"I'm here about the room for rent," Charles stated.
The woman who answered the door gave him an incredulous look.
"It's on the third floor," she told him. "Can you manage the stairs?"
She was right to wonder; Charles was still quite a mangled excuse for a man. The beating he had taken at the hands of the man in the silver mask had left him scarred, bruised and walking with the assistance of a cane.
"I can manage," he told her shortly.
The woman stepped back out of the way, holding the door for him as he hobbled inside. It was quite a nice house; made to look like an old Victorian but Charles could tell by the size of the rooms it was fairly recently built.
"Up the stairs," the landlady instructed.
The woman walked easily up the flight and waited for Charles to climb the steps. She looked slightly uncomfortable at watching his struggle, but she didn't offer to help him, either. She was a fairly young woman, blonde, her features a mix of Caucasian and Asian. She wore blue wire-framed glasses and her hair was in a braided crown around her head.
"You're sure about the stairs?" she prompted when Charles joined her on the second floor.
"I'm still healing. It will get better."
"If you say so," she sighed, leading him to the end of the hall and up another flight of stairs. Charles eyed the doors as he followed her.
"Are any of these rooms open?"
"No. We only have one room for rent."
"You and your husband?"
"My sisters and I," the woman corrected.
She started up the next flight without further comment. Charles braced himself against the lingering pains and mounted the next steps. The landlady was waiting by a door.
"This is it," she said, opening the door.
The room was a surprisingly spacious bedroom, done up in grays and browns. There was a wrought iron bed, a heavily laden bookshelf, a small TV on a worn stand, an empty desk and a pair of well-used armchairs. And lamps. There must have been five lamps in the room.
For some reason, this made the ghost of a smile tug at Charles' mouth.
"Bathroom's across the hall and we don't have a dresser, but there's shelves in the closet," the landlady announced. "Rent's $550 a month."
"Five-fifty? That's a lot for one room," Charles stated.
"Utilities are included, plus all the cable and internet you can choke down, plus food. My sister likes to cook."
And absolutely nothing in his name. That was ideal. Charles hobbled over to the window. Oh, it actually wasn't a window, it was a French door leading out onto a balcony just large enough for a chair. That would be a nice place to sit when the weather warmed up. An iron fire ladder was bolted to the brickwork on the back of the house. There was a medium-sized yard that blended into dense woods that dropped sharply down a hill. In the distance, he could see the sparkle of sunlight on the bay.
Completely ideal.
"I'll take it."
"First and last month's rent are due before . . ." the landlady trailed off as Charles reached into his coat pocket and drew out an envelope stuffed with bills.
"This should cover the first couple of months."
The landlady opened the envelope and counted out hundred dollar bills with practiced speed.
"The first twenty-three," she admitted.
"Twenty-four," Charles corrected.
"Twenty-three," the landlady stressed. "Twenty-four months at five fifty would be $13,200. There's $13,000 here. But I suppose I could let it slide, seeing as how you've been with us so long."
Another ghost of a smile played around Charles' lips.
"My name's Faith Noh, that's N-O-H. My sisters Hope and Mercy will be home this evening, yes, Faith, Hope and Mercy, Mom thought it was cute, yes, Noh Faith, Hope, or Mercy, Dad thought he was funny. Dinner's usually around seven, there's a laundry chute at the end of the hall. I'll go get the lease agreement printed out, Mr. . . ?"
"Stonebreaker. Charles Stonebreaker. And, if it were at all possible, I'd like to dispense with a lease."
Faith eyed Charles thoughtfully, then looked down at the thousands of dollars in her hands.
"I'll just bet you would," she muttered.
She gave Charles a hard stare, but finally seemed to decide he was too injured to be a threat.
"Okay. But the first time we catch wind of anything funny, you are out on your ass, Mr. Stonebreaker."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Ms. Noh. I plan to recuperate in this lovely, peaceful place and not put you ladies out any more than absolutely necessary. Did I infer correctly that laundry service is included?"
"Yes. I'm pretty sure we can pick your stuff out from ours. When are you planning on moving in?"
"Now, if that's all right," Charles informed her.
"N-now? Uh, yeah, I guess that's . . . do you need help with your stuff?"
"I had a friend drive my car over; I still have trouble driving. He'll help." Charles pulled out a cell phone and dialed it. It only rang once before being answered. "Bernard? Yes; I'm taking it. Could you bring my suitcases up? Ms. Noh will meet you at the door."
A cackle of laughter and the gasp of: 'Your landlady's name is Miss No?' were audible across the room. Faith rolled her eyes and headed for the stairs.
"Don't laugh, Bernard, she's of Japanese descent," Charles chided gently.
"Is she hot?"
Charles paused as he heard Faith's footsteps thump down the stairs. Judging her to be out of earshot, he changed his tone from 'exasperated friend' to 'commander'.
"Bring up the camera; I want you to be able to access the house from the woods later on."
"On the third floor, sir?"
"There's a fire escape."
"Dog?"
"I've seen no evidence of one."
"Other residents?"
"Two sisters, Hope and Mercy, who apparently work during the day. I'll text you if this turns out to be wrong."
"'Hope and Mercy'? What's this one's name?"
"Faith."
A tiny snicker escaped Bernard.
"Focus."
"I apologize, sir. I'll bring up the – Jesus, did they give you enough drugs? You could make a fortune off this on the street! Hey, there she is! Ah, she ain't bad; I'd do her."
Ms. Noh had evidently come out of the front of the house, for Bernard was back into 'annoying friend' character.
"Bernard, I have to live here," Charles sighed.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll bring your stuff up in a second, Charlie. Bye."
Charles clipped the phone shut and made it a point to remember the 'Charlie'. Bernard – or rather, Klokateer #568 – would have to step lively to make up for the 'Charlie'.
"Hi, are you Miss Noh?"
Faith paused in the driveway. Her new tenant's car was parked at the curb. It was a nondescript gray sedan – almost purposefully bland – just the sort of thing you'd expect a middle-class office type to drive.
Mr. Stonebreaker's friend was not at all what you expected to be chummy with a middle-class office type.
"Are you Bernard?"
"Yeah!"
Bernard was a mountain of a man. His hair was cropped desperately short in the hair cut military types called a 'high and tight'. A tribal tattoo decorated the left side of his skull and it looked like someone had tried to take out his right eye with a knife at some point. He was wearing a black turtleneck and thick winter coat, but just by the shape of him you could tell that when he flexed his muscles, other muscles had to move out of the way first.
Bernard pulled the last suitcase out of the trunk of the car. There were four sizeable cases on the sidewalk. The large man rooted around in the front seat and came out with a paper grocery bag that rattled when he shifted it.
"Here, could you carry his pills? If I dropped them and they got all mixed up, that could seriously suck."
Faith took the bag and peered into it. It was nearly a third full with prescription medication. Most of the medication names were unpronounceable and wrapped almost all of the way around the bottle. Every one she could see was prescribed to Charles O. Stonebreaker.
"Uh . . . what happened to him?"
"Oh, he interrupted a robbery. Three snot-nosed little shits nearly beat him to death over a fuckin' TV – excuse me," Bernard belatedly censored himself as he stuffed suitcases under his arms like they weighed nothing.
"Oh, I was in the Marines for four years; I've heard worse, trust me," Faith said.
"Cool. But yeah; he just got out of the hospital yesterday. I think I'd want to get away from everything until I was back on my feet, too."
Faith started back inside, holding the door open for Bernard.
"So . . . that was all? It was just a robbery?"
"I don't think you can call it 'just a robbery' when someone ends up legally dead for three minutes," Bernard muttered in a low voice.
"Jesus . . ."
"Yeah. Charles is . . . he wasn't super-outgoing before, but he's probably just going to keep to himself for a while. I know you're just the landlady, but could you like . . . check on him? Make sure he's still breathing occasionally?"
"We'll see him at meals," Faith protested. "My sister Mercy is a lot nicer than I am; she'll probably take him under her wing."
"Lives up to her name, huh?"
Faith looked away with a neutral grunt.
"Just make sure he doesn't fall down all these stairs, okay? Shit . . I mean geez . . ."
Faith snorted as Bernard staggered up to the final landing. Charles opened the door for his friend and the huge man lugged the suitcases inside.
"I think this one has your laptop in it," Bernard said, letting one suitcase slide out from under his arm and flop onto the bed.
"Where's my guitar? Oh. Oh yes, I forgot," Charles said sadly.
Dethklok had 'buried' their manager with his beloved Les Paul. The first thing Charles would do when he 'came back from the dead' was send a couple of Gears to his mausoleum with jackhammers and get his fucking guitar back.
"I've got your medicine," Faith reported, setting the bag down on the desk. Poor guy; the aforementioned snot-nosed little shits must have stolen his guitar as well. "And . . um . . . Hope has a guitar. I bet she'd let you use it."
"She's a guitarist?"
"No, she's pianist who can pick at guitar. She's got this thing about orphan instruments . . . It doesn't matter if she could play it or not, she just hates to see them wasting away."
"Oh. That sounds sweet. I wonder; could I trouble you for a glass of water? It's time for my medication," Charles inquired politely.
"Sure, no problem."
Faith left and started down the stairs to the first floor. By the time she descended the first flight of stairs, Bernard had a hand held GPS out and was recording the exact position of Charles' new quarters.
"I don't see anything like a security system; no wires or anything to circumvent," the battered CFO stated.
Bernard went out onto the small balcony and took pictures of the woods, the fire ladder and even the frame of the French door.
"I'm going to need you to be my eyes and ears while I recuperate," Charles announced. "There's something far bigger than Dethklok at stake here. If things go as planned, we'll have roughly twenty-four months to uncover the forces behind the Revengencers."
"You don't think they were just a terrorist group, my Lord?"
"Mordhaus wouldn't have fallen to a group of disgruntled metal fans, Bernard."
The unmasked Gear took up the three suitcases and stashed them in the closet. Charles unzipped the last one awkwardly and took out his laptop. The mangled CFO set it gingerly on the desk, then sat back down on the bed without opening it. Bernard came and took the last suitcase and emptied the contents into the closet shelves before shoving the empty case under the bed with the others.
"Are there any further instructions, sir?"
"Careful of the 'sir'," Charles warned.
Footsteps could be heard on the stairs.
"Sorry, Charles," the Gear murmured. "Do you need anything else?"
Faith came into the room with a glass of water. Charles murmured his thanks and began to line up medication bottles on the desk.
"I'm going to take my meds and sleep. I just need to rest. Call me, okay?"
"Okay. Will do, buddy; just you hang in there. Nice to meet you, Miss Noh."
"Nice to meet you, too. Um, there's a clean glass in the bathroom if you need any more water, Mr. Stonebreaker. I'll be in the basement so if you need anything just yell down the laundry chute."
"Thank you, Miss Noh. I'll see you at dinner," Charles said.
His old servant and new landlady left him alone.
Faith walked Bernard out, then went back down to her painting in the basement. Focus eluded her, so she walked back up to the third floor and put her ear to the new tenant's door. She heard light snoring, so she went back down to the first floor and pissed around until it was time for her sisters to come home.
Mercy was first.
She walked through the door, dumped her bag on the couch and heaved a long and frustrated sigh.
"I loathe children and there should be a long, arduous licensing process before people are allowed to spawn," she announced to the world in general.
"That's a comforting opinion coming from a teacher," Faith said with a grin. "Irish cider?"
"Yes, dear God, please!"
Faith poured apple cider into two mugs and put them into the microwave. Mercy flopped down at the kitchen table and stretched. True to the concept of identical siblings, she strongly resembled Faith right down to her glasses. Mercy's spectacles were red wire frames and her blonde hair was in a French twist rather than a braided crown. She also liked A-line skirts and had an unfortunate fondness for sweater vests.
Faith took the hot mugs of cider from the microwave and topped them up with brandy before placing one in front of Mercy and cupping the other in her own hands.
"So, on a more cheerful note, what would you do if someone handed you $13,000?"
"Oooo, thirteen grand? We could put in a pool."
"We got a new tenant. He paid for two years in advance," Faith announced.
"Two years? In advance?" Mercy echoed.
Her sister slid an envelope across the table.
"In cash," she stressed.
"Holy shit . . ." Mercy muttered, counting out the bills. "We can't even deposit this all at once; we'll get audited. We'll have to split it three ways. Let's see, that's . . . uh . . ."
"Two of us will deposit $4,334 dollars and one will do $4,332. You're the worst teacher ever."
"I'm an English teacher; screw off. This guy paid $13,000 in cash up front? Is he a drug dealer?"
"I don't think he's a drug dealer," Faith said. "But something's off. I suppose I should tell you that he's in extremely bad shape. His friend, Bernard, said that he interrupted a robbery and three kids beat him to death."
"You mean 'beat him nearly to death'," Mercy corrected.
"No, I mean beat him to death as in legally dead for three minutes, we're talking paddles, 'Clear!', zap, heart's beating again."
"Eeek."
"Yeah. He 'moved in', but Bernard unpacked for him and then Charles took his meds and slept. He's been sleeping all afternoon."
"Charles?"
"Charles Stonebreaker. He didn't want to sign a lease agreement."
"He's probably still afraid. I mean . . . Jesus, the guy died. Poor thing."
"Yeah, normally I wouldn't let someone move in without signing a lease, but I felt sorry for him."
"The money could be from an insurance claim. Maybe they never caught the guys that beat him and he's afraid to use checks."
"It's possible."
"I'm home! You may all rejoice!" A new voice announced.
Hope Noh entered the kitchen and plucked the jug from the counter and set up her own brandied cider. She resembled her sisters, sharing the same coloring and poor eyesight. The frames of her glasses were green.
"We have a new tenant," Mercy informed her. "Charles Stonebreaker."
"Is he hot?" the youngest (by twenty minutes) sister asked.
Mercy looked over at Faith, who considered the question carefully.
"It's hard to tell," she admitted sadly.
Mercy and Faith apprised Hope of the situation.
"Oh my God . . . poor guy. I don't think we should kick him out. Mercy's probably right; he probably just wants to hide until he's better. Plus, we'd have to give the money back. And $13,000 could pay for a sweet vacation."
"I think we should put in a pool," Mercy cut in.
"Something still feels off," Faith muttered. "I just can't put my finger on it."
"Do you honestly think he's a threat? I mean, we're not exactly helpless little damsels . . ." Hope began.
"Physically? I don't think we should have anything too hard to chew for dinner; he might not make it through the meal."
"Fish it is," Mercy declared, getting up and going to the refrigerator.
"But his 'friend' was just . . . it almost reminded me of some big mafia guy. Weedy little business type with his hired muscle; maybe he got beat up in a gang war or something."
"How about we give it a few days? If we think something's up, we'll ask him to find somewhere else to stay," Hope suggested. "I mean . . . we could really use the money. Piano lessons are dropping off and your paintings aren't selling like they used to – no offense – and the salary of one teacher isn't going to keep us afloat."
"They haven't sent out notices yet," Mercy cut in. "I don't know if I'll have a job next year."
Faith groaned and put her head in her hands.
"So . . . look on the bright side! If this guy is a criminal and he's hiding out here, then we'll be his safe house. I mean . . . in the Sopranos, the war never came to Tony's house, did it?"
"Did it?" Mercy asked.
"What?"
"Did it? We stopped watching that show after about the third season," Mercy pointed out.
"This line of reasoning is so comforting, I can't even begin to tell you," Faith sighed.
"Look, what I'm saying is that as long as he's just sleeping and healing, who cares what he does for a living! Money is money and business is business!"
"And thirteen thousand dollars is thirteen thousand dollars."