The Friendly Confines

Chapter 4

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John lunged with all his might. Instead of fighting the ropes on his arms he planted the sole of his foot squarely back against the column to which he was bound, using the strength of his legs to drive himself forward. For a moment he strained against the pillar, the tightening cords shredding his skin. Finally the rotting wood gave way. With a dull crack the post splintered apart and the ropes slackened. John threw himself into Red Pole just as the cleaver gashed Harold's wrist.

The butcher tumbled backward and John drove him into the concrete, one hand tightening around the goon's throat and the other crushing the man's fist until the cleaver dropped to the floor. John seized it and freed Harold, then cut away the tangle of ropes still clinging to his own body.

He reeled and glared at Lee ferociously. Cleaver in hand, he was sorely tempted to give the crime lord a taste of his own medicine, but that move would leave Harold unprotected from the gangster's thugs and he wasn't about to make that mistake again.

For an instant Lee was dumb with shock, but fury quickly restored his voice.

"Finish this!" he screamed at his guards. Rage distorted his pocked face, and in the weird shadows cast by the lanterns he looked like some monstrous amphibian.

Eyes gleaming the soldiers surrounded them, each one eager to make the kill and honor the Dragon Head. John spun - wielding the cleaver horizontally - and momentarily forced the men back. But there were too many of them for even him to take on alone, and he knew it would all be over quickly.

"John, watch out!"

He ducked as a large piece of concrete narrowly missed his head. Dirt and gravel had been trickling down from the ceiling where he had dislodged the column and now larger pieces were beginning to break off.

It gave him an idea, a dangerous one to be sure but at least it would give them a chance.

He caught Harold's eye and held it for a long moment, and wondered if that's what this would come down to now, that they could say goodbye to each other without even needing the word.

Then he threw his shoulder, with all his weight behind it, into the column between Lee and himself. It cracked into two jagged halves, and the top portion ripped away from the ceiling showering them in dirt and bits of brick. There was another pillar a few yards to the crime lord's right, and John kicked through it cleanly. The column crumbled, fracturing the rafter above as it tore away. Fragments of stone and decaying wood began raining down.

"That's enough, John. Get out of there!"

But he was within reach of the backmost pillar, which was surrounded by an already-panicking group of Lee's soldiers. He rammed into it, and as it toppled a large section of the brick ceiling broke off with it, falling whole onto the screaming bodyguards and sending up a storm of dust in its wake. The impact shook the ground beneath their feet.

There was a startling pop! and then another one. The cavern grew dim as two of the lanterns were crushed beneath the debris.

The entire cellar was unstable now, and the old walls rattled precariously. With a low, thunderous rumble the main support beam cracked and crashed to the floor, crushing Lee beneath it. One arm was mangled underneath him, and with the other he flailed futilely at the massive beam. Blood trickled from his mouth, but that did nothing to prevent his screams and curses from adding to the chaos. His remaining bodyguards bolted for the tunnel.

Detritus filled the air obscuring his vision, and at every turn John stumbled over the mounting rubble. Another lantern was smashed and extinguished. He lost his bearings in the murkiness, nearly falling backward over the prone form of the crime lord.

"John?" He could hear Harold choking on the swirling dust. "John, where are you?"

He followed his partner's voice back to him.

"It's all right. I'm still here."

They were being pummeled by debris now. Jin and a few of the soldiers had made it to the door, but as he tried to guide Harold toward the exit another rafter shattered, and a jagged shaft of wood nearly impaled him. John jumped just in time and the timber grazed him instead, leaving a cluster of splinters in his arm and blocking their only path. He grabbed Harold and pushed him against the stone wall, using his own body as a shield as bricks and wood rained down on them.

The noise was deafening, but not loud enough to drown out the cries and moans of the dying soldiers. The cavern quaked, and rough pieces of concrete - remnants of the old church's foundation - began to plummet. John pressed them closer to the wall. The final lantern was crushed and went out, immersing them in blackness.

Abruptly, silence became the loudest sound in the cellar. As John's burning eyes cleared and adjusted to the darkness, their surroundings came into dusky focus. The tiny patch of ceiling above them was cracked but stable; the one remaining pillar trembled but held. A fine mist of dust continued to powder them, but they were safe.

"Did we make it?"

Somehow the simple question - delivered in Harold's customary dry tone as they stood amidst this utter wreckage - struck him as funny and he realized that he was grinning like a lunatic.

Or maybe he was just relieved to hear that voice again.

He let a weary hand fall on his partner's shoulder.

"We made it, Harold. We made it."

A dim light shone where the wooden door stood slightly ajar, and John cautiously moved some of the debris aside, clearing a path for them. When they reached the exit he turned and looked back at the remnants of the cellar.

The guards were buried beyond sight. All that remained visible of Lee was his ring-adorned hand, still twitching and reaching upward through the rubble as if pleading for mercy. John helped Harold into the tunnel and closed the door behind them.

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Go Cubs go! Go Cubs go! Hey Chicago what do you say? The Cubs are gonna win today!

The clamor of the zealous crowd singing along with the local anthem met their ears as they made their way back through the unmarked door and into the concourse.

Harold stumbled a little and John noticed for the first time that his wrist was bleeding freely where the cleaver had broken the skin. The cut was filthy, and there was no way to tell how deep it was.

He ripped a first aid kit off the wall near the Fan Services booth.

John turned Harold's hands over gently in his own, examining them as if he was really seeing them for the first time. He carefully cleaned the wound, and when it became apparent that the arteries were undamaged he let himself breath again. A soft dressing and a pressure bandage quickly staunched the bleeding.

"What do you think, have we had enough excitement for one day?" John knew that he certainly had.

Harold looked back at him thoughtfully, and for the second time that day his partner truly surprised him.

"Actually John, I was hoping you would buy me a beer."

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A southwest wind was blowing out of Wrigley and it was a high-scoring, entertaining game. During the seventh-inning stretch they had gotten word to Chen that he was safe, and the ballplayer's relief was palpable even from their seats in the grandstand.

Their message had been delivered by an accommodating beer vendor who was now off celebrating the best tip of his life.

Harold looked at his still-attached hand - and the cold beer he was holding - and was profoundly thankful for them both. John signaled for a couple of hot dogs to be passed down the aisle, and Harold was acutely aware of everything that he had to be grateful for. He had never expected to enter a ballpark again. But as he looked out at the game he realized that there were parts of his past - memories he had longed to reclaim - that didn't hurt as much anymore. Or at least they hurt in a different way, like a good pain that reminded him of the people he loved - those he had lost and left behind - and would never forget. Perhaps it was time to start reclaiming other things as well.

John hadn't questioned his request to stay, but he could feel his partner's curious, concerned eyes on him. Harold knew that he had wounded the other man with his constant refusal to see a ballgame with him. It wasn't his nature to share personal information, and he barely understood his present feelings himself, much less explain them to John. But suddenly everything felt undeniably right - right time, right place and certainly the right companion.

He turned to look at his friend, and John nonchalantly shifted his gaze back to the game. Harold focused his eyes on the field as well.

"Nathan took me to my first baseball game. He bought me my first beer."

John looked directly at him then, intrigued by the admission, and Harold met and held his sympathetic gaze.

"I'd never had much interest in sports - never saw the point, I suppose. But Nathan became quite a Red Sox fan while we were at MIT and he began dragging me to games. Eventually I started enjoying them as much as he did. Everything was so different then. It was such an innocent time - before IFT, and long before we ever thought about building the Machine. But then as you know our lives got - complicated. For years we kept saying that we were going to make it back to Fenway - and we were about to. Nathan bought Red Sox tickets to celebrate my engagement to Grace." He looked away to the field again.

"After he died I never went back…"

His partner had no words at first, and they sat together silently for a few minutes watching the game. An infield hit sent a runner to second base.

"I'm sorry, Harold." John finally said quietly. "And thank you. It couldn't have been easy for you to tell me that."

Harold felt a wry smile play across his face.

"Actually it wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought it would be."

He looked at John and realized for the first time what an odd, disheveled sight they were, casually watching the game in their ruined suits under the warm late-afternoon sun. Well, they would certainly never forget their first baseball game together.

Apparently the day had taken its toll on everyone. They watched as Chen dropped a routine fly that should have ended the game. Instead the runner scored and the next batter struck out, sending the teams into extra innings.

Harold raised his plastic cup.

"Here's to having many more innings left in our game, John."

"Cheers, Harold."

Finally being back inside a ballpark felt hopeful in a way he couldn't really explain. And he was here with John, whose friendship was a comfort he had never expected. Despite the rigors of the day, Harold felt strangely at peace.

"John?"

"Yes, Harold?"

"How would you feel about owning a baseball team?"

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FIN

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A/N: Thanks so much to all of you who went on this wild ride with me. (Have I mentioned that melodrama is my middle name, lol?) I really appreciate your interest in my story, and your thoughts and comments are always most welcome!