a hand through her hair. "This is not what I came to talk about."
"How is our granddaughter? Christina…"
Her mother's voice was small and carried a weight of sadness. When H.G. gave birth to Christina she did so alone. Every push, scream, plea for the excruciating slice of pain to cease was done in the presence of a handful of nurses and a doctor. By then, H.G. Wells had no family and no friends. All she had after the wailing cries of a newborn filled her ears was her love, her Christina. All it took was an overnight stay in the maternity ward until mother and child left for a hotel. From there it was over the Atlantic to be welcomed by Lady Liberty. H.G. ripped their only grandchild away before they could even notice the resemblance in a velvety black head of hair and even darker squinting eyes. But H.G. had spent far too much time away from Atlas House and even longer from her mother's sympathy to forgive.
So she gave her mother, her hopeful persistent mother, a shake of the head with lips firmly shut. No words were uttered but her eyes replied every meaning of 'no' to Sarah's inquiry.
"I would not come back here unless my life was threatened," H.G. stated with about as much venom as the paraffin in the air. It was harsh, she knew, but it had to be said. "My family's life," she added, knowing her parents would understand her meaning. "Lewis' less than legal dealings have come around to put my daughter and I in danger. If you can tell me anything about why Lewis wanted to see you or what he might be up to, now would be the time."
Joseph held still, the creases parenthizing his eyes never changing. "Yes, this would be an appropriate time. Who knows when you'd show up on my doorstep again?" His head cocked in that way he used to reprimand his youngest for puttering around in his shop. Smoothing his tie down absently, Joseph took the time to examine H.G.'s grown up appearance. Her hair was as smooth and radiant as the tips that would fly upon the wind when he'd push her swing to the stars. He wished, fleetingly, that she had gotten that from his side. Her robust thirst for argument had certainly not changed, either. There were new features, too; deeper lines, thinner hands, a gaze less wandering than before. H.G. carried herself like a woman with priorities. There was a heavy weight upon her, one Joseph recognized immediately, having experienced the similar joys and pains of parenting. She was also taller, but none too for a Wells.
When he took in all he could without asking of her, Joseph met H.G.'s eyes with businesslike concern. When he spoke he did so not as a father but as a lonesome shopkeeper.
"Last week I received a call from Webb. He wished to come by and discuss something."
"Was it Christina? Did he wish to know where my daughter is?"
"No, he did not," Joseph replied, easing H.G.'s nerves with the surety in his voice. "Which left me to believe it concerned his business. As you know, after Webb was deported his house and all his possessions were given to the Wells estate. As per his will everything went to you, however, under the circumstances your mother and I appropriated the majority."
What Joseph failed to point out and what H.G. seethed day and night for eight years about was the exact nature of the 'circumstances' he spoke of. Lewis' property went to Joseph and Sarah because H.G. was no longer a Wells. Emancipated from her husband, her parents, her brother, and the entire island itself, H.G. thereby had a hand in casting herself out of the family and all the title and riches it afforded. The shop would not be hers, her father's well-loved garden would rot in the hands of the next tenant, and any last savings would go to Charles. It never bothered her, not profiting what little the Wells owned, nor that Christina wouldn't either. What did keep her up at night was the swiftness with which her memory was chucked out the window. Callous as her first winter in Chicago, Joseph cast her out like one of Atlas House's notorious pests. He couldn't poison her into a permanent, loveless marriage, so he stripped her of the Wells name and kicked her to the curb.
"He sought me out for one item in particular. I hardly thought he was calling to schedule a chat and to share a pint," Joseph muttered with a chortle. "He knew what was left of his belongings lied in my home."
"Why did you not simply throw it away? Why keep his things?"
"Have you seen my shop, dear?" H.G. flinched at his patronizing tone of the name. It used to be said with so much more warmth. "Have you seen the dust collecting on the shelves? The empty shelves? I needed the merchandise as I needed the business. The precious trinkets he had stashed away were bequeathed to me and my rainy day."
"Alright. You have made your point." H.G. rolled her eyes. Her father certainly hadn't lost his necessity for melodrama. "What was the object he wished to obtain?"
"Some sorry excuse for chest armor. The kind of thing seen in science fiction with wires and circuitry under the plating. But the rust gives it an authenticity you won't find in other shops," Joseph mentioned smugly as if he were talking to a competitor. "Would have sold straightaway if it were a full suit of armor."
"And it is still in your possession?"
He shrugged. "Chap didn't show up. Suppose the thing's still mine." The smile was haughty. Joseph's reasons for wanting his daughter's marriage to endure may have been conventional, but he always thought Lewis Webb was a prick.
H.G. lay back into the sofa with a dilemma to solve. Hand draped over the chair's arm she met a thumb and forefinger in an aggressive match of force.
What on earth could I say?
It had been eight years. Eight long years marked by bright, smiling Christina and isolated corners of a café. No phone calls, e-mails, or visits. No advice on how to quell the screams of a teething child. Not a single inquiry into where her elder brother was and what grand things he was doing with his life. She snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, pulling for inspiration. More than anything, she craved support.
I wish Myka were here.
H.G.'s eyes were drawn to the scratches in the floor, then the plate of cakes. She smelled the paraffin, the preserves, the musty decay of the shop. She heard a melody of creaks and drones only detected in a house of this age. When the evidence of childhood memories had been drunk in she addressed the man across from her.
"Would you be willing, in theory, to amend that declaration?"
The decision on what to do with former FBI agent Steve Jinks was postponed until they could update Artie. It was certainly a possibility that their boss wouldn't be over the moon about recruiting yet another outsider. Pete was still on the fence due to various quips on Britishisms not being returned with a hoot or a "good one, Pete" and there was also the matter of Steve lying about his status as an FBI agent. Myka seemed to trust this stranger's instincts. After all, he seemed to spot her Secret Service story as a fake from the get go.
With Steve following, Pete and Myka walked back to their hotel. Myka wondered where H.G. was and if her library research was panning out. Myka hoped they would meet up soon for she desperately wanted to fill H.G. in on what she had just been through. Chasing after former FBI agents, getting chased by the British police, luring the authorities under false pretenses which was most definitely a criminal offense. It was exciting and it was scary and if it wasn't recounted Myka would burst at the seams. She wanted to share these things with her friend because there was no one else to tell. Myka didn't have anyone else and she sure didn't trust anyone more than she did H.G.
And I miss her.
Pete's arms swung lightly at his sides as they made their way down the last block to their hotel. Their shoulders bumped occasionally, but neither seemed to mind or mention it.
"You know, it's not written anywhere that friends can't become more than that."
Myka sighed, her tongue pushing at the inside of her cheek. She craned her neck at an almost unnatural angle in order to give the impression that she was suffering from the conversation. "When in the past 48 hours that we've known each other have I ever given you the impression that I was interested in you?"
Pete chuckled. After swallowing down his amusement he soon became serious, which was a new role he'd taken on since partnering up with the professor. "While I'm flattered that you now consider me your friend, I was actually referring to your other friend, H.G. All it took was a bit of innocent flirtation earlier for you to go all passive aggressive on me."
"I was not passive aggressive."
"Right, because the look you're giving me right now does not make me want to disarm you anymore than last time. Look, I get it, Mykes. You might not, but I do. I get vibes, remember? These feelings you have for H.G. may be the friendly kind, but there's more to it. And not knowing what 'more' means is what's put you so on edge whenever I so much as speak her name."
"This is some deep stuff – even for you. Get to the point, Lattimer."
"You're afraid that H.G. won't want the same. She won't want more, whatever more entails. But it's okay to be scared. What's not okay is bottling it up and taking your frustrations out on your partner."
Myka rolled her eyes and scoffed, "I'm sure you can take it."
"Tell me something." Pete stopped walking, drawing his hands to his hips. "Are you happy?"
Myka turned around. She folded her arms over her chest and studied Pete, looking for sarcasm. There was none to be found in the troubled lines carved into his expression. "Sure."
Pete took a step. "Are you going to stay that way five, maybe ten years down the road and she's still just your friend?" He seized another stride. "The friend you meet for coffee, share girl gossip with, and go to the movies with once a week?" Pete's approach never stopped, his next step bringing him closer. Myka watched him take it, but was mentally somewhere far and long away. "The friend whose daughter will get married on an altar while you're sitting in the back row with the rest of the friends and minor acquaintances? Because if you're fine with that life, if that kind of friendship brings you the happiness you feel now, then I'm totally wrong about your taste in future spouses and you should stop listening to me."
The word 'stop' caused Myka's mind to open to the present. All her vulnerabilities of the past and visions of the future were put back in that familiar place of whispered doubts and shadowed fears. Looking up, what she saw was Pete standing in front of her like the partner that had her back and the guy who would be her friend for years to come. Pete would be that annoying brother who presented his masticated lunch with an open mouth, take her punches in the shoulder with whiny valor, and hug her weeping body when she was too weak to push. Pete would continue to surprise her because he was a good man and his advice would often come to be heeded.
"You watch way too many romance films."
"But at least I've got diversity," Pete pointed out with a finger. He didn't bother holding back the grin. It was finally that thankful day when his partner made fun of his obsession with movies. In truth, he was more of a horror buff, but Casablanca was a sure fire classic in anyone's book. The important thing was Myka made a joke in a flat, holier-than-thou manner only unique to her, and there was a hint of a smile when it was delivered.
Pete's eyes were drawn to movement. He indicated with his chin. "What's that you got there?"
The hand slipped out of her pocket, empty. "Nothing. Ready to grab some of that room service you like so much?"
Just the suggestion had Pete walking again, giving his approval with a rub of a belly and a shout to Steve that "last one there is paying the bill!"
Myka's hand and all its five digits stretched as if casting off a tingle before staying mutely still beside her thigh.
Note: Characterizations of Atlas House and Sarah and Joseph Wells are historically accurate. Know that liberties were taken with H.G.'s relationship with her parents. And the occurrence of H.G. kicking the shins of his/her brother and throwing a fork at him in a tantrum is not a fabrication! During his childhood, H.G. Wells had a very antagonistic relationship with his brothers, apparently.