Chapter #20The Dead Return by: Seuzz   Robert is still in the corner of the room, leaning against the door, when you give up your story. His expression is sour, and he snorts softly after you've punctuated your adventures with a trail of ellipses. "So that wasn't you who--"
"I don't know what the fake me got up to," you say. "I don't know what happened to him. You'd have to tell me."
"Oh, I could give you an earful," he says, and for a moment it looks like he'll give you a hard blow to go with it. But then he sags and shrugs. "But what's the point? You got arrested a couple of times. Dad always went to bat for you, and you just--" His lip curls, and pain shows in his eyes. "You say it wasn't you, but you couldn't have told me that--"
"I'll apologize, and I will," you say. "I'm sorry, Robert. Not just for leaving that thing in my place, but for what it did." A hard knot forms in your throat and stomach, but you're trained too long with Margaret Dillon and Father Ed not to know it has to be said. "The thing acted like I would have. It was a perfect copy. If I'd stayed here, I probably would have done exactly what it did. In a sense, I did do those things. Were they really that horrible?"
"Oh, you didn't kill anyone," he says. "Except Mom. Inside."
You wince as you remember the wan and distressed woman who greeted you yesterday at your house.
"Are you going to tell them all this?" he asks, and his tone is aggressive.
"I don't think I can," you say weakly.
"Fucking pussy. You crawl back here--"
"I only mean--" You clutch your hair. Despite your experience and training, you feel as weak and shiftless as when you were a dumb kid in high school. It must be the chemicals that come from being back in your old body, you bitterly think. You hope that's what it is. "I don't think it would be safe for them. You know, Spider-Man never tells Aunt May--"
"So you think you're a fucking superhero or something?" Now his anger is unmistakable. "Look, maybe you're off zapping people with your occult powers and fighting demons or whatever the fuck these guys are supposed to be doing, but the rest of us--!" He jabs an angry finger at his chest. "The rest of us have battles too, you know, and we can't fight them by punching them or shooting laser blasts or whatever!" He screws his eyes shut and masters himself. "If you're trying to make things right by telling me all about what happened to you, well, you've only made a start on it, fucker. Because you didn't hurt me any! I only got the backwash from Mom and Dad, from what they got hit with. This isn't an apology or restitution or whatever bullshit you think you're--" He stammers to an incoherent stop. "Not until you've gone to Mom and Dad and made it right with them!"
His face is a mix of white and scarlet when he finishes, and he puffs and blows, and his teeth chatter with anger and probably lots of other emotions.
You feel your tendrils snake out, to embrace and caress him and smooth his churning feelings. But you draw them back. It wouldn't be right.
"I'd have to talk to Charles first," you say. "I already made a mess by confessing to you without his permission. I can't--"
"Fine," he snaps, and wrenches open the door. "Thanks for catching up with me, bro. We should do it again at Christmas. Come on, Verity."
He stalks out without waiting for her, and she hesitates only a fraction before rising from the bed. "I'm sorry," she says quietly to you. And that's all she says before leaving. She shuts the door very softly.
You fall back onto the bed, rubbing deeply at your eyes with the heels of your hands. You knew it would be tough, you expected anger, you weren't hoping for tender reconciliations and tearful expressions of forgiveness. But to be hit with such battering rams--
Your insides throb, but your old eighteen-year-old body is not built for what you need to release. So you change back into Siobhan and spend a solid half-hour bawling your head off.
* * * * *
Charles takes one look at you when you step into his hotel room, and gets to his feet. "Come in, girl," he says. "Kick your shoes off, and I'll make you some hot tea."
You wilt into a chair, and sniffle lightly as he brews up a cup of hot water in the electric carafe. He makes it with lemon and honey, and sits close to you as he hands it over. You cradle it and sip it and let tears well in the bottom of your eyes. "Robert understood," you say wanly. "He understood all too well."
"What did he understand?"
"That I have to tell my mother and father, too."
"He has a good head on his shoulders," Charles says. "He would, being related to you."
"Should I tell them, sir? I mean, I know I should, if I want to make things right with them. But other things might happen if I do."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. We kept my going off a secret from them because it was easier than explaining things to them. Less dangerous. We can't have the secret about us getting out."
"You think they'd let it out?"
"No," you admit. You think of your father, the hard-headed engineer. "They probably wouldn't even believe me."
"Then you don't have to worry about us, Siobhan," he says. "You only have to worry about them. What they need and they deserve."
He doesn't have to say anymore. "Would you go with me?" you ask. "To help me explain?"
"I don't think I have any part to play in that conversation. Besides, I have a job to do here."
Business with Fane. That's why you're here. It's a good excuse for avoiding or putting off telling your parents. But it would just be a dodge. "Can you handle Fane without me? I don't think I can--" Your voice cracks.
"I think we can," he says confidently. "You know why you came back to Saratoga Falls now."
You smile wanly, wondering if Charles always intended you to come back home for this reason, not to deal with Fort Suffolk. But Charles is a master of the chessboard, and even if he didn't intend his pieces to move in particular ways, he would have prepared the board for any moves they might want to make.
That they might need to make.
* * * * *
"Mr. Prescott says he'll be over in a few minutes," the receptionist says as she hangs up the phone, and turns back to her computer monitor.
You thank her, and stand off to the side, fighting the urge to pace. Not that there's much room to pace. Salopek occupies a large physical campus, but the front office is small, with barely enough room for the receptionist's desk and a coffee table and a few chairs for visitors. You stare down at the trade magazines that litter the coffee table. The titles mean nothing to you, but you never paid much attention to your dad's work, and rarely visited him here. It might be easier if Salopek didn't itself feel so foreign; but then you remember how spooky it felt to sit in your old dining room with your mom.
She didn't know who you were, but your dad will recognize you immediately, for you're looking and dressed exactly like you did five years ago, before you--
You raise your head at the sound of a door opening and shutting. You take a deep breath and turn around.
Your dad is standing by the door behind the receptionist. He's looking a little grayer, a little more careworn. He still has the hard and slightly distracted look of a very busy man who's been pulled away from his job. It's the look he usually had even at home. There's that same frown, too, that he'd wear when he's just realized--as too often he'd done--that one of his sons has done something very stupid.
Have you done something very stupid by coming here?
His gaze settles on you, but he doesn't react right away. Maybe the frown deepens a little, and the eyes narrow. He has to be wondering at the illusion, struck by the queer fact that the visitor who summoned him from his work looks exactly like his dead son.
* * * * *
It was a blow to the gut when Charles told you, his warning after you'd said you would go see your father tomorrow. "He thinks you're dead, Will," Charles had said, using your old name despite your looking like Siobhan.
"I'm sure he's written me off--"
"No, I'm sure he thinks you're dead. Will Prescott died. I hadn't told you, because it never seemed the right time, or the right circumstances. It seemed not to matter. But Rick kept track of that golem."
You'd stared at him, dumbly.
He looked very grave, very sad. "There were arrests after he ran away. Drugs. Petty crime. He wasn't very good at it. And finally there was an accident in a meth lab. Maybe it was murder. The police didn't look into it too carefully, just enough to establish an ID for the victim and concoct a plausible story that could explain the corpse without having to trouble too much about it."
Your guts had settled into the soles of your feet. After what you'd told Robert, about the golem being a perfect copy-- That could have been you. That would have been you, if you had--
"I'm sure your dad knows. They would have contacted him, since the golem left ID behind."
"But Robert didn't say anything about--"
"Probably your father didn't tell him, or your mother. But he knows. It will be a shock to him.
"Be careful, son," he'd concluded. You have the following choice:  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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