NOW

April 18, 1952

Worcester, Massachusetts

The only thing worse than driving in the rain…was driving in the rain in the dark. Chuck's windshield wipers were at their highest speed, and yet not able to keep up with the virtual torrent of water pouring from the thick gray blanket of clouds that had rolled in right before sunset. The wipers ticked in a regular, predictable rhythm, like a metronome. In his frantic state, he needed that steady swishing and clicking to keep him calm, as calm as he could be, considering he was desperately panicked.

It was a ten minute drive on a clear night from his home to Jack Burton's home. In this blinding rain, with his heart pounding and his hands sweaty on the steering wheel, he was hampered with his progress. Ten minutes was an eternity. He willed the car to go faster, knowing he was already driving faster than was perfectly safe on the narrow road, now almost flooded. Life and death, and not his own, were at stake, so it was of almost no concern how dangerously he was driving.

He kept hearing Gertrude's voice in his head…that haunting uncertainty, the eerie sense that Jack's voice on the phone as relayed to him had double meaning. Chuck knew, without doubt, what Jack had truly meant, why he had called Chuck's home in the middle of the night. He had asked Gertrude and Casey to call the police as he'd charged out of the house, now all Jack's words in the last few weeks crashing around him like waves.

In his desperation, he argued with himself. This is not your fault, he told himself, not able to convince himself he was right. In his life, there were many things he was not responsible for which he still felt culpable. He had not caused the situation, no, that had been Jack. But he had been forced to deal with it just the same. Everything had come to a head. He'd had no choice. No choice, he told himself, even as he felt his insides flood with guilt.

Even if he could softly fool himself into believing that, Sarah would never forgive him. Never.

Now not only was the rain obscuring his vision, but the helpless tears in his eyes as well.

Chuck's life had been nothing but loss. At 24 years old, it was almost all he knew. This time, the situation was not a cruel twist of fate or bad luck. This time, it was his fault. His mentor…betrayed. Chuck was racing against time, certain he would be too late. His inability to stop these events, wounding by themselves, would forever seal his fate, taking from him the only thing that truly mattered in his life.

This desperate flight was futile, but all he could do now.

I'm sorry, Sarah, he thought, willing her to hear his thoughts. Of anyone, she had seemed gifted with the unique talent of being able to read his mind, when no one else even understood him. Such a comfort, now in peril. Would she even care anymore, if she hated him? The thought of her hatred for him was like an ax hitting his chest.

He saw the blue lights down the road before he saw anything else. The police station was closer to Jack's house than where Chuck lived. Gertrude had called them 18 minutes ago. His car rolled to a stop as he took the full scene. Three police cars...and an ambulance. The blue lights flashing were from the police cars. The ambulance's lights were dark.

His blood turned to ice. No lights…no emergency… no one left alive to save. He balled both of his hands into fists to stop them from shaking, then swung the car door wide and jumped out. He jogged to the front door, his clothing and shoes drenched from even a short distance. The front door was wide open. He heard the sounds of overlapping conversations, the grumbling of the cars running idle…and the sound of muffled, hysterical crying.

Sarah….oh, god, no….

A police officer, turning from the doorway, noticed Chuck standing there. Chuck's dark curls were soaked and plastered against his forehead, the rivulets of rain on his face masking his tears, but not the bloodshot quality to his eyes. The other man was dressed in his dark blue uniform, his hat in his hand. He was middle aged, balding. He looked tired, weary even. "I'm sorry, sir, but this is a crime scene. You'll have to wait outside," he said dryly, holding up his hand to bar Chuck's entry.

"No, you don't understand," Chuck said crisply. "My…my housekeeper called you. Gertrude Casey? I'm Chuck Bartowski."

"Oh, Mr. Bartowski," the officer said, his voice lightening, somehow now injected with sadness. "She was right to call," he said, shaking his head and tsking. "We didn't arrive in time, though. I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Burton is dead. Self-inflicted gunshot wound."

Chuck stood in the open doorway, the rain sloshing in his shoes and dripping in a steady stream from the ends of his curls down his face. The police officer's hand was pressed firmly into the center of his chest, holding him in place. His urgent need to enter faltered as he watched the stretcher slowly being wheeled towards him, a black bag covering the body of the man he had rushed here in the middle of the night to try and save.

All the strength drained from his body. His footing wavered and his shoulders sagged in defeat. A sickness exploded in his stomach, bile rising in the back of his throat and threatening to gag him. Tears obscured his vision as he heard the police officer say, softly, "I'm sorry, Son. He was already dead…when we arrived."

Too late…too late…

Hopelessness and despair overwhelmed him and he staggered backward, banging into the wood at the open door frame. Jack had been so many things, but first, Jack had been his friend. A sometimes poor, but singular, substitute for the parents Chuck had lost when he was a young boy. There were a thousand things Chuck wished he could say to him, tell him, let him know…maybe things that if he had said in life may have prevented this tragedy.

Tragedy…oh, god, Sarah…

He reeled in horror, realizing too late that if the police had already come, and he was dead… Sarah had to have found him.

Horror and anger battled inside him. What kind of man would do that…leave himself for his only child to find…like that…

As if in answer to his silent screams, he heard a high pitched, shrieking howl, like a wounded animal dying under the wheels of a locomotive. He shifted his gaze upwards, to the top of the marble staircase positioned in the foyer where he stood. She appeared suddenly, moving towards them as the sound intensified.

Her long blonde hair was disheveled, loose about her shoulders and down her back. She wore only her nightclothes, a thin pink nightgown inappropriate to wear in the mixed company now present in her house. She was oblivious to it, oblivious to everyone and everything… except him.

Her face was pale and tear-stained, her eyes puffy and red. Her cerulean blue eyes flashed like ice on fire and she charged down the stairs, stumbling, almost tripping in her furious, frenzied haste. When she neared him, he saw plainly the blood stains on her nightgown, in what would have been her lap had she been seated, and all over her hands and up her wrists. As if she had taken his head in her lap, if he had fired a bullet through his brain…

A guttural sorrow enveloped him, the tears now free-flowing and blinding him as he watched her approach. Her wrath radiated from her, coming at him like a wavefront. "You!" she shrieked, launching herself across the remaining space. Her hands were like claws.

Instinctively, he grabbed her wrists, feeling her father's blood still wet on her skin. He held her away from scratching at his face, with the minimum amount of strength it took to subdue her. He could not cause her another drop of pain. All of this, everything, all the agony he saw in her eyes was already his fault. "Sarah," he whispered, unheard above her angry growling.

"Get out of my house!" she screamed, flailing against his grip. "This is your fault! You did this! You…did…" Her voice failed as she sagged down to the floor, her strength evaporating as she collapsed into a heap at his feet, his hands still holding her wrists.

He recoiled in horror, taking a step back from her, releasing his grasp. One of the police officers stepped between them, pulling her from the floor and beginning to move her away. Chuck watched her go, screaming her tears into the arms of the nameless officer, and all that was left of his heart shattered into a thousand pieces. He stood, looking down at the blood Sarah had transferred to his hands. Her father's blood.

How right, he thought bitterly, that it was on his hands. This was his fault. Sarah was right.

The only thing he had left in his life that he thought of as good was now gone, forever, irrevocably.

But in the end, he knew he'd had no choice. He wondered as he stood there, just what Jack had believed. What truth he had convinced himself of as he'd called Chuck, speaking only to his housekeeper, moments before taking his own life?

Chuck thought he knew…but it was just an educated guess. And now, he would never know for sure. All he knew was what he needed to do, now that the deed had been done.

He had loved Jack, in his way, the same way Jack had loved him…maybe how Jack loved everyone, the only warped way he knew how. A long time ago, Chuck remembered, he had read about love and hatred…how one could not exist without the other. Without love, apathy breathed. It took love…broken, battered, strangled…to turn to hate. He had never believed that, not completely, for he had found little to hate in his life, as painful as it had been.

His heart could not reconcile them. He turned, walked back out into the rain, the echoes of Sarah's tortured wailing cutting into him like knives. He loved Jack…and now he hated him, too.

He feared only the hate would remain, the farther into hell he was about to descend, dragged by someone who had professed to care about him.

He felt lost, disoriented, like he couldn't remember how to find his car. He stumbled down the steps and into the rain once more, the bare tree branches all around glistening in the darkness.

He was soaked, but he could no longer feel the rain. Only his own tears.