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"A sibling may be the keeper of one's identity, the only person with the keys to one's unfettered, more fundamental self."
--Marian Sandmaier
Chapter 4
As Peter searched for something to cover the wet painting he produced, Elle undertook the task of reporting Isaac's death to the police by way of an anonymous tip made through 911. After she disengaged, she watched him grab a cloth large and thick enough to cover the painting with then pick it up to stack it in front of the one of him and the mystery man in Kirby Plaza.
"What are you doing?" she asked. "We need to get out of here. The police will be coming any minute."
"I know. But I can't leave some of these paintings behind. They must be a key to what's going on. We have to take as many as we can."
"Help me take them off their canvasses…"
"There's no time! We have to take them whole! The cops will be here any second! We'll take them off later!"
"Do you see how large these things are? How are we going to carry a bunch of them downstairs without anyone noticing?"
Peter issued a hinting smile to her and Elle caught on.
"Right, the invisible thing," she remembered. "But you can do that. Not me."
"I don't think you'll need to worry."
"How do you know that? Do you remember something?"
"Not really remember. More like sense."
Elle scoffed.
"Yeah, I'm comforted by that."
The sound of police sirens wailing outside alerted them both of their rapidly diminishing time.
"Fuck!" cursed Elle. "When you want them to take their time, they're there in an instant!"
"We haven't got time," Peter exclaimed. "Grab any that look helpful."
Elle readily grabbed hold of two of the paintings nearest her which were the one of the cheerleader lying dead and bloodied on the steps with her killer looming above her and the one beneath it and tucked them under her arm. She watched as he selected the ones he intended to take; he placed the one he painted over the one with the cheerleader running up a flight of stairs to escape a shadowy figure giving chase but stopped suddenly when his eyes found another. It was of Isaac standing on the rooftop with a woman and for some reason it mesmerized Peter who ceased all action to stare at the woman longingly. He knew this woman. Who was she? His heart swelled with an emotional recognition that he did not understand and he reached out to stroke the image lightly with the back of his fingers.
"Peter?" Elle called. "Peter, hurry up!"
The sound of the police in the hallway at last diverted his attention from the art piece.
"Damn it!" Peter swore.
With little time to spare, he placed the rooftop painting behind the other two, the wet paint of the new one soaking through the protective cloth, and secured them under his arm.
The loft erupted into a maelstrom as police swarmed inside and, acting on pure instinct, Peter clutched Elle's wrist and the young woman watched as she and the amnesiac vanished from her own sight. Though she was unable to see him, she followed Peter's lead as he circumspectly guided her forward and back up the stairs leading from the studio section of the loft. Simultaneously, the police – both detectives and SWAT team members alike – poured inside like an army of black ants. The pair manoeuvred and weaved around them, receiving a tense moment after a corner of one of the paintings Elle was hauling slammed into the arm of a SWAT team member. Frantically looking around him with his gun raised, he eventually dismissed it as one of his co-workers bumping into him and uttered an objectionable invective to the other man about it. The two engaged in a quarrel cut short by one of the detectives who put them back in line.
At that point, Peter and Elle were already slipping out the door and back into the waiting elevator. As the doors slid shut, Elle noticed that it drew the attention of one of the detectives. Only when the car began to descend did she dare to speak.
"That's pretty neat, Dave. Can you let go of me now? These big ass paintings are kinda cumbersome to hold."
"Not a chance," the invisible Peter retorted. "There's a security camera and, besides, I don't want to risk someone else getting on and seeing us."
"Yeah. Like smacking into an invisible person won't get anyone's attention."
"Stop complaining and be quiet!"
"Fine!"
The ride down was eternal but when it at last ended and the doors reopened to set them free, Peter dashed out, half dragging the disgruntled Elle with him. When they exited the building, they shoved into a man who issued a befuddled look since he was pushed backward by something he could not see, and stepped foot out on the sidewalk. It wasn't until they were a block away and blended into the busy pedestrian traffic when Peter released his companion and they both rematerialized to the rest of the world.
"Wow, would you come in handy for many things," Elle praised seriously as she unlocked her Versa's back door so they could slide the heavy paintings into the rear seat.
"I don't think I was one to abuse these gifts, Elle," the protean hero retorted as they hurriedly slipped into the car.
"Good boy," she said, starting up the engine, turning out of the spot and accelerating as fast as Manhattan traffic allowed. "You realize that with great power comes great responsibility. Or so says the wise Ben Parker."
"If you say so."
He didn't get it, she knew, and she didn't bother explaining it to him. She was more intent on getting away from the crime scene as quickly as she could.
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Grace hailed a taxi after rushing from the morgue and directed the cabbie to take her to her brother's Queens home address, spending the entire ride trying to calm herself. When the driver asked if she was alright, she replied that she was and told him to just keep driving without question. Taking the suggestion as he learned to do through his occupation, he did as she requested.
By the time they reached Gabriel Gray's Trenton Place building, Grace was as good as new. She paid her fare with a generous tip then left the taxi. Without hesitation, she entered the lobby of the building and skimmed her eyes down the rows of doorbells until she saw one marked Super. Pressing it, she waited rather impatiently for a reply.
"Who's this?" a woman's crackly voice demanded.
"My name is Grace Gray. I need to speak with you about my brother Gabriel."
There was a pregnant pause without a single sound and Grace was about to stubbornly ring again when the buzzer to the door droned and she was granted entrance. According to the label on the buzzer the superintendent resided in 1A. She perused the hall, checking each number until she at last located the one she needed. The door opened as her fist was suspended in mid-knock.
"Are you the super?" she asked the middle aged woman who answered.
"Yeah," she said with a thick Brooklynite accent. "You're Gabriel's sister?"
"That I am."
"Come in, come in."
Grace was taken aback by this welcome reception but stepped inside nevertheless.
"I'm Cheryl. Your brother was one of my best tenants. Personally, he was my favorite but don't tell Mr Welch that, he has a bit of a crush on me. Any way, my condolences to you and your family. Won't you please sit?"
Grace surveyed the apartment, finding the furniture second hand but decent and the TV tuned in to One Life to Live.
"I think I'll stand, Cheryl," she passed. "I'm sure I won't be staying for very long."
"Oh. Alright. Then can I offer you something to drink? I have anything you can imagine."
"Ah, actually I'd be grateful for some ice water."
"Certainly, Miss Gray."
Grace peered around the room again as Cheryl ventured off into the kitchen and prepared her ice water from a jug of Poland Springs that she kept in the refrigerator.
"You're Grace Moriarty, aren't you?" Cheryl acknowledged from the other room. When Grace hesitated to respond, the woman quickly added, "It's OK, Gabriel told me who you are. Your secret's safe with me. I'm sure you're incognito to avoid the paparazzi."
"Yeah. Paparazzi. Listen…Cheryl…" Cheryl returned and handed her the glass of ice water which she impassively accepted. "Do you think it would be too much trouble for me to go into Gabriel's apartment? I'd like to at least be close to him for a while. Besides, there are some things I'd like to have as mementoes…"
"Why, certainly, Miss Gray. How could I deny you that favor? Gabriel was my best and favorite tenant." Grace rolled her eyes at the woman's repetition. "Such a lovely person. Very respectable gentleman; wouldn't harm a fly. I can't imagine someone wicked enough to want to do him harm. A perfect angel. He did so much for me. Fixed my clocks and kept me company."
Grace smiled tenderly at the accolades of her precious brother's helpfulness.
"Yes, well, that was Gabriel. He owned a chivalrous soul."
"It's such a tragedy that someone was out to hurt him. It's always the good ones who die young. The human garbage seems to live forever."
"Very true. Forgive me for being a pretentious bitch but can we please go up to his apartment now? I want to do it before I lose my nerve."
"Of course, honey." Cheryl ambled to the little hook on the wall where she kept a massive horde of keys. "But there's one thing that you must be aware of."
"What's that?"
"Your brother removed his things overnight in a mad rush about a little over a month ago. He left nothing behind. I haven't rented the apartment out to anyone yet because I'm planning on renovating it a little. It was outdated and I have to bring it up to code."
Grace was stunned to hear this. After a short recess to gather herself, she cleared her throat before speaking again.
"I'd still like to go any way, if you don't mind. I need the closure."
"But of course you do. Although, I hate to ask, but can I trouble you for one teensy, tiny favor in return?"
Grace raised her eye brow suspiciously.
"For the woman who's allowing me to do this, anything."
"Can you please sign an autograph for me? It would mean a lot to me."
Internally Grace was enraged that this woman would have the audacity to impose her stardom on her during a time of vulnerability. She easily could've rewarded her insolence with electrocution or at the very least shock therapy but she needed to conserve her strength after what happened in the morgue. Instead she did the opposite and proffered her a spurious smile.
"Sure," she mollified. "What would you like me to sign?"
"Oh!" Prepared for rejection, Cheryl was caught off guard. Her eyes roved the room before she saw a piece of stationery lying on the roll top desk they stood beside. "Here. This will due."
Grace placed the glass of water down on the desk, picked up the pen and mechanically scribbled the message Cheryl dictated to her:
"To my best friend Cheryl, I miss you while in LA. Can't wait to see you again. Love always, Grace Moriarty."
Grace thought it was a preposterous message; she would never be caught dead with the likes of this woman while in Hollywood where who you are seen with defines you. But she wrote it anyway, understanding it was a necessary evil if she wanted to get into Gabe's apartment. One thing she learned the hard way out in Hollywood was that everything has its price.
"Thank you so much, Miss Mori – Miss Gray! I will cherish it forever!"
"I'm sure you will. So, let's get this visit to Gabe's over with, shall we?"
"Yes, dear, whatever you ask."
Grace followed Cheryl out of her apartment, farther up the hall and up two sets of staircases to the second level Apartment 1B where Gabriel once lived, all the way suffering more flattery of her brother by the super. She ignored most of it, catching snippets about how an altruistic Gabriel kept her company, helped her with groceries and assisted her with this, talked with her about that…Grace felt things in twofold: disgusted that it seemed like Gabe had been taking care of two mothers and cheated by hearing all of this because she should've been the one who shared all of these memories about Gabriel. But instead of being here making those memories she was on the west coast making movies. Resentment again poisoned her heart: anger at Hollywood, at Cheryl, and at herself. Controlling her power, the lightning that usually occurred when she was irate formed harmless static electricity that she used to carefully inch the woman's skirt up and left it clinging to the rear of the granny panties beneath. Cheryl noticed only the blinking lights on the wall next to the door.
"Hmmm," she remarked. "Faulty wiring, or so it seems. I'll have to call the electrician."
When the woman opened the door to the apartment, Grace turned to her and said, "I'd like my privacy, if you don't mind…Cheryl."
Initially Cheryl seemed insulted but then nodded her approval.
"Yes, of course. I understand. I'll leave the key with you but do lock up and bring it back when you're through."
"I promise."
Cheryl removed the key from the ring and placed it inside Grace's upturned palm. Before the superintendent left, she couldn't resist but to take a longing gaze around the room and remark that Gabriel was "such a good boy." Grace was relieved when Cheryl finally shut the door between them.
Surveying the vacated apartment, Grace was disappointed to note that, as presaged, there was absolutely nothing left inside. It was as if Gabriel had never been there at all. Despite Cheryl informing her that the place was bare a part of her wanted something to be left behind, a link she could connect to her brother through. Cheryl said he hadn't been there for a little more than a month. That meant he'd covertly moved his belongings elsewhere. She had no idea where everything could be as he'd left no indication whatsoever of his last whereabouts. It was like he did not want to be found, like he was running from someone.
Something odd caught her eye. A discrepancy in the way the mirror panels across the room were divided and met the wall. She walked across bare floor toward the mirrors, trepidation coursing through her body. Reaching out, she pushed the reflective face and was startled when the panels parted, one side separating from the other with a click, revealing a crack in the way and beyond it what appeared to be a panic room.
"What the hell is this?" she muttered to herself but directing it toward a mental image of Gabriel.
Stepping inside, her tiny, pampered nose wrinkled in repulsion at the dusty quarters. As she walked daintily through the room, she noticed but a few insignificant things which had been left behind. Rusty, unopened cans of soup and other foods that were so warped with age that their tops were bubbled and close to bursting lined shelves and the wall framework. Labels from other cans peppered the floor along with other debris that she couldn't identify. Large plastic storage jars full of stale dry goods accompanied the cans in certain spots with overturned boxes and black plastic crates lined on the floor.
"What the hell were you expecting to happen?" she inquired the phantom image of her brother once more.
Something crinkled and when she looked down several loose leaf pages of a telephone book lay beneath her feet and several more were strewn about the floor of the room in a myriad of locations. Amongst the litter of junk her eyes found something interesting: a folded sheet of loose leaf notebook paper that displayed the words The List in what she knew to be Gabe's sprawling handwriting. Stooping, she took it into her unsteady grip and closer examined it. Unfolded, she discovered it was a list of people with their complete addresses.
Brian Davis, Sanjog Iyer, Michelle Valcek, Zane Taylor, Sparrow Redhouse, Nathan Petrelli, Peter Petrelli, Au Co, Dale Smither, Claire Bennet, Bridget Bailey, Hana Gitelman, Isaac Mendez…each one on the list was marked with symbolic code representing the appropriate city in which they resided. Lines were drawn through a significant amount of them, whatever that meant. There were two Petrellis and she struggled to recall where she'd heard that particular surname before. Both Petrellis were in New York City and, being an uncommon name, she concluded that they had to be related. But where had she heard that name before? It stuck out to her like a beacon in her foggy mind. Another one located in New York City other than the Petrellis was an Isaac Mendez but Mendez, for whatever reason, was one of the names crossed out. So was Brian Davis, another New Yorker.
"OK, Gabe, what were you up to?" she muttered, filled with commensurate worry and disturbance.
Looking away from the list and into the farther depths of the panic room, she detected another separate section at the back with black vinyl tarp acting as curtains drawn back to expose a second door. This auxiliary door provided her with the persuasive need to push ahead. Gingerly stepping forward with an eldritch shiver playing across her spine, she noticed several torn black and white photographs of families she couldn't recognize along with white votive candles inside broken red holders scattered about the room. A small overturned table and an open Bible with torn pages, another large white candle that was broken in half and a shattered statue of an angel were scattered across the floor. More broken angel and cherub statues joined more ripped photographs and cracked votives crunched beneath her feet. It was like Gabriel had created a makeshift private chapel that had been ransacked.
However, the door was the most disturbing aspect of this wanna-be chapel. Words were scribbled over it and its frame in tiny silver writing that she instantly recognized as that of Gabriel's hand. The text was also on the entire wall that the door occupied, only in black marker here. The closer she got the better she was able to decipher the words. Over and over again the same phrase was repeated as if by a punished child writing lines on the blackboard:
Forgive me father for I have sinned.
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"Call this Weird New York as a bevy of unexplained events occurring within the past twenty-four hours has baffled Big Apple officials with more than a fair share of mysteries," a reporter was saying on the television in the Dunkin Donuts that Elle insisted they stop at so she could urgently use the bathroom…then grab a blueberry coffee. He decided to order one as well and declared that they needed a break to think about their next move. Thus, both he and Elle clutched their cups tightly, intently watching the report from their corner table.
"This can't be good, Dave," muttered Elle, their eyes locked on the TV. "Maybe you should start calling me by something other than my real name. You know, so nobody will know I'm me."
"They don't know your name yet, Elle. I think you're safe for now."
As if on cue to Peter's statement, Elle's eyes darkened when she saw a young punk rock girl with pink and blonde hair on the screen.
"Amber!" she proclaimed.
"Her name is Elle Miasnikov," the punk girl snitched to the reporter as the sketch of the female fugitive splashed across the screen. "She's my roommate and…"
Elle's strident gasp raised above the words, drawing more than Peter's attention. "That bitch! I'm going to kill her!"
"We need to get out of here," Peter suggested quietly.
The rebarbative effect Amber's treachery had on Elle was distressing.
"I refuse to leave because of a stupid girl whose head looks she used a bottle of Pepto Bismal for hair dye!"
Peter gestured toward the busy counter where a horde of New York's Finest was questioning the staff of the establishment.
"Fuck!' swore Elle. "Do that thing you do again! The invisible thing!"
"Not in front of everybody!"
"We're going to get caught!"
Peter discreetly rose from his chair, careful not to scuffle it against the floor and Elle followed suit. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist firmly and Elle smiled at the possessive movement in spite of herself. He meant to undertake the responsibility of getting them out of the Dunkin Donuts undetected but one of the officers turned around when they were half way out the door.
"Hey!" the cop exclaimed, pointing at them. "It's them! Stop!"
As a fearful reaction, Peter's instinct for invisibility kicked in as he vanished before the eyes of his young friend. Elle had no choice but to allow him to zig-zag her through the crowded sidewalk but when she noticed that they passed the cross street where she'd parked, she yelped, "My car!"
"We can't risk going back to it now!" Peter insisted. "They know who you are. They'll run the license plates and they'll know we're around the vicinity whenever they see it."
"But the paintings!"
Peter stopped abruptly at the side of a newsstand and, because she was unable to see him, she ran into him, nearly knocking him down.
"Damn it!" he cursed. "We have to go back for them!"
"Then we're driving."
"But…"
"Do you feel like carrying those paintings on the subway? They aren't exactly light as a feather, you know. If they get in our way, I'll Deathproof their asses!"
"You have a point," Peter agreed, another pop culture reference losing its meaning on him. "But if we take the subway we can be invisible the whole way. I don't know if I can make a car invisible and wouldn't recommend it if I could."
"Why don't we just stand here invisible and wait for them to clear the area? We're pretty much safe like this, aren't we?"
She pressed closely to his body, an arm around his midsection, done for comfort rather than as sexual innuendo. Then something unexpected attracted her eyes from the newsstand.
"Hey!" she cried with glee. "New 9th Wonders!!"
Without thought or care, she lunged for a copy, unintentionally breaking her connection with Peter's invisibility and thus materializing before the shocked man inside the booth. As her hand clamped down on a copy of the comic issue, Peter's hand grabbed hold of her once again, performing his disappearing act on her and the stolen comic.
"Don't let go again!" he scolded, drawing her near.
"Sorry!"
"We have to get those paintings."
"I know, I know!"
A pair of police officers hunting for them stopped mere inches away. Elle recognized one as the cop who shouted at them in the Dunkin Donuts and she huddled against Peter's body nearer, stepping behind him. His arm held her protectively closer, waiting with bated breath while the cops contemplated their next move.
"Are you sure they ran in this direction?" the one who saw them was asked by his partner.
"Yeah! I swear it!"
"They could be anywhere now! Let's let this one slide. You're not even sure you saw them."
"I'm telling you, I saw them! Plain as the nose on my face!"
"Then why would they run?"
Peter and Elle couldn't hear the reply as the officers started walking back the way they came.
"Yeah, Dave!" muttered Elle, rolling up the comic and sticking it in her back pocket. "Why are we running? We've never done anything wrong!"
"Call it instinct kicking in again," he told her, reaching into his pocket for some loose singles which he slid toward the newsagent to pay for the comic. The man was so shaken that he spilled over backwards, shouting that a ghost just touched him and handed him money. "Let's retrieve those paintings and get out of here."
He led her back to the car which she unlocked and they appeared back into public view again.
"I don't want to leave my car," she griped. "They'll impound it and I'm still paying it off."
"After we get all of this sorted out, I'll buy you a new one," he retorted, confiscating the paintings from the back seat.
Elle's nose wrinkled.
"On a nurse's salary?"
"I'm loaded. I'm a Petrelli."
"Your family is loaded, Nurse Petrelli. It doesn't mean that you are."
She unburdened him from one of the paintings and snatched his free hand after he shut the door and she locked it again.
"It's going to take us forever to get back to Brooklyn!" she bitched.
"From Lower Manhattan? Not too long."
"Hauling these goddamned things? On a subway? Long enough!"
"We can be invisible the whole way."
"Well then it should be a real picnic."
Peter's sweet smile was the last thing Elle saw before the pair vanished from the sight of the world once again.
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Isaac Mendez's loft bustled with a plethora of police and forensic activity within moments of Elle's anonymous tip and Archer was one of the lucky ones called to the scene. When he got the summons to the loft, he'd been in the morgue trying to help the coroner piece together what happened in their absence. The room was a disaster area: the lights were blown, the remnants of the bulbs crunched beneath their feet, scattered charred files and melted equipment, including some of the refrigerated cabinets. Ironically, among one of the few things that managed to go untouched was Gabriel Gray's body. Perhaps, he considered, that Grace Gray could not bear to see her brother in the state of eternal sleep. Yet that explanation didn't explain what happened to the room itself.
The call on his cell phone as he stepped back out in the hall was a new assignment. A comic book artist was found dead and they needed him immediately at the crime scene. It was a ghastly mess, they warned, but he scoffed at them. Confident that he would be able to handle it, Archer drove warily to the building. Yet when he reached the loft what awaited him was more gruesome than the seasoned detective was prepared for. Mendez's body was still lying on the floor, a few days lifeless, surrounded by congealing blood which was dried in certain spots and saturating the floor in others. The artist's body was covered by a blood-stained sheet that was soaked through near the head.
"What's the story?" Archer asked, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum and popping it into his mouth.
One of the crime scene investigators pointed to the body.
"Take a look," he tempted the detective.
Reluctantly, Archer bent down, drew back the sheet and cringed in spite of himself. It just never got easier.
"Where's his brain?" inquired the detective.
The CSI shrugged.
"We haven't found it yet."
"Christ! What about the weapon?"
"We haven't found one. Not anything that could saw through his skull that cleanly."
"His wrists and ankles were impaled by paintbrushes. Get any prints off those?"
"Negative again."
Archer paused, far in deliberation.
"How is that possible?" he wondered rhetorically. "The killer had to drive them through his arms and legs either by shoving them with all of his strength or he needed to hold them while using another object to pound them into him."
"He could've used gloves. We're not sure though. We have to look a little closer. Run more tests."
Archer sighed and scratched his head.
"Did you find prints anywhere?"
"We lifted a few from the door and from a fifth paintbrush we found on the floor."
"You found some on a paintbrush on the floor but not on the ones in his wrists?"
"That's right."
"Those prints are most likely going to be from Mendez himself."
"Right now, it's all we got."
"Meteors falling to Brighton Beach, missing affluent family members, a fried morgue, a son who commits matricide then later is murdered in public with a sword and now a comic book artist with no brain. What the fuck has gotten into this city in the last few hours?"
"You mean this is all out of the ordinary?" the CSI commented sarcastically.
Archer wryly smiled.
"This is New York," the detective rejoined. "If you can't find it here…"
"…can't find it anywhere," the CSI finished.
Archer nodded.
"Let me know when you're back at the lab. I'll be there to see who was smart enough to leave himself behind."
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Astounded by her findings in the panic room, Grace staggered from behind the glass case and back into the empty apartment. Her expression was frozen and movements automatic, too dazed to react appropriately from the massive personal trauma she suffered.
Gabriel had been involved in something far larger than himself, something that troubled him enough to create a secret sanctuary. Who was he asking forgiveness from and for what sin? Certainly it couldn't be God since she knew that her brother loathed the cookie-cutter pattern which the church shoved its followers into. Gabe wanted to be someone special and he was smart enough to realize that religion would put him in a slavish mass of lost souls rather than make him stand apart from them. It simply wasn't Gabe's modus operandi to be pious.
Unless something frightened him enough to force him to the altar, Gabriel Gray found his savior through scientific reasoning and logic. He never had a need for the god their mother tended to cling to. Grace doubted that had a change of heart over the course of years. He may have negated his philosophy in the aspect of remaining behind to take charge of Gray & Sons and aid their feeble minded mother but he was so steeped in the dynamics of time and theory that there was no chance of religious pollution permanently seeping in.
Yet here was irrefutable proof that somehow it had dribbled in. Forgive me father for I have sinned. Printed neatly in Gabe's handwriting. Had years of steady and constant influence from their psychotic mother broken him down? Grace believed her brother was much stronger than that. He'd always yearned to be special, in the way like his big sister was, and religion would never fulfill that need for him for he knew that it would serve to condemn people with extraordinary abilities. If they did it during witch trials to people without powers, her blood ran cold at what they would do to her. And still something had placed the fear of God within Gabriel.
Choking on a sob, she sank to the floor and pressed her back against the wall, an unstable hand against her lovely face. She remembered the photo she kept of him in her wallet and eagerly searched for it, longing to see Gabriel's sweet, handsome face again, even if it was only in a photograph. From now on it would be her only means of spending time with him. When she located it, she smiled triumphantly before pressing it over her heart, at last releasing the tears she had been guarded to withhold.
Moments later after her tears dried and she gathered her composure she was finally able to gaze upon her lost baby brother's ameliorating picture. Affection rather than electricity poured from her fingertips as she stroked it tenderly. Her brother, the consummate geek with his dark hair perfectly parted and combed, not a single strand misplaced and glasses with thick, black frames distracting from warm hazel eyes but not subtracting from the good looking face beneath them. The final nail in the Poindexter coffin was his clothing: a white Oxford unbuttoned at the neck but covered by, of all things, a grey sweater vest. If he hadn't been an introvert he would've had no problem with women; he was like a living Clark Kent and what woman didn't want Clark Kent?
"Christ, Gabriel," she muttered softly. "You could've been the star if you cleaned up that dorky, nerdy look of yours. I miss you so much it's unbearable! All of this wasted time trying to be special to our mother, to the rest of the world. You had no idea how special you were to me. Why wasn't that enough for you?"
She stroked the face in the photo.
"I know it's because I wasn't there like I should've been. I don't believe their accusations that you killed Virginia. Not you. If you did, it had to be an accident. There is no way…" She sighed. "I want to know what happened to you. Guide me, Gabriel, show me what happened. And please don't tell me you fell into her twisted god's clutches. What could you have meant by what you wrote? Was it to Virginia's god? An apology to our father? He was someone you never even knew, Gabe. He abandoned you before he got to know you."
Damn the petty cruelties of life! Speculation of how things would've turned out if their father had stayed flickered through her mind. It was plausible that he would've put his foot down and not allowed Virginia to dote on their female offspring so lavishly. Gabriel more than likely would've ascertained some parental affection, some guidance and might've acquired a decent father figure. Grace couldn't recall a single moment when their father was an asshole; he just couldn't bear the burden of siring a freak for a daughter. She terrified him and he needed to run away from her, not Gabriel. But subsequently her brother was the one who paid for her gift. Conversely from how Virginia exploited what she perceived to be greatness in Grace, her father could've uplifted Gabriel in some similar way. After all, Gabe was the normal one, the one who could've benefitted most from their father. Why couldn't he stay for the sake of his infant son?
Just as quickly as her tears came they were replaced with a need for both answers and revenge. Normal. What dictates what is normal in society? In the Gray household her powers were a normal occurrence, shorting out circuitry and turning on appliances until she learned to better control them. Yes, her father took flight and left his family behind because of her. True, her already unhinged doting mother fell off the deep end and drowned in a sea of the unbelievable. As the only prosaic household member, Gabriel was the bridge between Gray normalcy and outsider normalcy. He kept Grace sane, which was an uneasy task to accomplish with a daffy, smothering mother. In his unremarkable existence he was exceptional and Grace believed that was his gift to her.
On the grander scale he was a nobody and it put an appetite within him. The man who was barely there in the eyes of others had meant the world to his sister. This was precisely why it was impossible that her poor sibling had nothing to offer the world in the aspects of eminence. He was an extraordinary man leading a forced solitary life but there was something in him waiting for its chance to break out. Grace had always known it.
Gabe knew he was special! He had to know he was special to at least me!
But how could he have known when she abandoned him similar to the way their father had? In reality she was probably his biggest disappointment. Now he was gone and it was too late to make amends for her wrong. There would be no more sneaking him chocolate before dinner when he felt down, no more going to the park and sitting beneath a tree to read comics, no more creeping into her bed to cuddle on winter's nights or when he was afraid of a nightmare. No more, no more, no more!
They had been robbed of it all and the thief would pay dearly.
Deciding that she already spent too long in the dust of Gabriel's memories, memories she wasn't inclusive in, she tucked the photo back into her purse and rose from the floor. It was intolerable to stay any longer. The few precious recollections she had were not contained within these walls. All that remained here were lingering questions and the haunting echoes of regret.
Key in her hand, she stepped outside of 1B and slowly closed the door behind her, locking it up. A toxic blend of animosity and sorrow seized her heart as she strolled back to Cheryl the Super's apartment in a fluster amid flickering hallway lights and knocked. The obnoxious woman answered within seconds and smiled.
"How did things go?" she asked. "Did it help bring closure?"
"As much as it's going to give," Grace responded flatly. "Here's your key."
She extended it to the woman who accepted it without interest.
"Why don't you come inside and calm down for a while?" offered Cheryl. "You can have a glass of sherry to help. You shouldn't be wandering around outside while upset. Your guard will be down and anything can happen to you."
"I'm fine, thanks."
"Oh, it's no trouble at all, Miss Gray. It would be a pleasure. It's the least I could do."
Before she realized it, Cheryl had taken Grace by the arm and was leading her farther into the apartment.
"That's a girl," Cheryl said in a maternal way that sent Grace's powers dimming the lights. "Looks like I'd better call that electrician today. Come with me, my dear, sit and relax."
Grace suddenly was ushered to a sofa covered in protective plastic that squeaked obscenely when she sat. She gave the cushion a displeased glare then glanced up at Cheryl who was already heading toward the small bar across the room. If the woman heard the rude sound she dismissed it for which the irked celebrity was thankful. Grace's attention was drawn to the television before her as it began to flip through the channels on its own, another result of her upset gift.
"Here you go, hun," Cheryl cooed, returning with two glasses of sherry, one of which she handed Grace.
The Hollywood diva took it absent-mindedly.
Cheryl sat in a chair across from her and prattled on again with more stories of how Gabe visited her, brought her flowers every week, discussed books and topics weighing heavily on psychology and human potential, how he always wanted to be more in life but felt trapped, suffocated. Then the woman inadvertently mentioned something that truly caught Grace's drifting attention.
"It was the most uncanny thing," she said. "One day he told me my watch was about to stop because the battery was dying. I laughed and told him that it actually was a new battery I'd bought two weeks before. He told me to check it to see and, wouldn't you know it, the damned thing had stopped! I think the second hand moved one second more then went dead."
"Are you saying that he knew it would stop and why beforehand and without taking it apart?"
"That's right. He looked at it like he was dissecting it with his eyes, took my wrist, raised it to his ear and gave his prognosis. Like he heard the battery give out. It was fascinating. Like he was a watch doctor or something."
News of this made Grace's heart beat faster with exhilaration. She knew it! Gabe was special in her way all along!
The sudden notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata announcing an incoming call on Grace's cell phone startled both women. At first she planned to ignore it but when she fished it out of her purse she noticed that it was Detective Archer, making her heart skip a beat or two.
"Would you please excuse me?" she pardoned herself as she stood. "I must take this call. It's urgent."
"Of course, my dear."
Grace answered the phone as she walked away from the noise of the television.
"Miss Gray?" Archer's smooth baritone voice greeted, sending shivers of anticipation and lust through Grace's body.
Calm yourself, Grace! Keep your libido in check! Gabriel comes first!
"Detective Archer! Did you find out anything new? What's wrong?"
"That's what I was hoping you would tell me. The way you ran out of the morgue and the state it was in after you left got me worried."
Grace throatily laughed it off.
"Oh, that. How sweet of you to be concerned. Something was on fire. I have a phobia of fire due to a childhood accident so I reacted without thinking. I'm sorry. I hope nothing was damaged too badly."
"It's fixable, don't worry."
"How about Gabriel? Did he manage to go unscathed?"
"Fortunately he did. As a matter of fact, I'm calling in reference to your brother. We found a suspect."
Grace's disposition percolated with renewed interest. Spotlighting on her original business with the strapping detective, she came alive again and the room around her brightened from the energy she emitted.
"You have one? Who is it?"
"It's best that we speak in person. It's very sensitive information regarding another ongoing investigation. We believe that your brother was a victim of a series of killings."
Grace's throat tightened in painful expectancy.
"W-what? What are you telling me?"
"I can't give the details right now. Can you meet me tonight?"
"Yes, of course. Tell me where and when."
"I'll meet you at your hotel. Where are you staying?"
"I don't know yet. I just got into town and came straight to you."
"Check in somewhere and call me back with your information. I'll meet you."
"Alright. We'll meet in the lounge of…wherever I'll be."
"Great. I'll see you around 7:30 sharp."
"Perfect."
"One last question, Miss Gray."
"What's that?"
"Did your brother know a Peter Petrelli?"
Grace was bewildered upon hearing that name for it was the last one she expected to hear and yet it had been one that kept finding its way into her life today.
"Uh," she stammered, "n-no, not that I'm aware of. Why?"
"I'm sorry, I can't go into it now. I promise I'll explain in detail later."
"Is this Peter Petrelli your suspect?"
"I have a little more digging to do before I let you know anything. We'll talk about it later. See you then."
"Wait! You can't ju-"
The line went dead as Archer hung up. Annoyed, Grace sighed loudly and slipped the phone back into her purse. Removing a folded piece of paper that she'd stuck inside earlier, she walked back into the living room where she'd left Cheryl. The entire room burst into poltergeist activity as the amped up electricity from the surrounding hidden wiring buzzed loudly around the whole apartment, sending the television channels to suddenly begin changing again. Alarmed, Cheryl gawked about her in amazement.
"What the hell is going on around here?" clamored the mystified super.
The television faltered at a channel giving a five o' clock news brief that grabbed Grace's attention before it switched to the next one. It had been the fleeting mention of the surname Petrelli which she heard. Grace manipulated it to turn back. A portrait of the Petrelli pair was displayed prominently across the screen.
"That's what I would like to know," Grace muttered.
Before she could hear anything about the Petrellis the news anchor toggled to another story. The meteor that fell on Brighton Beach. A girl who fled the scene with an injured man. A pink haired girl named Amber Romerovski was spilling her guts in true Brutus fashion.
"Her name is Elle Miasnikov. She's my roommate and she's a little crazy if you ask me. I'm not surprised if she's sneaking around the city with a wanted man."
Her ranting denigrate was cut off by the reporter who continued with the latest in the story. Grace wasn't surprised about who it referenced.
"According to eye witnesses, Miasnikov is joined by the missing Peter Petrelli. Police are searching frantically for the peripatetic couple who are wanted for questioning in the death of artist Isaac Mendez…"
"That's Congressman Petrelli's younger brother," Cheryl informed. "Looks like there's always one bad apple in every bunch. Such a shame too. He's a good looking boy. Could've gone far."
"I have to leave," Grace said vehemently.
Cheryl protested but Grace ignored her and exited the apartment. Once a safe distance away, she stopped, unfolded the paper clenched within her grasp and examined it. It was the handwritten list from Gabriel's panic room. Her eyes skimmed the list until they fell on one particular name and address, the common link between the enigmatic Peter Petrelli and Gabriel Gray: the crossed out name of Isaac Mendez, 215 Reed Street.
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Author's Note: Again, a whole-hearted thanks to my readers and reviewers who share their time with my work. Continuing to do so is inspiration for me and it is greatly appreciated. On a side note, the infamous writer's strike will make an extremely busy Lupinus in real life so I ask that you please have patience should I need to skip a week or two to handle the demands of my real life career. I will make every effort to make my weekly posts for this story and will continue working on the other stories posted here (yes, they are in the works, everyone!). Thanks in advance and love you all!