Chapter 10 – Surprise Guest

Cam pulled his car up to the curb, glancing at Sands nervously. There was no doubt that things were off with him, but then again, they had been since he'd returned from Mexico.

Sands had no choice but to rediscover himself now. He was in the middle of a transition that would either make him or break him.

It was clear to Cam that Sands had come to the realization that he would have to change. He was irreversibly blind, and no matter what he did, that fact would never change. Add to that the CIA's determination to bring him down in any way possible and Cam wasn't so sure that Sands was going to make it through. After escaping cruel torture at the hands of Dr. Guevara and being shot to hell, Sands was slowly being destroyed at the hands of his own agency. Worst of all, it was an agency powerful enough to get away with it. He wasn't sure even the great Officer Sands could stop it.

Sands produced his cane, turning towards Cam. "I'm in need of a little Intel," Sands said, his tone nonchalant. "And my sources tell me you're just the man for the job."

Cam smiled a little. "Well it is my specialty," he said with more confidence than he felt.

Sands nodded. It was clear he'd set his mind to something… had come up with some sort of plan. He wasn't going to divulge the information, but it was a relief to Cam that he was motivated again. "I need the home address of Dr. Alex Beck, and any other dirty little morsels of tasty information you can dig up."

"Cecelia's psychiatrist?" Cam asked, startled.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," he answered coolly as he opened the door.

"Alright, Jeff… I'll see what I can find."

Stepping out of the car, Sands extended his cane. He leaned back in, smirking. "Uh, Cam?"

"Yeah?"

"Make it snappy," he instructed. He didn't like the hesitance he heard in Cam's voice. "There's no time for your habitual pussy-footing." Slamming the door he turned and began making his way slowly to his apartment building, successfully securing the last word.

"Asshole," Cam muttered, putting the car in gear and stepping on the gas.

In the apartment's lobby Sands felt a vibration in his left pocket, immediately followed by the old James Bond theme from Goldfinger.

Ah, the Company must be following up on their prize catch. Sands thought with disgust, digging the cell phone out of his pocket and flipping it open.

"May I take your order?" he asked with sickeningly fake pleasantness.

"Sands?" a woman asked on the other end, and it only took him a moment to figure out it was the lady who set up all his appointments at OMS.

"Who else?" Sands queried. Unable to properly focus on the sounds around him to navigate the darkness and the conversation on the phone at the same time he located the small lobby's waiting area and took a seat.

"I'm calling to remind you of your appointment with Dr. Edwards at nine am tomorrow morning," she continued. He couldn't remember her name. Didn't care.

"So nice of you to call, Sweet-thing. Makes it easier for me to cancel."

He didn't want to deal with OMS now. There was a lot to be done, and dicking around with some two-bit psychiatrist was not high on his list of priorities.

"This isn't a request, Mr. Sands."

Frowning, Sands messaged his forehead, the makings of a splitting headache pushing against his frontal lobe. So he was officially demoted from 'officer' to 'mr.' now?

"Oh, I think I just heard a threat," he drawled.

"No, Mr. Sands. Policy. You've already missed several DLS classes in a row, and your first two appointments with Dr. Edwards. If you miss this next appointment we will discontinue treatment. We don't have time for no-shows."

Sands gritted his teeth, his hand tightly clutching the chair arm underneath it. Shit. He had to go, and he knew it. If he refused to show and they stopped his treatment at OMS he would be terminated from the Company, no questions asked. That didn't fit into his grand scheme.

"Well when you put it like that, I guess I'll be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," he said at last, then chuckled. "In a manner of speaking."

"We'll see you tomorrow, 9 o'clock."

The line went dead and Sands snapped his cell phone shut, hastily returning to his feet and shoving the cell back into his pocket.

He climbed the stairs, every muscle aching and dog-tired. He found his apartment door and tucked his cane away, searching for his keys. It took him a minute to find them, and once he did he slipped them into the lock. Opening the door, he stepped inside and immediately shut it. Leaning heavily against the door, he just stood there for a moment and listened. The apartment was quiet, the air stuffy.

Taking off his coat, he hung it up in the nearby closet and made a bee-line for his bedroom. He needed a scalding hot shower and sleep. If he didn't get some rest and mental clarity now, he'd be fucked. Well, even more fucked. He knew better than most the signs of psychological burnout, and he was displaying and feeling firsthand every single one of them. Heck, he may even be inventing some new ones.

His alarm screeched to life far too early for his liking, but as he rolled out of bed and stretched out his stiff muscles he could feel the positive effects of a good nights' rest, as clichéd as it sounded.

He took a shower, cleaned himself up and slipped his ever-present sunglasses on. It wouldn't do to show up to OMS looking like something the cat dragged in a week ago.

Getting dressed for the day he made his way to the living room and cracked open a window, letting out the stale air. Despite the crispness of the winter breeze, the draft was pleasant for the time being and helped his senses awaken and sharpen up for the coming day.

He shuffled into the kitchen. An involuntary chill tingled up his spine as he passed the fridge; the contents of the freezer still haunting him.

That show is still in rehearsal. No need to buy tickets yet.

He sighed as he scavenged up the necessary things to make a strong pot of coffee. He was just managing to pull himself back together and couldn't dwell on what was still in the freezer. He had a psychiatrist to deal with, a mentally ill wife to find, and a double-dealing weasel of a doctor take care of.

All in a day's work, he thought wryly as he dumped some ground coffee into the filter and turned on the coffee pot. He stood there next to it, listening as the water boiled and filtered through the machine, draining into the pot below. Steam hit the left side of his body, causing an odd sensation of hot and cold. He walked back into the living room. His body shivered suddenly as he shut the window. As the window latched shut, he froze.

That's it… that's the key. The physical.

He smiled. Perhaps he couldn't yet stop PsyOps from using their trigger on him again; not yet. But he might be able to negate its effectiveness on him until a more permanent solution could be achieved. The one sense all of PANDORA's incarnations and variations couldn't conquer was touch. Sight, smell and sound could be produced in your mind readily, but touch was more elusive. It was a weakness in PANDORA that they tried to unlock while he was on the project, and they hadn't come up with a solution.

He thought back to his hazy recollections of his visit to Windhill as he retraced his steps back to the coffee pot and poured himself a mug. He couldn't remember much and he probably never would. What he did remember was he was there to see Cecelia, and he thought he had. Then there was the disconnect; Cecelia's touch that hadn't felt right, voices that were oddly internal in nature.

They still had all the same problems he'd been trying to solve, it seemed. Perhaps study and testing hadn't continued as aggressively as he thought.

He took a swig of the piping hot coffee; it burned his mouth and throat, but to him it felt fucking fantastic because it felt real.

He reclined against the counter, honing in on one of the few things he remembered from his temporary trip to la-la-land; her touch. It had been impossible to pin-point what was wrong at the time, his mind too scrambled to decipher what was amiss.

Now, as he thought back, it was clear. It was like… his mind told him she'd touched him, and not like he'd felt her touch.

A knock on the door caused him to shift his head towards the sound out of habit. He sipped at his coffee, in no hurry to answer. The revelations he'd uncovered were calming to his stressed state of mind.

The second knock was the same as the first, but the third knock that echoed through his apartment was a little harder and more insistent.

He'd called Cam before his shower to see if he could drop him off at his nine o'clock appointment, and Cam had grudgingly agreed. Although it seemed a little early yet, the impatient person on the other side was most likely him.

"Yeah, yeah," he called, making his way to the door cautiously. With a hot cup of coffee in his hand he preferred to avoid any unknown obstructions in his path to the front door. Another knock sounded as Sands dodged the corner of his sofa. "Don't get your panties in a bunch," he called out, loud enough for the person to hear, as he closed the distance between himself and the door and grasped the doorknob.

'And if it's not Cam? ' his paranoid mind asked.

Well, I always have the hot cup of coffee.

He silently thanked his favorite teacher at the Farm for that little golden nugget of spy craft as he opened the door. "Hasn't anyone told you patience is a virtue?" Sands asked into the silence in front of him.

"As a matter of fact, I believe I told you that," said a deep and familiar voice that instantly left him at a loss for words. It was an occurrence so rare that it usually only happened once every ten years or so.

He could feel the shock begin to show on his face, and he quickly replaced it with a mask of indifference. He was sure he didn't fool the man in front of him, however.

Sands scoffed, not moving to let him in. "Then perhaps you ought to practice what you preach," Sands said, his tone like acid as he said the last word.

"We need to talk, Jeffery."

"Abyssus abyssum invocate."Sands cocked an eyebrow, and swallowed a healthy dose of coffee. "We've never felt the need to chit-chat before, so why start now?"

"Cecelia, for one."

Sands gripped his mug tighter, breathing in and out through his nose. He wondered if OMS contacted him about his 'condition' or if this was simply about Cecelia and the package he'd sent him months ago. It was most likely the latter, but he was paranoid about the possibility of the former. "What are you expecting, a confession? I've never been the type, Father."

The silence stretched, and the man shifted his weight uneasily before finally admitting quietly, with a sigh, "How well I know. Will you please let me in, son?"

"No," Sands replied immediately, still standing in the middle of the doorway, blocking entry. "And if you call me that again, I'll silence you for good," he said, deadly serious. "I've never been that much to you before so there isn't any point in hopping on that bandwagon this late in the game."

"Jeffrey…"

"I have appointments to keep, business to attend to… not a good time for a tete-a-tete."

"I can't take no for an answer. There are things that need to be –"

Sands cut him off by shutting the door in dear ol' dad's face, effectively silencing him mid-sentence. Sands locked it to accentuate his point, before taking another sip of coffee and listening intently. His father said and did nothing at first, then after a lengthy silence finally spoke.

"We'll talk tonight." Then, he moved away from the door. Sands exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Don't count on it old man," Sands muttered to himself, taking a seat on the sofa and depositing his mug on the coffee table. He inclined his head back and willed himself to relax again. Despite his words, he knew in his gut he'd have to face his father again soon.

The next time, there might be no hiding what he'd become.

Weak.

His father would be so proud… proven right after all these years.

Sands remained on the couch, nearly motionless, for at least ten minutes before what his father had said truly sank in.

Cecelia…

He sat up abruptly, his foot kicking the coffee table as he came to the realization that his father might just be able to deliver exactly what he needed.

Access to Cecelia.

If his father could get Cecelia transferred out of the viper pit she was currently in then he'd have the access to her he needed to find out about PANDORA. He couldn't do it himself; not without a lot of unwanted attention. However it was likely the Company might let his father take control of her, if simply for the fact that it would mean Sands no longer had it. The Company would see his father as a pawn who would be easy to manipulate and bypass if need be. As a bonus, she might even be less guarded than she currently was, at least for a short span of time.

Sands snatched up his mug and downed the rest of his coffee in a single swallow. Another knock on his door sounded, and Cam's voice immediately followed. "Hey, you ready or what?"

In better spirits, Sands pondered the wonders of perception. Thinking of his father as a useful tool rather than an unwanted annoyance eliminated almost all of the dread he was feeling at their next meeting. There was still that underlying disgrace of discovery… the thought of his father being privy to his blindness caused a well of anxiety that could not be so easily erased. But perhaps even that could be used to his advantage, much as he hated it.

He opened the door and no doubt Cam looked as irritated as he sounded. "You say I'm slow?"

"You bet your bippy I do." Sands opened the closet door, grabbed his coat and slipped it on. He didn't take out his cane as he closed the door behind him, instead following the sound of Cam's footsteps a couple of paces in front of him. If his old man was still around, watching, he didn't want to let the cat out of the bag quite yet.

Sands followed Cam out of the apartment building, the cold hitting him full force as freezing drizzle struck his face. He buttoned up his coat and dug out the leather gloves he had tucked away in his pocket. He slid them on, his mind harkening back to a time when he hadn't put them on because of the cold but because a young Mexican kid handed them to him before he went out to make his final stand.

Funny, Sands felt like nothing had changed since that day. Only now his final stand wouldn't be with guns, but with his talent for a good mind fuck. The target of his revenge was no longer the Barillo cartel's goons, but the Company that he'd given everything to willingly.

It had been willingly. He could admit that now. The Company gave him power and opened the door to a freedom to do whatever he needed to do to achieve his objective. He'd have killed to have that sort of control, and in point of fact, did just that. That sort of power didn't come without a hefty price, and his time to pay the piper had arrived tenfold, and far earlier in his career than he'd have wished.

Before Mexico he'd naively believed in his own ability to dodge the piper… to escape with the power and the control without any debt to be paid.

Guess you have to grow up sometime, huh hotshot?

Sands got in Cam's car and rubbed his hands together as Cam started the engine.

Well he'd paid the piper. Now it was time to get his life back, and it was establishing itself to be the most difficult mission he'd ever been assigned.

Enjoying the warmth that blasted out of Cam's heater vents, he attempted to dry off his face with a sleeve. The effect was not exactly what he was hoping for, the damp coat sleeve only wetting his face further.

"There's some Kleenex in the glove," Cam said, startling him. Cam had been particularly quiet this morning and Sands thought he might know why.

Opening the glove compartment Sands rooted around in its contents until he found a travel size Kleenex pack and pulled one out. He ignored his face, which was mostly dry now from the blasting heat, and instead removed his sunglasses and wiped off the lenses.

After he replaced his sunglasses and tossed the Kleenex he couldn't say why the hell he'd bothered to wipe them off in the first place. It wasn't like it mattered… wasn't like a smudged pair of sunglasses was going to bother him… not anymore.

Old habits die hard.

He sighed, and directed his attentions to his seemingly reluctant partner in crime. "Well Cam, I'm off to see the wizard. You got anything you'd like me to tell him?"

"He's a fraud, you know."

"Even frauds can be all powerful. Stop stalling."

"Sorry, I learned from the best," Cam said dryly. He was definitely not in the best of moods. "I was planning on looking into that today."

Sands could tell by his voice that something was bothering him about the request. "Any particular reason why you're going about this at a tortoise's pace?"

"When you get the information, what are you going to do, Jeff?"

Ah. So that was it.

He's probably frightened that I'm going to lose it… maybe even kill the bastard.

Wasn't like his worry was unwarranted either. Nevertheless he'd have to assuage Cam's doubts if he hoped to get the information he needed on dear Doctor Beck.

"Don't look so scared, Cam," he said with a healthy amount of sarcasm. "It makes people suspicious."

"I just…"

"Can't deal with what I might do?" Sands cut in easily.

Silence, some rustling of clothes that sounded like it could have been a nod but it was impossible for him to tell for sure.

Cam took a turn a bit faster than his normally cautious driving would allow for and Sands had to brace himself so that he didn't knock his head into the window.

"I won't kill him," Sands finally said, sounding thoroughly convincing and ever so sincere. He wasn't sure that he meant it. "I might get the hook and force him off the stage," he continued easily. "But that's what happens when you finish a lousy performance."

Cam didn't rush his answer, but Sands was secretly pleased when it came. "Alright Jeff, I'll get the information… but you better not be lying to me."

Cam slowed, pulling into a parking spot as Sands answered with a smile, "Cross my heart…" He was wise enough not to finish that sentence with 'and hope to die' as Cam killed the engine and took the keys out of the ignition.

Despite not seeing the gaze Cam had leveled on him, he could certainly feel it. He still marveled at that mysterious sixth sense, having noticed it more now that another much more dominant one had been taken away.

"I'll have it by tonight," Cam said at last.

Sands smiled. "Good boy."

Latin Translations

Abyssus abyssum invocate. – Hell calls hell.