Chapter 4 – Adeste Fideles
Sands snatched his hand back quickly, as if the body might suddenly spring to life and bite him. Still shaky from his attacker's stranglehold, he lost his balance, falling back.
This could only be one of two people; Cam or Ava, and the scale was tipping in Ava's favor. He breathed deeply, and shifted his weight so that he rested on his knees.
He took another breath, trying to clear his spinning head enough to decide what to do. He never used to have this problem before. Deciding what to do; It had always been so clear… it wasn't anymore.
On one hand, he desperately wanted – and needed – to know who was lying in front of him. On the other hand, he couldn't afford being seen with a dead body in the park. If he was found kneeling beside the body, or any evidence pointed to him, it could be used by the Company as a smoking gun.
He needed to find his cane, or make sure that it wasn't here. He thought he heard the man drop it, so odds were that he'd left it somewhere near the body.
For now, he avoided the body as best he could while searching the ground for his cane. As his hands brushed along the flagstones he thought about the implications of this visit from his not-so-friendly friend.
Ava. She would be a great asset to him in his current situation, so if it was indeed her lying dead before him, it was much to his regret. Then again, the thought of Cam lying in front of him wasn't any more comforting.
Coming up empty handed in the search for his cane, he stood up slowly. Although still weak, he was feeling much better than he had a minute before.
Stepping around the body he continued the hunt. He realized then how close to the river he must be, because he could hear the water. A car honked off in the distance. He briefly wondered if it was the taxi driver getting fed up with waiting, but the sound seemed too far away. He hadn't walked all that far, had he?
He groaned, knowing that there was probably only one place a crazy bastard like that would leave the cane. How about right where Sands would want to leave the least amount of evidence possible?
Sands reached for the body, aiming for the stomach. He guessed a little high, but sure enough there it was, underneath a hand.
Taking hold of the cane with one of his hands, he examined the body's hand with the other.
Long, slender fingers. A ring on the pinky. Well-manicured fingernails.
It wasn't Cam. It was most definitely a woman, and it all added up to one lady; Ava.
Shifting his weight and using the cane to lean on, he slid his hand up from her fingers to her wrist. Squeezing, he felt for a pulse. He didn't expect to find one, and wasn't surprised when he didn't.
"Guess this was your swan song, Sugar."
His touch moved back to her pinky finger. Pulling a sleeve over his hand, he took off Ava's ring, knowing that D.C. forensics could lift a fingerprint off it, and rubbed it against his thigh. Once he was sure that he'd wiped off any fingerprints, he replaced the ring on her finger and got the hell out of Dodge.
"Can I help you?" asked the young woman at the front desk. She had an energy and enthusiasm that could only exist in someone who was completely new to desk duty.
"Yes. I'm here to see Cecelia Sands."
"OK," she said, looking down at a monitor that must have been a decade old and pecking at the keyboard as she looked up the patient. Her index finger tapped on the side of the keyboard as she waited. "Are you a relative?" she asked as Cecelia's information appeared on the screen.
"Yes. Sheldon Sands," he replied.
Her finger stopped tapping. A thin, dark eyebrow quirked as her eyes moved away from the monitor to the man standing in front of her. Their ages didn't fit. Cecelia Sands was thirty-five, and the man in front of her was sixty if he was a day. But then, it wasn't unheard of for a woman to marry someone twice her age, especially if he was rich.
"You have an appointment?" she asked, seeing that there wasn't anyone listed for Cecelia today.
"Oh, should I have made one?"
"We prefer it, but you came by during visiting hours so you should be fine. Identification, please?"
He opened his wallet, showing her his driver's license. Everything looked kosher, so she nodded, typed a quick note, and sent him off to Cecelia's room.
It was a small room, barren of any harmful objects. Safe. Sterile. No personal items adorned the room. He couldn't imagine how dreary and monotonous it must be to live in such surroundings day in and day out. He instantly felt sorry for the poor woman.
She sat on the bed; knees folded up to her chest, her chin resting on them. There was a single window, four feet square, affording a view of another wing of the sanitarium and a small portion of the surrounding grounds. That view was marred by steel bars, preventing patients on the upper floors from "checking out early" by taking a sudden leap.
Cecelia said nothing when he entered the room, nor did she shift her gaze, which currently rested on the opposite wall. Her glazed-over eyes told him that she probably wasn't even aware of his presence.
Cecelia's clothing was simple and as dreary as the rest of her surroundings. They were light gray, and looked like a cross between a prison uniform and a hospital gown. Her hair was cut shorter than he remembered it; a simple bob, straight and limp. It was easier to manage that way, he supposed.
She continued to stare off into space, and he didn't wish to rush her, so he walked over to the window to get a better view of the grounds.
As he looked out the small window, he thought of the last time he'd seen Cecelia; it was at the wedding. He would have liked to know her better – she seemed like a driven and spirited girl. It hurt to see her now, witnessing first hand what fate had in store for her all along. He wished now that he'd stayed in touch somehow… perhaps he could have prevented this.
Sighing, he turned to her. He'd never gotten along well with his son. They were like night and day. It was because of their volatile relationship that he hadn't kept in touch with either of them. He knew nothing of his son's life… if Cecelia and Jeff had conceived a child together, he probably wouldn't have known that either. Jeff had completely cut himself off from his family by the time he was nineteen. It was only because of Cecelia that he'd been invited to the wedding, and Jeff had no kind words to say to him during the entire affair.
He hadn't spoken to Jeff since. They hadn't exchanged a telephone conversation, a holiday greeting card, or a letter. There'd not been a single item of correspondence, not until Jeff's package a few weeks ago.
He had to admit that when he opened the letter and saw his son's handwriting he'd felt a fleeting sense of fatherly joy. They'd never gotten along, and he'd never really liked his son, but time could change a person… Well, no point in dwelling on what he'd felt at the time, because all hopes he had were dashed within a few seconds of opening the small package. It was postmarked from Mexico, of all places. Was that where Jeff was living now? Inside was a short note, nothing more. It was odd and disjointed and hard to read. Most of all, it was disturbing. The gist of it was that Jeff was apparently in a mess of trouble – only a matter of time as far as he was concerned – and needed him to hold on to the enclosed items. Oh, and don't open said items, either.
So he hadn't opened the small manila envelope enclosed within the larger one. His curiosity was killing him. He had to admit he'd held that small envelope in his hands, contemplating the possibility of opening it, at least a dozen times. But he never did open it. He wasn't sure why; if it was out of loyalty, habit, or fear of what might be inside.
He turned back to the window, and noticed approaching storm clouds.
"He's always watching."
Sheldon turned to see Cecelia looking at him. When their eyes met, he let out a small gasp.
"Oh!" he said, putting a hand to his chest. "You startled me. Who's watching?" he asked, walking over to her.
"He is. He watches from outside the window. From the cameras. From the little window in the door." She leaned towards him, a hand grasping the bottom of his sportscoat with surprising strength. Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "He even watches my dreams."
He had the feeling that he knew who she was speaking of; his son. Jeff had not done well by her, but it was clear to him that his son was not capable of being a worthy husband to anyone. He was born without certain necessary qualities, it seemed.
"He's not watching you, Sweetie," he said, after a moment. He knew it was probably useless, but he said it anyway.
"He keeps them from letting me out. Always watching my door. No soul. No eyes, no soul."
He didn't point out that someone without eyes couldn't watch her. "Everyone has a soul. Even my son," he said softly. "Although sometimes even I have a hard time believing that."
"He's not real."
He furrowed his brow as he saw her gaze return to the opposite wall. It was hard to follow her, yet he instinctively knew what she meant despite her babbling. In a mad way, it all made sense. His son was capable of being many people, and of putting up a thoroughly convincing front whenever he wanted. It's what made knowing his son impossible; you could never really know a man like that. The sad truth of it was his son probably didn't know himself either.
"You're right," he said at last. He could see his response startled her, because she met his eyes again.
"I am?" She blinked, nonplussed, and then slowly lowered her legs to the ground. She looked at him a bit longer, then bit her lower lip and asked quietly, "Do I know you?"
"I'm Jeff's father. We met at your wedding."
Her eyes hardened, the quizzical expression on her face vanishing. "You're part of it. You're just another pair of his eyes." She stood. "He's always watching!" she shouted, coming towards him. "Always watching, always watching!"
Sheldon felt the urge to back away, but stood his ground. Although she was definitely disturbed, he thought that perhaps if he didn't get excited himself he could get through to her. "No. Jeff and I have not spoken for years. Not since the wedding. That's why we've only met once before."
Cecelia stopped, hands coming up to the sides of her face. She shook her head violently. "I can always feel him. Always. He's in my head!" She began to sob. "Get him out!"
He frowned. "Has Jeff come to visit you?" he asked, but before he got an answer the door to the room opened and two orderlies rushed in. One held a syringe, the other moved to hold Cecelia. As the orderly with the syringe sedated Cecelia, the other one told him that his visit was over.
As he exited the room he couldn't help but wonder what his son had done to her.
"I'm in D.C. Ava's body is in the park. Did she work for the NSA? CIA? I thought I heard El. The person who attacked me killed Ava, but let me go. Why do that? I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. A mariachi takes Washington? Cecelia is being transferred by Sheldon Sands," Sands mumbled. He was talking to himself quietly, not fully aware that he was speaking out loud. Too many thoughts flew through his mind at once, causing a monumental state of confusion.
None of it made sense. None of it. What event had to do with another? What was relevant and what was coincidence?
Then something came to him, and it stopped him in mid stride. Dry leaves blew across the path in front of him. A dog barked in the distance. "Vae!"
He picked up his pace.
Luckily the park wasn't busy, and Sands made it to the taxi without passing a single person. It was for the best, because he knew he must look like something the cat dragged in. He'd rather shoot an innocent bystander than answer nosy questions right then. He needed to think.
The taxi driver was as good as his word, and was still waiting with the taxi – and the meter – running. Sands hopped inside and shut the door. A slight chill ran down his back, and he convinced himself that it was from the frosty air outside, and not from finding Ava's dead body.
The cabbie asked where he wanted to go, and he gave the driver an address as he leaned back against the seat in exhaustion.
After leaving Cecelia's room, Sheldon tracked down the nurse who'd helped him earlier. It wasn't hard, as she was still in the same place he'd left her.
She looked up at him and smiled. "Yes?"
"Yeah, I just wanted to make sure my contact information is up to date."
"Sure," she said, moving back over to the computer. "What was the last name again?" she asked apologetically.
"Sands." He took an informational brochure out of its holder on the desk as he answered, and removed a pen from his inside coat pocket.
She nodded, and typed in the information. "Sheldon, right?"
"Yes."
She read off a cell phone number and apartment address, and he quickly jotted it down. He told her the information was correct, and then gave her an alternate phone number to keep her busy while he wrote down the last bit of the address. She looked up from the screen just as he folded the brochure in half and slipped it in his pocket.
"Well, that should do it," he said. "Thanks."
"Have a good evening, Mr. Sands."
He heard the buzz of the drill, and the sense of dread that came after was all consuming. He opened his eyes as sweat beaded on his brow. His vision was hazy and blurred at first; a result of the drug that ran through his veins. It made him feel numb all over, but he was still aware of what was going on around him.
He saw her first. That bitch, Ajedrez.
At least, that's who it should have been. But belatedly he realized it wasn't her.
It was Cecelia. He only saw her for a moment before his vision was blocked by Guevara, but he saw her long enough to register the cold, cruel smile on her lips.
"Sorry, Baby. I told you I wasn't interested in your schemes."
She said something more, but the sound of the drill, now in his line of sight, drowned out whatever it was.
As the pain hit, he jolted awake.
The feeling of motion made him feel slightly nauseated as he came back to reality; the tick of the turn signal reminding him of where he was. The taxi driver said nothing, but Sands felt the man's curious eyes on him as the taxi slowed, then made a right turn.
Sands rolled down the window, feeling suffocated in the stuffy cab. It smelled of sweat and stale French fries, most likely left over from the cabby's quick drive-through lunch. The fresh air helped alleviate his queasiness as he wiped the sweat off his brow with a portion of his sleeve.
Calm. Down.
He needed to deal with Cecelia. He needed to talk to Cam. He had to get back the microdots he'd taken off Jackson's body. He had to stop the Company from framing him. He needed to know what information Ava had for him.
'Easy as cherry pie.'
Most of all, he needed to get a grip.
He had a busy week ahead of him.
Latin Translations
Adeste Fideles – Oh come, all ye faithful.
Vae – Damn