Okay, this is for my friend Michelle, the loyal reviewer, who wanted to know how the trial was I hadn't really thought about it. But I decided to add a little suspense. Uh...I'm aware this is a little jerky, and the shortest chapter yet, but this will not be the first version of the story, so be as harsh as you'd I need edits for the next one.

I actually liked this chapter, though. Hope you did too. ;)

Good news! The story has been plotted out--I know exactly what's happening and when. There will be around...13 more chapters. I'm very, very For all of you have endured, thank you, thank you. I don't guarentee fast updates--I'm now a senior, and am so burdened with senior homework. Joy. But I'll do my best!

And Michelle...yes, it was that bad. ;) But merci, mon ami. When will you update? _

Anyways, enjoy!

Chapter 13

"Ian, I..." A pause. "Oh, my."

"Yeah."

Ian Keller sat in the living room of his house. Things hadn't changed much, he reflected. He was still there, two weeks after meeting Malcom Black, his floor covered in papers, used tapes stacked high on his desk, and notebooks filled to the brim with scribbled notes littered on the coffee table. The only difference was that Henry Araneal was standing at his door, hanging up his trademark black trench coat and ridiculous black cowboy hat up like an old friend and eyeing the mess in an amused manner.

"This is a lot of paper," the man observed, looking around once more before carefully stepping over the papers. He made his way to the coffee table in front of the couch that Ian was sitting in and picked up a piece of lined papers covered in the writer's cramped writing.

"Malcom magical," he read, his deep voice making the fragments sound like something of great importance, "why in jail? Prolance plays what role? Maria betrays how?" His gaze flickered up, and a slight smile curled his lips upward. "Mr. Keller, are you plotting out a biography?"

"Uh...” He cleared his throat. “Well, not intentionally, no."

Ian wouldn't exactly call Henry Araneal a friend. Ian had friends. They were all like him--a little quirky, a little geeky in some way or another. One, Robert, was in accounting. Another, Jonathan, was in the computer business. They hadn't read his books and so treated him normally. They hadn't seen the movies, either--fantasy wasn't their thing. They liked the sci-fi novels by people like...oh, that one guy who had sex in every book. He’d been pretty popular for a while…oh well. Ian would go out to a bar with them every once in a while, just to enjoy hanging out with 'men'. It didn't matter that their wives probably had more testosterone than they did, and that they couldn't name a single football team. They just something different—a time when they could pretend to be manly men, even if they weren’t. And even though Henry didn't follow sports and was ordered around by his wife, his very EXISTENCE was the essence of manliness, from his head to his toes. Henry didn't need to geek out--never needed to have a guy night. But when Ian's initial terror had faded, he'd found that the millionaire was...well, wasn't bad. He didn't reveal his emotions and kept his thoughts to himself, but the man had a dry sense of humor that Ian liked. And although Ian wouldn't have sought out his company, and didn’t, lately he'd found himself spending more and more time with the man who'd made his blood run cold not a few days before.

When Ian had first met Malcom Black, the man had had three weeks. Three weeks until he was put under with a lethal injection. To be fair, the man had had three years on death row. His cue had been jumped up because of the severity of the crimes--hijacking, intent to terrorize, and two murders—both first degree. Two weeks were now past. Malcom Black was running out of time.

And in the middle of that first week, soon after his abrupt first visit, Henry began arriving frequently. He'd ask questions, read notes, ask to listen to the latest interview, then leave. Occasionally Alyssa would be there, and she'd lean on the arm of the couch and watch, frowning. After the third visit, she'd turned to look at Ian.

"There's a tormented soul if I've ever seen one,” she said slowly. “You know, I think he's punishing himself, coming here."

Ian didn’t know why, but he rather agreed with her. Still, he felt he had to play devil's advocate. Maybe then she could answer the question that had been puzzling him during the whole meeting.

"Yeah, but WHY, 'Lyss?” Ian shook his head and leaned back against the couch. “The man stole his plane. Maybe he just wants to…” He waved his hand. “Understand his motives."

His wife shook her head.

"Didn't you say he said Malcom was his uncle?" She smiled sadly. "Maybe it's not the motives he wants to understand, Ian--maybe it's the man."

Maybe it was. But whatever the reason, Henry kept coming back. And, gradually, Ian stopped being afraid. The man definitely wanted something. He would read the convict's words, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, like they were some sort of gospel, and listen to the recordings with his eyes half closed, his body perfectly still, as if his whole attention was bent on that voice. Ian learned to look beyond the mask. Behind Henry's blank expression was a yearning and, after each day, a profound disappointment.

It got stranger. A week ago, Henry had assigned his own lawyer to Malcom, and the woman, well-known because of her client's violent tendencies, had turned her rather amazing capabilities onto his case, and had reopened it. Now Malcom had a week before he went on trial again, and, during that time, Ian wouldn't be able to interview him. Nor after. If the lawyer succeeded, Malcom would be locked up for life, because there was no way he'd get off, and would be unable for questioning unless he was very good for the next ten years. And if she did not, he'd die at the end of the trial. Ian only had a week left. And so Henry's occasional visits had become frequent, and Ian had begun returning to the cell two or three times a day, no longer seeing the halls, but seeing a forest, a swamp, plains, as he fought his way through a story that had become an obsession.

What was Malcom? Who was Malcom? And what was he trying to prove? Where was he going with his story, and what did he want from Ian? The writer couldn’t answer any of the questions. He didn’t even know if Malcom was guilty or not of the crimes he’d been accused of. No, that wasn’t true. He HAD to be guilty. There hadn’t exactly been a lack of witnesses. But with everything else that Ian had learned, did that still have to be true? Did Malcom Black really have to be guilty, or could he be a victim of circumstance? But Malcom hadn’t gotten to that part of the story, and didn’t seem ready to get there any time soon. They only had a week, and Malcom was still brooding on his lost love. Or, at least, that was what Ian thought. But that was part of the problem—there was no way to tell!

That was why he’d started “plotting” Malcom’s life out. If Malcom didn’t finish…he’d just have to. Someone had to get something out. The man deserved that much.

Henry was still reading his notes, he realized absently. The man had delicately perched himself in one of the armchairs—something rather funny when you realized just how big he was—and was flipping through papers. Not all of them were lined, but all of them had Ian’s cramped writing on the front. It made him a bit uncomfortable. The rest of the items that Henry had read had been word-for-word versions of the interviews with Malcom. These were his edited versions, his story notes, and even some emails back and forth with his publisher on ideas on how to order the story. Ian had printed them all out so he had a hard copy to pick up and use. It was important for him. He could never remember something if it was written out on the computer. If it wasn’t in his hand, easily read without technology, then it wasn’t real, and he’d forget it in an instant. It had made his wife swear at him many a time before figuring out that, if she got him a calendar, it solved most of the problems. But there were occasions that Ian forgot. He would’ve liked to say he was getting better, but the fact of the matter was…he wasn’t. Anyways, as a result of this habit, a full listing of Ian’s thought processes were lying on the floor. Normally, he didn’t care. His wife didn’t pay much attention to his notes, and even Ian didn’t bother putting them together. But he rather got the feeling that Henry did, and would. It made him nervous, and Ian quickly got up to stand up in front of the man. Henry didn’t even look up.

“Look, uh…can I have the papers? I’m not done, you know…”

“Yes.” Henry’s gaze flickered up and regarded him calmly. But he didn’t return the papers. Ian waited for quite a bit of time, then decided that it was a lost cause and began gathering the papers on the floor together. He made three stacks, mentally labeling them in his head. The first one, stacked high with some hand-written notes and then crisp printed paper was called “Beginning”. The second, this time entirely of printed paper, but much folded and worn, “Later.” And the last, filled entirely with lined paper covered in Ian’s cramped chicken scratch, “Mess.”

His wife would be so proud of him, he reflected with a wry smile. Even if it killed him, he was learning how to laugh at himself.

Apparently, his attempts at organization had attracted Henry’s attention, for the papers were lowered, and the man’s silver eyes watched curiously as Ian carefully placed several pieces of paper in the Mess pile.

“What are these?” he inquired after a moment.

“Oh, my way of cleaning up.” Ian smiled, then looked back down at the piles. “This one is from the beginning of the story—” he pointed to the first “—and this from the middle…” He moved to the next one, but he seemed to have lost Henry’s interest. He was staring at the notes.

“And which is this one?”

Ian didn’t really want to answer, but with Henry’s eyes on him, he found it rather difficult not to. The man was just a little bit intimidating, and sometimes it was more of a relief to babble than to shut up.

“Notes.” His shrug and smile was sheepish. “You know…plotting the story.”

“Hm.” Henry looked like he wanted to go through those too, so Ian hastily reached forward, grabbed the stack, and moved it to his messy desk. He then returned to organizing, trying to ignore the feeling that he was pointedly ignoring the millionaire. Not that he seemed to mind. In fact, the slight smile on his face said he was amused.

“And…can you plot it?” he asked after a moment. Ian looked up.

“Eh?”

“Can you plot it?” he said patiently. “Do you have the information you need to write the story?”

Ian wasn’t sure why it mattered. “Uh…” He eyed him, hoping that Henry would change his mind. Maybe change the subject, as he had done before. But no. Henry was still watching him with those eerie silver eyes of him, and Ian felt compelled to be honest.

“No.”

“Gods.” The papers slipped onto the table, and Henry cradled his head in his hands. For a moment, Ian was absolutely petrified that Henry would start crying. But he didn’t, and after a moment, he lifted his head again. His face was blank, but Ian could see some sort of burden was still on his shoulders. There was a bleak look to him. “So you cannot complete it? You have nothing?”

“N-not nothing, no.” Ian nervously shuffled through papers and, just to give his hands something to do, picked up a stack and began ruffling through them to see if they were in order.

“Then what?”

Ian forced his gaze up.

“I-I’m…about to the middle, I guess,” he said shakily. “I always call it the peak in this kind of stuff. The p-point before it gets…bad.”

Henry was staring at him blankly, and the writer felt obliged to explain.

“Y-you know, like a r-roller coaster.” Ian held up his hand over his head to demonstrate. “O-one minute y-you’re at the t-top, and the next..” He brought it down in a steep, sudden movement, then mimed an explosion. “I-it’s over. I-I think we’re still at the h-happy bit. But the next part…it’s gonna be like a r-roller coaster. Going s-steeply down…”

Slowly, Henry nodded his head.

“I believe I understand,” he said. “Do you think…you can finish in the time left?”

Once again, honesty kicked in, although it made him strangely miserable for Henry’s sake.

“No,” he said. Henry didn’t look surprised, but the burden Ian could almost see on his shoulders had grown larger. How old was he? The papers didn’t know, but Ian suspected it was far greater than any age they’d guess, anyways. And he could practically see the man aging before his eyes. It was a kind of self-torture, wasn’t it? Forcing himself to know Malcom’s story? And, strangely, Ian felt pity for Henry. It wasn’t easy. It couldn’t have been.

“But,” he found himself adding, “I think…I think if I had to, I could guess.”

Henry stared at him, then smiled. It was thin, but it was a smile.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you.”