Chapter 64

Caine: "Each waking moment is as a rung on an endless ladder. Each step we take is built on what has gone before."

Wolf enters promptly at seven with a wire-handled bag in hand. "Morning, Gold. I stopped at Persie's for your breakfast." He hefts the bag. "So you do you want to shower first or—"

"Sheriff," Gold breaks in, "Albert Spencer broke in here last night. Came in through the back door."

Wolf lowers the bag to the floor and his eyes run up and down Gold's body. "Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Threaten you?"

"Not with bodily harm, no. But he admitted that these charges are a frame-up."

In unison they turn their heads toward the security camera. "I doubt if it caught him," Gold groans. "He was aware of it and stayed well out of range."

"Let's just check anyway." Wolf spins on his heel and makes his way to his office. "Maybe we'll get lucky." He hunches over the keyboard and monitor on a small table at the back of the office, the breakfast forgotten.

As Gold paces and waits, he second guesses himself. This blurting out of the news about Spencer isn't very Rumple-like; it is, in effect, a request for help. Something odd's going on in him, he thinks, that his impulse now is to seek assistance, particularly from a non-family member, or from someone who owes him nothing and therefore has no reason to offer help.

Other than the fact that it's the right thing to do. And not just because Wolf's job requires it. Gold stops and, running a hand through his hair, sits down on the cot to think.

Maybe it's because he didn't sleep at all. Maybe it's because for the third time, he's locked in a small cage like a stray dog that was picked up off the streets. . . a mangy, old, unwanted dog whose prospects look bleak. Without magic, powerless in the cage. His only recourse is to reach out to those who seem willing to assist.

The aroma of bacon drifts over from the bag on the floor. His stomach growls and he growls, feeling all the more powerless because he can't even fetch his own damn breakfast.

If he had magic, he'd transport himself right on out of this cage, this state, this country, take Belle with him, take refuge in China or Peru. Or both: summer in China, winter in Peru. Never come back here. Well, except for Henry's graduation and weddings and such.

No, he wouldn't. That would leave Bae and Dove as the only targets for Spencer's wrath. Magicless, encaged, but Gold is still useful to his family, if only as a target for the enemy.

He sucks a breath through his teeth. Mistake, that: now the aroma of bacon floods his mouth and teases his tongue, making him salivate.

Then he remembers something else from his morning routine: apart from the four days Belle was hiking the Inca Trail, this will be the first morning of their marriage that he hasn't greeted her with a kiss and a profession of his love. Thoroughly pissed off now, he kicks the chair and sends it flying against the bars of the cell. It falls over and Wolf spins around in his office chair to check out the commotion. Gold waves a dismissive hand and calls out, "Never mind. Just tripped, that's all."

In all the movement, something clatters to the floor of the cell. Gold leans over to pick it up—and then he howls. "Son of a bitch!" He's holding Wolf's cell phone.

Wolf's iPhone. With which, last night, Gold could have either A) phoned Wolf with a single push of a button, possibly stealthily, so that whichever Wolf answered the phone would have heard the conversation with Spencer; or B) recorded the conversation with Spencer. Now Gold kicks at the leg of his cot—another stupid move; he not only scuffs the Italian leather shoe, but also jambs his toe. "Stupid, Neanderthal, Luddite, freakin' ignoramus bastard!" he berates himself in a hiss, so that Wolf won't hear. If he weren't such a technology moron, Gold would have thought of this last night and would have proof of the frame-up and would be out of this cage just as fast as Wolf could turn the key in the lock.

He throws himself onto his butt on the cot, chest heaving. He fights to grain control of his temper; yes, he's lost out on a major opportunity, but he's still Rumplestiltskin, damn it. He'll think of something. Besides, he's innocent, for a change. All they have to do is get an accountant to look over those records they swiped. Besides, he's not so sure about point B: maybe iPhones don't have an external recording feature. Or an internal one, for that matter. Hell, Gold doesn't know the first thing about iPhones—that's why he can't even call Belle this morning and wish her good morning. His own phone (on the nightstand at home) is a Jitterbug he bought because he liked the big buttons.

Neanderthal, Luddite, freakin' ignoramus.

"Gold?"

He jerks his head up. Wolf's standing over him. He's so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't hear the cell door open. With Spencer waltzing into the jail big as you please, Gold's going to have to be more vigilant. Maybe he should've listened to those Lee Majors Bionic Hearing Aid commercials.

Wolf gestures to the doorway. "Come on. I got your breakfast set up in the interrogation room." The sheriff leads the way, sighing, "Well, the camera footage shows you talking and looking out of the cell, but not a hair of anyone else. So we can't even prove anyone came in, let alone Spencer."

There's a cup of coffee and an American breakfast waiting for him on the table. Gold pulls out a chair and seats himself with murmured thanks. He spreads the paper napkin over his knee and picks up the plastic spoon and the little pink packet of sweetener. Persie's known for the down-home goodness and hefty portions of her meals; presentation is not her forte.

"While you're eating I'm going to have a look at the lock on that back door."

"You'll find it undamaged, just unlocked. Forced entry isn't Spencer's style: lock picking is." Around a mouthful of scrambled egg, Gold watches the sheriff leave. . . leave him unattended in an unlocked room. What is it about the law enforcement officials in this region? First Emma, when she was Storybrooke's sheriff; now Wolf, trusting him, in effect, with the keys to the kingdom. Maybe Maine should start importing its sheriffs from Texas.

Gold eyes the front door. Despite his limp, he can move pretty fast when he wants to, and right now, he wants to. He needs to see Belle, assure her things will be okay, assure himself that she is okay and that Spencer didn't pay her a visit last night too.

That last thought drives him away from the scrambled eggs. He limps rapidly from the interrogation room, throws a glance toward the front door—but hurries back into his cage to pick up the phone. As Wolf returns, Gold calls out to him, "Hey, Ian? How's this phone work? I need to call Belle, make sure Spencer didn't harass her last night."

"Son of a bitch!" Wolf grabs the phone from Gold's hand and jabs at it. "I didn't think—I'm sorry, Gold. I should have—hello? Mrs. Gold? Ian Wolf here—no, no, he's—but are you okay? We had a—that's good. Well, we had an incident—here, you can talk to him. He's okay, I guarantee it. Just an incident—well, here." He passes the phone back to Gold.

After a brief conversation that ends with a promise for Belle to bring him clothes and his shaving kit, ASAP, and an exchange of "I love you's," Gold returns the phone with a red face. "I, uh, don't know how to shut it off."

Wolf pushes a key and slides the phone into his shirt pocket. "I'll call Grayson over in Storybrooke, get him to put a tail on Spencer."

Gold sighs. "George will be the model of discretion now. He made his point."

"You were right about the door. Unlocked, no sign of forced entry." Gold's growling stomach interrupts. "You want to go back and finish your breakfast?" Again, the sheriff leads the way to the interrogation room and again, Gold forks up scrambled eggs, now cold but still filling. "It's going to be hard to convince the prosecution that Spencer was here. Even harder to convince them to do anything about it. They're going to argue it was a careless backwoods sheriff who forgot to lock the door."

"But you believe me." It's a statement, not a question.

"I believe you. I'm going to hire some temporary deputies for round-the-clock duty."

"Spencer won't be back. And he won't try to attack me—physically. He's a bit of a coward, despite his size. It'll be enough for him to see me trade my Armani for an orange jumpsuit."

"He's gone to a lot of trouble to make this happen. What's he got against you?"

Gold ponders a moment. No one in Bell's Corners knows the secret of Storybrooke, and now's not the time to reveal it. Half an explanation will have to suffice. "He blames me for his son's failed marriage."

Wolf looks shocked. "You didn't. . .cheat. . . ?"

Gold snorts. "Of course not! Why the hell would any sane man cheat on Belle? No! Spencer's adopted son, David Nolan, used to be married to the daughter of one of Spencer's business associates, not happily for either party, I would add. And I nudged Nolan in the direction of Mary Margaret Blanchard, who did, and does, love him. And though all three lived happily ever after—Katharine's now practicing corporate law in Atlanta and making money hand over fist—Spencer doesn't see it that way. His partnership with Katharine's father dissolved and both men lost a lot of money, as well as face."

"So if the IRS takes you to the cleaners, he'll figure you're even."

"Seems so." Gold sets his fork down. "Sheriff, could I ask a favor? I see a microwave in your office. Would you reheat these eggs?"

She's avoiding eye contact–expecting to escape his notice of the red streaks in the whites of her eyes–and chattering rapidly, endlessly about everything and anything. He lets it go without comment: Belle is putting up a brave front for his sake, so he won't worry, and he adores her for it. "And the kids will be going to New Jersey next weekend. Surprise, surprise: Regina's getting married! Henry's going to walk her down the aisle."

"Who's the wretched victim?"

She swats him. "Rumple! You know better than that. Emma and Henry spent a whole week with her last fall and Emma said she's changed. Not completely, of course: still has quite a temper, but she's learned to control her acerbic tongue."

"It helps, I'm sure, that she can only extract hearts metaphorically these days."

"Rumple! You of all people–"

"Yes, sweetheart, I know perfectly well about the transformative power of love. I'm sure she really has changed, and I'm happy for her–and the groom. Is it that banker she was dating last year?"

"No, seems she met a new fella and he proposed on the third date and she accepted on the fourth date! So cute how they met: it was six a.m. on a Monday, and she heard all this racket on her front lawn, so she ran out to tell the noisemakers to pipe down. She was in a lace nightgown, no robe, and before she could start yelling, this man dropped to his knees, right there in the street, and begged her to go out with him. Well, she thought he was making fun of her–she never would have accepted anyway, because he was a garbage collector! She hauled off and slapped him and told him to get off her lawn before she called the cops. He just dumped her garbage in his truck and moved on. But that night he started sending her flowers, with sweet little notes begging forgiveness for his crudeness, and finally she called him and agreed to go out just once. She still didn't think it could work out: what could they possibly have in common?"

"This from the woman who sells used Toyotas," Gold snarks.

"But turns out, he's got impeccable manners and he loves ballroom dancing, and got her hooked on it too. So, voila! Love triumphant."

Gold smiles ruefully. "And yet another high-born lady loses her heart to a peasant. Yes, my love, it worked for us; it can work for them. I'll give her this: she's resilient and once she commits to something, she's all in. Not unlike a certain duchess I know and adore."

Belle rewards him with a kiss. "You know, the best part is, with her happily settled in another state, she's not likely to ever try to return to Storybrooke."

"Belle! Milady's claws are showing."

"Do you blame me? After the trouble she caused. Oh, and the realty office in Storybrooke called. The pink house has sold. They got less than half of the original asking price, but I told them we would accept that offer. After all this time without a nibble, I doubt if we'll get another. And it's just been standing empty these three years, a waste of money."

Gold nods. "We'll take it. We could use the cash right now. Kevin Kamen's the best tax attorney on the east coast, and he charges like it. Who made the offer? Under our protection spell, no outsider can move into Storybooke, and I didn't think anyone from the old world could come up with a million."

She folds and unfolds her hands. "You're not going to like it. And you're right. Under other circumstances, I would've refused, but like you said, we need the money right now. I mean, for the legal fees. The offer came from Albert Spencer."

Gold goes completely still. Belle nudges him. "Rumple? Say something. Come on. Don't sit there stewing."

"No."

"No, what? You won't talk about it?"

"No, we're not selling to him." The teeth flash and the hand on his cane is beginning to tremble. "I'll let that house crumble to the ground before I sell to him. I'll bulldoze it and salt the yard and burn the lumber before—" he reins himself in. There's no glass here for him to smash, so he has no outlet.

"We need the money," Belle says gently. "I told the realtor yes." She strokes his back, urging him to calm down. She changes the subject, yammers on about a rising star in the Boston Ballet, and he lets her voice wash over him, bringing balm to his insulted heart. It's only after she's gone, off to work at the library, that he pieces a few things together: under all this stress, why didn't she take today off work? And why did she keep saying "We need the money"—not "the cash," as he had, thinking of all the funds they have tied up in investments and certificates of deposit, but "the money"?

The office phone rings but Gold, lost in thought, barely notices until Wolf strolls over to the cell, offering a cup of coffee and some news. "That was your lawyer. He said he expects to arrive mid-morning on Thursday." When Gold just nods, Wolf inquires, "You okay, Mr. Gold? Can I get you something? I got a deck of cards in the office. You want to play some blackjack?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Wolf."

"Something to read, then?" The sheriff pointedly ignores the books that Belle brought in. "I got the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. The newspa—" he cuts himself off and mutters, "Naw, you best not look at the newspaper."

The poor lad is trying so hard, Gold allows himself to be helped out of his funk. "Mr. Wolf, I could really use that shower now."

"Sure." Wolf grins. "Nothing like a shower to get the blood pumpin'." He unlocks the door as Gold gathers up a fresh suit. At the last minute, Gold leaves behind the jacket and tie. It's not as though he needs to dress to impress today; he won't be going anywhere. And the shower and a shave really do make him feel better. As he's dressing, he can pretend for a few minutes it's a normal morning and he's getting ready for a day at the clinic, making phone calls to funders, to be followed by lunch with Mayor Bell and the BC Development Committee to discuss plans to expand Creativity Camp, to be followed by a board meeting at Treadle to review micro loan applications.

To be active in the community, vital. To be needed.

Wolf leads him back to his cell and leaves the door partially open. "Well, I got some paperwork," he apologizes. "You know, government red tape. At noon I'll go over to Persie's and pick up lunch." Poor lad, he really is trying.

Gold sits down on his cot, surrounded by Belle's books, his fresh suits, his iPad and iPod. He tries to ward off thoughts of sneaking into Spencer's house (the pink house on Gold Avenue) some late night, creeping silently up the stairs (he knows exactly which floorboard squeaks, so he can avoid it), standing over the king-sized bed in the master bedroom (the bedroom in which Gold and Belle had shared their bodies and their hearts), and staring down at the snoring son of a bitch who's made this mess, lifting his cane and sneering, "Say hello to my little friend" as he brings it down, oh, he knows exactly where to strike, where to rain long overhead blows, where to use a baseball bat type stroke, where a staccato of short, finessed blows will do the most damage.

A voice makes him yelp. He's leaned on the iPod, causing it to turn on and play a recording he made.

"He who conquers himself is the greatest warrior. Do what must be done with a docile heart."

Damn that know-it-all Master Po. He never had to cope with a Spencer. And though he was known to use his cane as a weapon from time to time, Po never had to fight off the urge to send splatters of his enemy's blood onto the walls of the room in which his beloved used to sleep.

Gold selects another file on the iPod. Master Khan: "The best fighters do not make displays of anger. The wisest antagonist is he who wins without engaging in battle." Gold had always suspected Master Khan knew what it was like to swallow down anger and feel it stick in the throat.

But Caine, Caine the learner, Caine the orphan, Caine the stranger in a strange land, Caine sometimes fell prey to his own emotions. Caine had killed in anger, once, and had felt shame for it, and had asked his master for absolution. Gold has always thought Caine would have felt what Gold feels: Gold is sure Caine, like him, would have experienced mind-filling red.

Caine: "Within me anger boils as water in a heated pot."
Khan: "Observe the day lily. Each morning, with the warmth of the sun it opens in lovely blossom. Each night it closes."
Caine: "I do not understand. What has a flower to do with my anger?"
Khan: "Once your anger warmed you, and like the flower you opened to it. That is long past. It is night."
Caine: "Am I then to do nothing, feel nothing, be still?"
Khan: "Still water is like glass. It is the perfect level. A carpenter can use it. The heart of a wise man is tranquil and still. Thus, it's the mirror of heaven and earth. The glass of everything. Be like still water. You look into it, and see yourself."

Gold releases his breath and his cane. He settles back onto the cot to try to meditate.

"Mr. G.?"

Gold opens his eyes slowly, and stiffly unwinds from the lotus position. Well, a poor approximation of the lotus position. Wolf and the Doves have entered his cage, the former grinning, Josiah smiling hopefully, Fran shaking her head slightly, expressing her annoyance with the situation. It's got to have been rough on them, Gold realizes, to have their home and their business invaded by federal agents. These people, especially: Fran, who fretted over every penny when she ran La Tandoor, and Josiah, who never even cheated at dominoes. Damn it, they even pay parking meters on Sundays. Within me anger boils.

"How you doin'?" Josiah asks.

"I'm sorry," Gold answers softly. "You got caught in the crossfire."

"Don't worry about it," Josiah says. "The asshole's got nothing. There's nothing to get. Your records, so spotless you could eat off of 'em."

"They brought lunch," Wolf says brightly. "Interrogation room?" He swings the door open wide.

"I invited Belle," Fran informs them, "but she's got Noontime Storytime so she can't make it. I've got slow-cooker short ribs planned for tonight, so I thought we'd go with something light for lunch: penne pasta with tomato pesto."

The quartet seat themselves and start passing dishes back and forth.

"I brought some Field & Streams," Josiah announces. "And the dominoes. Thought we might play after lunch."

"Have you closed the shop for the day, then?" Gold wonders.

Josiah focuses his attention on the bread he's buttering. "Well. You know."

Fran explains for him: "We thought it best, under the circumstances."

It's Gold's turn to stare at his food. "I suppose you're not getting any customers. Because of bad publicity, because of. . . ." Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a worried glance that passes between the Doves and a small, warning head shake from Josiah.

"Fresh and Fast is doing good, though. We've got R & D guys from Apple in Creativity Camp this week, and they've been calling over for meals and snacks." Josiah shakes his head with a smile. "Man, those techies can shovel it in. Went through ten gallons of Irish stew yesterday. So Franny's got me on clean up and shopping duty. Keeping us plenty busy."

"Belle said she came by this morning," Fran says. "She said to tell you she'll be back tonight after the library closes."

Gold sets down his fork. "I need to ask a favor." The dealer in him scrambles for something to offer in return, but he comes up empty. Anyway, to make a deal of it would be to cheapen the gift.

"Sure," Josiah agrees around a mouthful of pasta.

"Gladly," Fran adds.

"She doesn't appear to be getting any sleep. I suspect she's not eating, either. Would you," he looks from one to the other, "keep an eye on her while I'm here?"

"You don't have to ask," Josiah replies. "We'd do it anyway."

Fran scoops some more pasta onto Gold's plate. "She asked the same for you. Eat, please, so I can report good news to her." He retrieves his fork but hesitates; Fran flicks her fingers at him. "Eat, eat!"

As Gold takes another mouthful, Fran continues, "Rumple, even if we weren't around, you wouldn't have to worry about Belle."

"I know," he admits. "She's a strong woman—"

"No, what I mean is: she's being looked after. Bae too; he's being looked after. You have a lot of friends." She studies him, saddened by the surprise in his expression. "If you don't know that now, you soon will."

"The wagons are circlin', Mr. G.," Josiah winks at him. "And we're passing out the rifles."