7

When Peter woke, it was nearly dark, making him think he had only slept a few hours. He didn't see or hear Hesam anywhere.

He lay awake for a while, simply enjoying the combination of a clear head and a relatively painfree shoulder, until he saw the little digital clock on the DVD player telling him it was 3 PM. He had slept through the entire night and half the next day, and Hesam had obviously long left for work again.

He got up, half-expecting to feel the world turning around itself as soon as he sat up, but it didn't happen. His head remained clear. It looked unnaturally dark outside, and when Peter carefully drew the curtain aside to peer through, he saw that the sky was dark-grey and oppressive, promising rain.

A look at his shoulder told him that Hesam must have changed the dressings again, and that the wound looked a lot better, the swelling noticeably reduced. The ointment Hesam had used was still on the box on the table, and Peter applied some more before he redressed it. Even that was bearable now.

On the table there was a note saying, There's bread and cheese in the refrigerator. See you later. Hesam.

Peter ate, and took the rare chance to wash, but all the while, he knew he would not be waiting for Hesam to return. He knew he was walking a fine line between overstaying his welcome and appearing ungrateful, but the former held the higher risk for Hesam, and he was not going to be responsible for any harm coming to one of the very few people who had truly helped him, at high personal risk, in more than a week.

When he returned from the bathroom, his yellow polo shirt appeared to him more inadequate than ever, with some newly-acquired blood stains that spoke of his escape from Washington, and with some reluctance, he decided that Hesam would have to do him one more favour.

Peter felt like an intruder when he went into his ex-colleague's bedroom and took a plain black shirt from his wardrobe, which looked as if it would fit. His jacket looked an even greater mess, but he took it with him to dump it in a garbage container later. The least he could do was clean up after himself.

He cautiously opened the window and spent several minutes watching the houses opposite, to make sure that nobody would see him. When he took off into the cloudy sky, the only things that were still reminiscent of his stay in Hesam's apartment were a neatly folded blanket on the couch, a plate in the sink, and a box of medical supplies on the living-room table, next to a note:

Thanks for everything.

Peter.

.

He landed in a rundown-looking alley somewhere in Little Italy, disposed of his torn and bloody jacket, and nearly regretted it half an hour later. The temperature had dropped remarkably; despite the fact that it was June, the wind was cold. While he was contemplating what to do, his phone bleeped to life.

Of course. Rebel would have noticed that his position had changed.

Peter took the phone from the pocket of his jeans and read,

MATT AND DAPHNE ARE FREE. MOHINDER AND TRACY TOO. BETTER LAY LOW.

Peter's heart made a leap. He wasn't entirely sure he could trust Mohinder, and was certain he wasn't going to trust Tracy that easily ever again, but he was glad to find that Matt was still alive, and had escaped along with Daphne.

WHERE ARE THEY? he typed. STILL IN DC?

There was no answer.

REBEL? he typed.

He waited for several minutes, but no reply came. Even more unusual was the fact that the phone didn't switch off. Apparently, Rebel had been interrupted, and Peter hoped that nothing worse had happened.

He wondered whether he should switch it off himself, but decided against it. He didn't know how to activate it again, and if anyone tried to call Nathan on his phone, it might even provide him with valuable information. And it seemed they really couldn't track him on it, so the risk was comparatively low.

He passed a dry cleaner's, in front of which was parked a delivery van with its back door open. Peter cast a quick glance around, saw nobody standing near, and quickly snatched a dark coat from a rack inside. He walked on briskly, peeled off the plastic bag a few blocks further in a shadowed doorway, and put on the coat.

He would fly back to Washington tonight, to find Matt and Daphne. He was not in that great a hurry now; and flying in this weather would be difficult, so he might as well hope it'd clear up tonight, after the rain.

The mobile rang half an hour later, while he was walking aimlessly through mid-town Manhattan.

He hesitated for a moment before he took it from the pocket of his coat, then he said, "Yes," in a carefully neutral voice that he hoped might be mistaken for Nathan's if the caller didn't know him well.

There was a slight pause from the other end, and with very mixed emotions, Peter heard his brother's voice, "Peter."

He didn't say anything. It was all he could do to not shut off the phone.

Apparently, Nathan was not finding it any easier to open a conversation, because there was another pause before Peter heard him say, "So you finally figured out the PIN."

"Yeah," Peter replied, in a casual tone, so Nathan wouldn't know he had done nothing of the sort.

Nathan, however, didn't elaborate on it. "The reason I was trying to reach you is – I need you to help Mom."

This finally did elicit a response from Peter. He shook his head incredulously, although Nathan couldn't see that. "You need me to – I seem to have forgotten, Nathan, but when exactly did this go from 'be a good boy and turn yourself in' to 'I need your help?'"

Nathan's voice was flat as he refused to take the bait. "I'm out, Pete. Danko saw that I can fly. He's running the operation now, not me."

"What else is new?" Peter said sarcastically.

"Pete – please. Now that I'm gone, the free pass for Claire and Mom is up. I'm taking care of Claire; you need to help Ma."

"So whatever happened to my free pass, Nathan?"

"Dammit, Pete, I'm serious!"

So am I, Peter thought, seething. He couldn't believe that Nathan dared to call him and make demands, but he strongly doubted he'd ever get a "sorry" from his brother, and he saw that there were more urgent matters at hand now.

"Where is she?" he asked, matter-of-factly.

"I don't know. In New York. They'll be after her."

"In New York," Peter repeated. He had never felt such an overwhelming urge to hit somebody through a phone.

Nathan gave an explosive sigh. "Look, Pete – I know this isn't gonna be easy, alright? I realise we're somewhat less than best buddies right now, OK? She needs your help. If you won't do this for me, do it for our mother."

Then the connection was gone, and Peter was once again left being cold-shouldered by a telephone. He thought he probably ought to be getting used to that by now, but for some reason, it just kept getting worse. And the worst was that Nathan's last sentence was his version of what Peter had told Nathan in the Haitian jungle – 'If you won't do this for the right reasons, at least do it for your selfish ones.' The tit-for-tat response didn't sit well with him at all.

The last bit of information he had about his mother, unless you counted their brief meeting on the rooftop after he'd been shot, was that she had been part of Nathan's operation in rounding up specials.

She's your mother, he told himself. She's still your mother.

He was still holding Nathan's mobile, and he typed in his mother's number. He couldn't say he was surprised when she didn't answer the phone.

He knew he could not just walk up to her front door. Or fly to her front door. If Nathan felt she was in danger, the house near Central Park would be watched. And she would no longer be there, or trying to save her was no good anyway. How on earth was he supposed to find her in this city?

He stared at the phone. It was a long shot, but maybe it would work.

He typed a random number and sent a message that wouldn't make much sense to anyone who would get it by accident, but it was his only chance to get help.

I NEED TO SAVE MY MOTHER. IF YOU CAN FIND HER, HELP ME.

He hit "send" and prayed it would reach its addressee.

As he shut off the phone, heaven opened its floodgates.