Heroes fanfic: After my death (2/2)

Read part 1.

Download the pdf file: heroes2.pdf

o O o O o

Not that he’d admit it to anyone, but Nathan hated political dinners. He hated smiling and bowing down to the Washington fat cats in their expensive suits. He hated how he had to depend on their generosity to thrive.

He hated, most of all, to thank them for it.

He stood on the stage telling them why his cause wouldn’t fail – not now, it wouldn’t, thanks to Linderman’s money – and how their contribution had made it all possible (give them what they want to hear). And then he felt a shudder run up his spine.

The sudden cold caught him by surprise so much that it made him pause mid-speech.

He gave them an amiable smile, and smoothly covered that slight stumble.

“This is what I call a pregnant, intelligent pause. Something we politicians have honed to a fine art,” he gave them a megawatt smile and they laughed in response. Oh, lame joke. His speech writer must be wincing in his expensive Armani suit already.

He picked up his wine glass.

“Now, gentlemen. May I propose a toast-”

The fat cats raised their wine glasses.

“A toast! To a successful campaign!” He raised his glass-

And the cold returned with a vengence. He felt it travel up his arm and turn his fingers icy cold. His hand lost grip on the wineglass…

Something shattered.

And he knew. Knew then … that Peter was gone.

“Peter,” he whispered.

He didn’t see the stunned look his aide gave him, nor hear the murmmur of worried chatter in the fancy ballroom. Everything zeroed in on the horrible realisation that Peter was dead.

I’m sorry.

Peter?

He looked up and found a sea of startled faces staring at him. And he realised, vaguely, that he had dropped the wine glass and it’s now in a million pieces on the marble floor.

“Sir, are you all right?” someone said loudly. Nathan flinched and realised that the head of his security team was beside him.

He smiled shakily and tried to rebuild the remnants of his shattered composure.

“Sorry, everyone. I … uh …” There was no way he could excuse himself out of this gracefully, was there? The last thing he needed these people to think was that he had a disease or something or he wasn’t at his peak. He blinked and put on a brilliant smile.

“God, I’m so embarassed. Flunked that brilliant speech, didn’t I?” he clenched his trembling hands into a fist and willed it to stop shaking.

Nervous laughter.

He swallowed. “Jonathan,” he called out to his aide. “Bring me another glass, will ya?”

* * *

He tried hard not to look as if he was running away from the press of politicians and businessmen, but when he got to the restroom – thankfully, blissfully empty – he had to take deep, gulping breaths as if he had just ran a mile.

What the hell just happened? He wondered, shaken. He stared at his pale, sweaty face in the mirror and then ran a shaking hand through his hair.

Peter is dead. He knew it. But it didn’t make any sense.

“This is stupid,” he said out loud and rummaged for his cell phone.

He dialled Peter’s number with trembling fingers.

“You’re not dead. You’re not dead, because it is stupid. No one can paint the future,” he murmmured into the phone.

No one can fly either.

After all, he destroyed the painting. No way Peter’s going to go to that place … no way is he going to meet that fate.

But instead of a ringing tone, he got a message from a vapid automated voice saying that the number couldn’t be reached.

“Shit!” he hissed. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths and stared at his reflection.

“Get a grip, Nathan. He is alive.”

But the deep coldness on the other side – as if he once had a connection to Peter and now it’s gone – told him otherwise.

“You’re alive, God damn it!” he yelled.

OooOo

Three hours after he forced himself back into that now stuffy room full of very important persons, he sat on the edge of his bed, studying his cell phone.

He tried calling Peter far too many times to count. He couldn’t shake the coldness he felt deep inside. He couldn’t feel certain that Peter is still alive. All of this did not make sense, because the last time he checked, he wasn’t some psychic who could predict the future.

He frowned. But stranger things have happened.

Then, as he considered calling Peter yet again, his cell phone came to life in his hand, ringing loudly.

He hissed in irritation when he nearly dropped the phone and fumbled to answer it. It was a strange number he did not recognise but he did know one thing: It was a Texas area code.

He felt as if his heart stopped. The school – the school was in Odessa, Texas, wasn’t it?

“Hello?” his voice was scratchy, weak … so unlike him.

Silence, then: “Nathan?”

And his heart began beating again. He sighed in relief and clutched the phone as if it was a lifeline to the other side. It was stupid. Stupid that he thought Peter was dead.

“Peter, where the hell were you? I called you a thousand times!” he yelled.

“Well, ah …” a cough. “I know you’re going to flip but … they don’t allow cell phones where I am.”

“What? Where? What the hell are you talking about, Peter?”

“I’m in jail, Nathan,” Peter said flatly.

Immediately, a million thoughts ran through his head – how to do damage control, what the hell was he supposed to say to the press, how the hell is the campaign going to survive …

All this almost came pouring out of him, but Peter interrupted him before he could gather his scattered thoughts.

“I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn’t do anything, Nathan,” Peter said in exasperation. A pause, then: “Granted that they found me in rather … er, suspicious circumstances.”

“Peter, get to the point, or help me God I’m going to fly there to knock your lights out right now,” he growled.

His little brother actually chuckled. “Okay. You want straight to the point? You got it. I tried to save the cheerleader. I fell off a roof doing so. I died. I came back to life. Unfortunately, I forgot that sitting in a pool of blood can look very suspicious.”

“This is not the time for games, Peter,” he hissed angrily. But yet, deep inside, he knew it was true.

“Nathan, I’m too tired to play games. And to be honest, I have no idea why I called. Better you finding it out now than in a newspaper while you’re having your morning coffee tomorrow. Just thought I could give you a headstart,” he said dryly.

“Smart move, kid,” he said. He meant it sarcastically, but Peter took it at face value.

“Yup, knew you’d say that. Look. They think I killed the cheerleader. I managed to save one … but I couldn’t save the other.”

“Peter … Peter did the man who killed … did he wear glasses?” he knew he sounded stupid. Damn, he wished he had a name for the man besides “horn-rimmed glasses guy”.

“Glasses? No. That much I can tell you. Uh, time is almost up. The big guy behind me wants to use the phone. And I think you know where I am,” his tone ended in a sarcastic tint.

Nathan fell silent for a while, then he said: “Yeah.”

The line went dead.

He closed the connection reluctantly, and found himself, surprisingly, going into lawyer mode. The police thought that Peter was responsible for the death of the cheerleader based on circumstantial evidence. Somehow it made him angry thinking that despite Peter dying to save one cheerleader, he was being charged for a crime he sought to prevent in the first place.

“They’re not going to know what hit them,” he growled. Without wasting another second, he called his aide to arrange for a flight to Texas.

Fini

OooOoOo

Yup, here is where it ends. This is where I think episode 11 will start. I had fun writing this! Hope you like it too.