And If Thou Wilt, Forget

Tim had expected that, if Jon had access to the tunnels he didn’t have to hide, he would spend more time in them than was really good for him. He had also suspected it would mean he himself wouldn’t be able to come in through one of the other entrances—better that Jon didn’t know there were other ways in and out just yet. What he somehow had failed to expect, but which in retrospect really should have been obvious, was that Jon would react with extreme hostility to the idea of anyone exploring with him.

It wasn’t even like it was just Tim asking. Martin had added his voice in support to one of Tim’s arguments, and it had just ended with Jon slamming the door to his office hard enough to rattle the glass, Martin storming off to the bathroom with his face screwed up in anger, and Tim burying himself in a shelf he rarely touched because the cases on it were too old to be of any immediate use. He still felt guilty about the way Martin had looked when he returned thirty minutes later, face scrubbed pink and eyes red from crying, but he’d refused all attempts at comfort and reconciliation. He’d seemed fine the next day, but Tim knew his anger and upset was simmering under the surface, like a festering wound healed over too quickly. Maybe Martin didn’t realize he was still upset. He needed to vent it off, though, or it was going to cause problems.

Sasha, for her part, seemed indifferent to the whole thing. She told Tim and Martin to leave Jon alone, that he’d eventually get bored when there was nothing to find and stop spending so much time in the tunnels. The trouble was that Tim wasn’t sure he could wait for eventually. Jon was either going to get sick or get hurt at some point, and Tim would never be able to forgive himself if it happened on his watch. And it was always on his watch; it didn’t just extend during working hours like it seemed to with Martin and Sasha. Frankly, it was getting annoying.

The boiling over point actually came the second Monday in February, and it wasn’t even anything Martin or Jon did that touched it off. Tim couldn’t even say for sure what it was he was feeling, but he got the sense that they had passed some sort of point of inevitability and something drastic was about to happen as a result. Whatever the end of it would be, the start of it was that Melanie King, who’d been in and out of the Archives and the Institute for a while, came down just as Tim was leaving for lunch; he didn’t get bad vibes from her, or at least he didn’t think he did, but something made him cut his break short, and when he returned, he found her and Martin practically nose to nose in the middle of the Archives shouting at one another. Before Tim could intervene, Martin slammed his hand on the desk next to him, probably for emphasis, and Melanie reacted by rearing back and throwing a vicious right hook that only didn’t break his glasses because she was too short to land her punch on anything other than his cheek. To her credit, she did look like she felt bad about it, but she stormed out of the Archives without apologizing.

Tim did his best to help, but Martin ended up going home early and actually called out the next day, which either meant he was really miserable and in pain or he just didn’t want to face Jon on Valentine’s Day.

He was back on the fifteenth, and Tim, deciding that Jon was safe for the day since he spent most of it holed up in his office, set his focus on Martin. It would probably take an act of God to actually make him relax, but he decided to try if he could at the very least make him smile. It was tough going, since Martin barely spoke all day and didn’t even look at him directly, but he finally managed it towards the end of the day by virtue of stringing Sasha along with a description of the statement he claimed to be working on just to see how far he could get before she realized he’d adapted a chapter of Watership Down. The bruise she was going to leave on his upper arm was worth the tiny giggle he got out of Martin.

It didn’t really last, though. Tim woke up the next morning with a sense of low-grade anxiety that was not helped by the fog that descended just as he set off for the station. Martin, his cheek beginning to turn a nice shade of purple, seemed tired and not particularly inclined to be talkative when he got on, but he didn’t object when Tim patted the seat next to him and even leaned into him a little bit. Tim was mentally preparing for another day of coaxing Martin out of his own head until he opened the door to the Archives and immediately thought oh, no, what’s he doing now?

“Jon?” he called as he stepped down into the main part of the Archives. The lights were on, at least, which was a promising sign. “Everything okay in here?”

There was a clatter and a curse, as if someone had dropped a box of files. “Yes! Fine!” Jon called back.

Tim didn’t believe him, though, not in the least because that was followed by hasty footsteps and the slam of the office door. He sighed and turned to Martin. “It’s going to be one of those days. Tea?”

“I’ll get it,” Martin mumbled. Before Tim could say anything else, he shook his head minutely—not, Tim thought, at him, just at himself—and added, “But thanks, Tim.”

He slouched off. Tim remained where he was, counted as much of one to ten as he could currently remember, and headed over to his desk to begin the day.

The atmosphere in the Archives that morning was…Tim wouldn’t call it tense exactly. More like…charged. There was something brewing, he could sense it, he could almost taste it, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. That wasn’t really a surprise; Gertrude had told him once that the Eye couldn’t see the future, or know what would have happened in a hypothetical situation. It dealt in Knowledge, in Facts, in things that could be Proved, and speculation was unnecessary. Figuring out patterns and guessing—no more than that—where they might lead to was more the Web’s purview. He’d always been good at putting patterns together and coming up with probabilities, and maybe the Beholding had enhanced that for him at least a little bit, but it really only helped when it came to working out what had happened rather than what would. He was pretty sure something dangerous was lurking nearby, or just under the surface or something, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was and it annoyed him.

Sasha, too, seemed a bit strung out. Restless, maybe. She’d been reticent on the topic of what she and her paramour had done for Valentine’s Day, so maybe they’d postponed plans until the weekend and she was chomping at the bit for that. Whatever it was, Tim got the vague idea that it was something she’d been anticipating for a long time and she didn’t want to wait much longer, and that if she didn’t get it she was going to start biting people. He wondered if she’d tell him if he asked her. Martin, for his part, was quiet, bent over his work, but he was incredibly twitchy. He kept rubbing at the back of his neck, fidgeting with a chewed biro none of them had brought into the Archives and none of them would have used if you’d paid them, and darting brief glances at the firmly closed door to the Archivist’s office. Every once in a while, when he thought Tim wouldn’t notice, he would reach up and quickly press the balls of two fingers into the bruise on his cheek, then go back to work.

Unsurprisingly, Sasha went to lunch first. As soon as he was sure they were alone, Tim glanced over his laptop at Martin and raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to see if it’s stopped hurting or trying to make it hurt? Because if it’s bothering you, I can go get you one of those warming pack things out of the first aid kit to put on it. It’s been enough days that heat might help.”

Martin blushed and lowered his hand. “No, I’m fine. It just…nervous tic, I guess.”

“You okay?” Tim asked gently. “Whatever you and Miss King were fighting about must’ve really got in your head.”

“I—yeah, kind of, a bit. But I just—I dunno, Tim.” Martin tossed the biro aside and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m just, it, it’s—how is this not getting to you? The, the paranoia, and the creepy stuff in the statements, and there are tunnels under the Institute and under our feet a-and Jon keeps the door unlocked now, anything could get up here, and you’re pissed and Jon barely accepts we aren’t trying to kill him and Sasha is just acting weird and…a-and I know there’s something I’m missing, but I can’t think what.”

Tim curled his hand into a fist, worrying unconsciously at the ring—okay, maybe he had no right to judge Martin about the bruise—and thinking. Martin could probably handle the truth. He’d probably be pissed Tim hadn’t told him right away after Prentiss attacked, but maybe once he explained that it was because he was trying to be sure Jon hadn’t killed Gertrude…actually, that would piss him off more, and probably send him in the other direction. There was no conceivable universe where Martin Blackwood did not side, unquestioningly and unwaveringly, with Jonathan Sims. But maybe if he knew a bit more about the Fourteen…

Martin, completely oblivious to Tim’s internal dilemma, was now full steam ahead ranting, hands waving. “And to top it all off, I feel like I’m being watched all the time. I mean, I usually feel like that down here, especially when we’re working on the trickier statements, but today I swear it’s like someone is staring into my soul and trying to figure out what’s making me tick and I, I hate it, I can’t concentrate on anything, and even knowing there’s no way to plant a camera down here isn’t helping and I don’t know why.”

Tim glanced towards Sasha’s desk and noticed that the picture of Tom had somehow got turned around so that it was aiming more across the Archives than at a point where Sasha could gaze upon her true love’s visage while she worked. The way it was angled, it was more facing Martin than anything else, and the guy did have an unusually direct stare into the camera. More as a joke than anything, Tim leaned over and swatted the top of the frame to drop it face down on the desk. The back edge of the frame caught the underside of his ring, which suddenly seemed to loosen again; it popped off his finger and skittered across the desk to the floor. He scoffed at it and got up to retrieve it, giving Martin a cheeky grin as he did so. “There, see? No more spying.”

Martin huffed out a laugh, and to Tim’s mild surprise, he actually relaxed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Thanks, Tim. That…weirdly, that did help. I guess it’s psychosomatic, but…hell, I didn’t even notice the picture got turned. And don’t tell Sasha, but it is a really creepy picture.”

“Yeah, I don’t disagree with you.” Tim scooped up the ring and slid it back onto his finger. “You wanna know why this isn’t getting to me, Martin? It’s because I was here before you all got down here. Gertrude Robinson ate this stuff for breakfast, and she made me sit down at the table with her. I guess I’m just used to it.”

“You’re used to being attacked by worms and threatened by cops and…” Martin waved at the statement. “Having paintings walk around?”

“That one’s fake. It’s the plot of at least three different movies that I can think of.” Tim sat on the corner of his desk and studied Martin seriously. “But…okay, yes and no. Nothing really attacked us directly that last year, but it happened all the time before I started working for her, and she made sure I was prepared. And—”

Martin’s phone buzzed, startling both of them. He picked it up, frowned, and then looked up at Tim. “It’s…Jon? He wants to see us in his office.”

“And he couldn’t open the door and ask us to come in?” Tim grumbled, but he slid off the desk. The back of his neck was prickling, some distant warning bell sounding. Something was wrong, he knew it…

Jon was seated behind his desk when Tim opened the door, face buried in his hands, glasses pushed up to his forehead. He straightened and raised his head when the other two came in, letting the frames drop back onto his nose, and adjusted his shirt almost nervously. The alarm bell in Tim’s head got a little louder, a little more insistent. Yeah, something was definitely wrong. Jon looked…grey, almost, but there was a slightly manic spark in his eye, too. Tim almost got the sense he was about to declare the whole place is one foul elil’s larder, or that the field was full of blood.

“You wanted to see us,” he said, as neutrally as he could.

“Are you okay? You look awful,” Martin said anxiously.

“I’m…I’m coming down with something, I think.” Jon touched his forehead briefly. “Listen, you should take the rest of the day off. Tomorrow as well.”

“Are you sure you—” Martin began.

Jon cut him off. “Don’t want to infect anyone else. Best you stay home.”

Tim curled his hand into a fist and shored up his mental barriers before he spoke again. His instinct was to push back, to demand Jon tell them the truth, to perhaps remind him that the last time his boss had told him to take time off without explanation, she’d been dead at the time. But if he was right…he couldn’t say that. Not here. Not now. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for you to go home, then?”

Martin reached out like he was going to put his hand on Jon’s forehead, then pulled back hastily. “Are you feverish? We should probably get you to a doctor. Look, there’s a walk-in center nearby that I can—”

“No,” Jon said quickly. Martin drew back like he’d been slapped, and Jon softened his voice. “No, I have things I still need to take care of here. And besides, I know you’ve both been under a lot of…pressure lately. I think we could all do with a bit of a break.”

“Well…well, yeah, but…” Martin floundered and looked helplessly at Tim.

“I know, I know a lot of it’s been because of me,” Jon said. Something vulnerable, almost frightened, came over his face for a moment. “Most of it. I’m sorry. Tim, I know things have been…fraught.”

“That’s one word for it,” Tim agreed.

“Yes, well, I think some time off can only help.”

“Because you’re ill.”

The look in Jon’s eyes this time was somewhere between relief and triumph, like he thought he’d got what he was looking for. “Yes…. Yes. And I’m…I’m sorry. About everything.”

“J-Jon—look, are you—” Martin began.

Tim scanned Jon’s face, listened to his own instincts, and decided to take a risk. Either Jon wanted them out of the way because of something he was going to do, or he was really ill, but either way, this might be the opportunity he was looking for. He took Martin’s arm. “Okay. Right you are, Jon. We’ll be going.”

“Wait, what?” Martin gave Tim an incredulous look.

Tim gave his arm a quick we’ll talk later squeeze. “Come on, Martin. We could do with a break. Jon, look, I know you said you’ve got things to take care of, but they’ll wait until you get back, yeah? Pack it up, lock the Archives up, and go home. I’ll stop by and tell Rosie on my way out so she can tell Sasha when she gets back and doesn’t understand why all the doors are locked. That way you can get home and rest without having to interact with anyone else. Give yourself ten minutes and then be out the door.”

Jon hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I, ah—thank you, Tim. I’ll do that.”

“Sure thing. See you Monday.” Tim tugged Martin, still protesting, out of Jon’s office and shut the door behind them.

Once they were back to their desks, Martin yanked his arm away. “Tim! What—if he’s really sick, we can’t just leave him!”

Tim slapped a hand down, feeling something in the picture frame—which honestly seemed pretty cheap—give just a little bit under him. “Martin, think for a minute, okay?” he hissed. “This is the man who’s been snapping at us for hovering over him for the last six weeks. If he is sick, he’s not going to let us take care of him. And I don’t for one minute think he actually is. But I’ve just told him I’m going to tell Rosie he’s leaving early, which means either he has to leave in the next ten minutes or so or she’s going to come down looking, so if he does want us out of there for some nefarious reason he has to leave. Look. I’m going up to the main floor. You go out the side door. If Jon comes out that way, let me know.”

“And what do I say if he sees me there?” Martin shot back, not entirely unreasonably.

“You tell him you were waiting to make sure he was okay to get where he’s going. Or that you were waiting for me. Make something up. Either he suspects us or he doesn’t, but there’s not much you can do to change that at this point.” Tim tucked his laptop in his bag and nodded at Sasha’s desk. “She took all her stuff with her, so it’s not like he has to wait for her. Go on. I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

Martin hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. And…tell me if he comes your way and needs help, okay?”

“I will. Later, Martin.” Tim grabbed his stuff and headed for the door between the Institute and the Archives.

Rosie was eating her lunch at her desk, which Tim figured she did so there was no chance of her missing anything that happened. He crossed the floor and leaned against her desk. “Hey, Rosie, when Sasha comes back, can you let her know Jon is sending us all home early?”

He didn’t speak particularly loudly, or at least not obviously so, but he knew Elias could hear him, not that he didn’t already know, he was sure. Rosie, however, looked interested. “Oh, is he? Why is that?”

“He says he’s not feeling well and we can all use some time off,” Tim told her. Time to take another risk, but he was pretty sure this one would pay off even better. “I’m not buying it for a second, but on the off chance he does actually leave, he’s going to lock all the doors and she won’t be able to get in, so just…let her know when she comes through that we’ll see her on Monday, would you?”

“Of course,” Rosie said, in tones of honeyed concern and eyes wide with apparent sincerity. “Does Mr. Bouchard know?”

“Do I know about what?” Elias appeared in the doorway to his office, looking mildly irritated.

Tim suppressed a smirk and spoke before Rosie could. “Jon’s sending us home early. Says we could all do with a break.”

“Do you believe him?”

“About as much as I believed Gertrude.”

“Good,” Elias said. His eyes flicked over Tim’s shoulder briefly. “I’m late for my meeting with the library staff…to answer your question, Rosie, yes, I was aware of the situation. And I agree, the Archives staff could use some time away from the Institute. Enjoy your weekend, Tim, and I will see you on Monday.” With that, he brushed past him and headed for the steps to the library.

Tim scored that in the victory column and turned to see what Elias had been looking at. To his surprise, he saw Jon, collar of his coat pulled up, slouching out the front door. “I’ll be damned, he actually left. Good. See you Monday, Rosie.” He rapped twice on her desk, then headed out the door after Jon, texting Martin as he walked: [Jon went out the main door.]

[I saw him.] The response came about three seconds later. Tim snorted and pocketed his phone, then stepped outside.

Sure enough, Jon was walking away. Bonus: Martin was trailing after him, face creased with anxiety. Neither one of them was looking in Tim’s direction. This just kept getting better and better.

Tim backtracked, jogged a few blocks, and slipped down Cheyne Mews, where he absolutely wasn’t supposed to be. There was an entrance to the tunnels concealed at the base of a wall down that way; he got it open easily enough and headed down. Navigating the tunnels was a simple matter; Jon had apparently explored this entire part of it, and Tim had a goal, so it only took him about ten minutes longer than it had taken him to get to this point and he was pushing up the trap door and into the Archives, which were dark and silent. He stilled and listened, but—no, this was it, he was alone.

He shut the door firmly—thankfully Jon was leaving it unlocked—and crossed over to the Archivist’s office, then quietly unlocked it. Once he was inside with the door locked behind him, he stood still, looking around and thinking.

He’d gone over the Archives, and Gertrude’s office, with a fine-toothed comb. Or at least, he thought he had. But he hadn’t found a key anywhere, which meant either she’d taken it with her—unlikely, since she’d told Gerry it was hidden—or it was somewhere he’d missed. Not in the walls, or Prentiss would have been obvious; not in the desk, or Jon would have found it. So…

For a second, he swore he heard a muffled heartbeat. It was there and gone in an instant, but he swore it was there. There was no sense of danger telling him he was on the verge of discovery, though, so that meant either he really had imagined it or…or it was trying to tell him something.

Heartbeats. Wasn’t there a story…? Yes, “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Under the floorboards.

Tim touched his medallion and murmured a quick prayer to Saint Anthony, then bent down and examined the floor. After several long minutes, he grinned as his fingers located a slightly wobbly section of floorboard, and he pried it up. There was a small stash of tapes—he ignored them, the lack of handwriting on the cases meant they were Jon’s backup tapes—and a vaguely grubby key. Bingo.

He extracted the key, replaced the floorboard, and slipped out of the office. The new locks, unlike the old, could be locked from the inside and pulled shut behind him, so he carefully did just that and made his way down the river. Once he was sure he was well out of range of anybody in the Institute, he picked up his phone and hit a speed dial button.

Gerry’s voice came down the line, warily. “You better not be calling to shout that you love me.”

“I do love you, but that’s not why I’m calling.” Tim grinned, pulled the key out of his pocket, and studied it. “Jon sent us all home until Monday, and since there was nobody in there and I knew he wasn’t in the tunnels, I managed to get into his office. I’ve got the key you told me about. Want to go hit up that storage unit ‘Jan Kelly’ rented?”

There was a pause of several moments before Gerry answered. “I’ll pick you up at Pimlico. We’ll never get there if we try to take public transit. See you soon.”