--------------------
"From their struggles to establish dominance over each other, siblings become tougher and more resilient. From their endless rough-housing with each other, they develop speed and agility. From their verbal sparring they learn the difference between being clever and being hurtful. From the normal irritations of living together, they learn how to assert themselves, defend themselves, compromise. And sometimes, from their envy of each other's special abilities they become inspired to work harder, persist and achieve."
-- Adele Faber, Elaine Mazlish
Chapter 6
"Claire," repeated Grace as she scribbled a quick personalized autograph on the napkin's limited space. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."
Claire blushed faintly.
"Thanks. I pale in comparison to you."
Grace puffed up with the grandiosity that originally made her a star.
"Thank you. I'm glad I made you feel better and brightened your bad day."
"You have. Believe me. You can't believe how terrible…" She released a lyrical laugh rife with nervousness. "I'm sorry, Miss Moriarty…"
"Grace."
"Grace. I shouldn't be putting my business out there, least of all not to you. This is my one golden opportunity to make an impression on my favourite actress and I can't burden you with my problems, especially since I'm already intruding on your date…"
"Don't worry about it. I'm just happy to have given you some joy today."
The movie star handed her fan the autographed napkin, just in time for Archer to finally step back into the lounge.
"Thank you so, so much," Claire finished. "Keep up the great work."
Then she dashed back to her table, far more jovial than when she approached. Grace smiled in spite of herself when she overheard the thrilled and rapid words of the girl as she recapped the brief discussion with her favorite star to her companion who did turn out to be her father.
"Met with a young fan?" Archer asked as he returned to his seat.
"Yeah. Cute kid. Told me she was having a bad day but I made it better."
"That must boost your own spirits."
"I do what I can for others. I don't have the luxury that she does."
"What do you mean?"
"My brother was murdered and you hypothesize that he was involved in a homosexual threesome which could've been the reason behind his death. Personally this is a lot to digest so I'm not peachy keen and it would take a hell of a lot more than meeting my favorite movie star to make me feel better."
Archer's face reflected remorse.
"I'm sorry; I just thought it would help bring closure. You did want to be informed of any details germane to Gabriel's case."
"No, I'm sorry, detective. Truth is it did make me feel better."
She swallowed the remainder of her drink and scooted over so that the proximity between her and the cop shrank. Archer's eyes widened then dropped to the hand that Grace officiously squeezed his inner thigh with.
"There are other things that may make me feel marginally better."
Archer smiled awkwardly.
"Miss Gray…"
"Grace."
"Grace, I should've mentioned this before. I'm…married. Happily."
"Liar," she accused.
"Excuse me?" Archer could not believe his ears at the blatant remark.
"If you were happily married, I don't think you would've offered to meet me here. And if you were, at the very least you'd be wearing your wedding ring."
"It's part of my job…"
"Meeting women in the bars of the hotels they stay at?"
"If I need to, I do."
Grace released an evocative laugh.
"Happily or not, I really don't care," she admitted. "But I call your bluff, detective."
Archer watched with a helpless fascination as the lithe star rose from the stool and walked a few feet away before she stopped and glanced seductively over her shoulder.
"Coming?" she coaxed with as a seductive valediction.
Archer raised his eye brows, taken aback that this was happening, swallowed the rest of his drink then muttered to himself: "Not yet."
He left enough money on the counter to close out their tab then followed Grace out of the room, ignoring the flash of an incriminating camera.
--------------------
His call ended, Noah was returning to the table where Claire now sat alone at the same moment that the movie star his daughter had been ogling since they arrived was leaving with her date in tow. The men's shoulders unintentionally collided, the diva's man muttering an apology to Noah who graciously accepted. Claire's sparkling eyes never left the couple, utterly star struck.
"Dad!" she murmured blithely. "Did you see that?! She talked to me! I can't believe Grace Moriarty talked to me!"
"That's great," he retorted with the warm smile of a doting parent. "Did she give you an autograph?"
Claire beamed more radiantly than Heaven's light.
"Yes she did! Look!" She presented him with the signed napkin. "Her handwriting is so pretty it's like calligraphy or something. And she's so nice! So sophisticated and polished." She sighed. "I hope that someday I can be like her."
"If she's lucky she'd be half the person you already are, Claire-Bear."
Claire blushed vaguely then smiled broadly before replying, "She's a tough act to follow. I don't know if I could measure up."
"You don't have to measure up to her standards. She's her and you're you and you're as good as she is if not better."
"Well, I am totally thrilled to have met her. She's my inspirational hero."
"If she knew the truth you would be hers."
"We have to buy a frame for it tomorrow." She took the autograph from Noah and slipped it into her purse. "First thing when the gift shop opens. I don't want it to get ruined."
Things fell silent between them as the waiter brought their order to the table and Claire's eyes widened to resemble those of her Uncle Peter's when she saw the enormous cheeseburger placed in front of her.
"Oh my god!" she cried. "I am so hungry! Did you just hear my stomach growl?"
"Nope," Noah answered, amused by her humility. "Didn't hear a thing."
"I bet I could eat every crumb on my plate."
She used the knife to cut her burger in half then reached for the jar of catsup that was given a mixing shake before squeezing a hefty amount in a mountain next to her fries. Noah watched as she ravenously shoved a few fries into her mouth and added the lettuce and tomato left on the side beneath the roll.
"This is so good!" she mumbled, covering her stuffed mouth with her hand.
"Then it was worth it."
"Grease is always worth it. At least at my age it is."
Noah watched affectionately as she ravenously ate, leaving his own platter untouched. She was so beautiful that he didn't think he could bear it. No-one else, except for his wife Sandra, could compare.
It was a tragedy that he would have to soon break her heart. The phone call he took while Claire met her favorite movie star was actually in reference to her favorite relative and the news was disparaging. The Company was the Mafia of this strange and new world of evolved humans and it liked to liked to maintain a keen watch on those known to have special abilities if for nothing more than for usance in persuading them to see things in the Company's way. This meant acquiring as much physical proof for these persuasion techniques as possible. At some point a sample of Peter's blood had been acquisitioned in a way he dared not inquire about but after Claire learned she was Nathan Petrelli's daughter Noah wanted to secure his own position. That was why The Haitian had been instructed to confiscate the blood sample from the vaults and have it smuggled away to a safe deposit box for this precise moment.
Noah liked Peter very much but he knew what the young man was capable of and not just in the superpower sense. Peter was Claire's lodestone to the Petrellis and that jeopardized his daughter in ways that he strove to avoid. Regardless of anything he could say or do to prevent otherwise, Peter would always be a black hole sucking Claire back beneath the Petrelli dark wing. After being scorched by hellfire to protect her, Noah wanted the Petrellis erased from Claire's life. Even Peter. Now he had justification for that self-serving desire.
The Haitian had been on the opposite end of the line bearing news of test results which had been conducted on the sample of Peter's blood. The younger Petrelli brother's presence was more of a risk than anticipated.
--------------------
By the way Elle returned from the bedroom with a manner of indifference and the bag of jelly beans, Peter should've known something sneaky was about to take place. She'd disappeared into the bedroom in a fit of jealousy yet returned with an offer to play a game. As they took places across from each other at the kitchen table, Alex began bustling about preparing dinner; Peter felt that agreement to play Elle's game would be bad news for him in one way or another.
"Remember the rules," Elle reminded in a laconic tone. "You have to eat whatever you pull out."
"OK, OK, I get it," Peter responded, unenthused.
"Cuz if you spit it out you lose."
Her voice was so stern it was like a spider dancing across his skin.
"Fine," he concurred. "Anything to make peace again."
"Fine." She shook up the bag, drew it open then extended it toward him. "You first. Peter."
He gave her a hurtful look for the inhospitable way she spat his name then dipped his hand into the bag and removed a white colored jelly bean. His hesitation procured another frosty prodding from Elle.
"C'mon, Pete. Grow some balls, babe."
Holding her dissented gaze, he popped the jelly bean into his mouth and chewed. Elle appeared anxious and he puzzled.
"What does it taste like?" she inquired edgily.
"Like buttered popcorn," he answered and she did not hide her dismay. "It's good."
"Yeah, yeah. My turn."
She shook the bag, reopened it, reached in and without looking, popped the sweet into her mouth. The anxiety she initially had ebbed as she chewed.
"Well?" he asked.
"Cinnamon."
She repeated the shake of the bag and proffered it back to him. For a second time he reached in and, more confident, put it into his mouth to be chewed without being checked.
"Bubble gum."
"Damn!"
The bag was shaken again and truculent Elle took another. This time an unpleasant expression spread across her adorable face.
"What flavor is it?" Peter questioned with piqued interest.
"Never mind," Elle insisted, swallowing with difficulty.
"No, tell me. Play fair."
She quickly muttered a word he thought sounded like dirt but it was masked behind the rattle of the jellies inside the bag as she shook them again. He shoved the notion of a dirt flavored jelly bean out of his head; who the hell would invent such a thing? Then it was his turn. Following her daring lead, he again put what he extracted inside his mouth without looking. The nervous look on his face disappeared.
"Tastes like marshmallow," he told her.
"Goddamn it, Dave!"
Outraged, she emptied the candy onto the table top, sorted through them, singled one out and dropped it into his hand.
"Here!" she demanded vehemently. "Eat it!"
This is going to be good! Peter heard Elle proclaim yet her mouth did not move. Surprised, he asked before thinking, "Excuse me?"
"I said eat it."
"No, you said something after that."
Elle looked at him like he had two heads.
"No I didn't. Just take this one and eat it."
It's rotten egg! He's going to hate me for this! Serves him right!
So he had heard correctly when she said dirt! The little sneak was setting him up! Peter's expression held incredulity and disappointment that she would try to humiliate him in any way after all they had been through. He didn't deserve her ill treatment. His heart cracked beneath the weight of her insult. It wasn't his fault that he could not reciprocate her feelings. He was still new to himself and couldn't even remember the face of the woman who he obviously had been in love with. For those things alone he felt horrible and now Elle was trying her damnedest to make him feel worse.
"Will it set things right between us?" he asked softly, keeping secret the transmission of her thoughts to his mind in case he needed it to his future advantage. "Will we be OK if I do this?"
She gawked at him with such sinister intent that he expected to combust from the heat of it. But that look melted into itself and the blatant hate vanished as she finally nodded.
"Good," he stated, his tone softer still.
Taking the rotten egg jelly bean from his palm, he braced himself as he slipped it into his mouth and tentatively chewed. At first he thought he would be able to control his disgusted expression but the flavor was so rancid that he was rendered incompetent in the task.
"Oh, god!" he complained, trying his best not to gag. "That's disgusting!"
"You have to eat it!" repeated Elle with too much alacrity for his liking.
He forced himself to chew, the taste exacerbated when he found that he could not manage to swallow the cursed thing. Elle opted to perform a small act of mercy by reaching into her purse and handing him an Altoid from a small tin. He readily accepted it, putting the mint into his mouth with the jelly bean and waited until the foulness of the previous candy sweetened before swallowing the confectionary goo, saving the Altoid to continue sucking on.
"Thanks," he told her.
"Don't mention it," she returned, her grudge resolved.
"Do me a favor now," Alex finally spoke up. "Get the hell out of here so I can cook dinner."
"You heard the Boss Man, Dave. Now let's take a look at those paintings."
Elle led the way back into the living room, the bag of jelly beans abandoned on the kitchen table much to the absolved Peter's relief. Elle sat Indian style on the floor in front of the stack of paintings propped up one behind the other against the coffee table while Peter sat in the lawn chair, leaning close. For some reason that was when he first noticed that Elle smelled like vanilla and his spirits were lifted by the light scent.
"OK," Elle began to prepare herself for deepened thought as if they were cramming for a test. "This is the one you painted. I put it on top because it was still wet when we got home. Do you recognize her?"
Peter scrutinized the dark haired beauty in his smeared and wrecked painting. Surrounded by numerous volts of lightning she appeared to be in a morgue, a scenario that gave him the creeps.
"I don't know who she is," he stated, the gears in his mind working strenuously to remember. "Not a single clue."
"Well, I know who she is."
Shocked by this out of the blue declaration, Peter gazed at her in wonder.
"You do? Who is she? How do you know?"
"Everybody knows who she is. At first it's hard to tell but you can see it after looking…It's Grace Moriarty."
"Who?"
"Only one of the biggest names in Hollywood. Duh, Dave!"
Peter shrugged naively and Elle gave him a mild nudge.
"Suppose you're in love with her too."
"I don't think I know her. Why would I personally know a Hollywood celebrity?"
"Your family is rich and powerful. Maybe she's an ex-girlfriend."
"I don't think so. That doesn't feel right."
"That'd be why she's an ex, Dave."
"No, there's nothing there. I'm confident I've never met her."
"If you say so."
"Why would I paint her?"
"I don't know. But there are rumors abound on Entertainment Tonight. Seems like on the night I found you she was in the middle of filming a new movie when she quit and caught a plane to New York. So…she's here. Turns out she's originally from Queens. Her only known relatives, her mother and brother, were murdered."
"Murdered?"
"Yeah. They aren't releasing details yet so they could sort things out. You know, catch glory hounds who want to make false confessions. They did say that her brother killed their mother but they think it may have been accidental. They say that he was murdered soon after."
"But why is she surrounded by lightning? What does she have to do with me?"
"I dunno. I told you. Maybe you're psychic. For him to paint his own death it seems like Isaac was clairvoyant so maybe that was your common bond with him. You can turn invisible and regenerate. You're like one of the X-Men or something. I'm going to start calling you Rogue."
"Who's Rogue?"
"She's a mutant who can absorb powers."
"You think I'm a mutant?"
"I can't turn invisible, Pete."
Remnants of another conversation he swore he once had revisited him and he fell into surreal thought.
Do you ever get the feeling like you were meant to do something extraordinary?
I'm driving a cab, you may have noticed.
No, I'm not talking about what you do, I'm talking about who you are. I'm talking about being special.
Yes, we are all special.
That's not what I meant.
Some individuals, it is true, are more special. This is natural selection. It begins as a single individual born or hatched like every other member of their species, anonymous, seemingly ordinary, except they're not. They carry inside them the genetic code that will take their species to the next evolutionary rung. It's destiny.
"Dave? Dave?" Then louder: "Peter!"
"I'm sorry. I was just remembering…something."
"That's good. I suppose. What was it?"
"Just something someone said to me before. I've been remembering stuff on and off lately."
Elle perked up.
"That's great!" she exclaimed.
"None of it has meant much though. Just stuff about my brother mostly."
"What has it been telling you?"
"I seemed to be more attached to him than he was to me. I remember my mom telling me that I looked up to him but he looked down on me. I hate to admit it but she might've been right. I remember going to him for advice, to talk about something important to me and he brushed me off, said I was delusional. I…thought I could…fly."
"Fly?!"
"Yeah. Fly. And he mocked me. My own brother. Isn't he supposed to believe me instead of humiliate me in front of a room full of people by telling them I'm mentally ill and delusional?"
This unexpected outburst of fury startled both of them and Peter halted his rant as suddenly as it started.
"Where did that come from?" he wondered aloud.
"Old resentments resurfacing. Wow. You can fly."
I'm sorry but you're going to have to go, OK?
Hey, you know what? I'm just going to fly off the terrace, yeah? No? Hey, I can fly. Nathan, so can you. Tell you what. Why don't we just race around the Statue of Liberty real quick, huh? Give this tweedy guy somethin' to write about?
You wouldn't.
"Allegedly can fly," he corrected.
"You know you can. Look at all the other stuff you can do. I'll bet telling the future is one of those things too. You mark my words."
"What's the next painting?"
Elle moved the marred canvass that Peter painted off to the side, unveiling the next one beneath. It was the Kirby Plaza scene.
"That's you and Isaac's villain," reminded Elle. "Maybe Isaac was being metaphorical."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you stole his girlfriend so he's probably pretty damned pissed off at you."
"I didn't steal his girlfriend."
"Oh yeah? Got proof of that, lover boy?"
An awkward silence ensued between them as Peter was at a loss for words.
"Maybe his villain - cuz I told you he's the same one in the comics - is supposed to be a representation of Isaac himself. Maybe this is a fantasy he had to relieve frustrated tension over what you did."
"I didn't do anything…"
"In other words, this was his way of kicking your ass."
Annoyed by her cynical suggestion, Peter barked, "Next painting."
Elle shrugged off his disputing tone and simply moved the top painting over. Beneath was the one of the cheerleader lying dead and bleeding on the steps with the top of her head cut off, fallen in the dark umbra of her killer's shadow as he lurked the background.
"Here's the one I wanted to see," Peter muttered almost to himself as he joined Elle on the floor and reached up towards the female figure on the canvass.
"What? Is she your lover too?" Elle shot the disparaging comment before she considered what she was implying.
This time Peter returned her coldness.
"She's a child, Elle," he snapped. "They have names for men who screw around with underage girls and I'm not one of them." Then in a softer pitch as he centered back on the girl in the painting, "Besides, there's something more than that. I feel a deeper bond, a powerful connection with her."
Remembering the article in his pocket, he restlessly retrieved it, unfolding the paper and skimming the story for confirmation of what he knew was printed there.
"Here!" he said excitedly. "I have a niece! Claire! She's looking for me!"
He stared at the female figure in the artwork.
"Claire!" he murmured to it. "It's her! I know it is!"
"Why would Isaac paint the villain of his comic book chasing your niece?"
"Maybe because of what you said before. It was his way of getting revenge. He wanted to destroy me by taking away everything I love but he did it through his art. I saw another painting of her being chased by this same man. Those paintings tell a story. First she ran from him, then he killed her. Cut off the top of her head."
Peter knew that if Isaac predicted the future of his own death in such a similarly graphic manner then this painting of who he believed to be Claire was likely to herald the girl's death as well. As far as he knew the cheerleader was still alive, at least as of the writing of the article.
Save the cheerleader, save the world!
The refluent motto resounded back from one of his lost memories, inspiring him. Raising the precious objet trouvé up to read through the text again and hoping for more clues or at the very least a description of his niece, Peter grew inspired at having another chapter of his mysterious life unfolding and didn't notice the sudden look of realized horror on Elle's face.
"Peter!" she squeaked, her throat tight. "Look on the back!"
Not liking how she sounded, he flipped over the article to see what she was frantic over. On the other side was a picture of a man who bore a striking resemblance to Peter's Kirby Plaza adversary.
--------------------
Dinner in the Petrelli household was tense and stagnated with the only sound being the clinking of silverware against china. It was the type of dinner that children were dismissed from so Heidi Petrelli had dismissed her progeny to have dinner at the house of a close family friend. Tonight it was just her and Angela, the hellacious matriarch of the mansion.
"Don't you think it would've been a nice gesture to have invited Claire to dinner tonight since she's still in town?" Heidi questioned benignly enough. "She is a member of this family and she is a part of Nathan."
But there was no such thing as an amicable question if it went against the lady of the manor.
"Claire is preoccupied with her hunt for Peter," Angela replied briskly. "She sees what she wants to see."
"And what is that?"
"She has this silly notion that I don't care about Peter."
"In all due respect, it seems as if she's right. You don't exactly seem broken up about his death…"
"My son is not dead!!"
The unpredicted outburst took Heidi aback. The room fell as quiet and as chilly as a crypt while Angela perpetuated her imposing poise.
"Peter is not dead," she reiterated, raising her chin in the customary manner.
"How do you know for sure? He's been missing…"
"I know. It's mother's intuition. Certainly you understand that, you're a mother yourself. Peter is not dead."
"I don't understand what could've happened to him or why he would've chosen to vanish in the middle of the night without warning or explanation. It goes against his nature. I know he had problems and was suffering from his father's depression and delusions but he loves this family. Why would he be so irresponsible? He's a nurse, the epitome of dependability."
"Peter had his secrets as do we all."
"Maybe he went back to Vegas."
Not understanding what was meant by the statement, Angela looked at her daughter-in-law with haughty wonder.
"Why on Earth would he be in Vegas?"
"Isn't that where he said the clinic was that he and Nathan checked out previously? Poor Peter! Maybe he couldn't handle the stress or he realized he was sicker than he thought and he needed to admit himself."
Angela's stern countenance lightened retrospectively. With all the chaos of the few previous days she'd forgotten about the Vegas clinic; it was an ideal excuse to tell the family and help quell suspicion. The clinic excuse was made even more feasible because Nathan's disappearance coincided with Peter's. Heidi was oblivious about the special family she'd been married into and for now Angela deemed it mandatory that she remain that way. It was for the good of the family, as was everything she did.
"Perhaps," she granted. "I will give the clinic a call and ask if Peter is there."
"It's amazing, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"How opposite Peter and Nathan are. Nathan being so ruthless and Peter so tender. One has what the other lacks. You couldn't get more contradictory ends of a spectrum. In my opinion, Nathan can go a little lighter on his baby brother. Oh, he can use his political career as an excuse to do it but I am always on his case about excluding Peter. I pretend that I don't to keep the peace around here but I notice the mean-spirited jokes Nathan passes off to Peter at his expense. Like that ladies' shoe he gave to him as a gift during his graduation party. I asked him nicely not to do that but he insisted Peter would appreciate the joke. It hurt Peter's feelings if you ask me. He was good natured enough to take it in stride but deep down I could see that it bothered him. Peter adores him and Nathan prefers to make fun of him."
But Angela, lost in thought, didn't hear a word of Heidi's burst of chattiness. It was odd that this was as quiet as her house had ever been. Her grandchildren off for the night, her own children missing. Where were her boys? If someone didn't return soon she thought she would lose her mind. And tonight Heidi didn't seem to want to shut her mouth.
She supposed she should've given her eldest son's wife some slack because she was probably going just as crazy with all of the confounded silence. Someone had always been around and now there was no-one. Heidi believed that Nathan was on a trip dealing with his new political career. She also believed that Peter was off in a Las Vegas mental health clinic. Heidi. Gorgeous, naïve Heidi. Never knew what she really married into.
Faintly smiling at her daughter-in-law, she dabbed her napkin at the corners of her mouth and said politely, "Would you excuse me, dear? I must step away for a moment."
Heidi returned the smile with a far more compassionate version.
"Of course."
As Angela left her at the dinner table, she was aware of the expression on Heidi's alluring face. So angelic in the moody glow of the room, so willing to accept the obvious as truth, so ignorant of the real truth which danced before her.
You see only what you want to see!
Heidi wanted to believe that the Petrelli pedigree was perfect. So that was precisely what she got.
Entering the living quarters as if she was a grand dame entering a ballroom full of admirers despite the room's emptiness, she went straight for the bureau on the far side. Framed photographs aligned the top of the bureau and she selected one in particular of her sons, taken the year before Peter discovered he was special. Of course he'd always been special but he'd underappreciated himself and kept low key in his elder brother's daunting shadow.
Peter was her baby boy but even she couldn't fully see his untapped potential. But Charles Deveaux had seen it. It bothered her that someone else could see a greatness in her young son that she could not. The photograph had been taken in a time before the transition, when Nathan and Peter were as normal as any Petrelli ever had been.
She caressed the glass surface of the frame with the back of her fingers so the natural oils of her fingertips wouldn't smudge it. Her boys: both indispensable to her, one expendable in Linderman's plot of immolation. Originally she was to sacrifice one yet now she was at a total loss of both. It served her right for recruiting her baby as the weapon in Linderman's war against his will. Her heart was a grenade that threatened to detonate as she gazed upon Peter's happy, delicate features. Her motherly instincts to protect surged through her veins but it was too little too late. Prehensile and gullible, he was not like everyone else and he above all should've been protected. It was her motherly duty to protect him and Nathan was the one who took control of the situation and derailed Linderman's plot.
Gone! My sons are gone! What will I do without them?
"Mrs Petrelli?" Heidi's voice called from the doorway. "Are you alright?"
Clearing her throat, she retained her august posture and replied in an even tone: "Yes, I'm fine, Heidi. I will return in a moment."
Heidi didn't say anything in return but simply walked away, an action for which Angela was ingratiated for.
Perhaps she'd been too harsh in her angry feelings toward Peter. Hurt had made her lash out at the wrong person. Clutching the photo briefly to her heart, she allowed herself a few seconds of secret grief and dabbed at the tears before they were given the right to unreservedly fall. Then as if she'd felt nothing at all, she reset the photo back into its place on the bureau and returned to her game of make believe.
--------------------
"This can't be happening," Peter doubted, looking from the man in the newspaper article on the reverse of what he tore out and to the painting before him. "This is just too much at all once. Elle, this man is real!"
"Yeah, I can see that," she responded, taking the liberty to place a hand around his waist. "He definitely has some significance then, doesn't he? Isaac knew you both."
"I'm starting to think you're right. Isaac Mendez could see the future."
"Not just see the future. He drew it. In his paintings and in his comics."
"What do you mean?"
"I was afraid to say this until now because I thought it was too weird in spite of all the weirdness that we've been drowning in."
Peter watched as she retrieved the stolen comic from where she left it on the floor beside the chair.
"This was obviously Isaac's last comic," she informed, leafing through the pages hurriedly. "Look. His villain. Sylar."
Peter grimaced when he heard the name and Elle noticed.
"Does that name mean something to you?" she inquired.
"I don't know. I'm not sure yet."
"Well, according to the comic Sylar is a man with all of these incredible superpowers. Only thing is he wasn't born with them; he steals them by eating the brains of the original possessors of the powers."
Peter cringed in disgust.
"Your Isaac Mendez had one hell of an imagination."
"Truth is stranger than fiction, Dave, and it looks as if he's had some real life inspirations. Gabriel Gray looks too much like Sylar for it to be coincidental. And let's not forget our own resident superhero."
"I'm not a superhero."
"Ever see Unbreakable?"
"Is that another comic book?"
Elle shook her head and chuckled.
"No, Donnie Dorko, it's a movie. You know. Moving pictures on a big white screen."
"I know what a movie is, Elle."
"Alright, then. In this particular movie Bruce Willis – he's an actor – plays this ordinary kinda dude who discovers that he's a superhero. Just out of the blue. Just like you."
Peter scoffed.
"Alright then, want more proof?" Elle propounded stubbornly. "Remember how we said that Isaac had to be able to tell the future because he painted his death unless he had an accomplice?"
"Yeah."
"One of the paintings I took I just grabbed without having the chance to look at it until we got back here."
Peter watched with restored interest as Elle removed the paintings of Grace Moriarty, the Kirby Plaza scene and that of the moribund cheerleader to unveil to him the one of which she was referencing. It was another one of Isaac's death self-portraits only this time the dead artist wasn't alone. A second man glowered over Isaac's corpse, palpably his killer; it was the same man in the Kirby Plaza scene albeit drawn in the familiar style of Isaac's hand.
"Looks like he killed Isaac," finished Elle. "Combining the story in the comic with the scenes in paintings Sylar killed Isaac to steal his precognitive powers. See? He cut off the top of his head and presumably ate his brain."
"Just like the cheerleader! If Sylar killed Isaac to steal his powers then he did the same thing to the girl in the painting! That means she has powers too! She is Claire, I know it!"
"Expecting to come from a family of superheroes, aren't you?"
"I can't be the only one, Elle! Some members of my family have to be like me, wouldn't you think?"
"This girl might not be your niece, Dave. What proof do you have that she is?"
"None. Yet. Nothing physical at least. Just a feeling in my heart."
Elle smiled tenderly at him but Peter felt odd, as if it was faintly condescending, which he did not understand given the fangirl believed them to be living in an Isaac Mendez comic book.
"Let's say that you're right and I'm some sort of superhero and Isaac Mendez was a real psychic. Then that would make Gabriel Gray – the perfect likeness of this Sylar character – a brain eating cannibal."
"Apparently so."
"Let me see that."
He took the comic from Elle's hand and turned through the pages. The story took place five years into the future when Sylar took presidency of the United States and systematically plotted genocide of others like him. Peter's heart stopped. Sylar was impersonating a man who greatly resembled…
"Nathan!"
"Huh?"
"My brother Nathan!" Commoved by discovery, he placed the article with his brotherly portrait alongside the panel in the comic book of Sylar-as-Nathan standing in the Oval Office and excitedly pointed back and forth between them. "Look! My brother Nathan!"
"Are you sure?"
"Positive! There's no mistaking it!"
Elle scrutinized the news article and the comic, trying her hardest to make sense of all of the insanity that she helped to generate in Peter's mind.
"What happens in this comic, Elle?"
The young woman casually shrugged.
"Sylar becomes this invincible monster because he's stolen numerous powers which drive him totally insane. This little Japanese guy…the one in the paintings…saves the world from Sylar's eugenic ways by killing him. Uh oh."
"What?"
"He kills him with a sword."
Peter was speechless. Blinking several times then shaking his head to clear it he asked, "With a sword?"
"Yeah. A sword. Fuck."
Peter rose from his sitting position, as deep in thought as he'd ever been.
"The article says that Gabriel Gray was the man killed with the sword in Kirby Plaza," he muttered. "And I'm the one in the painting with Gray."
Hearing the despondency in Peter's voice, Elle stood as the young man began to pace like a caged animal, consoling, "But according to 9th Wonders! you didn't kill him. Hiro the Japanese guy was the one who killed him. And if you're real and Sylar is real then Hiro has to be real too. Think about it, Pete. The scenario is identical. You've pegged yourself for a killer this entire time and you're not. And even if you were, Sylar was a monster, Peter. Countless lives were saved because he died."
"If all of this is true, then where is Hiro?"
Elle shrugged again. "Don't know. But I think you'd better reconsider the possibility of you and Isaac having precognitive abilities."
"Yeah, it looks that way."
"You're amazing, my friend. You can do a lot. You can turn invisible, you can stop things with your mind, you can heal really fast, now you can tell the future. What else can you do, Pete? You're far more interesting to watch than a boring movie or TV show. You are so special!"
Whatever this is about, now is not the time.
Charles Deveaux died this morning.
I'm sorry. Were you there?
No, I wasn't. I stopped working for him so I could figure out what was going on with us.
Yeah, I told you to drop all this "I'm special" crap.
I can't, all right? I need your help.
The memory of his brother's spiteful words triggered by Elle's sentence sent chills down his spine.
"This is just too much all at once," he told her as he rose from the floor. "Excuse me, Elle, but I need some air."
"You can't go outside! It's too dangerous! Peter, you could get arrested!"
Heading for the door, he stopped briefly to offer her one of his reassuring crooked smiles and told her: "Can't catch what they can't see, can they?"
Then he vanished, quite literally, and was out the door, the comic book still in his hand.
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At first when Archer opened his eyes he wasn't certain where he was until he saw the sleeping naked woman at his side and identified her as Grace Moriarty, famous Hollywood A-lister. He couldn't believe his miraculous stroke of luck but a damper was quickly put on it when he remembered that Grace Moriarty was also Grace Gray, the sister of a homicide victim and matricidal murderer.
"Shit!" he swore almost inaudibly.
Careful not to wake her, he sat up and wiped his face with his hands.
What the hell have I done? What was I thinking
Grace was a gorgeous young thing who any man, regardless of their marital status, would consider themselves extremely fortunate if they found themselves in his current place. But that wasn't how Archer felt. The caducity of his and Rebecca's love did not make this adultery right despite that he was starved for affection. Riddled with remorse, he was filled with derision for the violation of his wedding vows.
How could I do this to Rebecca? She's a good woman who trusts me completely and is probably home worried sick!
Hell, the detective didn't exactly know how this had even happened. The last thing he wanted to do was justify his behavior because in his eyes there was simply no way to do that, yet it was as if Moriarty lured him into her bed like a silver screen siren with a captive song and he had no other option but to submit. He was weak and obeyed, a slave who serviced her well into the night, as it seemed. Checking his watch he found it was after two in the morning. Among other things, the very least he owed Rebecca was a phone call to inform her that he was alive and well.
But I won't be after she finds out why I'm not home in our bed! I'm officially the worst kind of human garbage!
That spoke volumes about how despicable he thought he was by sleeping with Grace. As an officer of the law for nearly half of his life, he dealt with human scum of all types, the majority of who never expressed personal guilt for their crimes. The reason he placed an adulterer in the murderers' den was because an adulterer more than likely lay beside the person they victimized. Unbeknownst to the usually undeserving victim the person next to him or her was a liar, a thief who stole the victim's trust and used it to his advantage.
Sighing, he ended the mental diatribe and peered down at the reason behind his infidelity, finding that he pitied the beauty. This night might have been a signal that she felt equally alone in the world. It was a shame for a woman with great physical beauty to own such a damaged soul. Losing her entire family all at once on the same night had to be the worst thing to happen to anyone. He didn't want to flatter himself in believing that he could begin to imagine how this poor woman felt. Perhaps this was his subtle, unconscious reason to sleep with her: to provide solace to a disheartened woman. Still there was no refuting that Grace Moriarty alias Grace Gray possessed a charisma and sexuality that was impossible to abstain from.
Even now he wanted to reach out and stroke her bare arm but restrained for fear that he would reengage in more unfaithful activity. Despite the fact that she projected a strong personality, this night proved to Archer that she was vulnerable and needy beneath. Perhaps her mother didn't love her enough; after all, she never impressed upon him that she cared her mother was dead. All she cared about was her brother. He was the only one she asked for, the only one she wanted to see.
What would she do if she knew what I knew?
Dishonesty correlated with the territory of being a homicide detective, especially one working in Manhattan. It was against the rules to tell the entire story, in spite of wanting to, and there was something important and drastically bizarre that he didn't tell Grace about her brother's body. The day she visited the morgue to pay final homage to her brother his body had vanished. Archer had left the morgue to call headquarters and report the weird incident that sent Grace fleeing when he heard someone shuffling in the hallway. Yet when he turned to look he saw nothing but a door closing behind whoever had passed through it. Thinking it was the coroner, he was shocked to return to the morgue and discover the shaken man still there.
I turned my back for only a moment! the coroner expounded frantically. I heard somebody moving around behind me! I thought it was you coming back! But it wasn't you!
Perplexed, Archer questioned: Who was it?
The amazed coroner shook his head and replied, I don't know! But Gabriel Gray is missing!
What exactly it was that happened was still indefinite. Either someone hiding in the room stole the corpse for whatever reason or it walked off on its own as a zombie. Things were going haywire in New York at the moment but he was sceptical that Gabriel Gray was a reanimated cadaver. That was too far fetched, even for New York. Being that the body was evidence in a murder investigation it was unpardonable for it to be missing, not that it was tolerable for the morgue to lose anybody's loved one, evidence or not. Every body that passed through that room was somebody's loved one and the remains were priceless.
Thinking of life's precious things brought him back to Rebecca and regret struck him like a hammer. That would never go away now, he knew. His trousers were slung over the small couch in front of the window; a bulge in one of the pockets outlined the form of his cell phone. Looking back at the slumbering celebrity then again to where he knew his phone was he felt the overwhelming demand to call his wife. He needed to risk making that call, no exceptions.
Slipping out of the bed, he retrieved the phone, dialing the programmed speed number for his home as he rushed discreetly into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. As suspected, Rebecca answered immediately.
"Oh my god, Ryan, where have you been?!" she demanded in a stressed voice. "I've been worried sick!"
He trusted that she genuinely was worried, intensifying his blame.
"I know, honey, I know. Everything's alright. I…fell asleep at the office. I'm so sorry to worry you like this."
"You're at the office?"
It wasn't that her tone alluded to doubt, but rather it expressed concern which was what bothered him the most about his lie.
Telling half the story is part of the job! he excused himself. Especially if it gets you out of a tough spot!
"Yeah," he fabricated. "I am. But I'm on my way home now. Just give me a half an hour. I'll be there."
"Well hurry up, OK?"
She still didn't sound incensed but rather relieved.
"OK. See you soon." Then he repentantly added, "I love you."
"Love you too."
But Archer knew it was an exchange of convenience rather than affection. He hung up and went back into the room to don his clothing, all the while keeping his eyes on Grace to make certain that she didn't stir from her deep repose. Then, tucking his shirt into his trousers, prudently left the hotel room fully aware of the Faustian deal he'd made just by being there.
--------------------
Reptilicus the fire breather was fond of walking the empty midway of Coney Island late at night after everyone else vacated the park. There was an ambient mystique contained within how the Cyclone and Wonder Wheel and other rides were silhouetted against a moonlit sky, eerily glowing in their monstrous proportions. It empowered him as he wandered, as if he became fused as one with the dark.
Tattooed and pierced to append his personal charm, surprisingly enough most of New York still was negligent with inviting him to social functions. Too many goddamned yuppies were taking over the once lenient albeit sleazy microcosm that was Manhattan. The nominal freaks still drifted around but were ignored out of repugnance rather than out of acceptance.
His meditative time was interrupted when he noticed a man standing at the edge of the pier, staring up into the heavens as if in an existential soul search. He held an exalted conduct as if he were Leonardo DeCaprio delivering his "I'm the King of the World!" line and yet there was something off about it. Unkempt and dishevelled, his clothing was tattered, blackened and singed in various areas as if he'd walked through a fire.
"Excuse me? Sir?" Reptilicus called with utmost respect. Just because he was a sideshow freak didn't mean he was uncivil. "Sir, do you need help?"
The urbane man didn't answer but instead continued to stare into space.
"You shouldn't be out here right now," the fire breather reproached. "The midway is closed."
Still no response. Reptilicus moved forward, closing the gap between himself and the delinquent man. Sidling close, he saw that the stranger was in shock and vacant like a blank page.
"Sir?"
Finally the man ascribed his presence. Turning from the heavens to face Reptilicus, he said vaguely, "He fell from the sky and I lost him."
Intrigued and thinking the man was high on lord knows what narcotic, the tattooed man asked, "Who? Who did you lose?"
Gazing back up at the enormity of the welkin blackness, he responded plainly, "My brother."
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Author's Note: Hullo, all. I apologise for the delay in posting this chapter, but as I warned life got hectic (and still is) and yet I kinda needed the break. However, I have a very special way to make it up to you, as forewarned in my LJ. Many of you are aware of my profession and that I encounter several celebrities because of it. That is why as a way of saying thanks for the support, friendship and continued readership to my friends and fans I decided to do something special. During her recent stay in NYC for the Big Apple Con, I was lucky enough to manage to spend a significant amount of time with none other than Hayden Panettiere herself. In all of her sweet awesomeness and amid our chatting up on life, she signed an extra copy of Entertainment Weekly that featured her on the cover (which I had stashed away and specifically put aside for this opportunity). If you would like to be the lucky person to take this autographed issue off my hands then here is what you must do:
As I stated in the Author's Note prior to the Prologue, Elle Miasnikov was created by me over the summer before it was public knowledge that a character named Elle would join the actual Heroes ensemble. That means it is safe to say that Elle Miasnikov was never intended to be the cannon Elle (after all, it is Grace who has the power of electricity in MBK). However, Elle Miasnikov will have a pivotal and profound impact on what happens to Peter by the end of MBK. A clue to what that impact will be can be found in her last name. Your task is to tell me what Elle's surname means and based upon what you discover, theorise on what consequence it will have on Peter. Send your answers and your conspiracy theories to me via private messaging here on FF.N along with a way to contact you back. Your theories are simply to weed out the loyal readers so theories do not have to be correct but they should be creative and relate to the story. However, your answer as to what Elle's last name means does have to be correct (hint: think of the community in which she lives).
All entries must be received by 4PM EST on December 20, 2007. I will read them over during my holiday break, choose the winner from those who answer correctly and announce in my Livejournal (and through the contact email you supply me with) who won on January 4, 2008. The magazine will be wrapped in a protective plastic sheaf and supported so that there won't be any creases. To be fair, there are no international restrictions so readers outside the US are included in this opportunity. For a look at a photo of the magazine, please refer to my Livejournal (link located on my bio page) and do not hesitate to contact me with any questions. Once again, thank you for your readership/friendship and continued support. I wish you all the best of luck!
Lupinus