A Kind of Blindness: Chapter Three
A Kind of Blindness
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: R, probably
Chapter 3/?
Words: 5,731
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Millville, California
“I wasn’t expecting it to be this lovely here,” Helena murmured, face turned to the side to watch the landscape out of the passenger window of the rented SUV. “It’s quite beautiful.”
“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Myka agreed, the reason for their trip forgotten for a moment as they drove through the scenic countryside.
The road was lined with a thick copse of trees, pines, hardwoods, the green of firs a dark contrast against the barren oaks and birch. An occasional house broke the tree-line, as they sped down Highway 44 towards Millville. Pete was sprawled along the back seat, head pillowed on his bag, eyes closed. He’d climbed in the back at the airport, claiming that he could use a little shut-eye, despite having slept for most of the nearly four hour flight. Helena suspected it was simply his way of being a gentleman and allowing her to sit up front with Myka. The drive wasn’t going to be long, twenty minutes, according to the young man at the rental agency near the airport, but still Pete stretched out and feigned sleep.
Off in the distance, Helena could just make out the white, snow covered peak of Mt. Shasta rising up into the brilliant blue of an early winter sky. It reminded her of a long ago trip to the Pyrenees in search of a button from one of Napoleon’s coats, the carriage ride from Toulouse to Pau an uncomfortable, lengthy journey across flat plains and rolling hills, to finally glimpse the mountains, their peaks shimmering white against an even bluer sky. She pulled her gaze from the scenery outside the window to the scenery inside, letting her eyes roam admiringly over Myka’s profile: the straight nose and full, rounded cheekbones, thick hair falling in loose curls around her face.
Helena turned in her seat, casting a surreptitious glance in the back to see if Agent Lattimer was awake before reaching over and running her hand along the length of Myka’s thigh, a wide grin spreading across her face as Myka quickly covered her hand with her own, capturing Helena’s wayward fingers.
“Behave,” Myka warned, the sideways look she threw Helena’s way part-admonishment, part-amusement.
“I always behave, darling. It’s just that sometimes, I behave badly,” Helena smirked, pleased at the low chuckle from Myka that her words prompted. “And you do seem to bring out the less refined, less genteel side of me.”
“Oh, so I’m responsible for your bad behavior, am I?” Myka laughed, threading her fingers through Helena’s, both their hands resting on her upper thigh. “I can testify that you don’t need any help from me when it comes to being unrefined.”
Before Helena could answer, Pete’s voice came from the back seat. “Please tell me that this means I’m going to get a private viewing of ‘Girls Behaving Badly’,” he grinned, sitting up to leer at them from between the seats.
“The only thing you’re going to get a private viewing of is my fist as it connects with your nose, if you don’t stop with the suggestive comments,” Myka informed him, eyes glaring back at him from the rear-view mirror. “Or I could just mention to Kelly that you seem to be really interested in seeing my girlfriend naked.”
Pete visibly swallowed at the latter remark. “You wouldn’t, would ya?”
“In a heartbeat,” Myka promised. Helena simply smirked and squeezed Myka’s fingers a bit tighter.
“Yeah, okay,” Pete groused, falling back against the seat. “You know, even as a lesbian you aren’t any fun.”
“Even as a lesbian?” Myka asked incredulously. “What is it with men and lesbians?”
“Oh, come on, Myka. Two gorgeous women together?” Pete answered, leaning forward again in his enthusiasm for the subject. “It’s incredibly hot. What’s not to love, right, H.G.?”
“Do not answer him,” Myka warned, shooting an admonishing glance at the woman next to her. “Do not encourage him.”
“But darling, he does have a point,” Helena responded teasingly, her smile fond as she scraped her nails along Myka’s palm. “Of course, two gorgeous women together will have absolutely no interest in you, Pete. None. At all,” Helena replied, turning her head to face the back seat, dark eyes sparkling with amusement.
“You know, I’m surprisingly okay with that, “Pete replied, grinning widely. “I have a really good imagination.”
“Pete, if you…,” Myka began to threaten, cut short as Pete interrupted her with an expression of distaste.
“Eww. No, not of you two. Gross. That’s like imaging my sister having sex, which I do not ever want to do,” Pete grimaced, meeting Myka’s eyes in the mirror. “Actually, I was thinking more of Megan Fox and Cat Woman.”
“Pete, Cat Woman is a fictional character. You mean Halle Berry, right?” Myka corrected, sighing to herself that she was even engaging in this conversation.
“No. Cat Woman. Like on the original Batman series,” Pete elucidated, oblivious to the consternated look on his partner’s face.
“You mean Julie Newmar?” Myka questioned, shaking her head at Helena’s puzzled expression.
“Yeah. She looked amazing as Cat Woman,” Pete nodded, the puerile grin on his face growing.
“Pete, Julie Newmar is almost 80,” Myka explained slowly, as one would to a small child.
“Yeah. I know, she’s old now. I meant when she was Cat Woman and really hot,” Pete said defensively.
Helena sat and listened to the exchange, fond insults and witty comebacks filling the interior of the truck, the banter so like siblings that she had to smile. A feeling of contentment stole over her, as it did at odd moments like this, when the sense of being part of something, of being part of a family, caught her unawares. However, as quickly as it came, the brief sensation of belonging fled, the broad grin she had been wearing fleeing like the last glimmers of twilight before the coming night.
Christina’s death had been so devastating that she had withdrawn from the world, distanced herself from her own family. She had been so selfish, so completely obsessed with finding a way to bring her daughter back that she had simply disappeared, her own brother having no idea what had happened to her. He was gone now. Everyone she had known and loved was gone.
She should be used to the rapid cycle of her moods, the dizzying shift from the euphoria she felt in Myka’s arms to the despondency of realizing that apart from that one person who had chosen, quite insanely, to love her, she was completely alone. When McPherson had first released her from her bronze prison, she had found it difficult to control the cacophony of emotion that threatened to drown out every rational thought, as the truth of her life, of the world in which she found herself became clear.
She had always hoped that one day the Regents would see fit to free her from her self-imposed confinement, but as the years turned into decades and the decades into a century, that hope had become poisoned, drop by drop, with the knowledge that, if and when she was released, Christina was still horribly dead and nothing she could do would ever alter that one essential fact.
It had taken months to overcome the panic as her inner sense of equilibrium swung unrelentingly, like Poe’s pendulum, threatening at every pass to tear her apart. She had almost mastered a compensating façade, one in which she appeared far more stable than she actually felt. Still, her bronze time machine had done one miraculous thing: it had brought her Myka; Myka, who reminded her daily that there was good in the world, that there was reason to be grateful for her hundred years of solitude.
She forced the smile back on her face.
“So, you have fantasies about Megan Fox and 1960’s Cat Woman, who’s now nearly 80?” Myka mocked, a broad grin splitting her face, too intent on torturing Pete to notice the play of emotion on Helena’s face. “Have you shared this little daydream with Kelly?”
“You know, I think we need to have a rule: what happens in the Warehouse, or anyplace we have to go artifact hunting, or, you know, anywhere, stays there,” Pete complained, making a face at the back of Myka’s head.
“I thought that only applied to Las Vegas,” Helena countered, pushing aside the last vestiges of melancholy to smirk a bit as two equally astonished faces turned to stare at her. “What? You’d be amazed at what I’ve learned from Claudia.”
“I think I’d be terrified to know what you’ve learned from Claudia,” Myka conceded. “Remind me to have a little talk with Ms. Donovan when we get home.”
“Are we there yet?” Pete asked, whining just a smidgen.
“Actually, we are,” Myka answered, slowing the car as they passed the “Welcome to Millville” sign.
They smelled the devastation long before they saw it, the acrid scent filling the inside of the car, filtering in through the engine, seeping in through the cracks of the doors: sharp and pungent and overwhelming. Helena noticed that Pete blanched a little, his handsome face growing grim and pale.
Myka appeared to have noticed as well. “Hey, Pete, it would probably be a lot faster if we split up. Why don’t you drop me and Helena off here in Millville and we’ll see what we can find out about the fire, and you can take the truck over to Palo Cedro to the school and check it out?”
“You sure you two can handle this?” Pete asked with only a trace of his usual bravado, the grin on his lips never reaching his eyes.
“We can probably manage to muddle our way through,” Helena responded, glancing curiously at Myka, her eyes questioning the change in Pete’s demeanor. Myka shook her head imperceptivity and mouthed, ‘Later’.
Myka pulled the SUV as close as possible to the orange and white striped barricades that were situated across the road. Beyond the barriers they could see the remains of what must have been downtown. Detritus was everywhere: blackened steel girders marked the edges of storefronts, filthy broken glass covered the sidewalks and streets, stray shards catching the sunlight and glinting like diamonds strewn in a muddy field. Here and there they caught a glimpse of figures moving through the wreckage and destruction, carting away debris, attempting to sweep up some of the glass and rubble, but the rest of the area was deserted, a pall hanging over the town.
Stepping out of the truck, the odor hit them with full-force. Pete grimaced, jaw clenching tightly at the smell. Helena gasped, her hands automatically rising to press the collar of her jacket over her nose and mouth. She watched as Myka wrapped her scarf around her lower face, then hastily circled to the back of the vehicle and opened the hatch. She rummaged through her travel bag, pulling out another, similar scarf, swiftly returning to Helena’s side and making quick work of creating her own protective face covering.
As Myka tucked the ends into her collar, Helena grabbed Myka’s hands, holding them for a moment to her chest, meeting Myka’s green eyes. “Thank you, darling,” Helena said quietly, voice muffled by the soft wool as her own hands unconsciously adjusted the buttons on Myka’s coat.
“Yeah, so if you two are done dressing each other, I’m going to head over to the high school. Now, if you were undressing, of course I would hang around,” Pete joked half-heartedly, pulling the driver’s door open and hopping in. “Call if you run into any problems.”
“You, too,” Myka said, waving as the SUV made a sharp u-turn and headed back down Route 44.
Helena moved closer to Myka, the arms of their coats brushing, the fabric rustling in the unnatural stillness of the ruined street. “Now, are you going to tell me why Pete seemed so unusually unsettled by all this?”
“His dad was a firefighter. He was killed in a fire when Pete was young. I think that the smell and the sight of so much destruction would have been a little too much for him. That’s why I suggested that he go to the school and see what he could find out there. It wasn’t as huge a fire and besides, Pete and gyms and gym teachers are made for each other.”
Helena leaned her head briefly on Myka’s shoulder, tucking her hand into the crook of Myka’s arm, the sense that theirs was an unequal partnership sprouting up once again, like a bottle always bobbing to the surface amid the tumult of the waves. At her best, Helena knew she had the potential to be a relatively decent human being. Not wonderful, not strictly good, but decent. Myka, on the other hand, Myka was a truly good person: thoughtful, kind, caring; all things that by nature and habit, Helena knew she was not.
“You are rather sweet, you know?” Helena sighed. “Definitely far nicer than I deserve.”
“Well, I think that I’m exactly as nice as you deserve,” Myka smiled back, tugging Helena along with her as they made their way past the barricades. “Sexier than you deserve, of course, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
Helena laughed, a rich, throaty chuckle and squeezed Myka’s arm before releasing it. “I suppose as inequities go, that is one with which I can no doubt learn to live.”
“I kind of figured you could,” Myka smirked, her face sobering as they progressed down the main street and the extent of the destruction became even more apparent. “Artie said that they think the fire started at the church. Let’s start there.”
The ten minute walk to the church had a funerary atmosphere to it, and Helena felt the same sense of catastrophic grief pervading the air that she had experienced over a century before. “It feels like walking through San Francisco right after the earthquake in ’06. Much smaller scale of course, but the same sensation of overwhelming anguish, of having lost everything one possessed, everything one had worked a whole lifetime to acquire. It’s a feeling with which I am now more intimately familiar,” she said quietly, eyes clouded with memory.
Helena was so enmeshed in her thoughts that, at first, she didn’t notice that Myka had stopped walking. It was only when the younger woman softly called her name that she paused and turned back, her breath catching at the expression in Myka’s eyes.
“And when you lose everything, I guess the only thing you can do is try to rebuild, try to find other things, other people that are important to you. They don’t ever replace the things and the people you’ve lost-they never could--- but maybe they help fill up a little of the emptiness that was left behind?” Myka suggested gently, her head canted to the side, her eyes, above the scarf, full of understanding and love.
Helena swallowed around the lump that magically appeared in her throat, drawing in a deep breath before replying, her voice hoarse with emotion. “More than a little. Much, much more.”
“Um, so. There’s the church up on the corner. Or what’s left of it,” Myka said, seeming to shake herself free from the intensity of Helena’s gaze.
“Perhaps we can find the vicar,” Helena offered, taking Myka’s cue to move on from the implications of the moment.
“Minister. Or pastor,” Myka corrected. “That’s what they’re called over here.”
“Ah. Well, then, minister,” Helena agreed amiably. “Shall we see who’s about?”
They gingerly climbed the front steps, avoiding the pieces of charred wood and bricks. The stone floor of the church was intact, as were three of the walls. The church had been built of red brick and mortar, the interior painted a gleaming white, but now there was nothing but gray and black. The heat of the fire had reduced the thick pews of oak to smoldering embers. The two gaping holes in each of the exterior walls where the stained glass windows had been gave the appearance of ghastly, staring eyes. The metal crucifix above the altar had melted, twisting into an obscene, grotesque shape.
“Hello?” Myka called, her voice echoing unnaturally loudly in the cavernous space. “Hello, is anyone here?”
“Do American churches have vicarages? Or, ministerial residences, or whatever it is you call them over here?” Helena asked, the toe of her boot displacing what she surmised had once been a stack of hymnals, now simply ash and bits of curled yellow paper.
“Yes, usually. I’m thinking that pile of timbers right behind the church was probably the minister’s house,” Myka answered, bending to pick up a piece of bronze gleaming dully amid the soot. Helena moved closer to see as Myka rubbed the surface of the plate with her finger, finally uncovering the inscription: In loving memory of Alice and Archibald Bryson.
“You would be correct, young lady. It was indeed the minister’s house.” The owner of the voice appeared from what had once been the vestry, to the left of the altar, a wide broom in his hands. He was seventy if he was a day, a shock of white hair brushing his lined forehead. His hands and clothes were covered in grime. He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid there will be no service today. First time in nearly sixty years that we missed a Sunday service.”
“Are you the minister?” Myka asked, advancing carefully toward the old man.
“Reverend William Shaw. And you are?” He replied, a sliver of curiosity breaking through his obvious despair at the state of his church.
“Agent Bering, Secret Service. This is Agent Wells,” Myka stated formally, holding up her badge and identification. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about the fire.”
“Secret Service? For a fire?” Rev. Shaw queried, a puzzled frown leaving deep furrows on his brow. “You don’t think this was terrorism or something, do you?
“I’m afraid I can’t really discuss that,” Myka hedged, steering the conversation back. “Were you here when the fire started?”
The minister hesitated, his expression bemused. Helena said gently, “This must have been a beautiful church. Have you been here long?”
“Forty-three years,” he replied, a sad smile crossing his face. “This head of hair was as black as yours when I came here. Now there’s nothing left. No home, no church. My wife passed away two years ago from cancer. My faith teaches me that God only gives us what He knows we can bear. All I can think is that He must have a mighty high opinion of me. Of everyone in this town.”
It hardly seemed the time or the place to voice her own ideas about God and the universe and the horrific things rained down on good people, so Helena held her tongue, but something in her eyes must have caught Rev. Shaw’s attention. “Have you lost your faith, my dear?” His voice was so genuinely concerned that Helena was shocked to find herself blinking away the moisture gathering in her eyes.
Helena met Myka’s obdurate gaze and saw the unconditional love in them, love for her. “In some things,” she answered, her eyes never leaving Myka’s. “In others, I believe that I have found it again, after a very long time.”
“Reverend Shaw,” Myka said, forcing herself to turn and face the old man. “Were you here at the church when the fire started?”
“No,” he answered tiredly, “I was home. One of the stations was showing a John Wayne marathon, so I was stretched out in my easy chair watching Rooster Cogburn. My living room is on the far side of the house, away from the church. My hearing isn’t what it was, so I had the television on kind of loud. With the all the shooting and the dynamite exploding, I didn’t hear a thing. It wasn’t until I smelled smoke that I realized anything was wrong. By then, the church was ablaze and the fire had spread to the house next door, the Chambers’ house and the sparks had lit my roof as well.”
“So you didn’t see anyone or hear anything suspicious?” Myka asked, heart sinking somewhat at the minister’s words.
“Nothing,” he replied, glancing at her questioningly. “You seem to be suggesting that someone set this fire on purpose, young lady. Fire marshal said he couldn’t find any sign of an accelerant or any other indication of arson.”
“Reverend Shaw, what do you know about the fire that occurred at Foothills High a few weeks ago? Or the fire at the closed camp outside town?” Myka asked, refusing to be drawn in by the minister’s claims.
“Of course, I heard about the fire at the school. Most folks seem to think it was just a prank that got out of hand,” he told them, leaning heavily on the handle of the broom he carried. “As for the camp, well, that one I’m more familiar with. The camp belongs to the church and so I was contacted when one of the old cabins caught fire. The sheriff and the fire department both thought it was just the case of a drifter or some kids using the buildings for shelter. Probably built a fire to keep warm and accidentally burned the cabin down.”
“So this church owns the camp?” Myka asked excitedly, clearly pleased at finding a possible connection between the fires. “Do you know how long the camp was open?”
“It was a church camp for boys. Opened up in, oh, must have been 1951, maybe ’52. We finally closed it down in 2001. Just weren’t getting the kids like we used to,” Rev. Shaw responded. “You don’t think they’re related, do you?”
“I don’t want to speculate, Reverend Shaw,” Myka replied, slipping a business card out of the space behind her identification. “If you think of anything else, please call me at that number? And I am so sorry for what has happened to your church and your town. I promise, if someone is responsible for this, we’ll find him.”
“I’m still a bit unclear on what any of this has to do with the Secret Service,” the reverend began, startled when Myka and Helena turned with a brief wave and started back down the aisle towards the door. “Agent Bering?”
“We’ll be back in touch soon, Reverend.” Myka assured him, intent on getting out the church before he asked any more questions about why they were there.
Outside, Myka paused, eyes scanning the street. There were the remains of at least a dozen homes, many of their owners going through the motions of trying to salvage anything they could from the debris.
“We should split up. I’ll take the left side of the road, you take the right. Maybe someone saw something, or heard something,” Myka suggested.
“Agreed. We should also call Claudia and see what her impressive computer skills can derive from the connection between the camp and the church. Granted, the window of potential perpetrators is rather lengthy. Still, she may be able to narrow down the list, using the attendees of the high school as a further reference,” Helena supplied, pausing when she saw the grin of surprise light Myka’s green eyes. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that every once in a while, I’m reminded that I’m in love with H.G. Wells, inventor of time machines and grappling hooks,” Myka chuckled. “Which, by the way, is pretty amazing.”
“The time machine, the grappling hook or being in love with me?” Helena teased. “You modern day Americans have deplorable pronoun reference.”
“All three. But especially the last one,” Myka answered, pulling out the Farnsworth to call Claudia. “Although, I do really love that grappling hook.”
Two hours later, with Claudia hot on the trail of possible arsonists, Myka and Helena had learned nothing new. They had interviewed everyone they could find on the two streets nearest the church, but no one remembered seeing or hearing anything unusual. Whoever, or whatever was responsible for the fire, he or it had left nary a trace behind.
They had called Pete earlier and agreed on a time to meet. They trudged wearily back towards the main road where Pete was going to pick them up. He had had similar luck, or lack thereof, at both the high school and the camp. He’d also stopped by and talked to the Fire Marshal and the local Sheriff. Although he hadn’t revealed the real reason for the Secret Service’s visit, he had managed to get permission to poke around. According to Sheriff Winders, at this point, any and all help was welcome, suspicious or not.
Climbing wearily into the SUV, Helena gratefully unwrapped the scarf from her face, wondering idly as she did so how Arab women coped with having to cover their faces on a daily basis. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. In the passenger seat, Myka did the same with an exhausted groan.
“So you two got nada, huh?” Pete asked, guiding the truck back down Route 44 towards Redding. “Oh, and by the way, you reek!”
“No, we didn’t find out anything and thanks for that bit of news, Captain Obvious,” Myka retorted, not even bothering to open her eyes.
Helena pulled her hair across her face, inhaling deeply and grimacing. “I fear that we will never get the smell out of our hair and skin. We should be grateful we’re merely visitors, not one of those poor souls who lost home and hearth in the fire. Still, the odor does remind me of a rather unfortunate incident involving a Venetian garbage scow and one of Lucrezia Borgia’s combs.”
Myka and Pete glanced at each other and started laughing.
“Falling into the garbage wasn’t entirely my fault,” Helena began, only to be interrupted by Pete’s gleeful crow.
“We found it!” Pete announced triumphantly, reaching out a fist for Myka to bump. “Who da man?!”
“You found it? The comb?” Helena asked incredulously.
“It was our first experience as Warehouse agents. Let’s just say it was a trial by fire,” Myka told her, the choice of words not lost on any of them.
“Well, congratulations! I chased that bloody thing around Venice for weeks,” Helena offered, warmed by Myka’s smile as she glanced into the back seat.
“Hey, I went ahead and stopped by the hotel and got our rooms. I figured since I was right there in Redding, I’d go ahead and take care of it,” Pete informed them, “Thought you two would probably be a little tired. ‘Course we do have to eat. Anybody up for ribs and darts?”
“I’m too tired to eat anything that requires that much effort and Helena would kick your ass at darts, so let’s just grab some takeout somewhere and go back to the hotel so that I can wash my hair a few hundred times,” Myka replied.
“I must agree. I cannot wait to bathe. Repeatedly.” Helena asserted. “I’m actually surprised you found hotel rooms, Pete. I would think that with the fire in Millville, there would be an influx of residents in need of lodging.”
“It wasn’t easy. Our hotel isn’t the Ritz, but it looked clean and I got the last two rooms. I, ah, I didn’t think you two would mind sharing,” Pete responded, a slightly juvenile grin lighting his face as he saw Myka’s troubled frown. “Of course, you know, Myka, if you’re gonna be too worried about what Artie might say about you two being all unprofessional, I’d be happy to sacrifice and take one for the team and stay with H.G.”
“Only if you’re sacrificing a body part or two,” Myka smiled smugly. “Just stop at In-and-Out and then get us to the hotel before I show you what unprofessional really looks like.”
Half an hour later the two women were gratifyingly ensconced in their room.
“Helena, hand me your clothes,” Myka ordered, a white plastic bag marked ‘Dry Cleaning’ in one hand. “I’m going to put our stuff in here. If I put it in the back of the closet, maybe it won’t smell quite as badly.”
“Are you asking me to disrobe, Agent Bering?” Helena asked innocently, a sly grin just touching full lips.
“Strip. Now,” Myka demanded, holding out the bag.
“Hmm. Only if you promise that we can shower together this time,” Helena bargained, relatively certain that the odds were in her favor. “After all, a hotel like this is bound to have sturdier fixtures than Leena’s. And, I’ll wash your hair for you, as many times as you’d like.”
“Deal. Now get out of those clothes so we can get cleaned up, eat and go to bed,” Myka agreed, trying to appear reluctant, not that there had been any real doubt what her answer would be. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“Would you mind terribly if I alter slightly your order of events?” Helena inquired with a wicked smile.
“Helena!” Myka exclaimed, the rest of her reply cut short with the ringing of her cell phone. Watching Helena gracefully remove her clothing, Myka absently pressed the answer button on the phone.
“Agent Bering?” The voice sounded vaguely familiar: exhausted and slightly querulous.
“Yes, this Agent Bering.”
“Agent Bering, this is Rebecca Chambers. You came by my home today. Or what’s left of my home and asked questions about the night of the fire and you left your card and said to call if I remembered anything. Well, I have. Or rather, my grandson Kevin has. He’s just eleven, but he’s very smart for his age and he was staying with us that night.”
“Yes, Mrs. Chambers, what did your grandson remember?” Myka prompted, trying not to sound impatient as the woman rambled. Helena tucked the last of her clothes into the bag and stepped, gloriously, stunningly naked, towards Myka, her expression curious.
“He says he heard music,” Mrs. Chambers offered. “He loves music. He plays the trombone in the school band and he listens to his mp thingie all the time. My husband and I have to practically beg him to take those earphones out when he comes over.”
“Mrs. Chambers, is it possible that your grandson actually was listening to his iPod when the fire started and because of the trauma, simply doesn’t remember?” Myka asked, eyes fixed on the beautiful woman standing naked before her.
“Oh, no. You see, he’d left it at home. He was very upset when he got to our house and realized he didn’t have it,” Mrs. Chambers elucidated. “No, he heard music. Weird music, he says, although between you and me, most of what he listens to I wouldn’t call music.”
“Mrs. Chambers. What did this music sound like?” Myka probed. Helena moved closer, pressing her ear against Myka’s cheek so that she could hear the reply.
“He said it sounded like a really out of tune guitar,” Mrs. Chambers responded. “And it was odd music, he said, like creepy funeral music. Not that he’s been to many funerals, mind you. Still….”
“Thank you, Mrs. Chambers, for calling,” Myka told her, effectively cutting off what she knew would be a long tale. “Agent Wells and I will stop by tomorrow and talk to Kevin. Thank you again for calling. Good night.”
“Out of tune guitar?” Myka pondered, glancing up to see the look of terrified excitement on Helena’s gorgeous face. “What? Do you know what it is?”
Helena took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, completely unselfconscious about her lack of clothes. There really were too many variables, too many other options from which to choose, but she had a feeling, one of dread and exhilaration that had settled in the pit of her stomach the moment Myka had repeated the word, ‘music’. All the wheels and cogs in her mind clicked into place. It all suddenly made perfect, horrifying sense.
“Helena! Do you know what the artifact is?” Myka repeated, sinking to her knees in front of her lover. Helena’s dark eyes met hers.
“Have you ever heard the legend of Nero and the burning of Rome?” Helena asked rhetorically, as Myka nodded her head. “Nero reputedly played his lyre while the city was reduced to ashes all around him. Of course, modern retellings have changed the name of the instrument, but it’s still the same artifact.”
Myka sank back on her heels, staring up at Helena in dismay. “Someone’s using Nero’s fiddle?”
“So it would seem, darling. So it would seem,” Helena said, a shiver sending a rash of goosebumps along her skin.
“Come on, let’s get in the shower and get warmed up,” Myka replied distractedly, pushing herself upright and offering Helena her hand.
“I have a very bad feeling, my love, that before this is all over, being cold will definitely not be one of our concerns.” Helena said quietly, as she took Myka’s hand and led her to the bathroom, the steam of the shower swallowing them up.
Woods outside Millville, California
He had seen the two women, scarves wrapped around their faces to combat the unpleasant smell of burned out buildings, burned out homes. He wondered what they would do to fight the overwhelming stench of burned out lives. Not that either of them would know anything about that. He could tell, could see by their clothes and the way that they walked, confident, arrogant even. He’d heard them asking questions, trying to find someone who had seen him, someone who had heard the music the night of the fire, the night he’d played a masterpiece. It didn’t matter now if they did find someone. He almost welcomed it. He was tired, tired of hiding, tired of not being able to boast of his accomplishments.
Soon. Soon he would show them all. He opened the pill bottle and shook three blue pills into his hand, tossing them into his mouth, the taste of the vodka washing them down as sharp and acrid as the smoke. Closing his eyes, he dragged one fingernail across the strings, a slow smile spreading across his face as the pile of wood before him burst into flames, the cinders rising high into the winter sky.
TBC
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: R, probably
Chapter 3/?
Words: 5,731
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Millville, California
“I wasn’t expecting it to be this lovely here,” Helena murmured, face turned to the side to watch the landscape out of the passenger window of the rented SUV. “It’s quite beautiful.”
“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Myka agreed, the reason for their trip forgotten for a moment as they drove through the scenic countryside.
The road was lined with a thick copse of trees, pines, hardwoods, the green of firs a dark contrast against the barren oaks and birch. An occasional house broke the tree-line, as they sped down Highway 44 towards Millville. Pete was sprawled along the back seat, head pillowed on his bag, eyes closed. He’d climbed in the back at the airport, claiming that he could use a little shut-eye, despite having slept for most of the nearly four hour flight. Helena suspected it was simply his way of being a gentleman and allowing her to sit up front with Myka. The drive wasn’t going to be long, twenty minutes, according to the young man at the rental agency near the airport, but still Pete stretched out and feigned sleep.
Off in the distance, Helena could just make out the white, snow covered peak of Mt. Shasta rising up into the brilliant blue of an early winter sky. It reminded her of a long ago trip to the Pyrenees in search of a button from one of Napoleon’s coats, the carriage ride from Toulouse to Pau an uncomfortable, lengthy journey across flat plains and rolling hills, to finally glimpse the mountains, their peaks shimmering white against an even bluer sky. She pulled her gaze from the scenery outside the window to the scenery inside, letting her eyes roam admiringly over Myka’s profile: the straight nose and full, rounded cheekbones, thick hair falling in loose curls around her face.
Helena turned in her seat, casting a surreptitious glance in the back to see if Agent Lattimer was awake before reaching over and running her hand along the length of Myka’s thigh, a wide grin spreading across her face as Myka quickly covered her hand with her own, capturing Helena’s wayward fingers.
“Behave,” Myka warned, the sideways look she threw Helena’s way part-admonishment, part-amusement.
“I always behave, darling. It’s just that sometimes, I behave badly,” Helena smirked, pleased at the low chuckle from Myka that her words prompted. “And you do seem to bring out the less refined, less genteel side of me.”
“Oh, so I’m responsible for your bad behavior, am I?” Myka laughed, threading her fingers through Helena’s, both their hands resting on her upper thigh. “I can testify that you don’t need any help from me when it comes to being unrefined.”
Before Helena could answer, Pete’s voice came from the back seat. “Please tell me that this means I’m going to get a private viewing of ‘Girls Behaving Badly’,” he grinned, sitting up to leer at them from between the seats.
“The only thing you’re going to get a private viewing of is my fist as it connects with your nose, if you don’t stop with the suggestive comments,” Myka informed him, eyes glaring back at him from the rear-view mirror. “Or I could just mention to Kelly that you seem to be really interested in seeing my girlfriend naked.”
Pete visibly swallowed at the latter remark. “You wouldn’t, would ya?”
“In a heartbeat,” Myka promised. Helena simply smirked and squeezed Myka’s fingers a bit tighter.
“Yeah, okay,” Pete groused, falling back against the seat. “You know, even as a lesbian you aren’t any fun.”
“Even as a lesbian?” Myka asked incredulously. “What is it with men and lesbians?”
“Oh, come on, Myka. Two gorgeous women together?” Pete answered, leaning forward again in his enthusiasm for the subject. “It’s incredibly hot. What’s not to love, right, H.G.?”
“Do not answer him,” Myka warned, shooting an admonishing glance at the woman next to her. “Do not encourage him.”
“But darling, he does have a point,” Helena responded teasingly, her smile fond as she scraped her nails along Myka’s palm. “Of course, two gorgeous women together will have absolutely no interest in you, Pete. None. At all,” Helena replied, turning her head to face the back seat, dark eyes sparkling with amusement.
“You know, I’m surprisingly okay with that, “Pete replied, grinning widely. “I have a really good imagination.”
“Pete, if you…,” Myka began to threaten, cut short as Pete interrupted her with an expression of distaste.
“Eww. No, not of you two. Gross. That’s like imaging my sister having sex, which I do not ever want to do,” Pete grimaced, meeting Myka’s eyes in the mirror. “Actually, I was thinking more of Megan Fox and Cat Woman.”
“Pete, Cat Woman is a fictional character. You mean Halle Berry, right?” Myka corrected, sighing to herself that she was even engaging in this conversation.
“No. Cat Woman. Like on the original Batman series,” Pete elucidated, oblivious to the consternated look on his partner’s face.
“You mean Julie Newmar?” Myka questioned, shaking her head at Helena’s puzzled expression.
“Yeah. She looked amazing as Cat Woman,” Pete nodded, the puerile grin on his face growing.
“Pete, Julie Newmar is almost 80,” Myka explained slowly, as one would to a small child.
“Yeah. I know, she’s old now. I meant when she was Cat Woman and really hot,” Pete said defensively.
Helena sat and listened to the exchange, fond insults and witty comebacks filling the interior of the truck, the banter so like siblings that she had to smile. A feeling of contentment stole over her, as it did at odd moments like this, when the sense of being part of something, of being part of a family, caught her unawares. However, as quickly as it came, the brief sensation of belonging fled, the broad grin she had been wearing fleeing like the last glimmers of twilight before the coming night.
Christina’s death had been so devastating that she had withdrawn from the world, distanced herself from her own family. She had been so selfish, so completely obsessed with finding a way to bring her daughter back that she had simply disappeared, her own brother having no idea what had happened to her. He was gone now. Everyone she had known and loved was gone.
She should be used to the rapid cycle of her moods, the dizzying shift from the euphoria she felt in Myka’s arms to the despondency of realizing that apart from that one person who had chosen, quite insanely, to love her, she was completely alone. When McPherson had first released her from her bronze prison, she had found it difficult to control the cacophony of emotion that threatened to drown out every rational thought, as the truth of her life, of the world in which she found herself became clear.
She had always hoped that one day the Regents would see fit to free her from her self-imposed confinement, but as the years turned into decades and the decades into a century, that hope had become poisoned, drop by drop, with the knowledge that, if and when she was released, Christina was still horribly dead and nothing she could do would ever alter that one essential fact.
It had taken months to overcome the panic as her inner sense of equilibrium swung unrelentingly, like Poe’s pendulum, threatening at every pass to tear her apart. She had almost mastered a compensating façade, one in which she appeared far more stable than she actually felt. Still, her bronze time machine had done one miraculous thing: it had brought her Myka; Myka, who reminded her daily that there was good in the world, that there was reason to be grateful for her hundred years of solitude.
She forced the smile back on her face.
“So, you have fantasies about Megan Fox and 1960’s Cat Woman, who’s now nearly 80?” Myka mocked, a broad grin splitting her face, too intent on torturing Pete to notice the play of emotion on Helena’s face. “Have you shared this little daydream with Kelly?”
“You know, I think we need to have a rule: what happens in the Warehouse, or anyplace we have to go artifact hunting, or, you know, anywhere, stays there,” Pete complained, making a face at the back of Myka’s head.
“I thought that only applied to Las Vegas,” Helena countered, pushing aside the last vestiges of melancholy to smirk a bit as two equally astonished faces turned to stare at her. “What? You’d be amazed at what I’ve learned from Claudia.”
“I think I’d be terrified to know what you’ve learned from Claudia,” Myka conceded. “Remind me to have a little talk with Ms. Donovan when we get home.”
“Are we there yet?” Pete asked, whining just a smidgen.
“Actually, we are,” Myka answered, slowing the car as they passed the “Welcome to Millville” sign.
They smelled the devastation long before they saw it, the acrid scent filling the inside of the car, filtering in through the engine, seeping in through the cracks of the doors: sharp and pungent and overwhelming. Helena noticed that Pete blanched a little, his handsome face growing grim and pale.
Myka appeared to have noticed as well. “Hey, Pete, it would probably be a lot faster if we split up. Why don’t you drop me and Helena off here in Millville and we’ll see what we can find out about the fire, and you can take the truck over to Palo Cedro to the school and check it out?”
“You sure you two can handle this?” Pete asked with only a trace of his usual bravado, the grin on his lips never reaching his eyes.
“We can probably manage to muddle our way through,” Helena responded, glancing curiously at Myka, her eyes questioning the change in Pete’s demeanor. Myka shook her head imperceptivity and mouthed, ‘Later’.
Myka pulled the SUV as close as possible to the orange and white striped barricades that were situated across the road. Beyond the barriers they could see the remains of what must have been downtown. Detritus was everywhere: blackened steel girders marked the edges of storefronts, filthy broken glass covered the sidewalks and streets, stray shards catching the sunlight and glinting like diamonds strewn in a muddy field. Here and there they caught a glimpse of figures moving through the wreckage and destruction, carting away debris, attempting to sweep up some of the glass and rubble, but the rest of the area was deserted, a pall hanging over the town.
Stepping out of the truck, the odor hit them with full-force. Pete grimaced, jaw clenching tightly at the smell. Helena gasped, her hands automatically rising to press the collar of her jacket over her nose and mouth. She watched as Myka wrapped her scarf around her lower face, then hastily circled to the back of the vehicle and opened the hatch. She rummaged through her travel bag, pulling out another, similar scarf, swiftly returning to Helena’s side and making quick work of creating her own protective face covering.
As Myka tucked the ends into her collar, Helena grabbed Myka’s hands, holding them for a moment to her chest, meeting Myka’s green eyes. “Thank you, darling,” Helena said quietly, voice muffled by the soft wool as her own hands unconsciously adjusted the buttons on Myka’s coat.
“Yeah, so if you two are done dressing each other, I’m going to head over to the high school. Now, if you were undressing, of course I would hang around,” Pete joked half-heartedly, pulling the driver’s door open and hopping in. “Call if you run into any problems.”
“You, too,” Myka said, waving as the SUV made a sharp u-turn and headed back down Route 44.
Helena moved closer to Myka, the arms of their coats brushing, the fabric rustling in the unnatural stillness of the ruined street. “Now, are you going to tell me why Pete seemed so unusually unsettled by all this?”
“His dad was a firefighter. He was killed in a fire when Pete was young. I think that the smell and the sight of so much destruction would have been a little too much for him. That’s why I suggested that he go to the school and see what he could find out there. It wasn’t as huge a fire and besides, Pete and gyms and gym teachers are made for each other.”
Helena leaned her head briefly on Myka’s shoulder, tucking her hand into the crook of Myka’s arm, the sense that theirs was an unequal partnership sprouting up once again, like a bottle always bobbing to the surface amid the tumult of the waves. At her best, Helena knew she had the potential to be a relatively decent human being. Not wonderful, not strictly good, but decent. Myka, on the other hand, Myka was a truly good person: thoughtful, kind, caring; all things that by nature and habit, Helena knew she was not.
“You are rather sweet, you know?” Helena sighed. “Definitely far nicer than I deserve.”
“Well, I think that I’m exactly as nice as you deserve,” Myka smiled back, tugging Helena along with her as they made their way past the barricades. “Sexier than you deserve, of course, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
Helena laughed, a rich, throaty chuckle and squeezed Myka’s arm before releasing it. “I suppose as inequities go, that is one with which I can no doubt learn to live.”
“I kind of figured you could,” Myka smirked, her face sobering as they progressed down the main street and the extent of the destruction became even more apparent. “Artie said that they think the fire started at the church. Let’s start there.”
The ten minute walk to the church had a funerary atmosphere to it, and Helena felt the same sense of catastrophic grief pervading the air that she had experienced over a century before. “It feels like walking through San Francisco right after the earthquake in ’06. Much smaller scale of course, but the same sensation of overwhelming anguish, of having lost everything one possessed, everything one had worked a whole lifetime to acquire. It’s a feeling with which I am now more intimately familiar,” she said quietly, eyes clouded with memory.
Helena was so enmeshed in her thoughts that, at first, she didn’t notice that Myka had stopped walking. It was only when the younger woman softly called her name that she paused and turned back, her breath catching at the expression in Myka’s eyes.
“And when you lose everything, I guess the only thing you can do is try to rebuild, try to find other things, other people that are important to you. They don’t ever replace the things and the people you’ve lost-they never could--- but maybe they help fill up a little of the emptiness that was left behind?” Myka suggested gently, her head canted to the side, her eyes, above the scarf, full of understanding and love.
Helena swallowed around the lump that magically appeared in her throat, drawing in a deep breath before replying, her voice hoarse with emotion. “More than a little. Much, much more.”
“Um, so. There’s the church up on the corner. Or what’s left of it,” Myka said, seeming to shake herself free from the intensity of Helena’s gaze.
“Perhaps we can find the vicar,” Helena offered, taking Myka’s cue to move on from the implications of the moment.
“Minister. Or pastor,” Myka corrected. “That’s what they’re called over here.”
“Ah. Well, then, minister,” Helena agreed amiably. “Shall we see who’s about?”
They gingerly climbed the front steps, avoiding the pieces of charred wood and bricks. The stone floor of the church was intact, as were three of the walls. The church had been built of red brick and mortar, the interior painted a gleaming white, but now there was nothing but gray and black. The heat of the fire had reduced the thick pews of oak to smoldering embers. The two gaping holes in each of the exterior walls where the stained glass windows had been gave the appearance of ghastly, staring eyes. The metal crucifix above the altar had melted, twisting into an obscene, grotesque shape.
“Hello?” Myka called, her voice echoing unnaturally loudly in the cavernous space. “Hello, is anyone here?”
“Do American churches have vicarages? Or, ministerial residences, or whatever it is you call them over here?” Helena asked, the toe of her boot displacing what she surmised had once been a stack of hymnals, now simply ash and bits of curled yellow paper.
“Yes, usually. I’m thinking that pile of timbers right behind the church was probably the minister’s house,” Myka answered, bending to pick up a piece of bronze gleaming dully amid the soot. Helena moved closer to see as Myka rubbed the surface of the plate with her finger, finally uncovering the inscription: In loving memory of Alice and Archibald Bryson.
“You would be correct, young lady. It was indeed the minister’s house.” The owner of the voice appeared from what had once been the vestry, to the left of the altar, a wide broom in his hands. He was seventy if he was a day, a shock of white hair brushing his lined forehead. His hands and clothes were covered in grime. He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid there will be no service today. First time in nearly sixty years that we missed a Sunday service.”
“Are you the minister?” Myka asked, advancing carefully toward the old man.
“Reverend William Shaw. And you are?” He replied, a sliver of curiosity breaking through his obvious despair at the state of his church.
“Agent Bering, Secret Service. This is Agent Wells,” Myka stated formally, holding up her badge and identification. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about the fire.”
“Secret Service? For a fire?” Rev. Shaw queried, a puzzled frown leaving deep furrows on his brow. “You don’t think this was terrorism or something, do you?
“I’m afraid I can’t really discuss that,” Myka hedged, steering the conversation back. “Were you here when the fire started?”
The minister hesitated, his expression bemused. Helena said gently, “This must have been a beautiful church. Have you been here long?”
“Forty-three years,” he replied, a sad smile crossing his face. “This head of hair was as black as yours when I came here. Now there’s nothing left. No home, no church. My wife passed away two years ago from cancer. My faith teaches me that God only gives us what He knows we can bear. All I can think is that He must have a mighty high opinion of me. Of everyone in this town.”
It hardly seemed the time or the place to voice her own ideas about God and the universe and the horrific things rained down on good people, so Helena held her tongue, but something in her eyes must have caught Rev. Shaw’s attention. “Have you lost your faith, my dear?” His voice was so genuinely concerned that Helena was shocked to find herself blinking away the moisture gathering in her eyes.
Helena met Myka’s obdurate gaze and saw the unconditional love in them, love for her. “In some things,” she answered, her eyes never leaving Myka’s. “In others, I believe that I have found it again, after a very long time.”
“Reverend Shaw,” Myka said, forcing herself to turn and face the old man. “Were you here at the church when the fire started?”
“No,” he answered tiredly, “I was home. One of the stations was showing a John Wayne marathon, so I was stretched out in my easy chair watching Rooster Cogburn. My living room is on the far side of the house, away from the church. My hearing isn’t what it was, so I had the television on kind of loud. With the all the shooting and the dynamite exploding, I didn’t hear a thing. It wasn’t until I smelled smoke that I realized anything was wrong. By then, the church was ablaze and the fire had spread to the house next door, the Chambers’ house and the sparks had lit my roof as well.”
“So you didn’t see anyone or hear anything suspicious?” Myka asked, heart sinking somewhat at the minister’s words.
“Nothing,” he replied, glancing at her questioningly. “You seem to be suggesting that someone set this fire on purpose, young lady. Fire marshal said he couldn’t find any sign of an accelerant or any other indication of arson.”
“Reverend Shaw, what do you know about the fire that occurred at Foothills High a few weeks ago? Or the fire at the closed camp outside town?” Myka asked, refusing to be drawn in by the minister’s claims.
“Of course, I heard about the fire at the school. Most folks seem to think it was just a prank that got out of hand,” he told them, leaning heavily on the handle of the broom he carried. “As for the camp, well, that one I’m more familiar with. The camp belongs to the church and so I was contacted when one of the old cabins caught fire. The sheriff and the fire department both thought it was just the case of a drifter or some kids using the buildings for shelter. Probably built a fire to keep warm and accidentally burned the cabin down.”
“So this church owns the camp?” Myka asked excitedly, clearly pleased at finding a possible connection between the fires. “Do you know how long the camp was open?”
“It was a church camp for boys. Opened up in, oh, must have been 1951, maybe ’52. We finally closed it down in 2001. Just weren’t getting the kids like we used to,” Rev. Shaw responded. “You don’t think they’re related, do you?”
“I don’t want to speculate, Reverend Shaw,” Myka replied, slipping a business card out of the space behind her identification. “If you think of anything else, please call me at that number? And I am so sorry for what has happened to your church and your town. I promise, if someone is responsible for this, we’ll find him.”
“I’m still a bit unclear on what any of this has to do with the Secret Service,” the reverend began, startled when Myka and Helena turned with a brief wave and started back down the aisle towards the door. “Agent Bering?”
“We’ll be back in touch soon, Reverend.” Myka assured him, intent on getting out the church before he asked any more questions about why they were there.
Outside, Myka paused, eyes scanning the street. There were the remains of at least a dozen homes, many of their owners going through the motions of trying to salvage anything they could from the debris.
“We should split up. I’ll take the left side of the road, you take the right. Maybe someone saw something, or heard something,” Myka suggested.
“Agreed. We should also call Claudia and see what her impressive computer skills can derive from the connection between the camp and the church. Granted, the window of potential perpetrators is rather lengthy. Still, she may be able to narrow down the list, using the attendees of the high school as a further reference,” Helena supplied, pausing when she saw the grin of surprise light Myka’s green eyes. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that every once in a while, I’m reminded that I’m in love with H.G. Wells, inventor of time machines and grappling hooks,” Myka chuckled. “Which, by the way, is pretty amazing.”
“The time machine, the grappling hook or being in love with me?” Helena teased. “You modern day Americans have deplorable pronoun reference.”
“All three. But especially the last one,” Myka answered, pulling out the Farnsworth to call Claudia. “Although, I do really love that grappling hook.”
Two hours later, with Claudia hot on the trail of possible arsonists, Myka and Helena had learned nothing new. They had interviewed everyone they could find on the two streets nearest the church, but no one remembered seeing or hearing anything unusual. Whoever, or whatever was responsible for the fire, he or it had left nary a trace behind.
They had called Pete earlier and agreed on a time to meet. They trudged wearily back towards the main road where Pete was going to pick them up. He had had similar luck, or lack thereof, at both the high school and the camp. He’d also stopped by and talked to the Fire Marshal and the local Sheriff. Although he hadn’t revealed the real reason for the Secret Service’s visit, he had managed to get permission to poke around. According to Sheriff Winders, at this point, any and all help was welcome, suspicious or not.
Climbing wearily into the SUV, Helena gratefully unwrapped the scarf from her face, wondering idly as she did so how Arab women coped with having to cover their faces on a daily basis. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. In the passenger seat, Myka did the same with an exhausted groan.
“So you two got nada, huh?” Pete asked, guiding the truck back down Route 44 towards Redding. “Oh, and by the way, you reek!”
“No, we didn’t find out anything and thanks for that bit of news, Captain Obvious,” Myka retorted, not even bothering to open her eyes.
Helena pulled her hair across her face, inhaling deeply and grimacing. “I fear that we will never get the smell out of our hair and skin. We should be grateful we’re merely visitors, not one of those poor souls who lost home and hearth in the fire. Still, the odor does remind me of a rather unfortunate incident involving a Venetian garbage scow and one of Lucrezia Borgia’s combs.”
Myka and Pete glanced at each other and started laughing.
“Falling into the garbage wasn’t entirely my fault,” Helena began, only to be interrupted by Pete’s gleeful crow.
“We found it!” Pete announced triumphantly, reaching out a fist for Myka to bump. “Who da man?!”
“You found it? The comb?” Helena asked incredulously.
“It was our first experience as Warehouse agents. Let’s just say it was a trial by fire,” Myka told her, the choice of words not lost on any of them.
“Well, congratulations! I chased that bloody thing around Venice for weeks,” Helena offered, warmed by Myka’s smile as she glanced into the back seat.
“Hey, I went ahead and stopped by the hotel and got our rooms. I figured since I was right there in Redding, I’d go ahead and take care of it,” Pete informed them, “Thought you two would probably be a little tired. ‘Course we do have to eat. Anybody up for ribs and darts?”
“I’m too tired to eat anything that requires that much effort and Helena would kick your ass at darts, so let’s just grab some takeout somewhere and go back to the hotel so that I can wash my hair a few hundred times,” Myka replied.
“I must agree. I cannot wait to bathe. Repeatedly.” Helena asserted. “I’m actually surprised you found hotel rooms, Pete. I would think that with the fire in Millville, there would be an influx of residents in need of lodging.”
“It wasn’t easy. Our hotel isn’t the Ritz, but it looked clean and I got the last two rooms. I, ah, I didn’t think you two would mind sharing,” Pete responded, a slightly juvenile grin lighting his face as he saw Myka’s troubled frown. “Of course, you know, Myka, if you’re gonna be too worried about what Artie might say about you two being all unprofessional, I’d be happy to sacrifice and take one for the team and stay with H.G.”
“Only if you’re sacrificing a body part or two,” Myka smiled smugly. “Just stop at In-and-Out and then get us to the hotel before I show you what unprofessional really looks like.”
Half an hour later the two women were gratifyingly ensconced in their room.
“Helena, hand me your clothes,” Myka ordered, a white plastic bag marked ‘Dry Cleaning’ in one hand. “I’m going to put our stuff in here. If I put it in the back of the closet, maybe it won’t smell quite as badly.”
“Are you asking me to disrobe, Agent Bering?” Helena asked innocently, a sly grin just touching full lips.
“Strip. Now,” Myka demanded, holding out the bag.
“Hmm. Only if you promise that we can shower together this time,” Helena bargained, relatively certain that the odds were in her favor. “After all, a hotel like this is bound to have sturdier fixtures than Leena’s. And, I’ll wash your hair for you, as many times as you’d like.”
“Deal. Now get out of those clothes so we can get cleaned up, eat and go to bed,” Myka agreed, trying to appear reluctant, not that there had been any real doubt what her answer would be. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“Would you mind terribly if I alter slightly your order of events?” Helena inquired with a wicked smile.
“Helena!” Myka exclaimed, the rest of her reply cut short with the ringing of her cell phone. Watching Helena gracefully remove her clothing, Myka absently pressed the answer button on the phone.
“Agent Bering?” The voice sounded vaguely familiar: exhausted and slightly querulous.
“Yes, this Agent Bering.”
“Agent Bering, this is Rebecca Chambers. You came by my home today. Or what’s left of my home and asked questions about the night of the fire and you left your card and said to call if I remembered anything. Well, I have. Or rather, my grandson Kevin has. He’s just eleven, but he’s very smart for his age and he was staying with us that night.”
“Yes, Mrs. Chambers, what did your grandson remember?” Myka prompted, trying not to sound impatient as the woman rambled. Helena tucked the last of her clothes into the bag and stepped, gloriously, stunningly naked, towards Myka, her expression curious.
“He says he heard music,” Mrs. Chambers offered. “He loves music. He plays the trombone in the school band and he listens to his mp thingie all the time. My husband and I have to practically beg him to take those earphones out when he comes over.”
“Mrs. Chambers, is it possible that your grandson actually was listening to his iPod when the fire started and because of the trauma, simply doesn’t remember?” Myka asked, eyes fixed on the beautiful woman standing naked before her.
“Oh, no. You see, he’d left it at home. He was very upset when he got to our house and realized he didn’t have it,” Mrs. Chambers elucidated. “No, he heard music. Weird music, he says, although between you and me, most of what he listens to I wouldn’t call music.”
“Mrs. Chambers. What did this music sound like?” Myka probed. Helena moved closer, pressing her ear against Myka’s cheek so that she could hear the reply.
“He said it sounded like a really out of tune guitar,” Mrs. Chambers responded. “And it was odd music, he said, like creepy funeral music. Not that he’s been to many funerals, mind you. Still….”
“Thank you, Mrs. Chambers, for calling,” Myka told her, effectively cutting off what she knew would be a long tale. “Agent Wells and I will stop by tomorrow and talk to Kevin. Thank you again for calling. Good night.”
“Out of tune guitar?” Myka pondered, glancing up to see the look of terrified excitement on Helena’s gorgeous face. “What? Do you know what it is?”
Helena took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, completely unselfconscious about her lack of clothes. There really were too many variables, too many other options from which to choose, but she had a feeling, one of dread and exhilaration that had settled in the pit of her stomach the moment Myka had repeated the word, ‘music’. All the wheels and cogs in her mind clicked into place. It all suddenly made perfect, horrifying sense.
“Helena! Do you know what the artifact is?” Myka repeated, sinking to her knees in front of her lover. Helena’s dark eyes met hers.
“Have you ever heard the legend of Nero and the burning of Rome?” Helena asked rhetorically, as Myka nodded her head. “Nero reputedly played his lyre while the city was reduced to ashes all around him. Of course, modern retellings have changed the name of the instrument, but it’s still the same artifact.”
Myka sank back on her heels, staring up at Helena in dismay. “Someone’s using Nero’s fiddle?”
“So it would seem, darling. So it would seem,” Helena said, a shiver sending a rash of goosebumps along her skin.
“Come on, let’s get in the shower and get warmed up,” Myka replied distractedly, pushing herself upright and offering Helena her hand.
“I have a very bad feeling, my love, that before this is all over, being cold will definitely not be one of our concerns.” Helena said quietly, as she took Myka’s hand and led her to the bathroom, the steam of the shower swallowing them up.
Woods outside Millville, California
He had seen the two women, scarves wrapped around their faces to combat the unpleasant smell of burned out buildings, burned out homes. He wondered what they would do to fight the overwhelming stench of burned out lives. Not that either of them would know anything about that. He could tell, could see by their clothes and the way that they walked, confident, arrogant even. He’d heard them asking questions, trying to find someone who had seen him, someone who had heard the music the night of the fire, the night he’d played a masterpiece. It didn’t matter now if they did find someone. He almost welcomed it. He was tired, tired of hiding, tired of not being able to boast of his accomplishments.
Soon. Soon he would show them all. He opened the pill bottle and shook three blue pills into his hand, tossing them into his mouth, the taste of the vodka washing them down as sharp and acrid as the smoke. Closing his eyes, he dragged one fingernail across the strings, a slow smile spreading across his face as the pile of wood before him burst into flames, the cinders rising high into the winter sky.
TBC