Phoenix Field Agent
Posts: 1,889
Joined: 11 Jan 2006
Gender: Female
Country: USA
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Season: season 3
Episode:Passages
Vehicle: Jeep
Jacket: Black leather
House: House boat
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Catastrophic Failure Part Three
Rated: R
“In international news, officials in Africa are attempting to learn the cause of a fatal bridge collapse that killed over one hundred and fifty people in that continent’s central region. The area is volatile and has been known for tribal warfare. Speculation is that the bridge was destroyed by a neighboring tribe, however there is no evidence to support that claim…”
Rumors, speculation, excuses…MacGyver knew that no matter what information surfaced, he was still culpable. It seemed he couldn’t escape the tragedy, even as he drove his jeep down the narrow, unpaved section of road towards Pete’s cabin, his radio announcing the news of it, even to that remote corner of the world. When the broadcast began to fade in a crackle and hiss of static, his reception gone, he was relieved. He turned off the radio and tried to enjoy the quiet, feeling the cool air rush through his open windows and caress his hair.
Pete’s cabin looked similar to the original, the piney scent of freshly cut wood the only indicator that it was new and not as rustic as its predecessor. After MacGyver parked and gathered his bag, he stood to admire it, drinking in its pristine mountain location. He knew he would find the solitude he desperately craved, yet a part of him was still disturbed by reminders of the bridge collapse. He had helped Pete rebuild the cabin, and a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if the cabin would also collapse, caving in on him in the middle of the night. When he went out on the pier in the back facing the lake, brief flashes of villagers thrashing around in the water and screaming appeared before his eyes, forcing him to close them to erase the haunting images. Gasping, reopening his eyes, he tried to focus instead on what was really in front of him, nothing but a placid lake and mountains surrounding him, no one around for miles, birds chirping instead of human cries for help. Sighing, he knew this was where he had to be to find peace, where he could mope and brood all he needed to, where he could find some kind of emotional, cathartic release for all the pain and torment he was suffering. He was retreating and he knew it, but he needed the isolation, to be separate from his fellow man, free from their judgment and condemnation, choosing those roles for himself, meting out his own form of punishment. The wilderness became his cell, his version of solitary confinement for the murders he still believed he committed.
For a brief moment it felt as if he wasn’t truly alone. He had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him, that someone was tracking his movements. He couldn’t explain it, but the feeling was so strong and palpable that he had to look around, even hiking into the woods to see if he could find the voyeur. When he found nothing, he decided it was his paranoia and headed back to the cabin. Unpacking his things, he reached for the bottle of sedatives that Dr. Searles had prescribed and took several of them, trying to settle his jarred nerves and get some sleep, something that he had been neglecting. In Pete’s linen closet, he found some clean flannel sheets and began putting them on the large, soft, comfortable bed in the bedroom. He didn’t get too far when the sedatives began to take effect and he felt woozy and extremely drowsy, falling onto the bed and drifting away to sleep with the sheets only halfway on the mattress.
***
“Any new information?” Pete asked Ted Stewart, his lead man on the bridge investigation, one of the best forensic experts he knew at the Foundation, able to reverse engineer even the minutest details to determine the cause of any mechanical error. His expertise had been used many times by the FAA for plane crashes.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Thornton,” Ted said. “I must say that this is truly one of the most bizarre cases I have ever worked on, to be honest with you. We have as yet to discover the cause of the failure. We can’t seem to pinpoint anything, structurally or otherwise, that would have caused this to happen. So far, by all appearances, the pieces of the bridge we were able to recover are stable and well constructed and should not have broken apart as they did.”
“It just makes no sense,” Pete said. He looked around the village, seeing some of those who had lost loved ones on the bridge wandering around looking dazed, like the walking wounded. Chief Nagra along with The Phoenix Foundation had assembled grief counselors to assist the stricken, but he knew that it would take a long time for them to heal. “Why in God’s name did this have to happen?”
Ted shook his head. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “I assure you that we’re doing all we can to find out, and that we won’t stop until we do.”
Pete smiled wanly at him, feeling exhausted. “Thanks Ted,” he said. “I’m sure you will do everything you can.”
Nodding, Ted returned to his investigative team. Pete watched him for awhile, and then his thoughts shifted to MacGyver. Lately, his behavior had been much like the villagers, lost and in a state of complete shock, unable to function or focus clearly on anything except the accident, dwelling on it, unhealthy thoughts of it taking up the majority of his time, becoming almost obsessed. He may not have known any of the villagers that perished, but he grieved for them as deeply as those who did. The great loss of life did not help, but Pete knew that even if only one villager had died that day that it would still upset MacGyver. It was the kind of man he was. He cared, sometimes almost too much and to the detriment of his health and sanity. Even though Pete had nothing new to report on the progress of the investigation, he was still concerned for MacGyver and wanted to hear from him, so he decided to call him. If anything, he just wanted to provide more support, to let him know that he cared about him. The phone rang incessantly, and it seemed almost interminable until at last he heard MacGyver’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Hello, this is MacGyver…”
“Oh, thank God,” Pete said. “Mac, I’ve been worried sick about you! Why don’t you answer your phone sooner?”
“We all know how these things go…”
Pete realized that when MacGyver’s voice kept speaking without responding to him that he had reached his answering machine. Pondering whether or not to leave a message, he decided against it, wanting to talk to him directly instead of the machine.
“He’s probably sleeping,” he muttered, hanging up the phone. “Good, that’s exactly what he needs right now. I’ll try him later.”
***
Angry villagers surrounded him. They wanted retribution. He could not escape them as they clamped their hands down on him and he found himself airborne, tossed into the river below where the dead clawed at him, pulling him down beneath the raging river with them…
Gasping and terrified, MacGyver awoke abruptly, darting upright in bed, his wide, frightened brown eyes searching the cabin, trying to reorient himself. Wiping the sweat away from his brow, he looked down at the half made bed he had fallen asleep on, the sheets in a rumpled heap around him. A small clock ticked nervously on the nightstand, and he realized he didn’t know how long he had been asleep, nor did he care. He was just glad to be rid of the recurring nightmare that constantly plagued him, relieved to be back in the present, in the comfortable, serene atmosphere of Pete’s cabin, calming him and making him feel secure again. It was still daylight outside, sunlight streaking through the crack of the half-open curtains. Noticing Pete’s fishing rod leaning against a nearby wall, he decided to go fishing, even though he had no appetite. The act of doing it was what he wanted, the blissful feeling of being in nature and thinking of little else except concentrating on catching a fish appealing to him. It would get his mind off the bridge and his nightmares about it.
He couldn’t find any lures, so he used a shiny, reflective aluminum gum wrapper, following his grandfather Harry’s example. He set up a folding chair on the pier and leaned into it, trying his best to relax and casting his line, not caring whether he caught anything or not. Birds sang, but beyond that, he had nothing but complete and peaceful silence to listen to. By the angle of the sun across the mountains, he could tell that it was late afternoon, and that the sun would set soon. He would have to make a fire, and if he did catch something, he thought about cooking it on the open flame of the fireplace, listening to the flames crackle and watching them glow and dance in wavy undulations. All of these thoughts contented him, and at least for awhile he forgot about his guilt and his grief. It seemed a change of scenery was the best prescription he could give himself. Of course Pete would worry, not hearing from him, but he didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t want to talk to anybody. For the first time he realized how much he and Harry were alike, withdrawing from the world and those they loved because it was too painful, because they needed to restore themselves before facing anyone again. For the longest time he wanted to hate his grandfather for reacting that way after the deaths of his father and grandmother, believing him to be cowardly for his actions. Now, he realized that Harry had been overwhelmed, just as he now was. He didn’t know if it was right to turn away from everything, but sometimes it was what one needed to do.
A tug on his line alerted him, and he began to reel in the fish that had been snagged by the hook, watching its beautiful body as it squirmed and struggled, thrashing mightily in the water, fighting and resisting his pull. Images of the helpless villagers struggling in the river returned momentarily to him, but he refused to be distracted and release his catch. It was a large fish, one that could easily make a few decent meals. Despite the absence of hunger, MacGyver knew he had to try to eat something, since he had barely touched any food in days, finding it difficult to swallow, his grief and tears choking him. He pulled and fought harder, determined to bring the stubborn fish to land, pretending he was throwing out a line to save the drowning villagers, pulling them to shore as he should have done, if cowardice and fear hadn’t paralyzed him. Angrily, remembering this, he pulled even harder, yanking the fish up, holding it up and watching it as its scaly body twisted and jerked at the end of his line.
***
MacGyver was being watched again, although this time he was too absorbed in catching the fish and coping with his memories again to sense it. The man stood atop one of the nearby mountains, well concealed by the dense foliage of the woods. He could see the scene below perfectly through his binoculars, MacGyver’s determined and sad face in his field of vision. He looked like a broken man, unshaven, thinner, and dirty. He was at his most vulnerable, something the man had planned. When his prey was at his weakest, he didn’t think clearly or react quickly enough, making him a much easier target.
“Very soon, MacGyver,” the man said, grinning maniacally. “I have you at the end of my line, and I’m going to reel you in, just like that fish. You think you’re free up here, but you’re not. You don’t realize how trapped you really are, but you will. It won’t be much longer until you regret that you ever came back up here.”
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
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I don't like that bad guy. Grrrrrr!
Keep the writing coming.
It add more realism to the story!
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you as well! 
Another chapter will be posted soon! 
