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This late stroll did him good: calm and quiet of sleepy town penetrated his heart. Charles realizes how much he needed that. The good deal of walking finally takes him to his street.
The street is a long straight stretch of similar brick walls, painted roofs and fences adorning lit road, so he sees a taxi parked almost at his gate from afar. And someone wearing a red scarf, in a long beige coat, Marie, probably, emerges from the gates, pulling a black rolling case behind her. Charles remembers Marie as a quiet and serious woman with a frown curved deep in her forehead. She is one of those people who don't know how to show their distress, what to do with their hurt: it gets bottled up inside, but dark fumes hang around them like a smog cloud. Back then, they still didn't know whether Erik would pull through or not, so at that time Charles came to admire her collected persona. They have had a few brief conversations, finally got acquainted, but he knew next to nothing about her and that was not a right time to get familiar.
The entire street is completely silent and deserted. Therefore, all sounds are tuned up. Every scrap and shuffle cuts through crisp air, bends towards the ground and reaches his ears. Charles watches the driver get out, help her put the case in the trunk and then she slides into the backseat and is gone. Scratchy sounds produced by case wheels are then overvoiced by rough purr of engine. The taxi drives by. With natural curiosity, Charles turns to look, but Marie has turned her head in an opposite direction.
The sudden, spontaneous hunch makes him glance at their door then: it is still half-open. Light is spilling on the porch. His decision to go and see how Erik is doing is half-excusable because of that. He is determined to ignore no small idiosyncrasies of his attachment to the man, because they might just be too overwhelming right now. After all, Charles couldn't entirely forgive himself; even now he's the prisoner of the moment when he was pressing his hands atop of Erik's chest, feeling blood pooling underneath. He shudders a little, willing an image away.
To warn Erik of his presence Charles first knocks on the door and then calls him. When he hears nothing in response, he hesitates. Charles glances inside only barely. A white something on the floor looks like a shard. The strapped doormat is askew: across it, there is a green and yellow bottle of waterproof spray lying sideways. It lies there like a small, but significant mark on the household landscape. Charles doesn't know what else makes him think that, yet he starts suspecting that Marie didn't just leave in a hurry.
The sound of the crack, close at hand, makes him turn around.
"What," Erik is coming to him quickly, "are you doing here?"
Charles must have missed him, because it looks like Erik has just appeared from behind the house. Emerged from the dark, so to say.
"The door was open, so… Sorry to disturb," Charles smiles slightly and holds up the palms of his hands, suddenly feeling that his presence is unsolicited at the very least.
Erik comes up closer to the light patch. His words or, rather, his chilling tone send Charles' hard won calm to the places far away from here.
"Why, you should come and check. Who if not you?" Erik embosses each word into metal and Charles sees now that he's frighteningly pale. "Do you have any idea how this snooping may end eventually? Or have you got nothing else to do?"
"I'm sorry, again. I'll be going," says Charles simply, scarcely understanding what is going on with the outburst.
He mutely shakes his head, coming to a belated conclusion that Erik is angry. Maybe, with Charles' uninvited arrival, or maybe not. To be honest, Charles is not really that eager to find out.
He makes a move to go, but Erik grabs the lapel of his coat and doesn't let him. Charles darts his eyes down at Erik's right hand, which he is trying to clench into a fist. He looks up and realizes that the metaphor of flashing eyes would be a spot on.
"Erik, calm down," Charles clasps Erik's wrist, the one clenching his coat. "I must admit I don't know what's going on with you. But, if you want, you may tell me. If you don't want, that's fine too. Now, please, let go of me."
"You don't understand!" Erik exclaims, pulling him closer by force so that Charles has to lean forward and seethes. "You stick to me out of guilt. I'm sick of it."
Erik is still talking, but, to his shame, Charles can't discern a thing: his ears are ringing, nausea twists his gut into many knots and cold runs down his back, just like it happened earlier with those blasted thorns. The cool observer inside him states that Erik is not talking to him, but to his imaginary enemy, and Charles simply happened to arrive at the wrong time. This incident, however, proves that Charles' anxiety is rooted deeper than mere fear of the sight of blood. This inner voice is rational, and, perhaps, is right. The problem is — Charles can't do right. Hit by a whirlwind of the other's scorn, he's also awfully, terribly stunned, embarrassed and most of it — irrationally terrified. Fear is fast to creep into his veins and course through his blood; as though he inhales thought-erasing panic with oxygen.
The changes in Erik become physical as well as mental. His expression, so rarely softened, transforms into a twisted furious mask. The strength of his emotion seems almost omnipotent.
Charles can't think of nothing save the wish to break free. He tugs at Erik's hand, forgetting that Erik is too fired up to relax his grip. Erik, though, interprets his actions in his own fashion. He twists them around, pushing Charles back and away. Charles snaps his head to the side and a split moment of pain, when everything he sees is black, actually wakes him up.
It is so clear at that moment: Erik, his eyes wide in shock, his hand raised and frozen mid motion, night street silent still, and Charles, who has just banged the side of head against the door jamb — he swears that pain has paused before kicking in. All what happened refracts back towards Charles, makes him wince at the ridiculousness of the situation. After stuffing pulsing pain back, as it's not that bad, fortunately, Charles straightens up. There is a pendulum in his mind, swaying between his own anger and embarrassment, and embarrassment prevails.
"I'm sorry," he quickly mutters, choosing the lamest of all alternatives in the end.
And he is almost disappointed at the lack of any response from Erik. Charles wants to go on, to say something, but stops himself, because, frankly, he'd rather keep silent while his nerves are tingling dangerously, as if his brain has just been electrocuted.
Erik only breathes out hard, sets his lips firmly together and Charles fails to understand what he is thinking. He fails to do a lot of things lately.
He walks to his porch, committed to a definite course: a glass of something to help him sleep and a bed.
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###
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After a night full of strange, tormented flashes of thought and feverish dreams that left him feeling ill, Charles is conscious of somehow moving to square one: he is avoiding Erik on purpose again. He finds it a little bit more difficult than before, because now Erik is at home; he's even come to call Charles' doorbell on Saturday afternoon, which Charles has wisely switched off beforehand — yes, he caught a glimpse of Erik, standing on his porch, through a gap in drawn curtains. He watched his black shadow shuffling back and forth. Erik was as persistent as expected, of course. Charles, although, put an end to a waiting game himself, by simply stepping away from the window. He thought he was allowed just a tiny fraction of smug satisfaction with bitter aftertaste. The gratification of a nefarious kind he can hardly confess he enjoys. But at times like these he does.
While walking down his street to the bus stop on Monday morning and pondering over his routine for the day to come, Charles feels incredibly warm. He blinks in a belated realization that the sky is crystal clear, the birds are chirping maniacally, and the green grass is trying to pierce the earthly skin, and he has overdone it with the thicker than necessary coat.
His department head intercepts him in the corridor after his last lecture of the day. She gestures for him to step to the side, and she leans against a large windowsill. Charles steps up nearer, as he mutes the background noise of stomping feet and an occasional burst of laugh, while focusing on what Diana is saying.
"It's nice to talk to you at last, Charles," she says in a way that throws Charles off kilter.
He finds a distraction in the buzzing of his phone, so he takes it out of his pocket, sees A. Summers flash across the screen and swipes it away.
"It's also nice to see that your phone is in working order," Diana adds.
Charles is so tired all of the sudden that the apology is very heavy on his tongue.
"My apologies," he utters and muses that his deep sigh must appear a bit exaggerated.
Diana shakes her head and folds her arms across her chest.
"First, a publishing date is coming up. Secondly, Graduate Admissions Committee is asking you to supervise Priest."
"She can't be bothered to prepare a decent presentation for a conference," Charles frowns. "I usually support giving people the second chance or, in this case, even the tenth chance to redeem themselves, but I can't comprehend how she got that far in the first place. I refuse."
She nods, seemingly content with his answer.
"Are you working for police again?"
"Well, yes."
"Hm, it's good for publicity, I guess. My nephew works there and he told me, if you're wondering."
Charles' phone screen flashes one more time and Diana bids him goodbye.
He calls Alex back when he shuts his office door and puts his bag on the desk.
Alex picks up after the first ring.
"It's about the case," he says. "Have you got a minute?"
"Yeah, Alex. You've got news?" Charles sits down, grateful for the familiar coziness of his chair.
"I've been to school. Spoke with the kids. If you can call it that, because it was, well," Alex clears his throat. "Anyway, can you look through reports today? The interviews were recorded, so I sent them too. Should already be in your mailbox. I talked to Daniel Smith, Mark's best friend, too. He's, I don't know, Professor. I'd like to hear what you think."
"Alright," Charles mentally calculates the amount of time he needs to finish his article and to do the rest. He'll be staying up late. "Who are the others? Classmates he socialized with at school?"
"From what I've heard, I assumed, that he was best buddies with Smith, but often seen together with two others: Bryce Harper and Bob Hoggs. They are, kind of…"
"Alex, did their behavior appear unusual?"
"Kind of strange. But they are shocked and tense. Who wouldn't be, right?"
"Of course," he rests his elbows on the desk, staring at its dark polished surface. "Anything else?"
"The list of suspects now includes his mother's ex, who is out of town, but he left about two weeks ago, school personnel, parents of his classmates, neighbors and etcetera. I'm counting on your help, because we need to make this list as short as possible."
"Understood."
The sound of the incoming text effectively breaks the spell he used to be under all evening and Charles rubs his eyes.
He cranes his neck back and to the side, while his eyes take in the darkness pouring through the window.
He stands to circle his desk and opens it.
Alex is right. He is good at listening to his gut.
Charles has listened to those three boys: Bruce, Bob and Daniel; and he arrived at the same conclusion. Though, he regretted not being present during the interview, because visual clues like body language give away a lot. Audio wasn't bad: he caught sequences of pitch change and unnecessary details in their speech patterns. These alone should be enough to trigger warning bells. Bob was the only one who would stutter and hesitate when asked the question. But all of them spoke of the same things: hanging out after school, riding bikes to places, watching movies and playing games together. Their recital of friendly routines was too routine for Charles' taste.
That was not the story of Mark.
There is one problem with lies though. Especially, if lies are being transferred from one person to another…
When cold air numbs his fingertips Charles shuts the window and presses his forehead against cool glass.
He needs a break after this.
A sufficient, long break he denied himself all this time. Probably, some mindless partying on some gorgeous, sunny beach will do him good. He'd like to feel warm wind in his hair, heat on his skin, cold drink in his hand. He has been missing intimate touches and that sort of wordless, primary communication that comes along with sex too. Since he moved here, to be precise.
The problem is — the indulgence he's trying to picture now seems oddly alien to him.
Like an echo.
Yes, he wants to get back in his past self's skin. Very much so. There is one but — he's already grown out of it.
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###
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Smith senior is a bulky, tall man in his late thirties, who is staring at Charles from across the table. His son is also tall for his age, but slim and long-limbed. His features are on the delicate side. And, to his credit, Daniel doesn't move with uncoordinated awkwardness expected of a growing teenager. Just by looking at him, Charles detects a reserved, thoughtful personality.
"How many times do I have to come here?" asks Smith.
"I'm sorry for inconveniences, sir," Alex retorts in a voice that suggests that he's not sorry at all. "But this is a standard procedure. We interview relatives, friends of victims to gather crucial details and —"
"I prefer the pretty one. Long, black hair. If I'm to be interviewed, I want it done by a lady. What is she called? Ah! She's got almost the same name as my kid here."
"We're interviewing your son today, not you."
Alex's polite expression looks like a plastic mask, thinks Charles.
"So, Daniel," starts Charles, throwing Alex a cautious look, "could you, please, describe Mark for me?"
"He has done it what? A dozen times?" says Smith snidely, but his son is already talking.
"He, uh, he got kind of weird this term, but he was alright. He used to like drawing," Daniel goes on reciting his earlier speech and Charles continues watching him with a warm half-smile.
Daniel tells him that Mark didn't crash his place as often as he used to. Said that his grades were worse and his mother insisted on him studying at home. While Daniel is talking, his eyes jump from his father to tabletop, back and forth. His says nothing new, of course. Charles was expecting as much. On the day of Mark's disappearance, which is also the assumed date of his death, Smiths were at home. Rose has talked to their neighbors and they confirmed that they saw lights and heard their raised voices, because, apparently, Smith's household was far from quiet.
Charles steps out after a while and joins Danielle Moon in the observation room. She turns to him with a dark look in her eyes.
"Why is Summers wasting his time like that?"
"I asked him," Charles retorts mildly. "We're going nowhere, because they are lying. I need to find out why."
"Smiths have an alibi. They argued throughout that night. After the snowfall they had to spend that entire day at home," she makes a point.
She has probably forgotten that Charles has access to witness reports as well. Instead of reminding her, Charles focuses on watching the screen. The father and the son are finally leaving the room. Daniel is the first to stand up. His father pushes his chair away from the table and throws another snide remark, which Alex meets with a shake of his head.
Charles times it carefully. When the Smiths are almost out of the earshot, but not quite, he quickly approaches Alex, who is just coming out of the room.
"Great news, detective," he says, "they have found it."
Alex straightens up and darts a wary look back, as though to make sure that nobody is listening.
"Finally! It's high time we got something."
Charles thinks that he sees Daniel pause and incline his head, but his father leans in and whispers something to him. Whatever he said made the boy hurry up.
Alex and Charles watch them leave through the lobby.
"Are you sure that it's enough?"
"I'm not, but it can't hurt," shrugs Charles. "I'd suggest stirring the waters officially. But you told me that you can't make a false public statement, so — "
"Yeah, my hands are tied with this one."
"I'd like to meet the other two kids," says Charles, turning around, when words get stuck in his throat, because here is Erik, deep in the conversation with the Chief of Police.
Erik is wearing a sharp grey suit, which reminds Charles of the times they were working together. Next to him, Alex makes a surprised noise.
But when the two of them come closer Charles sees that Erik's face is still badly pale and the suit doesn't quite fit him as it used to.
"Sir, you are back!" exclaims Alex, startling Charles and the other men.
"Summers," Erik nods, but looks at Charles instead.
"This is a good opportunity, Lehnsherr," Shaw doesn't look particularly pleased when he finishes their conversation and turns to Summers. "My office."
After Alex and Shaw disappear, Charles realizes that Erik and he haven't exchanged a word yet. Erik looks like he is on the verge of saying something, but hesitates. Charles, in his turn, feels the recent panic rising up again. This break he is going to take will be long, he decides.
"Would you," Erik pauses mid-sentence. "Would you like to grab a coffee?"
Charles looks at him dubiously until the meaning of his words registers.
"I'd love to," he hurries to say. "Is it—"
"No, no. Coffee is hellish here," Erik says with a small smirk, almost plaintively. "Let's head out."
They end up in a small café opposite the station. Amidst wicked loft furniture and quiet background music, Charles can't relax his grip on the mug. Once he stops clasping it, his hands will start shaking. This is all that he deserves for being a sorry mess and avoiding his problems. He thinks back to Emma questioning him — what you aren't feeling? Well, that was very smart of her as he sees now.
"I wanted to apologize," Erik is talking meanwhile, unaware of Charles spiraling into depth of whatever abyss he's been digging for himself. "That's not a very nice excuse, but I just couldn't — "
"Erik," Charles manages. "Sorry to interrupt, but can we, please, have this conversation, which, uh, you're trying to initiate, later?"
To his immense surprise, Erik nods. He has no idea how much Charles would like to beg him to lend at least some of his calm at the moment.
"What is Summers up to?" Erik gives him a searching look, wordlessly asking whether this question is okay and the shift in his attitude strikes Charles.
Because, if there was a universal constant, it was Erik's determined, wary and aggressive nature. Not that Charles didn't recognize a caring person beneath. But, this…
"We're trying to make them reveal themselves," breathes out Charles and tells Erik about his suspicions, about orchestrated lying and the need to find a person responsible for this.
"You spook everybody and hope that someone reacts? Summers never fails to surprise me," he drawls, which is a familiar reaction and it puts Charles at ease. Somewhat.
"What would you suggest?"
"Now? Watch them."
"Watch as — "
"As stake out. But no one from the department can do it without proper authorization. New rules: these days you can't even stalk people properly," laments Erik mockingly and Charles smiles, because he feels that Erik is trying for his sake. It's quite sweet.
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###
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Charles pulls his laptop from his bag and balances it on his knees.
"You weren't joking," mutters Erik from the passenger seat and Charles huffs indignantly.
"Of course, I wasn't," he presses a power button. "You, my friend, have no idea how little time I can waste."
"And what are you going to do, while you're staking out a suspect's house?"
"I'll probably start with updating the curriculum requirements. And then move on to my grant money report, review some post docs papers. Did I mention that I'm starting a textbook of my own?"
"Fantastic."
Erik scoffs.
"You don't say so. And what do you usually do when you are stalking?"
"I actually pay attention to my surroundings."
"See, it's nice that you've decided to join me."
Erik doesn't contribute anything else to the conversation, that's why it dies out on its own and Charles is glad that he has been blessed with a neighbor so quiet, that he might as well not share the same car space with him. He gets immersed in his work and lifts his head only when his laptop battery produces a warning flash. Charles saves his work and turns to Erik.
True to his word, Erik is watching the Smith's house, which is the only house with lit windows at this hour. Charles has never been to this part of town before, though it's relatively close to University park. Unlike his street, the cottages here are all the same: they are built with almost no spaces between separate houses, so it's no wonder that Smiths were overheard.
"Erik?"
Erik hums, indicating that he's listening.
"Are you really back? To work?"
"I don't know."
"Okay."
"I haven't decided yet," Erik has mercy on him. "The evaluation was yesterday."
Charles bites his tongue to stifle an automatic exclamation, which seems far from appropriate.
"I didn't pass."
"Oh? I'm sorry, Erik."
"That part was expected."
"What wasn't?"
Apparently, that is a wrong question, because Erik falls silent.
"I think, Charles, that listening to someone else's problems is the last thing you need right now," Erik turns to him.
Charles feels the urge to hide, to lower his gaze, though Erik probably can't see much in the almost dark insides of the car.
"I didn't realize," Erik says harshly and then his voice softens. "It must have been very hard for you."
Unable to bear it any longer, Charles pushes his laptop to the side, uncaring, and opens the door. He doesn't get out of the car gracefully, but at least he doesn't fall flat on his face.
That would have been the last straw.
At that mental imagery, he laughs, quietly. Shivers rock his body so hard that he wraps his hands around himself and props his back against the car. There's that familiar ringing in his ears. Again.
When Erik draws him close and puts his arms around him, Charles doesn't want to let him at first. He struggles out of Erik's embrace, but, evidently, between the two of them Erik is in possession of the superior mental fortitude. That's how he wins in the end. Not through words, — though Erik is surely saying something and Charles can see his lips moving, — but, even injured, Erik wins through brute force and sheer determination. Charles thinks it's really funny and laughs again.
He spends a little eternity shaking in Erik's arms.
After a while it subsides a little and he pats Erik on the back.
"I'm good. Fine. You may let go," his voice is raspy as hell and he coughs to clear his throat.
"Charles," Erik squeezes his shoulder in a tight grip. "I know PTSD when I see it. Why didn't you… No. Fuck. I mean, you of all people?"
"I know. I know," Charles repeats harshly, defensively.
"No, don't listen to me. Forget what I said. It's not your fault, you hear me? Sometimes this shit happens. It's not something you can control."
Erik would be excellent at this, muses Charles darkly and wonders where he learnt about it. It's definitely not common among regular cops.
At three o'clock the sound of car engine revving up would startle even someone less composed than Charles. When he hears it behind his back, he draws in a breath and follows Erik's lead when Erik tugs him down.
As they are crouching behind Charles' car, Smith is taking off into unknown direction.
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