Chapter Four

It did not take long for Fakir and Ahiru to be herded downstairs and outside to the lawn. Ahiru was wailing in horror and pleading for Fakir to talk to her. Fakir was too dazed and sickened to even fully process that she was talking to him.

It did not matter that he had been following a plan he thought Autor had outlined or that the villains had forced them into it or that it had been an accident. All that really mattered was that he had caused Autor's fall. There had not even been a chance to apologize for the horrible argument and ask for forgiveness. Surely Fakir had added insult to injury. Ahiru had probably told him how terrible Fakir felt, but it was not the same as Fakir confirming it himself.

Autor had not moved by the time they arrived at his side. He was lying on his back, his head turned to the right. From this angle, there was no way to tell if he was breathing—but his chalk-white countenance certainly did not offer confidence. Fakir started to bend over him, dreading what he would find.

Without warning one of the gangsters charged him, punching him in the stomach. He gasped in stunned pain, stumbling backwards and doubling over.

"Fakir!" Ahiru burst out.

Fakir clenched his teeth, looking up with furious eyes at the man who had assaulted him. "What was that for?" he snapped. His short patience was at an end; this was the final grievance. "I have to see if he's alive! He needs help!"

The thug straightened, giving the lifeless form a cursory glance before delivering a swift and cruel kick. "He's dead," he sneered when there was no reaction.

"No!" Ahiru sobbed. "No, he can't be! I won't believe it! Don't hurt him worse!"

Fakir forced himself to stand, ignoring the sharp pain in his gut. "He could still be alive," he said brokenly, but it was clear he did not really believe it himself.

"It doesn't matter anyway," said the leader. He gestured with his gun and two henchmen came forward, snatching Fakir's arms. The hapless boy tensed, glaring at first one, then the other.

"You followed through with your order," the crime boss continued. "If you come with us now and don't resist, I'll let the girl go . . . this time." He surveyed the area with a calculating gaze. "There's no help for miles. And your horses have already been found and set free. Unless you're willing to leave your friend's corpse, you're stranded." This he said to Ahiru, who gaped in alarm.

"You're horrible!" she yelled when she found her voice.

Fakir gritted his teeth. "You can get out of this," he said to her, praying all the while that it was true. "You get out of everything else."

She stared at him. "But . . . you can't go with them!" she protested. "You can't!"

Fakir looked away. "I don't have any choice right now," he said. "There's too many of them for me to take. Stay with Autor. He could still . . ." He swallowed hard, choking on the words.

Ahiru's eyes welled with tears. "This is my fault too!" she cried. "I went to Autor for help and he came here with me to help you, but we got caught and everything went wrong again! Everything went wrong. . . ." She shuddered, unable to stop the sob rising in her throat.

"Idiot. Don't talk like that," Fakir said. "I agreed to fight Autor. I knocked him through the balcony railing. It's my fault he's . . ."

"Alright, enough talking." The leader stepped in between them. "Put the girl down."

The two gangsters holding onto Ahiru's arms released her, shoving her forward at the same time. She collapsed to her knees, shaking as she stared at Autor's body. Then she looked up with a jerk, watching in helplessness as Fakir was taken to the car at gunpoint and forced inside. The criminals started climbing into the vehicle as well—and also into another that was half-hidden behind a hedge.

"Fakir," she whispered.

Her gaze traveled over the car, desperately hoping for something distinctive that could help her remember what it looked like. Then her eyes lit on a white, rectangular shape. The license plate! From where she was, she could read it. She memorized it as best as she could, praying that she would keep remembering it when she might actually be able to use it to save Fakir. Then it and the other car were gone, taking the gang and Fakir far away. In a moment all was silent, the traveling dust cloud on the road the only indication that anyone else had even been there recently.

Ahiru hiccupped, looking down sadly at Autor. "I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm so sorry, Autor. I . . . I really thought maybe we could help Fakir. I really thought it. But all I've done is get Fakir even further away and cause you to be laying here like this!" She glanced back at the mansion. "And there's no phone or anything in there. I can't call for help at all, and I can't leave you like this. . . ."

Slowly she moved her hands under his back. The chance that his spine had been broken was all too real, and she was terrified of discovering that, but everything felt intact. She bit her lip, pulling out her hands and feeling the back of his neck as well. It was also whole. In fact, she soon determined, he did not appear to have any broken bones. Yet . . . if the fall had really killed him, did it matter?

"Autor," she choked out, gently sliding a hand under the cheek that was resting against the grass. With care she turned his face towards her, shuddering at how cold his skin felt. He was so pale. . . .

"Autor, wake up!" she begged. "You . . . you're really okay, aren't you? I mean, you still can wake up . . . can't you?" Her bottom lip trembled. "You weren't hurt that bad. Please tell me you weren't hurt that bad. . . ." She trailed off into nothingness. Autor was not answering her.

With shaking hands she let his head slip back to the side and took up his right hand. But it was hopeless; she could not make her hands stop quaking. There was no way she could find a pulse under these circumstances.

She shuddered, continuing to cradle his hand between hers. She did not dare move him, just in case she was wrong about the broken bones and she would hurt him worse. But holding onto him made her feel at least marginally braver and more able to face whatever might come at them. If the scary shadows turned out to be more than her imagination, she would have to fight to keep them away from Autor.

The tears came again. "Fakir didn't mean it," she said, her voice shaking. "He didn't mean to hurt you. I mean, he didn't want to. You know that, don't you, Autor? He wanted to say he was sorry and still be friends with you." A sob rose in her throat and she pushed it back, clutching her limp friend's hand in desperation.

"Autor, wake up!" Ahiru wailed now. "I'm so scared you're . . . you're . . .

"Don't leave me," she pleaded. "Don't leave us! Fakir would never forgive himself if you . . .

"You know he didn't want to hurt you, don't you, Autor?" she cried. "And you know he didn't mean those things he said before! He was mad; you know how he gets when he's mad! He didn't mean it. He didn't mean it. . . ."

She had already had this conversation with Autor, when he had been in a condition to contribute to it. But now she was bordering on hysteria and did not care that she was repeating herself, if she even fully realized it at all.

She shut her eyes and got down on the ground, curling up next to Autor's body. He still felt warm overall, at least, even though his face and hand had been cold. Maybe that meant he would be okay. Maybe Ahiru could feel him breathing.

Or maybe that was just because she wanted to so badly.

xxxx

Fakir's palms were clammy as he leaned forward in the car, staring at the carpeted floor without really seeing it. All he could see, over and over, was Autor sprawled lifeless in the grass after his fall, his fate unknown.

Would he possibly be alright? Would Ahiru be alright, staying with him and not knowing what to do? Would they ever get help?

They shouldn't have come, Fakir thought bitterly. Idiots! Why didn't Autor discourage Ahiru from coming, instead of supporting it? Did they really think they could go up against a gang? That's not like Autor. It's more like . . .

He trailed off, slumping back into the seat and digging a hand into his hair. He was too impulsive and reckless; he knew that all too well. That was what had started the argument with Autor in the first place. And maybe if it had not happened, the gang leader would not have been so interested in seeing Fakir and Autor fight.

Fakir had not even had any chance to say he was sorry. Now he did not know if he ever would. If Autor was dead, of course it would be impossible until Fakir's own death—not that there would necessarily be a long time before that happened, what with him in a gang. And even if Autor was alive, what were the odds that Fakir would see him again? The gang would never let Fakir go. Both Autor and Ahiru were probably lost to him.

He frowned as his thoughts returned to the fall. Autor had not hit the railing with that much force. Had it really been so rickety that the slightest weight caused it to tear free?

Coming to think of it, the railing had looked so even and smooth when Fakir had knelt beside it. It should have been jagged and torn if it had actually splintered.

His eyes widened. In growing shock and anger he whirled to look at the man sitting next to him. Someone in the gang had at some point made sure the railing would break with the slightest pressure. They had wanted Autor to fall, even or especially by Fakir's hand.

He had already known he was in the company of murderers, but this revelation only made it far more personal to him. He clenched a fist out of sight of the thug.

On the other hand, he thought, his heart sinking, he had still been the one to push Autor into the railing. He was a murderer too.

He looked away. No! He had not been trying to harm Autor. He and Autor had, he thought, been planning to stage the fight before everything had gone wrong. Maybe the gang had even counted on them deciding to stage it, in spite of the argument, and that was why the railing had been damaged, just as an extra precaution.

"What are you thinking about, punk?"

He turned back at the sound of the gruff voice, meeting the heartless eyes with his own cold gaze.

"I'm just wondering what's going to happen to them, being left back there like that," he said.

"The boy's dead," was the unsympathetic reply. "The girl won't leave him, so she'll probably die too. Unless she finally realizes it's no use and goes back to town."

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "What if she comes after us?" he retorted.

"She won't," the guy sneered. "At least, not unless she comes alone. She won't want to get you turned in. And by herself she won't be a challenge at all. The instant any of us see her, it's shoot to kill."

Fakir fought to keep his temper down, but at such words it was impossible. The fire raged in his eyes.

"I won't let you kill Ahiru too," he snarled.

The man's gun was drawn in an instant, pointing at Fakir's head. "You won't be able to 'let' us do anything," the gangster told him. "You're working for us, whether you like it or not. And we're going far away from here. She'll never even find us."

Fakir prayed that was true. This was not something for Ahiru to get mixed up in.

But he knew that she would never give up. Whether or not Autor was dead, Ahiru would come looking for Fakir.

xxxx

The sudden stirring brought Ahiru to immediate attention. She shot upright, staring at Autor in hopeful amazement. "Autor?" she exclaimed, half-pleading half-wailing. She had not imagined the movement, had she? She was sure she had felt his arm bump against her and the motion as he had started to turn over.

His eyes fluttered and opened. "Ahiru?" he whispered, his voice raspy and weak. "Fakir . . . he was staring at me. . . . He tried to save me."

Ahiru gazed at him in joy and relief. "Yeah, he did," she said, leaning down to give him a gentle hug. "You're alive! We were so worried. . . ."

Autor laid a hand on her right shoulder, still looking dazed. "The look in his eyes . . . it was like when he tried to save me after I was forced to stab myself . . . only he couldn't." He focused on the shuddering girl, who was attempting a half-hug by keeping her hands on his shoulders. "And he's not here now. Where is he? Is he . . . staying away because of guilt?"

Ahiru froze, looking up at him in shock. "No!" she exclaimed. "Fakir, he's . . ." She swallowed hard. "He's not here. The gang took him away. They left us here . . . to die, I guess."

Autor's complete return to consciousness was abrupt. His eyes widened and he tried to sit up, but instead he fell back in the grass with a pained gasp.

"I've been a fool," he lamented, gazing up at the sky. "The only thing that's been accomplished here is that now Fakir is more devastated than before."

Ahiru knelt next to him, blinking back tears. "You just wanted to save him," she said. "And maybe to try to get things right between you and him, too."

"That doesn't change that now they're worse than ever." Again Autor attempted to sit up, this time moving slowly and holding a hand to the back of his head. "Do you have any idea where the gang is going from here?"

Ahiru shook her head. "No," she admitted. "But I did get the number on one of the cars!" she remembered.

Autor perked up. "You did? What is it?"

Ahiru scrunched up her face in concentration as she slowly recited it. Autor listened, committing it to memory as well.

"This is good!" he said, growing excited. "We may be able to use this number to track them down."

She looked at him worriedly. "But we're not supposed to call the police!" she said. "What if the crooks really do know and they hurt Fakir?"

"You saw how badly we failed to save Fakir on our own," Autor said. He continued to rub at his head as he spoke. "There is still the possible Story-Spinning angle; I haven't forgotten that. But we need help. How long is Charon going to be away?"

Ahiru frowned. "I'm not sure," she said. "But he left the number of the inn he's staying at!" she added. "Maybe we could go home and I could call him."

"Let's do that," Autor agreed. He stiffened. "Unless they've bugged the telephone," he realized.

Ahiru gaped at him. "Bugged the telephone?" she squealed. "You mean they opened it up and put beetles and stuff inside it?"

Autor wasn't sure whether to laugh or groan. "No," he said. "I mean they may have planted a device that will enable them to overhear any conversations on the telephone. Or possibly throughout the house."

"They can do that?" Ahiru cried.

"It's physically possible, yes," Autor said. "The technology exists. And I wouldn't put it past their kind. They may have done the same with my house." He looked revolted to think of them wandering through his sacred home.

Ahiru slumped back. "Then . . . where is it even safe to call?" she moaned.

"Find the number and we'll use a payphone," Autor told her.

Ahiru gave a slow nod. "Okay. I guess they couldn't . . . bug a payphone," she said, making a face at the unfamiliar term.

"But they took the horses and let them go!" she exclaimed then. "We won't have the carriage to ride back to town in. And you're don't look like you're in any shape to walk!"

Autor stared at her, stunned by the announcement. "The horses are gone?" he gasped. But then he sighed and closed his eyes. "Nevermind. I really don't feel like steering them anyway. If they have any sense they'll wander back to town."

And what would they do? He did not like to admit that Ahiru was right, but he was not sure he could make the trip on foot, at least not tonight. His head was throbbing and he ached all over. When he stood, he would not be surprised if he were assailed by vertigo and nausea.

"Maybe we'll have to stay in there tonight," Ahiru ventured, her voice quavering as she looked to the foreboding house.

"Maybe," Autor said.

She looked back to him, her eyes wide in concern. "Autor, are you hurt really bad?" she wailed. "Usually you tell me you feel fine!"

Autor colored a bit at her worry. "I don't think it's anything serious," he said. "As long as I rest a while."

He frowned. Could he have a concussion, even just a mild one? It could be dangerous for him to sleep if he did.

He took off his glasses. "Ahiru, do my eyes look normal?" he asked.

She rocked back, bewildered. "Eh?"

"Uneven pupils are one possible sign of a serious brain injury," he said. "How are mine?"

Ahiru frowned, leaning in close as she studied his eyes. "They look okay to me," she said slowly. "I think. . . ."

Autor replaced his glasses. "I don't suppose you know how long I've been unconscious," he said.

She shook her head. "No," she said. "Everything happened so fast with Fakir being forced away and then we were all alone and I tried to wake you up but you didn't wake up and I was so worried . . ." She sighed, her shoulders rising and falling. "It felt like ages that I was waiting! But maybe it was only a few minutes."

Autor sighed. "I'm sorry."

Absently and with care he rubbed at his head. "I don't have amnesia regarding what happened to me," he mused. "Not remembering is another possible sign of a concussion." He frowned. "What happened was burned so strongly into my mind that I couldn't forget it."

Ahiru looked down. "You and Fakir were trying to help me," she said.

"That doesn't make it your fault, Ahiru. Fakir was right—we were out of our league. We didn't stand a chance against those murderers." Balancing himself on one hand, Autor got his feet under him and then slowly began to rise.

Ahiru watched him worriedly. "Are you sure you can get up?" she exclaimed.

Autor wobbled, clawing at the air for balance. "Yes," he said.

Ahiru caught hold of his hands and helped to steady him as she stood. "I'll help you," she said firmly. "Come on, let's go in the house and maybe there's a room on the first floor where you can rest."

Autor turned a bit red, embarrassed but also grateful for her help. "That's probably the best solution for now," he agreed. "Let's go."

Ahiru drew one of his arms around her shoulders, placing her own around his waist as they moved with care to the front door and then through the doorway.

The old house was cold. Ahiru shivered as they passed into what had once been a very nice parlor. Now it, as well as every other room, was abandoned and lonely. The furniture, instead of bearing white sheets and looking ghostly, stood as it had decades earlier. There had not been time to really look at the rooms when they had been brought in at gunpoint. As they searched for a bedroom Ahiru studied the rooms in a melancholy fascination.

"I wonder what happened to the people who lived here," she said.

"No one knows," Autor said. "They left suddenly God knows how many years ago."

"And no one wanted to buy the house and fix it up?" Ahiru said in disbelief.

"By the time we were out of Drosselmeyer's bubble and really knew about the house, it was like this," Autor said. "The city council has been thinking of proclaiming it a historical site."

"That would be nice," Ahiru said. "It's kind of sad, to see it like this. It's so lonely."

Somewhere within its walls, the house groaned. Ahiru froze, her grip on Autor tightening.

"Is it . . . haunted?" she quavered.

"I really don't know," Autor said. "But that wasn't a ghost; that was the house settling in."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "I hope so," she said. "Oh, here's a bedroom. . . ." She pushed open a door that was already ajar, revealing an old room with twin beds on either side of a nightstand with a lamp. The quilts and curtains were yellowed, but overall the room gave no indication of being occupied by unwelcome pests.

Autor moved towards the nearest bed. "I'm going to lay on top of the covers," he said, eying the worn comforter with suspicion. "I don't care to sleep in a strange bed, particularly one in an deserted house."

Ahiru helped him over to it and then eased him onto the mattress. "I don't think I could sleep at all," she said with a shudder. "It's so creepy here and you're hurt and Fakir's with the gang. . . ."

"You need rest as much as I do." Autor slipped out of his shoes before swinging his legs up. "You won't have any strength for tomorrow, and there's so much to get done."

Ahiru sat on the edge of the other bed. "I guess so," she said in a noncommittal tone.

Autor lay on his side, drawing the pillow closer to him. "We'll rescue Fakir, Ahiru," he said quietly. "Somehow I promise you, this nightmare will end."

Ahiru gave a weak smile. "I know," she said. "And Fakir will be fighting too. He won't just stay in the gang and not ever try to get out."

Autor closed his eyes, falling silent. ". . . I wonder if I hurt Fakir," he said. "When he confronted me, I mean."

Ahiru looked down. "I remember Neko-Sensei said it takes two people to argue," she said.

"At first I tried to tell myself it was just another of his usual explosions," Autor said, opening his eyes and gazing at the ceiling. "But when he seized me and wouldn't let go, I realized he had gone beyond the usual. And what he said when he finally released me insulted me so badly that I couldn't let it pass. Although I had planned to censure him before he spoke at that point."

Ahiru shifted. "So you were insulted . . . or just hurt?" she ventured.

Again Autor was silent. "I shouldn't feel hurt," he muttered. "It's a weak emotion."

"It isn't either!" Ahiru exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "It's something you feel because you really care about people. And that's not weak at all."

A faint smile played on Autor's lips. "You sound like Princess Tutu," he said. "I can imagine her saying that."

"Yeah, I guess," Ahiru said.

Autor let out a resigned sigh. "Yes, I was hurt," he said. "I still feel somewhat bruised. It's strange; I don't think I fully realized how much I'd come to believe in that friendship until it felt like it was being pulled out from under my feet." He gave a humorless laugh. "Maybe Fakir felt the same. Yet . . . even though I'm feeling somewhat guilty now for what I said to him, I still feel like he should have trusted me to begin with and controlled his temper. I wonder, is that wrong?"

Ahiru sat down on the edge of his bed. "I don't think so," she said. "At least . . . I've felt like that too. And I know I would've got upset. I would have been screaming at Fakir. It hurts when it feels like someone you care about doesn't trust you."

"And it hurts when you feel betrayed," Autor lamented. "Both of us do, I imagine."

Ahiru laid a hand on his. "It'll be okay," she said. "You and Fakir can still be friends, if you can just talk things out and not get mad at each other again!"

Autor gave a slight smile. "Perhaps," he said. Sobering he added, "But in the meantime Fakir must be feeling horrible. I feel responsible for that. It's a terrible feeling."

"I feel responsible too," Ahiru said. "Everything started when I asked you about the jewelry store, and then later when I came to you for help because Fakir got taken." She started to get up. "But you need to rest. You won't be feeling up to doing stuff tomorrow either!"

Autor reached and caught her hand. "Ahiru." He hesitated. "If I . . . fall asleep and you're still awake, could you check my watch and wake me in thirty minutes? Ask me what my name is."

Ahiru gawked at him. "Why?" she exclaimed.

"Just in case I have a concussion." Autor took off his glasses, setting them on the nightstand. "I don't like to burden you with the task, but . . ."

"It's not a burden!" Ahiru interrupted. "Of course I'll do it. I still don't think I'll be getting any sleep."

"I hope you will," Autor said. "At least you should try."

"Yeah. I'll try." Ahiru moved back to the other bed. "Goodnight, Autor."

"Goodnight." Autor closed his eyes again. In spite of himself, he was soon asleep.