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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"I have promised the Beast faithfully I will come back,
And he would die of grief if I did not keep my word!"
"What would that matter to you?" asked the prince.
"Surely you would not care?"
It took all my strength to drag Sylar to the appointed place. But luckily, it was not far. His blood covered my hands. I had hit the spot directly. He was now "deactivated," the needle straight up through his weak spot—and he couldn't sense a thing.
Gasping and panting as I pulled him up the grassy hill toward the abandoned barn Flynt had specified, I did not allow my thoughts to travel at all. Even with my arms wrapped around Sylar's chest from behind, I focused hard on Peter and Emma, and paid no heed to what was happening somewhere inside my heart. Sylar's bag was securely strapped on my shoulders.
Clouds rolled overhead, and the wind tossed my hair. Four cars stood on the grass, their lights on, illuminating Flynt and four agents standing in front of the falling-down barn. I dragged Sylar up to them and tossed him down at their feet. His arms splayed limply out, and his head fell back. The long end of the needle sticking out of his jaw gleamed in the light. I kept my face blank.
"There," I panted, gesturing to him with my bloody hand. "There. You've got what you want. Now let Peter and Emma go."
Flynt just stood there, hands on his hips, gazing down at Sylar's unconscious form.
"So you did know his weak spot." His gleaming blue eyes found mine, and he grinned. I did not respond. I just closed my fists—they were chilled and sticky.
"How did you find it out?" Flynt asked.
"He told me," I muttered. Flynt looked at me in surprise.
"Really? Wow. I'm impressed." He walked around and inspected Sylar from the side. "Well, I guess every Sampson has his Delilah." He looked up at me again, and suddenly, all the malice was gone from his face. "I'm sorry about the way I've treated you thus far, Miss Bennet. I truly am. I just wasn't certain about what kind of person I was dealing with. In my line of work, it's usually better to ask forgiveness than permission, if you know what I mean."
I took a deep breath, and nodded. Flynt prodded Sylar with his toe.
"But now that we've got him, and you complied with everything, there's no reason for your friends to sit in the cramped car downtown anymore." Flynt waved to one of his men, who immediately flipped open a cell phone and made a call.
"What are you going to do with him?" I asked, pointing to Sylar.
"The only thing we know how to do, really," Flynt said. "Since this is a top-secret case, we're going to put him in the barn—it's a perfect cover—and burn it down. Make it look like an accident. Then, we'll come back when it's mostly cooled off and grind up his remains into ashes and scatter them."
"You're authorized to do that without a trial?" I was surprised. Flynt nodded.
"He's considered an enemy of the state, to be killed on sight." He sighed, and I saw his shoulders sag. "Finally, my niece can rest."
"Sir, they're released now," Flynt's man reported.
"Good," Flynt said. Then he turned to me. "They can put Peter on the line. Would you like to talk to him?"
I blinked, my mind spinning. But I managed to nod again. The man came over and handed me the cell phone.
"Peter?"
"Claire! Oh, thank God," Peter cried. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you?"
"Yeah, Emma and I are fine. They just let us go. Where are you?"
"I'm up on the big hill just east of town—there's a big, old barn up here."
"What? Why are you up there?"
I swallowed.
"Aaron Flynt wanted Sylar. So he's got him."
Peter went silent.
"Peter?" I said again.
"Okay…" Peter said slowly, trying to process. "So did Gabriel tell you when he'll be getting loose of them?"
I glanced over at Flynt, who was crouching next to Sylar, examining the knitting needle.
"He can't get loose. I put a knitting needle through his weak spot."
Peter drew in a breath that hissed in my ear.
"You what?"
"He told me his weak spot," I said, suddenly realizing that I wanted to get through to Peter the fact that I just knew Sylar had an exit strategy. But I couldn't say that so close to Flynt.
"He told you…Claire," Peter said hurriedly. "What are they going to do to him?"
"They're going to put him in the barn and burn it, then scatter his ashes."
"Oh, no—no, Claire, you can't let that happen," Peter's voice rose with desperation. "You don't understand—he'll do that, Claire! For you and me and—Gabriel will let them—Claire you have to stop them!"
Flynt arose, and came toward me.
"Claire, do you hear me?" Peter yelped.
"I'll talk to you soon, Peter," I said.
"Claire!"
I hung up the phone, and handed it to Flynt.
"Thanks," I said. He smiled and took the phone from me.
"That black limo's for you," he said, gesturing to a long, black limo that sat at the edge of the woods. "It'll take you into town as soon as we've got the fire going. There's food in there, and sanitary wipes and stuff for you to clean up with." He came up and put a hand on my shoulder. "Again, I want to emphasize that I had no intention of hurting your friends, or you. We just wanted Sylar. That's all. And since it turns out that you had the same goal, I'm sorry we used such rough measures."
"You had to know he killed my parents. You could have just asked," I pointed out. He chuckled.
"I'll keep that in mind next time." Then, he turned back to Sylar. "Okay, get him up."
Two men came around on either side of Sylar, picked him up by his arms and dragged him into the barn, their way lit by flashlights.
Subdued thunder rolled overhead, and the wind whirled around us. I ducked my head and made for the limo, already peeling the bag off my back. I jumped inside and shut the door.
There was no driver. Apparently, they actually did trust me.
Light flashed outside. I jerked to look. Two agents had gas cans, and were circling the barn, spraying the base of it. And another agent bore a small flame-thrower, and walked a way behind them, igniting the old barn wood. The hungry flame climbed the wall in no time, lighting up the night sky.
There was no time to waste. I pulled the bag onto my lap, unzipped it, and reached inside for whatever Sylar had left for me.
My hand landed on an envelope. I quickly pulled it out. It bore my name. Good. Here were my instructions—the next plan of attack. His exit strategy. I had to read fast, and act on whatever he had planned.
I quickly unfolded the paper, and once more found that black-inked writing, inscribed with that same, familiar, strong penmanship. But I blinked, my brow furrowing. It looked like another sonnet. And as I read, my heart turned to ice.
Claire,
"No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone."
Until death,
Your Gabriel
My breath snagged in my throat as my hands tightened on the paper. There was no back door. No plan of attack. No exit strategy. He had never planned on getting out of this alive.
He was going to die for Peter and Emma.
And for me.
TO BE CONTINUED