After several hours and two more nightmares, Heidi had nearly abandoned all pretense of sleep. Phrases from Sylar's letter haunted her, running unchecked through her mind, accompanied by images of his face—images that were shadowed and vague, yet somehow unmistakably him.
It was ironic, she thought dully, that even though she and Sylar had lived as husband and wife for months at least—maybe even years—she had never seen his face or heard his voice. Her knowledge of his appearance was limited to the photographs that were annually plastered across newspapers and television screens on the anniversary of his devastation of New York City. She recalled dark, intense eyes, dark hair, and stubble that stood out against a pale complexion. Nothing overly remarkable, nothing that instantly labeled him as a mass murderer—yet it was enough. Her subconscious mind, she had discovered, was more than capable of filling in the blanks.
The grandfather clock in the first-floor dining room gave four long chimes, its sonorous tones echoing through the mansion and into Heidi's bedroom. She gave a sigh of resignation and climbed out of bed, massaging her aching temple with both hands.
Reaching out in the dark, her fingers twisted the switch of the small lamp on her nightstand, filling the room with a dim illumination. On top of the dresser—not far from where Peter had hurled Sylar's letter—lay a small, leather-bound journal. She crossed the room and picked it up, opening it to the first blank page.
She stood, hair obscuring her face, dark-circled eyes riveted to the unmarked sheet of paper. She had begun keeping a journal in her teenage years, filling its pages with the typical adolescent angst and secrets, hopes and longings. The habit had stayed with her (albeit more sporadically) into adulthood, and the journal had become an invaluable outlet for her frustrations during the months of her paralysis. She knew that had she tried to keep those emotions locked away, they would have driven her to the edge of insanity.
Now, she needed that release more than ever. Sylar had written to her, after all; there was no reason she couldn't write back. Even if he would never read it.
Sylar,
It would have been devastating enough had you just killed my husband. The death—let alone murder—of a spouse is something no one should ever have to experience. Nathan may have had his flaws, but I loved him dearly—I still do—and trying to go on without him is harder than anything I've ever done.
But that wasn't enough for you. Not only did you murder my husband, you deceived me, manipulated me, used me, violated me in every way possible. The shock and grief of Nathan's death was horrible enough. The shame and humiliation and despair of learning that, for all that time, you were pretending to be him and I couldn't even tell the difference between him and you—that made it so much worse.
There were times, of course, when I suspected something wasn't right. Times when Nathan—you—wouldn't seem to remember things we'd done or conversations we'd had. And there were little quirks and habits and preferences of Nathan's that seemed to mysteriously disappear or change without warning, aspects of his personality that just seemed…different. But I convinced myself it was simply the sheer pressure of having one of the most stressful jobs possible. Who wouldn't be forced to change after taking on the burdens of an entire nation? And I wanted so desperately to keep our marriage strong, to support him as best I could, that I told myself to overlook those seemingly insignificant discrepancies.
But I should have known better. Even finding out that you apparently used some sort of mind control on me at times doesn't provide much comfort. I was his wife, closer to him than anyone. I should have known.
And so even though I want to hate you for everything you've done to me, I find I hate myself even more.
The words seemed to bleed together on the page, and she let the book fall closed.
- - -
The second letter came two weeks after the first.
Heidi was on her way from the mailbox to the house when she saw it—the handwriting that was now burned into her brain, staring up at her from the envelope. Her step faltered, her breath snagging in her throat, and she felt a deep chill settle over her.
It was several hours before she could force herself to open the envelope. Part of her wanted to simply feed it into the paper shredder and be done with it, but Peter had told her—with that earnest, penetrating stare he seemed to have honed over the past five years—that, should Sylar send any more letters, it was critical that someone read them, in case he happened to slip and give any clues as to his plans or his location.
Apparently Peter and his associates were having difficulty in finding Sylar. There was a tracking system, Peter had told her gravely, but its location was proving to be just as mysterious as Sylar's. Heidi refused to contemplate the situation for more than a few seconds at a time—any longer and she knew the fear and anger would paralyze her. She couldn't allow that to happen.
And so she finally slid her fingernail under the envelope's top flap and tore it slowly, inch by reluctant inch.
The letter was written on the same type of paper, with the same black ink as the first one had been. However, as Heidi looked closer, she noticed one almost imperceptible difference: this time, the writing seemed less neat, almost ragged, as if Sylar had been in a state of agitation when he'd written it.
She didn't want to think about what might agitate a serial killer.
Heidi,
What exactly was so wonderful about Nathan, anyway?
Granted, he was special, genetically speaking. His ability to fly has served me well on more than one occasion. But as far as Nathan himself—his personality, his quirks, his character…what was it about him that you loved?
Before I killed Nathan, I studied him for a long, long time. I'm a good actor—as you well know—and I'd played lots of roles before I took on Nathan's identity. But playing Nathan was obviously the most high-profile part, the one most closely scrutinized, the one with the greatest risk. What bigger stage could I ask for than the Oval Office? And what bigger audience than the entire world itself?
So I watched Nathan. With my ability to create illusions, it was laughably easy, really. I learned his personality traits, his facial expressions, his mannerisms. I observed him at multiple different times and places, like when he was meeting with his advisors, when he was discussing affairs of state, when he was delivering speeches…and when he was alone with you. The whole process took a while, but I was patient. Patience has always been a particular virtue of mine.
The point I'm making here, Heidi, is that I saw sides of Nathan that probably even you never knew about. They say people are defined by the things they do when no one is watching—or, at least, when they think no one is watching. And what I saw in Nathan was, aside from his ability, nothing special. He was a politician through and through—lying, cheating, power-grubbing, self-preserving at all costs.
I also saw that he didn't seem to have much time for you, did he, Heidi? Of course, you both still smiled for the reporters and kissed for the cameras, but behind closed doors, things weren't so blissful. You were growing apart—or maybe he was just growing away from you. Naturally the pressures of being president took up a lot of his time, but even when he did have a spare moment, it always seemed to be reserved for his brother. Or his mother. Didn't you ever feel like you were second best in his eyes?
When I took on Nathan's identity, at first I essentially picked up where he left off, as far as you were concerned. I just pushed you away a little more forcefully, a little more consistently than he already had been. But I have to give you credit, Heidi. You fought back with much more tenacity than I had expected.
Do you remember the turning point? It was late one evening—I think it was sometime in July. I remember that it was swelteringly hot, tempers had been flaring all day, and I was just looking forward to getting a decent night's sleep. But you had other plans. You came into the bedroom, and you had this strange, determined light in your eyes that I didn't recall ever seeing before. At first you were calm and collected, but then things got out of hand and soon we were arguing rather…heatedly.
I'll be honest with you, Heidi. That night was the first time in a long while that I was caught off guard, the first time something happened that wasn't exactly according to plan. You threw a definite wrench into things. I don't think I slept much at all that night. I just lay there next to you, watching you, wondering what exactly had just happened and what I was going to do about it.
Killing you would have been one way to deal with the issue, and I'd be lying if I said the thought never crossed my mind. But if I'd done that, I would have had to put up with official investigations and the like, not to mention the media circus that would have ensued, and those were hassles I didn't want. So I decided to take a chance and try living with you instead.
And even though I wasn't Nathan…you were happy with me, Heidi. I know it, and even though you're probably trying to deny it, my guess is that you know it too. Like I said last time I wrote to you, I can see how people work, what makes them think and act the way they do. So once I stopped trying to keep you at a distance and began to actually see you, I found myself starting to give you what you needed, both emotionally and physically. I'm not used to the concept of giving. My purpose is to take—to obtain things that others aren't worthy of, and use them in ways that their original owners could never fathom. Like with Nathan. I took everything he had that was worth taking—his power, his position, his wife, his very existence. But with you, I realized I had to give before I could take what you had to offer.
And in the process, I came to know you better than I've known virtually anyone else in my life. I know your facial expressions—the look that means you're about to get a migraine, the little frown you have when you're deep in thought, the flash in your eyes that says you're about to give someone an earful. I know that when you're depressed or anxious, you like to eat peanut butter right out of the jar. I know that riding in a car still scares you half to death, but you put on a brave face so no one will notice the spark of apprehension in your eyes right before you close the door. I know that you love rain, and thunderstorms especially, because they remind you of the day your first son was born. And I know all the little sounds you make when I touch you in just the right places.
I know you, Heidi, just as well as Nathan did. Maybe even better.
Gabriel
Shame and loathing flooded her, and she fought the impulse to run through the house and burn everything he'd ever touched. (She knew she would have to be the first thing on the pyre.)
She had left the first letter on top of the dresser, but the second one she buried in the depths of Nathan's sock drawer, under mounds of clothing that she hadn't yet been able to make herself throw away. When Peter asked her if Sylar had written again, she said simply that yes, he had, and no, he hadn't revealed his whereabouts, and no, she'd rather not talk about it.
Later, when she was calmer, she pulled out her journal once more.
Sylar,
You're wrong. Wrong about Nathan. I don't pretend to understand what kind of power you have that allows you to (supposedly) make such astute observations on the human condition, but I do know this: Nathan and I were married for nearly ten years. No, our marriage certainly wasn't perfect, but you don't spend ten years of your life with the same person without coming to know him well. My husband was a good man who loved me and our children, and who cared deeply about this city and this country and was devoted to doing everything in his power to make them better
But as much as it pains me to admit it, you're right about one thing: Nathan and I had been going through some difficult times in recent years. I thought that, after I regained use of my legs and Nathan was elected senator, maybe we had turned a corner and things would start to get better. But then you destroyed New York, and everything happened so quickly after that. It was a difficult time for all of us, to put it lightly, and it took its toll on our marriage. There were times when I honestly wondered if we would be able to pull through. We'd already endured so much.
And then you came.
She dropped the pen, letting her eyes glaze over slightly as she stared at the half-filled page. Sylar's letter lay unfolded nearby, but she didn't have to look at it to recall the words causing the cold, leaden weight to form in the pit of her abdomen: Do you remember the turning point?…You came into the bedroom, and you had this strange, determined light in your eyes that I didn't recall ever seeing before…
Her lower lip caught between her teeth, and she ignored the taste of blood. She did remember. She'd been close to her breaking point, trapped by anxiety and growing despair, knowing that Nathan was slipping away from her—and knowing that unless she took action, she and her husband would become just another divorce statistic.
The previous several years of her life had seemed like a battle that stretched on with no armistice in sight. She'd fought to master her emotions following the accident, to stave off anger and bitterness. She'd fought to hold her family together even as she battled to tame the wheelchair. And she'd fought to be able to walk again.
She was no stranger to clawing tooth and nail, and so she'd prepared herself for one more struggle. Under no circumstances would she allow her marriage to die without doing everything in her power to hold it together.
And so she'd confronted Nathan that muggy July night…or so she had thought.
The coldness coiled tighter in her gut, and she lowered her head to the table, her forehead bumping against the hard surface.
She didn't recall exactly what words she had used to plead her case, but she remembered the impact they'd had. She and Nathan had made love for the first time in months, their movements almost frantic—feverish—releasing the tension and frustration that had built up for so long.
She remembered that afterward, as she lay in his arms and let her breathing slowly return to normal, he'd trailed his fingertips down her face and stared at her, unblinking, like he was seeing her for the first time.
A sound that might have been a laugh escaped her, bitter and choked, and she closed her eyes, letting the tears wet her lashes. She'd thought she had saved her marriage that night.
Instead, she'd made a serial killer begin to fall in love with her.