The Inn at the End of the Road

He saw how dilated she was and quickly replaced the covers. His face was dark with embarrassment. 
Prescott came to the door. He and the negro threw baleful glances at each other. "Evert, do you need help?" he asked. 
"Not yet." He could not meet the agent's gaze and did not see the smile of relief Prescott gave him. 
Still, worry took that smile away. "Will you need me?" Prescott asked in concern. He too flushed when Evert's eyes moved to touch his, and there was understanding in the dark orbs. "It's just that I've never seen a baby being born before. I don't think I could be much help. I'd be all thumbs. All I did was run medicine to the village hospitals." 
Kahtia snorted. "The idea of blood sickens the agent." 
"No, it doesn't!" Prescott told her coldly. 
"Fadaha," Kahtia decided in scorn. (wimp) 
"Prescott!" Evert said quickly and his friend-lover turned to face him. "It's okay, really." 
"Thanks," Prescott growled and hurried back to the front. 
"Please, don't tease him," Evert pleaded quietly. 

"Why?" the young South African girl demanded, her hands on her hips in defiance. 
"You don't know him." 
But Kahtia's attention turned to the female on the bed as she cried out in agony. "Why don't you just rip it out of her? It would save a lot of time." The husband threw her a look of anger. 
"No." Evert went to the bathroom, washed and disinfected his arms and hands, cleaned his nails thoroughly. He brought back wet wash cloths to bathe the pregnant woman's face and neck, to cool her down. 
"I did not have this much trouble with my boys," the woman said through pants. 
Evert bathed her face. "The baby feels very large." 
"My sons died," she told him and then cried out once more as another burst of pain struck. 
"I'm ... sorry." Evert allowed her to clutch his hands. 
"They were killed." Tears welled up in her blue eyes, overflowed. 
"Clee ..." her husband soothed her damp, blonde hair in love and devotion. 
"I am sorry," Evert told them truthfully. 
"I did not want them to go to that school," she said harshly and then screamed as the birth grew closer, harder. 
Evert had to force himself to say, "I need to check you again." He lifted the blanket .... School... Death ... Children dying ... The pain in the agent's soul tried to overwhelm him. 

"Our government chose our children to be part of the Vanguard School," the husband informed Evert. "We didn't want them to go but our sons wanted to be part of history. They insisted we allow them to go, and so we did." 
"You're fully dilated. If you begin pushing with the next contraction..." Hide the pain, he commanded himself; someone needs you; hide the pain! The woman on the bed nodded and gripped Evert's hands fiercely. His mind, however much he tried, was not fully on the female who lay on the bed before him. I did not want to be the Primary Negotiator. I did not want to be responsible for the outcome of the hostage situation. I did not ... The woman screamed. "Bend your knees and separate your legs. Sir, hold your wife in your lap. This will give her support." The Frenchman did as he was told. 
Kahtia asked from the doorway, "Is there blood yet?" 

When Evert removed the blanket, the woman adjusted her legs. She began pushing. In no time at all, the head crowned. Ten minutes later, eager to be born, the head of the child appeared fully. "Wait. I need to clean his air passages." Though the woman on the bed wanted to continue pushing, she held back until Evert had finished, but when he had accomplished what he was doing, the woman began pushing again. In no time, the baby emerged completely into Evert's hands. It whimpered on its own. When the cord stopped pulsating, he tied it off in two places and cut it. He cleaned the newborn as best he could, wrapped it in a soft blanket Jessie had provided, and placed the baby in the woman's arms. 
"It's a boy," the woman announced in joy, half crying, half-laughing. "Vi, it is a boy!" 
And her husband agreed, "Yes, it is a boy." He touched the tiny head with gentle fingers.
Prescott came to the door. 

Kahtia announced scornfully. "There is much blood, white man; perhaps you should run and hide." 
Prescott ignored her. "Evert?" 
"I am cleaning her up now." He bathed the blood from her lower body while the husband shielded her from the eyes of Prescott and the negro. 
The lights flickered. 
"Her wiring should be replaced," the new father remarked. 
"I'm done," Evert said in a soft voice. He moved so the husband could be by his wife's side. 
"We thank you for assistance," Vi said, and his wife agreed in a tired voice. 
"I only cleaned his air passages," Evert protested. 
"Your presence made me feel safe," the woman informed him in gratitude. 
"He is a killer," Kahtia said slyly. 
"No, he isn't," Prescott hissed. 
"I would not let him near your baby again," the negro female continued as though the agent had not spoken. 
"Be quiet," Prescott ordered coldly. 

Kahtia smirked at him. "He killed the children at the Vanguard School." 
"No, he didn't!" Prescott argued in anger. Evert left the room in stiff sadness. "Now see what you did," the blue eyed agent accused. 
"Because of him, I must marry an old piece of meat because my father wants our two houses to join," Kahtia growled. 
"He was one of the terrorists at the school?" the man on the bed asked in an odd voice. 
"No," Prescott argued in a tight voice. "He was one of the negotiators." 
"He was the main one," Kahtia added in icy contempt. "He ruled the others." 
"No," Prescott declared hotly. "They worked as a team. He did the talking but that's all he did." 
"No," Evert interrupted from the hallway. "I told them I didn't think the terrorists would explode the bomb. I killed those children." 
"No, Evert," Prescott disagreed. 

Clee looked up at him from the bed. "We do not blame you," she said in complete honesty. 
Her husband concurred, "No." 
An old Russian peasant appeared at the hallway's beginning. His hair was long, dirty, matted; His clothes were slovenly, he shuffled when he walked. He would not meet their eyes. He seemed shy, unsure, almost as if he thought they would tell him to leave. "She ... she said I could change back here." His voice was almost inaudible. 

"What is this?" Kahtia demanded. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the bent form. Why did he seem so familiar? 
"The bathroom is over there," Prescott said gently. "The clothes are in the closet here." 
The Russian whispered, "Thank you." He went to the closet, chose a long, dark blue robe and vanished hurriedly into the bathroom. 
Jessie entered the hallway. "I have food for the new mother." She carried a tray, skirting the girl and the two agents. "What a beautiful , baby boy." She sat the tray down on a small table next to the bed and turned to the others. "I have food out in front." 
"I will not eat with that Evert! He is a murderer!" Kahtia announced in hot refusal. 
"Then you will be very hungry by the time you leave here," Jessie said blandly. 
"I will eat then he can," the negro female declared pointing at Evert with her stubborn chin. 
"Everyone will eat together; There is plenty of room," Jessie said firmly and left the small group. 

"Come on, Evert," Prescott decided and nudged his friend to the front. 
"I am not hungry," Evert said. 
"Yes," Prescott deemed firmly, "you are." 
The old Russian exited the bathroom. 
"I will not eat with a murderer!" Kahtia almost screamed. 
"My son did not do it on purpose," the old man cried. His face was a mask of pain, of humiliation. 
"Your son?" Prescott asked, puzzled. 
"I am speaking of the agent," Kahtia informed the blue alien, terribly vexed. "He is a murderer and I will not eat with him!" Yet, when the old Russian seemed relieved, the truth slapped her in the face. "You are Ivan Tolvich's grandfather!" she accused. "I saw your photograph in the dailies." 
"Who?" Prescott asked, yet the name had a familiar ring to it. 
"You're not very smart, are you?" the negro girl asked in scorn. Prescott's lips tightened but he did not react in any other way. His mother had taught him to be polite to females. "Tolvich was the one that exploded the bomb!" 
"My grandson did not do what they say," the little man protested in pain. 
"Your grandson killed my brother and now I have to carry on my family name. I am not free to come and go as I once was. He should have been drowned at birth." 

"With the exception of the couple with the baby, I want everyone out of here," Jessie said in a rigid tone. They trouped up front. "Sit. I have food for everyone." 
When the Russian hesitated, Prescott said, "You can sit here by us." He motioned to the unused portion of the booth he and Evert were using. The old man slid hesitantly in. "I'm Prescott. This is Evert." 
"I am Rudolph," the wrinkled peasant told them. 
"I won't eat with them!" Kahtia said sharply. 
"Nonsense," Jessie exclaimed and placed bowls of stew in front of the men in the booth. "I have yours at the counter," she advised the negro. 
"I refuse to eat in the same room with them," Kahtia said haughtily. 
"There's always the bathroom," Jessie said philosophically. "But I think you'd be more comfortable out here." 
The Frenchman entered the front. "My wife and I have something to say to the agent and the Russian." 
"He wants them gone as well," Kahtia said smugly. 
"No, we don't," Vi replied in a cool voice. The negro girl snorted and sat at the counter. 
"All decisions were made by the group," Prescott hissed. His hands clenched. "All Evert did was relay what they decided ... AS A GROUP!" 
"Still, he ..." Kahtia began. 

"I killed those children," Evert moaned and buried his head in his hands. 
"No!" Prescott yelled, "You didn't!" 
"I said ... I told them that I did not believe the terrorists would actually kill the children. The others believed me." Evert's voice was dead, void of all emotion. When he looked towards Prescott, the dark eyes were desolate. 
"I know the history of those terrorists," Prescott informed him firmly. "They were not known for killing." 
"The leader was an Irishman," Kahtia exclaimed in rage, "And the Irish are a violent people." 
"My grandson did not do what they claimed he did," the old man said bleakly. 
"Fasrt," Kahtia cursed. 

"Please, may I speak?" the Frenchman requested dryly. He welcomed the silence with a sigh as he turned his attention toward Evert. "My wife and I want to say thank you for trying to save our children. We did not know you as a person, but when we learned they had placed a CI5 agent in charge, we felt easier. Such an agent, we knew, would not give into anger, into using emotions, and therefore antagonise the captors. We knew our boys stood a better chance with you there." 
"But the children died," Evert murmured in great sadness. "The others listened to me, and they died." 
"It wasn't your fault!" Prescott exploded and then apologised immediately, "I'm sorry, Evert." 
"The Russian pig exploded that bomb," Kahtia snarled as she jumped off the stool to glare at the old peasant. 
His skin darkened considerably but he protested, "My grandson did not do what they said!" 
"They said his hand was on the bomb!" the South African shrieked. 
"He would not have set it off," the old man murmured in agony. "I know he would not have." 
"He was colour blind, wasn't he?" Jessie asked and took a sip of her lemonade. 
"Yes," the Russian agreed with a soft exhale of breath. "My son and I are the same." 
"If he was disconnecting the bomb and pressed the wrong colour combination, it would have gone off, wouldn't it?" the old woman asked in a bland voice. 
Evert answered, "Yes."