Incursion: The Rift - Part Eleven

"Is Vincent here?" Jeffrey asked.

"He's in Washington," Joyce answered, and at that Jeffrey stepped forward and embraced her. Joyce put her arms around him, but her gaze stayed locked with Tim's. Tim could see the guilt in her eyes, a silent apology perhaps. Or perhaps that was just what he wanted to see. In his own eyes he wanted her to see hatred and loathing, but he feared what she saw all too easily was pain.

"What happened to you?" Joyce asked, pulling away from Jeffrey's embrace.

"It's a long story," Jeffrey responded as Joyce led them into the house. "Some of Timmy's friends play rough."

Tim closed his eyes, shutting out the luxurious surroundings, wishing he could shut out his brother's voice. In one sentence he had managed to insult him twice, once by blaming him for what was happening, and once by using that diminutive he knew Tim hated.

"I'll get a first aid kit," Joyce said, and left the room at a near run.

Tim waited until Joyce was gone and then turned on his brother, glaring. "What are we doing here?"

"Not what you hope, I'm sure," Jeffrey chuckled. "Joyce's husband works for CNN. He's an investigative journalist."

"I know that. What does -"

"He has connections, Secret Service, FBI, CIA, the whole alphabet soup."

"So do you," Tim reminded him. "Surely with your stint in the Bureau -"

"Unfortunately I'm cursed with the Strand family name. If I start poking around, it's just going to raise a bunch of red flags. As a third party, Vincent may have more access."

Tim glanced down the corridor where Joyce had gone. "And I'm sure she's no motivation at all."

"Think what you want," Jeffrey replied with a dismissive shrug.

Joyce returned carrying a white plastic box, a little larger than a child's lunch pail, with a Red Cross symbol on the side, and a bottle of iodine.

"I'm not sure how much I'll be able to do with this," she said, sitting down on a white leather sofa and opening the first aid kit on the coffee table in front of her. "If there's too much damage you'll have to go to a hospital."

Tim noticed Jeffrey didn't toss aside her recommendation as he had his.

"It'll be fine," Jeffrey said, sitting down on her left so she could work on his right ear.

Joyce began by cleaning off the dried blood, revealing the full extent of the injury. A substantial chunk of Jeffrey's earlobe was gone and what remained was shredded. "Dear God, how did this happen?"

Jeffrey didn't answer. "When are you expecting Vincent home?"

"Don't worry, not until late."

Tim had been wandering around the enormous living room, taking note of the nouveau riche decoration, wondering how his ex-wife enjoyed living here with her second husband. It was as if they had hired a decorator -- and not a very good one -- but hadn't added their own touch. Unless Joyce's tastes had changed in the eight years since their divorce, he could see little -- no, nothing -- that spoke of her own personality. He found the realization both disturbing and strangely satisfying.

"We need to talk to him," Jeffrey told her and Tim heard Joyce gasp. He looked up from his exploration in time to see her shocked expression.

"You ... you want to talk to him?"

Tim was hit as if by a light on the road to Damascus. "You're still ..." He pointed at them. "The two of you ... You're still ..."

Joyce turned away in shame.

Jeffrey regarded Tim with his characteristic sneer. "Not really any of your concern anymore, brother."

-----

They told Joyce as little as possible and, making it easy, she didn't press. She seemed resigned to being kept in the dark concerning anything regarding her husband. Instead, they chatted about trivialities. Or rather, Jeffrey and Joyce chatted. Tim sat across the room in an ugly and uncomfortable designer chair, engaging in what Jeffrey would call pouting. This went on until about seven in the evening when Joyce offered them dinner. He was ravenous, but insisted he wasn't hungry, even when Jeffrey laid on his usual intimidation. Not until Joyce asked him nicely did he consent to join them.

"Mirabelle is off today," Joyce told them, leading the way to the dining room. "But she left dinner already prepared. It just needs to be reheated."

Tim assumed Mirabelle was the Lockyer's maid, or perhaps a dedicated cook. Judging by the opulence of the house, nothing would surprise him. And unless she had changed in the past eight years, Tim knew Joyce lacked any interest or skill in the kitchen.

Joyce left her guests in the dining room and continued on into the kitchen. Once they were alone Tim turned to Jeffrey. "Do you mind telling me your plan? What are we supposed to do with Vin -"

"It's simple." The smirk appeared again. "Someone wants you dead. Worse, since I was foolish enough to allow sibling sentimentality to motivate me to help you, someone likely now wants me dead too."

"Yeah, I've noticed. But why?"

"You've either done something, or you know something."

"I haven't done anything," Tim insisted, "and I don't know anything."

The smirk. "Well, I'm in full agreement with the last part. But it doesn't matter anyway."

"Doesn't matter?"

"Not really. It would help if we had all the facts. Either way, we go to the media through our pal Vincent. Once everything is public, it makes killing us impractical."

Joyce returned at that moment. Tim was sure, judging by her expression, she overheard Jeffrey's last comment. "Dinner will be just a moment," she said, looking back and forth between Jeffrey and Tim.

Jeffrey and Joyce continued to make small talk throughout dinner until Vincent phoned and Joyce explained to her husband that they had visitors who wished to speak to him. Tim found it painful listening to her apologizing to him; there was a tremor in her voice that wasn't there when they were married. Even Jeffrey, Mister Callous himself, noticed it. After Joyce hung up, the conversation between her and Jeffrey was subdued, almost strained.

"Vincent's flight just landed," Joyce told them. "He should be home in about a half-hour."

"Is this going to cause a problem?" Tim asked.

"No, no. Not at all," she answered.

Tim didn't believe her.

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