Chapter Thirteen
"What the hell do you mean, the show has been canceled?!" Amos was demanding, "Where the hell is Bishop?! I'm running a business, not a charity! You get him on that stage, or he's fired! Where's Farnsworth?! Where the hell is everyone?!"
"Amos Luciano?"
He spun of his heel, a vein on his forehead pulsing suddenly as he leveled on Peter, "What's it to you, eh?! Backstage is for employees only!"
Olivia flashed her badge, and he looked as if he had choked on his own comments, "We're just here to have a look around is all. Thank you for your kind hospitality."
"Listen, miss-"
"Dunham."
"Yeah. Listen, this happens every night, it's nothing to worry about. Certianly not something that warrants the attention of the cops-"
"Mr. Luciano, please allow me to assess the situation. You said that Walter Bishop is late for his performance?" Peter was impressed. Olivia was an attractive woman, but still a woman- it was amazing how she seized the role of authority, in such a situation. He only watched quietly, as her eyes spanned the frameworks behind the dark stage, thought whirring behind her eyes alertly.
"Yeah," Amos responded, "But he does it all the time. He'll show up, you'll see."
"And the singer, Astrid Farnsworth? Is her punctuality lacking?"
"She isn't late, if that's what you're asking. Hey, have I seen you someplace?" Amos questioned, pointing to Peter, who shook his head.
"Hmm." Olivia turned to address Peter, "Well, I don't know if something happened. You said you and Astrid arrived together, and if I left Bishop to his devices this afternoon… there's no telling what might have happened. But if they have been killed… I don't understand the order of the killings."
"Killings?" Amos questioned tensely, "Listen, lady, ain't nobody that gets in here that doesn't belong here-"
"How do you know?" Olivia questioned, turning her cynical eye on him.
Amos shifted uncomfortably, "I've got a doorman. I can't have gutter pups stumbling in out of the street."
Peter raised his eyebrows, "Where is this doorman?"
"He should be at the door, or unemployed." Amos snapped his fingers sharply in an exclamation of epiphany, "That's it, isn't it? You and Bishop! You two look just alike, don't you? You could be his kid!"
Peter glanced between Amos and Olivia, swallowing back dread with a smile, "Get your eyes checked, buddy." He passed Olivia on his way toward the greenroom and beyond.
Olivia still watched him silently as they met with the doorman, a tall, rather goofy-looking fellow who seemed to be a little too absorbed with the cluster of moths battering at a hanging light bulb to heed their approach, "Brandon!" Amos barked, making him start slightly, "You've been here all night, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir," Brandon answered, glancing between the three of them cautiously.
"You see that Bishop clown come in here?"
"Yes, sir. But he left, a little while ago."
"How? Did he leave with anyone?" Peter questioned.
"He left with Miss Astrid. 'Said she wasn't feeling well, had 'the vapors'." Brandon made mid-air quotations, and looked at them quizzically, "What does that even mean? Southern people have a different language, I swear."
"You idiot!" Amos snapped, making him start again, "Why didn't you stop them?!"
"Miss Astrid was out cold, Mr. Luciano. And if she's sick, she can't be working, it wouldn't be proper, she could hurt herself."
"Did anyone else come through, after Walter and Astrid left?" Peter cut in before Amos could shout again, "Someone unfamiliar? Anyone suspicious?"
"That creepy bald guy. But I try not to talk to him, he never answers. He never causes any trouble- he used to come around a lot, a while ago- I think he and Miss Astrid had something going on, he was always bringing her strange stuff, like chili peppers. Then, he just stopped coming around. Until here recently." He raised his brows in realization, "Do you think they're back steady?"
"Come on," Peter said, leading Olivia outside as Amos started in on Brandon.
"I should have realized it ages ago," she finally chuckled as Peter was looking around the alley for anything out-of-place, "That you're Bishop's son."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter said flatly, shuffling through some rubbish with the toe of his boot.
"You're protecting him, aren't you? That's why you followed me here, you knew I was looking for him."
Peter turned to her with a cold glare, "That man is dead to me, for all it matters. Not that it's any of your business. My interest here has nothing to do with the great Walter Bishop- so do you want my help or not?"
Olivia watched him cynically, "Why are you here?" She asked at last.
Peter sighed, pushing his cap back to scratch his forehead, "I don't know. I guess… because I don't have anything to go back to. I'm tired of sleeping. I thought that it was something I wanted, just to live my life out of the way, but when you came in to the diner…" Peter glanced back up at her, clad in her red cocktail dress and black fur, still as elegant and mysterious as the day he had first seen her- perhaps more so, with the gun strapped to her thigh, "I had to chase you."
Olivia blinked at him, trying to look thoughtful and cool, even as color touched her features. He knew that, even in the short duration they had been in contact, she was a woman that liked to preserve even the illusion of control, and even if what he had told her seemed to come out all wrong, to him, at last she smiled, "Then come with me to New York."
xXx
Astrid was slow to awaken, and even slower still to register the hum of the engine and her warm place on the leather bench seat, her cheek nestled against Walter's shoulder, his arm around her slumped form in support and protection.
She sat up immediately, and exclaimed as her head grew dizzy, and she nearly tipped forward into the dash before he caught her again, "Easy, Cher. They'll be slow to wear off, if you push yourself too hard."
"Don't… don't touch me," Astrid said, feeling a cold sweat start just above her eyebrows as she pushed out of his hold again, raising a hand to steady herself against the opposite door, "get off me, Walter…" But her vision was already blurring with tears, "I hate you, Walter…"
"You're ill, my dear. You should be resting, I may have overdosed you-"
"I hate you, Walter!" She struck him in the ear with a quaking fist, causing him to wince and swerve on the empty night highway. Tears ran down her face as she cought herself against his shoulder heavily, "I hate you! You're a liar!" She swallowed, her eyes squeezing shut, "I'm going to be sick…"
Walter pulled the car off the side of the road, shutting off the engine and helping her out of the car. She held his collar, wishing she could strangle him as she wept, trying to hold down her stomach. At length, Walter produced his flask from the inside pocket of his coat, twisting off the small cap and offering it to her lips. Astrid shook her head weakly, and Walter shifted his grip around her, forcing the liquid into her mouth. Astrid swallowed down the burning alcohol, the wretched flavor and warm temperature making her features flush hotly, "I hate you," she croaked again.
When she regained consciousness again, a splotchy, red dawn was growing over the horizon, and eye shadow stained the front of Walter's shirt, where her face rested. She had been crying in her sleep.
Astrid shifted in Walter's lap, his jacket slipping off of her sequined shoulder as his sleepless red eyes turned to her. He said nothing, even as she pulled the coat back up, slipping out of his warm hold and onto the rest of the cold leather seat. She rubbed her eyelids, coughing quietly.
"Where are we?" Astrid asked at last.
"Just outside of Jersey city," Walter answered, his drawl raspy in the quiet.
"Why are we outside of Jersey City?" Walter didn't answer. Astrid frowned, "Fine. I don't care anymore, Walter. Take me home." She delved for her handbag in the floorboard, retrieving a mirror and a handkerchief to begin removing her makeup.
Walter continued to watch her, motionless.
"Take me home, Walter," Astrid repeated, snapping her compact shut. She glared at him, "They taught you proper English in the south, didn't they? You're supposed to be some sort of doctor, aren't you?"
Walter's jaw tightened as he bit the inside of his cheek.
"But I guess I don't know what I'm asking. You must have been a pretty terrible doctor- did you cut your own finger off, is that where it went? Do you even remember where I live? You can't remember my name…"
"Astrid," he said.
"Oh? That's great, Walter! Fantastic, even! How long is it going to take you to remember that you have a son that you abandoned? Do you remember his name?!" her high sarcasm was working its way into hysteria as she watched the pain in his eyes, his expression stoic as he continued to watch her silently, even as she pressed deeper into his wounds, her words like acid, "But what's it matter, when you're burning the candle at both ends?! Easy come, easy go- it doesn't matter who you throw away, so long as you can keep hitting the tables!" She was fairly screaming, when she finished, at last snapping his strings.
Walter turned his eyes away from her, toward the rising sun, flashing in the light, looking as if he had just been shot in the heart. His hand was trembling as he fumbled for the key in the ignition. But just as quickly as his show of sadness was to arrive, it disappeared again, washed away on the grave creases of his face, settling into an expression of exhaustion.
Astrid's eyes ached sharply as tears that she did not have left forced themselves to her eyes, "You threw me away, Walter."
Walter glanced over at her in shock, then back at the wheel. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, barring his teeth in frustration. At last, he leaned across the seat, brushing dry tears away from her mascara-streaked cheeks and pressing his lips to hers. Immediately, Astrid moved to push him away, before her fingers dug into his shoulder blades, pulling him closer, her brows arching in sorrow and pain, "Walter," she whispered against his cheek, when they broke away at last, "I love you."
Walter shut his eyes, his arms encircling her tightly as he pulled her flat to his chest, "Please," he pleaded, his voice pitiful with fear and desperation, "don't leave me. Please. I promise I'll fix all of it. But… I swear to god, I'll die, if I loose you…" He buried his face in her hair, the rest of his statements muffled.
"You have to stop it, Walter. You can't keep throwing me away, okay?" Astrid took his face in her hands, her eyes searching his expression, "Promise we'll do it. Together."
"I promise," Walter rasped. He gave her a broken smile, and she kissed him again.
xXx
