A/N: Hey, folks! My best to you in these troubled days!


(She Was A) Hotel Detective

Chapter Twenty: The Tic-Toc Polka


Tuesday, November 9, 1965
Chicago, Somewhere on the Northside
2:07 am


As she watched Shaw and Lombardo, accordion music wafted into Sarah's mind, auditory imagery, with vocals:

Tick, tick, tick tock
Goes the clock on the wall
As we're dancing the evening away
Tick, tick, tick tock
Goes my heart
With the clock beating time
While the music is played

Chuck.

Tick, tick, tick tock. The Mustang's clock.


Shaw looked at the gun, almost cradling it in his hands, a child swaddled in a pewter baby blanket.

The gun and Chuck's prints on it were no longer at the forefront of Sarah's interest, they had moved into the background: what was salient was the fact that Lombardo had the gun. Larkin thought Joey had killed Maria. It looked that way as Sarah watched Shaw re-wrap the gun and continue talking with Joey in the low light, their conversation visible in clouds to Sarah but not audible to her.

Sarah needed a plan. She did not have one; she had a hope, a hope that Lombardo either had Tomek's records or knew where they were. She had assumed that Larkin did not. His answers to her confirmed her suspicion that the Outfit was using him as a drone; Larkin was not really much in the know.

Shaw might be higher on the food chain — in fact, he almost certainly was, since he was a police detective, and those did not come cheap for the mob. But Sarah's gut told her that Shaw was not Tomek's killer, and that Shaw little more than Larkin was likely to be entrusted with the records.

It was Lombardo. He was key.

She scanned around the car, the area. There seemed to be no one in sight but her, Shaw and Lombardo. And Larkin out-of-sight, in the trunk. Shaw tucked the cloth-wrapped gun under his arm. The body language of both men changed. They were finishing, nearly finished.

Tick, tick, tock, Sarah. What now?

Chuck's waiting. He could be dying.

Sarah's hands were shaking again, wrapped tight around the cold steering wheel. A car passed her, the parking lot, drove on into the swirling snow, disappeared.

She had become Sarah Spook but it no longer felt familiar. She was not Sarah Spook, Agent Walker, and putting her on was like wedging herself into clothes that were too tight, that cut off circulation — to and from her heart. She had only just discovered Sarah Walker, hotel detective, the girlfriend of Chuck Bartowski, the friend of Carina and Casey and Morgan...and Ellie. A woman with possibilities. She had far less practice being that woman, but Sarah Walker, hotel detective, — that was the woman she wanted to be.

Earlier, in Algernon's car, as she came more and more to see Jeff Barnes as Algernon, Sarah Walker, Detective, became more and more possessed by Agent Walker. A woman with no possibilities. Sarah's dead past claiming her living present. She wanted the living present, her living present, Chuck.

But: later. Now: she was who she had been. Almost. Sort of. Temporarily.

Please, please let it be temporary.

The Mustang was running still, the engine throbbing quietly. Sarah had cut the headlights when Lombardo turned into the parking lot. Shaw had the gun wrapped and beneath his arm still. If Lombardo had a gun, it was under his coat.

Sarah put her gun, Larkin's gun, in her lap. Unsheathing the combat knife, she put it in the passenger seat beside her. She rolled down her window, letting the cold blow in — snowflakes in the cabin.

She eased the Mustang out of the spot near the curb and pulled into the roadway, crossing the center to give herself a better angle. Then, she increased her speed, wheeled the car into the parking lot. It slid on the snow but then the tired caught, the car shot forward. She turned on the headlights as she did, and heard Larkin roll and thud in the trunk.

"Hey!"

Sarah paid no attention to his muffled protest. She gunned the Mustang, aiming it at the two men who were standing, frozen, staring into her headlights, deer.

Sarah grabbed her gun with her left hand. She was competent with either hand. Shaw dropped the wrapped gun in the snow, reaching beneath his jacket for his own gun.

Lombardo had not moved: he was grinning — grinning — into the headlights.

Shaw, his hand still in his jacket, started to run. Sarah cut the wheel sharply, the rear of the Mustang sliding to her left. She hit him with the rear of the car, and he sprawled into the snow.

Lombardo had calmly put his hand in his jacket as the car slid into Shaw.

He now had his gun out — and pointed through the windshield at Sarah, standing in the Mustang's lights like they were a spotlight. He was still grinning. The Clown.

The Clown with a .44 Magnum.

Sarah ducked.

Lombardo's gun roared.

The windshield shattered and broken glass showered onto Sarah like ice.

She put her gun up and fired in Lombardo's direction, reaching across to the passenger door as she did. Lombardo fired again and foam from the backseat exploded into the air.

Sarah pulled the handle of the passenger door and pushed it open. Lombardo's Magnum roared again; he fired at the passenger door. Sarah took the moment to grab the knife. She rose and twisted in her seat, bringing her body around as she did and hurling the knife, sidearm, at Lombardo.

The knife wedged deep in Lombardo's right shoulder, the shoulder of his gun arm. "Goddamn it," he grunted, his gun arm sagging, his grin becoming a grimace.

Shots rang out from the other side of the car.

Sarah heard them hit the Mustang. Shaw.

Sarah fired one shot in his direction before ducking down again.

She scrambled out of the passenger door, using it for cover, gathering herself in a crouch behind it, shifting the gun from one hand to the other. She stood suddenly and aimed as she did. Lombardo tried to get his gun up but, knife in his shoulder, he was too slow. She fired and hit him in the left knee.

Bellowing in pain, he crumpled. Sarah ducked again and worked her way toward the rear of the car.

She heard Shaw. "Joey! Joey! Shit, I think my leg is broken."

Sarah stood again, but not to her full height. She located Shaw in the snow, on his back, as if he were making a snow angel. He saw her and raised his gun. Sarah fired and Shaw screamed, the gun flying from his hand and his hand splashing red. "Shit!"

Sarah ducked down again. She ran, crouched, behind the Mustang, then along the driver's side, ignoring Shaw's moaning and cursing as he now cradled his wounded hand She got to the front and peeked around. Lombardo still had his gun in his hand and he fired. The shot grazed Sarah's shoulder and it burnt, a glowing brand pressed to her flesh.

Ignoring the pain, she stood up instead of peeking around. Lombardo did not expect it. Sarah fired again, hitting him in his gun arm. The Magnum fell into the snow.

Sarah wheeled to check on Shaw. He was still cradling his hand. She then noted that his right leg was bent at an impossible angle, broken. She turned back to The Clown.

He too was seated in the snow. Around his knee, the snow had reddened, slushed. Steam rose. He saw Sarah and she saw him glance hungrily at his Magnum.

"Don't. I will kill you."

He obeyed.

Sarah reached him and kicked the Magnum under the Mustang.

Lombardo was eyeing her with rage and hatred. "A mother-fucking woman? You've got to be kidding me."

Sarah gave him a frozen smile and put her gun in his face. "Did you kill Maria Tomek?"

"You're her," Lombardo said, his eyes widening, "the bitch brunette ghost who attacked the guys at Mario's. The one Larkin used to fu…"

Sarah pushed the gun against Lombardo's forehead. "Don't finish that sentence or I will finish you. Yes, I am the bitch brunette. But Larkin never touched me."

Lombardo smirked through his pain and anger. "Figures. Cocksure bastard never could admit that any woman could keep her legs closed when near him. He thinks he's the Moses of the Pink Sea."

Sarah did not respond. "Answer my question, Joey." Sarah reached under her gun arm and grasped the hilt of the combat knife, still deep in Lombardo's shoulder. She twisted it, hard. Interrogation, the 'premier course'. She felt bile rise in her throat.

Lombardo grunted, his lips pressed together. "Yeah, yeah, I killed the little dancing whore."

"Do you know where she hid the records, the ones she and Manny Sklar kept?"

Lombardo looked surprised. "Jesus, does everyone want those damn things?"

Sarah twisted the knife again. "Damn. Damn! Okay. Okay." He took a ragged breath. "She let me in. She was expecting someone else, I think, all festive. I put my gun to her head and asked for the records. She told me they weren't there. 'There're at home', that's what she said. I ended her." Lombardo could have been relating a trip to the grocery.

Sarah stood up, stepping back from Lombardo. Home?

Lombardo went on, her movement not seeming to register; he was going into shock. "I told Accardo that. I couldn't tell if he understood or not…" Lombardo's eyes glassed over.

Sarah walked to Lombardo's car quickly. She opened it and took out the keys. She picked up the wrapped gun. Lombardo had passed out. Shaw was watching her.

"What the hell are you, lady? No one can do what you just did. Manhandle Joey The Clown."

She ignored him.

And then she thought of Larkin. She got the keys out of the Mustang and opened the trunk. Larkin was staring up at her, unblinking. Unbreathing.

She reached out and put her hand on his throat. No pulse. Either Lombardo's shots or Shaw's had punctured the trunk and punctured Larkin. She did not take the time to try to figure it out.

She closed the trunk on Larkin's unclosed eyes. She wobbled as she stood, almost vomited. After a moment, the cold wind steadied her.

She walked to Shaw's car. He was still watching her. "You're going to leave?"

"Yes. Good luck explaining this, Detective Shaw. Leave me out of it or I will find you and finish this. I promise." The word of the Ice Queen.

The promise affected Shaw. He nodded. "But I'll bleed to death out here. You can't just leave me, can't leave me out in the snow."

"I can and I will."

She got in his car. The keys were in the ignition. She started it and pulled out of the lot, leaving the carnage behind her.

She stopped at the first phone booth she found and made an anonymous emergency call. Then she got back in the car. Drove.

She abandoned the car a few blocks from the hotel and she walked, numb, exhausted, trembling in the cold and snow, back toward the Palmer House. Toward Chuck.

Walking in the snow.


Paris, France.

She had walked in the snow to the cafe where she was supposed to meet her contact. The cold had driven the cafe-goers inside. Sarah sat down at a corner table to wait. She had the package with her.

Sarah did not know what was in the large envelope. Joad had not explained. All she knew was that a woman would approach her, use a particular phrase, and Sarah would give the woman the package.

Sarah's partner on the mission was an agent stationed in Paris, Bonita Feres. Like Sarah, she was an agent with a nickname: Boneyard. She was a small woman with short black hair that capped cruel hazel eyes. She had never had any partner for long but she seemed to be a favorite of Joad's.

In fact, he had been Joad's very favorite until he had recruited Sarah.

Bonita had made it clear that she was unhappy working with Sarah. Their exchanges had been charged with resentment on Bonita's side and they had exchanged hardly a word beyond what the mission required. Sarah was unsure why any back-up was necessary for such a mission but Joad had insisted. Sarah assumed the package must have been important enough to merit the extra agent.

Sarah returned Bonita's dislike but not for any reason connected to Joad. She found the woman disturbing. There was something about her. Part of it was the nickname and the Langley rumors about how she came to have it. But mainly it was the woman herself. She was wholly devoid of warmth. When she looked at Sarah, at anyone, it was with a gaze that might have been appropriate for examining a rock, but not for interacting with a living, sentient being.

Bonita was across the small square, keeping watch from a distance. Sarah sipped her coffee and watched as the snowflakes fell, dancing in the lights of the City of Lights. She heard a woman clear her throat and Sarah turned.

The woman, a girl, really, stood near Sarah's table. Two men, boys, stood behind her. Sarah tingled. This was not how the meet was supposed to go. The young woman licked her lips, nervous. "Winter in Paris is beautiful, but not for the faint of heart." Her English was good but not great, heavily accented. "Yes, a poet must brave the cold." Sarah offered in response. The girl sat down at the table. Sarah retrieved the package from her bag and handed it as unobtrusively as possible to the young woman.

She extended her arm and took the package with a trembling hand. Sarah noticed a small tattoo on the inside of the young woman's wrist. It was a tattoo worn by members of a violent group in the Paris underground, a group dedicated to political terror. Sarah kept herself from reacting to what she had seen.

The woman tucked the package underneath her leather jacket. As the exchange took place, one of the two young men had repositioned himself behind Sarah. The young woman looked up at him then across at Sarah. "You will come with us."

Sarah shook her head. "No, that's not how this plays out. Take the package — and leave." She put command into her words.

The young woman looked back up at the young man, then back across at Sarah. "We are playing by our rules."

Sarah knew she could likely extricate herself from the situation. The young woman and the young man she could still see, a slightly plump, curly-headed blonde, were struggling with their own fear. They had not done this kind of thing before.

The young man behind her seemed to be the one in charge. Sarah decided to go along with it. If she was going to have to extricate herself, it would be better to do it in a less public spot. And Bonita was out there, presumably watching all this.

Sarah let the threesome lead her out of the cafe. They walked along the streets for a distance, each turn taking them onto yet a more narrow street. Finally, they stopped in front of a rundown building, some sort of hotel or hostel.

They climbed the stairs and entered a room. The young man Sarah had not been able to see now took charge, pulling a gun from his pocket. "Sit." He motioned to a chair. Sarah sat.

"Heloise, check the package." The young woman reacted immediately. She tore open the envelope. Inside was a large, a very large sum of money, in francs.

The young man took the stack of money and looked at it. He turned to Sarah. "We want more."

"Peter…" Heloise said, giving him a look.

It was then that Sarah realized that these were, really, children. They were playing at being provocateurs, but that was the word, 'playing'. Even the leader, Peter, was unsure, insecure in his part. Sarah was certain that she could talk her way out of this.

She opened her mouth to speak when the room's door opened at the same time. Four heads turned to the door at once. Three spits — and Peter, Heloise, and the curly-headed boy, — all were dead. Three blue holes in three foreheads. Bonita entered the room, blowing the smoke away from the silencer of her pistol.

"Get up, Walker. Gotta go. Mission's done."

Sarah had been too shocked, too appalled, to do anything but get up. Bonita led her away from the room, down the stairs, to the street. They walked a distance and then Bonita stopped.

"Okay, so we are done. All good." Bonita's smile was a smile Sarah wanted to forget as soon as she saw it. The skeletal teeth. Boneyard.

"What the hell just happened?"

"The CIA sent a message, that's what. Too many hungry kids thinking that violence is the pathway to change. We're not interested in their changes."

"You...executed them. They were just...children."

Bonita shrugged. "Not my call. I just do the job."

"Why was I necessary? Why use me?"

"Joad's call. I guess he wanted to see how you would...react. I told him beforehand. You're too soft to do this job, the real job. That's what I will put in my report."

Sarah fought back the urge to attack the woman. She turned and walked away, into the snowy night. Sarah wanted to walk away from it all, the corpses of kids, Bonita, Joad, the lies, the compromises. But she was not sure she was strong enough.

It was the only life she'd ever known, even if it was a shadow-life.


She entered the lobby, bright and warm, the murals floating on the ceiling above her. The lobby was empty, except for Devon, in a chair, and Robert, at the desk.

Devon saw her and got up, crossing to her quickly. She was standing, staring up at the murals, the twenty-four karat, gold-winged, Tiffany candelabras.

"Sarah, Sarah," Devon whispered, "are you okay?" Sarah lowered her eyes to his kind face just in time to see him notice the gash in her coat's shoulder. She had somehow forgotten it, blocked out the pain. Devon moved to obscure Robert's vision of her shoulder. "Come on, let's go to the office."

Sarah walked beside Devon down the hallway and then down the stairs. A moment later, they were in the office. Devon took her hand and led her to his desk chair.

"Sit, I'll see what I can do."

He helped her take off her jacket. The numbness was lifting, the burning noticeable again. Devon put her jacket aside. He looked at her shoulder, rolling up the sleeve of her blouse.

"You were grazed. A bullet?" He gave her a questioning look. She just nodded. "Um...okay. It's not too deep."

He opened a desk drawer and took out a first aid kit. Working quickly, he cleaned and bandaged the wound. Sarah was slowly reoccupying her own body. She shivered.

"I think there's a blanket in the storage room down the hall."

"No, Devon. Take me to Chuck. I need Chuck." She could hear the need in her own voice as well as feel it.

He nodded. "But first, call Ellie. Tell her to come to Chuck's room in a few minutes. Tell her to be careful."

Devon nodded. He picked up the phone and dialed in-house. He waited. "Eleanor? Um, Ellie, this is Devon. Sorry to wake you, but Sarah wants you to go up to Chuck's room. Wait a few minutes, then go up. Be careful no one is watching you. Okay, yes, I will be there too."

Devon hung up the phone. "Done. What now?"

"Let's go up. Keep a lookout, Devon; I'm too tired to be much help." Sarah began to shake all over.

She leaned against Devon and he led her to the elevator.


"Sarah!" Chuck whispered her name.

He was dressed and seated in a chair when Devon unlocked the door. Playback fell out of Chuck's lap as he jumped up — but he did not give it a second look. He crossed the room in two strides and took Sarah in his long arms.

As soon as he did, she began to weep.

"Sarah, Sarah. Shhhh. I've been so worried."

She said nothing, did not try to say anything.

She felt the ghost of Agent Walker leaving her, dispossessing her, as Chuck's embrace warmed her. She let her tears flow.

Chuck held her close, saying nothing more. They stood like that for a long time.

When her sobs stopped, Chuck spoke again. "What's happened to you? Devon, what's going on?"

"I don't know for sure, Chuck. She just walked into the lobby, zombie-like. She had the injury. A bullet grazed her. She hasn't explained it."

Sarah looked up into Chuck's face. "Take me to the bed and hold me and I will tell you all about it. But we need Ellie here too."

A moment later there was a soft knock on the door. Devon checked the peep-hole. "Ellie."

He let her in. She was in her Palmer House robe, belted closed, an empty ice-bucket in her hands. Although it looked as though she had tried to straighten it, her hair was tangled from sleep. She held up the bucket, smirking sleepily. "Camouflage."

She saw Sarah and immediately handed Devon the bucket. "Sarah, what happened?" She checked the wound. "Did you bandage this, Devon?" He nodded. "Good job."

Sarah let Chuck and Ellie lead her to the bed. She kicked off her wet shoes and pulled back the covers. She got in the bed, seated, her legs and feet beneath the blanket. She motioned for Chuck to join her. He did, sitting beside her.

She leaned into him and sat quietly for a moment. Ellie sat down on the end of the bed and Devon sat down in the armchair Chuck, putting the empty ice bucket next to Playback on the floor.

Sarah reveled in Chuck's heartbeat against her, thump-thump-thumping. And then it hit her, hard: Tick, tick, tock.

Ellie and Devon were looking at her, expectant. Chuck was rubbing his hand softly against her back. She wanted to sleep but she had to talk instead.

"I'm going to tell you about what happened to me tonight. About...what I did." She glanced at Chuck, then at her watch. Tick, tick, tock.

"But before I start, I need to tell you that this room is bugged — by the KGB."

"What?!"

Three voices asked the same question at the same time.


A/N: Yes, I know, the story's darkened in these last chapters as the spy world, and Sarah's difficult memories of it, intrude into the story. The story will not become a dark, angsty tale but it had to have this dark, angsty section, given its structure and themes.

I hope everyone out there reading is healthy and safe. Remember, social distancing, so-called, is a physical, not a psychological necessity. Keep in touch with each other conversationally. Use social media to be (dare I say it?) social.

Thoughts? Love to hear from you.