I know it's been awhile--busy as usual!
Shadows and Light Part Three
Rated: PG
“I need to perform some more tests on MacGyver,” the doctor said. “I recommend you wait outside.”
“I can’t leave him,” Pete said, his voice hoarse and thick with tears.
“Neither can I,” MacGyver said, staring down at the unconscious form on the hospital bed, still hoping to reenter his body but finding all his attempts to be futile, his flesh firm and impenetrable.
“It will be all right,” the doctor said. “I won’t be long. It’s a pleasant day. You could go wait outside and get some fresh air. I’ll send a nurse to let you know when you can come back and see him again.”
Pete said nothing, his focus solely on his friend. In sympathy, the doctor placed a supportive hand on his shoulder, an understanding smile on his face.
“Mr. Thornton, I realize how close you are to your friend and how deeply you care about him, but you have to take care of yourself as well. You don’t want your own health to be compromised by placing too much stress on your body.”
Pete was about to open his mouth to object when he closed it again and sighed, knowing the doctor was right. He nodded slightly and closed his eyes, still burning with tears.
“He’ll be right here when you come back,” the doctor said. “He’s stable and doing as well as can be expected. Don’t overly concern yourself with his condition. He’ll receive the best critical care possible and we’re doing all we can for him.”
Pete nodded again and began to leave the room, his departure stalled several times as he stopped to glance sadly once again at the still, frail, shattered, and almost lifeless looking figure of his friend. He had seen MacGyver that way far too many times and it never got any easier for him to bear. The doctor waited patiently as he continued his silent and prolonged farewell, allowing him the time he needed to compose himself. Torn between remaining with his body and following Pete, MacGyver at last decided to leave the room as well. There was little in his control at the moment. He couldn’t enter his body, and Pete was struggling with emotion. Even if he couldn’t see or hear him anymore, he knew he couldn’t leave Pete to suffer alone.
“It’s all right, Pete,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right here with you.”
Although Pete showed no visible indications of having heard his reassuring words, he seemed to regain his strength and was at last able to leave the hospital room completely, forcing himself to walk down the tiled corridors towards the exit, his steps deliberately brisk as if he could escape the emotional pain he was experiencing. MacGyver was walking, almost drifting right beside him, an invisible witness to his grief, as he imagined all spirits must have been at some point at or around the time of their death. Although loss was unbearable for the living, MacGyver discovered it was almost as agonizing to see it from the perspective of the dead. He wanted to tell Pete not to worry, that he would be fine, that he was still with him, but he knew his words of solace would never be heard. He now understood how frustrating and painful it was for the dead, not being able to communicate and how some of them would become angry enough about their hopeless situations as to reach out any way possible, even if it meant frightening the living in the form of a haunting. It was their last desperate attempt to prove that they still existed, that they still mattered.
“I’ll get through this, Pete,” he said, even if his words were wasted and unheard. “I always do. You have to believe that.”
The two men that had been watching Pete were now following him, cautiously maintaining their distance so as not to appear suspicious or attract his attention. They waited until he was outside and alone, watching him as he paced distractedly, too occupied with thoughts of MacGyver to notice them when at last they pounced, one of them grabbing him from behind and jabbing a gun into his back.
“What…what is this?” Pete asked, searching the faces of the men, trying to identify them. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Shut up and listen,” the man with the gun whispered in his ear, his accent clearly Russian. “Follow us to the van and do not say anything. If you do, I will kill you.”
MacGyver stood there helplessly, unable to do anything. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Wait! Who are you? What’s going on? What are you doing with Pete?” He asked, shouting, following them and Pete towards an unmarked black van parked in front of the hospital. As usual, his questions remained unanswered, his presence unacknowledged. He tried to fight them, to defend Pete, but his fists went right through the men and had no effect. One of them, the bulkier of the two, even had the audacity to walk right through him, which was not painful for MacGyver but it was invasive nevertheless. “Stop! No, you can’t do this! Come on!” MacGyver shouted.
His protests were useless as the men continued, forcing Pete inside the back of the van and slamming the doors, locking them tightly shut. Realizing that the doors would not be an impediment to him in his current state, MacGyver walked right through them so he could be with his now kidnapped friend. No matter how limited his abilities or presence could be at that moment, MacGyver still wouldn’t leave Pete alone with his captors.
“It’s okay, Pete, I’m still with you,” he said, even though his words were still in vain.
The men got in the front, slammed the doors and started the ignition. The one with the gun was on the passenger side and he turned to face Pete, pointing it at his head, a menacing expression on his rough, almost brutal and dour face, his severe icy blue eyes cold and piercing.
“Please,” Pete said, “tell me what you want.”
The man holding the gun sneered and said nothing. They drove for what seemed like hours, the roll of the smooth pavement beneath them gradually turning into what felt like a rutted, unpaved, and uneven road, the van jolting violently, causing Pete to hold onto whatever he could to keep himself from rolling all over the back of the van.
“Where are you taking me?” He asked, his question once again greeted with the silent, icy stare of the man with the gun.
MacGyver looked around the van. He pushed his head through the side so he could see outside, beginning to get used to his supernatural abilities that allowed him to pass through solid matter as if it were air. They were approaching an old mansion on the promontory of a steep cliff near the ocean, its sturdy construction protecting it from years of being battered by harsh winds and corroding sea air and preventing it from falling into a state of decrepitude that would have befallen any other structure made of lesser quality materials. It appeared to be abandoned even though most of the glass was still intact, only one window boarded up from missing, broken glass. Returning to the inside of the van, he turned to Pete.
“It looks like they’re taking us to an old, uninhabited house,” he said, as if this explanation would help but of course it didn’t. Pete was still unable to hear or see him. The only way MacGyver knew he could really help his friend was by just being there, waiting with him to see what the men who had abducted him had planned.
***
The van reached its destination, coming to a sharp, abrupt halt that nearly sent Pete crashing to the floor. The men got out quickly and ran to the back, not allowing Pete even a minute to consider an escape, flinging the doors open and pointing the gun at him threateningly, waving it in a gesture for him to get out of the van. Pete followed their silent command, not once aware that MacGyver was right there, following him. Once he was out of the van the men grabbed him, pinning his arms tightly behind him, pushing him forward toward the house. Inside the house, a musty odor assailed their nostrils, even MacGyver’s, who despite his inability to feel as a ghost could still use his sense of smell, much to his curiosity. The house was dark and the floorboards creaked. Antique furniture was shrouded, making it look amorphous and barely resembling its original form beneath, layers of dust and cobwebs settling on the coverings. The men moved Pete quickly through the house’s numerous hallways and stairwells until they reached what appeared to be a cellar, the walls lined with stone, the room small, cramped, and dank. It was cluttered with rusted pipes and other junk, including broken furniture, a storehouse containing the record of all who had lived there and passed on, leaving their refuse. One of the chairs was unbroken—in fact, it looked relatively new although it was overturned. One of the men with Pete turned it upright and the other forced Pete to sit in it, jabbing the gun hard against his ribs as if to reinforce his demand. They grabbed some rope and bound him tightly to it. When they were finished, the man pointing the gun at him grinned.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Pete said, staring defiantly at them, trying to prove that he wasn’t intimidated. He struggled against the ropes tying him to the chair, finding them already restricting the flow of blood to his wrists and ankles.
“What is going on is that you are my invited guest, Mr. Thornton,” a voice in the hallway said, also in heavily accented Russian.
The owner of the voice entered. He was a man of medium height and slim build, his complexion fair and his hair thinning. His features were average and unassuming. He certainly didn’t look like a threat. If anyone encountered him on the streets they wouldn’t even take a second glance at him, thinking he was just another normal American or European, blending into the crowd. When Pete and MacGyver saw him, however, they recognized him immediately, and they knew he was dangerous, using his bland, ordinary appearance to his advantage, slipping into places undetected, as was the nature of his occupation. He was a top spy and assassin for the KGB.
“Nicholas Stanislav,” both Pete and MacGyver said simultaneously, although Pete’s astonished voice was the only one the men could hear.
They were sure that wasn’t his real name when they conducted their research on him, obviously an alias of some kind, but they never learned his real identity. They did know that he was efficient, using his seemingly benign presence to lure his enemies, drawing them closer, winning their trust—then, he would strike, using deadly toxins that killed in seconds, delivered in any way imaginable—through the point of an umbrella, even a simple handshake. The DXS had already lost some of their best agents and some double agents through his deadly methods.
Nicholas smiled a cold, empty smile that was chilling to behold, betraying for just a moment his ordinariness, showing his true self, showing that he was far from the harmless, bland, mild-mannered man he seemed to be at first glance.
“It’s nice to see you again as well, Mr. Thornton,” he said. “I know we have never officially met except through our separate government files, but now here we are.”
“What do you want?” Pete asked, glaring at him.
MacGyver listened for his response as well. All he could do was listen.
Nicholas rubbed his dry, bony hands together. “Some years ago, you and MacGyver took something from our government that doesn’t belong to you. Some sensitive classified information,” he said.
“I remember that mission,” MacGyver said, once again speaking to no one but himself.
“And you want it back, right?” Pete asked. “Well, that’s tough.”
MacGyver looked at his gruff, stubborn friend and grinned, proud of him. “That’s telling ‘em, Pete,” he said.
Nicholas laughed and shook his head. “No Mr. Thornton, I am not under orders to retrieve it,” he said. “That information is useless now, anyway. What I want from you is to allow me to return the favor.”
“What are you talking about?” Pete asked.
Nicholas’s expression grew serious, his pale gray eyes boring into Pete’s, challenging him silently. “You will give me your access codes to The Phoenix Foundation,” he said. “I will know all your pathetic capitalist government knows. What is the expression you Americans use? Ah yes, ‘share and share alike,’ is it? You take from us and we take from you. It is only fair, is it not? Once the exchange is complete, I will consider this business matter closed.”
“Don’t do it, Pete,” MacGyver said, watching Nicholas carefully, observing him.
“That’s not going to happen,” Pete growled.
Nicholas smirked. He turned to one of his men, who pulled out a small black case. Opening it, he made a dramatic show of slowly revealing its contents—a small hypodermic of purplish liquid. Both Pete and Mac stared at it, wondering about its contents and knowing that it was anything but innocuous.
“This will not kill you instantly as some of my other poisons have,” he said. “The unfortunate victim suffers in excruciating pain for days before succumbing. There is no antidote, either.”
MacGyver began searching the room, thinking of all the ways he would use the rusted piping and other junk that was scattered everywhere, surrounding them, making the space tight and claustrophobic. He thought of how he would free Pete and stop Nicholas and his men, but of course all of it was only a thought, something that could never develop beyond how he conceived it, his ghostly form unable to grab anything, his hands going right through everything he tried to touch. He might have been there, but without the use of a body he was of no use to Pete.
“Don’t let him inject you with that stuff,” he said, even though he knew Pete wouldn’t hear him. “Try to resist him any way you can. I’m thinking of a way to get you out of here. I don’t know how I’m going to do it yet, but I’ll get there. Just hold on, okay? Hold on…”
“It doesn’t matter what you do to me,” Pete said. “I will never tell you our government’s secrets.”
Nicholas smiled, his smile looking friendly, almost cheerful. “That is entirely up to you,” he said.
Snapping his thin fingers, he ordered his men to grab Pete, further restraining him. MacGyver thought back in horror about how Nielsen had done the same thing to him, strapped to a chair, held back by large men, helpless as the needle pierced his skin…
“No!” he shouted, even though he knew no one would hear him. “Pete, you’ve got to resist them anyway you can! Don’t let them do this to you!”
Pete grunted and squirmed, trying to wriggle free of his ropes as the men rolled up his sleeve, exposing his bare arm and its many veins. Grinning in sadistic delight, Nicholas approached him with the needle, grazing the skin, teasing Pete with it.
“No!” MacGyver shouted, hating feeling so powerless. He tried to grab Nicholas’s wrist, but of course his hand went right through it. “No, don’t do this! Pete!”
Pete shuddered, waiting for the moment when the needle would pierce his skin and the poison would enter his bloodstream, picturing the severe agony to come with fear and dread. He heard Nicholas laugh viciously, and the men holding him released him, backing away. The syringe was placed back inside his case. Pete stared up at Nicholas, bewildered. MacGyver also looked at him with the same amount of puzzlement.
“What just happened?” MacGyver asked. “What’s his game now?”
“I have been described by your government as a brutal monster because of the horrific and ghastly things my poisons have done to my many victims,” Nicholas said. He looked almost lovingly at the syringe and shook his head sadly as the lid of the case closed, almost as if he were burying a friend. “Such a pity. Well, I can be merciful, despite the ugly rumors. I will not use this poison on you if you give me the valuable information I wish to know. So consider carefully, because I will give you an hour to change your mind.” He glanced at the ropes coiled tightly around Pete. “After all, I know you are going nowhere. My associates here have informed me that MacGyver is in the hospital, so there is no possible way he can use his clever mind to help you out of this situation. No Mr. Thornton, you are on your own this time, I am afraid. Be sure you make the right choice for your sake as well as his. It would be a shame for him to wake up in the hospital and learn that his friend is dead.”
He smiled again, almost meekly and apologetically. Pete had never seen a man with so many different smiles, as if he collected them as part of his espionage work, wearing whatever one suited him best for the occasion. Both he and MacGyver watched as he left, his henchmen following him. They slammed the door to the room and locked it from the outside. Once they were gone, Pete looked around the room himself, trying to think about how MacGyver would get out of this situation. There was certainly plenty in the room to work with, but Pete’s problem was how to put it to use the way his friend would. His mind just didn’t operate the same way. Even though he had learned a lot from his ingenious friend over the years, he was still a novice in the field of creative improvisation. He thought about seeing his ghost again, the strange experience repeating in his head. He still had difficulty believing that he really saw his apparition, thinking much the way that MacGyver would that there had to be some other reason he saw it, some other explanation for how he found his injured body in the wilderness.
“If only you were here now,” he said aloud, sighing.
“I am, Pete. You just can’t hear me,” MacGyver said.
Pete turned his head in the direction of MacGyver’s voice. “MacGyver?” He asked. “Are you there?”
“You can hear me again?” MacGyver asked, never feeling more relieved.
“Yes,” Pete said. “Oh my God! Yes I can! Where are you?”
“Right here,” MacGyver said.
Once again, the ghostly form of MacGyver appeared before Pete, except this time he didn’t look like a ghost. He looked as if he was really standing there, fully materialized in front of him.
“Oh God,” Pete said. “Mac! You don’t know how glad I am to see you again! Where have you been?”
“Trying to get back into my body. I can’t seem to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look,” MacGyver said, running his hand through one of the pipes. Only when he did this did he look like a ghost again, his hand briefly transparent, almost nonexistent, as it went through the object. “I can go through walls or anything solid—except my body. I can touch it, Pete, as if it were someone else. It won’t let me back in. I can’t go through it the way I do everything else.”
“I wonder what that means,” Pete said, a concerned expression on his face. “You don’t think…”
“I don’t know. I do know that I have to get you out of here.”
Pete thought about how he couldn’t touch anything without his hands going through it. “How?” he asked.
“Well, there’s a lot to work with in here,” MacGyver said, looking around the room full of junk. “Why don’t you see if you can think of something? Meanwhile, I’m going to work on a distraction for those guys.”
“What?” Pete asked, chuckling. “How are you going to do that? You’re a ghost. What are you going to do, drag around chains and moan?”
MacGyver looked at Pete. He grinned. “That’s kind of the idea,” he said, winking.
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
