FRINGE

Curiosity Kills the Cat

No copyright inFRiNGEment intended.

Note: Peter had a bad dream. He can't shake the idea that Olivia was in a car accident. I know it's been a while but real lif blah blah blah.

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PART 2

To a newcomer, with his three-day stubble and perpetual scowl, Peter was the impersonation of cool, even at the wee hours. But it didn't take a rocket scientist to see that something was off. Not the time, not the clothes nor the fact that a man in his thirties and his father were working at a campus classified lab in the middle of the night. No. It was this mixed feeling of anxiety, apprehension and alarm.

Peter slammed the metallic file cabinet close and kicked the bottom drawer. He winced from the pain and turned his attention back to the desk. He rummaged through Olivia's files and drawers and finally dropped in her chair, gritting his teeth, sporting a massive vertical line on his forehead. He had to admit he was confused.

They talked the day before. They had some cheap coffee from the vending machine in the hall and he was his usual self, flirty and nosy. She, on the contrary, was elusive and blushing, glancing over the rim of her cup at him and she was smiling for god's sake! But she was not going anywhere. She would have told him. He was one hundred percent positive she wouldn't hide something from him, --unless it was some top notch for your eyes only FBI thing.

Even so.

It was unlike her to be deceptive and moreover to disappear without advanced notice. Clasping the edge of the desk with both hands, he looked around in a last attempt to find the tiniest bit of clue that had eluded him before.

Nothing.

He jumped from the chair which almost got knocked over, and half a dozen strides later, he was back to harassing Walter.

"Walter, you're wasting valuable time. We must call Francis. We must call him now, make sure she's okay. What if she was kidnapped again?"

"You're not making any sense Peter. How do you imagine that a simple phone call would achieve such a gigantic task?"

Peter opened his mouth and for the first time ever, was unable to utter a single word. He shoved his hands deep inside his pockets instead and looked puzzled.

Walter's mouth quivered.

"You said she was in an accident… am I right?" He walked right ahead, forcing Peter to move over. "So, if you don't mind, get out of my way, and let me do my job. I'm almost done here."

He waved at his son dismissively, gliding silently to the other side of the lab, his white medical gloves up in the air, swinging his concentration in full mode. This nightmare was a godsend, the perfect opportunity to perform every medical test known to mankind on Peter, to make sure he was all right, that entropy hadn't win the game, --for now. He couldn't help but grinning madly inside his head at the view of the perfect results.

At least, he could only wish that the grin stayed in his head.

Peter watched him attend another buzzing machine. He felt his arms and mind going helplessly limp, his fears roving in his chest in an endless loop. When he went back from his reverie, Walter was nowhere to be seen. He groaned and jogged to the lab door, checked the lobby, listening to the possible echo of his father footsteps.

"Peter? I do hope you're not planning to leave me here without breakfast?" Walter protested in his back. He was zipping his fly up and seemed obviously concerned by his son erratic behaviour and equally oblivious of the result of his eavesdropping on him. Peter refrained himself from going directly to the throat and closed the door gently behind him with a sigh.

"I thought…" he began.

"That I was gone?" yelped his father. "Nonsense! Where would I go at this time of day? I don't even have the car key…" He frowned, hesitating; then a bright smile lighted up his face. "Son, I think I just remembered where I left my Norton."

"Your old bike? You're kidding right?"

"Of course not. I'm quite sure I know. It's…"

"Walter, I promise to take you wherever you want to but please, tell me. Is there something wrong with me?"

"To be perfectly honest…"

"Is it a brain tumour?"

"A brain tumour? Peter! Don't be so dramatic! Your results are perfect. Too perfect if you must know. Perhaps a cure of Woodford Reserve 1838 Sweet Mash Kentucky Bourbon and some cigars would do the trick."

"Cigars?"

"Cuban of course," Walter smiled.

"So you're telling me that you admit that I had a bad dream and that we lost several hours? I'm calling Francis!" Peter's relief, despite his concern of agent Dunham, was obvious. He composed her colleague number and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Absolutely son, knock yourself out!" said Walter who twirled away.

Peter bit his lip, listening intently to the distant tone. One more and it'll be his voice mail. "This is Charlie Francis' phone," said a sleepy female voice.

"Mrs Francis?"

"Peter?"

"… 'Livia? Where are you? You were in an accident?"

"An accident?" her voice was gentle and surprised. "No. Absolutely not. Peter? Why are you up? We're near…" she spoke softly to someone, "… we're about 60 miles southwest of Boston."

"Wait. Where?"

"In Westport. Traffic crawls along Route 6. There's a 20 worker crew raking asphalt and traffic is really slow. I guess they work at night to keep the nuisance to a minimum."

"So you're okay?"

"Yes, just following a lead. Dead end. Why, something wrong?"

"No, nothing. Talk to you soon."

"Okay, see you then."

With that she hung up. He watched his phone going silent and dark.

"Breakfast?" chirped Walter startling him again.

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TBC

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