Christa Faust - Fringe The Zodiac Paradox

A paper cup full of pills.

A lab filled with children’s toys.

A strange device shaped like a window.

A blond woman with a gun.

But whose images were these? Not the killer’s this time, he didn’t think. Maybe the other members of the group?

Then, just as suddenly as they started, the whirlwind of images stopped, and Walter was in a child’s bedroom, sitting on the edge of a little boy’s bed.

The room was decorated with a space theme. Posters of rocket ships and planets, and a hanging mobile of the solar system over the high-backed wooden bed. A calendar on the wall featured fun facts about astronomy.

It was dated 1985.

Under a striped comforter and propped up on several pillows, was a small boy with a pale, drawn face and dark hair falling over shadowed eyes. He was looking up at Walter with such love and trust that it made his heart ache.

This was his boy. His son.

When they joined minds at Reiden Lake, the Zodiac had shared the most powerful emotional moment in his future. So, too, was this a profoundly significant moment—one from Walter’s future.

He looked down at his open hand, and saw that he was holding a coin. A silver dollar. He looked back up at the little boy. The boy offered a wan smile.

“Will you wake me for dinner?” the boy asked. “I don’t wanna miss it.”

Walter could feel the other minds there, poised like an audience, watching him. The killer’s consciousness was front and center, like a darkening bruise.

The boy reached up his skinny arms, asking for a hug, and Walter was suddenly hit with a terrible realization. The boy was sick. He was dying. And although he couldn’t imagine why, Walter was sure that it was his fault.

He hugged the boy—too hard, but he couldn’t help it. The sweet smell of freshly shampooed hair mingled with a powerful odor of medicine. Walter’s heart felt as if it was shattering into a million pieces.

The boy’s breath hitched and then let out, long and slow. His heavy little head sagged against Walter’s shoulder as Walter waited from him to inhale.

He never did.

The boy was dead in his arms.

Raw howling anguish flooded Walter’s mind, echoed and amplified by all the linked minds in the chain. The vision of the lifeless boy and his cheerful room disintegrated into ash, but that bottomless grief followed Walter back into the real world, resonating to the depths of his being and making him feel as if his chest had been torn wide open.

He staggered with the weight of that terrible emotion, crushed and so consumed by it that he thought he would die. Then he opened his eyes and saw the killer, standing less than a foot away, gun pointed at the floor. The Zodiac had a hand over his eyes and was swaying as if he was about to faint. An emotionless sociopath, suddenly broadsided by empathy, he had been devastated by unknown emotion.

Meanwhile, the tendrils around the edges of the gate were reaching critical mass. It was now or never. Walter didn’t have a second to think.

He threw himself at the disoriented killer, driving them both toward the undulating gate.

49

Nina had been struggling to stay alert, and focused on the gate, but the narcotic comfort of linking minds with Bell again was so tempting. He was standing about six feet to her left, facing away, but she could feel his consciousness inside her, like a twin heartbeat.

She would snap out of it for a second, gripping the walkie-talkie so tight that her knuckles ached, and ready to call a stop to the experiment. But then she would find herself drawn back in to the seductive Möbius strip of the psychic connection.

Meanwhile Walter and the killer were almost nose to nose, both frozen and locked into some psychic encounter Nina couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Their eyes were closed and twitching beneath their lids, as if they were dreaming.

Then, just as she felt herself starting to slip away again, Walter suddenly tackled the insensate killer. He ducked down, driving one shoulder into the killer’s chest and wrapping both arms around his waist.

They fell together toward the gate, Walter on top and the killer on the bottom. Nina screamed Walter’s name, but it was too late. They were both certain to fall through.

What happened next was so astonishing that she could hardly process what she was seeing. The top third of the killer’s head entered the opening, disappearing up to the bridge of the nose, as if plunged underwater. Then in the blink of an eye, the gate seemed to destabilize. It disintegrated into something that resembled jagged, whirring fan blades that sliced the killer’s head to ribbons, filling the air with a fine mist of blood and brain matter.

His death was instantaneous. It had to have been.

The rest of the killer’s body—along with Walter, whose head was tucked down and pressed against the man’s shoulder—were thrown violently backward, as if from an explosion.

Nina could almost feel her connection with Bell tearing and bleeding as she ran to help Walter. Bell seemed to feel it, too, and he turned toward her, shaking his head and squinting as if reacting to a persistent loud noise. When he saw what had happened, he joined Nina at Walter’s side.

The killer’s heavy, headless body had fallen on top of him, and so Nina and Bell worked together to move the dead weight. He was spattered with the killer’s blood, and clearly disoriented, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

“Walt,” Bell said. “What the hell happened? Why did the gate suddenly close.”

“I...” He wiped his lips on the back of his hand and looked up at the two of them. “I have no idea.”

* * *

Two Observers stood beside the carousel, watching the FBI agents escorting handcuffed Walter, Nina, and Bell away from the Sharon House.

“They aren’t ready to know,” one said to the other.

“Not yet,” the other replied, adjusting the brim of his fedora.

Together they turned and walked toward Kezar Drive.

“What about the rest?” the first Observer asked.

“They are necessary casualties,” the other said, gesturing toward the group of FBI agents who were removing three bodies from a Volkswagen minibus. “We had no choice but to close the gate. As a result, catastrophic timeline disruption has been effectively averted.”

The two watched dispassionately for a few minutes as the bodies were bagged and loaded into a waiting vehicle.

Then they were gone.

50

Walter and Bell sat together in the same featureless interrogation room where Walter had first met the late Dick Latimer. Nina had been taken elsewhere.

They were both shaken and exhausted—Walter even more so, because he couldn’t get that dying boy out of his mind. He told Bell everything, every detail of his terrible vision, and how that powerful emotion and helped him beat the killer.

“The future isn’t set in stone, Walt,” Bell said. “Linda’s grandma and all the other passengers on that bus are alive today because of you. You saw her die, but she didn’t. You changed the future. You saved her life— you saved all of their lives.” He put his hand on Walter’s shoulder. “Don’t you see? Just because you saw your son die, doesn’t mean you can’t still save him.”

“My God,” Walter replied. “I hope you’re right.”

The door opened and, to Walter’s surprise, Iverson walked into the room.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I had to pull more strings than the Howdy Doody Show, but you’re free to go. However, I’m afraid you’re on the map now. We’ll be keeping a close eye on both of you.” He gave them a wry smile. “Who knows, we might even offer you a job someday.”

Walter and Bell stood, and Bell reached out to shake Iverson’s hand.