Chapter 7

Claire

Part 2

Claire shot up. Jesus, fuck! A quick glance around the room, and a turn of the clock to check the time, reassured her it was five am, and all was as well as she'd left it in the real world after she'd cried herself to sleep with her cell phone clutched in her hand.

She fell back against sweat soaked sheets and tugged the comforter to her chin. Bits and pieces of the macabre scenes slipped away in the early morning dawn.

She hugged her pillow to her chest and eyed the empty spot beside her. Grateful the rumpled space went unoccupied, because she'd be hard pressed to explain the residual, broken images to someone else when she didn't quite understand them herself, and sad, because strong arms to hold her after…after whatever the hell that was might have stilled the racing thump of her heart, and allowed her to unburden a couple of cumbersome secrets that only came out to play when her eyes were closed.

The nightmare catalyst may have been the news story, she reasoned. Sherry's image enough to spark the dream powder in the keg. Equally suspect, however, was the only call she'd accepted late last night after she'd tucked herself into bed.

She blamed Barry, and left Sherry where she belonged; entrenched in the pleasant parts of her imagination where the little girl was alive, and happy, and she didn't blame Claire for her abandonment.

'How you holdin' up, kiddo?'

'Good. It is every girl's fantasy to be held a prisoner in her own home. From my limited experience I can tell you right now fairy tales are shit. Those damsels didn't sit at tower windows and pine for true love and rescue. They threw themselves off the highest parapet out of sheer boredom. I'm waiting for my ankle bracelet to arrive.'

He'd laughed. 'Hang in there. It'll blow over. Give it a few days. The press will move on to the next latest and greatest.'

'Better hope it happens soon, because I'm going out of mind. My floors are so clean I can serve a full course meal on them. Another day and I'll be able to drink out of my toilets. Well, maybe not Chris'.'

'That's what I wanted to talk to you about.'

'The state of my soon-to-be-ex-home, or…' she'd peeked through the blinds and taken a long, calculated look at the distance between the window and the ivy covered fence in the yard, 'my imminent plans of escape.'

'Neither, but if I were you I wouldn't make things worse. Stay put. Stay out of sight. Especially, now.'

'I don't think things can possibly get any worse.' She'd raised a middle finger. Print this you slimy bastards.

A pause. 'There's been some trouble in Chris' neck of the woods.'

'What kind of trouble?'

'Promise me you won't panic.'

'Tell me what happened and let me decide if I'm going to panic.'

'It'll do you more mental harm than good, so don't do it.'

'You call me out of nowhere, when we haven't heard from you in months, while my brother is away on assignment, and then tell me not to panic. Fat chance. What's going on Barry?'

'Chris has been injured.'

'How? When? Where is he? He didn't tell me where he went. Is he okay? I'm on my way. Tell me where he is and I'll be on the next flight. Do I need a rental? Or can you arrange transportation?'

'Don't bother. Calm down. Listen to me; he's fine. He's been airlifted to a local hospital. Doing well. He'll go from there to the nearest military medical base, and then transport back to the States.'

'What happened?'

'I don't have all the details.'

'You must know something.'

Silence on the other end.

'Barry?'

'There was an…accident. Chris was injured. Spencer is dead. And Jill is…'

'Whoa. Back up. Spencer? As in Umbrella Spencer.'

'Yep. Somebody toe-tagged him.'

'Where?'

'You know I can't tell you where Chris went. That's classified.'

'Well, unclassify it.'

'You didn't hear it from me… England.'

'Spencer was in England?'

'According to a disgruntled ex-employee who's been in contact with Agent Kennedy's Special Tactical Response Department, Spencer turned up in England a couple of months ago. He was rumored to have been staying at a deceased relatives manor house on the coast.'

'And Chris went there to find him?'

'He went to arrest him.'

'Then how did Spencer end up dead? Chris is headstrong and reckless. He's not a murderer.'

'Honestly, Claire, I don't know. You need to talk to Chris.'

'So, Chris is hurt. You won't tell me how badly, when I know damn well that you know. Spencer is dead. And what about Jill?'

'Jill is…'

'Jill is what? Turned into a pumpkin? Grown wings?'

'Jill is ….I can't say anymore. Talk to Chris when you see him. He can fill you in on the details.'

'I'm not talking to Chris, I'm talking to you.'

'Claire, I would if I could, but the information is…sketchy, and restricted. I only called as a courtesy. I thought you might like to hear it from a friend.'

'How bad is it?'

Another pause, this time longer than the last. 'I'm not a doctor. But, from what I've seen in the initial reports he took quite a beating.'

'Was it an ambush? Spencer's men?'

'Ask Chris.'

'That's not an answer.'

'It's the only one I can give you. Take care. I'll see you in a few days.'

Ding, ding, ding, went the bell, and panic attack driven communications round two began.

Unanswered calls to Chris. Unanswered calls to Leon. A very short, 'call back later,' from the BSAA field office in England. No response on Jill's line. An unofficial, 'we're looking into the matter, we'll let you know as soon as we do,' brush off from the State side BSAA office of investigations and internal affairs. No listing of a Chris Redfield brought in for treatment at any of the medical facilities located within a hundred miles in and around London.

Scribble marks and doodles drawn on a notepad filled with names, numbers, extensions, and area codes. By the time her phone flashed low battery it was after three am. Mentally exhausted and physically spent she curled into a fitful sleep, and apparently drifted into nightmare.

Claire stared up at the ceiling. Mini Rorschach style blots were hidden in the textured brush strokes. Her sleep deprived eyes found a horse, mustang wild mane flowing over a short, stout neck. A porcelain faced doll. A sunken eyed skeleton head. Her eyes saw what her brain wanted her to see, and she wondered if her brain had used last night's events to construct her nightmare.

Sherry's photo explained Sherry. Chris?…that was a tough one. He wasn't hurt in her REM world. It was quite the opposite. He existed in her dreams much the same way he did in real life. His primary focus geared toward her safety. Zombies? No explanation needed. Leon? Ditto. Wesker? Now, that was a conundrum. Wesker was dead. Killed in Antarctica. No reason his ghost should decide to haunt her subconscious. His tainted blood wasn't on her hands.

Claire rubbed a sleepy out of the corner of her eye. Prolong the inevitable? Worry about Chris? Lay here and dwell on Sherry? Try to get in touch with Leon? Wonder about Jill? Barry's response, or rather his lack of response, with regard to her status was cryptic as Minoan writing, and as unfathomable as Jill's presence in Claire's dream.

She rolled out of bed. Time for some positive proactive behavior. She plugged her phone into its charger. Cue communications meltdown round three. She flipped on the light and grabbed her notepad.

Three hours, twenty-seven minutes, and forty-five seconds later she had exhausted her list.

The BSAA field office in England confirmed Chris had been taken by helicopter to a hospital near Portsmouth. He was stabilized and treated for 'undisclosed injuries,' and airlifted to the closest military hospital with BSAA access privileges, Royal Hospital Haslar in Gosport, Hampshire.

Royal Hasler confirmed, after the ok was given by the British BSAA liaison, Chris was on site, and in no immediate danger, but they would not discuss his medical condition with an unknown party without patient, and higher-level BSAA consent.

The patient, Chris, was currently sedated and unable to confirm her relation to him, and the British liaison wouldn't budge another inch without direct authorization from the United States branch.

Chris' supervisor, the director of the State side branch of the BSAA, finally returned her call after the fourth message she'd left.

'I am unable to discuss the particulars, Claire. The matter is classified. An investigation is underway.'

'I'm not asking you for a football play by play. Please, just set my mind at ease.'

'Who told you?'

'A little bird. Tell me he's okay. I need to know what happened to Jill.'

'Off the record, and only because Miss Valentine, and your brother, are two of my best field agents… Chris got into some hand-to-hand with an unknown assailant at Oswall Spencer's family estate near Portsmouth. Chris suffered a punctured lung, a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and a hairline ankle fracture.'

She'd latched onto the only words that sent her stomach straight to her knees. 'Punctured lung.'

'It sounds worse than it is. We've been informed the puncture was small and that his prognosis is good.'

Thank you, God. 'My bird tweeted he's coming home. When?'

'Day after tomorrow. He'll go straight to our primary medical base for initial assessment and recovery, and then transfer to headquarters for debriefing and a full hearing.'

'Hearing?' This can't be good. A new fear, one dedicated to concern over her brothers professional career, settled into the spot vacated by the earlier apprehension over his injuries.

'The BSAA office of Professional Ethics and Responsibility want first crack at Chris as soon as he can talk.'

'Why? Is it standard protocol?'

'Not always, but an international incident merits special attention.'

'What kind of 'special attention' are we talking about?'

'The kind that discovers cause and assigns blame so when attorneys get involved they know exactly whom to sue.'

'Is Chris in some kind of trouble? Your office sent him there. How could he be under any suspicion of wrongdoing?'

'Chris and Jill were sent to England to execute an extradition warrant, not cause a bloodbath. They were to get in and get out following BSAA guidelines, with the full cooperation and blessing of the British authorities, without incident. Four British citizens are dead. One of which, Spencer, was a highly philanthropic member of society.'

'Spencer? The Spencer? The man responsible for Umbrella? A philanthropist? My white ass. You can't be talking about the same person.'

'The man wasn't a total monster, Claire. Spencer's European roots grow deep. He funded several charities dedicated to the underprivileged and unemployed, and was the head of three children's foundations specializing in the research and treatment of terminally ill children.'

'What are you saying?'

'I'm saying I've, Chris, has got a huge problem on his hands. You can't kill a man like Spencer and expect no repercussions. The other victims families aren't going to be whistlin' Dixie either.'

'Chris didn't kill Spencer, or anyone else for that matter.'

'Do you know this for a fact? Were you there? No. Bullet shell casings found at the scene matched slugs recovered from the bodies of three additional, and yet to be identified, individuals confirmed dead on site. The same person who attacked your brother, presumably, murdered them as well. And, I use the term 'presume' very loosely.'

'My brother wouldn't harm an innocent person.'

'Your heartfelt innocence proclamation isn't going to explain Spencer beaten to a bloody pulp, and three bystanders shot, and killed, with a BSAA standard issue weapon.'

'That's impossible. Do you know how ridiculous this all sounds? It's preposterous. Ask Jill. She'll tell you. Chris would never do anything like what you're suggesting.'

'I would love to ask her. Have an eye witness collaborate this mystery assailant, and anything else Chris may tell us.'

'So ask her.'

'I can't. She's missing. Presumed dead.'

Claire's breath caught in her throat. 'Dea..it can't be.'

'According to unsubstantiated testimony Chris gave to a dive team member, that pulled him out of the ocean off the coast of Spencer's estate, Jill fell from a balcony window. She took a long drop header straight down into the deep blue and never came back up. '

'It can't be,' She'd repeated. Tears dotted the corners of her eyelids.

'Naval Sea and Rescue have been on site for twelve hours and so far, nothing. There was a storm that stirred up the current and visibility beneath the water is low. I've been informed chances for recovery are slim. '

'You sound like you're giving up.'

'We are. As soon as I hang up with you I'll be on the phone to naval support. They'll be packin' it in within the hour.'

'You're going to leave her out there?' An image of Jill floating face down, weightless; her hair clouded around a starched, white face, brought flashes of her nightmare back into the front runner of her thoughts.

'Claire, Jill's corp…. remains could be anywhere by now, and as much as I would love to dredge the English coast until the cows come home, it just isn't financially, or logistically feasible.'

'Has anyone told Chris? Does he know you're pulling out?'

'Chris was a hot mess when the divers got to him. Almost entirely incoherent. He gave a short statement, and passed out before they loaded him into the helicopter.'

Anger undercut the hysterical rise in her voice. 'How could you? After all she's done. She deserves better.'

'We've done everything we can do on our end. Mr. and Mrs. Valentine have been informed of the incident. They are on their way to BSAA headquarters. I have the impression they intend to make short work of the whole death declaration process. Jill's personal effects will be handed over upon their arrival, and I'm assuming funeral arrangements are forthcoming in the next couple of weeks.'

'So soon? They can't wait?'

'Their daughter. Their decision. Grief counseling will be made available to them, and other BSAA crew members upon request.'

'This isn't happening.'

'As a close acquaintance I will extend the grief services to you, as well as your brother.'

'We don't want your damn counseling. You have to continue the search.'

'I'm sorry you feel that way. Your choice. I've gotta' go. I'll let you know when Chris arrives. I have other matters to attend.'

'Like plotting my brother's crucifixion?'

'You hold on there just a damn minute, missy. Who the hell do you think you are? Let me explain something to you. I didn't cause this five-alarm fire. Chris did. He's done nothing but push, push, push, for every assignment related to Umbrella, Spencer, human bio-testing; you name it, he's asked for it.'

'He's been very vocal about his contempt. Derogatory statements made prior to his deployment were enough to get him booted as mission leader. I stuck my neck out, went against my better judgment, after Chris begged me, to let him go on this assignment. A deal amongst friends I sorely regret I made.'

'There is no proof. Not one ounce of anything that places anyone other than Jill, Chris, Spencer, and three unlucky people sitting in a cooler, at that manor house at the time of the deaths and Jill's disappearance.'

'He damn sure didn't beat himself.'

'I'm not saying he did. His injuries may have been the result of a subjugation attempt-'

'Don't you dare say it.'

He'd said it anyway. 'By Miss Valentine, in order to stop a murderous rampage.'

'Son of a bitch.'

'You want my advice. Get some good third party representation. Chris is going to need it, after the hearing.'