Keeping Promises
There was a pause on the other end as Rup absorbed his words.
"You in some kind of trouble, Danny?"
Eames wants to say: "Not yet" but represses it.
He looks cautiously over his shoulders again.
He was going to have to get used to it. He would be running for a while.
When Eames didn't respond Rup sighed dejectedly into the phone.
"Ok. I get it. If you're in a jam you can call on me, you hear?"
The less he involved anyone the better. Anyone that helped him could be seen as an accomplice, an accessory. He closed his eyes and bit down on his tongue hard almost drawing blood. He promised his sister that he would come back for her but he knew he couldn't keep that promise just yet.
First he had to fulfill the silent promise to his mum-he wasn't going to forget to keep dreaming. He was dreaming of hunting him down and killing him. Killing him dead.
Rupert had a lot of connections of the not so legal variety but even they couldn't track down his step father. It was a path that he had to walk alone
There was a reason why Eames surpassed his step father's skills at 13. He was better than him. He was a 40 year old something man and too cocky for his own good. Eames too was cocky at times too but he was always learning, always changing, always adapting. He would find him-even if it took the rest of his life. He wouldn't stop.
But that did mean he had to keep moving.
Rup was going to have one of his boys have the gun deposited in a locker at the Euston train station. The key to the locker was going to be taped to the backside of a toilet in the third stall in the west most men's loo.
He thanked Rup profusely and knowing he wouldn't want payment but he was going to wire him some as soon as he had it. Which proved to be another problem.
"I need money."
"Hello to you too."
"Can you wire me some?"
"Can't I just drop it off with the guards when I come visit you next week?"
The less Sam knew where he was or what he was up to the better. If she kept thinking he was in prison, at least for a little while then he thought he bought her some time.
If his step father caught wind of what he was doing he had no doubt that he would be able to track her down and kill her just like he did with their mum.
"I need some now. You know I'll pay you back once I get a job…"
"You were gambling again weren't you?"
"Yeah," because she suggested it and lying was just easier. All in the matter of protecting her.
She sighs angrily and they bicker. Eames reminds her that he's two years older, still her big brother and they fight some more until she finally gives in and wires the money. The prison did have western union so she isn't suspicious of sending it.
He was able to pick it up at the petrol station.
He uses some of the meager sum to buy a bus ticket to London so he can fetch his gun.
Once he's alone in his little motel room he opens the bag and pears at the gun. It's a Beretta M9, serial numbers filed off like he asked. There's even a silencer in the bag. Eames smiles faintly. Rup's thought of everything.
He picks it up, tests the weight and how it feels in his hand and against his fingers.
He looks at himself in the mirror while holding it and knows that he's going to be holding onto this gun for a while. He won't be able to not associate it with taking care of a much needed problem.
He practices with it because he's never used this kind of gun before.
He knows no amount of practice will train him for the real thing however.
"I'll come back for you."
He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the reflection of shame and disappointment on his face through the mirror. He has no idea when he can come back to her. A promise deep in his heart. One that won't let go. He only hopes she can forgive him.
It took five long months.
Five months of barely living-just existing. He barely slept, barely ate. Barely did anything but keep moving. He would stay in cheap motels, homeless shelters or just sleep on the streets like a dog. The money his sister wired him ran out after the first couple days so he had to resort to the old ways. Did he feel good about lifting wallets or cheating at illegal poker games? From swindling people? From tricking them? From lying to them? Praying on the innocent and weak just so he could catch another train or bus when he heard rumors that his step father may be in that town? From using the same tools he was taught by the very same man he was hunting down? The lines between what was right and what was necessary to survive were becoming blurred. He didn't feel good but he didn't feel bad either. It was hard for him to feel anything at all. But he did feel some guilt, hardened around the desire to kill.
He heard whispers from the underground. Old contacts and "friends" his step father had didn't really talk but he was able to catch enough of a trail to follow him halfway around the UK and back.
All the while he's moving; more like running and he can't stop.
He knew his sister may never speak to him again-they may go back to how they were when they were children but he still keeps running.
He has to do it for his mum. He can't let this monster survive.
He sits in the still running car he's hotwired and stolen looking down below the ridge.
He grips the steering wheel tightly as he takes in the scene below. It's anything then what he expected but he figured he never knew his step father at all anyway. It was all a lie.
But it's over now. It ends here.
The sun is just rising and the March dawn air is exceptionally chilly. It blasts his skin as he steps carefully out of the car.
He watches his hot breath expel out in front of him. Smokes a fag and watches that too.
He leans against the old, beat up car and smokes until it almost burns his fingers.
He doesn't feel anything.
The world is eerily calm and still. He is too.
He gazes down to the almost picturesque scene below. To the large field that leads to a quaint farm. Eames thinks it would almost be peaceful but he knows what's lurking between the walls and he spits.
The morning rays are just lighting up the fields below.
They're gold he recites in his head, thinking back to the flashcards his mum helped him make when he was a boy.
Fields are supposed to be gold. He imagines whatever that's supposed to mean. He knows gold is a metal. It's used to make jewelry and loads of other things. He didn't understand how it was a color. When people would say: "Golden rays" he imagined jewelry raining from the sky. The saying, expression, or whatever it was never made sense or computed with him. Just one of the many things he didn't understand. He felt the familiar weight of the berretta under the waistband of his trousers. That's something he definitely understood.
The corn, its yellow he thinks to himself, sways in the breeze and he spies the farm house just beyond the field, nestled between trees and a dirt road. He wishes he has a sniper rifle. He almost curses himself for not thinking of it.
He smokes another fag and paces a while, watching the sun come up and he is eerily calm. Even his moderate military training at the academy has not prepared him for something like this, for the actual act. He's running on instinct, always has.
The ground is covered with a light frost and it crunches underneath his boots as he moves through the endless field.
He frightens the horses as he walks through the small pasture. They scatter and he can see the heavy streams of breath they're expelling through their nostrils. The air is crisp and it smells like animals, manure and grass. He sneaks around to the back of the big barn and is surprised that it's not locked.
He isn't sure what he'll find but he slips in and he see's him. He's bent over, back to him, sitting on a stool milking a cow and this momentarily stuns Eames. He thinks it's the most absurd thing he's ever witnessed and not all at how he saw this happening. His step father was not a "country" person. Again he is reminded that he never really knew this man. Was his name even Perry Alden? Eames didn't think so. He stares at him for probably half a minute as he works the udders of the cow.
It was a half minute that would normally get him killed. Instead of getting him killed however it only somehow announces his presence amongst the cowbells and moos echoing off the high barn walls.
"I was wondering when you would find me."
His step father is still milking, not a care in the world.
"Turn around."
Eames has the gun trained to his back but he wants to see him when he pulls the trigger. Wants to see the man's face that's killed his mum.
His step father obliges.
He rises from the stool slowly and turns around to face him. His face is not one of surprise or terror but of smug indifference.
"You know why I'm here. Why did you do it?"
His step father laughs, digging his hands in his pockets.
Eames motions for him to stop and again he obliges slowly, keeping his hands to his sides.
"You were always so inquisitive," his voice is hiding a laugh. His face twists up in a snarl, his eyes dark, shiny and mad.
"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to, Charlie."
"That's not my name!" he yells, startling the cows.
He didn't want him to know that he got to him but the nickname had worn him thin over the years. He wasn't anybody's dead brother. It was bad enough he was molded into something he had no control over.
His step father laughs bitterly again.
"You don't know WHAT your name is, you pitiful creature."
Eames continues to train the gun to his chest, eyes narrowed.
"Color blind AND you don't know a thing about your past," he makes a disgusted noise and spits on the ground.
"Is it James? Or is it Daniel, your middle name that you insist on going by?"
Eames clenches his jaw, finger itching on the trigger.
"It's Daniel," he spits out.
His step father laughs again, shaking his head.
"You really have no idea do you?"
"Shut up! You're going to tell me right now why you did it!" he trains the gun higher in true military form at his head. He was always a good marksman, his shots true.
"No, Charlie or Daniel or whatever you call yourself ! Why WE did it. Ask yourself why we did it. You helped me and so did your father..."
His resolve slips and so does his arm that's pointing the gun. He falters, his mind rattled. The bastard knows how to get to him, guilt him and wear him down. He should already have pulled the trigger but his words stunned him, kept him locked in place.
"That's right. Your biological father," he continues when he notices Eames' pause.
"Shut up!" he screams but it's weaker this time, his voice thin.
His step father takes a small step towards him and Eames makes a motion with his gun for him to back away and his step father stops but doesn't retreat.
"You're not in the least bit curious about him? Hmmm? He's my brother, Char...Daniel."
And now his words have their tethers in him because he's barely heard anything about his biological father, his mum not wanting to mention him, too hurt over the way he ran out on her. He only knows that his name is James Eames, he left shortly after his sister was born and that he passed along the Monochromacy, his color blindness to Eames. His mum never kept any photographs of him.
He continues to train the gun on him but the gun feels heavy and awkward in his hand and his arm is getting tired from pointing.
He knows somewhere in the back of his brain that his step father maybe lying to him, setting him up, conning him but another part of his brain is latching onto the idea that he has information about his father, his real father. His mind still can't wrap around the idea that his step father, rather ex step father is related to the man that ran out on his mum the first time.
His step father is closer to him now and Eames curses his stupidity, his hastiness in trusting this man.
"Why don't you put the gun down and we'll talk. Hmm? Man to man."
But Eames doesn't put it down.
"How about you tell me what you know or I put a bullet between your eyes?" He tries hard to sound confident and cold but his voice is still too small.
His step father chuckles a bit and crosses his arms.
"That's not how this is going to work. You can shoot me if you like but then you'll never know. You'll never know about the first man that ran out on you and your mum and you'll never know where to find him," he chuckles, flashing crooked, stained teeth.
A silence falls over the barn, the animals unusually quiet or it could be that Eames can only hear his heart pounding in his chest and the blood behind his ears.
His step father takes another step towards him.
"How about it? Throw the gun over there and we'll go up to the house and talk. Then once we've had our chat you can decide if you want to come back for the gun. But I do warn you," he's fishing inside his jacket and is showing Eames he's grabbing his fags. "I do have a shotgun stored in the house and I will use it if you try anything," he lights a fag and offers one to Eames-a peace offering.
Eames' arm is lowering and he's taking the cigarette and fuck. Is he really doing this?
"How can I trust you?" his step father leans in and lights both their fags.
The older man, once his teacher inhales deeply and exhales out his nose, looking around the barn.
"You don't but we'll make more progress without guns being waved around. You are a clever boy aren't you?" he winks.
Eames tosses the gun to the side.
They smoke, morning light filtering in through the small, high windows and they listen to the cows in the barn. After they're finished they take turns frisking each other because he's right-there is no trust. Both are men of action, con men, liars and thieves and they don't want to take any unnecessary risks.
He walks numbly after his step father as they pass tractors and farm equipment, chicken coops and animal pens and into the little farm house.
Again Eames is struck that this is anything but what he expected. It could all be a con within a con within a con. Maybe his step father is working another con at this place? Could your whole life be a con?
He sits him down at a small, worn kitchen table and offers him a drink but Eames declines. His step father is scooping coffee into an ancient percolator and is looking out the kitchen window presumably to the livestock milling around.
Most people would see that as a protective or nurturing gesture but all Eames can think of is that it's fake, another lie wrapped up in a fantasy world, another mask he's wearing.
He stands and leans against the counter, new fag dangling in his mouth and he regards Eames.
"That brother I told you about? The younger one that died? He's your father. Only he's not dead." He lights the fag on the gas stove.
Eames watches his step father look about the room bored and smokes. He listens to the percolator whistle and hiss.
"He is dead…in a sense…his name is Charles and yours is too," he shoots Eames a look and Eames can only stare back at him. His words twist inside him. They anger him, make him feel sick, intrigue him and sadden him.
"I don't believe you," but it's only half true.
His step father shrugs and takes a drag.
"And you don't have to. What you do with this information is all up to you, kiddo." Smoke is ringing around his head and is pooling on the low ceiling, the faint morning light cutting through it. The smell of coffee is filtering into the room.
"Even if it was true…"
"It is," he takes another drag and regards Eames coolly.
"We were both in love with her. What started off as a con ended up as lovers' quarrel. It was supposed to be a routine, in and out con. We always worked things together. Charles was going to make her fall in love with him, gain her trust and then convince her to take all her money, put it her suitcases and run away with him. Then I would play the criminal and steal the suitcases as they were leaving. You know pull a gun on them or something. We would split it fifty-fifty. But we fell in love with her. Charles went too deep and married her, had children with her. They named you Charles but your mother hid that from you for some reason. I think it was because she found out...eventually that my brother's name wasn't really James but Charles too and after he left her she didn't want that name passed on to you," he pauses to deposit ash into the sink. "Charles started the con but our differences, our fight over her forced him to leave so I finished it," his voice is bitter and Eames picks up on a hint of hurt. They're both conmen but Eames knows that this is real hurt. This story has at least one true element to it. He's looking around the room again like all of this is old knowledge, taking great interest in his fag.
Two brothers marrying and then having children with the same woman at different times only to actually finish the con, killing her. It was almost too much to wrap your mind around.
"If you were in love with her…"
His step father, his uncle puts a hand out to stop Eames. He takes another long drag and extinguishes it in the sink.
When he trains his dark eyes back on Eames there's something there that Eames doesn't want to admit. There's pain and remorse and again Eames knows that it isn't a lie.
"I was in love with her and in a way I think I did get attached to you two as well. You weren't just my step children you were my niece and nephew too. Why do you think I took the time to show you all that I know? You were my brother's only son and I loved him, Charlie…we were very close. You had potential and reminded me so much of him."
Eames' anger is mounting and he isn't sure if it's because he doesn't want to hear this story, because he isn't his father's son nor this man's nephew or because he knows the story is laced with the truth.
"Why finish it?" he can barley spit the words out through his gritted teeth, his fingernails digging into his thighs sharply under the table.
His uncle strokes his chin and has a faraway look in his eye. A slow smile materializes on his face as he turns to look at Eames. The percolator has stopped.
"What have I been trying to tell you since you were a wee lad? You're born a thief and you a die a thief. We can't separate the two lives we have, Charlie. It's a part of us. It's who we are. No more, no less. My brother started the job and I needed to end it since he couldn't thus ending our quarrel."
Eames is rising from his chair before he knows what's happening, practically toppling it as he stands up quickly, snarling with anger.
"She was my mother! Did you ever think about that? She would have given the money to you if you would have asked. Would have given you anything since she blindly loved you and turned a blind eye to all your illegal activities!" he screams and he knows it's juvenile but his explanation of why he still killed her is just too cold.
"If you loved her as much as you said…" Eames hangs his head, grabbing the table for support and is shaking from the pure fury he is feeling.
"True love doesn't last for people like us, Charlie. Camaraderie and brotherhood, yes. There are strengths in numbers but you've always been a bit of a lone wolf. As for me," he's opening a cabinet, rooting around for something. "I always thought having a partner was easier, the payouts greater," he fishes out a mug and unplugs the percolator.
"You sure you don't want some?" he's pouring the heavy dark liquid into a cup.
Eames upends the table, sending it crashing.
"My whole life…my entire life is sham, a lie because of you. You forced me into your scheme," his vision is white hot and he's finding it hard to breathe.
His uncle doesn't bat an eye. He's scooping heavy spoonfuls of sugar into his mug glancing out the window.
He lifts his mug, blows into it and turns around to face Eames like he didn't notice the crash of the table being flipped.
"We both want the same thing, Charlie. I understand you're upset about your mother but we can work together to find your father, my brother. We can all work together, all of us. We'd be unstoppable together," he takes a small sip from his mug.
Eames takes a step back from him because the situation was impossible before but now it's reached new dizzying heights of insanity.
He shakes his head, practically spitting with anger.
"I would rather die…"
And his uncle his laughing behind his mug, taking a cautious sip, leaning against the counter.
"And you will, Charlie if you don't. You can't be a lone wolf forever…like I said strength in numbers."
He doesn't know if it's a threat but the menacing look in his uncle's eyes says it's leaning that way.
"Where is he? You said you knew where he was," he shouts, taking another step back.
"In America but where exactly I don't know," he shakes his head. "I lost track of him about ten years ago. When I told you that he was dead it's because it's true. I don't even know what name he's going by anymore."
And then Eames is turning on his heel and is making his way to the door. That's all the information he needs and really he can't take anymore.
He'll find his father. He found his uncle; he can certainly track down his father however long it takes.
"Charlie! Don't do this. You need me. You say your life is a lie then depend and fall back on the people who know that life and feel that same way." Eames pauses with his hand on the doorknob.
"Once you walk out that door the offer expires and I can't say for sure what will happen to you…what will happen to your sister…"
He whips his head to his direction and his uncle is smiling smugly behind his mug again.
"You sent me away because you knew I was better than you and I still am. Now I'm going to fucking kill you and I'm going to enjoy it you fucking bastard. You may want to come after me but you do not threaten my family, my sister," and then he's whipping the door open and running, running faster than he's ever ran before back to the barn, back to his gun. He's calculating in his head how much time he has before his uncle finds his shotgun, presumably loads it and is positioning himself. The military training he's had gives him the upper hand and maybe his uncle knows this but either way his uncle is going to die, right here by his livestock and the ridiculous farm house, this folly of a mythical life.
His legs and chest are burning when he plows into the barn, scooping up his gun and then he's flying back out to find cover and a good position. He reaches the goat pen when he hears the first shot. He dives to the ground for cover but not before he pinpoints where the shot came from.
His uncle's greatest downfall is and always will be how cocky he is.
Another shot is fired as Eames crawls through dirt and mud and finds cover behind an old dog house. His uncle is shooting out the kitchen window. He waits for the third shot, this one dangerously close as part of the dog house explodes and then Eames is returning fire as he knows his uncle has a longer reload time to release the shells. His first two shots ricochet off the window sill and he dodges another close shot from his uncle. He fires twice more and the second pierces through already shattered glass and connects. He's too far away to see exactly where but he doesn't give himself time to think. He's running, taking cover behind whatever he can find and is pointing his gun as he whips open the kitchen door and enters. His uncle is sprawled out on the blood ridden floor in an awkward, bent position, blood pouring out of a bullet hole in his lung.
His uncle is writhing and wheezing, pooled in his own blood. It smells like manure, blood, coffee and grass as the scents from the kitchen mingle with the outside from the shattered window.
He points his gun at his uncle's head and his uncle's eyes widen a little though they are glassy.
"Where is he?"
His uncle laughs but the laugh turns into a wheezy cough and he's sputtering blood.
"In the US but you won't find him without my help." His tone suggests he's lying or hiding something.
Eames puts more pressure on the trigger and sneers down at him.
"I will find him and I make good on my promises. I said I was going to put a bullet between your eyes if you didn't tell me what you know and I now I am."
And he does.
The room is strangely quiet after the echo of the shot tapers off and he takes in the dead, crumpled form of his uncle splayed out on the cheap linoleum.
He leaves the farm, the filthy, peaceful, fake world behind without a backwards glance.
He palms the feather in his trousers and tells his mum that he's kept his promise-he hasn't forgotten to keep dreaming.
He gets back into his car and drives without really knowing where he's going only knowing he needs to keep dreaming. He needs to go to America.