A/N Slowly but surely, sentence by sentence, word by word. Thanks especially for all of the wonderful reviews I got last chapter!
Disclaimer Author cannot be held responsible for, well, anything.
Part 2
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
-Robert Frost
Colombia – 3 days before the Gotham riot
Chapter 22
It's a small world after all.
-Disney World
Alex grit his teeth as the truck slammed over another bump in the road, and he cast a worried look at Rick, who was slumped next to him. There was fresh scarlet leaking through the make-shift tourniquet on his shoulder.
Across from them, their guard caught Alex's gaze and stroked his AK-47 meaningfully.
Alex shut his eyes, hoping that they would get wherever they were going soon, and that there would be a doctor there. Rick was growing increasingly pale, and Alex was growing increasingly worried. Not that he hadn't been worried since the day he'd driven to the airport.
Ten days earlier
Alex stood on the edge of the tiny landing field, his white cotton shirt stuck to his back with perspiration, even though he had just climbed out of his air conditioned Land Cruiser. The equatorial sun blazed down from a clear sky, and he could smell hot tar and, beneath it, the moist green smell of the jungle that crept forward over the cleared strips bordering the runway.
A bead of sweat ran down his temple, and he considered stepping into the converted hangar that served Florencia for a terminal. Deciding it would probably be even more sweltering inside, he settled on a block of wood beneath the shade of a palm tree.
He'd been surprised by the phone call late the night before. Strain had been evident in Alfred's tone as he'd said, "We're in a bit of a situation here at the Manor, and I'd take it as a personal favor if you would help."
Alex had cautiously agreed to do what he could, and Alfred had explained that the son of one of the Manor's maids had not only gotten himself expelled from school, but there was a possibility of criminal charges. The woman had come to Alfred, begging for his help in sending the boy to his father in Colombia. "She has been with us a long time, and there were … extenuating circumstances that made me feel we should help her. Master Wayne agreed. The boy's father lives about a hundred miles from Dr. Marquez's compound, and we were hoping you could pick the boy up at the airport."
It was a simple enough favor, and Alex had immediately agreed, although it was seventy-five miles over bad roads to Florencia. But as he sat in the heat, he wondered again just what Alfred had meant by extenuating circumstances.
The whine of a small plane engine cut through the heavy air. A speck on the horizon rapidly grew into an ancient Cessna 310, which touched down, bounced several times, and skidded to a stop. The roar of the twin engines died, and Alex stood, brushing wood splinters off his shorts as a couple of men ambled out of the terminal and toward the plane.
The plane door opened and the pilot hopped down, then offered his hand to assist a woman in an orange and green muumuu. She was embraced and kissed on both cheeks by one of the men from the terminal while the other opened the tiny baggage compartment and began hauling out boxes that probably contained farming equipment.
As the other men moved to help unload the cargo, another figure appeared in the door of the plane. He was slender and deeply tanned, with black hair that tumbled untidily over his forehead. At least he's not too white on the outside. That'll make it easier for him to fit in, Alex thought sympathetically as the kid jumped out of the plane and slung a duffel bag over his shoulder.
Alex walked forward, wondering whether the boy even knew who to look for. As they drew closer, he had a strange sense of familiarity. The boy reminded him strongly of someone else he knew, someone whose name he'd recall in a minute. The kid pulled off his sunglasses, and as Alex caught a direct gaze from dark brown eyes, the sense of familiarity was overwhelming and he thought that he must have met this kid, only he was wrong somehow. Then the boy reached up a slim, brown hand to shove the hair off his forehead in a gesture Alex had seen performed a thousand times in the schoolroom at Wayne Manor, and with stunned recognition, he realized he was looking at Richard Grayson.
"You're Mr. Peaceable?" Richard asked, no recognition crossing his impossibly tanned face.
"Yeah," muttered Alex, still mentally reeling. "Is this all your luggage?"
"Yeah. They don't let you take much when you're exiled." There was unfamiliar bitterness in the remark, but Alex only led the way to the car, knowing that they could not, must not, talk out here in the open.
Richard kept quiet as they drove away from the airport and down the cobblestoned main street, and Alex didn't try talking as he navigated a couple of stray dogs and a soccer game. When they were clear of the town, with the jungle walls pressing closer and narrowing the cleared fields, he finally asked, "Were you expelled?"
"No."
Alex sighed, not in the mood for sulky teenage games. "Then why are you here?" No need to ask about the identity ruse. When the ward of one of America's richest men traveled to a country with one of the world's highest kidnapping rates, he had better have a disguise. Or an army.
Watching from the corner of his eye, Alex saw the muscles in Richard's jaw clench, and then the boy snapped, "There was a shooting at Bailey."
Two months of practice on a stick shift were not enough to override a lifetime of instincts trained to an automatic. Forgetting about the clutch, Alex slammed on the brake and the motor sputtered and died. "By a student?"
"Yeah. Bruce freaked."
Freaking out, Alex could understand. He was panicking right now over something that was obviously over and Richard was sitting safely beside him. What he couldn't interpret was that emphasis on the word 'freaked.' Was it disgust? Anger? Betrayal?
A horn blast behind them reminded Alex they were stopped in the middle of the road. He restarted the engine and made proper use of his clutch to put them back in gear. "Ok, I understand why he pulled you out of school, but why send you here?"
Richard folded his arms over his chest, and Alex decided that the hidden emotion was anger. A lot of it. "You'll have to ask Bruce about that. He didn't spend a lot of time explaining before he dumped me on the plane."
The next rut made their kidnappers' truck buck like a rodeo bull. Alex had to grab the side of the truck bed to keep from falling over, and a stifled moan escaped from Rick as his injured shoulder slammed against the wheel well. Alex squinted through the gloom at their guard. "Excuse me, sir," he began, trying to be polite, "how much farther are we going? The boy needs to see a doctor."
"Shut up," the guard hissed.
Alex subsided, watching the glimpses of jungle he could see out the back of the pickup's cover. Dr. Marquez's compound was hours behind them, and he hadn't even been aware that there was a drivable road that penetrated this deep into the jungle. Although drivable was an exaggeration, he thought as they bounced in the air again.
He hoped that Dr. Marquez was all right. The mathematician had been hustled into the cab of the truck, forced to sit with their other two abductors. Alex tried to cheer himself with the thought that Marquez had probably asked one of his guards for a pen so that he could scribble down his latest idea on the back of his hand.
The daylight was completely gone when the truck finally rattled to a halt. Alex went limp with relief. "Where are we?" he asked.
"Shut up!" the guard snarled.
Alex rolled his eyes in the darkness. What a surprise. He heard the pickup doors opening and feet crunching through undergrowth. Then the tailgate was thrown down and the capitán of the group was waving a gun at them. "Get down, quickly!"
Alex and Rick crawled toward the opening. Alex staggered as his stiff legs hit the ground, and he noticed Rick clinging to the side of the truck. Even their guard took a few moments to stamp the cramps out of his legs.
The man from the cab spoke to his comrade. "Hide them in the trees. If they make a noise, shoot them."
"Why is it always me?" their guard grumbled, and smacked Alex's shoulder with the muzzle of his gun. "Hurry up!"
Once they were out of the small clearing and past the first layer of trees, the guard forced them to lie down on their stomachs and put their hands on their heads. Rick cried out in pain as he tried to lift his wounded arm, so the guard (oh so generously) let him keep it at his side.
They lay there for what seemed like hours, although when Alex looked at his watch afterward, he found it had only been forty-five minutes. Every so often, he thought he could feel something skittering across him. Lizards, he thought. Frogs. Bugs. Nothing to be afraid of. He prayed the snakes were choosing a different path tonight. He wondered where Dr. Marquez was.
Five days earlier
Alex was in the middle of a dream about cheeseburgers the size of pi when the screaming woke him up. He sat bolt upright, disoriented in the darkness, and then he stood and hurried to the other bed in the small room. "Rick, wake up!" He shook the teen's shoulder, and Rick woke up, gasping.
"I was dreaming."
"No kidding. Are you all right?"
"Sorry. I haven't done that in a long time. I thought I'd outgrown it." He sat up, pushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead.
Alex made a fast decision. "Come on," he ordered, flipping on the light. "Let's go have a snack. You scared the bejeebers out of me."
"Sorry," Rick apologized again.
In the kitchen, Alex poured orange juice and found some bread and goat cheese. Rick picked at his snack, but didn't really eat, his expression closed.
Nothing like the direct approach, Alex reminded himself. "Do you always have the same dream?"
Rick's gaze didn't waver from his plate. "No."
"What did you dream about this time?"
"It doesn't matter." Rick started to jab his knife into the soft cheese, caught himself, and carefully shaved off a piece.
Where did he learn so much control? Alex wondered. Certainly not from Wayne. "It does matter," he objected. "You said you hadn't dreamed like that in years. Was it about the shooting?"
"It's just a dream, Alex."
Alex gave up on any kind of diplomacy. "Maybe you don't want to talk about it, but I do. You can't fly down here, tell me you were taken hostage in your own school, and expect me to be okay with that. Especially when it's obvious it's not okay with you." He paused hopefully, but Rick stared stubbornly down at the table, so Alex pushed on. "Look, I don't know what's going on with Wayne, and I agree he shouldn't have shipped you off alone, but if you're honest, we both know that he's not exactly emotionally mature. It's possible that he really can't handle it, and if that's true, then you're going to have to accept it and move on without him."
Rick was staring at him like he'd lost his marbles. Alex considered retracting the statement, but it was something he'd felt like saying for a long time. It was hard, but Rick was old enough to hear it.
The boy pushed back from the table, and Alex's heart sank, as he feared he had only made things worse. But Rick didn't leave. Instead, he began pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen table.
"He wanted a witness," he said suddenly.
"Who wanted a witness?"
"David. We'd had a few conversations. I mean, it was obvious the guy was messed up, so I told him about my mom. I thought maybe he needed someone to talk to, but he always blew me off. Until the last time. And then he took me down to the basement, where he had this shrine set up to his mom and his grandfather. And then he told me I would understand and he blew his brains out."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Yes, it was!" Rick shouted. "I said the wrong thing, I didn't say the right thing, I should have grabbed the gun away from him. For God's sake, Alex, I should have done something! David is dead because I didn't think fast enough! Bruce doesn't want me around, and I don't blame him."
Alex realized he had misread the direction of the boy's anger. It wasn't for Wayne at all—it was for himself. Rick's face was averted, and Alex thought he was trying not to cry.
"In the first place," the tutor said quietly, "I can guarantee that, whatever my personal opinion of Bruce Wayne may be, he did not send you to me because he blames you for David's death. And in the second place, you're going to have to accept that people make their own choices. You can't stop that."
Rick kept his face hidden, but his shoulders were stiff, and Alex knew he wasn't getting through. But before he could figure out what should come next, Dr. Marquez wandered into the kitchen.
He was wearing an old fashioned red nightshirt, and it flapped around his skinny, wrinkled knees as he moved. There was chalk dust all along one sleeve, and Alex surmised that the old man had once again neglected to actually go to bed in favor of pursuing some train of thought that had struck him while he was brushing his teeth. The genius's erratic habits were the despair of Rosa, his faithful housekeeper.
Now he sat down at the table and beamed at them both, utterly unaware of the thick tension that filled the kitchen. "I've been thinking of putting in a swimming pool," he announced, "for Rosa's grandchildren. What do you think?"
At last they heard the roar of another truck, coming up the same road they had used. Its headlights careened wildly over the clearing as it bounced over the last few ruts and came to a stop, its engine idling. A man vaulted out of the uncovered bed, and even though it was too dark to see much, Alex's eyes widened in amazement as he took in the massive silhouette blocking out the headlights. It was absolutely the biggest man he had ever seen.
The murmur of voices without distinguishable words was just audible above the noise of insects and frogs. After a minute of conversation, the leader of their abductors motioned toward the truck. One of the others opened the passenger's door, and Dr. Marquez emerged.
The giant newcomer gestured, and mathematician slowly approached the other truck. His new captor opened the cab door for him and helped him inside.
"Are you sure it's safe to go back by the same road?" the captain called, for the first time speaking loud enough to let his voice carry to those hiding in the trees.
"It doesn't matter. I have to keep an appointment in Gotham City," the new man called back, laughing, and Alex's eyes again widened in surprise. He turned his head to look at Rick, but the boy's face was buried in the leaves. Alex hoped he was still conscious.
The large man hopped back into the bed of his truck, and with a loud grinding of gears, it managed a u-turn and roared back down the road. When the sound of the engine had faded, their guard told them to get up, using the toe of his boot.
Prodded by their guard, they went back out to the clearing. The capitán was lighting a cigarette, looking pleased. "Good work," he told his comrade. "He never even guessed we had—"
Shots exploded in the dirt around them, and the paramilitaries dove for cover. Alex and Rick crawled under the truck and stayed there as the bullets flew and a dozen dark figures invaded the clearing. Alex saw the capitán make it to the edge of the clearing and disappear into the trees. The shooting stopped.
The muzzle of a rifle was jabbed underneath the truck, and a man ordered, "You under there, come out!"
They crawled out. A man in fatigues grinned at them. "Don't worry, amigos. You're safe now. You've been rescued by the FARC."
12 hours earlier
Alex had been with Dr. Marquez in the air conditioned computer room, struggling to help the mathematician focus on writing his new grant application. Although his funding was more or less perpetually guaranteed by the state university, he was still required to do paperwork, something which challenged his chronic absentmindedness. Alex was patiently redirecting the genius's information to the online form for the third time when two gunmen had burst into the room.
They both had AK47s, and Alex and Marquez had been forced onto their knees with their hands behind their heads, the elderly man looking completely confused.
"You help the rebels!" screamed one. "You're a traitor to your country, you should die!"
"No," protested Dr. Marquez. "We help no rebels here. We are loyal to the government. I work for the state university."
"You're traitors!" the first man shouted again, shaking his gun in Dr. Marquez's face.
"Please, he's telling the truth," Alex tried to intervene, but the second man shoved a gun in his face. "You want to die? Filthy American." He spat.
And that was when Rick crashed through the window.
The one who had his gun on Alex turned and fired. The next thing Alex knew, Rick was huddled on the floor, a hand clapped to his shoulder and blood seeping between his fingers. "I'm going to kill you, you stupid kid!" the man with the gun was screaming. "I'm going to blow your brains out, and your friends can lick them off the floor, how do you like that?"
"Don't kill him!" Alex shouted. "He's American! You can get a ransom!" As both their captors turned to look at him, he added, "His mother works for a very rich American man. Americans are very sentimental about children. I am sure you can get a lot of money for him."
"It's true," Dr. Marquez added, finally looking like he understood what was going on.
"Americano?" the gunman sneered, jabbing Rick's wounded shoulder with the muzzle of his gun.
"Si," the boy gasped in his worst accent. "I'm American."
Alex wished he could doze as easily as Rick seemed to, but every time he felt his eyelids sinking, a swell would rock their small boat, and he would jerk himself awake. Every time this happened, his new "friends," would chuckle, and offer him a drink from a flask. It was absolutely the worst homemade liquor Alex had ever tasted, and after one sip, he politely refused all further offers.
After a short march through the jungle from the clearing where FARC had attacked, they came to a river where two small boats were pulled up on the bank. Alex and Rick were directed into one, along with three of the guerrillas. The rest of the men piled into the other boat, and they set out, riding with the current until they came to a sluggish tributary, where they turned and cut in the outboard motors to travel upstream.
It was definitely better than being in the hands of the paramilitaries, although Alex had an uneasy feeling that being a "guest" of FARC didn't mean they'd be free to leave in the morning. He was at least grateful that one of them who claimed some medical experience had re-bandaged Ricks's arm and promised that there would be a doctor at the camp. Wherever that was.
What little moonlight had drifted through the overhanging branches was completely gone by the time the guerillas steered their boats to the bank, and Alex wondered how they could possibly know where they were in the smothering darkness. He and Rick splashed up to the shore, where there sentries waiting for them, shielded flashlights not throwing enough illumination to keep Alex from tripping over every root. A short walk through the trees, and then they stepped into a clearing. The dark shapes of crude lean-tos where just visible in the light of one small fire.
One of the guerillas who had travelled with them in the boat beckoned to a boy squatting by the fire. "Take our new friends to join our other guests, and have the doctor look at this one's arm," he ordered, patting Rick on the back.
The boy nodded, his face very serious in the faint light, and beckoned Rick and Alex to follow him. When they got close to one of the lean-tos, they saw that mosquito netting hung around it on three sides. The roof was a plastic sheet topped with woven branches, supported on a series of rough hewn poles. The back wall was more plastic. Two dark figures were lying on pallets, but they sat up as the boy pushed back the mosquito netting and entered. One of them struck a match and the dim light of a lantern filled the lean-to.
"Americanos," the boy said briefly. "This one's hurt. I'll bring the medical kit." He ducked back out of the mosquito netting.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Alex could see that both of their fellow "guests" were women, although their hair was chopped short and they wore the ubiquitous fatigues. One was clearly American, her weathered skin and iron gray hair proclaiming her age. The other woman might have been Colombian, with darker skin and hair, and from the extreme thinness of her face, Alex thought she'd probably been ill. Malaria, he guessed. She caught him examining her and smiled, a sardonic expression without any mirth.
"Welcome to our luxurious accommodations. Please, take any seat you like."
At her voice, Rick started and leaned forward, squinting. "Who are you?" he asked.
"Fellow guests of FARC, like yourselves." Picking up the lantern, she stood and held it so that the light cascaded over the boy's features. She adjusted her glasses, and then Alex saw one dark eyebrow quirk upward in surprise. "Well, Richard. It has been a long time."
Rick smiled. "Hello, Miss Somerville."
To Be Continued
A/N The FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia) is the military wing of the Colombian Communist party.
Somerville is back, WOOHOO!
Thank you all, again, for your patient faithfulness to this story!
As a special thank you for all reviewers of this chapter, I will PM you a deleted scene of Alex looking up the Bailey shooting online and trying, once again, to figure out Bruce Wayne. (If you want the deleted scene, make sure you're logged in when you review. If you don't have an account, and leave me an email address, make sure that you put enough spaces in the middle of it that the site doesn't delete it. I've received several reviews over the past weeks where someone tried to give me their email, but the site deleted it.)