And If Thou Wilt, Forget

Tim hadn’t exactly been aware of what was going on when Gertrude’s body had been found, but from the chaos outside the quarantine tent he’d woken up in, he’d somewhat assumed that a dozen or so police officers had shown up, quarantined the scene, and investigated what they saw before talking to anyone. He figured something similar would happen this time, and he and Martin would be sent home while the investigation went on. In fact, he wouldn’t have even bothered sticking around were it not for the fact that Martin stubbornly refused to leave and Tim had to stay on the off chance that whoever or whatever had attacked the corpse in the office came back—not to mention Michael, or whatever he said had chased Jon into the tunnels. He hadn’t expected a pair of terrified beat cops to turn up, for one to insist they stay where he could watch them while the other went to investigate, for the one who’d gone into the office to promptly reel out and be violently sick, and for them to be quarantined in Document Storage under guard while whatever was going on out in the main part of the Archives went on.

Elias turning up was just the cherry on the shit sundae.

Tim and Martin had been sitting on the floor—the cot being packed away—on opposite ends of the room, Martin pale and tearstreaked and frustrated and scared, Tim periodically looking at his phone as if they would magically be able to get signal in the room that had never gotten a signal so he could clue Gerry in, let him know he was fine, and tell him not to storm the Archives looking for him. Elias—Tim had decided to think of him that way to keep himself from calling him out on the truth, Gertrude wouldn’t have told him if she’d expected him to do that—had been calm and collected and almost saccharine in his sympathy; he’d assured Tim he was free to go and told Martin he’d be free as well once he’d spoken to the officers. Tim had hovered in the courtyard as he called Gerry to let him know he was okay, but Martin hadn’t come out, and the cop who stepped out for a breather eventually told him he’d gone out by the main door.

Somehow, he hadn’t been surprised to be woken up the next morning from a series of disjointed, frustrating dreams by a phone call from Elias asking him to come in and give his statement to the detective on the case. He got up, showered, and took Rowlf for his morning run, then headed for the Institute without bothering to change. Normally he’d have worn a nice suit for something like this, or at least business casual, to make a good impression and be sure he was taken seriously, but since he suspected there was a while you’re here in the offing—assuming the cops were done with the crime scene—he figured it would be best to wear clothes he didn’t mind getting a bit mucked up. And, on the off chance he didn’t end up spending the afternoon mopping blood and brains off the floors of the Archivist’s office, the more casual he looked while trying to track Jon down, the better.

He arrived at the Institute, hesitated, and then headed for the front door. Something told him the side door would be locked, if only to force him to have to deal with Rosie. To his surprise, though, when he walked in the front door, her desk was completely unoccupied. Actually, there was nobody about. The building felt strangely…empty. It wasn’t the first time Tim had been in the Institute with nobody in it, but it was a Friday and he definitely hadn’t expected that. Had the cops closed the whole building down, or had Elias?

He went down to the Archives and found Martin, looking only marginally better than he had the night before. He was hovering nervously near his desk, obviously debating with himself over whether to start working or not, before he looked up and saw Tim coming. He mumbled a greeting and looked down at his shoes.

Before Tim could formulate a line of inquiry, or even return his greeting, the door to the Archivist’s office opened and Elias came out. “Oh, good, you’re both here. She’s ready for you, so go on in, Martin.”

Martin bit his lip, then took a deep breath and headed into the office. Elias turned to Tim, his expression mild. “Sit down, Tim. I’m sure this won’t take long. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Tim ground down on his anger and desire to tell Elias exactly what he thought of him, and threw up a few extra mental walls for good measure; his ring felt relaxed and comfortable on his finger, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try something if pressed. “I didn’t have anything planned, if that’s what you’re asking. Where else would you expect me to be than here?”

“Mm. Yes. It’s simply that you don’t exactly look dressed for a day in the office.”

“First of all, nobody comes down here, especially not in February, so nobody cares how I dress as long as I get the work done,” Tim pointed out. “Second of all, Jon did give us the rest of the week off, and I didn’t expect you would have much of a pressing reason to override that. Unless you intend to make Martin and me clean up the mess ourselves, since I doubt the police bothered and you didn’t have time to hire a professional crew to mop up in there, in which case I don’t want to wear something I care about. But I don’t think you did intend to make us come in, because there’s literally nobody else in the building. Am I right?”

Elias raised an eyebrow. He actually looked almost impressed. “You are correct. About the lack of other staff, that is. I had Rosie activate the phone tree this morning to let everyone know they should stay home for the day, due to the…investigation. And don’t worry, I intend to call in a more…specialized cleaning crew to handle the mess once Detective Tonner is finished.”

The hair on the back of Tim’s neck bristled at the mention of Detective Tonner’s name, but he kept his mouth shut…for the moment.

Martin came out a minute later, looking faintly green. He shut the door behind him, swallowed hard, and crossed over to the desks. “She wants to talk to you next, Tim.”

“Sit down, Martin, you look quite unwell.” Elias’s voice was once again layered with false concern.

Tim wanted to tell him to knock it off, but that would only hurt Martin, who had already taken his seat at his desk. Instead, he squeezed Martin’s arm briefly, squared his shoulders, and strode into the office.

The body was gone, as was the pipe, and the puddle of blood under the chair had dried in a way that was going to be a bitch to get out of the cracks of the hardwood. Tim could still smell the faint copper tang, but he genuinely couldn’t tell if it was the aftermath of the carnage or clinging to the detective seated at Jon’s desk as if she had any right to be there. Detective Tonner was watching him through slightly narrowed eyes, her whole body perfectly still and waiting as Tim pulled the door shut behind himself and stood just inside the office, matching her expression in reply.

There was a faint, very faint, growling sound in the air, the low, rumbling rrrrrrr of a dog that hadn’t sprung yet but was fully prepared to if the listener didn’t take the hint and back down. Tonner’s lip curled slightly and a second growl joined the first, which was when Tim realized that he was the one growling, or at least the one who’d started it, since Tonner was now snarling in reply.

He decided not to make himself stop.

They stared one another down for several seconds. Finally, Tim took a slow, purposeful, measured half-step forward. He never changed his posture, never changed his expression, never changed the volume of his warning growl. Just made it absolutely clear that the situation could escalate very easily, and he was the one with the door at his back. To his supreme satisfaction, which was something he was definitely going to have to unpack later, Tonner broke first. “Tim Stoker.” She paused, eyes narrowing slightly further. “That your name?”

“Don’t wear it out.” Tim stopped his approach but ignored the chair next to him. Flakes of dried blood sprinkled atop the stain like ghoulish confetti spoke to the fact that Martin had definitely sat in it while Tonner was interrogating him, but Tim, decidedly, would not. Not unless Tonner made him. Maybe not even then.

Tonner jerked her head at something on the table. “Want me to leave that running?”

To Tim’s complete lack of surprise, that was a tape recorder, probably the one Martin had had the night before, maybe a completely different one. He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Tonner reached over and switched it off with a slightly triumphant look that said she was looking forward to doing this off any kind of provable record. The look vanished when the recorder, as soon as she had taken her hand away, clicked and began recording again. “Hm.”

“Like I said,” Tim said, allowing a bit of malicious satisfaction to creep into his voice, “it doesn’t matter whether I want you to leave it running or not. It’ll turn off when it’s good and ready.”

“Whatever,” Tonner growled.

Tim crossed his arms over his chest. “Suppose you want my statement?”

Tonner’s lip curled again. “I just need anything you know on the possible whereabouts of Jonathan Sims.”

The fact that Tim had expected that to be the question she asked in no way meant that whatever of the Eye lodged inside him didn’t rear up in reaction to it. “I don’t.”

“Really.” Something flared in Tonner’s eyes—the fire of a predator scenting a line. “No friends, associates, anywhere he feels safe?”

“He’s got nothing and no one outside the Archives. Whole family’s been dead at least six or seven years. Cut himself off from anyone he knew before he joined the Institute. And I don’t think he’s felt safe since you dragged Gertrude Robinson’s corpse out into daylight.”

“You’re sure?” Tonner prodded. “If you’re staying silent out of some kind of loyalty…”

Tim snorted. “And if I’m staying silent for a different reason?”

“So you do know something.”

“I know he’s safe.”

“Where? With whom?”

“Don’t know. Wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

“Is that so.” Tonner’s voice dripped with sarcasm and menace. “Why? What do you think he’s got to hide? What does he have to be afraid of if he’s innocent?”

Tim barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “Everything? You, for starters. Whoever did this.” He nodded at the remains of the mess on the floor. “A thousand and one things he may or may not even know want him dead. The innocent have a lot to be afraid of, the top of that list being the kind of person who says ‘the innocent have nothing to fear’. Especially since you don’t think he’s innocent for a minute.”

Tonner narrowed her eyes again, then snorted. “Right. Cards on the table, Stoker. Sims is the most likely lead I’ve got. He sent you all home, doubled back, smashed up a storage room, and ran. Then we’ve got a dead body here, and the last time anybody saw Sasha James she was in the vicinity of that storage room. So unless you can tell me where else I should be looking…”

Tim’s stomach lurched as he registered that, no, Sasha hadn’t been out there, hadn’t turned up, and Elias had said you’re both here. He’d assumed it was just because they were the ones that found the body, or at least were there when the body was investigated. This was also the first he was hearing about Jon smashing up a storage room, and—oh, God. A horrible feeling stole over him. He swallowed it down, though. This wasn’t the time.

“Not my job to tell you where to look,” he said shortly. “But you should probably actually look instead of just jumping to conclusions.”

Tonner’s lip curled up. “You an expert on police procedure all of a sudden?”

“No, but I’m an expert on confirmation bias,” Tim shot back. “You go into a situation expecting something to be the solution, you’re going to find all the evidence you want of it, or make it fit, and you’re going to discard any evidence that doesn’t fit. Like the fact that Jon’s about ninety pounds soaking wet and doesn’t have anything like the strength it would take to do the kind of damage that was done to that guy’s head.”

“Did you recognize him?” Tonner asked, clearly changing tack to try and startle him into an indiscreet comment.

“The guy could’ve been my fucking father and I wouldn’t have recognized him, as messed up as his face was,” Tim pointed out. Tonner grunted. “Suit looked familiar. I think he used to help Gertrude Robinson out from time to time, but she never introduced us.”

“Didn’t trust you?”

“Or didn’t trust him.”

“You were that important to her?” Tonner challenged.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Why, are you hoping to play to my sense of loyalty to her by encouraging me to doubt Jon’s innocence in her death so I’ll tell you where I think he is even if I don’t really believe he’s responsible for this one?”

Tonner sneered. “Maybe I’m trying to insinuate that our dead body killed Gertrude Robinson and you beat him to death out of revenge, then left his body to blame Sims for it because he took the position you wanted.”

“Two flaws in that,” Tim said. “One, I was in Hainault all afternoon and I can prove it if called on. And two, I’d rather bleed from the throat than be the Archivist.”

“That can be arranged,” Tonner growled.

At that, Tim unfolded his arms and rolled his shoulders back, drawing himself up to his full height. “I’d like to see you try.”

Tonner tensed, like she was about to spring for him, but she didn’t get up from the chair. “Don’t worry. I don’t actually have you as a suspect. It’s pretty obviously Sims, but if it’s not him, it’s Blackwood. As long as I take one of them down for it, it’s handled.”

Tim slammed both hands down on the desk, snarling outright. The tiny part of him still hanging on to rational thought by its fingernails was shocked that he’d done it, since he wasn’t conscious of having stepped far enough away from the door to even reach the desk. Tonner shot to her feet, momentarily startled, then recovered quickly and squared up against him. She was trying to be intimidating, but she’d been operating this entire time on the assumption that he was prey, one of the little shivering lambs lying vulnerable in a field or a rabbit kitten above ground for the first time.

She was wrong. She had just discovered that he was a thing like her, a beast of teeth and muscle and determination and fearlessness, a thing prepared to rend and tear and destroy if need be, though their needs were different—hers to feed, and his to defend. He may have been raised with the sheep and accepted as one, but he knew his differences and his purpose, even if they did not.

“Hear this,” he growled. “If you so much as harm a single hair on their heads, it will be the last thing you ever do. They are mine to protect and you. Will. Leave. Them. Be.”

“Or what?” Tonner snarled back. Her voice—like Tim’s—was something other, something animal, but hers was feral and primal and darkness and malice, the thing that called from the woods and prowled in the night. Still, the wolf that tempted the traveler off the path was no less ancient than the woodsman’s axe that cut the devoured free of the belly. And perhaps the wolf saw the dog as a strange and distorted kin and assumed he would be sympathetic to her hunger, but Old Sultan was trusted of his master and would not relinquish even one of the flock.

“Or you will deal with me, and I will show you what becomes of those who would seek to destroy the Archivist.”

Tim stared Tonner down like he had nothing to lose. There were several seconds of tense silence before she spat, “Get out. Send Bouchard in.”

Tim didn’t break eye contact as he walked backwards to the office door, seized the knob without needing to look at it, and stepped through. He shut it firmly, gave it one last silent snarl, and then composed his face before turning around to face Elias. “Your turn.”

He almost exploded again when he saw that Elias actually had a hand on Martin’s shoulder, and Martin looked somehow even more like he was going to be sick. Before he could, though, Elias broke the contact and moved towards the office, seeming quite composed, and Tim forced himself to relax and step aside. The moment Elias was through the door, however, he hurried over to Martin’s side.

“Are you okay?” Martin blurted out before Tim could say a word.

“Wh—I’m fine,” Tim said, a bit bewildered. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

“F-fine. Fine,” Martin said unconvincingly. “Just—it’s been a long couple of days. But I thought…never mind.” He swallowed hard and glanced over his shoulder. “I guess since we’re here…”

“No,” Tim said firmly. “You’re not in the right head space to do any work today. We’re off until Monday, we can go through some statement files then. Meanwhile, you’re coming home with me, pal.”

“Don’t we have to wait for…” Martin darted a glance nervously at the door to the Archivist’s office.

“Why? We’ve given our statements—excuse me, answered her questions—and you may have noticed that the whole Institute is closed. We can’t get anything done until the cleaners are finished, really, so as far as I’m concerned we’re free to leave.” Tim rubbed at his face. “And you look like shit, no offense meant. The least I can do is make sure you’re not alone today.”

Martin hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah, okay, whatever.” He got to his feet and swayed slightly, but he brushed off Tim’s concern and headed for the door. Tim sighed and followed.

On the front steps of the Institute, Martin stopped, looking in the direction of the Tube station, before turning to Tim. He was worrying at his lower lip, but his eyes were determined. “We should go look for Jon.”

“We absolutely should not.” Tim had at one point intended to do exactly that, but he knew he couldn’t. Not just yet. Not without putting him at risk. Tonner was expecting that now.

“He’s in danger—”

“Which is exactly why we should let him be. You don’t think she’ll be following us? Or at least you?” Tim stabbed a finger in the direction of the Archives. “You go track Jon now and you will lead her right to him. Give it a bit, yeah? She’ll either get bored and go find something else to do or she’ll actually bother solving the case and find out who did do that, but either way, you need to stay away from him until you’re sure she won’t track him through you.”

Martin’s shoulders slumped slightly. Tim was about to apologize for being so harsh when he said softly, “So you don’t think he murdered…whoever that was.”

“No, I don’t,” Tim admitted. “If he’d killed the guy, it would have been self defense, and it wouldn’t have been that…intense. Maybe a one and done. Just hit him hard enough to get him to stop coming at him, and then, yeah, he’d have run. But that much damage? That was personal. Or some serious rage. Either way, I don’t think Jon is capable of something like that.”

Martin studied Tim’s face for a moment. “What about Sasha?”

Tim winced. “Maybe? It’s more likely, anyway.”

“What?” The color drained from Martin’s face, and then his eyes blazed with anger as two bright red spots appeared on his cheek. “You cannot seriously think that.”

“Look.” Tim held up a hand. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else, okay? We can go grab a—” He stopped, remembering that the only time he’d ever seen Martin drink alcohol was at Jon’s birthday celebration and that he’d even seemed uncertain about the concept of rum raisin ice cream, and changed tack. “We can go get lunch somewhere, or go back to my place and chat. I tell you what, hang on a second. Please,” he tacked on.

For a wonder, Martin didn’t argue, merely crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Tim as he fished out his phone and dialed. A moment later, Gerry answered, sounding dry and unimpressed but with an undercurrent of worry. “Am I picking you up from the Institute, the police station, the hospital, or some random bridge you dragged yourself out of the Thames under?”

Tim couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m still at the Institute. Are you okay if I drag Martin over for the day? We won’t bother you if you’re working.”

“You live here, too. Of course I’m okay. I’ll be in the studio most of the day anyway, I’ve got a sitting scheduled at noon.” There was a rustling in the background, and then the distinct sound of a car door shutting before Gerry added, “I’m only about ten minutes away from you. I had to pick up some extra brushes, so I’ll be by to grab you, okay?”

“Yeah, sounds good. Thanks, babe.” Tim ended the call and turned to Martin. “Partner said he’d pick us up—he’s out this way getting supplies for a job he’s got this afternoon.”

“Right, yeah. Okay.” Martin sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Guess I’ve got no choice, huh?”

“Nope,” Tim said cheerfully. Seeing Martin’s expression, he added more seriously, “I need to at least know you’re safe for as long as I can. Not asking to put you on a leash or tag you like a shark or anything like that, just…let me pretend I’m doing something, yeah?”

Martin managed a tiny smile at that, although it faded pretty quickly. “Yeah, sure, Tim.”

“Grudging acceptance is still acceptance. Come on, let’s at least stand on the sidewalk. Get out of the way of these damned doors.”

About five minutes after they moved to the foot of the steps, the front door of the Institute banged open in such a way that it would have bruised Martin’s shoulder at best and broken his nose at worst, and Detective Tonner burst forth. Tim, caught entirely off guard and taking note of her expression with a part of his brain that apparently could think and react much faster than the rest of him, immediately stepped between her and Martin and growled a warning. Tonner snarled back at him, a challenge or a threat or a next time, snack cake sort of thing, but didn’t break her stride, instead storming over to the unmarked sedan parked at the curb. She slammed the door loud enough that the window rattled and peeled away with an unnecessary squeal of the tires.

“Did you just…growl at her?” Martin asked from behind him, sounding somewhere between flabbergasted and flustered.

Tim rubbed a hand over his face and forced himself to relax. “Tell no one.”

Before Martin could respond to that, the door opened again and Elias stepped out, calm and wrapped in the same tailored greatcoat he’d worn the day before. He pulled the door to, locked it, and then turned to Tim. “Ah, good, you’re still here. I’m sure Jon will be back in the fullness of time, but until he does, you’ll be needing these come Monday.”

Tim kept his face neutral as he claimed the key ring from Elias. “Sure. We’ll keep things ticking until he comes back.”

Elias nodded to Tim, and to Martin, and then walked unhurriedly to the curb just as a sleek black Bentley pulled up. Tim blew out a breath as he got into the backseat. “Of course it’s a fucking Bentley.”

“Can you please explain to me what the fuck is happening here?” Martin said, sounding exasperated now.

“I can try.” Tim turned and studied Martin seriously. He could already guess where this conversation would end up going, but he had to try. “Not here, though.”

Gerry pulled up about three minutes later, stopping just out of the range of the cameras from long practice, and Tim and Martin climbed in. They exchanged a quick smile and a squeeze of the hand, but otherwise said nothing. Martin, for his part, sat silent and glum in the backseat, staring out the window and—probably—quietly seething.

When they arrived back at the building, Gerry nodded for them to go up the stairs to the living quarters while he went around to the front of the building to start work in his studio, pointedly giving them space—he knew Tim would tell him everything later, and that if things had gone dangerously wrong he’d have said something. Tim led Martin into the flat. Rowlf, as was his wont, fawned over Martin, who did cheer up at least a little at the sight of the dog, so Tim headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Finally, they were seated at the kitchen table with their mugs of tea, letting the warmth soak into their hands. Tim kept periodically checking to make sure the ring wasn’t tight. He didn’t think Elias would be paying much attention to them right about then—his focus was likely on Jon—but better safe than sorry. They sat in silence for several more seconds.

At last, Martin spoke. “You really think Jon killed Sasha?”

“What?” Tim almost dropped the mug. That was the last thing he’d expected. “No! Jesus, Martin, is that what you meant? I thought you were asking if I thought she was more likely to have killed that guy.”

“Oh! Oh, n-no, no, I—I didn’t even think about that.” Martin took a deep breath and seemed to relax, at least a little. “Wait, you—you really think Sasha might have…?”

“I—Jesus, okay.” Tim took a deep breath, too, and set the mug down. “This…there’s not really an easy way to say this. I…don’t think we’ve been working with Sasha for a while.”

Martin stared at him. “Sorry, what? You saw her. Hell, you were teasing her about…Valentine’s Day.” His lip twisted, just briefly, at the words. “Of course we work with her. Of course we do!”

Tim bit his tongue briefly and checked the ring again. Still safe. “You know that table? The, the one Rosie signed for the same day you signed for that lighter?”

“The one that’s probably from Amy Patel’s statement? Yeah, hard to forget.” Martin winced. “Apparently that’s what Jon destroyed up in Artifact Storage. It’s—there is CCTV footage of that, apparently. The cops told me about it last night. They said he had an axe.”

“I was afraid of that,” Tim sighed. “That he went after the table, not that he had an axe. Right, so you remember the statement, too. You remember the—the thing that was not Amy Patel’s friend Graham, and that nobody believed her, and that it disappeared after she made her statement?”

“Y-yeah,” Martin said uncertainly. “And I remember there was one picture that seemed like it still matched him.”

Tim swallowed. “Sasha had green eyes.”

Martin blinked. “What?”

“I—I had a moment a couple weeks ago, where I asked her if she’d had green eyes. She laughed and said she’d worn colored contacts for a couple weeks, but…I think she, it, was lying. I think that whatever took Graham’s place was bound to the table. The one that was up in Artifact Storage.” Tim looked seriously at Martin. “And where did Sasha end up during the attack on the Institute?”

“In Artifact Storage,” Martin said slowly. “And—Christ! The tapes. She had a tape recorder, but it, she said she dropped it and lost the tape in the attack. And Jon was frantic about some of them going missing…her statement about Michael, and another one, um, I think he said it was Leann Deniken’s statement?”

“Yeah, I noticed that one was missing too,” Tim agreed. “I went looking for it to—wait. Wait, I remember, Jon was recording that and Sasha poked her head in at the same time. Yeah, you’re right. Whatever took her place, it knew she’d be detected if we listened to those tapes and the voices didn’t match.”

Martin looked quietly devastated. “So—so she’s—w-where is she? The real Sasha, I mean. Is she…?”

“She’s gone, Martin,” Tim said, as gently as he could. “It, it didn’t just warp her to a pocket dimension, or lock her up somewhere or whatever. It eliminated her from existence and took her place. The real Sasha’s been gone for months.”

“No,” Martin choked out. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, then looked up at Tim again. “Jon…do you think he knows?”

“He must have guessed. It must be why he sent us home, why he went up there. He…probably thought he was avenging her. The thing, the…the Not-Sasha, I guess—it must have been what you saw yesterday. The thing that chased Jon into the tunnels. Maybe it was trying to hurt him for hurting it, maybe he accidentally set it completely free, I dunno.” Tim gnawed on his lip. “Damn. It’s probably still down in those tunnels.”

“It—oh, Christ, do you think it got Jon?” Martin’s voice rose sharply, fear suddenly eclipsing his grief.

“No,” Tim said immediately, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. “No, it didn’t get him. Jon’s safe, wherever he is. I knew he was in danger yesterday—it’s why I came running back to the Archives, I could just…sense that something was wrong—but wherever he is, he’s alive and he’s safe for the moment. I’d know if something had happened to him.”

“I…okay. Okay,” Martin repeated. He took a sip of his tea. “I’m…I’m going to trust you.”

“Thank you.” Tim touched Martin’s arm lightly. “I know this is a lot to handle. There’s, um, there’s kind of more, but…”

“I don’t think I can handle any more today, Tim,” Martin said, a little pathetically.

“That’s fair,” Tim agreed. He wasn’t sure it was smart to not give Martin more information than he currently had, but it was certainly fair not to do it tonight. “You come ask me when you’re ready, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Martin eyed him over the rim of the mug. “I do have one last question, if you think I can handle knowing the answer.”

“Shoot.”

“When did you start growling at people?”