Chapter Fourteen

Chapter fourteen, here we go. Only four more in the next four days. Eight thousand words - four chapters - they're going to be short. Or combined. Either way. I might drop 18, just because it's more or less just a bit more of 17, and this way I'll have a prime number, which I like. *nodnod*

Not safe, unfortunately. Lots of cursing, from the inestimable Jim. Also a dart gun and a lawyer who will Take No Prisoners. Fun.

He was arrested post haste, because he'd obviously just shot someone and been threatening hostages. Stranger knew he wasn't exactly the least intimidating guy out there, but they way they were treating him, it was like he was built like Havisham or something. Caroline and Persephone were ushered out of the room post haste - oh, those poor girls, taken hostage by the evil crazy writer, nearly killed, forced to watch that poor man be murdered, etc., etc. Stranger thanked any deities which might be looking over him that they didn't stay or try to protest his innocence. That would only get all of them in more trouble, if his luck of the past week held true.

He was cuffed, brought downstairs (many, many stairs) and put in the back of a SWAT van, the kind that they only use for Very Important Prisoners. He went willingly, didn't fight in any way. He told them the truth about his name, his job, everything they wanted except why he was here and why he'd shot Sir Dick - although they called him Sir Richard, something that threw him off for a moment. This all just served to make them even more suspicious, or so it seemed to Stranger. He was a bit surprised that they didn't make him put on the strait-jacket that lurked menacingly in the corner.

All in all, he decided as the van pulled away, the day was turning out to be crappy and it wasn't even daylight yet.

------

He was sent through some sort of complex bureaucratic system that was only made more tense by the fact that he was thoroughly cuffed and there were men with guns giving him nasty looks. He filled out every form they gave him, except ones that looked like they wanted confessions or excuses. He wasn't going to give them either. What he did do was ask, whenever someone who looked like they might have some authority came by, if he might call his lawyer. The general response was yes, yes, of course, just fill out the paperwork, sir, first.

By the time he was allowed to call a lawyer, the sun was beginning to peek up over the horizon. At least, he imagined it was, and was creating memories of sitting up on a roof somewhere to watch it. It was a comforting though, that somewhere out there the world was still turning and he was not, in fact, going to get locked up for murdering a Very Important Person. He firmly believed that he firmly believed he would be rescued, which of course meant he'd resigned himself to Cell Block Number Four when he'd done something idiotically stupid and/or brave a couple hours ago. All this was swirling in his mind as he called the only lawyer he knew, thanking any dieties that might be still paying attention and not laughing too loudly to hear him that he still remembered the number.

"Hello?" came the prim and proper tones of the inevitable prim and proper secretary. "This is the office of Goodnight, Hattely, and Rochester, who might I connect you with?"

"Are any of them actually here?" Stranger asked, surprised.

"Mr. Rochester is."

"Does Mr. Rochester happen to be a criminal lawyer?" Stranger asked.

"He is. Are you interested in obtaining his services?" the secretary asked.

"Yes, I am," Stranger said. "I can pay any fees up front." That is, he could if George got out okay. "Could he meet me at the Boston Police Department? Tell him to ask for Mr. Stranger. If the front desk looks aghast, he's in the right place."

"Duly noted, sir," said the prim and proper voice. "I shall tell him immediately." Then there was a click, and Stranger was left wondering whether he'd just been effectively told to fuck off or not.

He spent the next hour back in the interrogation room signing yet more paperwork, or being left to sit and stare at the ceiling. It was a ceiling. There wasn't anything particularly interesting about it. He did his best to restrain the impulse to make childish faces at the mirror. If he was honestly in trouble - and all signs pointed to 'yes' in that respect - then being a model prisoner/arrestee would be his best bet.

Then he heard a slight commotion outside the door to his own cozy little piece of boredom. Considering the fact that he was pretty sure that door was both bullet- and sound-proof, that was impressive. Then the door burst open, and the man who shoved his way in was shouting, "-and sue you for preventing my client from properly accessing his rights! You will be a cold, dead hole in the ground by the time I'm through." Said gentleman was tall, ungodly tall, and built rather like a statue of a Greek god Stranger had seen once. It wasn't gracefull Apollo or brawny Zeus, though. It was gnarly Hephaestus, the god of the forge. This man reminded him of nothing so much as him. Bent over, gnarled, broken in places, absolutely on fire with some sort of passion - be it rage or interest - and completely, utterly terrifying. Stranger stared at him.

"Thadeus Rochester," said the lawyer, or so Stranger assumed. "You're Mr. Stranger?"

"Yes," Stranger said. Anything beyond that seemed unnecessary.

"Good. George, your friend, he's a good man, helped me out with some cases, so I said I'd keep an eye out for him or his acquaintances. He told me you were the only one I should bother with. Was there a reason for that?" Rochester asked.

"He's mostly afraid he'll lose his drinking buddy," Stranger said. "Plus I think he suspects that I make my stories creepy using personal experience."

"Do you?" Rochester asked, apparently out of professional curiosity.

"No, and I tend to pass out at the sight of dead people," Stranger told him. "I'm honestly a bit surprised I'm upright right now."

"Adrenalin will do that to a fellow," Rochester said. "Look, we've got privacy, lawyer-client confidentiality, right now." He glared at the mirror. Stranger almost swore it quivered. "So tell me the truth, the whole, and nothing but. Did you kill that man?"

"No, but I was there when he was."

"Obviously. He was only dead for a couple minutes when the police got there, or so I've been told. Who did kill him?"

"The two women I was with. Actually, one woman, Caroline, although I don't know if that's the name she told the police, I know she shot him, I'm not sure about Persephone." Stranger took a deep breath, and let it out in one long, slow sigh. It was starting to hit him, now that he was actually talking about it, and the dizziness he associated with death was starting to come back.

Rochester gave him a look, not devoid of sympathy, but clearly stating they had more important things to be doing, vis a vis clearing Stranger's name, and therefore should not be doing certain other things, e.g. passing out. "Then why did you have the guns in your hands, pointing not only at the dead man, but also at the two women?"

"Because if they got themselves arrested," Stranger said, "Then there is no way on this fucking planet Caroline at least wouldn't be given life for terrorism or something. And I don't even know what Persephone's done."

"I don't want to know anything else about those two," Rochester said firmly. "But this is all I need to know. You are innocent?"

"Yes."

"You were trying to protect those two lovely ladies of which you will tell me nothing else?"

"Yes."

"Good. I can work with this." Rochester nodded to himself. Then he looked at Stranger. "Oh, by the way, your bail is being posted now. Your friend gave me a sum specifically to be used in these circumstances. I do hope you won't lose it for him by doing something like, oh, leaving the city limits or cavorting with criminals for the next three days or so? That's the minimum amount of time I need to get your name cleared."

"I'd definitely prefer to help George retain his supersaturation of capital," Stranger said, nodding. He liked this fellow. Compared to Money-Pusher, or Hattely or whatever his name was, Rochester was a breath of air. Not necessarily fresh, but any air was welcome.

"Good," Rochester said, standing up. "If they don't let you out of here within fifteen minutes, tell me, and we'll get them on charges of 'unnecessarily detainment' too."

Stranger nodded, like he had any idea how that would work, and settled back into his chair to wait yet again.

Fourteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, the door was opened by one of the more or less interchangeable officers. Stranger, as he was led outside into the stormy, wet world, noticed that every person in a uniform looks the same after a while. Just like he'd been surprised when Persephone had been sarcastic at him, now he would have been downright shocked if someone had given him a genuine smile or even a genuine glare. Put someone in a uniform and they immediately start acting the way they think that uniform dictates. Interns for spy organizations act ruthlessly efficient, police officers act tough and a little wary, and he was sure all UPS employees put boxes labelled 'This Side Up' upside down. It was just something about the uniform.

At some point, someone had informed him of all the things he could and could not do while on parole, and it had summed up to what Rochester had said, so he'd tuned it out. He'd been paying much more attention to the weather outside the windows. And now, standing in it, the rain beating down on him and wind chilling him to the bone, he felt different. Maybe not free, because there was still the paper with all his instructions in it in his pocket, reminding him that he couldn't leave the city and all that, but in control. He could choose where to go, and not have to worry about the unnamed coming after him at this point. He honestly wasn't even sure if any of them had survived, other than Caroline and Persephone.

Persephone's name glancing through his consciousness did make him cringe internally a little, but he did his best to ignore that. He would go home, he decided. His flat must be lonely, and he really, really, really wanted to wear some of his own clothes, and take a shower in his own bathroom. And, he decided, he would walk there, because it wasn't that far and he had no money on him whatsoever to pay for some sort of transport. Even that felt like an actual choice, though; he still suspected that a black car would glide out of nowhere and pick him up. The decision to not wait for it felt good.

Of course, half an hour later, soaking wet, fumbling with the lock on the apartment building, he was wishing that the black car had arrived so that he could have made the decision to take it instead, but that was neither here nor there. He was, unfortunately, there though when Jim arrived, looking much the worse for wear for the days STranger had been gone. Jim seemed to have gone from hick to homeless in a week and a half.

"What happened to you?" Stranger asked, appalled.

Jim glared at him. "I dunno. But I keep getting kicked out of my own place because of some damned things that the Feds and the Mob are searching fer in yours!"

Stranger almost felt guilty. "Sorry about that," he said. "I seem to have gotten something that some people want. It's been a bad week for me, too."

"Not as bad as it has been for me," Jim said, stepping towards Stranger. "I've been living on the street. I've been fired at work because 'I draw the wrong type of crowd.'" He spat to one side. "I cain't even get out of the city because the Fed keep 'detaining me for informational purposes.'" He spat again. "And it's because of you. I know it. You and your writing and your damned phone number!"

"That isn't my fault," Stranger said, backing away and fumbling with the latch on the door. "I tried to get the phones sorted out for months."

"I'm gonna fix you," Jim said, shoving Stranger against the door. It fell open, taking Stranger with it. Stranger had never, in his entire life, been happier to land on his ass. He shoved himself backwards, getting out of the way of the door swinging back towards him. It ran into Jim, who was still coming towards him. Stranger scrambled to his feet, running upstairs to his rooms. The door up there was hanging open, not a surprise and an unlooked-for aid. He just had to run in and slam the door shut.

Now that he had ten seconds to think, he realized that this whole coming home bit hadn't been the brightest idea. He needed to go find George and Persephone and CAroline and the rest. He needed to get himself a support net. They could back him up, prevent Jim from strangling him, and probably even keep him from finding some other way to get in trouble. That thought in mind, he went to his bedroom, hauled open the closet, grabbed a change of clothes and shoved them in a plastic grocery bag, before running to the window. He'd never been particularly happy with his view, which was of a rooftop and then the wall of the building next door, but now he took it as a wonderful way to get down without dying. As he hauled the window open, his door burst open, and Jim came roaring in. "You little fucker," he shouted. Stranger took that as his cue and ducked, a little awkwardly, out through the window and tried not to skid down the angled roof. It was slick with rain, and for the second time in in two minutes he landed on his ass; this time, though, he was sliding down a roof to his certain doom.

The gutter hurt, when he slid over it, but he ignored that to contemplate his destiny and desperately hope for a soft landing. He got one, if pile of garbage bags could be considered soft. He lay there for a minute, trying to catch his breath and let the stinging sensation radiating up his legs and spine subside, but then he realized Jim was trying to fit through the selfsame window Stranger had escaped through. That meant it was time to leave.

Readjusting his hold on his clean clothes - still, miraculously clean - he got up a little stiffly and started moving towards the road. It was light out, but only the dim and dingy light of a stormy morning. Stranger didn't care; it was better than streetlights, and the rain would maybe melt Jim. He could only hope. He heard a muffled curse as Jim landed in the trash behind him, and started double-timing it down the street. It was alarming how familiar this was feeling to him, how at home he was with imminent death, and that alarm ratcheted up the already considerable amount of adrenaline in his system, and he was running down the street and around the corner. There was Malcolm's, the familiar old building, windows dark and a 'Closed' sign hanging like the blade of a guillotine. But he wasn't aiming for that place, unfortunately. He was headed towards the pawn shop next door. He knew the owner, an elderly Russian immigrant, and he knew that said owner kept his own personal arsenal beneath the register. He also knew that the place was open, because he'd never seen it closed. And thank god, it was. Stranger got there and pulled open the door as Jim rounded the corner a hundred feet back. Stranger, ever one to push his luck, flipped him off before running inside.

Pavel Nikova, the owner, was behind the desk, as always. He started shouting at Stranger in Russian in such a way that STranger felt the air blister, even though he had no idea what curses the man was using. "Look," Stranger said, shouting over him. "I'm being chased by that idiot you don't like, and I need help." Pavel stopped shouting at him, and gestured. Keep talking. There was only ever one idiot when Stranger talked to him.

"I'm pretty sure he's going to try to kill me," Stranger told him, reaching the counter.

Jim, at that moment, beautifully illustrated his point - nay, even Illuminated it - by bursting in through the display window, sending shattered glass everywhere, and shouting, "I'm gonna kill you!"

Pavel's enormous eyebrows rose, his hand went down, and then Stranger was shoved sideways as Pavel knocked him out of the way for a clear shot with the rifle he kept under his desk. "Don't kill him," Stranger said, "That might get my parole revoked."

Pavel nodded and pulled the trigger as Jim barrelled his way towards them. A little thing that buzzed as it flew shot forward, and hit Jim in the neck. He kept going out of sheer momentum for a moment or so, then a look of confusion slipped over his face and he fell over, directly onto the counter in front of Pavel.

"It was a good shot," Pavel said, with a single, sharp nod, his accent changing the w to a v. "He should sleep for about six hours."

"Will being drunk affect the drug in any way?" Stranger asked, righting himself. "I really do not want to have a murder on my conscience."

"He should be fine. Maybe sleep longer, but that's all." Pavel put the dart gun on the counter. "He ruined my bear trophy when he came in. I feel no pity for him."

Stranger looked back at the minor path of destruction that Jim had wrought. THere was indeed a polar bear, stuffed, standing upright along it. It was missing an arm, and stuffing and wiring was coming out of it. "That's unfortunate," Stranger said. "I apologize, but I didn't want to run any further. He might have caught up."

"I should be calling the police now, I suppose?" Pavel asked him.

Stranger sighed. "Probably. I'm going to go change and then sit very quietly in the corner until they arrive, touching nothing and hoping I don't get re-arrested."

-----

Twenty minutes later, he was wearing his clean clothes, even his chucks, had gotten most of the garbage stink off of him, and dried off - Pavel had towels in stock, of course he did - and was feeling worlds better for it. The police had arrived, and they were questioning Pavel. "It was simple, really," Pavel said. "An old friend of mine, Stranger there, came in looking distressed, and said a man was trying to kill him. Then this man here came in shouting that he wanted to kill him, and destroying much of my stock. So I shot him with a mild tranquilizer. It had reacted with the alcohol in his blood and knocked him out cold."

"Sir, might your reaction have been a little over the top?" asked the officer interviewing him, glancing up from where he was taking notes. "After all, you friend happens to be on parole, having been found at the scene of a felony with the murder weapons in his hands."

"I don't know anything about that," Pavel said, calmly. "But he is my friend and I don't believe him capable of hurting a fly. And had you seen that man," nodding towards the unconscious Jim who was being loaded into an ambulance, "running towards you at high speed shouting threats, you would understand that it was not an overreaction, but rather justified fear for my life."

The officer looked back at Jim, as he was finally gotten into the ambulance. They'd had trouble, because Jim was not a svelte man. He was built like a brick shithouse, to mince no words. "Off the record," the officer said, "I can totally understand that, sir." Then, turning to Stranger, he said, "As far as I can tell, you've broken no laws. All I can tell you is please remain available for questioning in this matter, but as you're unable to leave the city, I hardly have to mention it."

"Thank you, officer," Stranger said, stretching. "So can I go?"

"You're free to leave. We already have your information on file."

"Awesome, thank you," Stranger said, getting up. He left the scene of the crime and started walking to George's place. He still had no money for a taxi, and he rather regretted that, but at least it had stopped raining.