NOTE: The lore in this chapter - and the following ones - is based on the script of Bloodline, the spin-off video game dedicated to Kurtis Trent that Richard Morton and other creators of Core Design had in mind. Thus, Marty Cruise, the reference to Lucifer, the details of Kurtis's past that are narrated here are not my creation but come from this original script. If you want to read the details, you can find out the lore of this unborn project on the Tomb of Ash website.

29. Photo

Marty Cruise finished her cappuccino and put the cup back in its place. Then she nervously drummed her fingers on the table and looked at her watch. Five times.

Through the dinner's window, the traffic and the coming and going of New York's people was constant, oblivious to her inner anxiety. She leaned back on the faux fur-lined bench, crossed her arms. She stamped her foot on the floor, growing impatient.

What am I doing? She rebuked herself. She had work to do. In fact, she had too much work to waste on encounters with strangers...

A customer walked past her. Suddenly he stepped back and dropped in front of her on the other side of the table. Instinctively, Marty's hand went to her belt, where she kept her service weapon - then she released it, though she kept it close.

The man - a white man in his fifties - was dressed in old and torn clothes, covered in grime, and reeked of alcohol. He had a greasy cap pulled down over his brows, and his visor hid his face, which looked unpleasant judging by his thick beard and long, wiry hair. "Excuse me, agent." He spat, with a cracked and sinister voice. "Last minute change of plans. Almost didn't make it."

"Who are you?" The woman inquired, snorting with annoyance. "Are you Matthew Kendrick?"

"Matt Kendrick's not coming." He let out a short and acid laugh. "Neither here nor anywhere. He's dead." Marty frowned and stood up like a spring. The stranger grabbed her by the sleeve of her jacket. "No!" He hissed, his voice changing to tense and concerned, "Stay, you idiot!"

"I came to speak with Colonel Matthew Kendrick, and you're not him." She replied, hard and categorical. "Goodbye."

She tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip on her. "At least listen to me! If you don't, they're screwed!"

"Who?" The man looked down and then around him, frustrated. "For the last time." Marty insisted calmly. "Answer or I'll leave as I entered; and if you fuck with me..."

"Heissturm."

One word, and when the guy released it, she froze.

"What did you say?" She mumbled.

"Around twenty years ago you met a man here in New York. A man with many names and with, let's say, special abilities..."

A click interrupted him. Marty had snapped her fingers at him impatiently. "Cut the crap." She sat down again, pushed the cup away and placed her palms on the sticky table. "I ask and you answer. First: what about Kurtis? Don't look around like a scared rabbit. I haven't seen him for years. And second: why do you say that the man I was waiting for is dead?"

The man rubbed his hands together, clad in black fingerless gloves, fingers as grimy and nails as dirty as the rest of him. "If the agent allows it, I answer them backwards." He raised a finger. "Colonel Kendrick is dead because they knew he wanted to meet with you."

"Who knew?"

"The Men in Black, of course."

"Wait, how do you know that?"

"Because I'm one of them."

The police officer froze for the second time. Frozen and mute.

"You see, agent." Self-confidence regained, the individual continued speaking. "Colonel Kendrick approached you with the premise of having been an old friend of Kurtis…"

"Don't tell me what I already know." She cut, implacable. "Answer my questions."

Many had told her that instead of being a forensic, she should have been a detective. She considered it a poor compliment.

"Kendrick died this morning, poisoned in the hotel room he was occupying only until he had met with you." The guy seemed, finally, willing to follow her lead. "It's been clean and fast; he has not suffered. No one will notice anything, because it looks like a heart attack, and he was no longer young. A squirt of digitalis poison in his late-night bourbon."

"What was he going to tell me that I couldn't know?"

"Nothing in particular, except that it would bring back to your attention the man named Kurtis Trent, or Heissturm, or Vance Ren..."

"I know his aliases." Marty cut in. "As I said, I haven't seen Kurtis for many years. We parted ways after..."

"… after the incident with Lucifer." She froze for the third time. This man knew everything. "I've already told you I'm one of them." He added categorically. "This drunken and homeless façade is nothing but a cover. In real life I am a successful broker on Wall Street, and I also manage the documents of the Men in Black. Now to the point: after Kendrick, you're the next." One overwhelming idea after another, Marty no longer could freeze even more. "Tonight, when you return home, you'll be killed." The individual went on. "Two cocaine addicts will stab you at the door of your apartment and steal everything along the way. No one will be too surprised: cops are easy targets for this riffraff, right?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did this man die? Why am I going to be killed? Why do you come to tell me all this? What's in it for you?"

The guy leaned towards her, looked up and seemed to relax, but suddenly he let out a snort. "Let's put my motivations aside. They're not important." He waved his hand lazily. "Let's say that your friend Kurtis, like his daughter, have something that my organization wants: power."

Kurtis has a daughter? Marty thought, stupefied. The man she'd known years ago could have been anything but a father. However, she was very careful not to show her surprise at this white man she didn't quite trust.

"... the brat has inherited the... shall we say... abilities of the father." He was saying. "Amplified. She's much more powerful than him, and that makes her even more appealing to us. They want her, as they wanted him."

"You butchers tried to slice his brain open." Marty spat. "I'm glad he did what he did to you."

"Agent, you shouldn't be so open about expressing such an inappropriate opinion." Was there irony in his voice? "You're a representative of the law." Yes, there was.

"Is that what the colonel wanted to tell me?" She cut off, with little desire for small talk. "That Kurtis is in danger, and his daughter too? Why me? Have not seen him for many years, and I've never met the girl."

The other, in a rude gesture that seemed disgusting to her, was scraping with his little finger the remaining cream in her cup of cappuccino, already empty and cold. "Oh, no. The poor colonel had no idea about that. He was looking for you to warn you in case a certain British police inspector came looking for evidence or testimony to support her personal theory."

"What theory?"

"Apparently the guy's an abuser."

Marty let out a laugh. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. Her head was beginning to ache. "Is he?"

"Not at all. But don't you know? You were friends."

She knew it, that's why she had laughed. Kurtis, an abuser? She didn't know anything about his current family, but that didn't fit the man she'd known. "How old is Kurtis's daughter?"

The stranger smiled, revealing his façade, for his teeth were white and gleaming with health, not fitting the rest of his physical appearance. "Ah, I see we're getting real at last." He sighed. "Anna Heissturm is now fourteen, about to turn fifteen."

She shuddered. Has he named his daughter after her? She sadly remembered the woman he had loved during his youth there in New York. Ana Bell. Poor Ana. She deserved better. He had genuinely loved her. When she died, he never spoke of her again. Not many knew that he had a girlfriend in New York. Marty was one of them.

"So," she recapitulated, snapping out of her train of thoughts, "the colonel died for nothing. He knew nothing of your goals."

"No. The colonel's dead because he's one of the few friends Heissturm has left. He was in the way - and after him, others will fall, until he's definitely alone. Then he will fall as well, but first he will be offered one last chance to cooperate."

"He'll never cooperate with you."

"That's why he'll die - then we get the girl."

Marty rubbed her eyes. "For the last time, why are you telling me all this?"

"Irrelevant." The man started to get up and blurted out. "Kurtis and Anna Heissturm are currently in Utah, specifically the sector belonging to the Navajo Nation. He's training her to control and use her powers. We'll wait until the girl's skilled, which may take an indefinite time - and then we'll get things done. From here on, agent, what you do is your own business. If you decide to do nothing, I won't judge you. Just know you might not live for long. Don't blame me; just with Kendrick wanting to contact you, you signed, without knowing or wanting it, your death sentence - and now I must leave."

He left the bench, walked past her, and at the last moment, the forensic grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket. "How are you so sure that you will succeed this time?"

The guy smiled again. "I don't know - and believe me, I'm going to enjoy watching the show. Now, dear agent," he released himself from her grip, "I must go back to being an impeccable American citizen. We won't see each other again."

She let him go.

Marty did nothing. At least the first few days. She had to digest what she had heard.

Not because she was timid at all. Getting to where she was – a black woman, born in Harlem, NYC police forensic scientist – required shedding all timidity and introversion. Many might find her job unpleasant and boring. She did not. She was comfortable with evidence, even with dead bodies. She liked to think that her work was indispensable to justice. Without proof, no one who had harmed someone could be convicted. She made the difference.

No, she didn't mind working with dead things. She ached when the living got away with it. Therefore, she was meticulous and perfect in her work.

However, ever since her encounter with the mysterious Man in Black, she couldn't concentrate, and indeed for the same reason. She thought of Colonel Kendrick, whom she had not met but who had been – like her – an old friend of Kurtis, and who was now dead. It was unfair. Very unfair.

Injustice killed her.

She had to do something. But what? She had no way of contacting Kurtis. She had nothing except that he was in Utah. Utah! Literally across the country.

And leave the workplace? Unthinkable! In her decades of police experience, she had never left her post-

"Marty?" Said a voice.

She blinked and snapped out of her reverie. The medical forensic she was working with on the Brooklyn Strangler case was staring at her in bewilderment, gloved hands raised almost to her face, stained with blood from the corpse.

Marty looked at her, looked at the open corpse on the table, then back at her puzzled companion, and quickly mumbled: "Well, what do we have here?"

The other laughed. "You were totally gone! What are you thinking about? They're not going to believe me when I say that agent Cruise had a blackout in the middle of an autopsy!"

The aforementioned sighed and passed her hand over her forehead. "Sorry." She lowered her gaze again to the gelatinous viscera. "Today I'm not focused. What were you telling me?"

But this one had no desire to let go of the prey. "You need to rest more, Marty. Every day you get thinner and thinner. How much do you sleep? What do you suffer about?"

Against all odds, Marty did what she'd never done at work: overshare. "I'm worried about an old friend." She murmured. "I have every reason to think that he's in danger, but I have no way of contacting him and I don't know what to do."

Her partner was drying her hands on a rag. "Come." She spoke. "Let's go to lunch and you tell me everything with a coffee."

She didn't tell her everything. In fact, she told her almost nothing. After all, she knew little about her, and even if she had known her a lot, it was sensitive information from sensitive sources, and if she told her the truth, she would've taken her for crazy.

Also, because it was not ruled out that this poor medical forensic, for the mere fact of having listened to her, could end up dead like Colonel Kendrick.

"I haven't seen him in over a decade." She was telling her. "He was very eccentric, one in a million. Very informal and prosaic, too. But without his help, I would not have been able to solve the Lucifer case."

"Wait! You were the one on the Lucifer case?"

Marty sighed and took a sip of coffee. "Yes," she growled, her mouth still on the rim of the mug. Here we go.

"Forgive me for laughing, but..."

Laugh away, why not, thought Marty, remembering the events in New York more than a decade ago, when she was a young forensic police scientist just starting out on the job and Kurtis was also young and wild-looking. What will he look like now? She wondered.

"… I mean, seriously? Men in Black and demons? A priest and a guy with telekinesis? Sounds like a bad movie script. Come on, tell me what truth there's in all that gibberish."

Marty couldn't tell because it was all true. All of it. The Men in Black. The demon, who answered to the name of Lucifer. The priest who was no longer a priest at that time, but a parapsychologist, and, above all, Kurtis, the telekinetic. Also, the little boy, possessed by that demon, whom Kurtis had refused to kill, and Ana Bell, also dead; and the incredible power Marty had witnessed, power of good and power of evil. "They called him the Demon Hunter." She muttered to herself, as if she had no one in front of her. "But I nicknamed him differently. Yes, a more suitable nickname. I saw him, you know? He sprouted two huge wings, wings of light, with which he propelled himself up, past skyscrapers, to fight Lucifer. It was either that or the nuclear apocalypse. And when he had defeated it, his strength failed him. He lost his wings, they became extinct. He rushed into the void, fell, surrounded by a sphere of light, and ended up in a garbage container, what an irony for him. I don't know how he made it. But it was the Professor who found him and picked him up. He was a mortal man again. What he'd been before... I don't know, but it seemed to me that... that's why I gave him that nickname..."

Her companion had listened to the speech motionless, in silence, the mug inches from her gaping mouth. She then threw her head back and started laughing. "Good God, Marty, you're nuts! You must rest more. Although I praise your sense of humour! I almost believed that string of nonsense."

The forensic scientist laughed with her. "Yes of course. Nonsense." She spluttered.

Later, lying on the sofa in the hotel – every night she slept in a different hotel, to avoid the cocaine addicts who were supposed to kill her -, Marty continued to think about the matter.

She did so while rummaging through old shoeboxes full of photos that she had salvaged from her locker at work. She knew that there was a photo, one at least, of the absent friend. She found herself searching for it frantically.

She finally found it.

An old Polaroid, slightly yellowed, in deterioration. Yes, he was there. Kurtis Heissturm, or Trent, as he called himself back then. A boy in his late twenties who looked like a man, his face scarred by his drudgery from back in the day, when he'd engaged in illegal fist fights for a grab of cash. He didn't even have a home back then, he slept in the back of an old truck.

But he was smiling, despite the scars on his face, the slightly long, old-fashioned hair – the 80s hit hard – the tattoos and the shabby clothes. He was smiling, an arm around the waist of a pretty New York girl, white skin, short black hair, like a little doll. Ana Bell, TV news reporter. Her girlfriend at the time. Smiling, leaning on him, carefree. Happy.

Marty had no more photos of him - and neither of her.

She spent some time looking at the photo. How Marty had it was something even he didn't know. When Ana had appeared dead in such a horrible way, Kurtis had thrown the photo in the trash, in a filthy alley near the place of the murder. He hadn't thought of destroying it. He wasn't thinking very clearly back then.

Marty, merciful, had collected and saved that photo. And for years, after that awful tragedy, after Kurtis disappeared and did not return to New York, as if the earth had swallowed him, Marty continued to visit the reporter's grave, leaving her a bouquet of flowers on each death anniversary. Until she didn't do it anymore because life went on and because, deep down, the mere memory of her caused Marty great sorrow. Another one we couldn't save.

She spent hours on the couch, drinking a little beer this time and turning the photo over between the tips of her fingers. It was a memory of the past. Of the two that appeared in it, only Kurtis was still alive. How would he be? What would it be like to see him again?

Finally, Marty sat up. She sighed. "I'm going to return this photo to you, Kurtis." She solemnly swore. "In person."

Within two weeks, she was ready to leave for Utah.

"Well," said Charles Kane animatedly, "all's well that ends well."

The recovery and donation of the Shield of Biafra – a name as attributed as inappropriate – to the National Museum of Nigeria had been quite an event amid the already bustling life in gigantic Lagos. Not only because the ancient and valuable tribal piece had been recovered and donated by a celebrity – the British explorer Lara Croft – but also because of the controversy associated with the fact that the shield had appeared with a half yellow sun painted on top, clearly allusive to the short-lived Republic of Biafra that in the 1960s had essayed independence and torn the country apart in a terrible civil war. That the Biafran sun was not part of the original shield was more than clear; this one dated back to the Nok culture, but who could have damaged the piece and then left it in the same place was unknown.

There was no lack of someone who had pointed out the foreigner as the author of the vandalization. That was what happened when national treasures were entrusted to outsiders – especially British ones...

"If you call this a good ending…" Lara sighed, and she absently leaned against one of the several modern bronze sculptures decorating the museum's green garden. Inside, a round of applause and various lively chats confirmed that the reception event for the piece was going well. Music began to play.

Charles - sweating profusely in the hot Nigerian night - ran his hand over his damp bald head and smiled again. He was elated, as he always was when Lara decided to donate a recovered artifact to the local authorities - or rather, as always when he found the wine worthwhile.

"Don't worry, give them a few months and they'll leave you alone. It's absurd to blame you for the half yellow sun. As if you don't have better stuff to do..."

"It's strange." Lara crossed her arms and looked absently towards the lagoon. A gentle breeze had begun to blow. "I'd almost say that someone has set me a trap. A vandalized artifact with the Biafran sun… tsk tsk tsk." She clicked her tongue. "It's like painting a target on my back."

"Don't mention it! They will restore the shield and that's it. The damned sun will be gone. And they will rightfully have another valuable piece of their past. You have done the right thing, Lara, once again, I am proud of you…"

But she was no longer listening to him - she had a lost look, oblivious to time and place. Charles watched her closely. She had changed out of her explorer clothes and was wearing a simple African sarong, trying to be as out of tune as possible – unsuccessful due to her fair skin. On which, by the way, cuts and bruises resulting from her last expedition to the Niger sanctuary could still be counted. The former History teacher found himself admiring his pupil again, fixing his eyes on her chestnut hair that, loose, swayed in the gentle breeze.

She was moving her lips slightly.

"What?" Charles told her, confused.

Lara seemed to snap out of her reverie. She looked at him, uncrossed her arms, sighed. "Nothing." She added. "I was saying I shouldn't have come."

"Here? To the museum?"

"No, to Nigeria. Shouldn't be here."

"Why, Lara? You deserved one of your escapades, after these bad months, don't you think?

She pursed her lips, shook her head. "I should be with them. In Utah." She ran her hand through her hair. "I don't know, I have the impression that I made a mistake."

"Don't worry about Anna. She is well cared for. Or is it that you do not trust your new husband?"

Charles laughed cascadingly and raised the glass to his lips. Lara frowned. "Where did you get that cup?"

"From the buffet of course. I have the bottle here, somewhere." He looked around his feet. "And another glass for you, if you want."

"You're hopeless." She smiled.

Charles pointed his finger at her. "Ah, that's the spirit." He drank again. He was starting to blush slightly.

"I haven't seen you that happy in years." Lara pointed out.

"That's because it's our first outing since… since…" He frowned. "Good God, Lara, it's our first outing since the submarine. Do you remember?"

The British explorer sighed again. "Hard to forget."

"We lost the Spear of Destiny. It was a shame."

"We lost more than that, Charles. Many died down there. Good men. Admiral Yarofev, among them. He didn't deserve to die like that."

"It was him or you, Lara. It's not nice to say, but I'm glad that Yarofev was a man of honour. I wouldn't have liked to live in a world without you."

Lara was staring at him now. She shook her head. "Charles…"

"No, no, let me talk. What the hell, it's today or never. I have wanted to tell you this for many years. I'm happy, it's time."

"You're drunk."

"Drunks don't lie, Lara." He ran his hand again over his face. He was still sweating. "Geez, it's damn hot here."

She looked around her, wanting someone to interrupt them. But they were practically alone, which in itself was rare in Lagos. Some people were chatting at the door of the museum or walking nearby, but not close enough.

"I want you to know, Lara, that I have loved you for all these years. I have loved you very much. I still love you."

"Me too, Charles." She said cautiously. "We are friends."

He laughed and shook his head, vehemently denying it. "No no no. I don't mean that. I don't love you like a teacher loves his student, or like friends love each other. I love you like a man loves a woman." He looked down at the cup. "That's it, I said it." And he drank up what was left in one gulp. Then he frowned and studied Lara, who was looking at him with a mixture of misery and pity.

Sighing once more, the British explorer stepped forward and took the cup from his hands. "You've had enough."

"Did you know?"

"Of course I knew, Charles."

"Damn, I'm a fool." He began to roll up his shirt sleeve above the elbow. "And I thought I hid it well. Since when you know?"

Lara shrugged. "Ever since, I guess."

"And you never said anything."

"What did you want me to say?" Lara shook her head. "I'm very sorry, Charles, but I love you as a friend. Never saw you in any other way."

"I know. I know. Forgive me. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to say anything." He spoke hurriedly, either because of nerves or too much wine. "I just wanted you to know it. Release it. Had it embedded inside me, like an infected wound. Well, it's done. Now I feel better." He looked around. "The bottle?"

"Forget the bottle, Charles." She took him by the arm. "C'mon, I'll walk you back to the hotel."

But he didn't move an inch from the spot. "You know who else knew and never said anything? Him."

"Who?"

"Your hubby, your shiny knight on a motorbike."

"Kurtis?" Lara laughed briefly. "I don't think so!"

"Oh yes yes. He knows. The way he looks at me…" Charles narrowed his eyes, as if hurt by daylight, "…like this, cautiously. He knew it, but never said anything. Another man of honour."

"You sure?"

"Totally. Your husband is smart. He doesn't look like it, but he's very smart. He knows things, and he keeps them quiet. He has never said anything to me..."

"And why would he say anything? He's with me."

"He could have punched me out of my shoes. But, as I said, he's a man of honour." He looked down at the arm that held him, and patted Lara's hand affectionately. "Do we have to go now? That wine's great."

"No more wine." Lara began to pull him. "C'mon, you've to get some sleep."

He resisted. "Wait, wait! In honour of my recent confession, I…umm…uh…deserve a kiss!"

"Charles, please."

"A kiss in the cheek! C'mon, Lara, dear, just that. Nothing more. I am content. I've been content for years. You don't love me, beauty, and that's fine. I am not going to stoop as low as others who have tried to push their luck. I didn't before Kurtis, much less now. He's the lucky one. Tell him. Promise me you'll tell him - that he is incredibly lucky."

People were beginning to leave the museum. Lara looked around her and tugged at Charles's arm. "C'mon, the event is over." She turned to her friend, who was smiling goofily. "May I know what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm happy, very happy. I've taken a weight off my shoulders - and if you give me a kiss now, I can die in peace."

"Then will you come with me?"

"Wherever you want, beauty."

And suddenly, without warning, Charles pulled her toward him, sharply, quickly, and pressed a kiss on her cheek. Lara jumped in surprise, and was about to exclaim "Charles!", but she didn't get to make a sound.

There was a dull, muffled, barely hushed bang that she recognized right away. A flash of light came from beyond Charles, several meters away, through the bushes. And at the same instant, a pop, hollow, crackling sound, and a hot, liquid explosion that splashed over her.

She found herself falling, dragged down by the weight of her friend.

There was no time for anything else.