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Owning to late hour, Charles' eyes are hallway to closing. At such a time, right after midnight, it used to be common for him to catch up on his academic reading before bed. Dozing off this early is a result of a naturally mounting stress, he believes. Those recent events have gone far to shake his fortitude. Content to cradle a mug of tea for now, he is mentally replaying today's, no, they are already yesterday's conversations. He twists his body to the side and winces slightly when he pulls at his bruised back.
"A pillow?" offers someone and Charles refocuses his eyes on Erik, who is currently sitting, hunched, on Charles' sofa.
He is holding up a cushion, obviously expecting Charles to take it. For the most part, Charles is fairly bewildered, he can't grasp the adequate reality, but then his manners kick in, for that would be uncivilized to prolong his silent staring. He leans forward, over the coffee table between them, and grabs the offered pillow, which is technically the cushion and, balancing a mug on one knee, puts it behind his back. This armchair has always been his favourite, yet it can't be denied that it lacks the kind of plushness he needs at the moment.
"You've been silent for a while," says Erik, voice wrapped in muted concern. "That tired, huh?"
"Sorry," Charles smiles sheepishly, taking a careful sip.
Erik's mug is standing on the coffee table, empty, — he notices with peculiar clarity. He is one of those daring souls, who prefer their drinks scalding hot, and whose ability to not burn mouth has intrigued him since forever.
"Where was I? Right," Charles resumes talking. "Smith tried glaring me to death. He snapped when I mentioned the dead dog, but, well, the thing is, they don't have any pets. They used to when the son, Daniel, was younger. I'm not making a lot of sense, I'm afraid?"
"No, you're fine."
"If you say so. Well, his wife keeps repeating that he's not guilty. Yet she can't say why he was doing what he was doing: getting rid of evidence. She keeps silent about that and it comes as no surprise. As for their reported arguments, she shifts the responsibility on to herself. She let it slip that they do it a lot, because Herman, that's his name by the way, has got a short fuse. But, she claims, those specific moments come and go very fast and he always, yes, she stressed that, always regrets his harsh words and apologizes afterwards."
"Looks classic to me," huffs Erik.
"Indeed."
Erik hums quietly.
"They didn't let me talk to the boys yet."
"Those two sidekicks?"
"Yes, them. Parents are sick and tired of police meddling and I can understand them, but," Charles shakes his head. "Aren't they worried? Don't they want to investigate this terrible murder and prevent it from happening ever again?"
"You are from the different place and it shows."
"What do you mean?"
"You've got the wrong kind of ethical framework."
Charles tries and fails to understand. The point Erik has made is slipping from him.
"Pardon me?"
"It's the town, Charles," Erik shakes his head.
His eyes are cast down, as if his sole mission is to burn his stare into the floor, and Charles can't read him as well as he'd like to.
"What about the son?" speaks Erik again, looking up.
Charles welcomes the question he can actually answer.
"He's an odd fellow."
Charles realizes that he's biting his lips, a nervous habit, which resurfaces at the most unexpected times, and it's still difficult to refrain from doing that.
"How do you define odd?" asks Erik, after a pause.
"He's very observant. Smart, but not a hard-worker, according to his teachers."
"Matured early?"
"Seems so. Actually, now I can picture a connection between him and Mark. Even though Daniel is from a comparatively well-to-do family, at least if comparing to Mark, they must carry similar burdens and grieves."
There is something unaccountable, just beneath the surface. Also, Charles can't but compare two mothers, Mark's and Daniel's, those two kinds of sorrow they are being subjected to, vital pieces of life reaped away in an instant.
"What's your plan now?"
"I don't have any."
"Can hardly believe it."
"I have none right now. Maybe, there's one notion. But I need to think this through carefully as you see. "
"Oh, yes, I do now."
Charles stifles the urge to snort, rather intensified by his drowsiness, because Erik wants to provoke him into jumping down the sarcasm hole, like Erik tends to; only Charles doesn't have any spare strength left for it. Once again, he performs an evasive maneuver, wary of Erik initiating a banter.
"What about you, my friend? How have you been?" asks Charles empathetically, stirring the conversation away from the tricky current.
"Aside from our nightly escapade, everything's been the same. It's hard to admit, but all excitement in my life is suddenly tied to you," says Erik in mock defeat.
The mood in the space between them has suddenly transfigured into a subtle, incorporeal shroud, which dims perception and mellows all lights. Charles is strongly tempted to let it linger, because he likes seeing that small smile on Erik's face and emotion in his eyes. It's splendidly good. And there has been a serious deficiency of splendid in Charles' life.
"I probably should go to bed," he admits, crushed by realization what time it is and how many things are on the tomorrow's to-do list. Thus he singlehandedly tears down the comfort shroud, prompts Erik to school his features and get to his feet.
However, after he says that, he comes to the sad conclusion that the armchair has taken him hostage – he can't just leave it like that. Erik saves the day, or, should he say, the night.
"Let me clean up," Erik picks up his mug and reaches for Charles'.
"You're the best guest I've had the pleasure of inviting," Charles smiles.
"I'm your only guest, Charles," parries Erik smugly.
"You are," echoes Charles softly and for a split second is precisely focused on a warm feeling engraving itself into his chest, like a seal of gratitude and appreciation.
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Mark's school is hidden from the main road, neatly squeezed between a kindergarten and a somewhat shabby garden center.
Its' columns and fancy patios hint that the school was renovated or rebuilt. Charles dares assume it used to be some late nineteenth century mansion, judging by the overall look, but he's not that much of an expert. As he's walking towards the entrance, the sun leaps from behind the clouds and hits his oversensitive sleep-deprived eyes. His eyes tear up a bit and he lowers them down, blinking obligatory dark spots away.
Inside the building, the air is cool and full of unseen human presence, lingering within monumental walls. This eerie presence reminds him of University, for these two places seem to be ultimately frozen in time, just like long gone, pre-historic beasts. Well, if only in his imagination.
He finds a designated office rather quickly.
Amy has just graduated before he arrived, and, therefore, they couldn't have met, but, the fact, that once he introduced himself on the phone, she immediately knew who he is and what he does, first made Charles confused and only, probably, a little flattered. These emotions would have come in reversed order if he were his normal self.
"It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Professor," she said, looking him up and down in a way, which was supposed to be discreet.
Fine, if that is how she wants to proceed.
"Oh no, we've made an agreement," Charles shakes his head, adopting a voice mode he usually reserves for places with dimmer lights and less sober mood than the office of a school psychologist. "I already call you Amy, so that's just Charles for you."
She accepts the offered handshake with a smile, which reveals nice dimples. And she is not half-bad. Smiley and fair-haired. Very easy on the eyes, indeed.
They chat a little bit about this and that, jumping from topic to topic.
"I realize you are here because of Daniel."
"Well, yes and no."
Her smile dims as though the power was suddenly cut short.
"I can't disclose anything. After parents vetoed it – "
"Yes, I already know. Inadmissible," Charles smiles lightly. "I'd hate to impose, yet I think you can help me. Would you like to take it elsewhere?"
Sun is now completely hidden behind the clouds, as they are walking along the street. In the cool shade of the outdoors it's easier to breathe.
She tells him how she obtained this job and the conversation spirals from here.
"It's a lot of pressure, you know. Children, families, press, board, community representatives."
"I understand," says Charles as they turn to a tiny square with tall pine trees. A pocket of ever green wonder within rein of asphalt and concrete.
They pass quite a few prams, pushed by mothers, who are either chattering with each other or talking on the phone. All of those prams are in cool shades of blue or vivid, wild pink and Charles absently thinks of bizarre colour distribution. Amy doesn't pay attention to them, as she doesn't seem to look where they are going.
"I really want to help, but I just, I just don't know, alright? I look at them, at these kids, and I just question myself why I'm doing this? Like at all?"
"You can't really account for everything or everyone," he smiles softly.
She glowers at the ground and Charles does so too.
There's a string of ants traveling through the footpath beneath their feet, but she proceeds walking, not seeing that. Charles looks at the chaos and distress of the ant squad with regret.
"You may not say anything. It's inadmissible anyways," Charles stops and she so does she. "Just hear me out."
She nods, very serious.
"They are lying. All three of Mark's so-called friends. There are many reasons for this. Hypothetically speaking. But, I think, all of us didn't even consider narrowing it down. There was always enough to come to this conclusion. But, the problem is, this is a fleeting, very simple idea, that seems too horrible to comprehend," he sees the widening of her large green eyes and the slight tremble of her chin and it's enough of an answer on its own.
"What are you going to do?" she nearly whispers at him and Charles speaks with confidence, which is not quite there.
"I believe, it's my job to test my assumptions."
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The idea to call Erik was good and bad at the same time.
"You shouldn't go without Summers," he states bluntly.
Charles stops at the crossing, waiting for the green light. He watches a group of laughing kids, who trot along the street opposite him. They are making loud, energetic noises, which make his internal, order-loving adult quiver and cringe in disapproval.
"I asked Alex to сall me back and told him the same I'm telling you," offers Charles to calm Erik down.
He called Alex and left a voicemail, but that was it. He still didn't call back.
"He'd better come," grumbles Erik. "Fuck this. You might be right."
"I'm afraid so."
The green light is finally on, so he steps from the pavement onto the road. He wants to tell Erik to stop worrying, but he concludes, in time, that Erik probably doesn't even register it.
"Sorry, have to go," Erik's voice gets distorted by static.
"Of course. Will I see you tonight?"
"Sure," immediately agrees Erik.
"Drinks?"
"Why not?"
"Hold on, aren't you doing physical therapy? Maybe, we shouldn't," second-guesses himself Charles.
"I decided to take it slow."
Charles practically hears a rueful smirk in the last one. After pocketing his phone, he fixes his eyes on the rows of brick houses. He is just approaching the very spot he had parked his car when Erik and he were staking out the Smiths.
Erik's warning stirs him, despite being exaggerated in nature. What kind of life has Erik had? Where does his need to overthink danger come from? Is it solely occupational? Or is there more to it?
He stops by the street lamp, which flickers to life. As he is standing there, motionless, glancing at the Smith's house, he is mulling over his decision. He suddenly thinks that his passion to set things right has not done him a lot of good over the past year. He has considered it his moral duty, his obligation. When he started his own investigation of the missing girls, when he confronted Erik with his findings, when he pushed himself to seek answers, unaware of the price he and the others would have to pay, this need always drove him forward. It brought meaning to his life. But that meaning was accompanied by tragedy.
Thinking like that made Charles look at everything he's been doing with fresh eyes.
This is, by no means, a very good drive, but, well, there's time to tune it down. These musings, it feels like they opened up an energy reserve within him. They might as well.
He smiles to himself. Charles shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and takes one last look at the house before turning away. Erik was right. Well, he won't admit that out loud, because he thinks that Erik might enjoy it too much.
His smile slips and he stills mid-motion. What is this? Right in that window?
He strides across the street as though put under the spell. Yes, he confirms upon coming closer. The flickers of flame visible through the window are not his imagination.
While running to the front door he snatches the phone from inside of his pocket and dials the emergency number. He exchanges a few rushed phrases with an operator, whilst switching between pounding and pressing a door bell.
Finally, noise attracts some attention and an elderly man in a tracking suit peeps out over the fence.
"Where's the back door?" cries Charles, but the man just continues gaping at him.
Charles curses his bad luck, the unforgivably sturdy door and the narrow passage between the houses, which he has to squeeze through to get to the back of the house. His phone starts buzzing in his hand and Charles pretty much swipes it without thinking.
"I've got your message," says a voice in his ear.
"Alex, I'm right here. There's fire inside Smith's house. I can't see much, but," Charles' eyes frantically search for the back door in the dark until he finds it and covers the distance to it in a few steps.
As he is pulling at the handle, Alex's words get tuned out by pounding in his ears.
The door is closed too. Charles twists the handle, feeling that it's stuck, it won't give in.
"It's stuck," Charles says harshly.
"I'm on my way. Are you sure that there's fire inside?"
"Yes, I checked. Curtains are half drawn, but it can't be anything else. What if someone is still in the house?"
Alex reacts with a fierce exclamation and ends the call.
If there was something good about having his house broken into, it was the amount of research Charles has done on breaking and entering. He immersed himself into reading forums, technical guides and tutorials and the locked door stirred his memory. He quickly scrutinized the handle and the deadlock above it, lighting the door with his phone: the handle is brass, maybe hardened brass, polished in the middle, the deadlock looks new in comparison. Funny thing, the door with the hardened lock has visible hinges, rusty and much older than the lock itself.
Charles looks around, frantic, and spots a pair of garden shears, peeking out of the bucket.
Desperation lends him strength and precision when he aims at the hinges. The door opens inside and Charles carelessly inhales some smoke. It's not much, not yet.
The back door leads to the kitchen.
He pulls his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose and proceeds right into the hall. The fire has started there. Through thick, acid smoke, Charles sees curtains already caught by flames, a smoldering leather sofa and an armchair. But what strikes him the most is a pile on the large round table. Something is burning there and it's been burning well. Fire roars, up and up, almost grazing the ceiling. Charles takes one more look at it, and just when he's hesitating what to do the table breaks into two and the pillar plummets to the floor, roaring even stronger than before.
Charles coughs, hard. As he climbs the stairs to the second floor, he regrets dropping the shears in the kitchen. What if there are more closed doors?
The first one he swings open leads to the bedroom with a neatly made double bed. No one.
He darts to the second door, whilst smoke starts intensifying and pushes it and stills in the doorway, pressing his hand over his scarf.
Daniel is lying in bed and his mother is flattening the covers over his unmoving body. Her hand moves in a smooth, compulsory motion, pressing down gently but surely and Charles, arrested by the bizarre gestures, snaps back when she raises her head and turns to him.
Her eyes already bare that empty far-away look Charles has seen among the Grey Yard tenants.
She smiles, sheepish.
"I know what your son has done," words fight their way through his tight throat.
There is hardly a reason to search, to uncover the exact moment when evil sprouts to life. If it's ignored, it becomes condoned. If it becomes condoned, it grows.
She tilts her head in a way, that indicates that she is listening. Smoke rolls in and Charles can't help coughing. Daniel's mother seems immune to it.
Charles leans over the bed to check the boy's breathing. Daniel's skin is cold to touch and his heartbeat is barely there.
"Let him sleep," she grabs Charles' hand and tries to tug him back. "Please, let him sleep."
Charles hears the sirens, splitting the silence, and he makes up his mind.
"Yes, of course. Let's not disturb him, shall we?"
She takes his offered hand and he leads her out of the door, down the stairs, where they meet a fireman.
"There's a boy upstairs, second door to your right," Charles rasps and the man rushes past him, while his colleagues help Charles navigate through singe and heat.
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When his door bell goes off, Charles is only pulling off his pullover on the way to the washing machine. He listens to the merry sound half fondly, half weary. Of course, the fondness wins and he goes back to open his door.
He won't lie. He rather enjoys how Erik's neutral expression is bleeding into a shocked one and how he catalogues all visual clues. Starting from smudges on Charles' face to his red eyes and strong smell of smoke, which seems to be absorbed by his clothes and even by his hair and skin.
"Wait," Charles speaks roughly, before Erik has a chance to utter a word. "Good news is – it's the end."
"And bad?" asks Erik immediately.
"Daniel is in the hospital with some medication overdose."
Erik gives him a look.
"His mother did it. She… she just," Charles runs his fingers through his hair as words refuse to come to his aid.
"There is a fire somewhere in this story?"
"Yes, obviously," Charles feels light-headed, as though his spirit struggles to leave the body, and the body holds it back by a threat.
"Lord," Erik shakes his head. "Go to bed, Charles. You look like hell."
Charles loosens his grip on the door handle, as he is getting possessed by the strange feeling of wooziness. In one delusional moment Erik's visage almost warps out completely and he recoils a little when he feels himself enveloped in a warm hug. He pats Erik's back, shamelessly enjoying the comfort of Erik's touch.
"I'm very tired, but fine. Really fine," Charles mutters and Erik draws back. "If anything, I –"
He clasps his traitorous mouth shut, before any more words leave it.
"You weren't supposed to go there alone," points out Erik, with a very distinct motive.
"Oh, believe me or not, I was just passing by," Charles shrugs. "Yes, I realize how that must sound."
Erik leaves shortly afterwards and Charles does his best not to dwell on what has happened. Now, when he is alone, the expression in her dead, empty eyes comes back.
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The Grey Yard remains the same: massive complex in the woods, away from the highway and prying eyes. Charles knows that its massiveness is a trick for a fresh eye, for left wing is out of use and it should be a good thing, it should mean that institutions do their job, but it's not exactly the case.
"What can I say? Nice to have you back, Professor Xavier," Dr. Grey, no his name is not a coincidence as he likes to joke, stands up from his office chair to shake Charles' hand.
The man himself was cheerful enough to soften the influence of his large, overpowering figure. His persona managed to look too big even for his impressively spacious office.
"Great to see you in our fortress. How have you been?" he gives Charles another smile.
"Good. And you? How is your wife?"
"We're fine. Elaine is good. Do I need to remind you that the anniversary is closing in? You can't miss it!"
Charles doesn't need to say anything, because his confusion is apparently obvious.
"Our institution was founded two hundred years ago. Elaine has been planning quite a fundraiser in August," he says, gesticulating.
Is there another staff party approaching? Because, the previous one has landed Charles in the killer's path and since then he's reasonably, or unreasonably, wary of those particular gatherings.
"So, I was hoping to – "
"Yes, I remember," he interrupts Charles and makes the show of rolling up his eyes and smiling a wide apologetic smile simultaneously.
Charles smiles too, thinking of how Erik called him "overly neighborly" a few days ago. What would Erik say about Dr. Grey?
"She is still in the secure unit."
"Why?" asks Charles levelly. "She is not dangerous. You can't possibly claim that she's still suicidal. On the contrary, I don't recall recommending isolation. Helen is here to get aid and assistance, so that she can eventually go back to," he wanted to say family, but reconsidered, "her life."
"What life?" Grey latches on it. "The one, in which she tried to murder her own child?"
Charles is taken aback by a blunt tone and feels a brief instant of deep pity towards the man, whose family issues strengthened his bias. He has never been seeking out these gossips, but he heard whispers. It is a big town with a lot of secrets, but some of them aren't hidden all that well.
"We're neither judges nor jailers. And an ethical argument as I believe, is not something that can determine the category of treatment."
"She decided to kill her son. And kill herself for good measure," Grey regards Charles with intentionally stern face.
"Her husband abused her and their son, but he hasn't been locked up in the solitary. On the contrary, his lawyer has negotiated quite a good deal."
Charles thinks back to an interview with recovering Daniel, when he said that Mark has failed a dare and shouldn't have been such a wimp. When asked questions about his father, Daniel revealed a great deal of fear and contempt, trust and distrust, worship and scorn tightly crammed together.
Charles took a very long walk after that interview.
If there is evil in the family, it is bound to spread. It will reach outside, in the world. It will definitely touch those outside.
Like a stone dropped into murky waters, evil will leave expanding rings on the surface. Charles tried to explain it to Alex and his coworkers, to Erik, but he wasn't successful enough.
Right now, while talking to this man, Charles feels the chill. This chill makes him cognizant of the realization, that the fight, that very fight, is not over yet.
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