"Ask at it shall be given" for the Holiday PicFic Challenge-part 2

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Napoleon showered and shaved, dressing himself more appropriately for hiking in the snow, though he wasn’t going for a stroll around Central Park.

Waverly had given him off until after New Year’s; barring any sort of international emergency. THRUSH always seemed to take the time off as well and unless is was some other lunatic determined to take over the world, Solo didn’t expect that call for once.

He hadn’t planned sitting around crying in his tea about Kuryakin and decided to be a little proactive.

Napoleon threw on his heavy wool coat and galoshes, reminding himself to bring that red and black-checked hat of his that Illya always made fun of, and filling a backpack with binoculars along with other sundry supplies; he hopped into his car after cleaning off the newly fallen snow and headed out to the scene of the accident to search for his missing partner.

Though an UNCLE team had done so already and not found a clue, that wasn’t good enough for the senior agent.

It was just over the border in Northwest New Jersey, pretty much in the middle of nowhere.  There was a small village around 5 miles away from where the bridge had gone out, if Illya had made it out and had gone on foot, there was always a remote chance he made it there. There was also the possibility that if he did made it out of the river, he could have frozen to death as the temperatures were near zero.

After the long and quiet ride (Napoleon refused to turn on the radio), He arrived at what remained of the bridge. Their car had been dredged up from the river and taken to an U.N.C.L.E. garage for examination, not that he planned to go back into that frigid water again to look anyway.

He spent the day walking up and down along the rivers edge, searching for any sign, though whatever could have been there had since been covered by a fresh blanketing of snow. Still he had to look anyway, just to satisfy himself, not that he didn’t trust the team from headquarters….well maybe he did when it came to Illya.

Napoleon stopped to rest, parking himself on a fallen tree trunk. The sun was going to go down soon and he needed to get back to where he’d left his car. As he stood, scanning the water’s edge one last time; he spotted it, a black shoe; the tip of which was sticking out of the snow. How he’d missed it before, he had no idea.

Solo picked it up, removing his black leather gloves as he examined it.

It looked like Illya’s shoe... black smooth leather mod style oxfords with a slightly pointed rounded toe, moccasin construction, four eyelet lacing, leather soles, and rubber heels. He’d convinced Illya that he needed a well-made high end shoe and he went for ones made in the UK by Alan Edwards. Napoleon received his final proof it belonged to his partner when he was able to loosen the heel and found a bit of plastic explosive and fuses hidden inside.

                                                                                                                                                                                         

It was two miles from the bridge; did Illya walk out of the water or was the shoe simply lost and washed up?  Napoleon squinted, looking into the woods, and not seeing any clear path his partner could have taken.

“Illya, where the hell are you?”

The sound of a some sort of hawk flying on the air currents, most likely searching for prey, drew his eyes to the sky.  He was surprised to see it as he recalled most of that type of bird migrated south this time of year.

“Illya would know the answer to that,” he sighed. “Damn...”

Napoleon held tightly onto that shoe as he followed the river back to the bridge and to his car. Just as he was about to get into it he heard a the snap of a twig behind him, and turned, drawing his gun from its holster as a reflexive action.

“Tovarisch?”

“Whoa, Mister take it easy!”  An older man dressed in dark clothes and wearing a bright orange hunting vest emerged from the woods. He was carrying a 12 gauge shotgun, hanging open as it rested on his forearm.

“Who are you? And what are you up to?” Solo demanded, aiming his Special directly at the man.

“I should be asking that of you Mister, you’re the one who drew on me, but in the spirit of cooperation I’ll answer your question. The name is Chambellan, Walter Chambellan. I was just doing a little hunting...bear season you know, though that’s not what I was after. Never know when you’ll run into one.  Don’t think you could do much damage to a black bear with that little pea-shooter of yours.”

Napoleon, sensing no real danger, put away his weapon.

“No I was hunting or rather looking for someone.”

“Is it that fellow who went down in the river? Yeah there was a lot of folks here looking for him since it happened. Real shame, but this is quick moving water and most likely he was carried way down stream where there’s more top ice. That’s probably where he is.”

“Oh…” Napoleon’s eyes betrayed him.

“I’m sorry Mister, was he a friend of yours?”

“My best friend.”

“You have my condolences. Well if you’re going to keep on looking you oughta be real careful of the black bears, lots of them around this year.” Walter restrained himself from suggesting the bears might have already had at what was left of his friend, that just wouldn’t be right.”

“Well thank you for your advice. I guess I’m going to head out. Any chance there’s some back roads that run farther down along the river?”

“No, it’s all pretty dense wood. I have to be off myself. Need to clean up these rabbits,” he held up a pair of them,” they’ll make a fine stew. If you don’t mind waiting to eat, you’re welcome to join me for supper.”

“No thank you, but that’s very kind of you to offer Walter.” He held out his hand to the man; slipping him a business card as he did so. “I apologize for not introducing myself. My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo. If you happen to hear anything or find anything please give me a call?”

“Would love to help you son but I don’t have a telephone. I only go into the village once every couple of weeks and I was just there a few days ago.”

“I understand, thank you.”

The two men turned from each other, but Walter looking back, waved to Napoleon.

“Merry Christmas Mr. Solo. I’ll pray you find your friend. God works in mysterious ways. Maybe you’re overdue for a Christmas miracle.

“Thank you Walter and a Merry Christmas to you too.”

Snow started falling again as he got into the car, sitting there and watching the older man disappear into the woods until he was gone out of sight.

Removing his hat and gloves, Napoleon started the engine with a roar, not feeling right about leaving. It was if he were abandoning his friend and partner, but he had not choice.  There was little else he could do at this point now that the sun was going down.

He stared down at the shoe he’d laid on the seat behind him, suddenly feeling the need to talk to it.

“Come on tovarisch, this can’t be it. You’ve gotten out of worse situations. Just give me a sign, let me know where you are and that you’re all right? Please?”

He looked up, seeing a lone deer… a buck with an impressive rack of antlers standing on the opposite side of the river.  Napoleon hesitated moving the car, not wanting to startle the creature. If his mood hadn’t been so down, it would have made a perfect Christmas image.

The beast raised it’s magnificent head, suddenly hearing something and took off, gone from sight in just seconds.

Napoleon gave a weary sigh. He was tired, so rather than heading home to the city, he decided to drive to the nearby town as there was a place he could stay called the ‘White Deer Motel.’ It didn’t take him long to find it, as the little village consisted of a diner, the motel, a drug store, hardware store and half a dozen older houses.

A few trucks out in front of the diner was a good indicator of tasty food, a point that Illya made to him on numerous occasions. Napoleon was missing those little tidbits thrown out all too often by his partner, but what he wouldn’t give to hear Kuryakin bits of trivia.

After having a solitary meal of meatloaf, carrots and mashed potatoes, along with a delicious cup of coffee. For dessert, in honor of his partner, a slice of apple pie a la mode with chocolate ice cream. It was Illya’s favorite.

He shook his head as he ate that last forkful of pie. Illya would be on his second slice by now… that thought did it. Napoleon dropped his fork on the plate and muffled a sob. He hid his face, hoping the waitress and other patrons hadn’t heard him.  

Pulling his wallet from his pocket, he withdrew enough cash to pay for the food plus a generous tip. Not waiting for the bill; he left the money on the table before disappearing out the door and heading to his car.

The clerk at the motel was about as interested as a slug as Napoleon signed in and paid for his room, just a little over ten dollars...the going rate.

“Is there a mini-bar in the room?”

“Yeah, we just got ‘em in, what you call a mini-fridge but the bar is extra.”

“I understand.” Napoleon tossed down some extra cash, more than enough for what he planned to imbibe.

Once in the room Napoleon draped his coat to a nearby chair, kicked off his boots and shed his clothing piece by piece, something that was very much unlike him and was more Illya’s habit. Every little nuance of behavior seemed to bring him back to Kuryakin.

“My God Illya are you possessing me?” He laughed but that quickly turned into another sob. How could it be? How could the indestructible Russian be gone? Napoleon didn’t want to believe it, even though there was a little voice inside his head telling him he needed to accept the truth.

Illya Kuryakin was dead.

Solo hit the mini-bar, pouring himself a scotch straight up and little by little he let the liquor work it’s magic. Finally feeling nicely toasted, he crawled beneath the bedcovers and turned out the light. He quickly fell asleep and began to dream.

“Napoleon? Where are you? Come to me?” Illya called, his voice sounding distant and weak. “Please do not leave me?”

Solo woke up with a gasp; the sheets damp with perspiration. It was two in the morning and though he knew it was just dream, he dreaded going back to sleep.

He turned on the black and white television in the room, finding little else but an Indian head test pattern at which to look.

Napoleon got out of bed, dressed himself and headed outside to clear his head. It was snowing harder, but that didn’t matter as he walked alone along the sidewalk beneath the tall bare-boned trees. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular.

The crisp air filled his lungs as he cleared his head.  What were his dreams telling him? Was Illya alive or was he calling from the grave for his body to be found? Was it his unwillingness to accept his partner's dead? Tomorrow, or more correctly today, he would talk to the people in town, and give it one last college try to find his friend; he owed the Russian that much, to try to find him...alive or dead.

“Oh God I’m begging you to please help me find Illya? Is that too much to ask for a Christmas present?” Napoleon prayed out loud.

There was no miraculous response that suddenly appeared in his head, no angel peering over his shoulder whispering to him. Nothing...though that didn’t make Napoleon Solo stop believing in God. He knew sometimes prayers weren’t always meant to be answered and things happened for a reason.

He returned to his motel room, dropping into bed fully dressed and prayed  again for help, and that he wouldn’t be haunted by anymore dreams.

When Napoleon woke, it was just around nine in the morning. Though he hadn't planned to sleep in, his drinking and late night stroll saw to it he had.

He wandered around the small village, showing Illya’s picture and questioning the locals. The townspeople had nothing they could tell him to help him in his search, though they were all kind and sympathetic.

Napoleon’s renewed trek along the river took him even farther down to where it was now covered with a thick layer of ice, so thick that he was able to walk on top of it.

Searching in vain for anything dark caught beneath the surface, hopeful, yet dreading it; Napoleon finally threw in the towel, though it ate at him to do so.  He had to accept his partner was gone, and it was his fault.  That was something he’d have to live with for the rest of his life.

Driving back to New York was again done in silence; he couldn’t bare the thought of turning on the radio, perhaps ever again as it would remind him…

Napoleon supposed he eventually would but right now it was too soon, too raw a feeling. If he hadn’t argued with the Russian about the radio and distracted him, Illya might still be alive.

He knew his partner would want him to carry on, and of course he would, though it didn’t mean he had to like it, not without his best friend.

Solo finally pulled onto the street where his apartment building was located, in the east forties...Kuryakin’s place was there too, on the floor below Napoleon’s place.

Did he want to sleep at home tonight knowing how he was feeling. Why the hell did Waverly give him this time off? He’d much rather be out on some mission...maybe he’d get shot and killed, making an end of it all.

He trudged up the stairs to his apartment, like a man weary of life and came to the realization he didn’t want to be alone, but he didn’t want sex either.  Napoleon unlocked his door, heading straight for the telephone and dialed up the one person he knew wouldn’t refuse his request.

“Hello?”

“April it’s Napoleon.”

“Darling where have you been? I tried contacting your communicator but it was inactive. Oh I’m so sorry about Illya, Mark and I heard the news when we got back this morning.”

There was no response.

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, but I would like some company, if you don’t mind, and I mean just company. Could I come over, maybe stay the night?” Napoleon’s voice was so forlorn.

“Oh darling of course you can.”

“Thanks, I’ll be there shortly.” He hung up the receiver, not waiting for her to say anything else.

He took a quick shower, shaved and changed into fresh clothing. As depressed as he was it was still no reason for him not to be well groomed and properly dressed. Aunt Amy would never forgive him.

Putting on his black trench coat; Solo headed back down to his car, and drove off on the slushy-snow filled street. It was dark but at least traffic was light.

Aprils new digs were across town and as Napoleon continued driving, a dark figure suddenly darted in front of his car.  He instinctively hit the brakes, skidding out of control right into a street lamp.

The horn blared into the night as his body slumped forward against it, and somehow the car radio had come to life...

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose.

Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow will find it hard to sleep tonight…”

A blond-haired man peered into the car, calling to him.

“Are you all right?”

Napoleon raised a woozy head, trying to focus on the figure in front of him.

“Illya?”

“Sorry Mister, I was chasing my dog. He sort of got away from me.”

"My name...is, Nap-oleon."

The blond was now holding a miniature black poodle, petting the dog to calm it down. He reached in, pushing the driver back from the steering wheel and silencing the horn.

Napoleon shook his head, trying to understand why he was looking at a poodle wearing a red plaid coat along with a jeweled collar, and why was that damn song was playing?

“Napoleon?”

Solo’s head drooped forward, passing out before he could respond.

Comments

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Oh no! It goes from bad to worse, and just where is Illya?

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Ahhhh there in lies the mystery of this dark Christmas tale. The Conclusion and all questions answered next Tuesday! Thanks for reading and commenting!