"So they're gone," Claire said dully, taking in the scene of mild destruction in the library.
"They're gone," her grandmother confirmed, fairly calm despite having two sons apparently kidnapped. She'd vented some of her immediate feelings on the library furniture—it's not like anyone would notice it, she figured, just another element to the chaos—and had then taken the time to compose herself fully before bringing Claire back home.
"And you don't know what happened to them," Claire continued, flipping a book over with her toe.
"Not really, no," Angela told her. "The only clue I have is that Nathan's wife, Heidi, was here when we left and now she's not. I called her in Jersey and she's still at the retreat, so obviously, somehow…that was not Heidi."
Claire gave her a half-meant, shellshocked smile. "Stranger things, huh?"
"Only with this family," Angela said vehemently, sitting down on an untouched chair and massaging her temple.
Claire leaned on the wall, feeling upset. She had somehow managed to lose two families in less than a week, and it left her feeling very disoriented and very traumatized. When this was all over—if this was all over—she was nearly positive she was going to need counseling.
A tinny ringing broke through the silence of the room, and Angela pulled out her cell phone, looking as if she'd like to swat it instead of answering it. "Yes?" she answered brusquely. Then, as she listened, her face changed from annoyance to surprise and concern. "Where have you been? Really? Well, I guess that's that. No more bridges now, you've burned them all. I suppose you'd better come up. Yes, to New York, get here as quickly as you can. Oh, and before you go—there's someone who probably want to talk to you." She held the phone out to Claire, who stood up straight, confused. "Claire, it's your father."
Hope spattering over her face like fireworks, she snatched the phone out of her grandmother's hand with a rapidity bordering on rudeness. "Dad?"
"Claire bear?" she heard her father say, voice breaking up with distance and emotion. "Sweetheart, are you okay? How have you been?"
"I've been fine," she assured him quickly. "They're taking really good care of me, everything's been great." She felt no need to tell him of the events of the last hour, tangled and worrisome as they were. "How about you? Did everything go like you wanted?"
She heard him sigh with more heaviness than she felt was healthy. "No, not exactly," he admitted, "but thing turned out all right, and that's all that matters. I'm coming to New York, sweetheart, I'll be there in a few days."
"Have you seen Mom and Lyle? Are they okay?"
There was a pregnant pause, and then he spoke again, in the way she could now identify as the 'lying-to-Claire-for-her-own-good' voice. "They're fine, honey. They miss you."
She swallowed down her concern and resentment, reminding herself that in the past, his actions had been, without exception, for her good. "Tell them hi for me before you go," she said, playing along with him even though it made her throat feel tight and restricted.
"Well, I'd probably better go," he said. "I need to find a flight to New York. I love you, Claire. You be careful."
"I will, Dad," she said, hating the finality of the words. "I love you."
"Love you too, Claire bear," he said. "I'll see you soon." And then he was gone, states and states away and no longer connected to her at all.
She handed the phone back to Angela, who looked vaguely disapproving. "Ridiculous," she said. "This whole thing has become such a mess."
"What happened?" Claire asked. "My dad wouldn't really tell me."
Her grandmother rubbed her forehead tiredly. "Oh, he went and got himself caught. Apparently they've got some kind of a shapeshifter, and she tricked him into spilling his whole plan for…I don't know, destroying The Company, whatever it was he was planning. In any case, they had him and they were holding him, but he was able to escape—very cleverly, I must admit, with the help of a mind-reader. They'll both be here within a day or two."
Claire slid her tongue over the back of her teeth, ideas twisting together and connecting in her head. "Wait," she said thoughtfully, "did you say a—shapeshifter?"
Angela tapped her chin, considering. "Yes," she said, drawing the world out so that it had four or five syllables. "Now, that's a thought, isn't it? A Heidi that wasn't really Heidi…"
"Exactly what I was thinking," Claire said. "Do you think they got Peter and Nathan?" She paused. "Come to think of it, who are they, anyway? I really don't know what I'm talking about, here."
Angela flapped a hand at her, dismissing the question and its attached web of measureless backstory and deception. "Just think of them as a kind of a large corporation with no morals and dangerous amount of focus. The point is, if they have my sons, it could be very bad."
"So what are we going to do?" Claire asked, kicking an ottoman upright.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I need to make a few phone calls."
Suddenly, the doorbell rang from the other side of the house. Looking frazzled, Mrs. Petrelli began walking toward the door, but Claire waved her away. "I'll get it," she said, glad to get out of the distressingly trashed room.
---
It had been fairly easy for Sylar to find Peter Petrelli. He and his brother were side-by-side on Mohinder's list, easy to find in his picture-perfect memory. Nathan, in fact, had been the key—a web search for his name had pulled up dozens of sites, lobbying or complaining about his chances for Congressional candidacy. His victims identified, he'd only had to run a search for an address on one of the sites, and there it was—the X on his map, a penthouse in New York. He'd always known that if he put forth the effort, evolution would help him along, and here was the proof: Peter Petrelli, the embodiment of everything he'd wanted, practically giftwrapped in his hands. Just one more death, and it would all be over. He readied himself—all his talk of conclusiveness notwithstanding, Peter had proven to be quite a tricky catch at their last meeting—and rang the doorbell.
The girl who opened the door was blond, pretty in a girl-next-door way, and stressed-looking—Sylar recognized her immediately. Unfortunately, she placed him just as quickly, and wasn't slow about reacting—she slammed the door on him and took off down the hall, yelling for someone. He caught the door before it shut and threw it open, catching up with her quickly, telekinetically pushing her into the plaster wall with enough force to leave dents. As she screamed and kicked her legs at him, an older, formidable-looking woman ran into the room, looking for the source of the noise. He dealt with her quickly, sending a painted vase into her head that dropped her like a puppet with its strings cut.
He turned his attention back to Claire, whose screams had taken on a sharp edge of terror that he found familiar and oddly refreshing. This was more like it—this was how it was supposed to go, not the messy scramble and mess that Peter had been. Well, after he took Claire's power, it would be that much easier to take Peter's—it was a step-by-step process, really, an evolutionary ladder. He wasn't exactly sure what Mr. Bennet's daughter was doing in New York, but he didn't give it to much thought; to his mind, it was simply the world bending again to give way to its natural course.
He wrapped a hand around her throat, holding her still, trying to figure out how to work this. Claire Bennet presented an interesting problem—given her extraordinary healing power, it would be difficult for him to cut into her head as he usually did. Yes, Claire was a problem indeed, but he felt the potential payoff was worth the trouble.
He saw Claire's eyes widen to saucer-rounds, but he didn't think to attribute it to anything more than fright and fear of dying. That was a mistake, and he was spectacularly made aware of it seconds later as a chair came smashing down on his temple, driving him headfirst into unconsciousness.
As Sylar's hold on her went limp, Claire dropped to the ground, staring, half-afraid, at her newly materialized rescuer. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a scrubby beard that made him appear far more unkempt than he was. His eyes were slightly sunken but vividly alive, giving her the impression of looking at something bright from far away.
"Sorry that took so long," he said in a heavily British, oaky-sounding accent. "Couldn't find anything to hit him with."
"It's, um," she stammered, "it's fine. Thank you."
He peered at her in a disconcertingly piercing way, and she shifted her weight, uncomfortable under the marquee-spotlight of his gaze. "I recognize you," he concluded after a through examination. "What's your name, girl?"
"Claire Bennet," she said uneasily.
To her confusion, he dropped the chair, laughing, and clapped his hands together. "Small world, isn't it? Well, you've certainly grown up."
"I don't know you," she protested, bewildered.
"Ah, of course you don't remember," he said. "Take a closer look, Claire. Don't you remember me pushing you on your swingset, picking you up, giving you nickels? Unless that father of yours decided to get rid of the memories, there should be something there."
"You're not—" she started, but cut herself off when she realized that he was, under all the facial hair and sarcasm. "Claude?" she said tentatively.
"That's right," he said, laughing again.
"But I haven't seen you since I was a kid! My dad said—" she faltered.
"He told you I was dead, didn't he?" Claude said grimly. "He thought I was, but here I am."
"You used to be my dad's partner, and that means you worked for The Company, too," she said shrewdly.
He regarded her with mild surprise. "I guess you're old and clever enough now to know that daddy doesn't work for a paper company."
"My dad's a good person," she defended. "He's been working against The Company for years, and they caught him, but he escaped and he's coming to New York."
"Well, maybe he's finally changed," Claude said dubiously. "Stranger things have happened. But I didn't come here to talk about your father. Where's Peter? I need to see him."
Her face fell, and she seemed to remember Sylar, unconscious at her feet. "He's gone," she told Claude. "Him and his brother. We think The Company took them."
He swore colorfully, and to such enthusiastic extent that she almost felt she should cover her ears. "I shouldn't have left him," he said bleakly. "He doesn't have any idea what he's doing, I should never have left."
"Don't you think we should do something with this guy?" Claire prompted worriedly, nudging Sylar with her toe.
"Good point," he said, eying Sylar. "He could wake up at any moment. I'll see what I can do about him, and you go check if that woman is okay."
Guiltily, she remembered her grandmother, and rushed to make sure Mrs. Petrelli was unharmed. Angela was just stirring when Claire reached her, eyes fluttering open to the welcome sight of her granddaughter, alive.
"Claire," she breathed, reaching out to grab her hand. "You're all right. I thought—"
"I'm fine," Claire assured her. "I got saved, again. Are you all right? How's your head?"
Mrs. Petrelli sat up, holding her forehead gingerly. "I think I'll survive. What happened to that man? Where is he?" When Claire pointed to Sylar on the floor, she transformed back into competence and command, issuing orders to her granddaughter and the other, unfamiliar man. "Oh, dear. Claire, go into the bathroom down the hall and look behind the mirror. There should be tranquilizers in with the medicines, on the third shelf—bring them to me. You, hand me the phone and keep and eye on that man. I'm calling the police."