The Ending Hour
by Maya Tawipart three
"I've got tiny little fingers
I've got bones where the ring goes
They go like a plant grows
They go slowly
They go over your new clothes
They go over your money
They go over your head, man
The only good man is a dead man"
--Helium, "Skeleton"NOVEMBER -- SEATTLE
Harrison made Spencer book him the cheapest flight available, which ended up taking him through Cleveland and Salt Lake City before touching down at SeaTac way too fucking early in the morning. He'd slept badly on the planes and had two different cricks in his neck; by the time he stumbled down the jetway, gathered his luggage-- consisting of his disassembled gun and whatever clean clothes he'd managed to stuff in a duffel bag-- and made it to the car rental counter, he was running on sheer will alone.
"Gimme something cheap," he said, slapping his driver's license on the counter.
"Cheap it is," the woman said without batting an eye.
And cheap it was, a ten-year-old Geo that made ominous clunking sounds every time he shifted gears, but Harrison wasn't picky. He stopped at a fast food joint for some coffee, instead of what he really wanted, about a week of uninterrupted sleep, but unfortunately they didn't make that to go. He chugged it in the parking lot, leaning against the car and studying the directions and the map Spencer had given him.
Downtown Seattle was a forest of tall glass buildings, crowded so close together that he could barely see the damp gray sky overhead. Harrison only got lost three times before finding Wong, Young and Thundercliff, which he blamed on Spencer's indecipherable scrawl, and then cruised past the building at about ten miles per hour. It took another four blocks before he found a semi-legal parking space. That was one advantage of the Geo; it was small enough that it wasn't really blocking the hydrant.
Then Harrison killed the engine and sat in the car for a few minutes, staring at nothing. Ever since Isaac's phone call, he'd been running on adrenaline, with no further goal than getting to Seattle and finding his father. Now he was here, and it was time to start thinking a step ahead for once. Time to act instead of react. Time to beat the old man at his own game.
He leaned into the backseat to grab his duffel bag, and balanced it on top of the gearshift as he rummaged through it for the pieces of his gun.
Assembling it took less than a minute. He slammed the clip home, tucked the gun into his shoulder holster, and tugged at the lapels of his leather jacket to cover the bulge.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered to the rearview mirror. His reflection stared back at him with flat, shadowed eyes, and just for an instant, he didn't look like himself. He took another second to place the pang of recognition. His was the same expression Ray'd had, just before he'd gunned down Peter O'Toole and his thugs.
It was sheer ruthlessness.
"All right," he amended, unnerved despite himself, and slung the bag over his shoulder. "Here goes something big."
His reflection wasn't placated. Harrison flipped it off and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
He stopped in a coffee shop on the corner for another hit of caffeine, then took advantage of the for-customers-only bathroom and changed into a tailored gray suit. It was the best one he owned, a remnant from a more whimsical state of mind, and he'd grabbed it at the last minute, figuring he'd never get through the front door in ratty jeans and a T-shirt. His holster made the jacket crumple in weird places, and the stuffed-in-a-duffel-bag wrinkles weren't doing the look any favors, but he'd pass from a distance. His hair, as usual, was a lost cause; he just ran damp fingers through the strands and hoped for the best. He didn't even bother trying to knot the tie himself, just poked his head out the bathroom door and called, "Anyone know how to work this thing?"
Harrison left the café five minutes later, tie nearly knotted, phone number in his pocket, and remembering one of the perks of wearing suits: hot professional chicks dug the look.
Wong, Young, and Thundercliff sat in the middle of the block, dwarfing the buildings on either side, which was no mean feat. Harrison adjusted his jacket one last time, pushed open the door, and strolled across the lobby with what he hoped was a businesslike air.
The receptionist didn't give him a second look.
He figured the partners' offices would be on the top floor. It was a place to start, anyway. Spencer had already found the list of employees at the firm, and Richard Davies wasn't on it. Harrison wasn't surprised. In four years of searching, he hadn't found the first trace of his father. If Richard wasn't using a fake name, it would be a serious blow to his ego, if nothing else.
There was no such good reason to assume Richard was one of the named partners; that was down to first-hand knowledge. Richard Davies wouldn't work under anybody longer than he had to. Four years was more than enough time to establish his rep in this city and rise straight to the top.
Too bad nobody had ever taught the man tactics. If it were Harrison trying to hide from somebody, he would've gone for chief fry cook, not Defense Attorney Version 2.0. Not that he was complaining.
The elevator raced to the top floor. The doors slid open with a muted ping. Harrison stepped out into the small lobby and looked around. Only one question remained: Wong, Young, or Thundercliff?
The partners had their own receptionist, and she was giving him more than a second look. She was giving him the kind of look sharks reserved for unwary swimmers, and Harrison had seen Jaws, thank you very much. "Can I help you?" she demanded, half-rising as he started to step past her desk.
He waved her back down, channeling his father with disturbing ease. "It's all right. I've got an appointment."
"With who?" she countered, ignoring the wave.
Split-second decision time. No way could Richard pull off being a Wong. Harrison would've chosen the name Thundercliff for himself, which meant his father definitely hadn't.
"Mr. Young," he said over his shoulder, doing the hand-wave thing again. "Don't bother checking, it's not in the book." He'd worked for his father before; he knew how things worked. Half of Richard's clients' names never appeared in the book.
The receptionist sank back down with a scowl. "I'll let him know you're here, Mr....?"
"Don't bother," Harrison said again. "He's expecting me."
He paused just around the corner, waiting to hear if she would pick up the phone. He grinned when she didn't. Face it; you give good Dick.
Then his smile faded as he turned and started down the hall, wiping suddenly-damp palms on his thighs. Three doors, three brass nameplates. The doors looked thick enough to be mostly soundproof. That was good. Wouldn't want the father-son chat to be interrupted.
Jesus. He was here, he was doing this. He felt lightheaded. It didn't feel real.
Robert Young, Esq.'s office was at the end of the hall. Harrison hesitated in front of the door, assailed by second and third thoughts. What if it wasn't Richard after all? Shit, what if it was? What did he expect his father to say that would change anything?
The hell with it. He'd come this far. Harrison held his breath, eased open the door, and slipped inside.
"I'm busy," Richard said without looking up.
Harrison exhaled at the sight of him, feeling his pulse start to race. His father was bent over an insanely huge desk, reading glasses on the end of his nose and Mont Blanc pen in hand, poring over a stack of documents. So goddamn complacent he didn't even check to see who had just walked in.
Time to shake that complacency. Harrison slammed the door behind him and felt his lips curl in a humorless smile. "You always are, Dad."
The effect was everything he could have hoped for. The pen fell from Richard's fingers with a clatter, and his head jerked up, mouth open and face pale. In the bare instant before he composed himself, Harrison saw the new lines in his face, the shadows that hadn't been there six years before.
Good. The bastard deserved to have Tru's death weigh on him. If that was even what it was.
Then the mask dropped back into place, and Richard half-stood, his face a perfect blank. "Harrison. What are you doing here?"
"Oh, well, I was in the area." Harrison grinned harder; it was that or hysterical screaming, though he wasn't ruling anything out yet. "Thought I'd stop in, see the old man. Catch up on old times."
Richard reached for the phone, and he pulled the gun from his holster and aimed it with steady hands. "I wouldn't, I were you."
"If you fire that in here," Richard said, "you won't make it out the door," but he sat back and moved his hand away from the phone.
"You'll still be dead." Harrison cocked the trigger. "Good enough for me. Think you'll ask for help? Think I'll start the day over and come save your sorry ass? Maybe I'll just take some vacation time instead. Up to you, Dad."
"Look at you," Richard said, as though he hadn't even spoken. "All grown up. How old are you now?"
"What, you forgot my birthday? What a surprise."
"You look exactly the same."
Harrison let his smile drop, feeling a strange calm settle over him. "I'm not."
"You don't have to do this, Harrison," Richard said. "We can come to an understanding, you and I."
He gritted his teeth. "I understand you plenty."
"I don't think you do. I'm just trying to do the right thing here, son."
"So killing Tru, killing Mom, how exactly was that the right thing to do?"
"You don't understand what you're dealing with," Richard said. "There are forces at work--"
"Yeah, save your breath," Harrison snapped. "I got the speech from Jack. You know, your other son?"
He was praying for a denial, a recoil and a shocked What are you talking about? Instead, Richard sat back, looking resigned and dismayed, and Harrison felt his stomach twist.
Okay, so he'd screwed his half-brother. Worse things had happened. He could get past this. Eventually the very thought wouldn't make him want to drop everything and heave.
And him being Tru's killer, that wasn't a problem for you?
And that little internal voice could shut up any time now.
"How many kids you got, Dad?" he asked softly, fingering the trigger. His arm was starting to ache. "One in every state? A set of spares for all of us, just in case?"
Richard stared down at his clasped hands for a few seconds before replying. "I know I haven't been much of a father to you. I'd like to remedy that, if you'll let me. If you need financial support--"
He reached for the checkbook lying open on his desk.
"You touch that thing," Harrison bit out, "I swear to God, you'll lose your fucking hand. I don't need your money."
His father gave him a familiar pitying look. "You always need money."
"Things change," he said.
Richard sighed and folded his hands again. "All right, then, if it's not money you're after, what do you want from me?"
And that was the question, wasn't it? "I want to hear the truth for once."
"You seem to have it all figured out already."
Harrison tightened his grip on the gun. "I wanna hear it from you."
"Fine," Richard said. "Yes, I ordered your mother and sister killed. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
He felt his finger tighten some more. It occurred to him to wish he'd brought a tape recorder; he hadn't thought that far ahead. Richard probably had one in his desk, but Harrison doubted his father would let him borrow it.
"It's a start," he said through clenched teeth.
Richard spread his hands. "What else do you want?"
"How did it start? Why'd you marry Mom? Did you know then?" The questions shot out of him like bullets, questions he didn't even know he'd had.
"I always knew," Richard said, and folded his hands again. The bastard even smiled a little. "When I was young, my father told me our family had a job, a sacred trust. We were charged with maintaining the fabric of the universe." He paused, his gaze seemed to drift into the distance. "It's a heavy burden to place on a child, but I welcomed it. I suppose that at a certain age, everybody wants to change the world."
"You didn't change anything," Harrison said. "Mom changed the world. You just tried to keep it the same."
"It's all a matter of perspective, son." Richard leaned forward, his expression eager and intent, his courtroom face. Courtroom voice, too. "Fate isn't meant to be changed. Look up the definition sometime. Every action has consequences. If you save somebody one day, and he goes out and kills someone else the next, who benefits? Things happen for a reason, Harrison. I firmly believe that."
Harrison gave him a tight smile. "Nice try, Dad. There's no jury here. Just me."
Richard's expression didn't change; he didn't even seem to have heard. "It pained me, what happened to your mother. You have to believe that. I loved Elise. I wouldn't have married her if I didn't."
"And then cheated on her with every piece of tail on the East Coast?"
"I had a responsibility," Richard said, unruffled. "I couldn't be certain our children wouldn't take after her instead of me. I was forced to take steps." He gave Harrison a meaningful look. "As it turned out, it's a good thing I did."
"That's fucking debatable," Harrison said. "Why the hell'd you marry her in the first place?"
"I told you, Harrison, I fell in love. I didn't want to; I had my duty to consider. But watching her for so long, running into her time and again...." Richard shook his head. "I was young and idealistic. I thought we could work things out."
"And when you couldn't," Harrison said, gritting his teeth again, "you had her killed. Classy."
Richard narrowed his eyes. "She was too good at what she did. I couldn't keep her in check anymore. If she divorced me, events would spiral out of control. I had hoped--" His voice caught in his throat, and he cleared it and started again. "I had hoped her death would end things."
"So what, you figured second time's the charm? That's why you killed Tru?"
"I thought since she didn't have children, the line would end with her." Richard shook his head again. "I didn't know it could be passed to siblings as well."
"Yeah, well, there's a lot you don't know," Harrison said. The gun trembled in his hand. "Are you even listening to yourself? You killed your wife and your daughter. How could that ever be the right thing to do?"
"This is bigger than us mere mortals, Harrison," Richard said. "Elise and Tru were casualties in a war they entered into with their eyes open. I tried to warn them both that it would go badly in the end. They wouldn't listen."
Harrison stared at his father, stunned. His father. He had the man's genes in his body. He wanted to scour out his insides with ground glass.
"You're a zealot," he said at last. "You're, like, a crazy cult person!"
"And you, as ever, refuse to listen to reason." Richard's voice hardened, though his eyes glowed with a horrifying kind of sympathy. "Look what this so-called calling has done to you, son. You're an alcoholic, you're broke, you keep extremely questionable company--"
Harrison's aim faltered. "You've been spying on me?"
"I've taken an interest," Richard said. "And I have to say, Harrison, I'm not impressed with what I've heard. If I ever thought a son of mine would be spreading his legs for organized crime--"
Harrison didn't think. If he'd been thinking, he would have pulled the trigger. Instead, he lunged across the desk, teeth bared, and closed his hands around his father's throat.
Richard's hands came up to shield himself, a split second too late; Harrison was already digging his fingers into the soft flesh. He didn't say anything. There was nothing left to say. The only sounds in the room were his father's choked wheezes and his own harsh pants.
He didn't realize he'd dropped the gun until Richard's flailing feet kicked it across the room and it went off, the shot deafening in the near-silence. Harrison jerked at the sound, and his grip loosened; in the next instant, he found himself shoved face-first into the desk, skull cracking against the hardwood, arms twisted up behind his back.
"Security!" Richard barked, his voice hoarse, but Harrison could already hear feet pounding in the hallway, drawn by the gunshot as promised. He squirmed, still dazed from the blow to his head, and Richard yanked his arms up to the back of his neck. His left shoulder dislocated with a sickening pop. He gave a high, wordless yell of pain.
"I gave you a chance in Baltimore, Harrison," Richard panted, pressing down harder as the door burst open. Harrison whimpered and turned his head, and saw through the red haze of agony at least four big guys with guns. "I hoped you'd learn your lesson and drop this ridiculous vendetta of yours. Now I see I was too optimistic. I'm afraid I have to do what Jack wanted me to do in the first place."
"What," Harrison managed to gasp, "you're gonna kill me too?"
"Kill you?" Richard sounded shocked, as if he'd never dreamed of the concept. As if they hadn't spent the past ten minutes talking homicide. "Of course not. I'm going to let you face the consequences of your actions. It seems that's the only way you're going to learn."
He released Harrison and stepped back. Harrison's left arm flopped to his side with another burst of pain. He bit his lip and pushed himself up with his right, slowly, mindful of the guns still trained on him. "What's that mean?"
Richard was straightening his suit, rolling down sleeves that had been bunched up in the scuffle. He glanced at the guards and said, "I want this man arrested and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."
One of the guards nodded and said to Harrison, "Come with us, please."
Harrison watched in wide-eyed disbelief, backing away as the guards advanced around the desk. "You can't do this," he protested. "You can't-- fuck!" The guard who had spoken had grabbed his limp left arm, then spun him around and cuffed it to the right.
"You tried to kill me," Richard said, raising his voice above Harrison's spat curses as they dragged him, kicking and struggling, to the door. "You threatened me with a firearm. The evidence is in this very room. Believe it or not, your calling does not place you above the law."
"You fucking hypocrite!" Harrison yelled over his shoulder. He dug in his heels at the doorway and craned his neck around, straining for one last glimpse. "You-- you know what, Dad? The calling didn't do this to me, you did! When you had Tru killed, the second you told Jack to pull the trigger, you ruined my fucking life!"
Richard gave him a long, cold stare and said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
The last view Harrison had of his father was Richard sitting down behind the desk again, sliding his glasses back onto his nose and picking up the abandoned stack of papers. Then he was out of sight of the door, down the hall and shoved into the waiting elevator for the long ride down.
Prints, mug shot, removal of all worldly belongings-- by now, Harrison knew the routine cold. The familiarity was a comfort of sorts, not because getting arrested was so much fun, but because he didn't have to wonder what was coming next. Whatever it was, he couldn't do anything about it. He'd done the action-not-reaction thing, given it the old never-gone-to-college try, and failed; it was out of his hands now. Barring a chance meeting with a corpse in the next twenty-four hours or so, he wasn't going anywhere.
The cavity search was a new twist, and he considered asking what the hell they expected to find up there, but decided that was a conversational non-starter when some big burly guy was knuckles-deep in his ass, no matter what the context. Instead he just gritted his teeth and rode it out, adding it to his mental tally: one more humiliation, courtesy of dear old Dad.
At least they'd popped his shoulder back into place. It still felt sore and loose, but he didn't want to pass out from the pain anymore, and that was something.
Harrison went through the motions on autopilot, chain-smoking through the interrogation and mostly ignoring the rapid-fire questions, giving short, sullen answers when the cops got too frisky ("Are you listening to me?" "Not really." "You think this is funny?" "Kind of"). He gave a real answer only once, when the thug in charge asked what the hell he had against Mr. Young, anyway.
"His name's not Young," Harrison said, letting the smoke trickle out his nose and mouth as he spoke. "It's Richard Davies. He's my father, and he had my mother and sister killed."
The cop scowled down at him. "You expect me to believe that?"
"Not really," Harrison said again, and stubbed out the cigarette in the growing pile in the ashtray. "But you could try a DNA test. I'm told he used to look like me."
They didn't run the test. No surprise there. If Richard didn't have the local cops in his neatly tailored hip pocket, then he wasn't doing his job right.
When they finally gave up and let Harrison have his phone call, he sat staring at the receiver for a few minutes, considering his options with an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. No point in calling Spencer; she wouldn't be able to do anything except wire him some cash, and Harrison had some money saved, but not nearly enough for bail. Assuming he even got bail. Davis would be similarly unhelpful. He thought about calling Ray, but he didn't think they'd let him make an international call, even if he could remember the number, and he was reluctant to explain the depths of this latest monumental fuck-up. Besides, what could a Mountie and a forest ranger do from thousands of miles away?
In the end, he called Isaac.
Given the way his luck was running, Harrison expected the call to go to voicemail. To his surprise, Isaac answered on the second ring, sounding wary. "Yo."
"It's me," Harrison said, lighting what had to be his fortieth cigarette of the day. He'd run out of Marlboros long ago and had to buy a couple packs of Winstons off a semi-sympathetic cop, which wasn't helping his mood any.
"Harry? Where the hell are you calling from, Beirut?"
"Seattle."
"Yeah," Isaac said. "That does make more sense."
Harrison closed his eyes. "Specifically, Seattle jail."
"Already? You sure know how to party, dude."
"Izzy," Harrison said, "listen, I'm in serious trouble here. Assault and attempted murder."
After a moment, Isaac said, "You really know how to party."
"Yeah, it's a laugh a minute over here. Is there any way you can get me out of this?"
"I'll need a little more details than none, white boy."
He glanced around and lowered his voice. "My father. He's a partner at the firm, the one paying Olivia Doyle's rent. He's using a fake identity. You can use that, right? Like leverage or something?"
"You tried to kill your father?" Isaac sounded impressed. "How very ancient Greek of you."
One of the cops was coming down the hall toward him. Harrison took a long drag, in the vague hope that maybe this time it would actually calm his nerves, and said, "Yes or no, Izzy, I don't have much time."
"I'll see what I can do."
"That's a little less than yes."
"This is big time, Harry. I wouldn't hold my breath."
Harrison rolled his still-aching shoulder and glanced back again; the cop was almost in earshot. He flashed her an insincere smile and muttered, "Not much chance of that."
If Isaac St. Germain had to name his one fatal flaw, well, he'd probably lie his ass off. Admitting weakness was bad form at the best of times. In his line of work, it could easily get him killed. If he was lucky, it would only get someone else killed.
But alone, with a few beers in him and feeling particularly Catholic, he didn't even have to think about the answer. It was right on the tip of his tongue.
Isaac's fatal flaw was a persistent, inexplicable fondness for one Harrison Davies.
It just didn't make logical sense. By any objective standards, Harrison was hardly a catch: flaky, secretive, increasingly prickly and too scrawny by half; a little dumb at times and a little too sharp at others; confused about his sexuality; confused about a lot of things, including proper hygiene. And that wasn't including the fact that Isaac could count on his fingers the number of times he'd seen the man without a drink in his hand. Sure, he was a good fuck, but there were plenty of good fucks in the city, and Isaac wasn't even reaping the benefits of said fucks anymore-- and yet Harrison was still asking him for favors. Isaac should have just hung up the phone and written Harrison Davies out of his life for good. Anyone dumb enough to try and kill his own father in the middle of a law office, for God's sake, deserved whatever the justice system could throw at him.
Still, Isaac had to admit: points for style, anyway.
Which was maybe why he called Harrison's lackey instead, the co-ed who'd taken such a keen interest in his and Harrison's former love life-- Stacey or Sasha or something like that-- and asked, "What's the name of Harry's sister, the lawyer?"
He could hear keys clacking in the background as she said, "Why, did yours skip town?"
"Your boss is in jail. Wanna change your answer?"
After a short pause, Stacey-or-Sasha-or-Susan asked, "You want an address too?"
Meredith walked quickly down the hall to her office, weighing the benefits of running to make her conference call in time against the potential loss of dignity. Her shoes made the decision for her. They were designed for striding, not scurrying.
She saw her office door ajar and slowed, frowning. She could've sworn she'd locked it before lunch.
Meredith dug in her purse for the small canister of pepper spray, then eased the door open with one hand still in her bag. "Hello?"
"Yo," said the man with his feet up on her desk. "Come on in."
"I think I will, thanks," she said, keeping a wary eye on him as she crossed to the other side of the desk. He was tall, dark-skinned, possibly Latino, though she couldn't say for certain. His thick black hair stood up in artful spikes, and he wore a long black coat over a linen shirt and expensive jeans. There was no reason to think he posed her any threat, save for his tense, watchful expression and the faint aura of danger that clung to him like smoke.
"Can I help you?" she asked at last, sitting down and shooting a pointed look at the phone. "I'm already late for a conference call."
"Me? No." The guy stretched, folding his hands behind his head. "But if you're in a giving kind of mood, I'm pretty sure Harrison could use a hand." He paused, then added, "Unless it's a really important call."
"Oh Jesus," Meredith sighed, and dropped her head into her hands. "What's he done now?"
The man ignored the question. "You got anything going on the next few days you can't get out of?"
"Why?" she asked, wary again.
He leaned forward and slid a printout across the desk. A quick glance told Meredith it was a boarding pass-- Logan to SeaTac, nonstop, leaving in two hours, and her name on the ticket. It must have cost a fortune on such short notice. Since when did Harrison have friends with that kind of money?
As she worried at her lower lip, the man swung his boots off her desk, stood, and shoved his hands in his jacket pocket. "Come on. I'll explain on the plane."
It was on the tip of Meredith's tongue to refuse. She'd been trying to get in touch with her brother for months, and he either ignored her calls or yelled at her for even making the effort. And now he expected her to drop everything and fly across the country on a moment's notice?
Except she knew Harrison, and if he'd decided he didn't need her, he wouldn't be sending his friends to ask for her help unless the situation was desperate. And she did want to see him. And he was her kid brother.
The refusal withered and died on her lips. She sighed again and reached for the phone. "Give me five minutes."
"What the hell," the man said. "Take ten."
Harrison spent a sleepless night in the holding cell, along with a handful of drunks, at least one rent boy, and two big guys with gang tattoos who kept eyeing him like he was lunch meat. He kept his back to the wall and his cigarettes shoved deep in his pocket, and by the time the lights came back on, he was jonesing so bad his fingers were twitching.
A cop came down after breakfast and led him up to an interrogation room, a different one from the day before. Harrison lit up as soon as he sat down, dragging the ashtray across the table with his cuffed hands. He had just taken his first deep drag when the door opened again and his sister walked in.
Harrison choked on the smoke and doubled over, coughing. His sinuses stung; when he could breathe again, there were tears in his eyes.
Meredith looked horrified. "When did you start smoking?"
He ignored her, glaring instead at the man behind her. Isaac leaned against the wall by the door, hands in his pockets, watching them with obvious amusement.
Harrison jabbed the cigarette in Meredith's direction and demanded, "What's she doing here?"
"You're welcome," Meredith sniffed.
"Fuck you," he said without looking at her. "This is not what I had in mind, Isaac."
Isaac raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "What did you have in mind, an armed siege? Your confidence in me is touching, but I'm a little out of my league here. I figured, why not fight lawyer with lawyer?"
"You figured," Harrison muttered, and stood. "Hell with this."
"Harry," Meredith said, "sit down and shut up."
He didn't sit down, but he did shut up.
She dropped a file folder on the table and sat down with more force than necessary. "Now you listen to me. These are some serious charges, Harrison. Did you think you'd just close your eyes and they'd go away?"
Harrison blew smoke in her face and watched her nose wrinkle. "What do you care?"
"More than I probably should," she snapped, waving a hand in front of her face. "God, could you be more of a cliché?"
"Well, great. Now that's settled--"
Meredith enunciated carefully. "Sit. Down."
Harrison sat.
"Now," she said, flipping open the folder and uncapping an expensive-looking pen, "you and Tru have been keeping me in the dark about things for a long time. I haven't pushed, because I didn't think I had the right." She leaned forward, and Harrison slid down in his seat under the weight of her cold stare. "That's over now. You're going to tell me everything you've been keeping from me, and I do mean everything. And then you're going to tell me why you attacked our father, because I'm assuming you have one hell of a good reason. Then, and only then, I will try my damnedest to get you out of here without spending fifteen to life in prison. Sound fair?"
Harrison opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He shot Isaac a quick, guilty sideways glance.
Isaac pushed himself of the wall and opened the door. "I'm gonna go grab a smoke," he said, "or ten. Let you two crazy kids catch up."
"Get me a coffee," Harrison said, relieved.
"Blow me," Isaac said, and left.
Meredith watched the door swing shut behind him, then turned back to Harrison with arched eyebrows. "So who is he?"
Harrison folded his arms over his chest and mirrored her expression. "What, you didn't ask his name?"
"Funny," she said, not cracking a smile. "How do you know him, and why did he drag me out here when you haven't said two words to me in years?"
"I have too," Harrison said.
"And choice words they were. I'm here now. Care to tell me why?"
He shrugged. "Fucked if I know."
"No, Harrison," Meredith said, "you're fucked if you don't start answering my questions."
She meant it.
Harrison sunk down even lower and stared at the scarred tabletop. He didn't think he'd get the words out, but oh look, there they were. "He's my ex," he mumbled.
Resounding silence was his only answer. When he finally looked up again, Meredith's fingers were white around her pen, and her face was like carved stone. Harrison half-expected her to get up and just walk out the door, and was surprised to feel a pang of real fear at the thought.
Or maybe it wasn't so surprising. Maybe it made perfect sense; maybe, despite everything, some part of him still expected his big sister to waltz in and save the day. Didn't matter if it was the wrong sister. For the first time since the arrest, he'd started to think that he might actually get out of this. Well, she'd wanted to know everything.
He closed his eyes and waited to hear the door slam.
Quietly, Meredith said, "Another thing you never bothered to tell me."
Harrison's eyes flew open. Fear gave way to annoyance. "What, I'm gonna call and say, 'Hey, what's up, by the way, I sometimes sleep with guys now'?"
"Obviously not, because you never call!" She slammed the flat of her palm down on the table, and Harrison jumped. "Jesus, Harry, did you think I'd have a problem with it?"
"Meredith," he said flatly, "you got a problem with every freakin' thing I do. Excuse me if I didn't feel like taking another ride on the disapproval train."
"Points for metaphor, anyway," she sighed, and started to dig through her purse.
"Meta-who?" Harrison blinked. "What, you gotta powder your nose? It's a police station, Mer, they frown on that here."
She glared at him and slapped her wallet down on the table. "Open it. Second picture."
"It's not gonna explode, is it?"
"It's a police station, Harry. They frown on that here."
"Point taken," he muttered, fumbling for the wallet, his hands made clumsy by the cuffs. Meredith watched him without comment. It wasn't the first time she'd seen him in handcuffs.
Finally, he got it open, and flipped past the impressive stack of credit cards to the photo insert in the back. His throat tightened; it was a picture of the three of them, him and Tru and Meredith, all dolled up in their Sunday best. Meredith was beaming at the camera; Tru seemed fascinated by the ruffles on her dress; and his eight-year-old self looked ill at ease in his tiny suit, hair already rebelling against his mother's attempts to flatten it. It was the first and last time she'd taken them to sit for a professional portrait. Two years later, Harrison wore that same suit to her funeral.
He coughed a little and leaned back, giving Meredith a narrow, unimpressed look. "Emotional blackmail. Nice."
Her fingers tightened again. "I said second picture, Harry."
Feeling dumb-- nothing new there-- Harrison flipped to the next photo and gave an automatic low whistle. "Hey, not bad. Friend of yours?"
"Something like that," Meredith said, and something in her tone made Harrison take a closer look.
This picture was more recent, from a grainy photo booth strip. Meredith hadn't lost her affinity for the limelight; her blinding smile was still fixed straight ahead. She had one arm around the woman next to her, who seemed to be whispering something in her ear.
Not whispering, Harrison realized a moment later. Kissing.
He almost swallowed the his cigarette.
Meredith's nails began a loud staccato beat on the table as he stubbed out the butt with suddenly numb fingers. After a moment, he found his voice. "You got balls, ragging on me for not telling you things."
"What," she said mockingly, "I'm gonna call you up and say, 'Hey, guess what, I only sleep with women now'?" Her voice hardened. "I did call you, Harry. You didn't want anything to do with me."
Harrison grunted, still staring at the photo. The woman was dark, darker than Isaac, with long braids swept back over her shoulder. Of course she was stunning; Meredith wouldn't settle for anything less.
"How long?" he asked in a low voice.
When he glanced up, Meredith was giving him a curious look, but she answered readily enough. "Almost a year now. We met the last time I was in rehab, and I called her up when I got back from Dublin." She gave a small, amused huff. "I'm thirty-six years old, Harrison. You didn't wonder why I never married?"
"Merry," Harrison said, "I can honestly say it never crossed my mind."
She sighed. "Well, you wouldn't."
He decided not to ask what that was supposed to mean. "When did you, uh...."
"Know? When I met Cass," Meredith said. "Cassandra. Everything just kind of clicked, you know?" She smiled a little. "You?"
He didn't even have to think about it. "Eight years ago."
"And?" Meredith prompted, after a few seconds of silence.
Harrison squirmed. "I met a guy. Things happened, okay?"
Thankfully, she didn't press for details. "See?" she said, reaching for the wallet and dropping it back in her purse. "Now we know each other again." Her smile vanished. "So now you can tell me why you tried to kill Dad."
It was a punch in the gut, wrenching Harrison back to cold, hard reality. This wasn't just another touchy-feely family reunion. Meredith wanted to know the truth.
After all this time, maybe she deserved it.
"You won't believe me," he warned, even as he knew he was going to cave. "Hell, I didn't believe Tru, the first time she told me." He smiled bitterly. "Or the second, or the third. Takes a while to sink in, you know?"
Meredith sat back, folded her hands on the table, and said, "Try me."
So he did.
"So how'd she take it?" Davis asked.
"Pretty well, considering," Harrison said. "Better than I did. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm crazy, but at least she didn't say it to my face."
"Don't underestimate her. She's an intelligent woman."
"Back off, D, she's taken."
Davis sounded shocked. "I wasn't--"
"Relax, I'm just messing with you." He shrugged, even though Davis couldn't see it. "Hey, she got me bail. I didn't think that was gonna happen in this lifetime."
"Really? How?"
"Emotional trauma, extenuating circumstances, blah blah blah." He made the appropriate blah blah blah gesture with his free hand as he spoke. "I wasn't really listening."
"Harrison," Davis sighed.
"And she actually got people to pay attention when she said Dad's using a fake ID. Guess a lawyer's more credible than the criminal element." He grinned. "Though not by much."
"So what are you going to do now?"
"Enjoy my room service."
"That's not what I meant."
The automatic doors across the street slid open, and Harrison said, "Whoops, gotta go. Dinner just came."
"It's still morning there."
"I'm eccentric." Harrison closed the phone and turned it off, then dropped it in the glove compartment, eyes still fixed on the man who'd just stepped out of Wong, Young and Thundercliff. "That's him."
Beside him in the driver's seat, Isaac asked, "You sure you want to do this?"
Harrison rolled his eyes. "As opposed to the last five times you asked me that?"
"Dude," Isaac said, "your sister is gonna be pissed."
"She'll get over it."
"I still maintain this is a bad idea."
"Maintain away," Harrison said, as Richard Davies got into a slick black BMW parked at the curb and started to pull out into traffic, "as long as you can do it driving."
Isaac sighed and started the ignition. "Boy, you are gonna owe me big."
While Harrison had been cooling his heels in the local lockup, enjoying free room and board courtesy of the great state of Washington, Richard Davies' carefully crafted life had been crumbling around him. Sadly, Harrison did not get to witness the collapse himself; he got the news thirdhand through Meredith, who'd heard it secondhand from someone she knew in the DA's office, who saw it firsthand by virtue of being in charge of the investigation-- fraud, for starters, though God only knew what other charges they'd rack up as time went on. Murder, if Harrison had his way, but having his way was a rare enough occasion lately that sometimes he found himself craving a Whopper, just for the change of pace.
They'd become co-conspirators of a sort, him and his sister, in this unexpected war, dissecting each new piece of information in the time they really should have spent going over Harrison's case. Richard had been to see Meredith, she informed him one day, offering to take her out to dinner (declined) and then expressing his heartfelt regret over Harrison's sadly reduced circumstances-- her words, not Harrison's; he would've called it gloating, and probably used smaller words.
The fact that she was telling him at all meant she hadn't fallen for it, and at first Harrison couldn't figure why. Meredith, the oldest child, the peacemaker, had always been the one ready to believe the best of their father, when Harrison and Tru had already written him off. But then, he supposed that in her world, evidence didn't lie. Stories of conspiracies and supernatural powers, she took with a grain of salt; Richard adopting a fake name, practicing law with a bogus license, that was more cut-and-dried. Having Mom and Tru killed-- Harrison didn't know what Meredith believed there, but as long as she was on his side for once, he wasn't about to push it.
Not yet. Not until he was free and clear of all charges, anyway.
Meredith had pulled the strings to get him bail, though Isaac had been the one to fork over the cash-- yet another item on the ever-growing laundry list of favors owed, and Harrison really didn't want to think about what repayment would mean. Meredith had left the two of them at the hotel with very firm, very clear instructions: don't get in trouble, don't go anywhere, and under no circumstances was he to go anywhere near Dad. Harrison had waited all of ten minutes after she'd left before breaking at least two of the three commandments.
Despite what he'd said to Isaac, he really did feel bad about risking the fragile rapport he'd been building with his sister. But this was too good an opportunity to pass up. Dad's career meant a lot to him, but Harrison knew now that his so-called calling meant a hell of a lot more. If Harrison went free, that would throw a wrench in his nefarious plans. He'd want to have a Plan B in place. And Harrison intended to find out exactly what that Plan B was.
They'd been following Richard all morning: from his swanky high-rise apartment, from which he'd emerged with a shitload of matching leather luggage; then to the office; and now on the highway heading north, out of town. Harrison wasn't too worried about missing his court date. It was Isaac's money on the line, and Isaac would make damn sure he was back on time. He was worried about how he'd explain things to Meredith, but seeking forgiveness instead of permission had usually worked pretty well in the past, and he wasn't about to abandon such a winning philosophy now. Not when he was so close to the end that he could taste it.
When they started seeing signs for the Canadian border, however, Harrison had something new to worry about. He stayed silent at first, hoping Richard would pull off at one of the exits before the border, not wanting to jinx it, and kept right on hoping until they pulled up to the customs gate and settled into the line of cars to wait.
Then he said, as casually as he could, "Uh, Isaac, we might have a problem."
"Do tell," Isaac said, not sounding all that concerned.
"I don't have my passport."
"It's fucking Canada, dude. I don't think they care."
"Yeah, well," Harrison said. "I don't have my license either."
"You're just full of surprises today."
Aggrieved, Harrison said, "They took it, okay? Part of that whole don't-leave-the-state thing. Why do you think you're driving?"
"You said 'cause you're injured."
His shoulder throbbed on cue. Isaac sounded dubious, which just added metaphorical insult-- he knew what that meant, now-- to literal injury. "I am!"
"It's just a sprain, you pussy."
"Okay, Isaac?" Harrison said, and held up a finger-- not the finger he would've liked, but it would do. "Point, here. You?" He nodded out the window. "See those trees? Way the hell over there."
Isaac grinned. "You have such a way with words."
"Oh, bite me."
"And you're just proving my point. Believe it or not, I do have some passing acquaintance with the criminal justice system." He winked, still grinning. "Relax, I came prepared."
"Heard that before," Harrison muttered.
"Yeah," Isaac said, "good times. Oh look, we're here."
They pulled up to the customs booth, and Isaac flashed the attendant a friendly smile and passed two cards through the open window. Harrison frowned. The one on top looked suspiciously like his driver's license, but it couldn't be. His was still safely tucked away in the Seattle lockup. Which meant....
Fucking hell. Isaac had just given the customs official a fake ID.
Harrison couldn't strangle him now; there were witnesses. So he did the next best thing: he lit a cigarette and prayed that at least it would be over quickly.
He could always kill Isaac later.
"Registration," the guy said, giving their licenses a cursory glance.
Another surge of gut-clenching panic. Isaac's fake had to have been a rush job, so no way would the serial number match the one on his rental forms. Isaac looked at him for a moment, expectant, then sighed and reached over him to open the glove compartment. It banged against Harrison's knees, but he didn't react. He was about to get arrested again; what were a couple more bruises?
"You go left," he said out of the side of his mouth, when the attendant stepped away, "I'll go right. They'll never catch up."
"Unclench, Princess," Isaac said, not bothering to look at him.
He didn't want to watch as the guy scanned the papers, but he couldn't look away. Richard's car was already out of sight, but that hardly seemed to matter now. Of course this wasn't going to work; what had Isaac expected? One of them a career criminal and the other currently awaiting trial, not allowed to leave the state, much less the country; he should've known better, should've just stayed put like a good boy, like Meredith said; he could always pick up Dad's trail again later, hell, he'd done it once, but to attempt a border crossing now, of all things--
The guy gave Isaac back the registration and IDs and said, sounding bored, "Go on through."
Harrison blinked.
"I love Canada," he said several minutes later, when the border was safely behind them and he'd finally found his voice.
"Oh, sure," Isaac said. "Gay marriage, legalized pot, and they'll stitch up your gunshot wounds for free. What's not to love?"
"I really hope none of that's gonna be an issue on this trip."
Isaac smirked. "Oh, come on. You mean you don't want to smoke a J with me on our wedding night?"
"Only if I get to shoot you after."
"You should seriously smoke more. Then you wouldn't drink so damn much."
"Oh yeah, there's an idea," Harrison said. "Off the booze and onto drugs."
"As if alcohol and nicotine aren't drugs."
"Can't get busted for 'em, they ain't."
"Pussy," Isaac said again, and floored the accelerator.
Harrison leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes; relief had left him feeling weak and nerveless. "And proud of it," he mumbled, drifting off into much-needed sleep, trusting Isaac to pick up the trail.
MAY | NOVEMBER (1) | NOVEMBER (2) | NOVEMBER (3) | DAY 1 | DAY 2 | AFTER | EPILOGUE Email: mayatawi@populli.net