John stood in the office doorway, momentarily taken aback by the sight of his grandfather. Gavin was slumped over his antique desk, his form shadowy against the room’s immense windows, his back shaking. He was coughing, but he also seemed to be crying. The room was filled with a burning smell.
“Grandfather?”
Gavin lifted his face off his arms in a sudden jerking motion. John took a step back involuntarily when he saw his grandfather’s face. The old man’s eyes were uneven, the pupil of the right eye twice as big as that of the left, and the whites of both were completely bloodshot.
“Shut the door!” Gavin choked out between coughs. “I don’t want them to see me like this!”
John glanced both ways down the hallway first—he agreed that no one should be nearby to see his grandfather in such a state.
The old man was coughing again, but between fits, now that the door was shut, John became aware of a hissing sound somewhere in the room.
“Where’s Maggie?” John asked, moving quickly to the bar against one wall and pouring a glass of water, which he brought to Gavin. “What’s that noise?” His grandfather took hold of the glass frantically, with only his left hand, and swallowed several large gulps, coughing water all over his coat as he did so.
“Where’s Maggie?” John asked again. The hissing noise was louder now, like air rushing through a pipe. Something close by must be making the sound, but the room was shadowy in the dawn light outside, and John could see nothing as he glanced around the desk.
“You left three of my men dead in Asia, John, and it’s going to be the end of me,” Gavin croaked, and then he was coughing again. The water was already gone, some down his throat, the rest spilled.
John took the glass and walked to refill it. “Grandfather, where is Maggie? I couldn’t find her on the ship.”
“Where’s Maggie?” Gavin asked behind him, his voice rising into something like hysteria. “Where’s Maggie, you ask me? I’ve sent her away. They want to push me out, want what’s mine. Maggie included!” And then he cried out in pain.
John turned to see a bright blue flame in Gavin’s right hand.
“What are you doing?” he yelled, rushing back to the desk.
In the moment it took John to cross the room, he saw Gavin directing the flame in his right hand toward the sleeve on his left arm.
It was a blowtorch. A tiny thing—just a hand-sized canister with a pipe snaking out the top—but the small flame was an intense blue, hissing loudly now. Gavin had been concealing it under the desk. In a flash, John realized it was the torch he’d glimpsed in the office cupboard a year and a half ago, one of the items that had belonged to his father, Archie. Gavin had progressed from caressing these objects to using them against himself. There was a burning smell again, strong and acrid.
“Stop it!”
He grabbed for Gavin’s right wrist, but in a moment of wild strength, Gavin wrenched his arm away and stood up from the desk. He aimed the flame at himself again and screamed in pain as it burned through his coat.
John reached out to stop him, but Gavin flailed the torch, and John was forced to duck, feeling his face buffeted by a wave of hot air. He could now see a series of burns along Gavin’s coat sleeve. Pink, raw flesh was visible underneath. How long had he been doing this?
“Grandfather, what are you doing? You’re hurting yourself!”
“I’m not—I’m—not—” He was coughing again. “I’m focusing my mind. Archie used this, when he worked on his cars. He paid such close attention … If I can stay focused … I can see my way out.”
Gavin’s right eye drifted to the side, out of sync with his left. He was still waving the torch at John.
“My father didn’t burn himself with a torch,” John told him. “This isn’t—it isn’t you, Grandfather! How long has Maggie been gone?”
“Sent her away as soon as you left for Asia, John. Catherine said it—they’re out to kill us. All of them.”
In his increasing paranoia, Gavin had sent Maggie away, but in doing so he’d condemned himself. His mind was going entirely. John lunged, but the old man stepped backward, lengthening the torch’s flame and swinging it in a wide arc.
“Grandfather, if Maggie’s been gone, we need to get her back.” He reached for him again, but Gavin kept out of reach. “You can’t live without—”
“You killed my men, John—”
“I didn’t kill them. I promise you.” He grasped for Gavin and was met with another blast of hot air as the old man brandished the torch at John’s face. “There was a fight—”
“They’ll push me out now for sure …” Gavin began, and then he doubled over in a coughing fit.
John took advantage of the moment and seized him. Gavin thrust his arms up, straining to push his grandson away. He was much weaker than John, but desperation was driving him, and John didn’t want to hurt him. His grandfather held on tightly, his left hand digging into John’s flesh, his right hand rotating the torch wildly. Suddenly John felt searing pain across his forearm. The torch was on him. The flame was burning his skin.
He screamed and knocked his grandfather backward roughly. The old man fell, the blowtorch rolling down the front of his chest, burning him as it went, then clattering away across the floor. John jumped after it, switching it off, and kicking it toward the other side of the room. When he turned back, he found Gavin sprawled on the ground, small and weak and injured.
His grandfather looked up in terror. His right eye came slowly back into alignment with his left. The pupils were still mismatched, but both eyes were staring directly at John. “You too? Are you after me too, John?”
John knelt in front of him and took hold of his shoulders. “I’m not after you. This isn’t you!” He made Gavin look at him. And then he spoke the words he’d been trying to avoid for years. “We—we poisoned you, Grandfather. Do you hear me? It’s the poison making you think this way.”
Gavin scooted away from John, still staring wildly, but the meaning of what John had said appeared to sink in. Gradually his face became calmer. “What?” he asked. “What do you mean?”
The room was still dim in the early-morning light, but John could see the bright red swath along his own arm, already blistering dramatically. His whole arm, from wrist to shoulder, had started to ache. He grabbed his grandfather’s left arm and studied the row of burns there. They were bad, as were the burns down his chest. John would have to call a doctor for both of them.
He settled heavily onto the floor next to Gavin. “Your cough. That’s one of the symptoms—spasms in the trachea. Your muscle spasms and tics. Dilated pupils. The mental disorder. They’re from the poison.”
“You poisoned me?” Gavin whispered, looking devastated. “Actual, actual poison?”
“My mother,” John replied. He took a deep, slow breath, gritting his teeth against the agony now rolling up his arm in dark waves, in time with his heartbeat. He clutched the limb closer to his body. “Catherine did it, years ago.”
He felt a vibration at his hip. With his good arm, John withdrew his phone from his pocket and studied the image that had appeared on the screen. For a moment, he forgot his pain and felt a rush of hope. She had contacted him. He hadn’t thought she would, but she had. He could succeed, if he could keep Gavin sane for a little while and get his help one more time.
“Catherine poisoned me,” Gavin said quietly, staring at the floor. His voice was heartbroken. His right eye was drifting out of alignment again. “Why would she?”
“It was before she knew you well, before you became close. She—she wanted a way to control you, if you became a threat.”
“She gave me so much. I would never, ever—”
“It was a mistake, Grandfather. A bad mistake. The poison’s been stealing your mind for years. She shouldn’t have done it. She—she never thought she could trust anyone. It wasn’t her best quality.”
“I would never have gone against her,” he said again, looking at the burns along his arm as though he were just now beginning to feel them. “Am I dying, then?”
“I don’t know. The poison lives in your body permanently.” John tried to say the words gently. He adjusted his own arm, attempting to find a position that hurt less. “You’ve been getting the antidote since long before she died. Maggie has been giving you the antidote. But it’s not working like it used to. I don’t know why. Now you’ve sent Maggie away, and you haven’t been getting any at all.”
Gavin looked up from his burns. John was expecting anger, but instead he saw relief flooding into the old man’s features. “I’m not crazy?” his grandfather asked. “I’m not losing my mind?”
“You’ve been burning yourself with a blowtorch, Grandfather,” John said. “I think you may be crazy. But it’s not your fault. I’m sorry.” It was strange to be the one apologizing when Gavin had just maimed him, but John could feel nothing but remorse at seeing the old man in this state of breakdown.
As John watched, paranoia began to sneak back into Gavin’s expression. The old man’s eyes went out of focus, darted about the room, and he whispered, “They’re coming after me. They’ll get rid of me.”
“No,” John told him firmly, gripping him with his good arm. “There’s no one here right now, Grandfather. Traveler is still yours.” He put his hand under Gavin’s chin and turned the old man’s face up to look into his own. “And I was so close. I had it in my hands.”
He glanced at his phone, sitting on the floor next to him. Then he looked again into his grandfather’s mad eyes. A harsh laugh came out involuntarily. His mother had wanted him to have Gavin for protection and stability, but his grandfather was providing just the opposite. He was another burden for John to shoulder.
“Maggie will come back here and help you,” John said. “Then I know where to go. This time, I will get it back.”
