John chatted with the doorman at Angela's building while the man waited to anounce John's arrival. No one answered her phone, but a minute later the door to the elevator opened, and Angela rushed over to hug John.
"I'm so glad you're here," she said, taking his arm and leading him to the elevator. "There's no one else other you I want to talk to. I need a friend tonight." She held on to his arm.
John looked at Angela's face. She'd cried off her makeup long ago, he noticed. Her eyes were quite swollen. She was beautiful to look at.
With all the important people she knew, strange to think he was her only real friend. His heart lept at the thought, and he kissed her on the forehead. She gave him a small smile in return.
Angela's condo was a mess, with books and other items strewn across the floor. "This place reminds me of Abe's," John said. He picked up a finely-bound photo album and opened it. The album was filled with pictures - kids playing, riding horses, and more formal portraits of kids and teenagers in equisite outfits. The photo album was expensive, the photos in it placed with precision.
"My family," said Angela as she took the book from his hands. "My mother loved to take pictures. And my Grandfather too. They are all gone. Nothing but photos now."
John picked up another book. "Tell me about them, and about your sister."
They spent the afternoon looking through the albums. Angela told him stories of her family and early life. She had grown up with wealth, her family minor aristocracy. Yet it seemed on every page, there was pictured someone in her family who had taken their own life. He wondered if it came with the lives they lead. What in a family could cause such despair?
"My sister and I were close at one time," said Angela as she looked at the picture of two young women, arms around each other and laughing. "My Uncle Thierry, here," she pointed to a man with a solemn face, "when he died, Celine seemed to change. She ran off for a while, from the family. There was no one left but me. So I came to America."
"She was close to your Uncle," John said.
"Not any more so than I," replied Angela. "Uncle changed too, a few years before he took his own life. We did what we could for him. But what does a young girl know? Anyway, Celine wrote me a few years after I had established myself here. She was better for awhile. In command of the world, she'd say. Then several months without contact, and early this morning, the call from our solicitors..."
John was afraid for Angela. With so many deaths in her family, what if she started to feel the same way about life? He had to spend more time around her. Maybe get her to council with Abe.
They talked until the sun set, then John suggested they have dinner. Angela made a reservation at one of her favorite restaurants. He'd heard of it - an expensive place. The kind of restaurant her clients ate at.
John called the B.P.R.D. to check in. The restaurant was uncrowded when they arrived - still too early for the dinner crowd. The Maitre'D greeted Angela warmly, and led them through the room to an enclosed courtyard and a waiting table.
The trees, loaded with candles, glowed softly. "Isn't that a fire hazard?" John asked. He got up from the table, and much to Angela's amusement went to a tree to examine the candles. They were fake - LED's set into a plastic sheath.
"Country boy." Angela laughed.
Angela spoke in french to the waiter. The Maitre'de brought a bottle of wine 'on the house', for the couple, and talked to Angela for a few minutes more. It was obvious they were well acquainted. Countrymen, maybe.
As the couple walked along the sidewalk after dinner, Angela remarked, "You understood what we were discussing, the Maitre'de and I?"
John nodded. "I understood. I learned French, Spanish, Chinese at the Camp. Not enough to speak, but enough to understand."
Angela smiled. "I thought so . . . maybe you just pretend to be the farm boy." She slipped her hand into his.
"Angela, when it comes to you, I don't pretend at all."
John took Angela to her condo, When she saw the photo albums her mood darkened. He stayed late, encouraging her to talk about her family, and then told her more about his childhood, and even some of his training at Quantico. Soon she was asleep, leaning against him as they sat on the couch.
"Angela," he touched her on the shoulder, "I'm leaving. Go to bed and get some rest."
"No," she answered, "stay here tonight. I need the company. Sleep on the couch."
She walked in the other room, and came back with a bolster and a quilt. She kissed him goodnight. Then she turned and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
He went into the front bathroom. Took off his shirt and hung it on a hook on the door. Then he came back in the living room and taking his shoes off, lay down on the couch. He put his gun under the bolster.
John slept well until around three in the morning, when something tugged at his consciousness. He woke up hand already on the gun under the bolster. Angela stood over him in the darkness, staring with the blank eyes of a somnambulist. He got up and gently led her back to the bedroom. She lay down on the bed and he tucked the covers up around her.
Angela's eyes locked on John's. "I have become Death," she said. Then she turned over, leaving John to stand looking at her. Her breathing was heavy. She was asleep.
The next time John opened his eyes it was morning. He found Angela making breakfast in the kitchen, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before going into the bathroom to put his shirt on again.
"Did you sleep well?", she asked. "I did, knowing you were here."
It was the kind of breakfast that made John want to be married. Not that she was a good cook - it was just oatmeal in the bowl in front of him. No, it was the companionship and the laughter. Angela was radiant. He hated to ruin the moment by bringing up the events of the last night. But as an agent of the B.P.R.D, he had to.
"Angela, did you have a bad dream last night? You were sleep-walking."
She hesitated. "I did John. It wasn't pleasant. Did I say anything?"
"Nothing I could understand." A partial truth. 'Was it about your sister?"
She nodded. In a small voice she said. "I dreamed I was standing by a lake. It was dark, and the water was choppy. Not choppy really, but sharp, like the glittering blade of a knife. My sister came out of the lake to grab me. The lake was crowded. My sister said," she whispered, "it was our inheritance, this lake of blades, and I was to walk in the lake and join my people."
"And I went into the lake."
John tensed. "Angela, I had a vision yesterday, Abe said. It was about you, and it wasn't good."
He told her what had happened. "I'm sorry, but in light of what you said, I had to ask if it meant anything to you."
Angela burst with anger. "How can you be like this? Dragging me into the horrible things you involve yourself with! No wonder I have nightmares."
"And your timing," she added. "You're no better than a cop."
"Angela," John jumped up and took her by the shoulders. "I only want to protect you. I care about you."
She looked up at him. "But what an awful thing to tell me, just after I deal with my sister's death. Don't you have any feelings? Couldn't you have waited?"
"Yes. I could have." he kissed her on the forehead. "I'm sorry." John was crushed. He'd hurt her. Callous. Just like some of the agents he'd worked with.
John stayed another hour, then left. Angela escorted him down to the lobby. "I'll be by my phone," John said. "Give me a call whenever you want, and I'll call you later today to check on you. Or, you can come stay at my office. You know you have a few other friends there who would like to see you."
Angela nodded. She knew what he meant - Abe was willing to listen. That was something she didn't want to face yet. Abe already knew too much about her life in New York. She wasn't about to have him see into her childhood as well.
When John left, the doorman politely stopped Angela.
"Miss Bouvier, I have a delivery for you." he handed her a manila envelope. She thanked him, and took the elevator up to her condo.
Angela sat in front of the large windows that lit up her living room.
The envelope came from the Bouvier's solicitor in Lugano, Switzerland, a well-established firm. They had worked on behalf of her family for years.
"Dear Mme. Bouvier," it began. The solicitor passed along his condolences, and listed a number of items to be shipped to her at the end of the month. Attached was a copy of her sister's will, which was re-explained in plain language. At the end of the letter was a note that a second envelope was also enclosed, "to be given to you in the event of your sister's passing." The solicitor's name and private phone number, and his business card, was also enclosed.
Angela held the smaller envelope in her hand. On front was written, in perfect script, "To My Dear Sister, an explanation".
She tore open the letter and read.
