2020-03-14 - The Curious Case of Johannes Wagner

To say that George Reede was very surprised to see the trio of faces he does when he opens the door at the chime of the antique doorbell is an understatement; his visitors would be able to see it flit past his overall stoic facade.

While Isabella is a frequent visitor, it can't be said for the two other men, though he had met the investigator quite recently. "Isabella," he greets, graying brows lifting upwards when his like, green-and-gold eyes fall on both men. "Clayton and..." He pauses, his surprise intensifying. "Byron Thorne?" He hasn't seen the other man in years, though the news of his return a few years ago is certain one that he had heard.

The green-eyed archaeologist is comfortable in these environs; she's dressed casually compared to her companions, though she still keeps the big city air about her - the stamp of a few of the most metropolitan cities in the world is on her clothes, clad today in a ruffled, cap-sleeved blouse pulled over snug dark jeans and snakeskin boots. Her double-breasted peacoat is draped on one forearm, a loose scarf draped over her shoulders; her moonstone pendant and her dandelion bracelet seem affixed to her permanently, these days, leaving points of metallic and mineral glitter on her person. Her hair is up today, wisps framing her face. "Hi, Dad," his daughter says quietly, moving over so she can plant a light kiss on his cheek. "How's grandpa?"

"Resting, you know how he likes sitting in front of the fire. The three of you better come in from the cold." He opens the door further for his guests, the archway leading into what would be familiar to everyone in the group; the narrow hallway that eventually opens up to a few other entrances to other rooms in the house, as well the flight of stairs that lead upwards to the second floor landing where the bedrooms and guest rooms are. The formal dining room is easily glimpsed - down the hall is the sitting room, with its large fireplace, currently lit by the way light flickers into the dim corridor, and the faint crackling of fragrant logs echoing in the old Tudor's acoustics. There was no such thing as 'open concept' back in the day, every room is partitioned by walls, each with a specific purpose.

Unsurprising given the build, and the fact that a military family has resided in it for decades.

Alexander has dressed up. Not the full, almost formal outfit that he wore to the holiday dinner, but a button down shirt in deep blue, nice, ironed slacks, leather shoes, and even a tie. Which he is fiddling with as he stands to one side of Isabella. When George opens the door, he bobs his head. "Sir. Hope you're doing well." It's gruff and a bit awkward; Alexander never really makes a good impression, and staying terse is his way of trying to make as little of a bad one as possible. He does smile at the mention of the oldest Reede male, though - if he were ever pressed, he'd admit more than a shred of affection for Isabella's grandfather, and his penchant for enjoying trouble.

He doesn't enter until invited, but then slides inside with a furtive air broken only by the light touch of his hand at the small of Isabella's back. A quick look around, with that air of expecting an ambush that he gets in unfamiliar surroundings, but he restrains his usual urge to pace and stare in favor of staying by Isabella.

It's not a rare sight to see Byron in professional dress. Today is no exception. Having spent the day at the Grand Olympic, looking over plans and making sure that everything was coming together perfectly, there's little time for him to shower and change, so moving from the floating casino on to the Reed house has him dressed in a full suit and tie with a heavy coat draped over his shoulders. For someone whose been working all day, he looks fresh-faced and awake. Then again, he's used to long work days.

On seeing Isabella's father answer the door, his face brightens up some, "Captain Reede, long time no see." He extends a gloved hand to shake in greeting, then follows the group inside for that inviting warmth. As Isabella was with them, he'll let her do most of the talking and bides his time by casually giving the interior of this familiar home a look over. "This sure brings back memories." Byron spent quite a bit of time here as well even after his father's death, being used to hanging out at other kids' homes as his always felt so cold.

His male guests don't get away without a handshake. The former captain extends his hand out to Alexander when he steps into the hall, giving it a sturdy shake if it's taken. "As well as could be expected - quiet, given the retirement." Byron gets a more familiar look, his outstretched hand finding the other man's. While the smile isn't present on the man's lips, it's hinted at by his eyes. "It's been a long time," he tells the entrepreneur. "I heard you're doing quite well, rumor has it you won the bidding war over the Foster casino?"

Isabella waits for the men as they exchange greetings, though when Alexander finds his place by her side again, she smiles at him faintly, though the lack of its usual incandescence is obvious; it's certainly nothing the man did, however, and whatever internal tumult she is nursing hasn't dented her propensity for affection. Her lips gently find his cheek, before all three of them are ushered to the end of the hall towards the sitting room.

They would find Benjamin Reede, former admiral of the U.S. Navy, reading a biography of 'Wild' Bill Donovan in front of the fire when they pass the living room proper, dozing in front of the fire with a large, black-and-tan German Shepherd lying by his feet, also half-asleep....until guests arrive. The dog's ears prick upwards, large paws padding out of the living room and eyeballing the rest somewhat suspiciously, until it sees Isabella, and proceeds to attack her with enthusiastic, slobbering greetings. The archaeologist gets on her knees immediately, to throw her arms around the dog.

All of this ends with them in the sitting room down the hall. "Make yourselves at home," George says, gesturing to the multiple seating in the room. "I know what Isabella drinks. Scotch, too, Clayton? What do you drink these days, Byron?"

It's a mark of either respect for the Captain, or sheer affection for Isabella, that Alexander doesn't shy away from that offered hand. It's hard to take it; Isabella at least can hear the breath he has to take to ready himself for the contact. But he takes it, nonetheless, and gives it a brief but not impolite shake. "Quiet isn't bad," he says, not without a certain hooded humor; quiet is a thing Alexander himself likes to think he longs for. A sidelong look is given to Byron as he steps back and the Captain's attention turns to the younger man. The question has him giving Byron one of those searching looks, as he tends to when the topic comes up.

But he's quiet as they're led into the living room. The dog and the Admiral both receive warm smiles; he doesn't try to interrupt the reunion, but if the dog turns its attentions his way, he extends his hand for the animal to sniff, and if permitted, gives it a few affectionate scratches. "Scotch is fine, sir," he says, hastily. "Thank you. For the offer."

Byron's own handshake is a firm one, holding the Captain's grip with some form of respect. Letting out an easy laugh, he starts to shake his head, "Doing well enough and yes, those rumors aren't false. It took a lot of calling in favors and shaking a lot of hands to get to where I am today. With the casino." He then informs the Isabella's father and probably the other two in his company as well, "We're doing some final repairs and reconstruction to fit in new retail tenants. Hopefully, we'll be up and running soon."

When they come across the Admiral and the attentive German Shepherd, Byron stands off to the side, his posture tall and his still gloved hands clasped behind him. Just like Alexander, he'll watch this reunion play out, though he gives a firm nod over at the woman's grandfather, having met the man several times in the past. To answer George's question, his answer is an easy one, "Scotch works for me as well, thank you."

There's a quiet smile from Isabella that's both grateful and encouraging that Alexander braves his own discomfort so as not to reject her father's welcome.

"It sounds lucrative," George tells Byron with an approving nod. "I wish you and your partners the best of luck. Let me know when it opens."

What greets Alexander's warm smile and Byron's nod from the Admiral is a very loud snore that is sudden and liable to rattle all of the windows of the house as they pass by the living room en route to the sitting room, but no doubt if he was awake, the chaos factor of this meeting would be increased a few notches. Thankfully, he remains on his seat when the party moves on, head tipped back and blissfully unaware of the discussions that might lie ahead. To those armed with special senses, his potential for the Talent burns in the way Isabella's and Alexander's do - it might very well be that at the moment, George is the only one untouched by Glimmer in the house.

Skipper's able to make Isabella laugh easily by the pass of an enthusiastic tongue on her cheek, before the dog pads forward to sniff at Alexander curiously; given canines' innate instincts towards 'pet people', it's probably not surprising that the animal takes to the affectionate scratches easily. His hind leg starts thumping rapidly when the investigator finds That Spot under all the black-and-tan scruff, tongue lolling sideways. Like all German Shepherds, the family dog can be an intimidating creature to behold, but at the moment, he looks like a giant derp with his spastically moving leg.

The young woman doesn't take a seat on the couch just yet. Instead, she moves to help her father with the drinks - the man only has two hands, and one leg, after all, though to the man's credit, he moves as if the telltale limp doesn't exist. She takes both scotches, one for herself, and one for her lover, handing the tumbler to Alexander with a smile brimming with affection as he pets the dog, before taking a seat on one of the couches.

George hands Byron his scotch, and it's only when all of his guests are seated that he does, himself, taking up a spot in the room where he can easily watch all three youthful faces. "While I'm always happy to receive guests, I can't help but sense that something called all three of you here."

"Sid," Isabella supplies readily, her expression apologetic. "I'm sorry, Dad...I know it's sudden. But...we would have been very young when this happened. Did Sid ever have a psychologist?"

George looks startled by the query - or as startled as one could be with a face as reluctant as his to show emotion. He turns his attention to the other two men, the question in his eyes.

When Skipper comes over to say hello, Alexander goes to one knee with none of the reluctance he shows in greeting other humans, and the scratches are enthusiastic. "You're a good dog," he tells the Shepherd with a low voice that nonetheless has an unshakable conviction and affection. "A very good dog." It takes Isabella and George returning with the drinks to bring him out of the delight of petting the dog, and then he takes his drink with a smile for Isabella, and moves to sit next to her on the couch.

The question in George's eyes draws an apologetic sort of half-smile, although it sits oddly on his face. "I realize it's an odd question. But it is not an idle one. He might have been eight, or younger, when he started seeing someone?"

Byron is fine with pets and, especially, during his youth, he could be just as gregarious with them as he is with people. Here, however, he's willing to get a move on and get this over with, his own curiosity now piqued. When offered to sit, he'll do so, making himself at home due to being comfortable enough in this abode. He gives an appreciative smile when the scotch is handed to him, offering up a quite 'thanks' to go with that grin.

Then the meat of the conversation immediately comes into play. This is why they came here to begin with. Allowing George Reede this time to contemplate on his response and try to remember that far back, Byron's eyes casually drift across the room , his posture tilted to one side to lean against slightly against the arm rest. He'll add to the information being spilled out, "If not a psychologist or a therapist, someone who may offered up his services to help. A somewhat eccentric man, one who gives off an old world vibe." Only then does his gaze return to finally resettle on George with curiosity.

Alexander seems to have passed muster, so Skipper moves on to sniff at Byron's shoes, but otherwise doesn't linger for too long and takes a spot by George's feet. The animal is given an absent scratch from the older man.

George's eyes move from his daughter, to her lover, to her childhood friend, brows furrowed. "It was a long time ago," he begins. "But when Sid was young, he often had very vivid nightmares. Since from the time he was six - severe enough that it would also wake Isabella, despite the fact that by that time, they were already sleeping in their own rooms. He..." There is a pause. "He was always a gentle boy, he never wanted to trouble anyone, even his parents. He quietly endured them. The only reason why we even knew about it was because Isabella told us, when his distress started to affect her."

"I remember," Isabella confirms softly, taking a quiet sip of her scotch. "That was the year when I was just starting to become conscious of...our connection."

The man nods, examining his drink in his hand. "My wife went to one psychologist after another, but none of them helped. We were about to give up after a couple of years when one of them decided to refer him to a psychologist who specialized in rare and difficult cases. From what Irene told me, he trained in Europe, and then the East Coast. They retained him through a mental health institute and hospital located near Elma, but I believe it shut down several years ago. His name was..." His brows draw down. "...Wagner. Johannes Wagner."

His attention now focuses on Alexander. "You said it's an odd question, but not an idle one. What do you mean by that?"

"Nightmares. Yes. They're difficult." Alexander looks away, towards the fireplace, although he's clearly listening, his shoulders hunched and a thoughtful frown. "Johannes Wagner." He lingers over the name, like he's tasting it, and eventually nods. The question startles him, though, and he looks back at the Captain. He just sort of stares at the man, wide-eyed and silent, for an uncomfortably long time before he says, "It seems like he might be in town."

It's even true! And it's clearly the best deflection he's got. A sidelong look to Byron. Heeeeelllp.

At this young an age, Byron was only just getting to know the Reede twins. By the time he became a true friend to them, being allowed into their inner circle of two, he'd known Isidore to be someone confidant and charismatic. Someone who Byron even envied. Is he surprised about these nightmares? Not really. While he never experienced them (Aside from nightmares regarding his father) nor was plagued by his abilities at that age... as far as he knew at the time, Byron's spoken to enough people to know that everyone's experiences differed. From what he can determine, those who light up like a beacon have always been hit hard by the shadows.

Listening to the Captain speak, Byron will continue to nurse his drink, though Alexander's panicked look has him straightening up in his seat. He's not sure /what/ George Reede knows about everything. What Isabella had shared with him. Whether he knew about their Talents or if George Reede, despite the odd murder of his wife, was still in the dark about these things. The hand holding the scotch glass lowers to rest upon that arm rest.

Mr. Reede must know something if Isabella can openly speak about her connection with Isidore.

"I recently had a dream or maybe a memory of seeing Sid with," There's a slow shake of his head as he boldly lies as this vision had nothing to do with him whatsoever, "Someone I didn't recognize. Not completely. There was some familiarity there and it kept eating away at me, so I figured I just had to find out." No, he doesn't glare at Alexander, but after stammering that whole thing out, he tries to keep himself composed, "It might be nothing, but I and a few others have been plagued with Dreams of those from our past. It could very well just be the stresses of life or this need to reminisce.. and find some closure."

Mention of the nightmares and Alexander's own reaction to the mention spurs Isabella to reach out her hand to entangle one set of her fingers with his, giving them a gentle squeeze. Her head turns to rest her temple against his shoulder, lashes lidding in thought and falling silent for the time being.

George's brows lift upwards at the investigator's remark about perhaps seeing his son's doctor in town, and then Byron when he mentions memories and dreams. His scrutinizing expression sharpens, but otherwise he doesn't question it. After another pull of his liquor, he continues. "It was my wife who had the most interactions with him, I was still in active duty at the time, most of the rearing of my children's early years fell to her." A flash of guilt, and a wave of sadness and longing, only sensed because there are two empaths in the room - the emotions don't leak out visibly from the stalwart walls of the man's own internal fortresses. "My son thrived under his treatment. From what I remember Irene telling me, my boy looked up to him. He would have continued seeing him, I think, if he hadn't left his practice around here, but since he was much better, I didn't question it - by that point, he was confident with his...talents."

His daughter's grip tightens on Alexander's hand, though her voice is level when she asks, "Dad, would you have any idea why....he didn't..." She swallows. "...didn't tell me about his doctor?"

"You were young, sweetheart," George says, gently. "I don't think even your brother knew why he was seeing a special doctor, just that he had to because his mother wanted him to see one. But whatever happened in those sessions must've helped, he didn't have any other problems sleeping after that." After a moment's thought, he continues, "I believe Irene keeps-- kept. Kept copies of your earlier medical records - immunizations, doctor's notes, things of that nature. Would it help to have them?"

Alexander flashes Byron a grateful smile when he takes over with a nice, plausible excuse that doesn't involve torture, murder, or threats to George's last remaining child. He's mostly silent, then, listening to the explanation. His hand shifts in Isabella's squeezing hers back, gently, and he gives a sidelong smile of reassurance in that direction. At the question, though, he's quick to nod. "I think it would. Help. If you don't mind us borrowing them for a few days, sir?"

Byron is relieved when that whole thing comes to pass and he doesn't need to worry about trying to think up a more adequate answer for the man. For that, he takes a deep dip into his glass, draining more than half of it, despite simply nursing his drink at the beginning. It's good when Mr. Reede continues talking, relaying seemingly useful information for them. This gives Byron the time to reflect on everything said while savoring the smooth scotch flavor.

"I agree, that would be helpful. If you'd prefer, we don't need to take them with us." But he figures the documentation wouldn't be that important to the man. "I'm just relieved that this psychologist actually does exist, because like I said, it was bothering me to sort of remember him, but not really know he was." A pause. "He sounds incredibly talented. It's too bad that he left. I think there are other children who might benefit from his aid." Look, he's giving good, unsuspicious reasons for them being this nosy.

"I'm certain growing up here hasn't been easy for certain types of individuals," George says quietly, that old frustration in his eyes - a brief flaring, but fading nonetheless when he rises. Skipper, ever the loyal companion, rises up on his feet and stretches out in that downward stretch most canines undertake when they feel the need to loosen their joints. "My wife struggled with similar, during her childhood."

Memories he's clearly not ready to divulge because he reaches for his walking stick, though one hand keeps a steady grip on his glass. "No, Clayton. I don't mind if you borrow them for a few days, though I appreciate the offer to review them in the house, Byron. If he is in town, however, perhaps I ought to look him up." He waves at his guests to remain seated, moving towards the archway leading out towards his study. "I'll be just a moment."

Eventually, he'll return with a covered cardboard portfolio containing other folders within, neat and organized - much like how Alexander keeps his own files in his murder room at 13 Elm. It's clearly old, worn on the edges, but neat and secured by a rubberband strap that keeps the cover closed, but since it's Byron who seems actively looking for the man, he hands the documents over to the entrepreneur.

"Isabella can return them to this house whenever the three of you are done reviewing them."