A/N: The second section of our story begins.
Patriot Tours
Chapter Seven: A Variety of Weapons
As Sarah walked away from Chuck, she felt her world-weariness and listlessness returning.
France. Arcachon. Drizzle.
But she walked on, for Chuck's sake, and not for her own.
She would gladly go to find him again, or call him later — not just gladly, happily — but she knew at best they could have a day or a few days together, and given how he had looked at her and given how she felt walking away, that time together would only nurture what had started between them, strengthening it into something far harder to abandon.
If her feelings now were an indication, walking away then would feel like an unanesthetized amputation; now, walking away felt like a dagger deep in her chest, left side.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Her old instincts immediately returned, unbidden. She whirled — hands into fists but arms down, ready for the attack but not evincing her readiness.
No attack, at least not of that kind. The footsteps belonged to Dan. Dan. Shit. Sarah relaxed her fists.
"Hey, um, I was wondering, since the Patriot kids are at lunch, done with their tour effectively if you'd like me to continue the tour for you. With you." He gestured from him to her and back again. "It would just be the two of us."
He grinned a grin he clearly believed in, a bend of his lips expected to bend the world to his will. Sarah recoiled from it. But she managed a wan smile. "No, I'm going to go to the Pavilion, and then I'm going home. I don't really feel any need for a guide to butterflies."
Chuck should be my butterfly guide; he made me feel them all morning.
Her rueful smile seemed almost to convince Dan, although she could see him debating with himself about whether or not to try again, to press her.
She decided for him. "I'll be sure to tell Barney what a good job you've done. Thanks, but I'm going to go on now, alone." She added the final word just to make sure he did not keep at her. He shook his head, puzzled at her refusal.
As she left, she heard him mutter one word, utter disbelief. "Bartowski?"
Sarah had to buy a ticket for a specific entry time into the Pavilion.
Only a few were allowed inside at once. Luckily, the museum was not very busy with the holidays approaching, so she only had to wait a few minutes before she was allowed to enter.
The timed entries and the tight limits on visitors, Sarah realized, explained why Chuck's group and the other Patriot groups did not visit the Pavilion. Even a small group like Chuck's today was too many, and normally his groups, indeed all the Patriot groups as Sarah understood, were larger.
She entered, struck by how unlike the earlier, Embrace the Dark exhibit the Pavilion was. It was bright inside, as if sunlit, forcing her to blink. It was also humid. A sign by the door mentioned the bright lights and the climate control.
She was glad she had her leather jacket on her arm; she would quickly have had to take it off.
Along with her ticket, Sarah had been given a one-page identification guide. Butterflies that May Flutter by You. She consulted it for a minute. There were photos of various butterflies along with names and information.
She walked further into the exhibit, taking the path among plants and foliage. As she entered the greenery, butterflies were suddenly all around her. For a moment, she panicked, unused to the feeling, the experience, but then she calmed down and let herself enjoy the swarm of wild colors. Dimly, she recalled reading once that a group of butterflies was called a kaleidoscope. She understood. Consulting her brochure again, she identified a white morpho (white — no blue one yet), a Mexican Shoemaker (black and yellow), and a Postman Butterfly (orange and black, like a Monarch, but in a different pattern).
She scanned the room and was surprised to find that she was, at the moment, the only person in the Pavilion.
For the moment, her world was warm and damp, full of plants and butterflies. Tropical.
She walked on, her intent eyes catching sight even of the shy butterflies, of those on plants and not in flight. Her gait was slow, and patient. She wished Chuck was there with her so that she could see it through his eyes too, and him through hers. A small part of her was keeping track of time. Despite ordering herself not to meet Chuck or call him, she was still tempted, very tempted, and she was not sure her resolution would hold.
It would be best, she knew, if she hurried her visit to the Pavilion along, and hurried away from the museum, leaving before Chuck and his students finished their lunch so that she would not have to manage another awkward encounter with him. Yet she did not hurry; she sauntered along, looking at her brochure and studying the butterflies that came near enough to allow it. As she stopped to look at a large Mexican Shoemaker dangling upside-down off a flower, a Blue Morpho, like the ones she had seen pictures of earlier, in the What Makes Things Blue? exhibit, landed her arm. Landed, and stayed.
Sarah wondered at it. Its wings beat slowly, slowly; it rested just above her wrist.
It was so blue and so delicate, so intricately alive and so beautiful. Tears formed in Sarah's eyes. The blue butterfly wholly absorbed her attention — and, in a way that she did not understand, it seemed a symbol. It seemed to show her to herself.
The top of its wings, the dorsal side (the term was on the identification guide), was exotic blue fringed by black, but the bottom of its wings, the ventral side, was a rich, homey brown and gold, with small circles and lines. The two sides were so different that they seemed to belong to two butterflies. Despite the visual evidence, Sarah found it hard to hold the dorsal and the ventral in her imagination at the same, as different sides of the same wings, two sides of the one creature, one typically displayed, one typically hidden.
The butterfly fluttered into the air. Sarah watched it, pondering it, then, looking beyond it, she noticed that the two men who had been behind Chuck's group, the two men she and Anong had discussed, were now in the Pavilion.
One was advancing toward her; the other was at the doors. It occurred to Sarah then that the entrance and exit were side-by-side; the pathway was a large circle that looped back to its beginning. It was the kind of thing she normally knew automatically, but it had not registered on her today.
The man held a knife; sharp and long. It looked to be made of grivory, or some substance that would elude the metal detector.
His grip on it and his stance showed he knew how to use it. His eyes measured her, confident.
He looked back at the other man quickly. "Reste à la porte."
French. "Stay at the door."
And then Sarah knew: her spy senses fully engaged: the men belonged to Marcuse. They were not trailing Anong; they were trailing her.
They were there to kill her.
Butterflies flocked around Sarah.
Butterflies flocked around the man.
He advanced quickly but cautiously, the point of his knife moving in small circles as if conjuring violence.
Sarah's eyes flicked up, spotting the security camera in the Pavilion. The red power light was off.
The man took one final cautious step — and then lunged, rushing her.
Slowly, Chuck entered the room in which the Patriot Tour groups ate.
He did his best to keep his head up, to hide how down Sarah's leave-taking made him feel.
It was a handsome room, although not large: wood-paneled, containing a long oak table with a glass top on it, flanked by matching chairs. Boxed lunches — always a little better than Chuck expected — were stacked on the table, and cardboard containers of forks, spoons, and knives stood at one end of the boxes.
On a narrow table against one wall were various drinks: cans of cola, bottles of sparkling water, and of juice, and a silver tray covered in cookies, chocolate chip, and peanut butter. Chuck's students were already seated, boxes open, eating. Chuck picked up a box and one of each of the plastic utensils.
Gammon had already eaten half his sandwich. His mouth still with food in it, deliberately, he glanced at Chuck and asked. "Where's Sarah?"
Corday nodded. "Yeah, Brian Wilson, where's your supermodel?"
Chuck shook his head at Corday, ignoring Gammon's question and mouthful. "How, exactly, do you know so much about the Beach Boys?"
Chuck expected Corday to continue her verbal jostling, but she actually dropped her head.
After a moment, she spoke, softly, slightly sullen. "My dad. He loved them, played their music all the time. Was always celebrating Wilson's genius."
Chuck forced himself to ignore his mood and give Corday his full attention, noticing the change in posture and tone, and the past tense in her references to her dad. He didn't want to make everyone aware of her vulnerability, so he gave her a smile and held her eyes, his expression his form of commiseration. She smiled weakly and turned her attention to her sandwich.
Down the table, Anong was talking in low tones to Natalie. Natalie's color was up. Her whispered response was inaudible but fierce. Anong lifted her eyebrows but the conflict, if that's what it was, seemed to have passed.
Chuck unwrapped his sandwich and opened the container of pasta salad. He wanted to say more to Corday but she was now focused on her food. The look on her face suggested that she regretted her earlier moment of vulnerability.
For a moment, there were only sounds of eating and then there was a throat-clearing. Anong. She smirked at Natalie and spoke loudly to Gammon. "Hey, Gammon, guess what?" Natalie's eyes grew huge but she obviously wanted to shrink in her chair.
Gammon looked up. He was polishing off the last of his sandwich. "What?" he asked, this time waiting until his mouth was empty. That seemed to coincide with Anong's intentions because it prolonged the time during which Natalie was writhing, anticipating.
"Guess who's got her skull eyes fixed on you?" Anong asked Gammon.
Gammon saw Natalie drop her face into her hands. His face clouded, but then he grinned, forced. "Don't date Goth girls. Got no vibe for Wednesday Addams."
Corday, as if on cue, snapped her fingers twice.
Natalie jumped up and sprinted to the door, weeping, out of it before Chuck could stop her. Chuck whirled back to the table, standing, as the table erupted.
Tim rose, his laces still untied, and glared at Anong, pointing with a wobbling finger. "Bitch!"
Gammon looked like he was suddenly overcome with indigestion. He put a hand on his stomach: "Shit!"
Anong picked up her pasta salad container, unopened, and hurled it at Tim, a side-dish missile. It struck him on the head and exploded, a shower of cabbage and mayonnaise, the lid going one direction, the small container another.
Corday pushed her chair back, trying to avoid becoming collateral cabbage damage, but her chair resisted, and instead of scooting, it toppled over backwards, with Corday emitting a small scream as her feet headed toward the ceiling.
Anong was reaching for the other half of her sandwich, another weapon. Milky tears were running down Tim's face as he tried to duck beneath the table.
The lunchroom that had been so quiet a moment before was now a bastion of chaos and recrimination.
Sarah had no weapon. She had her jacket on her arm, her phone in her back pocket, and the identification guide in the hand of her other arm.
But she had her feet. As the man lunged, dodged the knife, side-stepping, then tripped him as he went by her. He toppled forward.
Sarah dropped the guide and threw her jacket over the man's head. He used his empty hand to try to remove it, and she aimed another kick, this time at his knife arm. She hit it exactly as she intended, striking his wrist with tremendous velocity.
The knife flew up among the butterflies, spinning at its apex, then fell and scuttled across the floor.
He pulled the jacket off his head, but Sarah followed her kick with her fists, pounding the man's face as soon as it was visible. Ever since the Farm, her speed and grace were fabled in the Company — and they came to her aid. The man was undoubtedly stronger than her, but he was slow, much slower; his coordination no match for hers.
He crumpled onto the floor and she kicked him in the temple. He did not move.
She whirled. The man at the door was striding toward her, moving fast but under control, not as confident of himself as his partner had been. He too had a knife, a twin of the first.
She grabbed her jacket again and charged at him, a bullfighter taking the bull by the horns.
Chuck had managed to quell the food fight after a bout of yelling.
He was now on his knees, cleaning up coleslaw. Tim was wiping the coleslaw and mayo out of his hair, and off of his face, the napkin in his hand soaked. Gammon still looked nauseated and kept checking the door. Anong would not look at Chuck, but he did not know if that was because she was angry at him or because she was ashamed of him for cleaning up her mess. Natalie had not returned, and Chuck was beginning to worry that she had wandered farther afield than the ladies' room.
Chuck finished and stood, looking at his watch. "Well, time to go. Coray, can you — "
Natalie entered, head down. Chuck nodded at her when she glanced at him, her eyes red and far from Gammon.
"Alright, follow me, all of you. No more of this. We need to get along the rest of the day. After that, you're Woodson's problem, and your parents."
He wouldn't normally have been so severe, but he had become certain, as he picked up the last shreds of coleslaw and the pieces of sandwich, that Sarah would not be outside the room and that she would never call him. She was out of his league, so high above him, supercharged. Electric blue. For whatever reason, in the museum, and especially in the Embrace the Dark exhibit, she seemed to think otherwise, but she surely must have realized it by now.
She was a dense thunderhead on the horizon, sublime. He was a low-lying cloud, hardly a fog, more a mist, gone by morning's end.
The Pavilion would have cleared Sarah's head, assuming she actually went and did not merely mention it as a convenient excuse.
Chuck was willing to bet she was outside the museum by now. He wanted to get his students on the bus and put the Smithsonian behind him.
"C'mon, we're late," he barked, and the group fell into line, Gammon in front, Natalie in the rear.
Chuck sat down in one of the front seats of the tour bus and shook his head, keeping the gesture small, private.
He sighed but not audibly, glancing out the window at The Smithsonian.
Blue.
Behind him sat his group. They were observing him closely, silent. Anong and Corday put on the coats they had left in their seats.
It was crucial that he not let them sense any weakness, not let them see the toll they were taking on him.
The toll that Sarah Walker's leaving had taken on him.
He had only now gotten them under tolerable control.
By yelling.
He hated that he did that but —
Show no weakness, don't bleed in the water. They're circling like sharks. One mistake and you're chum.
He dreaded the rest of the day.
Time seemed to congeal, to stop flowing.
Chuck wondered how long they would have to wait for Jill's group. The food fight had messed up the staggered lunches. Madge, the bus driver, had stepped off the bus just before Chuck's group boarded.
"Restroom. Gotta go! Old bladder. Left the key; extra waters are in the side hatch. Back in a jiffy!"
As Chuck glanced out the window, he saw a man walk alongside the bus. Tall, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
The man was staring into the museum, periodically checking his watch.
Sarah used her jacket again, this time wrapping it around the second man's knife hand. He had led with that arm, and she ducked beneath it as she trapped it in her jacket, aiming her foot up into his groin. It was not a direct hit, but her foot slid hard into his crotch. Close counts, like horseshoes and hand grenades. The man exhaled in surprise, then inhaled in misery. Sarah rolled to the side and he missed her as he fell to his knees.
She ran toward the mirrored exit door. Behind her, in the glass, she could see the two men, the first unconscious, the second in a fetal pose while on his knees. The violence had stirred the butterflies, and the whole room was alive with swarming colors.
As she reached the door, she slowed. Other visitors were moving, talking, and laughing. No one seemed especially to notice her. She tried to control her breathing as she forced herself to walk to them. She hurried back to the front of the museum, where the tour started. She could get a taxi or an Uber.
Chuck's bus must be gone by now.
She walked past Barney with a tight wave and out the door. As she stepped into the cold sunshine, she saw that Chuck's bus was still in place. She saw him looking out the window. And then she saw Marcuse — it had to be him, it was one of the three men she saw at the Bordeaux church.
Sarah's first instinct was to protect Chuck and the students. She lowered her head and ran into Marcuse before he could get his hand out of his coat pocket. Together, they slammed into the side of the Patriot Tour bus. She heard Marcuse's breath explode from him. He was gasping, trying to fill his lungs again, and dropped to his hands and knees on the sidewalk.
"Sarah?"
Chuck was standing in the bus' open door, leaning out.
Terrified for him, Sarah leaped to the door and pushed Chuck inside; he went up the steps in reverse.
Sarah instantly noticed the empty driver's seat, the dangling keys.
Outside, she heard Marcuse inhale, heaving and loud. Shoving Chuck backward, hard, she jumped into the driver's seat. Chuck stumbled and fell onto his back in the aisle.
The students were screaming, yelling. Sarah did not discriminate among words in the cacophony.
She turned the key. The bus started.
She shoved it into gear and punched the gas. It lurched forward just as Marcuse made it to the door. Sarah hit the button and closed the door, cutting him off, and he fell, his hands sliding across the glass as the bus pulled away.
His eyes were black with malice.
"Shit!" Sarah heard Gammon say distinctly. She turned the bus into traffic.
She needed a moment to think, to catch her breath.
How did this happen? How is Marcuse at the Smithsonian?
She looked up into the large rearview mirror. Chuck was seated on the floor, rubbing the back of his head, staring at her.
A/N: As usual with my first chapters or first chapters of new sections, a bit shorter.
More soon.
