What Hurts the Most, Chapter 2
Title: What Hurts the Most
Chapter: 2
Author: wrldpossibility
Pairing/Characters: Michael/Sara, Lincoln Burrows, OC
Category: Gen
Rating: R for now (language)
Summary: There are many faces to deception. In the aftermath of "Sona", Sara and Lincoln are left to their own devices, and Michael is left behind bars.
A/N: With four days until the premiere for S3 (yippee), this story is going to get AU really quickly, but that's ok, because I'm just going with the flow. There will be some amazing things in S3 that I will want to incorporate into this fic, and in the meantime, I'll write what I think would be fun to see. This story primarily follows Sara, and unless I write otherwise, you can assume what is happening to Michael in Sona is what's happening to him here, in my little corner of the PB world.
Chapter 2
Sara takes Lincoln’s outstretched hand, but her voice is weary when she answers. “We’re never going to see that money, again, Linc.”
He looks one more time at the water lapping lazily against the pillars of the small dock, then nods once. “Yeah, I know. But we may still be able to call in some favors, get some help.”
“Who?” They’re walking again, right along the line of vegetation where the jungle ends and the sand begins, parallel to the ocean. For the first time since landing in Panama, Sara feels the fatigue of this long, horrific day finally register, settling in her body like a lead weight. All at once, she can barely lift her legs, her feet nearly dragging through the course sand.
Lincoln’s cell phone is already to his ear. “I’m calling Jane Phillips.” Sara looks at him quizzically. “She worked with my dad against The Company; she’s the one watching out for LJ right now. Think about it, Sara. That guy--the agent? Do you remember what he said, just before--” He catches the look on her face; she guesses it‘s a cross between denial and terror, and falters. “Um, well, he said ‘You may be done with us, but that doesn’t mean we’re done with you’. The fact that Michael’s in SONA, just like that, is no coincidence. Jane will know more about the place, and what ties it has to The Company.”
“But Lincoln, the exoneration! The president stepping down! The Company is being investigated as we speak. It’s over.”
Lincoln stops walking, and turns to face her. “I get the feeling that this is far from over. The Company is like, I dunno, those damned lizards, the ones that grow back body parts. We cut off its tail, it just grows a new one. We may have wounded that beast, but I don’t think we’ve taken it down.”
He turns his attention back to his phone, and Sara knows someone has answered. By the way he immediately begins to recount the events of their day, she knows it must have been Jane and not LJ. She listens as they walk, hearing him give her every detail he can. There are long pauses while he listens, sometimes nodding, sometimes exclaiming or protesting. By the time their conversation is finished, Lincoln and Sara have walked all the way back to the small harbor outside the city, and they sit in the shade of the pier, alone in the gathering dusk.
“She wants us to meet with some lawyer,” Lincoln begins, staring out at the ocean. “It’s bad, this SONA. About ten years ago, there was a huge riot. The guards were quickly overwhelmed, and the police force was called in. In only hours, it escalated into a literal bloodbath…over 80 officers, including some U.S. military personnel called in from Howard Air Force Base, were slaughtered by inmates. Faced with the possibility of a mass break-out, officials were forced to seal the facility, with all the inmates still loose inside. They never returned. The prison has been left to its own devices ever since.”
Sara stares at him. She knows they’re both thinking of Michael, trapped somewhere in all that chaos. “Then who runs it? Who’s in charge?”
“Jane explained that the Panamanian government still holds jurisdiction. She thinks The Company is calling in favors, or offering the powers that be--which in this case is the First Vice President of Panama--something they want pretty badly in exchange for some control over Michael’s incarceration.” He pauses, then remembers something. “And Michael’s not the only one. Mahone, too.”
“Alex Mahone?!“
“Uh, Michael had planted cocaine in The Christina Rose, and Mahone was taken in at the canal crossing. He was tossed in SONA, too.” Lincoln hesitates, and even in the ever-decreasing light cast from a now-sinking sun, Sara sees he has something he’s holding back. “According to Jane’s sources, T-Bag is there as well. Bellick, too.”
Sara feels like her head will explode. She can’t even work out whether this is good news or bad. Bad, most likely bad. She feels half a step behind; so much happened before she got here, and now she‘s scrambling to catch up. “What does this all mean?” she asks, even while knowing Lincoln doesn’t have an answer for her.
“As far as I can see, it means we’ve gotta get with this lawyer, and get someone on our side, ASAP.”
* * * * *
Two hours later, they’ve eaten something quick and tasteless from a cheap vendor and checked into a nondescript motel in a working-class section of Panama City. Lincoln sinks heavily onto one of the beds, but Sara’s mind is buzzing, her body now humming with a new energy. Suddenly she cannot stand the thought of staying within these four walls, staring at nothing, doing nothing. She knows all too well what images and thoughts await her when she stops and closes her eyes, and is in no rush to endure that sort of torture. Only hours ago, she had been sure she‘d be spending this night with Michael…their first night ever without the need to run, or plan, or hide. Their first night without anything standing between them, literally or figuratively--the past squarely behind them, and nothing ahead of them but time. Lots of time. She pushes the thought back. “I’m going out for a walk,” she announces.
Lincoln doesn’t move. “No, you’re not.”
It’s dark out, and Sara doesn’t even know where they are, and she knows why he’s protesting, but she doesn’t care. She has got to get out of here, plain and simple. “I’m just going around the block.” She heads for the door, grabbing a key from the nightstand, and hears his sigh, then the bedsprings creaking as he rises.
“Hold up. I’m coming.”
They walk in silence, the air still warm, but no longer beating down on their backs with an unrelenting intensity, and it’s pleasant, or would be, in different circumstances. The streets are quiet, and they walk two blocks, and then three.
After four, Lincoln speaks. “I know you’re hurting, right now.”
Sara doesn’t answer right away, her gaze resolutely downward, watching her shoes as she walks. She can’t seem to sort her thoughts into a coherent response. She doesn’t know what he wants to hear. After a minute, she chances a glance at him. “I know I don’t know him the way you do.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t love him.”
Sara doesn’t stop, but she kind of stumbles as though her very stride is disrupted by his remark. It’s hard to make out his facial expression in the dark, but if she’s reading him correctly, he seems a bit surprised by his words as well. She reaches out and brushes her fingers across his arm. “Thank you.” She says the words emphatically, and she hopes he knows she means them.
He smiles then, a sad, slow smile. “Yeah, well.”
They walk on. After another minute, he breaks the silence again. “Back in Chicago, with the freighter, that was really something, taking the fall like that. I told Michael I didn’t know what we’d ever done, to deserve loyalty like yours.”
Sara felt her breath catch in her throat. “What did he say?”
“He said we didn’t.”
Sara can‘t answer for a long moment. “I really didn’t want to miss that ship,” she finally admits, embarrassed to hear her voice crack on the last word.
Lincoln doesn’t comment on her disclosure or the state of her emotions. Instead, his tone turns musing. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“If you had make it onboard, would it have been enough?” She looks at him hesitantly, and he continues more urgently. “I just mean, a life on the run. Would that have been ok with you?”
Sara thinks for a moment. They cross the street, and begin to head back. “Once upon a time, I would have described myself as a pretty high-maintenance woman, when it comes to relationships,” she finally decides. “Now? I’ve been on the run, shot at, tortured, forced to jump bail, booked twice …” Her voice darkens. “Not to mention the fact that I’ve lost my sobriety, my job, and much more importantly, my father. So, yeah, now, I think a dirty, ugly freighter would have made me quite content.”
Lincoln looks at her for a moment, his expression indecipherable, then he reaches over, stopping her. “I meant it, what I said earlier,” he tells her softly. We don’t deserve you. We’re gonna get him back, Sara, and then Michael and I will spend the rest of our lives being grateful to you.”
“Well that seems like a waste of some pretty precious time,” she answers gently, but before they can begin to walk again, she glances over at the building beside them, and she sees that they’re directly in front of a modest cathedral. She has to crane her neck upwards to see the lettering on the side of the stucco façade. Nuestra Dama de Conmiseracion, Our Lady of Mercy. The wide wooden doors are propped open, and it’s lit inside, shadows flickering along the back wall from the rows of prayer candles sitting in their squat votive jars. The atmosphere looks immensely inviting to Sara, and she glances at Lincoln, her eyebrows lifted in question. “Do you mind?” she asks.
His eyes narrow slightly at the idea, but he nods, and they enter the sanctuary. Inside, the soft light is soothing, but the room is cavernous, and Sara cannot stop herself from looking up, just as she knows the architect intended, to the cathedral ceiling that flows beautifully in crests and curves, perfect arcs that appear graceful and powerful at the same time. She doesn’t know the term for this style of design, but with a sharp pang, she knows that Michael would. Michael does. She’s suddenly very glad to be here.
Lincoln is busy scanning the interior, but with the exception of an older woman kneeling at the alter, they’re alone. He seems satisfied, and moves to sit awkwardly in a nearby wooden pew. Sara lights a candle, then slides in next to him, staring ahead at nothing in particular. After a moment, she looks over to see Lincoln studying the dramatic image etched into the stained glass of the tall window closest to them. It’s lit from above, by a lamp or some sort of spotlight, and Lincoln appears to be mesmerized.
“That’s hideous,” he finally says, and Sara smiles. The glass depicts a Biblical scene, as most do, and Sara recognizes this one immediately.
“Mark Chapter Six,” she says somewhat absently. “Kind Herod is presenting the head of John the Baptist on a platter.”
Lincoln turns toward her, his brow wrinkled in distaste. “You know your Bible,” he acknowledges.
“Well, not too well. This artwork is based on a Caravaggio painting I had to study once.” She leans back in the pew for a better view, watching the lamplight shine through the glass. “According to the story in Mark, a young maiden, Salome, had danced so well for King Herod that he swore he would grant her any request. Wanting revenge on John the Baptist, she asked for his head. It was presented to her less than an hour later, in the middle of a banquet. It’s at the National Gallery in London now.” Lincoln looks at her, and she finds herself laughing lightly. “The painting, not the head.”
Lincoln lets out a breath that seems a cross between a chuckle and a grunt, then shakes his head. “I guess it’s not much more gruesome than Abruzzi slicing off Michael’s toes,” he points out.
This time Sara shakes her head, sharply. She doesn‘t need to be reminded of that, not now. She starts to rise, but the stained glass image catches her eye one last time, and it, in conjunction with the reference Lincoln has just made to Abruzzi, triggers a memory in her brain. “Be the change you want to see in the world.”
Lincoln has half-stood, and now halts, turning to her. “What? What did you say?”
But Sara doesn’t hear him. She’s still staring at the glass, her eyes flicking back and forth between the king and the girl and the head. “Lincoln,” she finally whispers, “who did you say was in charge of SONA? I mean, really calling the shots?”
He eyes her questioningly, but she still doesn’t turn. “Um, the First Vice President, a guy named Marcos Salvador. Jane said Panama has a president, then two vice presidents, but the president is nothing more than a puppet, old and washed out. It’s the First Vice President who runs the show, so to speak.” He’s still looking at her carefully. “Why?”
Now, finally, she shifts in the pew and looks directly at him. Her face is slightly flushed. “Lincoln. When Michael got into Fox River, he didn’t just come in armed with blueprints. He came with connections and knowledge, right? He used people, people who could help him. He made himself invaluable.”
“You mean like…”
“Like Abruzzi, and Westmoreland, and,” --she takes a breath-- “me. He researched me, Lincoln. He knew what would catch my attention, where my weak spots were, what I would respond best to. With Abruzzi, it wasn’t so very different. He made sure he had possession of the one thing Abruzzi couldn’t resist, what he needed most.”
The obvious next questions remain in the air, unspoken, and Sara poses them to herself, silently: What couldn‘t you resist? What did you need the most? But Lincoln has moved forward, following her logic.
“Ok,” he says slowly, “that may be true, but he was just doing what he had to do.”
“Exactly. Just like Salome.” She gestures intently back at the stained glass window. “Her allegiance wasn’t with Kind Herod,” she explains. “She was only there that night because of who he was, what she knew he could do for her. She had an agenda, just like Michael did.” She pauses, and sees Lincoln’s eyes widen as he finally catches up. “Just like we do,” she finishes.
He swallows hard. “Sara,” he begins, in a tone that’s usually reserved for talking someone down from a ledge, “our plan is to meet with Jane’s lawyer.” Thinking of something, his face brightens a bit. “Or, maybe we can call Cooper Green back, see what he knows about how things are run down here, if there’s--”
“Cooper Green can’t help us, Lincoln! American lawyers can’t help us. Marcos Salvador can help us. He can help Michael.”
Now, Lincoln finally stands, lifting his hands up swiftly in frustration. “Marcos Salvador doesn’t want to help Michael!”
Sara has risen simultaneously. She tips her chin upward so that she’s eyelevel with Lincoln. “I don’t have to make him want to help Michael,” she explained. “I only have to make him want to help me.”
* * * * *
By 4 am, they still haven’t slept. There are scrawled notes all over the bed, and the laptop Lincoln had “found” at the bus terminal is whirring quietly, its screen opened to statistics on Central American military forces. They had called Jane twice in the last hour alone.
“I don’t like it,” Lincoln says for the umpteenth time. “He’ll know who you are, and he’ll never listen to you.”
“Lincoln, we‘ve been over this. This guy is interested in one thing--well, maybe two--restoring military power to Panama, and playboying it abroad. He spends as little time possible actually managing everyday Panamanian affairs, and even less listening to police reports listing the goings-on in SONA. He won’t recognize me. And you realize, right, that I’m not talking about cornering him as he leaves his mansion in the morning, asking him for five minutes of his time, then pleading my case? I’m talking about a serious investment in him. This can work if I throw myself into Salvador’s life the way Michael threw himself into Fox River.”
“Shit, Sara! I do realize! Which is why I keep saying it’s a horrible idea!”
Sara runs her hands over her stinging eyes. She’s exhausted. “No, it’s not. It’s Michael’s idea. This is his formula! I’m just changing the players.”
“It’s too risky. Anyway, Michael didn’t just jump into Fox River. He spent over a year going through legal channels, doing things above board! What have we tried, so far?”
“Well he had a year to work legally, didn’t he? Does he now, Lincoln? Do you really think Michael has a year in that place? A month? God, a week?” She’s yelling at him, but even more so at herself, the words sharp and painful in her own head. She wills back a sob. “We have no time, Linc.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and Sara uses the opportunity to continue talking him down. She paces the small room. “Let’s review what we know. Panama hasn’t had a military force since the turn of the last century; they are protected only by the Police Nationale. Salvador’s mission for this term in office is to restore military power, to build an army based on the model of other major powers in Central and South America, who have, not inconsequently, used military might to ensure dictatorships. Think of Argentina, under Peron. Considering the fact that Salvador is highly ambitious, and the current president has over six years left on his term, he’s most likely working toward that end.”
She sees Lincoln shifting forward in his position on the edge of the bed, and she rushes on, one hand raised to prevent him from interrupting. “And who’s helping him, Linc? Who is bankrolling his military recruitment efforts? My guess is the same people who are asking him to look the other way as they fill SONA with whomever they want. The Company.”
“If that’s true, he’s untouchable. We know how influential The Company is. How do we compete?”
“Lincoln. We don’t. You know the cliché…‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’”
“Sara…”
He sounds beyond leery, and she presses on. “I can get his attention if I pose as a member of The Company.”
Lincoln shakes his head now, his mouth in a tight line. “I can think of other ways to turn a man’s head, ways that don‘t involve such dangerous deception.”
“No.” She laughs self-depreciatively. “That’s not realistic. This guy can have any woman he wants. At every function he attends, there are two dozen pretty skirts fawning over him. He can take home as many as he wants--from what we‘ve read, does take home as many as he wants--and therefore, I imagine, undervalues them. I need to be of value.”
“But if you tell him you’re with The Company, and then can’t deliver…”
She frowns, then stares down at the ugly pattern of the bedspread, following the bright swirls and geometric shapes with her eyes, deep in concentration. “We need to dig deeper. Find out who exactly Salvador is working with, within The Company. And I need something more…something else that will set me apart in his eyes, spark his interest. We need to learn more about Marcos Salvador the person, not the politician.”
* * * * *
By 8 am, Sara can barely keep her eyes open. How long has she been awake? 24 hours? 48? The laptop is still open on the table, and she has to squint to keep the type from swimming in front of her, the words blurring every time she has to stifle a yawn. The screen is displaying a news article from the archives of The Critica, Panama City’s daily news source, dated July 10, 1994. The photo accompanying it depicts a modestly-dressed Panamanian woman shaking hands with the head of a hospital, while a young man in a military cadet uniform looks proudly on.
“So Salvador’s mother worked as a missionary to the poor, trying to improve health care conditions right up to the time of her death.” Sara points to the man in the photo. “And here’s Marcos…” she cross-references the article with a biography of his early years she’s printed out… “right before he graduates from the academy in Chile.”
“And the mother was basically martyred, right? The news article after this one--” Lincoln’s pointing back at the computer screen-- “says she took a stray bullet while handing out medical supplies in the barrio, right? But the government at the time disapproved of her work. Disapproved of her, since she was middle-class. Her death was ruled an accident, but was suspicious.”
Sara nods. “It’s still very much a society ruled by the class system,” she muses, still studying Marcos’ face in the photo. “But despite his birth, Salvador has risen. The question is, has he disowned his mother in his scramble to the top, or does he still revere her, and the work she tried to start?”
“What’s this from?” Lincoln is looking at the pull-out quote from the health care article. “Do not wait for leaders; do it alone, person to person. What’s that a reference to? Where’s that from?”
Sara leans over him, copying and pasting it, then entering it into Google. “Mother Teresa,” she says after the page has loaded. She types in a few cross-references. “Salvador’s mother quoted her several times. She must have been an idol of hers.”
She watches as Lincoln shrugs. “Not of much use, I guess.”
Sara thinks to herself that she would beg to differ. She allows her mind to flash back on the first time she had ever seen Michael, his eyes an almost cobalt blue as they bore into hers in the peaceful stillness of the infirmary exam room. Be the change you want to see in the world. She thinks of the warmth the words had sent flowing through her veins, the tug of a smile it had brought to her mouth. It had thoroughly disarmed her, in one easy flush of deliberate intimacy. The memory causes a hitch in her throat…she doesn’t want to think of Michael planning the way she’s planning now, calculated and indifferent. She doesn’t want to think of him dissecting her, not like that.
She focuses her attention back on Lincoln, and she realizes this memory is not one she wants to share. There’s something comforting about knowing there are moments that are between herself and Michael, and no one else. “You might be surprised,” she says mildly, and glances at the Mother Teresa quotation one more time before clearing the screen.
* * * * *
Three days later, when Sara finally meets Marcos Salvador, Lincoln is not there. He’s made contact with the American lawyer Jane sent, and has spent the last day and a half trying to convince Sara to talk to him instead, to work through safer channels. But meeting this man, this man who is capable of springing Michael out of SONA on little more than a whim, is not something she can pass up.
She’s standing in the doorway of a large, richly appointed banquet room, and she’s incredibly nervous. She tells herself she’s been to a thousand stuffy political dinners in her day, that she’s perfectly capable of eating catered appetizers and kissing up to important men, but she cannot fool herself. These men and women are all speaking Spanish, are all discussing theories and policies which she knows little to nothing about, and she knows absolutely no one here. Before she even realizes what she’s done, she’s pivoted in place, and is speed-walking toward the ladies lounge.
In the restroom, she takes three huge breaths, bracing her palms against the cool marble surface of vanity. She studies herself critically in the huge mirror. She looks fine, she tells herself. In fact, her appearance surprises her, her near-normal reflection almost a betrayal to the depth of feelings churning just under the surface of her skin. She doesn’t look heartbroken, or desperate, or panicked, despite the fact that she’s felt nothing but those emotions for days. Her hair has been cut professionally, finally, and is falling in loose curls to just above her shoulders. It’s still dark, but the color seems to make her eyes a deeper, richer brown, even if her face looks a little paler than usual. She’s found a dress, a gorgeous ginger-brown evening dress with a low, but not-too-low neckline and a flattering cut that falls in perfect lines down her body, and it’s a shame, because she would have adored this dress had she found it while shopping in Chicago, to be worn for any other function, for any other purpose. The thought crosses her mind, unbidden, that she’d give anything for Michael to see her in it, then realizes with a start that she’s doing exactly that. Anything, or everything, just may be required of her.
Back in the long hallway, she walks briskly back toward the banquet hall, forcing herself to move quickly or risk losing her nerve altogether. She’s studying her shoes as she goes--it’s been a while since she’s worn heels, and appearing as though it hasn’t been is taking a bit more of her concentration than she’d like--when she’s startled by a sudden, violent bump, a broad chest crashing heavily into her shoulder, knocking her off-balance. She whips her head up in time to see an attractive, well-dressed man reach out and grasp her elbow, keeping her upright, while his drink sloshes over the rim of his cut-crystal glass, soaking his hand and cuff. She blinks, but when her eyes re-open, the same face is still in front of her. Marcos Salvador’s. Shit. How could she have such bad luck? She steadies herself, an apology rushing out of her mouth, but his hand remains, and he smiles down at her.
“I am so sorry,” she says again, just for something to do, just to keep the panic at bay, and only afterward does she realize that she’s automatically slipped into English.
“An American!” he exclaims, switching seamlessly to English as well. “What a refreshing change. I’ve evidently forgotten how beautiful American women are.” Sara resists the urge to roll her eyes, but he leans closer to her, his eyes twinkling. “And how graceful.”
He laughs good-naturedly, and Sara finds herself caught even more off-guard. She had expected a buttoned-up, staid military man, but Salvador in the flesh is charmingly funny. Her mind is whirling haphazardly…this isn’t the meeting she had been planning in her head, and improvising is proving to be much harder than it looks. To her dismay, she finds herself acting entirely too much like her actual self.
She touches his shoulder in a friendly, casually flirtatious admission of guilt before she can stop herself. “Again, I apologize.” She looks down at his now half-empty cocktail glass. “Can I buy you another drink?”
He laughs lightly again. “Seeing as this little party is being thrown in my honor, I don’t need anyone to pay for my booze tonight.” He holds out his hand. “Vice President Marcos Salvador.”
Sara manages an expression of impressive surprise. Maybe, she thinks, she’s not as terrible at this as she had feared. “Sara Crane,” she returns, shaking his hand. “And now I feel even worse.” She waits just a beat, then drops her eyes swiftly in embarrassment.
Salvador regains his grip on her elbow. Now, he begins walking again, guiding her back into the main room. “Then why don’t I get you a drink,” he suggests. “We’ll try to get you a little lighter on your feet, so to speak. Then, perhaps, I can even ask you to dance without fearing for my life?”
Sara manages a low laugh. “That, Senior Salvador, remains to be seen,” she quips, her mouth turned upward in a soft smile.
Chapter: 2
Author: wrldpossibility
Pairing/Characters: Michael/Sara, Lincoln Burrows, OC
Category: Gen
Rating: R for now (language)
Summary: There are many faces to deception. In the aftermath of "Sona", Sara and Lincoln are left to their own devices, and Michael is left behind bars.
A/N: With four days until the premiere for S3 (yippee), this story is going to get AU really quickly, but that's ok, because I'm just going with the flow. There will be some amazing things in S3 that I will want to incorporate into this fic, and in the meantime, I'll write what I think would be fun to see. This story primarily follows Sara, and unless I write otherwise, you can assume what is happening to Michael in Sona is what's happening to him here, in my little corner of the PB world.
Chapter 2
Sara takes Lincoln’s outstretched hand, but her voice is weary when she answers. “We’re never going to see that money, again, Linc.”
He looks one more time at the water lapping lazily against the pillars of the small dock, then nods once. “Yeah, I know. But we may still be able to call in some favors, get some help.”
“Who?” They’re walking again, right along the line of vegetation where the jungle ends and the sand begins, parallel to the ocean. For the first time since landing in Panama, Sara feels the fatigue of this long, horrific day finally register, settling in her body like a lead weight. All at once, she can barely lift her legs, her feet nearly dragging through the course sand.
Lincoln’s cell phone is already to his ear. “I’m calling Jane Phillips.” Sara looks at him quizzically. “She worked with my dad against The Company; she’s the one watching out for LJ right now. Think about it, Sara. That guy--the agent? Do you remember what he said, just before--” He catches the look on her face; she guesses it‘s a cross between denial and terror, and falters. “Um, well, he said ‘You may be done with us, but that doesn’t mean we’re done with you’. The fact that Michael’s in SONA, just like that, is no coincidence. Jane will know more about the place, and what ties it has to The Company.”
“But Lincoln, the exoneration! The president stepping down! The Company is being investigated as we speak. It’s over.”
Lincoln stops walking, and turns to face her. “I get the feeling that this is far from over. The Company is like, I dunno, those damned lizards, the ones that grow back body parts. We cut off its tail, it just grows a new one. We may have wounded that beast, but I don’t think we’ve taken it down.”
He turns his attention back to his phone, and Sara knows someone has answered. By the way he immediately begins to recount the events of their day, she knows it must have been Jane and not LJ. She listens as they walk, hearing him give her every detail he can. There are long pauses while he listens, sometimes nodding, sometimes exclaiming or protesting. By the time their conversation is finished, Lincoln and Sara have walked all the way back to the small harbor outside the city, and they sit in the shade of the pier, alone in the gathering dusk.
“She wants us to meet with some lawyer,” Lincoln begins, staring out at the ocean. “It’s bad, this SONA. About ten years ago, there was a huge riot. The guards were quickly overwhelmed, and the police force was called in. In only hours, it escalated into a literal bloodbath…over 80 officers, including some U.S. military personnel called in from Howard Air Force Base, were slaughtered by inmates. Faced with the possibility of a mass break-out, officials were forced to seal the facility, with all the inmates still loose inside. They never returned. The prison has been left to its own devices ever since.”
Sara stares at him. She knows they’re both thinking of Michael, trapped somewhere in all that chaos. “Then who runs it? Who’s in charge?”
“Jane explained that the Panamanian government still holds jurisdiction. She thinks The Company is calling in favors, or offering the powers that be--which in this case is the First Vice President of Panama--something they want pretty badly in exchange for some control over Michael’s incarceration.” He pauses, then remembers something. “And Michael’s not the only one. Mahone, too.”
“Alex Mahone?!“
“Uh, Michael had planted cocaine in The Christina Rose, and Mahone was taken in at the canal crossing. He was tossed in SONA, too.” Lincoln hesitates, and even in the ever-decreasing light cast from a now-sinking sun, Sara sees he has something he’s holding back. “According to Jane’s sources, T-Bag is there as well. Bellick, too.”
Sara feels like her head will explode. She can’t even work out whether this is good news or bad. Bad, most likely bad. She feels half a step behind; so much happened before she got here, and now she‘s scrambling to catch up. “What does this all mean?” she asks, even while knowing Lincoln doesn’t have an answer for her.
“As far as I can see, it means we’ve gotta get with this lawyer, and get someone on our side, ASAP.”
* * * * *
Two hours later, they’ve eaten something quick and tasteless from a cheap vendor and checked into a nondescript motel in a working-class section of Panama City. Lincoln sinks heavily onto one of the beds, but Sara’s mind is buzzing, her body now humming with a new energy. Suddenly she cannot stand the thought of staying within these four walls, staring at nothing, doing nothing. She knows all too well what images and thoughts await her when she stops and closes her eyes, and is in no rush to endure that sort of torture. Only hours ago, she had been sure she‘d be spending this night with Michael…their first night ever without the need to run, or plan, or hide. Their first night without anything standing between them, literally or figuratively--the past squarely behind them, and nothing ahead of them but time. Lots of time. She pushes the thought back. “I’m going out for a walk,” she announces.
Lincoln doesn’t move. “No, you’re not.”
It’s dark out, and Sara doesn’t even know where they are, and she knows why he’s protesting, but she doesn’t care. She has got to get out of here, plain and simple. “I’m just going around the block.” She heads for the door, grabbing a key from the nightstand, and hears his sigh, then the bedsprings creaking as he rises.
“Hold up. I’m coming.”
They walk in silence, the air still warm, but no longer beating down on their backs with an unrelenting intensity, and it’s pleasant, or would be, in different circumstances. The streets are quiet, and they walk two blocks, and then three.
After four, Lincoln speaks. “I know you’re hurting, right now.”
Sara doesn’t answer right away, her gaze resolutely downward, watching her shoes as she walks. She can’t seem to sort her thoughts into a coherent response. She doesn’t know what he wants to hear. After a minute, she chances a glance at him. “I know I don’t know him the way you do.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t love him.”
Sara doesn’t stop, but she kind of stumbles as though her very stride is disrupted by his remark. It’s hard to make out his facial expression in the dark, but if she’s reading him correctly, he seems a bit surprised by his words as well. She reaches out and brushes her fingers across his arm. “Thank you.” She says the words emphatically, and she hopes he knows she means them.
He smiles then, a sad, slow smile. “Yeah, well.”
They walk on. After another minute, he breaks the silence again. “Back in Chicago, with the freighter, that was really something, taking the fall like that. I told Michael I didn’t know what we’d ever done, to deserve loyalty like yours.”
Sara felt her breath catch in her throat. “What did he say?”
“He said we didn’t.”
Sara can‘t answer for a long moment. “I really didn’t want to miss that ship,” she finally admits, embarrassed to hear her voice crack on the last word.
Lincoln doesn’t comment on her disclosure or the state of her emotions. Instead, his tone turns musing. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“If you had make it onboard, would it have been enough?” She looks at him hesitantly, and he continues more urgently. “I just mean, a life on the run. Would that have been ok with you?”
Sara thinks for a moment. They cross the street, and begin to head back. “Once upon a time, I would have described myself as a pretty high-maintenance woman, when it comes to relationships,” she finally decides. “Now? I’ve been on the run, shot at, tortured, forced to jump bail, booked twice …” Her voice darkens. “Not to mention the fact that I’ve lost my sobriety, my job, and much more importantly, my father. So, yeah, now, I think a dirty, ugly freighter would have made me quite content.”
Lincoln looks at her for a moment, his expression indecipherable, then he reaches over, stopping her. “I meant it, what I said earlier,” he tells her softly. We don’t deserve you. We’re gonna get him back, Sara, and then Michael and I will spend the rest of our lives being grateful to you.”
“Well that seems like a waste of some pretty precious time,” she answers gently, but before they can begin to walk again, she glances over at the building beside them, and she sees that they’re directly in front of a modest cathedral. She has to crane her neck upwards to see the lettering on the side of the stucco façade. Nuestra Dama de Conmiseracion, Our Lady of Mercy. The wide wooden doors are propped open, and it’s lit inside, shadows flickering along the back wall from the rows of prayer candles sitting in their squat votive jars. The atmosphere looks immensely inviting to Sara, and she glances at Lincoln, her eyebrows lifted in question. “Do you mind?” she asks.
His eyes narrow slightly at the idea, but he nods, and they enter the sanctuary. Inside, the soft light is soothing, but the room is cavernous, and Sara cannot stop herself from looking up, just as she knows the architect intended, to the cathedral ceiling that flows beautifully in crests and curves, perfect arcs that appear graceful and powerful at the same time. She doesn’t know the term for this style of design, but with a sharp pang, she knows that Michael would. Michael does. She’s suddenly very glad to be here.
Lincoln is busy scanning the interior, but with the exception of an older woman kneeling at the alter, they’re alone. He seems satisfied, and moves to sit awkwardly in a nearby wooden pew. Sara lights a candle, then slides in next to him, staring ahead at nothing in particular. After a moment, she looks over to see Lincoln studying the dramatic image etched into the stained glass of the tall window closest to them. It’s lit from above, by a lamp or some sort of spotlight, and Lincoln appears to be mesmerized.
“That’s hideous,” he finally says, and Sara smiles. The glass depicts a Biblical scene, as most do, and Sara recognizes this one immediately.
“Mark Chapter Six,” she says somewhat absently. “Kind Herod is presenting the head of John the Baptist on a platter.”
Lincoln turns toward her, his brow wrinkled in distaste. “You know your Bible,” he acknowledges.
“Well, not too well. This artwork is based on a Caravaggio painting I had to study once.” She leans back in the pew for a better view, watching the lamplight shine through the glass. “According to the story in Mark, a young maiden, Salome, had danced so well for King Herod that he swore he would grant her any request. Wanting revenge on John the Baptist, she asked for his head. It was presented to her less than an hour later, in the middle of a banquet. It’s at the National Gallery in London now.” Lincoln looks at her, and she finds herself laughing lightly. “The painting, not the head.”
Lincoln lets out a breath that seems a cross between a chuckle and a grunt, then shakes his head. “I guess it’s not much more gruesome than Abruzzi slicing off Michael’s toes,” he points out.
This time Sara shakes her head, sharply. She doesn‘t need to be reminded of that, not now. She starts to rise, but the stained glass image catches her eye one last time, and it, in conjunction with the reference Lincoln has just made to Abruzzi, triggers a memory in her brain. “Be the change you want to see in the world.”
Lincoln has half-stood, and now halts, turning to her. “What? What did you say?”
But Sara doesn’t hear him. She’s still staring at the glass, her eyes flicking back and forth between the king and the girl and the head. “Lincoln,” she finally whispers, “who did you say was in charge of SONA? I mean, really calling the shots?”
He eyes her questioningly, but she still doesn’t turn. “Um, the First Vice President, a guy named Marcos Salvador. Jane said Panama has a president, then two vice presidents, but the president is nothing more than a puppet, old and washed out. It’s the First Vice President who runs the show, so to speak.” He’s still looking at her carefully. “Why?”
Now, finally, she shifts in the pew and looks directly at him. Her face is slightly flushed. “Lincoln. When Michael got into Fox River, he didn’t just come in armed with blueprints. He came with connections and knowledge, right? He used people, people who could help him. He made himself invaluable.”
“You mean like…”
“Like Abruzzi, and Westmoreland, and,” --she takes a breath-- “me. He researched me, Lincoln. He knew what would catch my attention, where my weak spots were, what I would respond best to. With Abruzzi, it wasn’t so very different. He made sure he had possession of the one thing Abruzzi couldn’t resist, what he needed most.”
The obvious next questions remain in the air, unspoken, and Sara poses them to herself, silently: What couldn‘t you resist? What did you need the most? But Lincoln has moved forward, following her logic.
“Ok,” he says slowly, “that may be true, but he was just doing what he had to do.”
“Exactly. Just like Salome.” She gestures intently back at the stained glass window. “Her allegiance wasn’t with Kind Herod,” she explains. “She was only there that night because of who he was, what she knew he could do for her. She had an agenda, just like Michael did.” She pauses, and sees Lincoln’s eyes widen as he finally catches up. “Just like we do,” she finishes.
He swallows hard. “Sara,” he begins, in a tone that’s usually reserved for talking someone down from a ledge, “our plan is to meet with Jane’s lawyer.” Thinking of something, his face brightens a bit. “Or, maybe we can call Cooper Green back, see what he knows about how things are run down here, if there’s--”
“Cooper Green can’t help us, Lincoln! American lawyers can’t help us. Marcos Salvador can help us. He can help Michael.”
Now, Lincoln finally stands, lifting his hands up swiftly in frustration. “Marcos Salvador doesn’t want to help Michael!”
Sara has risen simultaneously. She tips her chin upward so that she’s eyelevel with Lincoln. “I don’t have to make him want to help Michael,” she explained. “I only have to make him want to help me.”
* * * * *
By 4 am, they still haven’t slept. There are scrawled notes all over the bed, and the laptop Lincoln had “found” at the bus terminal is whirring quietly, its screen opened to statistics on Central American military forces. They had called Jane twice in the last hour alone.
“I don’t like it,” Lincoln says for the umpteenth time. “He’ll know who you are, and he’ll never listen to you.”
“Lincoln, we‘ve been over this. This guy is interested in one thing--well, maybe two--restoring military power to Panama, and playboying it abroad. He spends as little time possible actually managing everyday Panamanian affairs, and even less listening to police reports listing the goings-on in SONA. He won’t recognize me. And you realize, right, that I’m not talking about cornering him as he leaves his mansion in the morning, asking him for five minutes of his time, then pleading my case? I’m talking about a serious investment in him. This can work if I throw myself into Salvador’s life the way Michael threw himself into Fox River.”
“Shit, Sara! I do realize! Which is why I keep saying it’s a horrible idea!”
Sara runs her hands over her stinging eyes. She’s exhausted. “No, it’s not. It’s Michael’s idea. This is his formula! I’m just changing the players.”
“It’s too risky. Anyway, Michael didn’t just jump into Fox River. He spent over a year going through legal channels, doing things above board! What have we tried, so far?”
“Well he had a year to work legally, didn’t he? Does he now, Lincoln? Do you really think Michael has a year in that place? A month? God, a week?” She’s yelling at him, but even more so at herself, the words sharp and painful in her own head. She wills back a sob. “We have no time, Linc.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and Sara uses the opportunity to continue talking him down. She paces the small room. “Let’s review what we know. Panama hasn’t had a military force since the turn of the last century; they are protected only by the Police Nationale. Salvador’s mission for this term in office is to restore military power, to build an army based on the model of other major powers in Central and South America, who have, not inconsequently, used military might to ensure dictatorships. Think of Argentina, under Peron. Considering the fact that Salvador is highly ambitious, and the current president has over six years left on his term, he’s most likely working toward that end.”
She sees Lincoln shifting forward in his position on the edge of the bed, and she rushes on, one hand raised to prevent him from interrupting. “And who’s helping him, Linc? Who is bankrolling his military recruitment efforts? My guess is the same people who are asking him to look the other way as they fill SONA with whomever they want. The Company.”
“If that’s true, he’s untouchable. We know how influential The Company is. How do we compete?”
“Lincoln. We don’t. You know the cliché…‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’”
“Sara…”
He sounds beyond leery, and she presses on. “I can get his attention if I pose as a member of The Company.”
Lincoln shakes his head now, his mouth in a tight line. “I can think of other ways to turn a man’s head, ways that don‘t involve such dangerous deception.”
“No.” She laughs self-depreciatively. “That’s not realistic. This guy can have any woman he wants. At every function he attends, there are two dozen pretty skirts fawning over him. He can take home as many as he wants--from what we‘ve read, does take home as many as he wants--and therefore, I imagine, undervalues them. I need to be of value.”
“But if you tell him you’re with The Company, and then can’t deliver…”
She frowns, then stares down at the ugly pattern of the bedspread, following the bright swirls and geometric shapes with her eyes, deep in concentration. “We need to dig deeper. Find out who exactly Salvador is working with, within The Company. And I need something more…something else that will set me apart in his eyes, spark his interest. We need to learn more about Marcos Salvador the person, not the politician.”
* * * * *
By 8 am, Sara can barely keep her eyes open. How long has she been awake? 24 hours? 48? The laptop is still open on the table, and she has to squint to keep the type from swimming in front of her, the words blurring every time she has to stifle a yawn. The screen is displaying a news article from the archives of The Critica, Panama City’s daily news source, dated July 10, 1994. The photo accompanying it depicts a modestly-dressed Panamanian woman shaking hands with the head of a hospital, while a young man in a military cadet uniform looks proudly on.
“So Salvador’s mother worked as a missionary to the poor, trying to improve health care conditions right up to the time of her death.” Sara points to the man in the photo. “And here’s Marcos…” she cross-references the article with a biography of his early years she’s printed out… “right before he graduates from the academy in Chile.”
“And the mother was basically martyred, right? The news article after this one--” Lincoln’s pointing back at the computer screen-- “says she took a stray bullet while handing out medical supplies in the barrio, right? But the government at the time disapproved of her work. Disapproved of her, since she was middle-class. Her death was ruled an accident, but was suspicious.”
Sara nods. “It’s still very much a society ruled by the class system,” she muses, still studying Marcos’ face in the photo. “But despite his birth, Salvador has risen. The question is, has he disowned his mother in his scramble to the top, or does he still revere her, and the work she tried to start?”
“What’s this from?” Lincoln is looking at the pull-out quote from the health care article. “Do not wait for leaders; do it alone, person to person. What’s that a reference to? Where’s that from?”
Sara leans over him, copying and pasting it, then entering it into Google. “Mother Teresa,” she says after the page has loaded. She types in a few cross-references. “Salvador’s mother quoted her several times. She must have been an idol of hers.”
She watches as Lincoln shrugs. “Not of much use, I guess.”
Sara thinks to herself that she would beg to differ. She allows her mind to flash back on the first time she had ever seen Michael, his eyes an almost cobalt blue as they bore into hers in the peaceful stillness of the infirmary exam room. Be the change you want to see in the world. She thinks of the warmth the words had sent flowing through her veins, the tug of a smile it had brought to her mouth. It had thoroughly disarmed her, in one easy flush of deliberate intimacy. The memory causes a hitch in her throat…she doesn’t want to think of Michael planning the way she’s planning now, calculated and indifferent. She doesn’t want to think of him dissecting her, not like that.
She focuses her attention back on Lincoln, and she realizes this memory is not one she wants to share. There’s something comforting about knowing there are moments that are between herself and Michael, and no one else. “You might be surprised,” she says mildly, and glances at the Mother Teresa quotation one more time before clearing the screen.
* * * * *
Three days later, when Sara finally meets Marcos Salvador, Lincoln is not there. He’s made contact with the American lawyer Jane sent, and has spent the last day and a half trying to convince Sara to talk to him instead, to work through safer channels. But meeting this man, this man who is capable of springing Michael out of SONA on little more than a whim, is not something she can pass up.
She’s standing in the doorway of a large, richly appointed banquet room, and she’s incredibly nervous. She tells herself she’s been to a thousand stuffy political dinners in her day, that she’s perfectly capable of eating catered appetizers and kissing up to important men, but she cannot fool herself. These men and women are all speaking Spanish, are all discussing theories and policies which she knows little to nothing about, and she knows absolutely no one here. Before she even realizes what she’s done, she’s pivoted in place, and is speed-walking toward the ladies lounge.
In the restroom, she takes three huge breaths, bracing her palms against the cool marble surface of vanity. She studies herself critically in the huge mirror. She looks fine, she tells herself. In fact, her appearance surprises her, her near-normal reflection almost a betrayal to the depth of feelings churning just under the surface of her skin. She doesn’t look heartbroken, or desperate, or panicked, despite the fact that she’s felt nothing but those emotions for days. Her hair has been cut professionally, finally, and is falling in loose curls to just above her shoulders. It’s still dark, but the color seems to make her eyes a deeper, richer brown, even if her face looks a little paler than usual. She’s found a dress, a gorgeous ginger-brown evening dress with a low, but not-too-low neckline and a flattering cut that falls in perfect lines down her body, and it’s a shame, because she would have adored this dress had she found it while shopping in Chicago, to be worn for any other function, for any other purpose. The thought crosses her mind, unbidden, that she’d give anything for Michael to see her in it, then realizes with a start that she’s doing exactly that. Anything, or everything, just may be required of her.
Back in the long hallway, she walks briskly back toward the banquet hall, forcing herself to move quickly or risk losing her nerve altogether. She’s studying her shoes as she goes--it’s been a while since she’s worn heels, and appearing as though it hasn’t been is taking a bit more of her concentration than she’d like--when she’s startled by a sudden, violent bump, a broad chest crashing heavily into her shoulder, knocking her off-balance. She whips her head up in time to see an attractive, well-dressed man reach out and grasp her elbow, keeping her upright, while his drink sloshes over the rim of his cut-crystal glass, soaking his hand and cuff. She blinks, but when her eyes re-open, the same face is still in front of her. Marcos Salvador’s. Shit. How could she have such bad luck? She steadies herself, an apology rushing out of her mouth, but his hand remains, and he smiles down at her.
“I am so sorry,” she says again, just for something to do, just to keep the panic at bay, and only afterward does she realize that she’s automatically slipped into English.
“An American!” he exclaims, switching seamlessly to English as well. “What a refreshing change. I’ve evidently forgotten how beautiful American women are.” Sara resists the urge to roll her eyes, but he leans closer to her, his eyes twinkling. “And how graceful.”
He laughs good-naturedly, and Sara finds herself caught even more off-guard. She had expected a buttoned-up, staid military man, but Salvador in the flesh is charmingly funny. Her mind is whirling haphazardly…this isn’t the meeting she had been planning in her head, and improvising is proving to be much harder than it looks. To her dismay, she finds herself acting entirely too much like her actual self.
She touches his shoulder in a friendly, casually flirtatious admission of guilt before she can stop herself. “Again, I apologize.” She looks down at his now half-empty cocktail glass. “Can I buy you another drink?”
He laughs lightly again. “Seeing as this little party is being thrown in my honor, I don’t need anyone to pay for my booze tonight.” He holds out his hand. “Vice President Marcos Salvador.”
Sara manages an expression of impressive surprise. Maybe, she thinks, she’s not as terrible at this as she had feared. “Sara Crane,” she returns, shaking his hand. “And now I feel even worse.” She waits just a beat, then drops her eyes swiftly in embarrassment.
Salvador regains his grip on her elbow. Now, he begins walking again, guiding her back into the main room. “Then why don’t I get you a drink,” he suggests. “We’ll try to get you a little lighter on your feet, so to speak. Then, perhaps, I can even ask you to dance without fearing for my life?”
Sara manages a low laugh. “That, Senior Salvador, remains to be seen,” she quips, her mouth turned upward in a soft smile.