Autumn Leaves – Eva Cassidy
The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hand I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hand I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
He trudged out from the freight elevator and slowly made his way to his office. Once inside, he fully intended to take care of some paperwork before heading home for the afternoon and getting the rest that his assistant so observantly pointed out that he needed. Christmas was always a difficult time of the year for him anyway, as it reminded him of his beloved wife gone these past…
My god, it's been fifteen years now.
The burden of sorrow weighed even more heavily on his soul at that thought, and he rubbed at his eyes and the unshed tears threatening there. It wasn't just his beautiful Caroline that he missed during the Yuletide season, but his good friend Peter and his brilliant nephew Kevin as well. Not to mention all of his friends that had died over the years due to the various hazards of their government employ.
"Ahhh, Peter, I'm so sorry," he murmured. Yet another Fawkes/Donovan man's life stolen by the very government they were fighting so hard to protect, and this time it looked like Darien wasn't going to be spared by some miraculous intervention.
He remembered something he'd heard Darien mutter in one of his more depressive moods: "Everyone who gets too close to me and this gland tend to have short lifespans." It was a sentiment he more than understood… it was one that he'd been living for the past thirty-five years. When he'd married Caroline, her family suddenly seemed to acquire what superstitious men would call a curse. Starting with her brother Peter Donovan, she and then her blood kin had been slowly devoured by the shadow of Charlie's work; the burden of sorrow that that caused becoming more and more difficult for him to bear over the years. And now his nephew was succumbing to the shadows, leaving him with his hands covered in symbolic blood as well as the now-empty promise to take care of the lad.
In other words: he failed. He failed Caroline, he failed Peter and Celia, he failed Kevin, and now his defeat was completed with the last of his wife's kin's slow demise.
He buried his face in his hands as he wilted in desolation. Silently, the tears flowed freely as he rested his head on the desk, his heart unable to bear any more of the strain.
It was there that his body would be found hours later.
Bobby Hobbes was angry. Okay, scratch that - Bobby Hobbes was murderously pissed. The four agents accompanying him did their best to remain part of the background as much as possible for the next two hours as they searched in vain for Arnaud. The information they got from Eberts had provided them with a few concrete leads, as evidenced by the broken and bloodied bodies of some of the mercenary's hired goons that were littered all across the city, but as of yet there was no sign of the main man himself.
"That's it," Hobbes growled. He dropped the barely conscious henchman in disgust and stared emptily at his shoes while he thought aloud. "Why do I feel like I've been sent on a wild goose chase?"
The other agents remained silent, so as not to incur any of the man's tightly focused wrath onto themselves. They all knew what Hobbes was like when he wasn't on his meds, and they were all certain he hadn't taken them since at least the morning before. Not to mention that Hobbes most likely hadn't slept either. And in light of recent events, even the stoic Agent Zimmer was debating the merits of shooting a couple of tranqs in Hobbes' behind.
After a few minutes of electric silence, Agent Thompson spoke up. "Maybe we should check in with the Boss, Hobbes." He eyed the shorter man uncertainly as Hobbes swung around to face him.
The thunderous glare eased when the words sank in. "Yeah, good idea," Hobbes murmured as he whipped out his cell. He dialed The Official's direct line, and was surprised that no one answered. "Hmph, must be down in the Keep," he grumbled as he disconnected and redialed. After about ten seconds, his frown deepened. He hung up and slowly flipped the phone shut as the dread began to build in the back of his mind.
He glanced up into the varying expressions of worry on the faces of his fellow agents. "No one's answering. Let's go," he ordered as he strode past them towards the vehicles. "Zimmer, better call in the others. I gotta real bad feeling 'bout this."
The agent pulled out his own phone while he and the others followed, as Hobbes tried one more number. "C'mon Eberts, you'd better friggin' pick up."
Claire was beyond exhausted, but she just couldn't get to sleep. The events of the past two days kept swirling through her head, and she couldn't get the images of all of those dead children out of her mind.
Sighing heavily, she dragged herself to a sitting position and attempted a lotus stance on her cot. Maybe some meditation will let me become relaxed enough, she thought wearily. She tried to clear her mind, but found that worried thoughts of Darien kept sneaking back in.
"Damn it!" she spat out in frustration, and practically threw herself off of the cot towards the door. She swerved and scooped up a change of clothes and her shower kit from the neat pile Eberts had stacked them on the counter by the bathroom. She peeled off her blouse and slacks and suddenly realized that they were soiled with blood and sweat. With a grimace she dropped them in the trashcan under the sink and turned on the shower. She glanced at herself in the mirror over the basin as she left the water to heat up. Man, was she a mess! Her hair was matted like some epileptic bird had tried to make a nest in it, and both of her eyes looked like they had been punched. Her normally pale complexion was now almost gray with stress and exhaustion, and her brilliant blue eyes had dimmed to a similar shade.
She blinked and shook herself. She'd be of no use to Darien, let alone herself, if she didn't get cleaned up and have had at least a little bit of sleep. She stepped into the shower, and allowed the steaming water to massage her back for a few minutes before she wet down and poured shampoo on her hair. She methodically went through the motions of cleansing while she mentally ran over the events of the past two days.
She had just finished her light breakfast of a grapefruit and yogurt, and had pulled up the results of her latest string of tests when Eberts had called her. He was uncharacteristically choked up as he relayed in brief the events that had transpired a mere fifteen minutes before his call. Her shock and dismay was a typical reaction to such horrible news, but the gut-wrenching fury that had suddenly gripped her at the thought of Darien being in the middle of the slaughter with no way of preventing or stopping it had caught her completely by surprise. Through the roaring in her ears, she had heard Eberts' quavering voice request that she come and attend to Darien, as he had been displaying alarmingly similar symptoms of the gas as had the children he had tried so valiantly to save. She had arrived on the scene within a record twenty minutes, to find that Darien had slipped out from under The Official's and Eberts' noses when they were arguing with some rescue workers over whether or not the lanky agent should have been taken to the hospital for treatment and observation. Claire had stood frozen in horror at the sight of all of the mostly tiny body bags being carried out and stacked in neat rows from the mall. Every single person that had breathed in the deadly gas had died within thirty minutes of exposure. HazMat crews had taken no chances, and had sealed off every entrance and exit to the mall, as well as isolated everyone that had been evacuated for observation and decontamination. Claire had stayed only long enough to speak with The Official, and had rushed back to her lab to gather additional supplies in case Darien had been injured in any way. She had just finished getting an update from Eberts when her phone in the lab had rung again, but that time it was Hobbes calling; urgently barking at her to hurry over to his place after she had overheard Darien's agonized description of the mornings' tragedy.
Wait just a blinking minute…
Her eyes snapped open as she remembered. Everyone who had been around that cloud of gas had died. Darien had even said that he wasn't sure if he'd breathed in any of it, and now that she was looking back she realized with increasing horror that he had been showing all of the same symptoms as the other victims! But she and Hobbes had blindly assumed that the shock and acute distress he'd been under were the reasons why he'd been reacting that way.
"Oh, hell!" Claire blurted, and she dashed out of the shower. She didn't bother using a towel before she began to pull on her clothes. She fought with her bra for a moment before tossing it away from her, and hastily pulled up first her underwear and then her clean slacks. A white cotton button-up blouse was yanked on, and she fumbled with the buttons as she opened the door to the room and ran full tilt down the hallway towards the main lab.
Hobbes stood frozen in the doorway as Agent Zimmer called the paramedics.
It can't be.
He couldn't wrap his brain around what his eyes were telling him.
No way. Not… the boss…
This wasn't happening. It can't be happening. It had to be some sort of trick. Sick, twisted, and not even close to funny, but a trick nevertheless. There was just no way that The Official was… was…
They'd come rushing into the Harding Building, immediately heading straight for the boss's office. As they'd come out of the stairwell, Hobbes made a split-second decision, and had sent Thompson and Harris to apprise The Official of the current situation. He'd headed back downstairs for the Keep to make sure that Darien and Claire were all right, with Evans and Zimmer following. Just in case there was any trouble.
They never made it to the Keep. All threes' walkie-talkies had sputtered with static, and Harris' almost panicked voice boomed that there was something seriously wrong back upstairs. Hobbes reversed course and pelted up the stairs to The Official's office.
Thompson was waiting for them outside the office door. He looked about ready to vomit.
Hobbes had tried to get the stricken man to talk, but all Thompson was able to do was shake his head and point to The Official's desk. The shorter agent had brushed by, and was struck dumb with what he'd seen inside.
Charlie Borden was dead.
"Hobbes? Hobbes!"
Agent Zimmer's voice snapped him out of immobility, and on instinct, Hobbes automatically checked the rounds in his firearm.
"I called the paramedics, just in case," the normally impassive Agent's voice cracked slightly on the last word. "But it looks like he's been gone for a while."
Hobbes thought he was pissed before, but now…
His normally warm chestnut eyes darkened to black. He drove his gun into the holster hard enough to snap the leather. "Where're the others?" he grunted.
"Went downstairs to check on Fawkes and the doc."
"Stay here. I'm checkin' t'make sure that they… they're…" he couldn't finish his thought. He didn't want to risk that his worst fears had come true. What if… what if The Official wasn't the only casualty?
And where the hell was Eberts!
Hobbes left the stairwell and was just turning the corner when…
WHAM!
The force of the other person's momentum knocked Hobbes flat, and the back of his head smacked the floor hard enough to make him gray out momentarily.
A few seconds later his vision swam back into a fuzzy kind of focus, to see Claire's worried face hovering over him. Her hair was sopping wet, and some of the extra water was dripping on his face.
"Bobby? Oh, god, Bobby, are you all right?" She hurriedly pulled her hair over her shoulder to minimize the spatter on him. Her nimble fingers deftly checked him for injuries before lightly feeling the back of his head.
"OW! Dammit!" he flinched away from her touch. Shit, he was gonna have one helluva goose egg there in the morning.
She sighed and withdrew her hands to rest them on his shoulders. "I couldn't feel any fractures, but I want you to get up very slowly, all right?"
"Yeah," he grunted, and took her proffered hand. He managed to sit up before his vision swam nauseatingly, and he closed his eyes against it for a few moments. "Jesus, Claire, why're ya running around like the building's on fire?" he grumbled, and then his eyes flew wide open. "Oh, crap. Fawkes! Is he…?"
"I was just on my way to the Keep. Bobby, I need to run some tests on Darien's blood. I think he might actually have inhaled some of that neurotoxin. So much time has passed, and with the rapidity of fatality on those people at the mall, I need to…" the tumble of words halted as she was torn between rushing to Darien's side and tending to Hobbes.
"Go, Keepie. I'm fine. No knock on the noggin's gonna keep Bobby Hobbes down for long."
She hesitated, and he barked, "Go! I'll be fine! Be there in a couple'a minutes."
The doctor flashed him a worried, yet thankful smile before rising...
A muffled shout from the door to the Keep was suddenly cut off as two gunshots rang out.
"Oh my…" Claire bolted for the safety of the wall right at the turn in the hall, and she peeked around the corner to assess the situation.
Hobbes ignored the pounding in his head and clambered to her side as he freed his gun. He poked his head out just in time to see…
Eberts?
Hobbes gaped at the scene unfolding at the end of the hall. Eberts was standing over the crumpled bodies of Thompson and Harris. Twin pools of blood slowly spread from underneath them.
"Eberts!" Hobbes shouted as he took aim between the man's eyes. "What the fuck are ya doin'!"
The only response was a sly grin as the assistant raised his own gun and squeezed off a score of shots. Hobbes managed to fire his gun once before he was forced to duck behind the cover of the walls, and was rewarded with a cry of pain.
"Merde!"
"Hunh?" Hobbes grunted as his eyes flew wide in sudden understanding. "ARNAUD!" he bellowed as he launched himself around the corner, his every intention to fill that motherfucker with so many bullets…
But the mercenary was gone, the stairwell door swinging shut behind him.
Hobbes began to charge down the hall with Claire at his heels. She skidded to a stop at the still open door to The Keep, and Hobbes continued to the staircase.
"Bobby!" she shrieked after him, which caused him to dig in his heels and skid to a stop.
He could hear Arnaud's uneven footfalls pounding the steps not even a floor above him. But the desperate plea in her voice tore at his determination to finally get that bastard so he could torture him to death nice and slow like. His face worked as he fought the dual impulses raging within him, and he finally came to a decision.
He turned on his heel and darted back to The Keep as he yanked out his walkie-talkie and ordered Zimmer to keep an eye out for a wounded Eberts that wasn't Eberts. Shoot to kill if necessary, but a disarmed and badly wounded not-Eberts was better.
Hobbes came up behind Claire, who was standing stock-still in the open doorway to The Keep with her fist pressed hard against her mouth.
Just inside the door was an unconscious Evans, obviously felled with a vicious blow to the temple. But what caused Hobbes' heart to stop was the sight of Darien on the exam chair.
He was lying flat and face down, his back sprayed liberally with blood.
There was a golf ball-sized hole in the back of his skull.
Hobbes felt something inside snap as the blood drained from his head. "No. Nonononononononononono…"
His knees gave way, and he slumped to his knees on the floor between his fallen comrades. Unconsciously, he started to rock back and forth as he tried to wrap his mind around the grisly scene before him. The butt of his gun tapped his temple in sync with his rocking.
Claire rushed in seemingly slow motion to the exam chair, and she began assessing Darien's vitals. She didn't bother with putting on her lab coat or even surgical scrubs, but did manage to yank on gloves as she snapped into emergency doctor mode and worked feverishly to staunch the bleeding from the back of Darien's head and assess his condition.
Still in slow motion, Hobbes felt the breeze of Claire's assistants' arrival, and watched as Jacob pushed through the molasses-laden air to the doctors' side to aid her.
The only tangible thought that ran through his mind was - Arnaud finally got his wish. He got the fuckin' gland.
TBC