There’s a principle known as Occam’s Razor. Simply put, it goes as follows: the simplest solution to a problem is most often the correct one. Or, if you prefer: if you hear the sound of hoof beats, don’t start looking for zebras.
Lance Marshall tended to believe that most of the time. It helped the world make sense, helped him believe that there was some logic to things. But not now. Most certainly not now. Because if the simplest solution really was the right one, it would mean that the universe hated him.
The man who had taken his son, the man who had tried to kill his wife, the man who had done his damndest to try and destroy all of them…was laughing at him, sitting in the witness box, looking straight at him and laughing at him. Even as his lips began to turn blue and his breathing became labored, he still continued to laugh. Only when his throat became so choked with blood and vomit, only when he collapsed to the floor did the laughing stop. At least, to the point where anyone could hear it out loud.
NO! You son of a bitch, you are not getting away with this!
Lance dashed to the front of the courtroom as quickly as he could, his progress slowed by the assembled mass in the courtroom. Two bailiffs were crouched next to the…the monster…waving people away while one was hurriedly escorting a paramedic from another part of the courthouse. Lance muttered quickly under his breath, praying for the paramedic to reach the dying man in time. This wasn’t how thing were meant to go. He was meant to be punished, to be found guilty for what he’d done to Lance and his family. If his life was to be taken, it would be at the state’s hands. Or at Lance’s.
Not by his own.
The paramedic knelt down by the monster, quickly checking for any sign of life. The monster’s body had stopped breathing, his lungs no longer moving with the intake of air. He did not respond to any stimulation and his blank, glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry, he’s dead.”
Lance had been staring at the wall in front of him for the last hour and forty-seven minutes. He had stumbled out of the courtroom upon hearing the paramedic’s pronouncement, not wanting to believe what had just happened. On blind instinct, he had collapsed into a bench near the entrance to the courtroom, unable to comprehend how things had gone so drastically wrong.
While the courtroom had been cleared, emergency services had arrived, the dead man had been zippered up into a bodybag and carted out on a stretcher…still his attention had remained focused on the wall, his mind lost in a haze of anger and pain. And now that everything had ended and the chaos had faded away…he was still lost.
“Sir?
How the hell could this have happened?! Wasn’t anyone watching?! How did the son of a bitch get what he would need to do this?!
“Sir?!”
Lance started slightly, jolted back into the world. One of the bailiffs stood over him, a tall, slim African-American woman with a look of concern in her eyes. “Are you all right, sir?”
No.
“I’m…I’m fine.”
“Are you okay to go home, sir? Is there someone you’d like me to call?”
No. I want to scream. I want to yell at the heavens. I want to smash my hand against this wall until it’s broken and bloody. I want God to come down and tell me how the hell he could allow this to happen?!
“No, I’ll…I’ll be fine.”
“I can call you a cab, sir, it would be no trouble at all.”
I want to die.
“No, really, I’ll be fine. I’m okay. Thank you.”
Lance Marshall managed to get to his car and drive home. He drove cautiously and carefully the entire way. He did not speed, come close to getting in an accident or in any way drive less than perfectly all the way to his home.
And come tomorrow morning, he would not be able to recall a single moment of this.
“Hey, I’m home! Sorry I’m late, you would not believe how long the line at the deli was…”
Alanna Marshall trailed off as she realized that her house was far too quiet. No sounds of Zach playing or the TV running in the other room, nothing from Lance’s parents, no sign of life at all in the house. Just quiet.
“Hello? Is anyone home?”
A voice piped up from the sofa, barely audible. “Hey, baby.”
“Lance?” Alanna asked as she quickly closed the door behind her and placed her bags of groceries on the counter. This didn’t make any sense. Lance wasn’t supposed to be home for hours, not until the trial ended for the day. And why did he sound so…
Alanna’s train of thought came to a screeching halt as she caught sight of her husband on the sofa. Lance’s eyes were red rimmed and puffy, his face contorted in pain. Tears had left tracks in her husband’s face and a small trail of snot flowed from his left nostril. Before she was even aware of what she was doing, Alanna flew to her husband’s side, her arms clinging to him. “Baby, what happened? Is everything okay?”
Lance took a ragged breath. When he spoke again, his voice was thick and hoarse. “He died.”
“Who died?”
“The son of a bitch who confessed to hurting Zach and trying to kill you…he died.”
What the hell?! “How?”
“The doctors aren’t sure. They think it was some kind of poison, something he took himself. All I know is that when he was dying, he was staring at me and laughing. Laughing at what a failure I was as a husband and a father. How I couldn’t protect the people I love, how people like him could hurt me anytime he wanted and I would never be able to do anything about it. Even after he stopped breathing…even then, I could still hear his goddamn laughing.”
“Shh, baby, it’s okay. “
“You know that I would do anything for you and Zach. If I lose either of you…it would kill me.”
Alanna gave her husband a soft kiss on the cheek. “I know, baby, and I love you too. Now, you look exhausted. Why don’t you head on upstairs and take a nap. I’ll be with you in a few minutes after I put the groceries away, okay?”
Lance nodded mutely, padding silently away towards their bedroom. Did he ever, he wondered, really let her know how well she took care of him?
Alanna sighed as she heard her husband walk away. She focused on putting the groceries away carefully and clamly, her feelings slipping out only with a muttered “shit!” as a pint of cream slipped from her fingers onto the floor below. She hurriedly scooped it up, shoving it into the freezer and hoping Lance hadn’t heard anything.
She should be happy. The son of a bitch who’d hurt them was rotting in hell this minute, condemned to a life of misery and suffering for being an evil son of a bitch. He was getting what he deserved and, best of all, he was out of their lives. Gone.
Yeah, right, she thought. Dead, maybe. But certainly not gone.
They hadn’t talked at all, in fact, until they’d reached the Motel 6 and Alex had dispatched Quinn to grab some breakfast from Jack In The Box so the grownups could have some alone time. It took some time before Alex was…Lance wasn’t sure if “comfortable” or “worn down” was the right word but she’d finally started being completely honest with him. More so than he’d anticipated. It had been…refreshing. Enlightening to see the human being known as Alexandra Pierce instead of the carefully controlled construct that was Desade. To know that Alexandra Pierce could feel regret at what she’d done, could desperately want to change…and that he wanted to help her do so.
He’d left with promises from both Quinn and Alex to get in touch with him if they ever needed him as well as a Supreme Croissant (which he resolved to save for the airport). He settled into the cab for the ride back to the airport, surprised when his iPhone buzzed against his hip just as the taxi started pulling away. The text message was from Alex and it read, simply:
You’re right. I can’t do this alone.
Lance found himself smiling as he read it, laughing softly to himself. “Maybe that is a zebra I hear after all.”
A grunt of confusion came from the cabby up in front.
“Never mind, private joke. San Francisco International, please.”
Yes, Lance smiled. It was gonna take some work. But things might just end up working out after all.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled lives, already in progress.