#extinctathon

Three men armed with hammers and timber trudged passed him, eyes fixed on the ground as they made their way towards the one of the stables.  There was a ceiling joist that needed to be replaced thanks to the Europol forensic team and their need to remove parts of the beam upon which Gunter Grün had the misfortune of being disemboweled.

However, it was neither the men nor their tools that captured the man’s attention.  Instead, it was the boy surrounded by riding gear and leather poish, perched on a wobbly stool that caught his eye.  He had wild brown hair and a face achingly familiar to the older man.  Features Henri had only ever seen in reflected in mirrors.  Though the baby fat had melted over the years, that face was unmistakably the same one whose photograph Henri had lain awake at night memorized over the past seven years.

Oliver Harper was the spitting image of his father in nearly every way, save for his expressions.  Those very plainly marked him as his mother’s son.  These truths were not lost on Henri, as he stood transfixed, watching the boy from a short distance. 

Tessa had expressly forbidden him from seeking out their son before she spoke with him again and Henrik had reluctantly agreed.  But here the boy was, right in front of him and there wasn’t a single thing that told him to walk away.  There was however, a gnawing sensation starting to tear at the lining of his stomach.  The reality of the moment came rushing at him, freezing him in place as he stared at his son.  His son.  His son, his son, his son.

For Henri time all but stopped.  Of course, the rest of the world continued to trudge on, as it is apt to do, and it wasn’t long before his subject was overtaken with the creeping feeling of being watched.  The polishing stopped an instant before the boy’s head snapped up, wide blue eyes suspiciously seeking out his audience.

Blue met an identical blue and spurred Henri into action.  With a deep breath the detective squared his shoulders and closed the distance between himself and the boy.  Oliver watched calmly as the overdressed stranger approached, a hint of unimpressed weariness twisting his youthful features.

“Hello,” Henri greeted the boy, coming to a stop a few paces from Oliver’s pile of grimy riding gear.  His smile faltering a bit as the boy stared at him wordlessly, eyes drifting up, then down, and then back up again, sizing the older man up.  “Are you Oliver Harper?” He tried again.

The boy’s eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from mild distain to naked hostility.   “Should I call my lawyer?” 

Henri blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question.  So far, not a single member of the Zajac Circus had asked to speak to a lawyer before being interviewed.  Of course, none of those interviews had advanced far beyond first names and general occupations. Still, Henri felt compelled to ask, “Do you have lawyer?”

“Yes,” Oliver answered succinctly.

The two men were silent once more, staring silently as heavy grunts and the occasional expletive floated out from the stable.  The breeze ruffled their hair as Henri opened his mouth to speak before closing it again, unable to wrap his tongue around his thoughts.  “Oh.  Well I­­–No,” he said finally.  “You don’t need legal representation.  This isn’t an official interview I just…”

Oliver continued to stare at the strange, suddenly bumbling man but his outward reaction remained limited to a raised brow and the crossing of his arms. 

“So what do you want?  How do you know my name?” 

I want to take you away from this insanity and make up for seventeen years of separation, Henri thought.  Instead he reached up and rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck, forcing his lips to smile as panic welled in his chest.  After all his searching, after all the years he’d had to prepare for this moment, the man had no worlds.  “I’m a friend of your mother’s,” he offered lamely. 

It was exactly the wrong thing to say.  Oliver’s hands clenched against the fabric of his shirt as the boy surged up from his stool.  At seventeen he was fully grown, a precise match in height to the man in front of him, though notably slighter.

“No.  You’re not,” Oliver said firmly, leaning in close and looking the detective in the eye.  “I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m telling you, trying to get to my mother through me won’t work.  Not even for a cop.” 

Henri frowned, brows drawing tightly together as he forced himself to hold his ground.  I was bad form for a detective to be intimidated by a teenager, especially if that teenager happened to be that detective’s child.  Oliver didn’t notice, he barreled right through the older man’s confusion and kept talking.  This was not the first time the boy had warned off some leering outsider who thought he could charm his way into Tessa Harper’s bed by befriending her kid. 

“I’ve chased off bigger men than you,” Oliver boasted, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.  “So how about you turn those over-priced shoes around and walk on out of here?” 

The boy’s cheeks were pink and splotchy, a nasty combination of cold and rage that made him look much younger than his seventeen years.  Henri, thrown by his son’s unexpected threats and the realization that for Oliver, a stranger claiming to know his mother wasn’t an unusual occurrence, stayed silent.  This new knowledge unsettled the man and made him wonder just how many men had tried to manipulate Oliver to get to Tess.  Those thoughts made his stomach churn.

Carefully, Henri raised his hands, palms out and took a step away from the seething teenager.  “That is not what I meant Oliver.  I swear.  I really do know your mother.  We go way back.”  The boy shook his head in disgust. 

“I know all my mother’s friends,” he insisted.  “And I’ve never seen you before.” 

It was a simple statement, but entirely cutting.  Henri was reminded, once again, that he was a stranger to his own son.  That kind of truth can make even the best of men spiteful.

“Oh really?”  He chuckled humorously, crossing his arms over his chest, mirroring the boy’s earlier stance.  “Are you sure about that?” 

Oliver’s jaw tightened, his fists raised almost imperceptibly and for the briefest of moments it appeared that he would strike the man.  But a third voice rang out from the stable doors, breaking the spell cast between father and son.

“Ollie!”  The boy’s head whipped around, his expression quickly turning to one of shame as stuffed his fingers into his pockets.  The man calling to him was bearded and broad shouldered; he held a rusted hammer loosely in his hand as he shifted his steady gaze from father to son and back again.  “We need you synku,” the man continued.  “Put gear away and come help.” 

His calm tone left no room for argument so Oliver, with one last furious glance at Henri, turned on his heal, scooped up the equipment he had been cleaning, and marched off towards the stable.  The two men watched him leave. 

The new addition, Ronnie, fixed the detective with a look of disapproval.  “Ollie is still child,” he reminded Henri, his accent think and mumbled beneath his beard.   “You question him, parent must be there.”