.6  Trace

            In a world where transience rules highest, once must always recall that what was will always be, simply because there is nothing in existence which does not leave a trace of itself behind. We are to the world in which we cut our path, at the very least, the faintest of scars.

            “This is some really fucked up shit, Preston.”

            “Watch your mouth, Murphy. This is a crime scene. Take it seriously,” the man said sternly, rubbing the back of his head and giving a sigh before he walked a semi-circle around the crime scene investigators crouching next to the body.

Adrian Preston was a detective, plain and simple, there to do a job. But there was nothing plain and simple about the call he’d gotten from a cop on patrol responding to a neighbor’s concerned message. He flipped through his notepad, reading the information he’d pulled from the borough’s files before arriving on scene. The flashes of CSI cameras made him squint a little as he read out loud. “Virginia Gray, age 57, widower to Thomas Gray; one son, Gabriel Gray. Found at 11 A.M. this morning, presumed time of death stated by the coroner’s examination: up to a week ago. Neighbor says she always came down to do the laundry- …every Sunday around 2 P.M., like clockwork. Hadn’t seen her, gave a knock, thought something might be wrong.” The detective looked over his shoulder at the woman’s body, sprawled on her right side in a pool of dried blood, yarn scissors protruding ungracefully from her chest. “Something was definitely wrong.”

            The scene had Preston, an experienced detective of nearly fifteen years on the force, scratching his head. Detective Charles Murphy, eleven years his junior, had nothing to complain about. Hell, he usually got stuck with grunt work by comparison, since Preston was typically a solo operator, so this was possibly the most exciting thing that had happened to him ever since he joined the precinct in Queens. “Jesus, Preston… what do you take that for? A drawing in her blood… ritualized murder? Cult activity in Queens? Y’ gotta be kidding me…” He was leaning over the shoulder of a CSI and looking at the rather expansive rendering of a mushroom cloud in what was now dark brown and crusty-looking blood. “…Gotta admit… An A-bomb? It’s a pretty good drawing.”

            “Shut up, Murphy,” Preston grumbled, eyes on the body and not the bizarre artistry on the floor behind it. Virginia Gray had seen better days, to say the least; her skin had sagged a little in decomposition after the initial rigor and was now taking on a greenish-gray hue. Her eyes, sunken in by now, stared vacantly beyond her crooked elbow, gazing eternally into the eyes of a killer no longer there, begging for the mercy that never came. The thin gold cross that hung at her neck had been worn to no avail. Had she looked right into the killer’s eyes and asked him ‘why’ before he sank cold metal into her feeble chest? Or had she begged for God to take her? Preston swallowed. “A poor little old lady… why her? She’s got a crucifix on the wall, the Virgin near her night stand… craft magazines all over the apartment. What did she do, huh?”

            “Nice woman goes to Mass every week… knits her neighbors socks every winter… a grudge killing seems unlikely,” Murphy replied, walking around to the other end and leaning over a pile of ‘Creative Knitting’ magazines that must have tumbled to the floor in the struggle. They looked wrinkled in several spots, as if they’d been rained on during a drizzly day.

            Preston gave a soft sigh and ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper colored hair. A neat trim, nice and professional looking, to match the serious demeanor he always carried. “Some people have a grudge against the innocent, Murphy. No real reason for it. Unhappy childhoods, abusive parents…” He turned and took a short walk around towards the kitchen area, careful to watch his feet for any clues. “Whoever did this took his time. Sweet talked her,” he stated with a frown.

            Murphy stood up straight again, following Preston with his eyes. “What makes you so sure?”

            “Looks too calm. There’s no sign of immediate struggle here.” Preston turned a complete circle to take in the scene from the eat-in kitchen. “Used plate. Someone had time to make a sandwich, but not to clean up. The perpetrator could have come in- interrupted her while she ate? Arrived right after she did? Or she made it for him. Someone she knew.” Preston walked forward and looked over the contents of the small eat-in table: a plate with the crusts of a sandwich and a few potato chips, a half-empty glass of iced tea gathering mold.

            “And what about the snow globes? They’re tossed all over, even got a couple broken. There’s your struggle with a stranger,” Murphy suggested, sticking his hands in his pockets.

            Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Preston shook his head, staring down at the woman on the floor again. “I don’t think so, Chuck. It’s more than halfway into the room… If she didn’t know the perp, she would have struggled with him at the door. And painting in her blood… The killer even lowered a lamp to the floor to help him see… it’s too… personal,” he concluded quietly.

            “So… we’re dealing with an acquaintance. Maybe even a relative.”

            “She’s only got one,” Preston replied. “We’ve got to find this ‘Gabriel Gray.’”  

            Mohinder took his time for the rest of the morning. He considered heading straight back to Mercy General, but the idea of having to sit with Sylar at the hospital for a good number of hours rather turned his stomach at the moment. Besides, before it could be turned, he had to fill it. He deserved a good meal and he took it upon himself to have it. Mohinder found the closest diner and ordered the first vegetarian dish he could find, in spite of whatever hour it happened to be.

            Over the years he had gotten used to eating his meals alone, but typically when he did it was at a desk or in a laboratory. In India, Mohinder had lived close to home on purpose, so that if he did decide to leave the office he could take meals with his mother and keep her company while his father was away on research trips for long periods of time. As he gazed absently at the table, Mohinder found that he missed her, suddenly. Problems at work, problems with his father… he had always been able to at least tell her them even if she didn’t speak, empty his mind of everything that buzzed through it relentlessly every day. Should he call her? In all of this mess, why, he hadn’t even told her that he’d done it- that he’d validated everything his father had sacrificed his life for.

            When the plate of food was placed before Mohinder, he forgot about wanting to savor it and shoveled the contents of his plate quickly into his mouth. It was tasteless and it burned a little on the way down. Mohinder’s aggravation, his stress, his guilt- like that food he wanted to swallow it fast enough to bury it and hope he could sustain just a little longer, until he had a release. He concluded that he would go to the hospital, make sure Sylar was going to behave, then return to his apartment and clean the wreckage there until it was a proper time in India for him to make a phone call home. Yes, a plan definitely made Mohinder feel more at ease.

            Tossing a bill on the table and pushing back the plate, Mohinder took his leave as quietly as he had done everything else. He tried to mentally prepare himself, to wipe his slate of the emotional turmoil he was feeling before he had to face Sylar.

Unfortunately, Sylar had no intention of making life easy.

           “This is what the doctor ordered and you’re going to eat it,” the nurse was saying, an annoyed sharpness in her voice.

            “How can you expect me to recover if I’m being fed that!” Sylar retorted, pointing in the direction of the tray sitting on the extended table above his knees. Upon it sat a bowl of chicken broth, a small cup of apple juice, and a red Jell-O container. “I might as well die!” Clearly the happy smiles and innocent looks were over for the man.

            The nurse’s frown could have killed Sylar and given him just that wish. “The chart says ‘CLEAR LIQUIDS DIET’ and that’s what you’re going to eat!” she exclaimed. “I can get a feeding tube down your throat if that’s what you really want!” This argument had gone on for several minutes already and she was quite at her wit’s end. This was the scene Mohinder found himself in the middle of when he walked in the door.

“…Is… there a problem here, ma’am?” he asked hesitantly, feeling the tension hovering in the air.

            “Yes there is!” the woman snapped, turning around and looking at Mohinder with hands on her hips. “All bright and sunshine when you’re watching over him, but once you’re gone and he has to eat a little hospital food he has a fit! Even sick children act better than this! I tried to ask nice and then I asked not-so-nice, so if you can’t sweet-talk some sense into your boyfriend here I’m going to get the feeding tube!” the nurse declared, pushing past Mohinder and out of the room.

            “…” Which left Mohinder absolutely stunned. He looked over at Sylar incredulously. “You… don’t… like… the food?”

            Sylar crossed his arms over his chest, and the look he gave Mohinder was rather nasty. “They might as well poison me. It’s disgusting broth,” he said pointedly.

            Mohinder touched a hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Suddenly his visions of Sylar as a ruthless serial killer and a victimized hospital patient were both crumbling away into the image of a spoiled child. “This is a hospital- they’re not going to serve you gourmet meals. What do you expect?”

            “I want real food. I don’t want the soup,” Sylar replied stubbornly, his voice dropping into its dangerous tones.

            Mohinder felt his patience peeling away much faster than the nurse’s had. All that he’d been through in the past two days came crashing in on him like waves on the shore, and the man glared just as sharply back at Sylar. He crossed the room and reached over, shoving the small table roughly towards Sylar’s body. Sylar lifted his hands to defend himself. “You’re going to eat it!” Mohinder hissed.        

“I. don’t. want. the. soup.” Sylar stated again, enunciating each word as though they might make more sense if he did.

“Eat it.”

“I don’t want it.”

Mohinder leaned over, placing his hands on the side of the bed and narrowing his eyes slowly. His voice lowered. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that you are a recovering patient from major surgery and you are not in a position to tell me what you do or do not desire. We had a deal. So you will eat this soup and you will like it. Whether you want to or not.” The last word came out with a striking finality.

“….” Sylar’s eyes stared silently at Mohinder, and the look on his face slowly turned into one of almost sulking. He had been scolded and successfully at that. Sylar crossed his arms over his chest again, hesitating. His jaw rolled slowly from one side to the other as he mulled over his options. He uncrossed his arms. “…Just give me the damned spoon.”

Mohinder leaned back and grabbed the utensil, handing it to Sylar, who snatched it spitefully away. This time Mohinder was the one to put his arms over his chest, watching as the other man began to eat the soup with a little slurp and an obviously distasteful expression.

“What are you trying to do, get kicked out of the hospital on your first day in it?”

“Yes,” Sylar replied in between sips of the broth. He was hungrier than he cared to admit. “The sooner I get out of here the better.”

“If the doctor said a few days, you’re going to be here a few days,” Mohinder lectured, having little patience for Sylar’s childish attitude. “And if you refuse to eat what they give you, you’ll make yourself more sick and you’ll be in here even longer,” he noted.

Sylar shot a dark look in Mohinder’s direction. “They’ll think twice about keeping me here for that long.”

“…What is that supposed to mean? You can’t kill anybody,” Mohinder was quick to remind him.

“I didn’t say that I was going to.”

Mohinder’s gaze was more than suspicious. “Then what?”

“Then nothing. You seem to think killing is the answer to everything, Mohinder,” Sylar replied with a sneer.

Mohinder clenched his fists from where they were tucked under his arms. He never imagined in his life that he would feel tempted to punch a hospitalized invalid in the face. “I’m leaving.”

Sylar stopped eating, spoon still in hand. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here. I’m not here to sit at your bedside and read you stories or hold you hand. After your last visit I have to clean my apartment anyway,” Mohinder said rather bitterly.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.” Mohinder turned and began to head to the door.

“What if I need something?” Sylar asked, testing the waters.

“Well then you can call my home number, can’t you? It’s come in handy already, hasn’t it?” Mohinder said sourly, walking out the way he had come.

            Sylar watched him exit for the second time today, and when Mohinder was gone he began to smile to himself. There was something about rattling the man… In everything Mohinder did he was passionate, weak, but somehow resilient. A thrill to try to figure out. Sylar reached over and dipped his spoon into the broth with a look of satisfaction.

            Finding himself without a radio or any source of musical entertainment to make the hours go by faster, Mohinder felt the day drag on forever back in his father’s apartment. His broken laptop, the mess of push-pins and the map snapped in two, the broken bookshelf and glass that had once pierced Peter Petrelli, a chair overturned on its side with remnants of duct tape… all still mocking him. Mohinder found the largest garbage bags he could and spent the entire afternoon cleaning the wreckage in silence. On the shelves to the left side of the room Mohinder put his father’s keepsakes from his desk, leaving it bare. Papers, notes, research… those things Mohinder stacked in a pile to sort out later and slipped them into the desk drawers.

            When he was done with the main room, Mohinder proceeded to the bedroom, which had scarcely been used since he had started living in his father’s apartment. His suitcase was still stretched out on a chair, half his clothing inside and half in the closet, never really settling back in after his return from India and then his return from the road trip. When he had first arrived, Mohinder couldn’t stand this room. Not once did he sleep in his father’s bed. Of all the places in the apartment, this one reminded him most of home; it carried Chandra’s scent on the sheets, in the cabinets, and in the closet. Mohinder had been so depressed by it that he could not even bear to take his father’s clothing and pack it away, let alone send it back to India. But now surely was the time.

            Like a ritual, Mohinder took each of his father’s shirts and slacks from their storage, folding them neatly and laying them out on the bed as if Chandra were merely going on a trip. He pulled out empty storage boxes from the hallway closet and, ever careful, put each of his father’s belongings inside one by one. It was like saying goodbye to his ashes all over again.

            Mohinder did the dishes. He changed the sheets. He did his laundry. He repaired the bookshelf. He ordered food. When it was all said and done, he had never felt more exhausted in his life. Mohinder had, inadvertently, destroyed all that his father made for himself here. In return, he had made a break-through in Chandra’s research in these past weeks. But now, without Molly, Mohinder had destroyed everything important to even himself in his own life. And in return again, by making a deal with Sylar, he had a chance to at least see his father’s dream through to the end. That was important too, wasn’t it? His goals had to be worth his sacrifices…

            When the clock read past 1 A.M., he sat on the end of his father’s bed and picked up the phone in one hand and his international calling card in the other. He telephoned home as he had intended to all along. “Hello- Mother?”

            “Mohinder!” The woman’s voice on the other line sounded alert and happy. “It has been so long since you called- I was beginning to worry. How are you? It must be late there.”

            Mohinder smiled softly at her motherly concern. “Quite late, actually. If figured it would be a good time to call, since it’s before lunch for you.”

            “You sound very tired. Have you been taking care of yourself, Mohinder? I know how you and your father worked. Those late nights researching, falling asleep at the desk.”

            “Don’t worry, Mother,” he murmured, “Things will be just fine. I actually… I have good news for you.”

            “News?”

            “Yes. I…” Mohinder wasn’t sure if it even needed a more complicated explanation than what it really was. “I did it. I found them. The special people father was searching for.”

            A small gasp sounded on the other end of the line. “Mohinder! That’s wonderful! Your father would be so very proud of you. I am so proud of you. Your father always dreamed you might come to truly appreciate his work… stand side by side with him…”

            Mohinder lowered his head a little, fingers tight as they gripped the phone. “I get the feeling he would not want to stand next to the man I am today.”

            “Come now, Mohinder. Your father loved you,” his mother scolded softly but firmly.

            “I need your advice. Your opinion,” he concluded as he spoke the words.

            “I am listening.”

            Mohinder turned the calling card over and over again between his fingertips, contemplating his words. “If there were a person… who had done many terrible things… unspeakable things… and I had the chance to help them… should I?”

            “Why is it you would choose not to help this person?” his mother asked.

            “Because… he has done things I cannot forgive him for. I hate him. I think he may be beyond saving. Would it be a mistake for me to even try?”

            A small breath, a half of a loving laugh, was heard. “Mohinder… you are such a good person; it is not in your nature to hate from the bottom of your heart. You should know, as your father did, that there is no one beyond saving in this world. That is why good people exist. That is why you father searched for these talented people all over the world.”

            “But this man…”

            “Why should you forgive him? Forgiveness is important, but sometimes it is left for the higher powers in this world to forgive. If you can still put your heart into what you do and give him the help he needs without letting your hatred get the best of you, then perhaps even the gods will grant you some peace and forgiveness in your heart along the way. If you cannot help this man, then who can, my dear son? You are special. So is your kindness.”

            In spite of the weight he had carried inside himself all day, Mohinder felt that heaviness lifting easily because of his mother’s words. He smiled gently and nodded to himself, even though she could not see it. “I suppose you’re right. This should be more than my personal feelings. I… should have realized that when Father left too. I want to try to be better than I am.”

            “Patience, Mohinder,” his mother said tenderly. “It is a trait neither you nor your father came by easily. But you can be patient if you try.”

            “I’ll do my best, Mother. Thank you.”

            “I love you, Mohinder. Please give yourself rest, and eat well. When you are ready to come home, I will be here.”

            “I love you too, Mother. Be well. Goodbye.” Mohinder lowered the phone and hit the ‘end’ button. He took in a deep breath and let himself fall backwards against the mattress, legs still over the edge.