Chapter three.

"What the hell is it, anyways?" Peter was grumbling as Olivia carefully lifted away the carpet in the closet. Slowly, she slid her hand into the narrow space, and paused, sitting back with a thump. Her face was blanched and here eyes were wide with shock.

"Peter… Walter is worse off than we thought," She said, swallowing dryly. She grasped a handful of the contents of the cubby and held it out to him.

"What the hell…?" Peter took the handful from her, examining it closely, "It's just junk. Paperclips, batteries, string…rocks…hey, that's my missing shirt button…do you think it was rats?"

Olivia shook her head, "Do you know why they put Walter into solitary confinement, even though he isn't physically dangerous? His file says he was prone to stealing things. Small things, things no one would notice, and they took it as a threat that he might somehow use them to escape. He kept them…" Olivia stood, the rest of the tidbits in her palm. They consisted if a broken pencil, a few rubber bands, and a surgical clip, "in a small cubby he had ripped into his mattress. The cleaning people found them, one day."

"So?" Peter questioned, "He used to do it all the time, when I was a kid. Walter was always a klepto, it's nothing new. I thought he'd gotten a handle on it."

"Not a kleptomaniac. It's not a desire to steal, it's a desire to possess."

Peter watched her blankly, "I don't get it."

Olivia sighed, stepping out of the closet, "I used to see it all the time, working with kids. Children that came from abusive, empty homes…really terrible situations…would just take things, simply to have something."

Peter frowned with concern, "So, you're saying that Walter collects junk so he can own it?"

"Sort of. All I can say is that he won't be happy when he knows we've found him out, as these people tend to be very aggressive with their 'possessions'. Walter is reverting, and that means that he may get dangerous. We have to find him."

Walter paused to drop a dollar into the open instrument case of a street performer that stood beside the park fountain, plucking out a guitar tune for change, "Bless you, sir," the stranger murmured, and Walter smiled at him.

Walter's aimless travels had brought him here, wherever here was. He'd only drawn attention to himself a few times, for such things as nearly bursting into tears when he dropped his ice cream cone on the subway, and relentlessly pressing the safety button at crosswalks and giggling at the beeping noise.

But, so far, so good. All but for the hollow loneliness that seemed to be expanding in his chest. At first it had been a thrill, being out and on his own, as he had not been so in many years, but now, he felt watched, observed as if under a microscope, and it annoyed him. He half wished he was back at the lab.

Walter squinted up at the bright noon sun, above the tree tops. He pulled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, wondering quietly if anyone would see the scars… he pushed his wristwatch over them and forgot.

He cleared his throat, and the sudden noise shocked him slightly. He hadn't made a sound in nearly an hour, as he wandered the city. His knees hurt, and he thought about stopping in to watch a matinee at a movie theater. He shook his head, he had better things to do; he'd been denied his freedom for so long, he didn't know just what to do with himself. It was nearly lunch, and he rather looked forward to scouting out just exactly what he wanted, which changed often. Usually Peter would select lunch for him, bypassing his indecision.

Walter sighed. It would be better, if Peter were here. Funny, as I never thought to do such things, during his childhood. But my father…

Walter shook his head quickly, clearing his thoughts. He hefted his jacket onto his shoulder and slid his other hand into his pocket, and he felt his cell phone hum against his fingers, and he pulled it out, watching the tiny machine curiously. He couldn't remember just how to answer, he had to slide it open, or press something…the cell phone stopped buzzing, and the digital message popped up on the screen; 47 missed calls. Shrugging, Walter returned it to his pocket.

He had crossed the park and arrived at an indoor mall, deciding to walk the wrong way down the escalator.