The first thing that came to her was the sound of voices, incoherent, but insistent. She opened her eyes slowly, turning them toward the sound. It was the television. She raised her head slightly to see Gabriel sitting cross-legged on the ground, eating something.
She sat up and stretched, and noticed that her body still felt sensitive from the previous night's activities. But neither her stirring from bed, nor her loud, open-mouthed yawn succeeded in eliciting a response from Gabriel. He seemed to be glued to the screen, heedless of what was around him.
"Good morning," she called out hopefully.
"The body of a woman was found in New Orleans yesterday night. Mummified," was the greeting Claire received in return.
"All right," she replied, swinging her legs out of bed and standing up, pulling her hair into a bun. "What does that have to do with anything?"
He turned back to look at her. "Two interesting things. One, she had only been dead for a year, which doesn't happen with mummification, and two, she was found below the ruins of what had been Malcolm Everett's nightclub."
Claire felt her heart pounding in her chest. She sat down on the carpet next to Gabriel. "How could she be mummified if she had only been dead a year?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. That dream you had might explain it somehow. You said you felt like the life was being sucked out of you."
"Yes," she agreed, and shuddered remembering it. Desperately wanting to put the image out of her mind, she changed the subject. "Where did you go last night? I heard you get out of bed."
He didn't answer right away. He got up from the floor and went to throw the wrapping for whatever he had been eating into the trashcan in the bathroom. When he emerged, he said, "I went to the store to get a sketch pad and pencils. I thought it might help if I tried to draw a bit."
Claire got up in excitement. "What did you draw?"
He paused, the shook his head. "Nothing that would help us."
Before Claire could press further, Gabriel shoved his wallet into the pocket of his jeans and headed to the door quickly.
Claire followed him. "Where are you going?"
He opened the door and looked back at her. "We need supplies. I'll be back soon." He walked away.
She shut the door behind him, then, thinking, opened the door and called out to him. He was halfway down the hall.
"Gabriel!" she called. He turned around and looked at her.
She sighed. "Are you—you're not mad at me, are you?"
He stared at her for a few seconds. Then, he replied, "No. Not yet." He turned and continued walking.
She shut the door again and frowned in confusion. What did he mean by that? Her confusion quickly turned to anger. Even after all that had happened, all that they shared, he still could cut himself from her as easily as one cuts a loose thread from a piece of clothing.
She still felt tired, but she wanted to try to be productive. She took a shower, then changed into running clothes and sat down on the bed, turning on the news to see if there was any more information about the woman in New Orleans. She lay on her side, her head propped up on her hand. She remembered last night thinking of Mindy, the waitress, and how she never came back. She started to feel her eyelids getting heavy, her mind seeming to become emerged in deep, clear water…
She was in a kitchen. A large commercial kitchen. In spite of the multiple light fixtures adorning the ceiling, it was quite dim. She walked slowly towards what little light there was, and saw that there was someone behind the counter, taking a glass from a shelf below and walking to a large refrigerator to get ice. As she got closer, she saw that it was a woman, tall and lithe, with bright red hair.
"Mindy," she said aloud, finding that her voice was barely audible.
She tried to get closer to her, but something was keeping her back, some sort of forcefield. Every time she tried to break through, it was as if a bubble surrounded her, holding her still.
She soon realized that she and Mindy were not alone. There was that presence again, the same one that she felt in her other dream. It felt dark, and cold.
Mindy seemed to feel it too, because she looked up from the glass she was filling with ice and turned to see who it was.
"Mindy get out of here!" she tried to cry, but the red-haired girl couldn't hear her.
Then the shadow fell upon her. Mindy screamed and tried to run away, but she seemed to be paralyzed. The shadow fell upon her limbs like black silky tendrils and held her fast. Mindy's body began to shake violently, as if in a seizure. More and more of the tendrils were flowing out of the shadow, engulfing her body. Her screams were now completely muted.
Claire tried desperately to break out of the bubble that held her, but it was no use. She could only stand by helplessly as the girl was being attacked.
The black tendrils had now completely engulfed Mindy's body, flowing into her ears, her mouth, her nose. Her shaking had stopped. There was a soft whooshing sound, and then the shadow flattened and changed shape, now sailing across the floor. Claire shut her eyes tightly, terrified to look. Finally she opened them again to find a corpse on the floor, nothing but bones and dried skin, strands of red hair still clinging to the skull.
Claire's own scream woke her up. She gasped, kicking and punching the air, still believing she was encased in the bubble. She sat up slowly, feeling the awful sensation of her heart pounding in her chest. She looked around, finding with relief that she was alone. Gabriel was still out, apparently. Then she looked at the clock to find, with surprise, that only five minutes had gone by.
Gabriel had taken the mustang, but she wasn't going to let that stop her. Putting on shoes, she began her determined walk to Juneberry.
It took her a long time to get there, but by the time she did, the restaurant had just opened for the lunch hour. Bypassing the hostess and the tables of patrons, she boldly made her way to the back offices. She didn't know exactly who she was looking for or how she would explain the dream she had, but she felt the answer was there, in those rooms.
Apparently no one had missed Mindy yet, and if she really had been killed like her dream predicted, her body hadn't been found. The kitchen and wait staff moved about calmly at a normal pace. Margaret and Malcolm were nowhere to be found.
Claire moved past the kitchen area, towards the hallway where she had been sitting the night before. She had gotten to the very end of the hallway and had found nothing and no one, and in frustration turned back.
There he was. The old man. Carlisle.
He had his back to her, walking out of one room and appearing to be headed towards the entrance to the stage. Claire began walking quickly towards him, her previous fear of him fading and being replaced by fury.
Before he could elude her, she grabbed his shoulder roughly and spun him around, looking into his colorless eyes. He was an old man, but Claire hadn't realized before how fragile he was. She could feel his bones sharply through his shirt, and the flesh of his arms hung loosely from them. Physically, he was quite frail.
That wasn't going to deter her. "You gave me those dreams, didn't you?" she demanded. When he wouldn't answer she seized his arms and shook him. "Why did you show me those terrible things?"
His eyes glowed with hatred, but he did not fight back. "He's hungry," he drawled. "He's so, so hungry."
"Who?" Claire practically shouted, her grip on his arms tightening.
He winced and shook her off. "I think you're the one he's wanted all this time. The one that will take his hunger away at last."
Claire didn't want riddles; she wanted answers. And since this old man's power seemed to lie only in dreams, she felt she could easily intimidate him, she wasn't going to back down until she got what she wanted.
She pushed him against the wall, his back hitting the sheetrock audibly. He didn't cry out at all. But she didn't care. She asked him again. "What is going on? Tell me!"
Just then, the sound of a door opening was heard and footsteps were coming in their direction. Claire turned her head to see, and was distracted long enough to miss seeing the old man pull out a knife. Before she could even turn back to him, he'd plunged the knife into her belly. She groaned, doubling over.
"Oh my God! Claire!" came the sound of Margaret's voice. The old man slipped by Claire and ran down the opposite end of the hallway, pushing through the exit.
"Carlisle!" Margaret shouted, then rushed to Claire, who had had enough time to pull the knife out of her stomach without being seen (she hoped).
"Are you all right?" Margaret asked. Claire was now leaning against the wall, panting. She could feel the wound beginning to close up, and turned to face the wall to hide it.
Margaret turned her around. "We need to get you to a doctor!"
Claire shook her head. "No. He only tore my shirt. See?" she said, showing that she was unmarked.
Margaret stared at her for a long time. Claire met her gaze as evenly as she could. Then the tension was broken by a short, humorless laugh from the older woman. "Well, Carlisle's an old man. I guess he didn't have the strength to do it all the way, thank goodness." She walked out towards the exit. "I had no idea he'd do something like this. He's had a history of emotional problems. But this… dear God." She walked back to Claire. "Malcolm tried to protect him as long as he could. But we can't anymore. We have to tell the authorities."
"He's—he's done this before?" Claire asked as innocently as she could.
Margaret bent her head, seemingly in sorrow and guilt. "He's…special, Claire. He's special. That's all I can say." She looked at the young woman and sighed. "I'll take care of this. I promise." With that, she walked away.
Claire leaned against the wall for a while, feeling weak and drained despite the fact that her healing factor had already taken care of the wound she received. Why had the old man stabbed her? If he was the one who gave her those dreams and killed Mindy and that other woman, why didn't he do the same thing to her? And who was this other person he talked about, the one who was always "hungry?"
Her train of thought was broken by cries of terror. They were coming from the kitchen area. Alarmed, she ran to the sound. Claire walked in to find most of the wait staff standing around Dani, who was in tears and hysterical. Margaret stood at the edge of the circle, and flashed Claire a sorrowful, knowing look when she saw her.
"What is it? Dani, tell us," Louise said.
"M-M-Mindy. I s-saw her in the dumpster outside. She-she's d-d-dead," Dani blubbered in between sobs. "It doesn't even look like her!"
The police soon arrived, and Claire was stuck there. She'd tried so hard to avoid them ever since she learned of her power, but it was inevitable. Hopefully, little attention would be given to her.
The head of the investigation, an African-American man named Briggs, began questioning everyone once Mindy's body was found and taken away. The majority of the staff was allowed to go, not having seen anything, but Margaret, Claire, and Dani stayed behind. Claire had to stay because Margaret instantly pinned Mindy's murder on Carlisle, then pointed to Claire and said, "He just tried to stab this young woman here before he ran away."
Before Claire knew it, she was being taken aside and grilled for everything she knew. First, she was examined by the police physician, despite her insistence that she hadn't been hurt in any way, that the blade of the knife merely tore her clothing. Then Briggs fired one question after the other at her.
"What were the circumstances of your confrontation with Mr. Janney?"
"I came to the restaurant because I was looking for Margaret. I…decided that I wanted to cut short my contract with her, and I needed to talk to her about it. I'm part of the live entertainment. I saw him, and I wanted to ask him something."
"What was that?"
"He gave me a very cold look the other day, and I wanted to know what his problem was. He wouldn't answer me, and I kept asking him. Then, he heard Ms. Winstead approaching, and he pulled out a knife. I saw it, and jumped back just in time to avoid getting stabbed. He only put a hole in my shirt. Margaret called to him, and he ran away."
Briggs looked at her closely. "Do you know why Mr. Janney would have given you a 'cold look'?"
Claire shook her head. "None at all. But Margaret told me after he left that he had emotional problems. Maybe he just doesn't like women." Claire hoped it would be all right that she repeated what the older woman had told her. Then again, Margaret had been quick to pin Mindy's murder on Carlisle, and Claire was just telling the detective the truth. Well, the truth she could tell without compromising herself, of course.
Briggs seemed to consider what she had said, then changed gears. "Did you know Mindy Royster?"
"I only met her a few days ago, when I first came to practice. Yesterday, after I performed, she came up to me backstage and asked if I wanted some water. I told her yes, but she never came back, and I went home."
"Approximately when did you talk to her, and when did you leave last night?"
"Uh…I guess it was about a quarter to nine when she came up to me, and then I left around nine thirty."
"Did she say anything to you? Anything that seemed suspicious?"
"No. She just complimented me on my performance, then asked if I wanted something to drink."
"Where do you live, Ms. Bennet?"
"I don't have a permanent address. Right now I'm staying at the Bluebell on Garrison Avenue."
"Any reason why?"
Claire looked at him closely. What was he trying to find out? "My boyfriend and I just haven't found the right place for us. We're nomads, you could say."
"And this…boyfriend of yours? Can he support everything you've said?"
Claire nodded firmly. "Yes, he can."
Briggs asked her a few more questions, then allowed her to go, telling her not to leave the area, to keep her "nomadic" instincts at bay. Gratefully, Claire left the restaurant and began walking back to the hotel, feeling absolutely drained.
She was almost halfway there when she heard the honking of a car horn. She turned back to see the blue and silver mustang pulling up to the curb. She walked to it.
Gabriel rolled down the window and leaned over. "Get in," he told her. "I have something to tell you."
Claire obeyed and sighed deeply as her back hit the leather seat. She was exhausted.
Gabriel eyed her, perplexed, then pulled back onto the road. "What's wrong with you?"
"I've just been questioned about Mindy Royster's murder. And Carlisle Janney's attempt to stab me in the stomach," she said in a monotone reserved for those extreme moments of fatigue.
"Carlisle Janney?"
"Yeah. You now, the old man who was staring at me funny the other day. He's the one who gave me the dreams."
"Oh," Gabriel said quietly.
"What do you have to tell me?"
"Malcolm Everett isn't what he seems."
Claire sighed. "So you've said. What have you found?"
Gabriel didn't answer right away. He drove for a few blocks, then turned off into a park ground, parking the car on a dirt road.
Ignoring Claire's puzzled look, Gabriel reached behind them to the back seat and pulled out a folder. Flipping through the contents, he handed her a legal-sized piece of glossy paper.
Claire took it from him and looked at it. It was a black and white picture of a Victorian home.
"It's nice," she commented. "It looks like Juneberry."
"It is Juneberry," Gabriel corrected.
Claire looked up at him. "Huh?"
"I did some research and found this picture of a Victorian style mansion, built in 1869 in Boston, Massachusetts. When the owner bought the land, it was overgrown with wild blackberries, and it was finally finished in June. Hence the name 'Juneberry'."
"So Malcolm did some research too, and found the same place, and modeled his restaurant after it."
Gabriel sighed. "No, Claire." Then he took out another paper and handed it to her.
She took it from him, and when she saw the picture, she gasped. It was a photocopy of a daguerreotype. There was a young man standing next to the house, a sober look on his face created by having to stand for nearly an hour for the picture to be taken. But in spite of the distortions created by age, in spite of the period clothing, Claire recognized the man right away.
"Malcolm Everett is the original owner of Juneberry, the mansion built over a century ago," Gabriel told her.
Claire looked up at him, perplexed. "But for this to be true, he'd have to be over a hundred fifty years old!"
"Is that so hard to imagine, with all we've seen?" he replied with a shrug.
"That article I read in Georgia listed him as being 25 years old. And besides, this photo doesn't prove anything. I've seen pictures of my dad and his grandfather as children side by side. You'd swear they were the same person, they looked so much alike."
"Well, the man was listed as being named John Daniels. But Everett could have changed his name after awhile. He'd have to change identities from time to time, or else people would get suspicious as to why he hadn't aged."
Claire shook her head. "I think Carlisle Janney is behind this. Margaret told me that Malcolm had been covering for him and that he was special."
"But if that were true, why wouldn't he just kill you?"
"He did try to kill me. He stabbed me."
Gabriel sat back in his seat, silent. Then he said, "There's more going on than meets the eye. And until we know what it is, I want you to stay away from that restaurant."
Claire sat up indignantly. "Who are you to tell me what I can and can't do?"
Gabriel met her glare with just as much vehemence. "I am the only one who should have that right. Everett, Winstead, this Carlisle guy—they are all hiding something. You're in danger."
"Oh yeah? And how are you going to make me stay away?"
Gabriel smirked and starting driving back to the hotel. "I have a number of ways. I can keep you under my telekinetic hold so that you can't as much move a finger, I could freeze you into a rather lovely ice sculpture, or I could just send a shard of glass into your brain so you stay dead until I can get you away from this place."
Claire couldn't believe it. "You'd actually shove something into my brain and kill me?"
"It worked on your boy Petrelli, didn't it?"
Even in the midst of her anger, Claire still tried to make herself believe that he was only saying these things to scare her into listening to him so he would be able to keep her safe. Even so, Gabriel hit below the belt with that comment about Peter, and it stung. He knew that Claire had a soft spot in her heart for her biological uncle. She knew Gabriel hated him, but if it hadn't been for Peter keeping her safe from him during his "Sylar" days, they would never had fallen in love.
But maybe Gabriel wasn't as thrilled to be in love as Claire was. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if he viewed their relationship as more of a burden than anything else. He seemed content with the sex they had, but when it came to warmth and sensitivity, he still shied away. Would that ever change? Or would Claire have to settle?
They drove to the hotel in silence, and walked into the building in the same fashion. Gabriel walked ahead, seeming to be content with the conversation, while Claire sulked behind. She nearly passed the desk when the clerk called out, "Excuse me, miss?"
She stopped and turned to him. "Yes?"
"A letter was just delivered for you. The gentleman asked that I give it to you personally when you came in." He handed her the envelope.
Claire looked at it, the small white folded sheet with her name written in elegant cursive on the front. Then, cautiously, she looked ahead to see if Gabriel was around. But no, he must have gone upstairs to his room. She walked to the lounge and sat down, opening the envelope and reading the note inside:
Dear Claire,
I heard about what happened today at Juneberry. Words cannot express the shame and guilt I feel over Carlisle's attack on you. I can only hope you'll let me make it up to you.
I know you have questions. I know Margaret told you certain things about him. Please allow me the chance to explain everything. All I ask is five minutes of your time to do the best I can to set it right.
I will be waiting in my office at Juneberry at 5 o'clock. If you can find it in your heart to come back here, I will explain everything. If not, and you want nothing more to do with us, I will understand. Please send a forwarding address and Margaret will send you the money that's owed to you.
I do want you to know that I feel you have a great talent, and much potential. In case I don't get the chance to tell you that in person, I want you to know how special you are.
Yours,
Malcolm
Claire re-read the note two more times, then just sat there for a few minutes. What should she do? If Gabriel was right, then she might be walking right into a trap. But then again, he might be wrong and Malcolm was just a bar owner with an incredible burden.
She was still angry with Gabriel, and even if he was right, she almost would rather get killed than follow his orders like a good little doormat.
Throwing her doubts aside, she boldly got up from the sofa and walked out of the hotel's double doors.