CHAPTER ELEVEN
1769 Words
“Wait, what?” Alder had a very confused look on his face.
The trio met up with him early the next morning at his townhouse apartment in Arlington. The complex had been renovated in the past couple of years and the abode still had that “brand new” feeling. Alder kept house impeccably, for there was not a single item out of place and not a speck of dust could be found anywhere inside his spartanly decorated first floor.
Even the brightly stained hardwood floors seemed like they were waxed often and polished to a high shine. Allie felt weirded out by the crisp white walls and sterile modern styling, reminded of her home when she was still married to her ex-husband. It was a stark contrast to the warm earthy tones and fresh greenery that filled John’s, and now Becca and her home as well.
At least the couches are homey, thought Allie, sinking deeper into the soft gray suede.
“I said, cobber, that she is a psychic black hole. She’s unreadable to me. It’s like staring at a wound in the fabric of reality.”
“Look, Rowan, we’ve known each other for a long time. Have I ever understood any of this? Were it not for the fact you’re rarely wrong, I’d say you like spitting out a bunch of pseudo-scientific spiritualistic bullshit.” John’s face took on a deadpan expression.
“Alder, sir,” Allie spoke up, albeit meekly. “I saw it too. It’s like ‘The Nothing’ in The Never Ending Story. ‘You can’t look at it directly because there is nothing to see,’ or something like that. It’s a creepy feeling when you experience it.”
Alder’s mouth was slightly agape as he looked at her. He turned to John, his eyes begging the question his voice couldn’t articulate. The younger man just shrugged.
“I don’t know. It just started when we were at the reliquary.”
“How–”
“You got me, cobber. I was hoping you could get someone going through the stacks and see if there’s precedent.”
“Right. Now, back onto the other matter: this ‘black hole’ as you put it. It’s weird, I’ll admit, but why is this girl important?”
“She was there.”
“She told you that?”
“No. Honestly if it wasn’t for Becca’s indomitable cheerfulness I doubt that we would even have her name, nor where she’s holed up.”
“So, if you can’t read her, how do you know she was there?”
“There was a psychic rent just out in the alley when I was there yesterday. It’s got the same feel to it.”
“You think–”
“That she left it there, yes.”
“Again, how?”
“‘If we knew why the bowl of petunias said, “Oh, no. Not again,” we’d understand the universe a lot better than we do now.’ Cobber, I ain’t got a clue. I just work here. It’s probably another thing to get the boys at the archives busy with. Until then, I think it’s best we have a shadow on her. I don’t want her going to the four winds.”
“Sounds reasonable. You said that she’s homeless?”
“With a probability reaching unity. She’s staying at an abandoned house not far from Parkland. It makes sense. The Sally, the Salvation Army I mean, is close at hand and a couple of other outreach programs. She’d want to be close to them if only for the food.”
“I’ll get Hawthorn on it. He’s our current liaison with the homeless community. Do you have a picture of her?”
Becca pulled a sketchbook out from the satchel she used as a purse. She flipped to a page with a dog-eared corner and ripped it out of the spiral binding, handing it to Alder. It was a photorealistic monochrome drawing, every detail carefully reproduced and shaded from the crystal clear image in her artist’s eye.
An eye that was fueled partially by her own desire for the woman. Not that it mattered, Becca was just that good. She had drawn it the night before after she wore out her lovers, unable to sleep because she couldn’t get Sharron out of her mind.
She knew it wasn't the same kind of attraction she had towards Allie & John. This was more like her earlier flings, transitory. Becca started to realize this as she was finishing the final touches on the drawing. She would become drawn to someone, most of the time at first sight, and would eventually ease them into posing for her as an ice breaker before inviting them into her bed. Is this how I do all of my art, she asked herself after she had finished. With my gonads?
"I'll make sure Hawthorn gets a copy. Anything yet on the ringleader?"
"We came across his office last night purely by chance," said Allie. "I had John go over a list of office lease holders in the building and he got a hit on a name. A one Jean Dubois. He owns an international import-export brokerage. Very high dollar stuff according to Forbes and GQ. Some of his clients are foreign governments. I’m expecting him to have some really serious connections."
"Jean Dubois? You mean Jean-Michelle Dubois?”
“I take it you know him,” said Becca.
“You could say that. I’ve met him socially a few times. He’s one of the backers for several of the local nonprofits in which the Order ‘participates.’ I’m surprised that it was him. Why would he need the Talon?” Alder rubbed the stubble on his chin pensively.
“That’s a good question. Want to come with me when we ask him?”
“You’re just going to walk right into his office and ask him flat out? How are you going to get into the building? You need a security pass to go above the thirtieth floor.”
“Yeah, that is going to be tricky. Remember the dodge I used in San Francisco?”
“No.” Alder was frowning darkly. “Don’t–”
“I wasn’t asking permission, old friend.” John’s face was tranquil, but his tone made it clear that he knew Alder wouldn’t be able to override him. Alder wasn’t on the council. John was, despite his years of absence. A few seconds passed in silence before John broke into a wide smile. “Don’t worry, cobber. It’s going to work this time. I’m sure of it.”
“Great Mother…”
***
Jeremy Kelly was cold. How he hated the cold. When he moved to Texas about five years ago to go to college, he never thought it could be as uncomfortable as his native home of Whitefish, Montana. He took his phone out of a front pocket in his leather trench coat to check the temperature. It’s only thirty-three, ya wimp, he chided himself. You’ve gotten soft, fucker. He picked up the pace, heavy combat boots clomping against the sidewalk and a heavy backpack slung low across his shoulders.
He pulled his wide-brimmed hat down against the sun as he walked east down Harry Hines Boulevard. He had just left the Salvation Army emergency shelter after breakfast and he was on his way to the hospital district as had been his routine for the past three months. A guitar swayed from its strap on his back as he made his way down the already busy road. It had been his plan to busk today to try to earn a little something without having to resort to panhandling.
“Green blood! Green Blood!”
His headset started to blare in his ear as a call came in. It just read “Boss” on the contact ID when he pulled his phone out again. He pressed the answer button on the screen.
“What’s up, boss?”
“I have an assignment for you.”
“I kinda figured. You never call me just to talk anymore. It’s sad. Personally, I think it’s put a serious hamper in our relationship.”
“You through, smartass?”
“Not sure. I might have a few more witty comments hidden somewhere about me. What’cha need?”
“I am about to send you what information we have on the target. You are to surveil and assess. II want reports daily.”
“What kinda target we talkin’ ‘bout here? Unfriendly?”
“Disposition unknown.”
A trilled chime announced that he just received a text message. He switched over to it, keeping the call running in the background. It was a name, an address close by in one of the more run down residential zones, and a picture of a drawing. He zoomed in and admired the style and genius of its creator before focusing on the face it depicted. He had seen those eyes before, this morning in fact. He had sat no more than twenty feet away from her at breakfast. In fact she had become a regular over the past week or so and he had to constantly remind himself that it was rude to stare.
“So, is this on top of my other gig?”
“This takes priority. All other operations are secondary.”
“Whose dog did she eat?”
“Strongwood wants her under observation.”
Jeremy let out a low whistle in response.
“Understood, Hawthorn?”
“Yes, sir. I just want to tell you that you’re an ass for not telling me that he was back in town. I would like to see all three of them again.”
“Do this and you will get your chance.”
“Understood, Alder. I’mma gon’ get right on it. Bye!”
Jeremy hung up before Alder could respond and ran his hand through the long straight brown hair he had on top of his head as he took another careful look at the picture.
“The Rigfenned, huh? You, girl, are hotter than a house fire in more ways than one, ain’t ya? Can’t say I envy you, though.”
He slipped his phone back into his trenchcoat pocket and continued his way down towards Parkland to start looking for this girl. He bet himself five dollars that he could find her in less than four hours. He started to sing as he walked, this felt like it could be a good day.
- Writer
