Buried Secrets
For the last couple of days, I have had the concept for this fic rolling around in my head. Thanks to my plot bunny Ang, and a repeat performance of Necrodrome, the fic was solidified. This is definitely one of my more dark and angsty fics, but what can I say? I love angst--maybe a little too much. While I have the gist of the story down, the rest of it has yet to be conceived. I really am hoping that this one doesn't fizz out or fall flat, but I'm going to do my best to make something of it. The hardest part is the upcoming dialogue--trying to decipher the slang of the 1930s, 40s is hard work! At the risk of making this read like a Sam Spade detective novel, I'm gonna keep it to a minimum for sanity's sake. No promises when future chaps will be posted--it could be days, weeks, or knowing my quirky muse, hours.
A/N: I wanted to explore Henry's past a little more with this fic and in the Necrodrome episode, he admits to being a gangster who had connections with Bugsy Siegel. I thought that this would be an interesting angle to explore and used the fact that his murder is largely unsolved, to twist it for my own purposes. Also, this fic has no connection to my earlier stories. I'm essentially starting from scratch here and am just writing about random things that interest me.
* I do not own the BT series characters. They belong to a much-more talented individual. I am however, more than willing to take credit for characters/scenarios not featured in the books or television series. Not making any money. No copyright infringement intended*
Chapter One: Recollection
The boy crouched down low in the manicured hedges, careful to keep out of the pool of light that spilled onto the lawn from the large front windows. He forced his shadow to blend into the surrounding darkness and remain equally obscure. No one can connect me with this, he thought. His life-his family’s life-depended on it. Breathing carefully through his nose, he wiped his damp palms on his pants and tightened his grip on the .30-06. He had never fired a gun before, but given the closeness of his target, even he was confident that at least one of the shots would find their mark. He raised his head cautiously and cast a furtive glance into the brightly-lit living room. Expensive and lavish furnishings were scattered everywhere and sitting smack-dab in the center of all that splendor lay his quarry.
“Ol’ Charlie the button man’s gonna be pissed someone bumped off Bugsy and sent him to the Big Sleep before he did.” He found himself grinning in spite of the night’s grim work, but it was quickly replaced by rage. Rage and a desperate desire to set wrongs to right; to garner some sort of justice for what had happened all those years before, the longest years of his young life. Squinting against the glare, he brought the weapon up to shoulder height and took aim. With a last whispered prayer for strength and forgiveness, he opened fire. A hail of bullets burst forth from the gun with stunning force and he had to dig his heels in to maintain his footing.
Glass shattered and expensive upholstery literally exploded under the force of the blast, and the man who had been sitting on the couch idly thumbing through the paper slumped forward. From somewhere in the house came the sound of running footsteps and shouted curses, and the boy knew that he had precious little time to make his escape. He dove onto his belly and began to crawl away from the carnage towards his car which he had left parked at a discreet distance from the house. Equal parts of adrenaline and fear kept his legs from giving out from under him, and the slight glint of metal peeping out from the trees gave him an extra burst of speed. Almost safe.
When he reached the car he slung the gun into the backseat and scrambled inside. His pulse pounded furiously in his ears and he gulped in great lungfuls of air as the car roared into life. He backed out carefully and drove at a leisurely pace down the deserted lane and sped up only when he had reached the outskirts of the elite neighborhood. Here amid the rest of the traffic he would be nameless. Here he would be safe. For now. He just had to keep his cool and act just like another dumb mug for the next few weeks and the whole thing would eventually blow over. Bugsy had a lot of enemies and the Syndicate had bigger fish to fry-one less skimmer to worry about, the better for them.
He turned off on a side street a few blocks from his family’s home and shut the engine off. He slowly let out a deep breath and it was then that the full brunt of his actions finally hit him. “Oh God,” he sobbed and gripped the edges of the steering wheel, “I’ve killed a man. A man who for all his depravity, actually trusted me. A man who said he would look out for me and my family.” The sudden sound of a police siren racing in the direction of the murder caused his head to jerk upwards involuntarily, and he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. The face that stared back at him was completely unrecognizable, a monster hiding behind the mask of a scared young boy who only wanted to avenge his family.
Good intentions or not, his faith told him that he was damned and no excuse in the world was going to wash away the blood that now stained his hands. As another police car sped towards him, he contemplated flagging them down and confessing the whole thing right then and there. As his fingers closed around the handle, a hand was suddenly on his right shoulder. A scream welled up in his throat and his heart came to a stuttering stop in his chest, and as a voice drifted up from the backseat, he found himself unable to move. The grip relaxed and became almost comforting, but the fear remained. A million thoughts swirled in his head, that somehow Bugsy’s cronies had been on to him from the get-go, that they had been lying in wait for him and were now gonna return the favor.
The voice spoke again, and this time was so close to his ear that he could actually feel the warmth of the person’s breath. “Look at your reflection. See who you really are.” The boy found his body obeying the command, and his gaze once again came to rest on his reflection in the rearview mirror. He couldn’t see who was doing the talking and found that he was unable to turn his head in order to get a better look. The voice continued. “You are not like those other men who kill because they feel that they own everything that they see. What you did was for the sake of your family, and you’re a good kid. Reckless and impulsive, but hardly a bad apple.” The voice paused and the boy could almost hear the smile in the words.
“You will not feel any remorse for what you did and will go on to make something of your life. You will put this behind you and never look back. In the meantime…..” The hand withdrew from his shoulder and he could almost make out the faint scratch of metal on cloth, “I will take care of all the details.” With that, the back door was opened and the sound of soles hitting the pavement echoed back to the boy. “You will go home, sleep well, and find that everything will be better in the morning.” The boy blinked. Confused, he wondered why he was parked so far from his house, and what had happened to his clothes. Was he crying? “Prolly lost big time at the crap’s table,” he muttered and pulled out to go home.
v
The elderly gentlemen shot up violently from sleep and clutched desperately at the thin sheets. Breathing heavily, he could just make out the sound of the EKG beeping frantically, and the faint slap slap of crepe-soled shoes making their way towards his room. He settled back down on the bed with a shaky sigh and felt the weight of the past eight decades bearing down on him. “Oh God, I killed him. I killed him…,” he babbled repeatedly even as the nurses attempted to calm him down and get him to go back to sleep. Their placating gestures did little to soothe his jangled nerves and for the first time in over sixty years, the fear and uncertainty returned.
Bugsy and the rest of the crew had long passed out of history into infamy and legend and were beyond revenge. The fear he felt was for his immortal soul. In his twilight years and in a place such as this, Death lurked around every corner, just out of sight but never completely out of mind. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence that he was remembering the incident now; other forces had to be at work. He knew that he had little time left on this earth and he was going to use every second of it to make his peace. He was certain that tonight’s dream was no dream at all, but a memory that he had managed to repress for years.
He couldn’t very well go to the police-they’d think he was a whack job if he told them that he was responsible for one of the greatest unsolved murder mysteries of all time, much less if he told them that a voice had somehow ordered him to forget the whole thing. No, he couldn’t risk that. Someone had to know the truth. But not just anyone; someone who had an open mind about such things who wouldn’t chalk it up to the ravings of an eccentric old man, but who would actually listen and help get to the bottom of things.
He remembered an incident in the Rec. Room a few days before. Bernie Olsen had been leafing through the day’s paper and had suddenly snorted with disdain when he reached the Advertising section. “Get an eyeful of this Lou.” He had motioned for his friend, who was busy playing gin with Miss Alma, to come closer. When he approached him, Bernie had waved the paper in his face with a sardonic grin. “Ad’s for a private investigator specializing in ‘strange cases.’ And they have the nerve to say that we’re the ones out of touch with reality.”
He cast a scornful gaze at the young intern who was helping an elderly gentleman wipe applesauce from his chin. Lou had just shrugged it off as yet another thing that seemed to irk his friend these days, and had put it out of his mind. Tonight he found his hands scrabbling frantically along the nightstand for the paper. When they closed around it, he heaved a sigh of relief and the guilt he had felt at lifting it from the Rec. Room to read the comics in private, vanished. Switching on the bedside lamp, he squinted at the block printing. Victoria Nelson. No case too strange.
v
TBC