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Blown
Chapter Thirty-One
"Brace For the Fall"

San Francisco, California
May 22, 2005
12:00PM

Pace Hewitt lies, sprawled on the carpet, blood leaking from what used to be his face, staining the dingy carpet a seeping, dark crimson. The air hangs thick with the smell of sulfur and blood pools around the dead man's slack hand, slips between his long fingers and coats the handle of the gun.

Stefan takes a step back, raises a gloved hand to cover his mouth. He can still hear the report of the firearm--the shot like a quick bolt of lighting striking from nowhere, unexpected yet vicious. His head is a war zone, the shot ringing over and over again. Relentless.

Pace's body begins to twitch, to jerk convulsively. This is dying, Stefan knows.

He turns his back, retrieves his briefcase. It is only a matter of time before the police come. When that happens, he cannot be here. He hurries from the apartment, down the long hallway as if being chased. And, perhaps, he is because he cannot move fast enough to escape the thunderous peal of the gunshot, the sight of that reviled, deviant man in his death throes. It all follows him--takes his path down the back staircase and out a side door into the sunny San Francisco afternoon.

The door slams behind him and he is caught off guard. He is not ready for the loud knocking of the wooden door against its frame. He starts at the sound, his breath running shallow in that instant.

Las Vegas, Nevada
3:13PM

Gia tips the crystal decanter of vodka, watches the clear liquid slide over the lip into the glass. It pools there in the bottom, strong and straight. She places the stopper back into the bottle and sets it down on the glass table before her. For a moment, she doesn't touch it. Her hand just hovers above the rim, the smoke trailing off the end of her cigarette billowing around it and everything else. Then, she retreats, leaves the glass and moves; instead, to take another few desperate puffs off her cigarette.

She thinks it's safe to say that Phase Two has been a failure. It has been three days, five hours, and eleven minutes since she made her pledge to stop smoking. And every minute, of every hour, of every day since that pledge, THIS is what she has wanted more than anything. To pull out a Kool, to light it up, to draw all that nicotine down into her lungs. It's everything she knew it would be. Because, now, her hands don't shake.

She stows her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray--an expensive, cut-glass candy dish she found in the high cabinet by the refrigerator--and picks up her cell phone. She stares at the display, confirms what she already knows. That, despite the fact she's been calling him constantly since she left David's office, that Stefan has not returned any of her phone calls.

Not one.

She puts the phone back down and takes a cursory glance at the rest of the items she has lined up on the table. When she sees them, spread out just so, she can't help but think that it looks very bad. Looks like lies and distrust and sorrow.

She lifts the glass of vodka to her lips. She sips and the liquor rushes out, stings her throat on the way down.

The first thing she did when she got back to the suite was go through Stefan's things. His drawers. His papers. Everything. A spy, she was, rifling covertly through his neatly folded underwear drawer. All she learned from this was that Stefan doesn’t keep anything too consequential in the suite. His clothes. His shoes. His shelves and shelves of books. But, other than that--there's not much. Try as she might, she couldn't locate the box, his thin lacquered box full of his before life, his Cassadine life. She suspects that he keeps that with him always.

She still has his medallion, though. He never asked for it back and she's been hesitant to return it. Since Mexico, she's kept it with her diamond butterfly pendant, nestled in the bottom of her suitcase in the black velvet case. Now, it lies on the kitchen table.

She found nothing in his bedroom. Nothing in the closet they share. The jacket, the army fatigue jacket with another man's name emblazoned across the chest, she'd finally located in the spare bedroom--in the closet, folded and placed on a shelf with a stack of sweaters. She'd had to find a step stool to get it, to pull it down. She'd put it back as quickly as possible. Even now, thinking of that coat makes her shiver. If she is to believe David, it is more intimately entwined with Stefan's captivity than she could have guessed. She blinks, picks up the worn paperback copy of Finnegan's Wake that she fished out of the pocket of that coat. She puts it back down beside the medallion.

She takes another drag off her cigarette.

She went through the small study, the one off the kitchen. It was filled with books--expensive, leather-bound, first editions. There wasn't one paperback among them. There was nothing there, no smoking gun. Nothing that told her anything more about Stefan than she already knew. Nothing that could definitively prove or disprove anything that David had said.

Then, she went into the bathroom. The maid hadn't been there. There were towels--her own--draped over the clothes hamper. The room still smelt of her soap. All around the vanity were her things. Cosmetics. Perfume. Toiletries. The entire space had been cluttered with her presence. Stefan's things had been relegated to the medicine cabinet. She'd opened it up, and among them, among his razors, his aftershave, his shampoo and conditioner, she'd found three prescription bottles.

Prozac. Elavil. Valium.

She has them, now, lined up in a straight row--beside the medallion, the paperback, her cell phone.

The Elavil and the Valium are both prescribed by a Dr. Timothy Fitzhugh of Santa Monica, California, while the Prozac is prescribed under the name of Dr. Rodger Parks of Las Vegas. She lifts each bottle, fights with the child lock, and then counts each pill before closing the container. The Valium is almost empty, but the other two are untouched.

She breathes out a cloud of smoke. "Damn..." she mutters.

She doesn't need to boot up her laptop, doesn't need the Internet to tell her about these pills. She's been bumming around with models, lawyers, and unhappy rich kids long enough to know the brand names by now. The Valium is a tranquilizer.

He's taking the tranquilizers.

The other two--the Prozac, the Elavil--those are antidepressants. He is not taking either of those. A couple of stupid doctors thought he needed antidepressants. He obviously, doesn’t believe them.

She asks herself if she believes them, if she believes David...

She picks up her glass, downs the rest of the vodka.

If she believes David, then Stefan is having a nervous breakdown. Another nervous breakdown. It means that everything that has happened in the past twelve days, everything she thought was true--is now suspect. How is she supposed to know what to trust? How is she supposed to know what is real and what is just some delusional byproduct of Stefan Cassadine's declining mental stability?

If she believes David...

She pops the stopper out of the decanter and pours herself another glass of vodka. She sighs heavily, unwilling to let go of the small bit of happiness she's found. She can't believe David. Not right now. Not until she's talked to Stefan.

Her cell phone awakens, the ringtone erupting in a loud smattering of bells. Her heart leaps in her chest and she thinks, finally. She picks it up, but she hesitates when she reads the display. It's not Stefan. It's her brother.

She tries to force some cheer into her voice. "Marcus, hey--" she starts.

He cuts her off. "Guess who called me last night."

"Umm...Who?"

"Parker Pratt."

She grimaces. "Pratt called you?"

"At three in the morning. He said you were at his club, that you brought some guy with you--some guy you said was your husband. He said you had a giant rock on your hand."

"..."

"Gia!" Marcus bellows into the phone. "Say something."

She leans back in the chair, unsure of what to do. After a moment, she says, "Look, Marcus...we need to talk. I realize this, but now just isn't the time, okay? So, just calm down. Go to the gym or something. I'll call you back later and we can talk then..."

"THIS whole thing, here," he says, his voice clipped, "where you give me the run around and make promises you don't intend to keep--that's not going to work on me today, Gia. So, I suggest, you get off your narrow behind, take the elevator down from that swanky penthouse suite, and high tail it to the lobby to see me. You got it?"

"Wait...What?" She swallows the lump that forms in her throat. "You're here?"

"I'm here, little sister. Right here in the lobby of your new husband's hotel."

In-Flight
3:13PM

Stefan sits aboard the Valhalla jet, but he is not sure how he got here. He does not remember the car ride, does not remember boarding, does not remember take off. He knows only, that he's here, his knuckles grown white from the way he grips the armrest.

This is not good. Missing time is not good.

"My Life has stood--a Loaded Gun--" he mutters, unaware that the words have rolled off his lips. In his head, he repeats them, over and over like a mantra to drown out the sound of the gunshot. My life has stood a loaded gun. My life has stood a loaded gun. My life has stood a loaded gun. It's the first line of a poem by one of Alexis' favorite poets--Emily Dickinson.

"My Life has stood--a Loaded Gun--"

Most likely, this--the missing time, the poem, the repeating report of the gun--has something to do with witnessing Pace Hewitt's self-execution.

Most likely...

He can't remember the next line of the poem. He can see Alexis--brown hair, rich like honey and pulled up into a ponytail--standing in the doorway to his room, a book clutched to her still flat chest. "My Life has stood," she'd said, her voice tempered for dramatic flair, "--a loaded gun..."

"In Corners--till a Day..." he whispers, his lips moving in sync with the Alexis in his head. “The Owner passed--identified--And carried Me away..."

Somewhere in the middle, she'd stopped reciting. "Stefan," she'd asked, "what does it mean?"

He covers his mouth with his left hand, stares forward at nothing at all. He has to get control of himself. This is not the first time he's seen a dead body. It's not even the first time he's seen someone shot in the head. But, it may very well be the first time he ever walked away with the sight seared into his brain like a brand. When he closes his eyes, it's there. When he opens his eyes, it's still there, projected like the grainy image of an old movie flickering ghostly over every surface. Pace Hewitt shoots himself and falls, his face opening in an explosion of blood. Then, it rewinds. Replays.

Rewinds. Replays.

"Stefan," Alexis had said all those years ago, "what does it mean?"

He winces, closes his eyes. This is not him getting himself under control. This is him losing control--little by little. This is not good, he thinks. This is not good, at all.

3:51PM

Gia doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know how to get out of this. Her brother is here, standing in the middle of Stefan Cassadine's personal suite and he has no idea. He plops his duffle bag down by the sofa. "This is nice," he remarks, spinning around, taking in the high ceilings, the wide windows, the slick marble floors.

She shrugs. "It is."

He turns her way. "Why do you look so uncomfortable?"

"I don't..." She sighs, says, "What are you doing here, Marcus?"

"Well, let's see. In a week’s time, I've received two separate phone calls from two people who know better than to EVER call me---and both want to warn me about the MAN you're seeing. Your father said the man is trouble. Your ex-boyfriend said the same. I've come to see for myself."

"They're overreacting."

"I don't think they are. Your father, maybe. But, Pratt? He knows what's at stake. He knows better than to call me about some jealous bull****. He's lucky I didn't kill him the first time I found out he was messing around with you. Then, to tell me he's been down here, stalking you? No--he must really be worried."

Stupid Parker Pratt. Who knew he would do this, that he would risk her brother's wrath? Pratt and Marcus haven't been friends in years, not since her mother, in a panic, called her brother and told him what had been going on. Marcus had popped back into town, confronted Pratt, beat him half to death in the middle of the basketball court down the street from their house. There had been witnesses, but no one called the police. It was Brooklyn. That's how things got settled. Everyone knew Pratt had been seeing Gia. Everyone knew that, when Marcus got back to town, there would be retribution. The only person who had been surprised by the violence was Florence.

"You called, Ma...what did you think I was going to do?" Marcus had demanded of his mother, his knuckles bruised and swollen.

After that day, Marcus and Pratt were no longer boys, no longer homies, no longer friends. Even now, years later, there had been a moment at Florence's funeral when Pratt walked in that she thought her brother might just start wailing on the other man. He hadn't, though. He had nodded, had accepted Pratt's condolences, had shaken his hand. But nothing had been forgiven or forgotten.

Gia pushes her hair back behind her ears. "You don't need to be worried about me. I'm just fine. Daddy's having an attack of guilt over dumping us twenty years ago and Pratt only wants what he can't have. If I'd shown up at the club alone, he wouldn’t have given me a second thought.”

Marcus tosses another glance around the suite. "What about this man they're both so concerned about? It's the same one you told me on the phone was a friend from Chicago. That was a lie, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was a lie, Marcus," she confesses. "He's not an old friend from Chicago. I didn't want you to worry, so I made something up."

"Pratt says his name is Han Odin, that he's some wealthy hotel baron, that he's old enough to be your father."

"All of that is true."

"How old is 'old enough to be your father'?"

She looks at him blankly. "Daddy turned fifty in January, Marcus." Her brother says nothing to this and she sees that he did not take the comparison literally. He just thought Pratt was exaggerating the age difference. Gia takes the opportunity to sit down on the sofa, to kick off her heels under the massive cocktail table. She offers her brother a half-smile. "Han is fifty, also."

"And you married him?"

She balls her left hand into a fist on her lap and covers it with her right. Her wedding rings are too expensive, too showy. "A week ago today."

"So..." her brother drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, "when I asked you about this man the first time, after the fiasco at your father's party, you were already married to him?"

She sees where this is going. Still, she lifts her chin, answers, "Yes."

"All you've been doing since Mama died is lying to me, Gia!" he storms, his eyes growing black in his anger. "Everything out of your mouth is a lie and I'm sick of it! I want you to be honest with me. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on with you...you were doing so well before. You finished law school; you were getting offers from every big firm in the country. Then suddenly--nothing. You've fallen off the radar. You spend your time gambling and shopping. And, now, you're some guy's mid-life crisis? Why, Gia? Can't you see you're better than this?"

"Don't yell at me!" she yells at him, standing up from her seat. "I'm not a little girl anymore. It's not up to you to straighten me out."

He scoffs. "Please, girl, get a clue. As long as I'm alive, it is my job to straighten you out when you go crooked. If I hear you're in trouble, I'm going to come see about you. So, you can run off wherever you want to, marry whoever you want to, screw up as bad as you want to--I'm still going to show up.”

"Show up to yell at me, to say I told you so," she corrects him, puckering her lips. She tilts her head, watches him watch her. Marcus doesn't change. He's always going to be rough around the edges. He's always going to think that he knows what's right and what's wrong. And, he's always going to go out of his way to enforce the line between the two. Her own dear Marcus--who, in his heart of hearts, is really more crusader than tough guy. She softens, just a bit, says, "I know that it seems strange that I got married and I didn't tell you. But, you know--it's Las Vegas and I'm notorious for acting impulsively. I'm sorry. Really, I am. It was not my intention for my father or Pratt to start barraging you with phone calls. That's just something that happened. What I can tell you is, I am just fine. Things are good. My husband, Han, is a good man."

Marcus doesn't look satisfied. "Where is he? I'd like to judge that for myself."

"He's out," she answers quickly.

Her brother flops down on the sofa, puts his feet up on the table. "I'll just wait until he gets back. Then, we can spend some time getting to know each other."

And that scenario--is just a nightmare waiting to happen. She has to get her brother out of here. If not out of Las Vegas, at least out of the suite. Stefan and Marcus cannot cross paths. She nods, reaching for the phone. "He's on business, so I have no idea when he's going to get back. But, you know, why don't I get you a room? You can get settled in, rest. Then, when Han gets back, we'll all go out and have dinner. Doesn't that sound nice?"

He snorts. "No, it sounds like bull****."

The receiver falls out of her hand, back down on the cradle. "Marcus--"

"I'm not leaving, Gia. I'm going to stay right here, on this sofa, until your hubby walks through that door. I don't care if it takes one hour or ten. I'm. Not. Leaving."

This is a problem, a serious problem. She cannot allow Stefan to walk in here, unprepared, and come face to face with her brother. Not when there's even the slightest chance that David is correct. She doesn't know what to do. "Marcus," she pleads, "Please, let me get you a room--"

"No."

"Be reasonable."

"It's reasonable to want to meet your brother in-law."

She needs to focus. She breathes. In. Out. Stops--it reminds her of the road to Carson City, Stefan with his face pressed against his knees, forcing his own breathing. A panic attack. And afterwards, he was so shaken and distant. So untouchable. So vulnerable. She shakes her head. "You can't be here, okay? When my husband gets back, you just can't be here."

"Why not? What's going to happen if I am? What's he going to do?"

"Marcus, please," she intones. She is begging and she does not care. "Please, let's just do this my way--"

"No," he says sharply. "We'll do it my way. I want to meet this Han Odin."

Their eyes lock and their words drop off to silence. Marcus is stubborn and he will not relent. She sees this impasse, knows what it means for her. For Stefan. She wants to scream, really she does, because even if Stefan can quell the accusations made by David, he will not be able to fix what she is about to do now. This, she knows, amounts to treason in the Cassadine playbook. She does it quickly, rips the band-aid right off. She announces, "If you're waiting here to meet Han Odin--you're going to be waiting forever. There is no Han Odin, Marcus. The name--it's an alias."

Her brother does not react. He just sits there. He just waits.

Gia turns her back, walks quickly from the living room into the kitchen. On the glass table, she finds what she needs. She returns. "I need you to be calm," she instructs, crossing back over to where he sits. "I need you to listen to me before you start making noise." The Cassadine medallion slides out of her palm and into his lap. She can tell he recognizes it immediately.

No one forgets the mark of Cassadine.

He sits up, all the way up, his boots falling off the table onto the floor. His eyes fasten on her, and there is equal parts fear and anger reflected back. He shakes his head, uncomprehending. "Not Nikolas. You said he was older..." he pauses, twists the gold chain between his fingers. "Which one of those bastards is it?"

"Stefan...I married Stefan."

Marcus' eyes burn black and he sneers as if suddenly, it all makes sense.

Chapter 32 in the replies.