Adventures of Matt Parkman, Chapter 4: What could have
The next morning after finding out the truth about the horse accident, Matt told Janice he was putting Matty in daycare so he could take a day off. She told him, "Oh, that's fine," in a distant, odd tone. He winced, but said nothing else about it. He had work to do, a man to save. He'd do it right this time. He had to.
He returned to his efficiency apartment and found he needed to replace some of his paints. He came back shortly with supplies. He took his dose, readied himself, and painted. His paintings were not helpful. He had one of Mohinder, shot in the chest and side, crumpled on the floor, another of a frightening man standing in a doorway, looking down on a cowering little girl, and a third of someone in pitch darkness being struck by red lightning.
Matt studied the pictures. He had a feeling that none of these were urgent, but they were all important. He hadn't seen Mohinder in a year. He wasn't sure why he'd be painting him. Usually his paintings were only of things of immediate importance. These didn't feel immediate. But maybe he was wrong? He and Mohinder had parted on bad terms. Janice knew nothing of that time during his life and he firmly wanted to keep it that way. He'd found and lost Daphne during then and anytime he thought about her, it made him hyper-aware of how his feelings for Janice didn't measure up. He pushed the thoughts away again, refusing to give in to comparing Janice to Daphne. It always ended badly.
He put the painting aside into the growing stack of images he wasn't sure what to do about. He had no ideas at all concerning the man and little girl, or the lightning. In these two, the characters were outlined, features unseen or so indistinct they could be anyone. He huffed. It was a wash, a failure. He still had plenty of time. He took another dose even though the first one had yet to wear off.
The next painting was a blue and white tile floor with a half a sandwich on it, next to a brown, hairy thing about twice the size of the sandwich. There was a red smear beside it. He had an apprehensive feeling that this one was absolutely critical to him, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what he was looking at. He put it aside in the "not sure" stack.
The second made his heart skip a beat. Yes! What I wanted! He held up a painting of the gang-style shooting victim with the man already dead. A police car was next to him, an officer kneeling and looking at the body. In the background he could see the street sign, indicating the intersection. On the cop car, he could see colors and a pattern distinctive enough he could place the precinct.
He hardly looked at the third - something about a big yellow dog with floppy ears. He put it aside in the other stack and took his current favorite over next to his journal. He wrote down everything important about it. He had an event and a location. Now he needed a date. Obviously it was something that happened at night.
He thought about taking a third dose. He'd be mostly clean by the time he had to go get Matty. The stuff wore off in an hour, right? He'd googled it and read the entry on wikipedia. He really wanted to. He liked how it felt, to know, at least for a little while, exactly what was going to happen and what everything meant. It was blissful, peaceful, satisfying. There were no mysteries when he was in that altered state. All of his difficulties in making sense of the world, his learning disability, his problems with relationships, all faded away while high.
He toyed with the cocaine, measuring out the dose while still trying to decide if he wanted to do it. He changed his mind a few times and measured it out again just in case. He still hadn't decided when he snorted everything he'd set out. Before he knew it, he'd taken up the brushes again, serene and content.
He did four paintings this time and the trip was prolonged, dreamy and wonderful. He might have done more, but he was out of canvas. One of his paintings was on the wall anyway, showing nothing but an eclipse. It was stylistic and looked pretty good there.
Taking three doses in one day, in rapid succession, had fouled his discretion and his sense of time. As he was leaving the trance state but was still quite high, he noticed one of the paintings was of a moving van. The driver was taking a clipboard from another man, but both of them were looking off, deeper into the painting. In the distance, there was a bright flare, as if from a gunshot. Beside the shot were taillights of a vehicle.
Matt knew, especially in his somewhat addled state, that he was looking at the gangland killing scene from a different point of view. If he could go to the area, he'd be able to find the right angle, then find out when the people in that house were moving out (or in). Then he'd have a date. He smiled slowly. I've got it! His phone rang. It was Janice. I'll call her later. I told her I was taking the day off. Why is she bothering me? He shook his head and let the call go to voice mail. He needed to find out when the shooting would happen, then he'd know how much time he had. It might even be tonight.
He drove along in a drifting euphoria, finding the neighborhood without much difficulty. He wondered if he'd been drawn there, or if he'd found it in some mystical manner. He felt almost like he was floating a bit, still high. That was impossible though. He'd only had the one dose and that was just… a little while ago, right? How much had he taken? Oh yes, he was writing it down, keeping track. Surely he hadn't taken too much.
He wandered around the streets, feeling groovy and very in synch with the world. It was all together. The only thing that would make this better would be a turtle. I sort of feel like I'm a turtle, or maybe the world is a turtle and I'm walking on its shell. Wow, that's deep. He shook himself. He was really stoned. How did that happen? He sat down on the ground, hoping it would pass. A number of cars did. People looked at him. He gave them nasty looks. It was getting dark. He was getting over it, whatever "it" was. He felt itchy and uncomfortable. The people in the cars… he shook away various unsettled paranoid feelings about them.
He continued on with his mission, narrowing it down to one of three houses. He knocked on each, but no one was home. Frustrated, he sat on the porch of one house and waited. His phone rang again. It was Janice… Janice! He answered. I was supposed to get Matty! What time is it? How he hell did it get dark already?
"Hello? Hello?" he answered in some desperation, the reality of the time and his responsibilities hitting him all at once.
"Hello, Matt? Where are you?" She sounded concerned.
"I… I've had a problem with the car, um, flat tire. I just now got it fixed. I'll… I'm headed home. Did you get Matty?"
"Yes, they kept him there until I got off work. I tried to call you earlier." Now she sounded put out.
"Oh? Yeah, I had driven way out, I guess the tower was down or something, no coverage. I had to walk a long way… Um... I'll be right home. Bye." He hung up, trying to imprint on his memory exactly what he'd just told her. He needed to fill it in with a more reasonable story before he got home. He hurried to his car.
He got home in record time. He took a moment in the car to compose himself. He still felt itchy and unsettled. He didn't know what to tell her. I was high most of the day painting the future? I'm trying to save a guy who isn't in danger yet? I had a flat tire and… it… I don't even believe that one. He shook his head and got out of the car. He felt like a failure, yet he was sure he was doing the right thing. He trudged inside.
She was waiting for him, sitting in the easy chair. Matty was playing in his playpen a few feet away, turning his mobile on and off, on and off. Her expression was troubled - not quite angry, but more confused and concerned for him. He sighed. He couldn't lie to her. He couldn't tell her the truth. She didn't ask anything, just staring at him. He looked back. It came to him easily, too easily. You don't care where I was or what I was doing.
She inhaled and shifted slightly in her seat. She stood up. "Well, I had thought we might have spaghetti for dinner. We have all the ingredients. What do you think?"
"Sure. I'm pretty hungry." His voice was even. It sounded wrong to him. It should have sounded concerned, or upset, or angry, or guilty. It didn't sound like much of anything. The evening passed without any meaningful conversation. He slept on the couch. Janice didn't care. Everything was fine.
The next day he headed back out to the neighborhood to see the moving van was already on location. He walked up to them and easily confirmed they were going to be finished tonight. They hoped earlier rather than later, but they weren't sure. All they knew is they would stay late if they had to rather than come back again the next day. Matt picked up his son and went back home. There was no need to worry until it was dark, but he was glad he'd pushed so hard the day before. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have known about the moving van. He wouldn't have known the address.
He made dinner early so it was ready when Janice got in. She was surprised. He kissed her and tried to be affectionate, nuzzling her neck and putting his hands around her waist as she tried to get a glass out of the cabinet. He knew tonight he was going out to save someone. This time it wouldn't screw up like the horse incident. He knew when it was going to happen - right as the moving van was done. This time it would work, like with the texting thing.
Janice brushed him off each time he tried to get close, disinterested in him. He pursed his lips and ate dinner quietly, watching her. She told him about her day and talked about the TV show she was going to watch. He wondered how much he'd screwed her up. It was only two very small commands. Since he'd given those to her, he'd already broken the promise. He might as well… find out if he'd done something horrible, something he needed to fix.
He put his fork down and delved into her mind, past her surface thoughts, digging out what was really going on with her. She knew, on a deeper level, that he'd broken trust with her. She was clinging to the commands he'd given her in preference to facing the problem between them. She'd rather believe things were fine and that she didn't care. She preferred the reality he had imposed on her to the real one.
She didn't want to care about where he'd been or where he was going - it was too painful to tear herself apart trying to figure him out. It was nice that he was there right then, but it hardly mattered. Things were fine between her and Matt; they were always fine anymore. She wanted them to be fine from now on. She could live with that. She told herself it was enough. She didn't want to live with how things really were. She didn't want to fight with him. She wanted to love him. She didn't really love him… she just wanted to. She was living in a fantasy world she'd constructed based on the commands, the situation and her own conflicted feelings.
He pulled away from her thoughts, feeling like he was trying to step out of deep mud, somehow losing his boot in the process. He felt naked and raw. He grimaced and got up, leaving the table, his dinner hardly touched. She watched him go, but she didn't ask.
I didn't want to know that. I didn't want to know that she'd rather be mentally numbed than deal with her real feelings for me, feelings she wants to have but doesn't. I didn't want to know that! He covered his face. I thought we could work something out. I thought it was working out. We made love… she seemed to enjoy it. She was really into it. What was that then? Just meaningless sex with the guy she hoped she might force herself to like again, for the sake of Matty, for some illusion of a perfect marriage? A dark, poisonous thought crept in his mind. It's not like she hasn't had meaningless sex with other guys.
He heaved a sigh and shook his head. It was getting dark. He had a mission. He levered himself up and got his gear together. He headed out, telling her as he went, "I'm leaving. I'll be back later."
"That's fine, honey," she answered. He didn't wince this time. He just left.
He arrived and checked in with the moving van again. This made the driver a bit nervous, but Matt told him everything was cool and he believed it. He had to. Matt moved off to his car, parked closer to the shooting site but hidden behind a hedge. He didn't want to be so close that they chose another intersection.
They pulled up shortly after it was dead dark. There was no light at the intersection. Matt got out of his car and took his gun in both hands, hurrying forward and keeping it down at the standard police low-ready position. They already had the man on his knees, were already raising their weapon to shoot him. Matt yelled at them. He tried to influence them, but the killer shot at him as soon as he figured out where the yell came from. The noise disrupted Matt's ability with a stabbing pain as bad as if the bullet had hit him. He fell to the ground, clutching his head for the moment. It saved his life.
The shooter fired twice more, the bullets kicking up bits of asphalt. Matt vaguely heard the shooter's friend telling him, "Let's get out of here, man! You got him! You got him right in the head!"
Matt twisted to see them rush back into their vehicle. One of them leaned out and shot haphazardly at the man they'd shoved out. He jerked once and crumpled. Matt cursed. He staggered to his feet and ran to the man. He'd been shot, but it was a simple wound through the muscle of his left arm. Matt pulled out his knife and cut the zip tie holding the man's hands together. He cut the man's shirt and tied it around the arm tightly to stop the blood loss.
The man seemed stunned and when Parkman got him into his car he saw why. He'd taken a beating, a severe one, prior to being dumped. Matt drove him to the hospital, dropping him off with a mostly truthful report to the police of what he'd seen: He'd been driving when he saw the man pushed out. He closed to investigate and called out. He was shot at, so he dropped to the ground. They emptied the rest of their clip and tagged the victim, whom he brought in for treatment. He was oddly disappointed he didn't need to use his powers.
He went home smiling to himself a little. He felt content he had done right. A man was alive who would have otherwise died. It had worked, proving the first time wasn't a fluke. He could save people.
He looked in on his wife. She was sprawled across the bed, asleep. He'd have to wake her and get her to move over to get in himself. He didn't really want to be with her anyway at the moment, thinking of what he'd seen in her mind earlier. He walked back out and slept on the couch.