Strange Things Happen At The One Two Points 6/9

[lovebashed]

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The pills they keep feeding him have kept Pete teetering on the edge of consciousness all day long. Hurley's come check up on him twice already, asking him the kind of questions that Pete doesn't think belong in any therapist's handbook.

Kneeling down next to him, Hurley's brows hike up his forehead over the frame of his glasses as he asks him about his thoughts on the Bible. "Come on, Brother. Just humor me, okay?"

Pete raises his head from his knees and runs a hand through his hair, digging his thumbs into his eye sockets.

"I was raised to live by it, but I've always taken it with a grain of salt. Some stuff in there's just crazier than the old lady next door."

"Do you mean Esther?" Hurley asks, glancing behind his back. "She's been here the longest. I'd watch my mouth when she's near, she might not look like much but she has this mean habit of yanking your hair if she feels like she's being offended. Tough little lady, that one."

"Are you supposed to tell me that?" Pete asks without real interest. If he could just clear his mind, to scrub off all that fog, he'd be out of this place in a flash.

"It's nothing confidential," Hurley says, studying Pete. "Nothing you couldn't find out by just being here."

“I guess,” Pete shrugs one shoulder, blinking against the dryness of his eyes.

“Do you feel like telling me more about your religion?”

Pete sighs, looking out the window while he contemplates Hurley’s question. “I was born without a religion,” he says, and Hurley is all ears again. “I was raised a Baptist, but around the time of my confirmation, I started questioning myself and the people around me. I talked to a Methodist preacher who was passing through the town and everything about him was so new and refreshing.” He had wanted to rile up Joe is what he means, in his new cassock and collar feeling more authoritative and important than Joe could ever dream to be, though Joe had just been pleased that Pete was finally starting to make his own decisions about his life.

They would argue about theology at the breakfast table while Ashlee tried to conciliate their disagreements.

He’s never told anyone how little religion actually means to him. Not even Ashlee knows. He feels like a puppet; for all his life he's been led by someone. By Joe. By his congregation. And now by this incessant thrumming in his blood that's turning him into something he can't even give a name to.

When Hurley finally gets bored with him, Pete clambers up on unsteady legs and staggers out of his room, down the hallway and into the lounge. He makes sure to keep his distance from Esther, even though the last time they met she seemed more spooked by him than the other way around.

He walks to the window and stares out into space.

He had been dreaming again, dreaming of running, of chasing some poor kid through the cornfield. In his dream he had felt strong, invincible, the kid hadn't stood a chance.

A crow lands on the windowsill and blinks a few times, tapping at the glass with its beak, a lot like earlier in the white room. A nurse is listening to the radio in the break room behind the open doorway, her white-stockinged leg bouncing on her knee to the rhythm of the song. And it’s such a familiar sight that for a while Pete has to remind himself where he is. Then the song ends and a talk show takes its place. The speaker sounds young and enthusiastic, distantly familiar to him, but he just can't place it.

"Listeners! Another beautiful day in our land of plenty! It feels like the whole of His creation is out rejoicing over the clear blue sky, lying on the soft bed of the crop fields, socializing in the streets of our growing cities, drinking coffee out on the porch," the speaker says, but Pete’s zoning out, the blood rushing through his veins loud in his ears, his head heavy to hold. It's only the mention of his own name that regains his interest.

"I have a very special guest with me here today, for all of you lucky listeners of KMTR radio. She's real easy on the eyes, a complete breeze in the studio. Why don't you say a quick hello to our listeners?"

"Uhhhm," comes a gushing breath of air. "Hello?"

"No, no, you don't have to lean so close to the mic, now that's more like it! Hey now, don't worry, first time for everything!"

Pete frowns, inching closer to the doorway, staring at the radio.

"Now then. Miss Simpson comes from the town of Angels with a message she wants to deliver out to as many people she can reach, isn't that right?"

"That's right, um. I don't know what to say?"

"No need to feel nervous being on the air, our listeners are all very fine, decent people. Now, Miss Simpson's brother, Peter has been missing for a few days. He works as a minister in the town of Angels in California. He's an influential speaker and a true man of God, admired by everyone who has had the privilege to meet him, myself included."

"He has that effect on people," Ashlee says. "It has been very difficult with him gone."

"I'm sure it has. Now we ask anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Peter Simpson to contact the radio station immediately. Brother Peter, if you hear this, your sister needs you, your Church needs you --"

"And father. I -- daddy seems so sad whenever I mention your name, he really wishes to see you, I think it would help his recovery."

"Well, there you have it. Brother Peter, where are you? Will you come back home to your family and friends? This is William Beckett with Miss Ashlee Simpson signing out."

Pete steps inside the break room; the nurse casts a worried glance at him and backs away a few steps until her back hits the edge of the table. He kneels down by the radio and presses his ear against the speaker, listening to the sound waves, almost able to see Ashlee and William Beckett in the studio when he closes his eyes, and when he pricks up his ears, he can still hear her voice, thanking William for his help.

"I'm coming home, Ash," he whispers, running his palm along the frame of the radio. "I'm coming home to you."

The nurse calls for the guard and he comes running. He picks Pete up by his arm and walks him out of the room, standing him just on the other side of the yellow line on the floor.

"See that line? It's the line that keeps freaks like you separated from the rest of the world. I see you cross that line one more time and you're in serious trouble, little man. Got that?"

Pete sneers, twisting his body out of the tight grip. "By the end of the day, we'll see just who's the one in trouble."

In the morning after, Hurley walks into his room, reading his chart as usual, giving him a distracted nod.

"Ah. I see that you caused some ruckus yesterday," he speaks with his mouth quirked up in an amused grin. His disheveled hair and beard remind Pete of a brushwood fence. "Joan tells me you wandered into the break room and started talking to the radio, and that Mark had to drag you out. She was sure you'd attack her any minute."

"After I was done talking to the radio?" Pete asks, digging the heels of his palms into his ribs.

"I guess so," Hurley says with a chuckle.

"Come on, doc," Pete says, blinking away the film of fog in his eyes. "I'm ready to go home now."

"You think so? Even after yesterday?" Hurley asks, scrutinizing Pete.

"I know so. I have a sister out there looking for me. She's probably worried sick. I'm not crazy, okay? Even if everyone seems to think so."

"You've never talked about your sister before," Hurley prompts, checking the chart for the umpteenth time.

Pete gives a shrug of his shoulders, staring at his hands. "You can check her out. Tell her to come and pick me up, right?"

"What's her name? Actually, more importantly, are you finally willing to tell me yours?"

Pete sighs, a part of him feels like he's losing some kind of battle when he says, "It's Pete. Peter... Simpson."

Behind Hurley's glasses his eyes shrink into two thin lines. He scratches his head and then turns to look at Pete again, something registering.

"You're the man they talked about on the radio yesterday? Brother Simpson?"

Pete cringes, never at ease when someone calls him by his foster father's name. "It's Pete. Just. Just Pete."

"Okay, Pete. Nice to finally meet you," Hurley says, offering him a hand to shake.

Pete hesitates for a moment, staring at the hand suspiciously, but then thinks it's best to just humor this man if he ever wants to see Ashlee again.

"I'll check up your story, and if it holds, I'll see what I can do about speeding up your departure. Your sister's name is Ashlee Simpson, correct?"

Pete nods, watching as Hurley echoes his move and then turns around, walking out of the room.

After just a couple of hours, Pete's sitting in the backseat of an unfamiliar car with Ashlee by his side. He didn’t realize Hayley knew how to drive, but she’s holding the steering wheel with relaxed familiarity, her foot heavy on the pedal.

Ash hasn't said much to him since she met him in Hurley's office in her Sunday best, clasping her hands in her lap, a half-empty cup of coffee on Hurley's desk next to her, her anxiety infectious. She's staring out the window now, but she has Pete's hand in a tight, bone-crushing grip. Hurley's voice still rings in his ears: No identity document, no wallet, no nothing. Clothes ragged, face unshaven, reeking of alcohol and old sweat. What were we supposed to do?

"Well," Pete prods when they're nearing the town, feeling that cotton surrounding his head finally starting to clear up. "Don't tell me you have nothing to say."

"I don't know where to start," she admits to her barely-there reflection in the car window. "I mean, really, Pete? I've been looking for you for days, thinking up all these horror scenarios where you're lying in a ditch somewhere, mugged and bleeding to death. When we found your clerical collar outside the church, just lying in the dirt, shoemarks all over it, we knew something was wrong. You just disappeared! And at the worst of times! And what, all this time you've been locked up in a mental hospital? It's like I don't even know you."

"Don't say that, Ash," Pete cringes, but she gives him a look that quickly shuts him up.

They drive the rest of the way back to town in silence. The trees swim before his eyes, and when they cross the bridge where his adventure started from, the glitter of the sun in the river makes his eyes prickle and run.

Inside the house Ash drags him up the stairs to the bathroom, says with a stern look, "You're not allowed to come out until you smell like pine again," and slaps a new bar of soft pine soap on the flat of his palm.

"Yes ma'am," says Pete, his grin tired but wide when she rolls her eyes at him and closes the door behind her, leaving Pete alone in the room.

He peels off the clothes he had worn on the day he disappeared, placing the jacket over the white, rickety stool and folding his dress shirt and brown pants on top of it. He takes a curious sniff at his dirty-white socks and underwear, the tart, stinging smell hitting his nose like tear gas.

"Jeez, what've you been doing, old man?" he asks himself, chucking the socks and boxers on the floor next to the stool.

Stepping in the shower, he dunks his head under the spray of hot water with relish, rolling it from side to side between his shoulders. He takes the bar of soap and starts scrubbing, working it on his itching scalp and skin with haphazard strokes, digging it in his armpits and running it down his stomach, soaping up his junk and then palming his cock and balls lazily for a while. His fatigue washes off like the dirt from his skin, disappearing down the drain, and it doesn't take him long to start feeling like himself again.

It feels good to be home again, and Ashlee's already starting to come around; she could never stay mad at him for too long.

Something familiar stirs in him when he thinks of her, and he squeezes his fist around his cock a little harder and digs his teeth into his lip.

Ashlee's reclining on the living room couch holding a book over her face when Pete comes down, the radio on the table by her feet switched on. He admires her from the doorway for a while, studying the curve of her calf and the way her skirt hem's hitched up on her thigh. He coughs dryly, getting her attention.

"Pete!" Ashlee starts, closing the book on her chest. "You finished washing up? Come here and let me smell you."

"Ash," Pete grins, shaking his head, but obeys her anyway, allowing her to pull him down by the shirt and press her nose into his neck. "All clean?"

"All clean," she confirms, letting go of his shirt. She sits up and puts her book on the coffee table, clasping her hands in her lap. On the radio Ruth Edding is singing, Shout Hallelujah, c'mon get happy, get ready for the judgment day!

"Are you ready to meet daddy? His condition allows him only to mumble words, and I can never really make out of what he's trying to say, but I know he's been asking for you every day."

Pete cringes inwardly. Joe Simpson has always managed to put the fear of God in him, and even now he can't help but feel a little nervous, a little like he wants to run and hide. But he's done that already, hasn't he? Maybe it's finally time to face the old man and put this all behind him. Anyway, what could that old man do to him now?

"Let's go."

To his surprise instead of going to the hospital Ash leads him straight back upstairs. She opens the door to the guest room and pokes her head in. "Daddy? I've got someone special here to see you." She smiles bright and pushes Pete in with so much force it makes him stumble.

"Surprise?" Pete says, taking in the scene. Joe's lying in bed with the window above his head ajar, watching him with spooked, watery eyes.

Ash leans down to plant a kiss on Joe's forehead, oblivious to his discomfort. "We found him! Isn't that wonderful?" She pats Joe on the cheek and then turns around, gives Pete's arm a squeeze and adds, "Well, I'll leave you boys alone. I bet you have a lot of catching up to do."

"Looks like you're doing better," Pete says when Ashlee's closed the door. "I mean, last time I saw you, you were lying in the hospital, totally out of it. But look at you now in your crisp pajamas, no doubt being pampered ad nauseam by the women. You're living like a king, old man. How about that."

Joe whispers something inaudible, motioning Pete to come closer.

"What was that?" Pete asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning his ear against Joe's mouth.

"Satan," Joe spits out, turning his head to the side away from Pete.

"Y'know what? I had a lot of time to think while I was locked up inside that mental hospital. Did you hear about that, by the way? Crazy stuff," he laughs at his own pun, smoothing out the rucked up sheet on Joe's chest, getting all the wrinkles out. "I met this woman there, Esther, total nut job, kinda liked her actually. Anyway. I had time to think, more than I ever had before, and I think you might be onto something. I feel powerful. Like a leader. Like I'm almost done figuring out my purpose in life. It's just on the tip of my tongue, I'm gonna figure it out soon. And who knows, right? At this moment in time I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads, like I could go either way. I don't know, I guess I'm just waiting for that final push in the right direction."

Joe wets his lips and swallows, his slow movements irritating Pete. "No crossroads," he whispers, his words so jumbled up Pete's surprised he can even make sense of him. "Already made your choice."

Pete's brows knit into a frown. He's looking at Joe on that bed. A trail of spit is trickling down the side of his mouth, his arms and legs stiff and arranged in an awkward way. Weak and pathetic. He did that to him, he's the reason Joe's like that now.

"For your sake, I hope you're wrong," he voices darkly, turning his head to the window; crows are flying in a circle in the clear blue sky.

Ashlee meets him in the hallway. “Hey, how’d it go? Did you have a good talk?”

“Yeah, it was good to see him doing better already,” Pete says. His stomach is churning when he thinks about the thinning skin on Joe’s hands, his weak voice and watery eyes. Ashlee grins, pulling him in for a quick hug.

“I’m so glad,” she says, patting him on the back and then squeezing his upper arm. “I’m going to ask Hayley to prepare us something amazing for dinner. She makes a mean pot roast. We need to celebrate your return! I’ll have to check with Hayley if we have any beef left from yesterday’s dinner, otherwise I’ll just send her out to buy some…”

Pete nods, already tuning her out, her chatter making his head spin. He retreats into his room, making sure the door is firmly shut behind him. He leans against the dressing table, taking in deep breaths, the only noise the swishing of air in and out of his nose. He stares at his image in the mirror and focuses on stopping the walls from falling down on him.

"What now, Pete? What're you gonna do?" he asks his mirror image, gripping the varnished sides of the dressing table, digging his nails in. He thinks about what Joe said in his sickbed about him having made his choice already. Sometimes, though, it’s almost like someone else is making all the hard choices for him, and it’s a comforting thought, that someone’s looking out for him, taking care of him. He’s been made important, so who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

The itch in his head is getting worse, almost throbbing now. He picks up a hairbrush and starts rubbing it over his head vigorously, scratching his scalp, the itch unbearable.

"What the?"

There's a piece of scalp stuck to the teeth of the brush, a tuft of his black hair still attached to it.

He brings his hand up to his hairline and gives a tentative tug, more scalp peeling off. Panicking, Pete starts to claw at his hair and face, watching as pieces fall on the dressing table with wet squelching splats. Under all that dead skin there's a new face for him: greener eyes, neater eyebrows, thinner lips and a sharper jaw.

"What the fuck," he says when no more skin peels off, staring at the man in the mirror. "Who are you?" But he knows this man, he's seen him before, has dreamed about chasing him and tearing him apart.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Frank,” his mirror image says, features sharp like a blade. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

“Frank,” Pete breathes out, staring at the image, not daring to blink.

"Is everything alright, Pete?" Ash pokes her head in the room, knocking on the door belatedly.

Pete looks at the mirror again and finds that things have gone back to normal, the scraps of his scalp and skin vanished from the top of the table like nothing had ever happened, like it had all been in his head.

"Huh?"

"I said is everything okay? I heard noises."

Pete checks the mirror one last time, touching his face, tugging at his hair. The fast pulse that's beating against his eardrums is making him queasy, or maybe it's the memory of his skin peeling off, hitting the table.

"I uh, yeah, everything's perfect."

"Okay," Ash says, flashing him a faint smile. "When you're done, come downstairs to have coffee with me?"

"Sure thing," Pete nods jerkily, forcing himself to match Ash's smile.

When the evening rolls around Pete decides to go for a walk. Ashlee's eyeing him in the doorway with her arms crossed to her chest.

"I won't leave the town, okay?" Pete says for the nth time, shrugging into his jacket. "I just want to clear my head, they didn't let me outside in the hospital."

"Fine, but if you get yourself in trouble again, I'll let Hayley cuff you to the drainpipe like a dog. Don't think she won't," she adds, poking him in the chest with her finger.

"I'm sure she'd love that," Pete says. He leans forward and smacks a loud kiss on Ashlee's cheek, chuckling as she pushes him out of the door with a toothy grin.

"Oh, Pete!" she yells after him, remembering herself. "William Beckett is coming to meet you tomorrow morning, don't forget!"

Pete frowns, turning around on his heel. "Who?"

"Bill Beckett? Come on, Pete, you must remember him! The young man from the radio. He seemed genuinely concerned about you when I came to ask him for help."

"Why's he coming here, though? Did you call him on the phone? Ashlee."

"Don't Ashlee me, he made me promise I'd let him know if I heard anything about you, if you came back. You owe him a talk on his radio show."

Pete sighs, waving her off. "Fine, whatever, I'll meet up with him in the morning."

He heads to the church hall first, checking that the house is still standing. It's getting dark already, but there are lights on and people inside. I might just get this over with, he thinks, stepping in.

Inside the church every migrant wants to be the first to hug him and shake his hand, to know where he's been. Pete flashes teeth and fights the urge to push them all away. These are his people, his little migrants. He holds the power of a hundred men. With his migrants on his side there is nothing he can't accomplish. Play nice, Pete a voice inside him warns, and he smiles a little wider and puts a little more meaning into every handshake that follows.

When he finally gets to leave, the sun has already sunk under the horizon. He doesn't feel tired though, doesn't want to make his way back home yet. So he continues down the road, smelling the air. He stops by a dark, partly broken window of a derelict house, thinking he saw something moving inside. He starts, taking a shaky step back when a man appears in the window, staring at him with black, stern eyes. He is shirtless, but on his chest there’s a tattoo of a large wilted tree, covering him from neck to hips.

"Who are you," he asks, watching the man in the window mouthing the words back at Pete.

It takes a while to realize that he's staring at his own twisted reflection. "It can't be," he says, walking up to the window. He studies the reflection, taking in all the differences and marveling at the similarities. "What do you want from me?" he asks, touching the window with his fingertips, the man meeting his touch in the broken glass.

A jolt of energy flashes through Pete, and he stumbles back, falling on his ass in the dirt.

He rolls over onto his stomach and presses his head down, everything moving like a lightning bolt in his eyes. Suddenly he can smell the wet soil ten feet under him, sense the worms and beetles moving in the ground under his hands, hear every creak and crackle, every clink of fork against plate and the cutting of a steak, people talking inside their homes.

When he turns his head up at the sky, every star feels as powerful as the sun, but at the same time he realizes they have nothing on him.

Clambering up on unsteady feet, Pete turns to look at the window again but this time his reflection is as normal as it's ever been, all down to the early wrinkles under his eyes.

He touches his face and frowns.

"What do you want from me?" he says, every cell in his body buzzing with energy.

At night in his room Pete unbuttons his shirt in the lamplight in front of the mirror and takes a startled step back, his eyes widening at the sight.

He touches the figure on his chest, tracing the black branches of the tree with his fingers, marveling at the details.

It looks good on him, fits him like a second skin, like he was born to wear it.

--

At breakfast Brian seeks Frank out and asks him about Ozzy. "I take it you still want to visit him at the rest home?" He gives Butcher a smile and observes him scooping up more bacon from the pan and slapping it on Brian's plate.

"Are we close?" Frank asks, poking at the mess of beans on his plate with a slice of dry bread.

Brian swallows and nods, jabbing at the egg yolk with his fork, watching how it wobbles. "It's just a good thirty miles from the crossroads."

"Thanks," Frank says, grabbing his mug of coffee and gulping down the burning, gut-twisting drink in one go, squeezing his eyes shut tight and pulling a face as a shiver-shake travels through his body. "Yech. Did Gerard make this?” he wonders out loud, and adds, “Can I borrow your truck?"

Brian snorts, shaking his head. "Kid, you're shameless. What do I look like, a fucking car rental?"

"Well, what, you expect me to walk all the way there in this heat?" Frank scowls. Even sitting still is making him sweat. "You can just feed me to the fucking vultures right now, it'll save me heaps of trouble."

"Ha, ha," Brian says, rummaging in his pocket. He fishes out the keys and smacks them on the table, giving Frank a stern look. "If anything happens to my truck, I expect you know the consequences."

"It's not like it's the first time I'm driving it, man."

"No, but it's the first time you're going alone. I trust you won't run away with her, and you should know that if you do, I will hunt you down, and then the vultures will be the least of your worries."

"C'mon, Brian," Frank pulls his face into a bratty grin and stands up, grabbing the keys. "What kind of a man do you take me for?"

"We'll wait till the evening, if you're not back by then, just follow our trail. You know where to drive."

"I'll be back," Frank says, finding it an easy promise to make.

When he's driving, the time feels like it's just crawling along. He keeps touching the photo in his pocket, making sure it's still there. He hopes Ozzy will have answers for him because he's getting sick of being kept in the dark.

The rest home is bigger than he expected, even the parking lot could easily fit a hundred cars. The building looks like an institution instead of the small, homey hospice he'd pictured in his head.

He slams the car door shut and hops up the steps to the building, trying to tell the bats flapping in his belly to behave.

He looks around the room and spots an empty desk. "Hello?" he asks but he's alone in the room.

He meanders around, acquainting himself with the building. Noticing a doorway on the far end of the main hall, he peeks in, taking in the small, built-in chapel on the other side of the doorway. Curiosity gets the best of him and he steps in, marveling at the clean stone walls painted by the light coming in through the stained glass window behind the altar, its intricate details and strong, deep colors the backbone of the small room. He walks to the altar, running his hand along the varnished pews.

A wooden statue of Our Lady catches his eye. She's standing on the left side of the altar, holding a wooden lily in her hand. She’s small and discreet, sculpted from light balsa wood and kept clean from paint, the back of her veil cast in the hues of the altarpiece.

He stares at the beautiful sculpted face as a teardrop starts gliding down her cheek. He blinks at it, startled, and reaches out to catch it on his thumb.

"Can I help you?" A stern voice startles him. He tears his eyes away from the weeping Mary and turns around, noticing a young nun standing in the doorway.

"I uh, I'm looking for someone," Frank says, feeling self-conscious under her tight scrutiny. "His name's Ozzy?"

The woman gives him a blank look. "Ozzy? Does your friend have a last name?"

"He's not my friend," Frank is quick to correct her, sounding almost defensive. "I've never even met him before."

"I'm sorry, but only the occupant's friends and family are allowed to visit. Even if I knew who you were talking about, I simply couldn't allow you to see him."

Frank's stomach sinks. He did not just come all this way for nothing. "Listen, lady, it's really important that I meet him. Shit. I can't -- I can't go back without talking to him."

"What did you say your name was again?" she asks, flipping through a sheaf of files she’s been carrying under her arm.

"I didn't. It's Frank. Frank Iero."

A look of surprise crosses her face and she seems suddenly very interested in him. "Frank Iero, well I'll be damned."

"That name says something to you?"

She nods and turns to leave, motioning for him to follow with a tip of her head. "You better come with me. I'm Sister Mary, John's been asking for you for as long as I can remember."

"John?" Frank asks, struggling to keep up with her long legs.

"I think you called him Ozzy. He never really makes much sense, but you're the one he seems to be waiting for."

"But how? I've never even met the man."

"You'll have to ask him about it," she says like she wants to know the answer just as much as Frank does.

She leads him up the spiral staircase and down a narrow corridor. Everything is white here, from the floor to the walls to Sister Mary's leather sandals and ankle socks. The arched windows and high ceiling remind him of cathedrals.

She stops in front of a door and places her hand on the knob, turning around to face Frank. "I don't have the answers, but for what it's worth, John seems to hold you in high value. Your name is the only one on the visitors list, Frank. Whoever you are, I'm glad you're finally here."

She pushes the door open and nudges Frank inside.

"John? John, there's someone here to see you!"

It takes a while before his eyes adjust to the dark room, but he notices Ozzy almost immediately. He's curled up in a ball under the window, hidden in the long shadow of the room.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," the nun says, giving Frank an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"Wait," he says before the door closes, not taking his eyes off the man. "He's not dangerous or anything, is he?"

"Oh no," Mary says reassuringly, "really quite the contrary. You'll be fine," she adds, pulling the door closed with a soft thud. Even with Sister Mary's reassurances, Frank can't help but feel like he's been thrown into the lions.

"Uh," he says, inching closer to the man with cautious movements, giving him a weak nod. Ozzy rocks back and forth, his long, messy hair curtaining his face. He kneels down at an arm's length from Ozzy, trying to make eye contact with him, but Ozzy's head is pressed down and he's shaking it while murmuring to himself in a broken, nonsensical way.

"I'm Frank," Frank says, and Ozzy finally stops his rocking and looks up, eyes trying to focus on Frank's face. "You wanted to see me, right? How do you know my name?"

Ozzy licks his lips and pulls a face, turning his head up at the window, the words he garbles out are all jumbled and strange and Frank can’t make sense of them.

"Come on, man, I've come a long way just to meet you, and you don't even have anything to say to me?"

Ozzy huffs out and gives him an annoyed look, glancing at the walls again. Frank realizes with a start that the walls are full of drawings, and every single one represents the tattooed man from his dreams. He stands up and detaches one of the drawings, studying the figure, his black eyes and the wilted tree on his chest, feeling oddly disconnected from the world.

"Who is he?" he asks with a distant voice, showing Ozzy the drawing.

Ozzy stops his muttering and stretches out his jaw, moistening his lips. "You're connected," he says with a scratchy voice, jabbing Frank's chest with his pointer finger, his eyes bulging out.

Frank fishes the photo out of his pocket and shows it to him. "Is he connected, too?"

Ozzy studies the photo for a while, turning it in his hands and pressing it to his nose, giving it a big sniff, then recoiling.

Frank's starting to think this is all some big scam, some stupid prank Brian and Bob are pulling on him. But then Ozzy gives him an almost sober look and says, "That's him," pointing at the drawing.

"What? The kid is the man in your drawing? They're the same person?"

Shrill giggles shake Ozzy’s body and he drops the photo from his grip, starting to rock back and forth on his heels. "Little Pete," he titters, his eyes gleaming danger in the dark.

"His name is Pete?" Frank asks perplexed. He stretches out his leg and puts his foot on the photograph, sliding it toward him along the dusty floor, not wanting to bend down and pick it up so close to Ozzy. Frank’s not willing to trust Sister Mary’s depiction of him. He’s making Frank’s skin crawl. "How... is he like, oh shit, is he gonna kill me?"

Ozzy sobers up so fast it’s almost comical. "Not if you get him first," he says, jumping up. He rummages in a drawer for a while and then turns around, holding a dagger in his hand.

"Whoa, easy," Frank says, staggering up and backing into a wall.

Ozzy rolls his eyes and shoves the dagger into Frank's hands, making him grip the handle tightly. "You will need this where you're going," he says, taking a step back and standing tall. The light from the window casts a bright aura around his frame but his body is shadowed and dark.

"And where am I going, exactly?" Frank asks, unsure if he wants to be ordered around by this lunatic.

Ozzy flashes yellow teeth and says, with arms spread wide, "Where the dog and the wolf howl at the moon, son. That's where you will find little Pete."

"Oh sure, of course," Frank says, shaking his head. He hates riddles, hates them with everything he has. "Why would I wanna find him, though? He seems fucking crazy."

"Because -- god, do I have to spell it out to you? Because if you don't find him and destroy him, the world as we know it will end, you fool,” Ozzy grits out. “You’ve seen it! A mushroom cloud of smoke, all around raging wars, people being torn to pieces. A big explosion that destroys everything all around it."

"Look man, I don't know what kind of mind reading hijinx you're pulling on me --"

"It's not mind reading, idiot," Ozzy despairs, scrubbing at his forehead so hard his skin is turning red, patience wearing thin. Frank doesn’t think Ozzy has any right to look so indignant after everything he’s told Frank. "I've seen those dreams, too. Ever since we took little Pete in."

"Just -- what happened to him?"

"I tried to get rid of him, okay? When I started to realize his powers, what he was capable of. Things just got real creepy, right from the beginning. His blank eyes, the way he'd spook the animals just by being there. I did everything I could think of... But he was remarkable, even as a child. So much power in such a teeny-weeny little boy."

"What did you do?" Frank asks nervously, Ozzy's disjointed little speech making him more and more nauseous.

Ozzy gives him a grim smile, shrinking into himself. "I thought throwing him out the truck and leaving him in the middle of nowhere would do the trick. But the dreams wouldn't stop coming. That's how I knew he was still alive."

Frank steps away from Ozzy, clutching the dagger in a tight fist. "Christ," he exhales, shaking his head, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe. "Why me? What do I have to do with all this?"

Ozzy stares at his hands and shrugs, starting to rock back and forth again. "You're the one with the power. You're his opposite, the only one who can stop him. The only one who is able to kill him."

"Kill him? Look, come on. I -- I can't kill a human, I'm not a murderer."

"He's not a man. His blood runs blue like the evening sky."

"What is that, like a metaphor?"

Ozzy gives him a disgruntled glare, yanking hard at the strands of hair hanging on his shoulders. "If you don't kill him, he will kill you. He’ll kill every one of us."

Back in the car Frank cranks up the radio and steps on the gas, speeding away from the rest home as fast as he can.

"Fucking crazy motherfucker," he says to the front mirror, rummaging in the glove compartment and pulling out two cigarettes from a pack that's hidden between sheets of paper. He places one between his lips and the other behind his ear and lights up. He takes out the drawing from his pocket and unfolds it, studying the man's face while he drives. Ozzy has scribbled a note on the left of the paper with shaky handwriting. It reads, a dark heart dwells where branches meet, and there's an arrow pointing to the man's chest and a miniature version of the dagger next to it. You don't have to be a genius to know what Ozzy's implying. The real dagger's pressing against his thigh, its leathery sheath digging into his skin. He thinks about Ozzy's advice, a dark, deep dread creeping into him. He's not a killer. If his mama saw him now, she'd say he was way out of his depth. She would tell him to stop messing around with stuff that's too big for him to handle and just go home, home where he belongs.

He savors the last of his cigarette, letting it shed ashes on the steering wheel. He gives a heavy sigh and throws the butt out of the window, reclining in the seat.

The sun's just starting to set when Frank returns, and the carnies are making last minute preparations for the long drive south.

Brian pulls the door open for him when Frank stops the car, ushering him out.

"Well? How did it go? Did you get your answers?"

Frank gives him a look, slamming the door shut and chucking him his keys. "Your Ozzy is one creepy son of a bitch," he says but his heart isn't really in it. All he can think about is whether Ozzy's dreams of catastrophe were what drove him mad, and if that would happen to him one day.

"No kidding," Brian says, increasing his pace to keep up with Frank. "I could have told you that. I did tell you that."

"Yeah, you did." Frank stops close by Ray's trailer, glancing at Brian, the sun caught in his lashes. "But he's legit, right? Everything he said to me, I feel like he wasn't just trying to pull my leg."

Brian gives Frank a strange look, toying with his keys. "I think you should talk to Ray," he just says, squeezing Frank’s shoulder before leaving him to his thoughts.

Frank is about to knock on Ray's door when Gerard calls for him, giving him a small wave. "I was thinking," he says when Frank's closed the distance between them, "if you wanted to spend the drive in our trailer? I mean, I know you like being outside, and of course our trailer has nothing on Brian's awesome truck, but you'd have some company at least?" Gerard babbles, wringing his hands. "I, uh -- we miss having you around."

Frank's heart has leapt to his throat, but his stomach sinks when he realizes that he can’t. A huge part of him wants to take Gerard up on his offer, but a bigger part is telling him he needs to go bug Ray for more answers. He really, really just needs some answers. "That'd be so great, like, seriously. But I have to talk to Ray and I don't think it can wait till our next stop."

"Oh," Gerard looks disappointed, although he quickly masks it with a smile. "I get it, it's alright. Some other time, yeah?"

"Yeah, definitely," Frank agrees, smiling at him in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "It's just, all this stuff with Ozzy? I need a second opinion and Ray seems like my best option. I mean, he has a fucking traveling library with him."

"Ray's definitely your man," Gerard says, squeezing Frank's arm before turning to leave.

"Gee, wait," Frank calls, jogging up to him and scooping him into a big, warm hug, wrapping his arms tight around Gerard and holding him close.

Gerard pats him on the back with awkward thumps for a while and then just sinks into the hug, nuzzling his face into Frank's neck, pressing a smile there.

When Frank pulls back, Gerard's still smiling, the spot under his eye glaringly pink.

"I'll see you later," Frank promises, his chest warm as he musters up all the courage in the world and leans up on his toes to press a kiss on Gerard's cheek. He pulls back faster than he can think and flees to Ray's trailer, yanking the door open and disappearing inside without even waiting for an invitation.

"Frank?" Ray says, looking utterly dazed. "You're back."

"I -- yeah. I just got back."

"Did it go well?" Ray motions for Frank to sit, gently laying his guitar down on the bed. "What did you find out?"

Frank heaves a sigh and sits down, and then tells Ray everything, showing him the drawing and the dagger Ozzy gave him, and the photo of 'little Pete', which Ray now seems more interested than before.

"I heard him talking about Pete so often, but I just thought. I thought he was just going insane. I never realized this Pete actually existed."

"Whether he's real or not, I've been dreaming about him for months. Ray, this is... this is so fucked up. He said we were opposite powers, what do you think he meant by that?"

Ray hums, furrowing his brows. "Could it have something to do with the Avatar stuff?" he asks, going to look for his book.

"What do you mean? You don't think he's one, do you? Ray? Come on."

"The way you keep describing him... I dunno, he seems pretty evil."

Frank lets out a nervous giggle, pressing his arms against the flip of his stomach. Fuck everything, is this really his life? "But then that'd make me… No, come on man, I'm just your average guy, I've never been anything special."

"Frank, you heal people," Ray intones, his eyes intense. "That's not the kind of trick you will see every day, not even in a carnival. And yours isn't even a trick, is it? You're the real deal."

Frank stands up, almost losing his balance in the moving vehicle. "How do you know? Did... did Gerard --?"

"Frank, sit down. Gerard didn't tell me anything. You can fool all these people, you can even fool Brian -- mostly I think because he's not ready to accept the truth -- but you can't fool me. I saw that girl from my trailer the night before you healed her. She was gazing up at the Ferris wheel in her little cart like there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to run past that line of people and hop on the ride."

"Bob saw her and lifted her up and didn't charge her father for the ticket," Frank says quietly, thinking back on the evening. He had spent most of it with Gerard, smoking on the back of Brian's truck, gazing up at the stars.

Ray’s smile is gentle, and he nods his head. "He's a good man, his heart is in the right place."

Frank sighs, sitting back down. The trailer runs over a bump on the ground and rattles for a while; whoever's pulling the trailer behind him is speeding up, and Frank wonders if Brian is trying to catch up on lost time or if he just wants to get far away from Babylon as fast as their aged vehicles can bear to go.

"So. What happens now?" Frank asks, studying Ray's face.

"I guess that depends. Do you trust Ozzy's advice?"

"Can I afford not to? I mean, he practically told me that the whole world would get destroyed if someone -- if I didn't stop Pete. And, I think I've seen it in my dreams, too. Like, sometimes I dream about this big explosion that tears the world apart, and it really scares me. It has to mean something, right?"

"I dunno, Frank. And I can't make the decisions for you."

Frank runs his hand through his hair, frustrated. "That's really fucking helpful, Ray."

"Sorry, man," Ray says. "Like I said, I can't choose for you, but I can give you my opinion. I think you should trust Ozzy on this. I mean, you both have the same dreams? And then you found that photograph of Pete in a trailer that's not supposed to even exist. And what about the message on the cave wall? I dunno, it all seems like too much to just be a freaky coincidence."

Frank buries his head in his hands and takes in a shuddering breath. "Great. How am I supposed to find this Pete, then?" And when I find him, how the hell am I supposed to kill him?

"Did Ozzy say anything?"

Frank racks his brain while trying not to give into his nerves. "Uh, he said something about a dog and a wolf howling at the moon? That Pete would be there. Whatever that means."

Ray just looks confused, which shouldn't make Frank's stomach drop with disappointment, but does anyway. "I'll have to think about that," he says, turning back to his books. "Don't worry," he adds, "we'll figure it out.  And if you and Pete's destinies are linked together, I have a feeling you'll meet him whether you want to or not."

"Great. That's just fucking great," Frank grumbles. "I never asked for this, you know. Any of it. Mama always said I needed to have more faith, she did everything she could to raise me into a good, God fearing Catholic, but I never believed in God or Heaven, or the Devil. I still don't."

Ray smiles softly, his eyes full of intent. "Even if you don't believe in God, God seems to believe in you."

--

William Beckett is standing by the window in the living room when Pete walks downstairs, gazing out into the yard. He's spent the night in the house by Ashlee's request, since the journey back home would have been too strenuous to take in the late evening, and William had expressed his interest in spending some time ''in the countryside''.

He'd been painfully interested to hear what had happened to Pete in the days that he'd been missing, prompting him to tell his story every chance he got, but Pete had been hesitant about telling him anything that he could take with him and broadcast on the radio.

"Pete, you're up," Ashlee says, taking her eyes off the paper. There's a cup of coffee on the table in front of her and a half-eaten Madeleine on a plate next to the cup.

"Hello Ash, William," Pete says, his hand instinctively going to his throat, checking that no patch of skin is showing under his shirt. Getting up in the morning, a part of him had expected the tattoo to have disappeared during the night, but it was still there when he checked himself in the mirror, and it didn't scrub off in the shower afterwards.

"I was just admiring the trees in your yard. Tell me, are they really cherry trees? I'm surprised anything grows so well in these conditions. What's your secret?"

"My secret?" Pete squeaks, his hand flying up to his throat.

"We've never had any trouble keeping plants alive," Ashlee jumps in, smiling brightly at William. "Droughts have never plagued our little home, they've just traveled straight past us."

"What an odd thing to say," William says, looking at her with profound interest.

"God has blessed us with green thumbs," Pete interjects, sitting down on the armchair.

"Apparently a handful of them," William laughs, and Ashlee says, "Amen," throwing her hands up in the air.

Hayley's prepared lunch and they eat it in the dining room with Joe in a wheel chair at the head of the table, a napkin stuffed in his collar while Ashlee feeds him soft potato mash and gravy and Pete tries to ignore the evil looks Joe’s sending his way.

William spends the whole lunch wheedling Pete into doing the radio show, claiming that his popularity as a preacher would skyrocket with even just one single speech delivered through the radio waves.

"Besides, you already agreed to do it," he reminds, pointing his fork at Pete in an accusing manner.

"Fine," Pete sighs. And it’s true, he has nothing to lose, and William has a point, he can reach out to more people that way.

"Excellent," William throws the fork onto his plate and wipes his hands on his trousers before going to shake Pete's hand.

Ashlee claps her hands together, her excited face pressing into Joe’s neck as she pulls him in for a hug.

On the next day they're already driving down to William's radio station, the windows rolled all the way down for comfort due to the scorching heat.

"Don't worry," Ashlee says when they're stepping inside the building, holding Pete's hand for comfort. "It's a little scary at first but you're a wonderful speaker, it'll go so well. Just remember to keep your mouth at a distance to the microphone, otherwise it'll let out this awful noise."

"Ash, come on, you're the one that's making me nervous," Pete says, pulling her hands away from his hair when she starts fluffing it up. "Just, go sit with William and I'll be right up. I just need a minute to collect my thoughts, okay?"

William comes to fetch him after a short while. "Ready for the big event? I'm telling ya, this'll do wonders to your reputation. Just watch, soon the whole country will be talking about Brother Peter."

"Suddenly I'm reminded of the phrase 'making a deal with the devil.'"

"Come on, I'm not that bad."

"No. You're not," Pete says, walking into the studio.

As Pete starts to talk it's almost like he falls into a trance. His voice sounds distant and muffled in his own ears, white background noise. Instead, without even thinking, he finds himself reaching out to his listeners on a more personal level.

He tells Margaret that her baby will die of dust pneumonia if she doesn't get the cracks in her windows fixed, and to Jackson that his neighbor has been stealing from his crop for months, and he has to put an end to it unless he wants to become the laughing stock of the whole neighborhood.

He tells Sally and Ben and Alex that he'll be their savior, as long as they go out and spread his word.

It smells like coffee and mint lozenges in the studio, but the crows circling outside the windows catch Pete's attention.

"Amazing," William says afterwards, shaking Pete's hand. "Green thumbs aside, God really has gifted you with the talent of words."

"I was okay," Pete says, distracted. One of the crows is flapping its wings just outside the window and looking at Pete with its black, beady eyes.

"And modest, too!" William exclaims, tongue in cheek.

The crows follow Pete and Ashlee home, flying in a straight line behind the car. Pete keeps glancing at them in the front mirror while driving, gripping the steering wheel hard, his knuckles turning white.

One of the black birds whooshes past the window and soars into the cornfield by the roadside, landing on the arm of a huge, wilted tree that's sitting on top of a gentle slope. Pete slams the brakes so fast that Ashlee cries out in the back seat.

"Pete? What was that? Pete? What're you doing?"

Pete feels his way out of the car without taking his eyes off the tree, and after finding his footing he takes off running towards it, ignoring Ashlee's yells of protest behind him.

The crow greets him with a loud caw, then spreads its wings with a rustle of feathers and jumps off the branch, flying away.

It's like the tree on his chest but better, like he's found the inspiration to the piece, and he can't tear his eyes away from it: the curling black branches, the oddly twisted, strong trunk and roots that could reach out to the center of the world all the way to its core.

He reaches out his hand, running his fingers over the black bark and abruptly the sky goes dark. The wind picks up and clouds shift restlessly overhead, in a flash of light the tree bursts into flames. On the other side of the tree stands the man he's been dreaming about, Frank, but this time he isn't running away. With his fierce and focused eyes and tensed posture, he reminds Pete of a rattlesnake, biding his time for the perfect moment to strike. He's clutching a small dagger in his fist, the blade gleaming in the light of the fire. And Pete knows, he just knows this man will come after him, that their paths will cross very soon. He can’t wait.

"Pete? Pete! What is it?" Ashlee sounds out of breath and irritated when she gets on top of the slope. She glares at Pete, leaning onto her thighs.

Pete looks around, the sky's gone back to the mundane, cloudless blue, there isn't a trace of the man in sight and the tree isn't even scorched anymore. Looking back at Ashlee panting and glaring daggers at him, Pete struggles to keep a straight face.

"Oh, shut up," she says with a scowl.

"Ash, what is this place? How come I never noticed it before?"

Ashlee shrugs, eyeing at the tree like it's the ugliest son of a bitch she’s ever seen. "It's just an old tree."

"No, there's something more to it, I can feel it."

"Like what?"

Pete turns to gaze at the valley that spans the area on the other side of the slope, overwhelmed by his emotions. It's almost as if a part of him, this new, exciting, mysterious part, has come home.

"Ash," he says with a voice he barely recognizes as his own. "This is where I will build my temple."

Ashlee lets out a startled laugh. "Your -- your temple, Pete?"

"What's so funny about that? My people need a place of worship."

Ashlee looks doubtful. "We have a perfectly good church already, or have you forgotten? I mean, at first I had my doubts, it was a whorehouse, but. It turned out all right in the end. Better than. The work we put into it…"

"It won't be big enough much longer," Pete says. "People are coming, sister. Hoards of them. Tens of thousands. Chin's is already cracking at the seams. Once word about me starts to spread, everyone will want to meet me in person, to hear me talk, shake my hand." And worship me, he adds in his head with a sick sense of pride.

"And how do you know people will come? God tell you that, too?"

"You sound skeptical, Ash. You know that is not the way of a true believer."

"You're insane," Ashlee hisses. "Listen to yourself. You're despotic. What happened to you? You know what? Whatever. I'm going back to Chin's, you do whatever you want."

"Chin's," Pete murmurs, watching the sharp ripple of shoulder blades on Ashlee's retreating back. "I hope it burns to the ground."

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