Chuck versus The Last Wish

Chapter 20 – Echoes

Sarah was surprised to discover that the cabin walls concealed a fully equipped spy station. Tech she never saw somewhere else before.

“Not bad. No running water, but there’s a space center hidden inside the walls.”

“My dad was a weird guy,” Chuck remarked.

Using his father’s terminal, Chuck scanned the news. Nearly every outlet carried the same headline: Businesswoman Diane Moore Dies.

The articles described it as a robbery gone wrong.

“I'm pretty sure it wasn't a robbery,” Chuck said quietly.

Sarah leaned over his shoulder. “They were fast.”

Chuck scrolled through one last time before closing the feed. “I think that's it. We need to go.”

He switched off the display, but the monitor didn't go dark immediately. It flickered back to life, white letters appearing against the black screen:

PROTOCOL FIVE ACTIVATED…

The message remained visible for two seconds before the screen went completely dark.

Sarah frowned. “What was that?”

Chuck shrugged. “My dad's computer always did weird things. Probably some kind of automatic security update.”

“You sure?”

“I hope so.” He grabbed their bags. “Come on. Beckman doesn't appreciate being kept waiting.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

A few hours later, the gray sedan pulled into the Buy More's rear parking lot. The neon sign of the Orange Orange glowed in the distance, the asphalt almost completely empty.

Chuck switched off the engine. The quiet of the cabin still lingered between them, but Burbank already felt different. Sarah exhaled softly. “Vacation's over.”

Chuck gave her a faint smile. “We had… about twelve hours.” He turned toward her as Sarah gently squeezed his hand. “Not a bad twelve hours.”

“No.”

“We're pausing it, but we'll finish it,” Chuck assured her.

They headed down to Castle. Minutes later, General Beckman's face filled the briefing room monitor.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your leave. The events in Turkey are still causing diplomatic strain. One of our sources confirmed the two operatives were Turkish, though Ankara had no prior knowledge. An internal investigation is underway to identify who authorized the hit on you. Meanwhile, wild media speculation is circulating.”

“Psychological operation?” Chuck asked.

“Most likely.” Beckman nodded. “Our analysts believe someone is deliberately trying to influence public opinion.”

Beckman tapped her console, pulling up a photograph of Diane Moore. “There is, however, an even more troubling development. Diane Moore was found dead at her villa in Nassau.”

Crime-scene photographs flashed on screen. “She was killed by a single .22-caliber round. Her study was completely ransacked.”

Morgan snorted. “Bahamian police calling it a robbery?”

Beckman's expression remained impassive. “That is the official position.”

Morgan let out a disbelieving laugh. “Of course. Somebody breaks into a millionaire's villa, shoots the owner, and only trashes the study. That's exactly what I'd do.”

Chuck shook his head slowly. “They were looking for something.”

Beckman nodded. “That is our suspicion as well. The staff heard nothing.”

Another photograph replaced the crime scene: a portrait of an older man. “Senator Harrison. He died early this morning as well. Official cause: heart attack.”

Chuck raised his hand. “Senator Harrison. Who's that?”

“Senator Harrison requested congressional funding for the Costa Gravas operation.”

Sarah leaned forward. “Was it really a heart attack?”

Beckman paused. “The official autopsy concluded that it was. At present, we have no evidence to the contrary.”

Chuck exchanged a glance with Sarah. “But you don't believe it was a coincidence.”

“I don't like building operations around coincidences, Agent Bartowski.”

Sarah spoke up. “Then the next step is to investigate the senator's past.”

Beckman nodded. “Agreed. The FBI has already secured Harrison's Washington office, but his family estate and personal archives weren't searched because his death was considered natural. If there's a connection to Diane Moore or to your Costa Gravas operation, we may find it there.”

Chuck let out a breath. “Then I guess… we're heading to the East Coast.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

The monitor went dark, leaving only the quiet hum of Castle's servers. Morgan was already tapping away at his tablet, browsing flight options. “If we're lucky, we can still catch an evening flight to Washington. Although Casey would probably say real agents travel by ejection seat.”

“Casey would say a lot of things,” Chuck said with a faint smile.

Morgan shrugged. “I'll book the tickets and let Alex know.” He hurried out of the room.

When the door sealed behind him, silence settled over the briefing room.

Sarah noticed Chuck hadn't moved, his eyes still fixed on the blank display.

“Chuck.”

He didn't respond. Sarah stepped closer. “What are you thinking about?”

Chuck slowly exhaled, shaking his head. “I don't know… It's just… this whole thing is starting to take a really strange turn.”

Sarah waited patiently.

“Nassau looked like someone was after information,” Chuck continued. “Then Istanbul, the incomplete archive… and now Moore is dead. The senator, too. It's like someone's cleaning up after themselves faster than we can even figure out what we're looking for.” He swallowed hard. “And meanwhile, Dad's computer displayed Protocol Five.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I know it's probably nothing. It's just… too many coincidences.”

Without a word, Sarah closed the distance between them. She took Chuck's hand, then stepped all the way in to kiss him gently—just long enough for him to feel that he wasn't alone. When they parted, she rested her forehead against his. “Tell me about it on the plane.”

Chuck looked at her, confused. “About what?”

A faint smile touched Sarah's lips. “Whatever's making you this uneasy. It's going to be a long flight to Washington. Although I don't insist—an old memory would work, too.”

Chuck finally smiled for real. “Okay.”

Sarah gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Then let's head to the East Coast.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

The rain tapped softly against the SUV windows as Sarah watched the forest slip past through the glass. She wore a crisp black suit, her hair pulled into a tight bun, looking every bit the FBI supervisor. Chuck sat behind the wheel in a dark suit while Morgan occupied the back seat, swaddled in an enormous navy-blue FBI windbreaker he had insisted was "tactical."

The Harrison estate looked less like a residence and more like a forgotten museum. A long gravel driveway stretched beneath century-old oak trees, their branches interlocking overhead to form a canopy. The once-manicured hedges had lost their shape, weeds choked the rose garden, and stagnant green water filled the ornamental fountain. Sarah instinctively scanned the perimeter—not for immediate danger, but for anyone watching them. She saw no one.

Chuck looked up at the three-story red-brick mansion looming over them. Its white columns retained an imposing dignity despite the peeling paint, and an old rocking chair shifted rhythmically in the wind on the porch.

“It looks…” Chuck muttered, “like the start of every Halloween movie.”

Morgan leaned forward from the back seat. “Or Scooby-Doo.”

“Thanks. Now that's all I can see.”

Sarah pressed the doorbell. For a long moment, nothing happened save for the faint chime of an old grandfather clock marking the quarter hour deep inside the house. Finally, quiet footsteps approached, and the heavy door creaked open. The woman standing in the doorway looked to be in her early forties, wearing a simple black cardigan and dark trousers. Loose strands of chestnut hair escaped her haphazard hair tie, framing a face that cared little for vanity. Her eyes were striking—heavy with an exhaustion that had accumulated over years rather than a single sleepless night. Her gaze swept over them in seconds: Sarah, Chuck, and finally lingering briefly on Morgan.

“Abigail Harrison?” Chuck asked.

“Turner now. I took my husband's name.”

Chuck produced his FBI badge. “Special Agent Charles Carmichael. These are Agents Walker and Grimes.”

Sarah gave a polite nod while Morgan offered a small wave. “Thank you for seeing us.”

Abigail stepped aside. “Come in.”

Chilly air greeted them—not musty, but cold, like a home regularly dusted but no longer lived in.

Hardwood floorboards creaked softly beneath their shoes. Old oil paintings and campaign photos lined the entry hall: Senator Harrison through the decades, family Christmases, Senate awards, and a framed headline reading VIRGINIA'S YOUNGEST SENATOR.

Chuck’s eyes lingered on the frame. A thin layer of dust coated the console below it, where a pair of reading glasses sat undisturbed, as if put down only moments ago.

The ticking of the grandfather clock was the only sound echoing through the foyer.

Abigail noticed Chuck studying the walls.

“My condolences, ma'am,” Chuck said softly. “I lost my father recently, too.”

Sarah’s eyebrow twitched upward, but she remained silent.

Abigail nodded faintly. “Thank you.”

“We’d like to clear up a few details regarding your father,” Chuck said, choosing his words carefully.

Abigail exhaled slowly. “If you're here because of the investigation ten years ago…” She shook her head. “I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed.”

Chuck met her gaze. “Investigation?”

“The press didn't talk about anything else for weeks—abuse of influence, illegal lobbying, questionable campaign contributions.” Her voice remained calm, but bitterness laced the edges. “The FBI, the Senate Ethics Committee… Everyone came through this house.”

A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. “They tore his study apart. Every drawer emptied, every document examined. They even split open book bindings looking for hidden money.”

Sarah watched her closely. “Did they find anything?”

“Nothing. The investigation was dropped months later—no evidence left against him.” Abigail shrugged listlessly. “We haven't touched much since.”

The house fell quiet again as her voice trailed off.

Chuck nodded with practiced empathy. “Could we see the study?”

“Of course.” She turned toward the staircase. “I don't think you'll find anything previous agents missed. But…” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Sometimes a fresh set of eyes notices what everyone else walked right past.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

The heavy oak door opened with a soft creak into a room frozen in time, as though its occupant had simply stepped away for a moment. Leather-bound volumes lined the bookshelves in neat rows. On the mahogany desk sat an old fountain pen, a paperweight, and a framed family photograph. Late afternoon light filtered through heavy drapes, illuminating floating dust motes in shafts of gold.

Chuck slowly turned, taking it all in. “It's like… time stopped in here.”

“That's more or less what happened,” Abigail said quietly.

Sarah's gaze drifted over the mantle before halting on a photograph above the fireplace: James Harrison smiling beside two elegantly dressed women at a charity gala. Chuck stepped closer, his eyes widening. “Sarah…”

She was already on his shoulder. On the right stood Diane Moore, years younger than they had ever seen her. And on the left… Mariana Luna Cruz.

“When was this picture taken?” Chuck asked.

Abigail squinted at the frame. “About ten years ago, I suppose. I’m not entirely certain.”

Sarah pointed to Mariana. “Do you know who this woman is?”

Abigail leaned in. “Oh… Johanna.” She paused, digging for the memory. “Yes… she handled my father's personal security detail for a while.”

“Do you know how she came to work for him?” Sarah asked.

“Not really. He never talked about his work. Whenever we asked, he'd just wave us off.” A faint smile touched her lips. “He used to say, ‘Boring politics.’ I think he just wanted to keep his work separate from us.”

As Abigail turned to adjust a lamp, Chuck leaned toward Sarah. “Johanna…”

Sarah gave a single, firm nod.

“Do you mind if we look around?” Chuck asked.

“Take your time,” Abigail replied.

Sarah split off silently, her practiced eyes scanning the display cabinets and shelves, fingers running along the edges for hidden catches or hollow compartments.

Chuck moved to the desk, pulling open the top drawer: letterhead, envelopes, old campaign pins. The second drawer held a business-card holder filled with lobbyists, donors, and fellow senators—nothing out of the ordinary.

“Anything?” Sarah asked softly.

“Nothing the first wave of feds didn't already pick through.”

Chuck tried the bottom drawer, but the handle wouldn't budge. “Do you have a key for this one?”

Abigail gave a sad, bitter smile. “We used to. When the ethics investigators came through ten years ago, they forced it open. The lock’s been broken ever since.”

Chuck crouched to inspect the brass faceplate, noting the deep, oxidized pry marks. “They were definitely thorough.”

Across the room, Sarah froze in front of a mahogany bookcase. “Chuck.”

He joined her immediately. Sarah pointed to a gap between two heavy history volumes. A uniform layer of dust coated the shelf—except for a clean, rectangular outline right between them.

“Something's missing,” Chuck noted.

Abigail stepped up beside them, frowning. “That's strange… My father kept William Ashcroft's The Measure of Patriotism right there. He treasured that book. I don't ever remember him lending it out.”

Chuck traced the clean wood where the book had rested. “Three inches of dust-free wood. Someone took it recently.”

“And they knew exactly what they were looking for,” Sarah added quietly.

She took one last slow scan of the room—the antique furniture, the pristine shelves, the family portraits, and Mariana Cruz’s young face staring out from a decade-old photo.

“Thank you for letting us look around, Mrs. Turner,” Chuck said softly.

Abigail walked them back to the front porch as the rain turned to a soft drizzle. “I hope you find whatever it is you're searching for.”

Chuck offered a gentle smile. “So do we.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

As they stepped into the humid afternoon, a heavy silence hung over them.

Sarah waited until they were settled inside the SUV before breaking it. “Mariana was already working for Harrison ten years ago.”

Chuck turned the key in the ignition. “And Moore was at the same gala.”

“This wasn't a coincidence.”

Chuck nodded, easing the car onto the gravel driveway. “No. The question is whether Harrison knew who they really were…” He glanced at Sarah. “…or whether he was just another pawn being used.”

The car rolled away from the estate. In the rearview mirror, the red-brick mansion shrank against the treeline.

Chuck drove in silence for a while, the windshield wipers slapping rhythmically against the glass.

“Let's go back to the hotel,” he said finally. “I think it's time we put together what we've got.”

Sarah answered with a brief nod, her eyes fixed on the rain-slicked highway.

They had more questions now—and far fewer answers.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The satellite image showed them in remarkable detail as all three climbed into the black SUV. It slowly turned around and drove away from the Harrison estate.

XXXXXXXXXXX

At the hotel, Chuck and Morgan worked the case, spreading maps, notes, and photographs across the bed. Morgan mapped out connections on a whiteboard while Chuck hunched over his laptop, searching for links between campaign donors and foundations.

Sarah quietly stepped out onto the balcony.

Washington in the late afternoon looked different from up here. The white dome of the Capitol glowed in the setting sun while traffic flowed through the streets below. Taxis honked at one another, a motorcycle courier weaved between cars, and somewhere in the distance, a police siren cut through the city. A few seconds later, an ambulance raced down the same street, its flashing blue lights briefly reflected in the surrounding glass buildings.

Sarah leaned against the railing, pulled out her phone, and dialed Ellie.

“Hi, Sarah!” Ellie answered cheerfully.

“Hi, Ellie. Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all. Clara's asleep, and Devon went grocery shopping, so for once it's actually quiet. What's going on? How are you?”

Sarah smiled faintly. “Better… I think.”

“I'm glad.”

“Ellie… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“About Stephen.”

There was a brief pause on the line. “What would you like to know?”

Sarah looked toward the Capitol dome. “What was he like?”

Ellie gave a quiet laugh. “Absentminded.”

Sarah smiled. “That bad?”

“Oh, worse. Sometimes he'd leave the house wearing two different shoes. Once he spent an entire morning looking for his glasses… Mom finally had to point out they were sitting right on his head.”

Sarah let out a soft laugh. “That… sounds about right.”

“Yeah. But he was a genius—the kind of person who could solve a complicated math problem in minutes, then forget where he put his car keys.”

Sarah smiled to herself. “Chuck's a little like that.”

“Very. They both lose themselves in whatever they're doing, forgetting about time… or the rest of the world.”

The laughter of a group of tourists drifted up from the street below. Somewhere nearby, the soft notes of a saxophone blended into the city's noise.

Sarah grew quiet for a moment. “What happened to him?”

Ellie didn't answer immediately. “Chuck… didn't tell you?”

“No.”

“He probably didn't want to burden you. It's still… very fresh for him.”

Sarah frowned. “Why?”

Ellie took a deep breath. “Because we lost him again not long ago.”

Sarah slowly straightened. “He was alive?”

“Yes. We thought he'd died twenty years ago, but he came back a few months ago to help Chuck.”

Sarah closed her eyes. “And then?”

Ellie's voice trembled in the heavy silence. “Daniel Shaw killed him.”

The city noise faded. Sarah instinctively tightened her grip on the phone.

“Shaw…”

“Dad sacrificed himself so Chuck could live.”

Sarah lowered her head, the wind stirring her hair. Inside, Morgan called out, “Chuck! I think I found something!”

Only one thought filled Sarah's mind: What else hasn't Chuck told me?

Stephen Bartowski—the absentminded genius who left the house in different shoes, lost his keys, and disappeared twice, only to die saving his son.

Sarah closed her eyes. Chuck had carried all of this alone—not just the Intersect or the missions, but his father's death. Twice. And he had never said a word.

Suddenly, Sarah understood why. Not because he didn't trust her, but because some pain was simply too heavy to put into words—especially when you finally found someone you loved, only to lose them weeks later.

“Thank you, Ellie,” Sarah whispered.

“Anytime, Sarah. Take care of yourselves.”

“You too.”

Sarah ended the call and remained motionless. Another horn sounded below. A city bus slowly turned through the intersection while tourists took pictures of the Capitol. A street vendor closed up his cart, and somewhere in the distance, another ambulance siren rose above the noise. As if nothing had happened, Washington carried on. Sarah slipped her phone into her pocket and looked out over the city one last time. She wasn't thinking about the investigation—she was thinking about Chuck, and how much he carried inside while trying to protect everyone else.

Especially her.

“I'm sorry, Chuck…” she whispered.

She wiped away a stray tear, pressed down on the balcony handle, and stepped back into the room.