Peregrine (Elizabeth Klisiewicz)
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Chapter Twelve: Foggy NotionsHer blood on my hands.
She died silently.
She loved me.
I was too busy escaping to analyze how I really felt. Until the end. When it's too late.
I will always love her.
At some level, I am aware of the people swarming around us. The buzz of lurid death. Tabloids rubbing their hands with glee. And the coppery smell of her blood on my hands.
A siren pierces through the wall that I've erected and I blink dumbly at two policemen. Mouths gapping open. Catching flies. Asking questions. Like a movie without sound. They remove her from my lifeless hands and take her away from me. Two burly EMTs approach and I am quickly transported to a nearby ambulance and rushed off to the hospital. Blessed unconsciousness finally claims me and I slip into oblivion.
*****
Quiet voices in the background. The beep of monitors. The distant clatter of trays being collected from rooms. I crack my eyes open and see a surround of gray and blue. IV needles attached to me. Chaining me to the bed. Someone slumped in a chair. I try focusing and see that it's Weiss. The last person I expect to see here.
I open my mouth and all that comes out is a desiccated grunt. "Water...."
Eric jumps to his feet and pours some water from a nearby pitcher. When I struggle to sit up, he bolsters me with his arm and raises the head of the bed. "It's not drugged," he says with a smile, holding the glass to my lips as I drink.
My tongue is swollen in my mouth and my chest is on fire. "How long?" I slur.
"Two days and a twelve hour operation." No wonder I feel like shit.
"Jack?" This would kill him if it didn't kill me first.
"He came right away, but he's over at Langley right now." Cleaning up the mess that we made.
"T-Trish," I stammer, trying to remember something that escapes me.
"With your mother at the townhouse," Eric says with a grimace.
I share his pain. Marie and Trish are the ultimate odd couple and for them to be in the same city....never mind the same house.....get ready for World War III to start. "Tell me....operation." I am finding it hard to draw enough breath to speak.
"The bullet pierced your lung and it collapsed. Luckily they got to you in time..." Weiss explains with a tremor in his voice. "I'm sorry about Syd."
I close my eyes and want to erase everything. My life and the way it collided with hers. And the death I could have prevented.....or maybe not. My cell phone is on the night stand and I open my hand for it. Weiss gives it to me and I turn it on. The message light is flashing. I fumble through the codes and retrieve my message.
It's Trish. Raving in flurried French that I have trouble following. Then my brain connects the dots and forms a horrifying picture.
The girl came here to see you. I sent her downtown. But then I see this woman....a gun.....much blood...two shots fired.....you are both in danger, Michel. Get out of there now.....while you still can.
The dam bursts and tears start streaming down my face.
The phone ringing. Nothing that can't wait.
Too many chances blown. The split second hesitation in Taipei when I could have finished her off. The dream that came back to haunt me. My aunt's phone call. And the storm warnings in my head that told me to run.
I could have stopped this. I may not pulled the trigger, but I am responsible for her death.
******
Los Angeles
One week later
I am still very weak but insisted on coming home. The least I can do is respect her memory and honor her properly. The church is crowded with friends and family. They don't know me from a hole in the wall, but I recognize some of them. Marshall. Dixon. Arvin Sloane and his wife Emily. Jack and his parents. Will and Francie.
Weiss and I sit in the back and plan on slipping out before the service ends. I'm sure we can make up something, but I'm not in the mood for the intrusive questions that people often ask at these functions. As it is, I can barely talk without wincing in pain.
The speakers drone on and I start to nod off, spared only by Eric digging his elbow in me and pointing toward the exit. Time to go. Next stop, Evergreen Cemetery, the oldest existing cemetery in LA.
I lean back against the seat leather and close my eyes, enjoying the silent whisper of the air-conditioning on my face. "You don't have to do this," Eric says softly.
Interment is often the hardest part. When you're at the funeral, you can at least pretend that it's fake and the person inside is only sleeping. But when they start to lower the casket, it becomes all too real. "Yeah, I do."
We take up position and wait for the entourage of cars waving their white flags. All too soon, they drive slowly through the gates and we join the end of the line. When we come to a stop, we're on a hill overlooking the rest of the cemetery. The Bristow family plot. One tiny stone for Syd, engraved with a poem by Emily Dickinson. A fitting tribute to a woman who wanted to be a teacher and ended up as a spy. Just like her mother.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
I think it was one of her favorites. It was written on the back of one of her dead drops and underlined a dozen times. We never discussed it, but it speaks volumes about the person she was. Living life on the edge. Never knowing when her number was up. That memory pierces me like an arrow and I fight to contain myself.
As the priest commends her spirit to the ground, I see Emily Sloane dabbing at her eyes, thinking that it should have been her instead of Sydney in that grave plot. Useless speculation, but probably true. I wish I could approach her, tell her who I am and how I got to know Sydney. The same way I'd like to tell Dixon. And Marshall. They all deserve to know the truth. Who will carry the torch now that she's gone from us?
All that could have been. All that will never be.
Clods of dirt hit the wood. Filling the space, but never filling the hole left in my heart. Sickened by the sound, I start running away from the grave. Tears blinding me as I dart here and there. The sound of someone running after me. Weiss catches me before I fall into an open pit and we sway there for a moment before regaining our balance.
"T-thanks." I rub my eyes furiously. "Get me out of here."
"Sure." He offers his arm but I shake my head.
"I don't need your help." My little exercise has completely depleted my energy reserves and I start staggering like an old man. Proud and stubborn, refusing to let him assist me. We reach the car and I sag against the frame.
"I can see that," Weiss muses dryly. He unlocks the car and I'm about to get in when Jack Bristow catches up with us.
"I need to speak with you." Not asking permission. Demanding an audience. So what else is new?
The last person I want to see. "Did Barnett send you?" I rasp, coughing from my exertion.
"No." He looks at Eric. "If you don't mind, I only need a minute." Dismissing him with a figurative flick of his fingers. I guess the word 'please' is expunged from his vocabulary.
"What do you want?" Might as well get this over with.
"They've set up a task force. To find Derevko and take down her organization," Jack says, not mincing any words. Carefully constructed, he's erected a wall that almost no one can penetrate. Impermeable. But I hear the faintest of tremors in his voice, like the precursor to a major quake. And I know that he grieves, this man who has lost everything.
"So?" It's none of my concern. When I get back to the office on Monday, I'll take the final steps to cut the cord.
"I'm in charge....and I've asked them to put you back on the case." He has this much trust in me? Hell, I got his daughter killed.
"Why?" Another cough wracks my frame for a moment and I wonder if I'm hallucinating, because for one second, I swear I see sympathy in his eyes.
"Because we both need closure, Mr. Vaughn."
He makes it sound so simple. Wave a magic wand and we catch the bitch. Abracadabra. Bad feelings all gone. "I don't....I have no intention of returning to the Agency."
"And you think that will help?" It's an honest question, and I know he's not mocking me.
"Maybe. I don't know. All I know is....I can't do this anymore."
Jack considers my words and lays out his final offer. "I need an answer by Monday."
I watch him walk away and that's when I see her. Standing in the shade of a large pine tree. Waving her hand to get our attention. A silent movie starring Sydney. The drugs must be getting to me. I blink my eyes and all I see is his retreating back and the cluster of mourners at the base of the hill. Weiss returns and I say, "Let's get the hell out of here."
******Trish is sitting on my stoop when I get home. Smoking like a chimney and ignoring the leers of my obnoxious neighbor as he mows the lawn. She stands up as I shamble up the walk. "Ah, here you are."
"What are you doing here?" Trish hasn't been on the West Coast in a decade. The only time we see her is at weddings and...funerals.
"Nice to see you too." I push past her and stick the key in the lock. "Can I come in?"
"If you insist." My pain medication is wearing off and the last thing I want is company. "Does my mom know you're here?"
She says something nasty under her breath and pretends to spit in her hand. "You have a problem."
That's the understatement of the year. "Did my shrink call you or is there some other reason you're here?"
"You have a guest." Trish walks around the perimeter of the room and stares off into space. Her eyes seem to follow something and she points to my chair by the fireplace. "Can't you see her?" she asks softly.
A guest. I rub the bridge of my nose and sigh, "You know....I'm really tired...."
"You saw her .....didn't you?" Trish starts fiddling with my digital camera and I'm surprised when she picks it up and starts aiming it. She moves closer to the chair and cries, "Ha, there she is. See for yourself."
I look at the LCD screen and see nothing but the chair and a blue sphere. "What the hell?"
"It's called an orb." She speaks with the knowledge of years and I start to shiver. "I have seen this many times...spirits often manifest themselves that way."
"It doesn't prove anything." But I am starting to doubt that statement. Her journal is on the table by the chair where the orb was floating. Her words scored into its pages, forever etched by the anguish that poured into her confession. My only link to her. The same link I had to my father.
Trish takes my hand and directs me to the couch. "Maybe you are right.....but I think we both know the truth. You are keeping her here."
These last few months have been pure hell. Wanting to be done with this business....and this happens. I wanted to be free of her, but never like this. And now I can't let her go. "So what do I do?"
"Destroy the journal." I raise my hand in protest and she continues, "It is the only way."
"You make it sound so simple."
"It is never simple....and it's only the first step. You have to free her....from your heart and mind."
Those words cut me to the marrow and I sink into the cushions. "Don't ask me to do that. I can't....I'm not ready."
"It is the only way...." Trish fumbles for words. "She is your prisoner. You must let her go."
I shake my head and feel the tears coursing down my face. A river of despair. Sinking me to its depths. Pulling me down into a fetal ball. "Go away," I mutter, and only when I hear the door click closed do I unleash the tidal forces that rage within me.
******The golden tendrils of early morning, lighting its path through the window, dust motes dancing along its length. My dog snoring at my feet. The silence of a lonely house. I get to my feet and stretch, feeling the burn along my ribcage, wondering if I'll ever feel normal again. The way my breath hitches when I sigh, catching me up short.
No hockey for a few months.
Easy for a fat, balding doctor who never sees the sun. But not easy for me, who has so little to escape to.
I pad over to the back window and look at the shreds of ground fog. Whorls of mist that form into Lovecraftian monsters. Yellowed by the burgeoning sunlight. I see a figure in the distance and squint my eyes. It moves closer and slowly defines itself as a woman. Moving so gracefully and carefully up the hillside. Closer she comes. Stops at the summit. Looks up at the window.
Sydney.
She smiles sadly and starts to fade like a sunset. I hear a flapping sound and look behind me. The journal is on the floor. Opened to an entry. Not on the table where it was last night. I look back outside and she is gone. I retrieve the journal and settle into the chair.
August 3.
Today's date.
You have to let go.
The same writing as the rest of the journal. Red pen ....looking far too much like blood. I hug the journal to me and draw my legs up to my chest. My answering machine is flashing and I hit the message button.
Trish's voice comes on the line.
Michel, I'm sorry about last night. I should not have surprised you like that. Call me when you feel up to it. We need to talk about this.
She rattles off a number to the hotel where she is staying and I jot it down before erasing the message.
My stomach starts growling and I realize that it's been more than a day since I ate anything. I pick up the phone and dial Eric's number.
"Have you eaten yet?" I say when he picks up.
"Nope. Want to meet at the usual spot?"
"Sure. Give me an hour and I'll meet you there."
A shower makes a new man out of me and I actually find some clean clothes among the heap on the floor. Meaning they're not standing up on their own. I feed the dog and sort through the mail that's piled up on the counter. Bills. Catalogs. Solicitations from charity. Sports Illustrated. I push the bills aside and shove the magazine under my arm. Time to head out.
*****Weiss is about ten minutes late. I'm sitting at a table with my feet up, sipping on some coffee and reading the stats on the Lakers. "Hey," I say, pushing the coffee pot at him.
"How's it going?" he asks, pouring a generous dollop of cream in the mug with his coffee.
"It's going." I hold up my finger and the waitress brings more coffee.
"So this task force. You going for it?" Eric asks between sips.
"Dunno. It's probably a bad idea. You know....considering...." That's putting it mildly.
"Jack twisted some arms to get you reinstated."
I chuckle. "He's good at that."
"Just so you know, I'm part of it. Along with some folks from Langley." He takes out his yo-yo and fiddles with the string while I decide what to order. Watching my face for a reaction. Disappointed that I'm not biting.
Mild on the outside, seething on the inside. At the possibilities....access to information.....access to guns.....thinking of anything but her and the way her face looked when she died.
I didn't see them bury her. It didn't really happen. It's somebody else's bad dream.
Denial is the first stage of grief. Everyone knows this. Everyone experiences it. But nothing prepares you for the way it shuts you down. The numbness I felt in Taipei....it's nothing compared to this. Tired. Disconnected. Cold that starts on the inside and encases you in a cocoon of ice. I start to shiver and look up at the laboring air-conditioner over our heads. "Are you cold?"
Weiss shakes his head and continues looking at the menu. "Will you at least think about it?"
I happen to glance down and see spilled sugar start to swirl around. Forming into words.
I can't let you do this.
My spoon clatters to the ground and I hope he doesn't see the way my hands are shaking. Not from the cold this time. "Sure. Umm, shall we order?"
We never find our way back to that particular subject and after an hour passes, I am on my own again. Alone. With all those nasty thoughts kicking around....waiting for the catalyst to set them free.
*****I spend the rest of the weekend outside. Avoiding my house and my crowded thoughts. Evading Trish's phone calls. Away from it all.
Wide open spaces. Panting dog. Nikes tripping on rocks as we hike. Ignoring my doctor's orders. Feeling the burn. Popping pain pills like candy.
A three day supply of Oxycontin. Heaven in a capsule. Highly addictive. And exactly what I need right now.
It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting on a rock outside my back door. Taking in the sun. Flipping pages on the 900+ pages of The Company. Non-fiction in the form of a novel. Engrossing enough to keep the bad thoughts and ghosties at bay.
I'm a third of the way through the book when my cell phone rings. "Yeah?"
"Michael." My adrenalin rushes and the book falls from my hands. It's Syd. Crystal clear.
Ghosts don't exist. It can't be her.
"Who is this?" I croak in a tone that puts Kermit to shame.
The sound of traffic in the background. A sigh that whispers in my heart. "Michael...."
Call waiting beeps in the background and I'm relieved to hear Trish's voice. "You have to come over," I blurt out, totally freaked by what is happening. "I'm ready to.....well, you know."
"Don't be afraid. It will work out OK." I wish I was sure about that.
"Come now. Please," I say, wondering if the other line is still open.
I switch back to the other call and there's nothing but loud static. With a heavy heart, I turn off the phone and head into the house. Thinking that I lose everyone I love. Sharon. Syd. It's time to let go and move on.
******Trish arrives and plops on my couch. Cigarette in hand. Inspecting me. Shaking her head a few times.
"Where are the props?" I ask, looking for the smoke and mirrors that I associate with her vocation.
She looks insulted. "Bah....you know nothing."
"But aren't you supposed to bathe in special ingredients....and wave some kind of wand...."
"A smudge stick," she corrects with a glint of amusement.
"Right. And what about all the candles? Different colors....and salt?" Wasn't that what exorcism was all about?
"Next thing you will ask is where is Linda Blair....what have you been reading, Michel?" She pushes back a lock of red hair and I see that she hasn't aged a day. Like a younger version of Goldie Hawn. With the great body and the attitude to match. No wonder my mother hates her.
"I read it on the Net." Between bidding on items at E-Bay and pulling up scores for my favorite teams.
She rolls her eyes and waves her free hand. "Let's get this straight. There are no floating trumpets....no glowing hands....and no Ouija boards. I am for real."
We both remember that day when she channeled Sharon and I ran from the room in terror. Am I ready to see Sydney's face floating over hers? "I know." My throat works and I turn my face aside.
"She is trying to communicate, yes?" It is not really a question.
"I think....yeah." Or maybe I am losing my mind. Or it could be the second stage of grief. Yearning for the lost object or person. Seeing them in every leaf and odd turn of conversation that reminds you of them. But that doesn't explain the writing....or the phone call.
"You have seen her?" Trish asks.
"Twice. Once at the cemetery.....and here at the house." My voice seems to come from far away. Someone else's words. The memories of a crazy person.
"What else?" I realize that Trish is interviewing me. Collecting the facts before she proceeds.
"Writing. In her journal and at the restaurant." The swirl of sugar....and the biting cold. "And a phone call."
"Have you felt cold patches?"
"Yes. Once."
"And this writing....what did she tell you?"
I wrap my arms around my frame and feel cold all over again. "She said...I have to let go....and she won't let me do this. Whatever 'this' is....I don't know.....that's why I called you."
Trish gets a funny expression on her face and I see her staring at the ash tray. Her cigarette has been rubbed out, but not by her. "Strong-willed and stubborn...she hates the smoke....so I will stop. I have seen your Sydney in my dreams. I have seen.....the two of you together on her last day. And her mother...." She shakes her head and actually crosses herself.
"What about her?" I can't help the edge in my voice, but Trish seems to get it.
Trish sighs heavily and gets to her feet. "She is the key. You see.....I thought you were keeping her here. But it's more complicated than that.....I see these images and I think they are the future......there is an accident...and lots of water....and the three of you.....all involved in this...this woman....Irene..." She fishes for a name and I help her out.
"Irina Derevko." A black wall of hatred threatens to swallow me alive.
She mutters an epithet. "I can feel her from a great distance. And what I feel is evil. A hole where her heart used to be....and no soul. She is what we call.....dead man walking. Do you understand?"
More than she imagined. "So what does it all mean?"
She sits on the floor and urges me to join her. "Take my hand."
"Is this a séance?" I ask flippantly.
"I call it a..." She searches for a word in French and shakes her head. "By combining forces, we can see why she is still here."
"All right."
At first I feel nothing except the sweat from her hand and the way she shakes slightly. Eyes closed. Concentrating. Murmuring under her breath. An incantation.....a prayer in French. Then her fingers dig into my palm and her breath rushes out of her. When the words start, I am relieved to hear Trish's voice. "She is.....very sad that you never had a chance to be together, but she is more concerned about your welfare. What you will do....she wants you to let go of the anger and the hatred. She wants you to move on with your life. But that's not why she's here. Sydney has.....an agenda...."
Trish suddenly lets go and I see blood gushing from her nose. I hand her a box of tissues and ask, "What happened?"
She smiles and finishes cleaning up her face. "She is blocking me.....as I said, she has a will of iron and decided she was done talking."
"Why the blood?"
"The blood happens sometimes with a trance....it is nothing. As for your friend, I asked if she wished to speak through me and she refused....said she is quite capable of speaking for herself. Not very cooperative."
I almost laugh but check myself in time. That sounds exactly like Sydney. And the fact that I am sitting here discussing a dead person….we are both slightly out of our minds. Trish has the excuse of her gifts, but I can only blame my drug-addled mind. "So what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Should I burn the journal?"
She shakes her head and gets to her feet. "No, it won't help. As for the rest….when the moment is at hand, you will know what to do. Good luck."
*******Monday morning
Staring at the ceiling
I don't where I stand at the Agency. There are questions they'll want answered. And will I tell them what they want to hear?
Where has it all gone wrong? Did it start on the day when they assigned me to her case? Or the day on the pier when my feelings changed? Or was it the day I told her that I wanted more? Or maybe, just maybe, it went back to the little boy who cried for his father every night for a year. Were the seeds of revenge unknowingly planted when I found out he was murdered? Bad enough that I suspected Jack Bristow. Even worse when I found out that Sydney's mother pulled the trigger. Worst of all when I heard she was alive. Because now I had a target.I did not knowingly toss that earpiece aside or follow my darkest instincts in Taipei. It was an involuntary act.....like breathing. I don't need to be psychic to know what Sydney wants. Justice. She believed in a system that no longer works. One where the good guys catch the bad guys. But I am not so naïve. Good guys don't just finish last, they often wind up dead.
I would rather be gray than red, white, and blue.
Violence is a language that everyone understands. Bullets are the true system of barter, not words. Irina Derevko lives by this logic. If I have my way, she'll die by it too.
****I kick aside some laundry and force my closet door open. A neat line of suits and ties and several pairs of expensive shoes. Sharing space with a pile of unwashed jeans and T-shirts. Should I dress for the dungeon or the firing squad on the executive level?
Ratty clothes and shoes are no more than they deserve, but I better play it safe. With a gray suit (befitting my new status) under my arm, I trip down the hall to my bathroom. The suit ends up on the back of the toilet as I fish around for my pain pills. They're not on the sink where I left them. Or in the medicine cabinet. Or anywhere else I might leave them. As I'm leaning over the sink, I look down and jump back at the mass of red that festoons the basin. Closer inspection reveals that the gelatinous mess is what's left of my toothpaste.
Lose the pills.
Now I'm pissed. At someone who is dead. Try telling that to the shrink. I can imagine the convo with Barnett.
"You must be carrying around this terrible rage toward Sydney's mother."
"Actually, it's her daughter that pisses me off."
"What....but she's....?"
"Dead? Yeah, that's what I thought."
My daydream fades and I take a deep breath. Trying to ignore the pain is like trying to ignore the jerk that cuts you off. It insists on being noticed. Pulling as I go through the motions and take my shower. Reminding me when I bend over to pat my dog. Staring me in the face when I see the apology dripping from the misty mirror.
I'm trying to help you.
"I don't need your help." I throw my hairbrush at the wall and turn my back on the mirror. Really, I don't need this hassle. She. It. Whatever you want to call her is starting to get on my nerves, and that's never a good thing. Trust me on that one. If she can read my mind, then she knows what I'm thinking.
I slam my phone and pager into my briefcase and stalk out of the house. Unbrushed and unshaven. Let's see what they make of that. I'll down the nastiest cup of coffee and knock them over with my breath. I'll put Robin Sherwood to shame.
That actually puts a smile on my face as I put my car in gear and back down the driveway. Out into the ozone and congested traffic. Time to face the music.
*****Note: Vaughn's Jetta was left in Denver during his cross-country trip and there wouldn't have been time to retrieve it. So the car in question is a rental.
*****They stop me at the security desk. "You're expected upstairs. Level 6. Devlin's office."
On with the show. When I get there, Jack and Devlin are waiting for me. Hands folded on their respective laps. The way they are looking at me....have I grown horns or something?
"How are you?" This comes from Jack, which surprises the hell out of me.
"Fine." I take the seat next to him and deliberately slouch, hands behind my head and legs sprawled in front of me. Damned insolent of me. And I can see that it annoys Devlin, but Jack's lips actually twitch for a moment. "So what's the verdict?"
Devlin is taken aback by my question, but he recovers quickly. "Jack wants you on his team. I can think of a million reasons to say no, but he insists that you're the right man for the job."
I look sideways and catch Jack's eye. Inscrutable like he always is. "That's.....I'm flattered, but...."
Jack is swift with his rebuttal. "I'm not here to feather your nest, Mr. Vaughn. This is business, and I think you have the right stuff for this op."
I close my eyes for a moment and rub my forehead hard. Nope, examining my head ain't helping. "All right. I'll do it."
Jack practically jumps to his feet. "The team meets in one hour. Conference Room Twenty. Don't disappoint me, or you're finished here."
Before I can follow him out the door, Devlin stops me. "There are a few things we need to discuss."
"Of course," I reply easily, resuming my politically incorrect posture and watching the flush of red on his already florid face.
"I've read your report, and everything is in order."
Am I supposed to give a shit? "Glad to hear it," I say through my teeth, favoring him with a smirk.
"I know what she meant to you, Mr. Vaughn. It's a terrible blow whenever we lose such an important asset, but life does go on," he intones as he glances at me through his bifocals.
She's a human being, you fat turd, not a fucking asset. Glad you can balance your budget with one less salary to pay? I literally bite my tongue and almost lose it when the dream comes back to me. Full motion video. Startling color. I blink and finally nod my head in agreement. "I agree." Better than saying I want to choke the living shit out of you.
"However, something about this whole scenario bothers me. You two were highly trained agents with field experience. And you know DC like the back of your hand....so tell me, why did you let Derevko corner you?"
I remember the feel of her lips on mine. The way she tasted and smelled. Indelibly etched for all eternity. The things she said to me. The words she wrote in her journal. What I almost failed to tell her in time. "We ran out of time."
The truth is never simple, and I'm not ready to spill my guts to this man. Or his pet shrink. It's none of their damned business.
"There were other exits....and public transportation. By my estimate, you had plenty of time to escape," Devlin says with waggling brows.
"You weren't there, so you don't know...." I am suddenly on my feet. "And this conversation is over."
His mouth opens in outrage and that's the last thing I see before slamming the door behind me.
*****I drop by Weiss's office and catch him playing Tomb Raider on his laptop. "Working hard or hardly working?" I joke.
He shuts off the monitor and pours me a cup of coffee. "So, did they ream you a new one?"
I stare into the murky depths of my second coffee of the day and shake my head. "Not quite."
"Good. Hey, did you take Jack up on his offer?" The yo-yo comes out to play and I also see that he's taken up bubble gum as a sport. Better chewing than chawing.
"Yeah."
"And Devlin didn't have a problem with that?" Weiss always knows how to cut through the bullshit.
"Actually, he does....but Jack pulled some mojo and got his way." I shrug like it's none of my concern, but I wonder how he gets away with it.
"That guy has some moxie....." Eric shakes his head and looks at a pile of reports. "Look, I better get some work done before the meeting."
I wonder where I'm supposed to hang out for the next forty five minutes. The director's private bathroom? The dungeon? We're short on space, but I hear Haladki's old office is up for grabs. Weiss sees my indecision and realizes my dilemma. "I got your old office back."
"Really? But....thank you, that's great." I'm not sure I believe that, but I do appreciate his gesture.
"See you at 10."
He closes the door behind me and I find myself at loose ends. Alone. With nothing but time on my hands. I walk to the stairs and find my way back to my old digs. My coin is still where I left it. The lamp that Trish gave me is back on the desk. And someone has taken the time to water my plants and return them to the shelf behind the couch. The computer is on and I find that my log-in still works. Once I get on the Net, I decide to return to the paranormal sites where I've learned so much about my resident spook. With a small smile, I start to daydream and let my thoughts drift away on the clouds of my imagination.
*****Jack is pointing to a large map when I arrive. Fashionably late. Two minutes by my watch. He looks annoyed, but I'm sure he'll get over it. I see Weiss in the corner and slink to the seat he's saved for me. I look around and don't recognize any of the other players. Except who is that up front? I do a double take when I see Paulie, tapping away at her laptop like a cow chewing her cud.
"What's she doing here?" I hiss in Eric's ear.
"Feeding intel." So the cow analogy isn't so far off.
"What have I missed?"
"Is there some problem, Mr. Vaughn?" Jack snaps, and I wonder if he has a future as a teacher in a reform school. Something tells me he'd be a natural.
"Not at all," I say lightly, offering up my brightest smile.
He goes on to tell us about two locations where "The Man" has been sighted. "We are sorely lacking in manpower, but I plan on assigning half a dozen agents to the area. Judging from recent activity, they are planning something big and we have to move before they do."
Jack points in my direction. I guess ducking under the table won't work. "Mr. Vaughn, you're with me. We'll coordinate things from this end. Agent Weiss will be going upstate with the group from Langley."
A blonde woman with very large teeth and Lee press on nails takes the stage and starts droning on about surveillance techniques. "Who is that?" I ask under my breath.
"Kim Vanderhof. Station chief in Prague," Weiss mutters as he fidgets with his yo-yo.
Oh crap. I know that name. Her father was among the group of 25 dead agents. "Who else?"
"Agents Harding and Felice." He points in the direction of two sober looking dudes in navy blue suits.
Two more names from the list. "Volunteers?"
He nods and I finally tune into the conversation. Vanderhof lays out her wares and we all play show and tell while she talks. They're pulling out all the stops. Latest hardware and some of our best agents. I might not know the faces, but I've seen the names a dozen times. Award recipients. Mentored, wined, and dined by the head spooks at Langley. Going places at the speed of light.
"Any questions?" Jack asks quickly. His dark eyes scan the audience and rest on me for a few beats. Like he expects me to cause trouble. On that score, he would be right. I am not about to sit in the office while the others get all the action.
I wait for them to file out before I approach him. "Why are you benching me?"
His hands stop erasing the whiteboard. "You're needed here."
"More like, they ordered you to keep me here." I wait until I have his full attention. "Am I right?"
He sighs and puts the eraser down. "Those were the terms, yes."
"I thought you were in charge of this op," I retort hotly, slicking back my hair with the sweat from my hands, knowing I am treading on dangerous ground.
His jaw clenches and a number of dark emotions flash on his face. "Mr. Vaughn, we all have to answer to a higher power."
"But you're Jack Bristow. You can do anything you want and they let you get away with it." Pent-up resentment comes flying out of nowhere and hits him square in the chest. And something on my face seems to scare him, because he backs away from me.
"I'm not God, Mr. Vaughn." He shrugs and sits down at the table, looking older than I've ever seen him. His iron gray hair is thinner than I remember and he's lost a lot of weight. Jack is more than the double agent du jour. He's a husband whose wife betrayed him and a father who's lost his only child. "And if I sometimes take advantage of my position, I only do it to help my family."
"I'm sorry." And I mean it this time. He looks up and his granite features soften so imperceptibly that I almost miss it. Apology accepted.
"So am I. Let's get to work."
******Jack holds the phone with one hand and moves stick pins around the map while he talks. And I sit there, playing with my coin and contemplating my navel and thinking that Jack looks a little like Joe Leaphorn* and I could definitely pass for Jim Chee*. The oddest couple in law enforcement.
What am I doing here?
Not a damned thing.
They have me caged in so they can keep an eye on me. If they assign me to the basement, I might slip through their fingers. But here, with Jack glowering at me (he's got it down to a science) and a fucking cannon at the ready (Sig Sauer by the look of it), they have me neutralized.
Lunch time comes and goes without a break and I decide I've had enough. He's off on one of his tangents and jumps when I tap his earpiece. "What?" he barks.
"I'm going to lunch," I announce.
"Just give me a minute and I'll join you," he replies, holding up a finger.
I shake my head and start walking out the door. In the space of a heartbeat, he's blocking my path and I swear I see his trigger finger itching to draw his weapon. "Get out of my way." Low, mean, and throbbing with menace. So unlike my usual demeanor that it scares me a little. But it works, because he moves aside.
"Where are you going?" he calls after me.
I stop and look at him. "What are you, my jailer?"
"Accountability, Mr. Vaughn. I need to keep track of every team member at all times," he reminds me.
I knew that. "I'll be down at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf." About as far as I can get from the office without leaving town. What I really need is a stiff drink, but good coffee will do for now.
*******Note: Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn are Navajo tribal policemen from Tony Hillerman novels.
*****I hide behind the sports section of the LA Times and slurp at my mocha java. Spy guys do not belong here. Only cool Hollywood types with designer tans and million dollar sports cars. They stroll by me and I'm ashamed to admit that I recognize most of them. This is the place to be. I read it in Movieline. Yeah, my copy is buried between Penthouse and Sports Illustrated on my bathroom floor. How superficial is that? But hey, it's an escape.
So I turn to the crossword puzzle and that's when I see that one of the words is filled in. 47 across. Nine letter word for trees that don't shed their leaves.
Evergreen.
Holy fucking shit.
The same careful writing that appears in her journal. How can this be? I just bought the paper....oh....right. I put it down on the table with my pen when I bought my coffee.
This is so not happening to me. I am supposed to be here, sipping coffee and slacking off. Not getting visits from the Not-so-friendly ghost. When I look back at the crossword, the page is completely blank. Definitely losing my marbles.
Visit the cemetery. See what she wants.
I toss out my trash and stuff the paper in my briefcase. Out the door and back to my car in the twinkling of an eye. Honking my way into the line of traffic and swearing at a few idiots who cut me off. Business as usual in LA. The minutes tick by and I somehow make it to Evergreen in one piece. I drive around a landscaper's cart and park the car under a willow tree. 110 degrees in the shade. My jacket ends up on top of the newspaper and I roll up my sleeves.
I cut through one of the oldest sections of the cemetery and approach chez Bristow. Three generations buried here. A bright flash of wings draws my attention and I see a stellar jay squawking at me from the branch of a nearby pine tree. I never really noticed birds until I met Sydney (who loves them). I start to approach and the bird flaps away to the next tree. Still scolding me. When I get to the brink of the hill, I look down and can't believe what I see.
A black Mercedes with tinted windows.
No, this can't be right. I'm hallucinating. That is not her car. She would never risk coming here. How could she.....she killed her own daughter.....
It's no hallucination and it's happening right in front of me. Irina emerges from the back of the car with an armful of mums in a tasteful urn. Stops and looks around. Not seeing me on the hill. She approaches the grave and places the flowers in front of it. And then she crosses herself and kneels down. This simple action does more to infuriate me than anything else she has done.
Fucking bitch. Prepare to meet your Maker.
I reach for my gun and remember that I lost my permit. And my phone's in the car with my pager. So help's not on its way.
You're on your own, Michael. Here's your chance to do the right thing.
Without looking back, I take off at top speed and ignore the pain in my chest. When I get to the car, I stick my baseball cap on my head and hunker down. A few minutes later, the Mercedes passes and picks up a tail. Keeping some distance between me and the Nazi staff car, I figure they're on their way to LAX.
I see the message light flashing on my cell phone and know that my dog handler is putting a choke hold on me. Or so he thinks.
Michael Vaughn has gone rogue for the last time. And I don't give a shit if she takes me down with her. All that matters is that I end this.
******I lose the suit coat, shirt, and tie in my car. By the time, I get to the ticket counter, my unshaven mug is hidden behind a fugly pair of sunglasses and my hair is tucked under my baseball cap. T-shirt, dress pants, and fancy shoes. Dragon breath and growling stomach. No food since yesterday.
The line drags and I see the departure time looming nearer. When I finally get to the head of the class, I buy the very last ticket in coach. A middle seat behind the right wing. OK, I can deal, as long as I'm not sandwiched between smelly gits and screaming kids with sticky hands.
Ten minutes to boarding. Enough time to grab some food and take a piss. I run into the men's room and nearly knock over Derevko's bodyguard. My feet skid in some water and I slam into the line of sinks. Fucking hell. He barely notices me and I breathe a sigh of relief when he leaves.
My cell phone is jammed in my back pocket and my pager is somewhere in the Pacific. Maybe it will find Syd's old pager and keep it company. Somehow, that thought depresses me more than anything and I fight to keep down a half gallon of coffee.
When I finally get to my seat, I've managed to wolf down a plastic looking sandwich that tastes like its wrapper. Finger foods for frequent fliers. Or dollhouse toys for giants. I see her in first class. Reading the latest Nelson DeMille novel. Secret Commie police and CIA plants. Irina never sees me. Why isn't she more careful? She's used up more lives than a cat and there she sits. All feline and looking rather amazing for her age. What Sydney might have been.....I gulp down a rancid mixture of grief and rage and manage to pass by without decking her.
I'm flanked by a college student with a headset and an older woman with a Danielle Steel novel. Weird flash from my last flight. Was Irina on that plane? Did she follow me to Washington, anticipating that Sydney would be hot on my heels?
Every where I turn, I find some other way to blame myself. But I'll do it right this time. She won't be coming up for air.
*****My mind is like the Energizer bunny. It never stops thinking. Never stops planning 'what ifs' and possible scenarios. It makes me good at strategizing, but it's subtracting years from my life and adding lines to my forehead.
I sit 22 rows back, plotting her demise between allergic sniffs from the woman on my left and random drumming from the kid with the tunes. Stale cocktail peanuts caught in my teeth. Crumpled napkins jammed in the seat back with the airline magazine. The buzz from three shots of vodka roiling in my gut. Jazzed from gallons of coffee on an empty stomach. Pissed that she gets to choose who lives or dies. I hope to even the odds on that score.
It's a short hop from LAX to San Francisco but time slows to a crawl as I join the long line. Disembarking. A ten dollar word for getting off the plane. Made up by some geek who's memorized the dictionary. Such trivial thoughts consume me as I pass the gate and see her halfway down the concourse.
She's alone.
If security weren't heightened, I could grab her without anyone noticing. Even so, I am not stupid, and only an idiot would try to take her in such a public place. I know she's armed. Metal detectors are no object for Madame Assassin. One can only assume that she's stuffed to the gills with guns. She waltzes blithely past the security checkpoints with a grin for all the handsome young men serving our country. The joke is definitely on them.
I keep a safe distance and no one looks at me twice as I follow her toward the entrance. So far, so good. No APBs or security alerts on Michael Vaughn or Irina Derevko. I can only assume they don't know she's here. Which is good for me and bad for them. Of course, the right thing to do is calling in and reporting my whereabouts. But when have I ever done the right thing? I follow my heart and it's telling me not to let her out of my sight.
When I get out to the curb, I realize this is going a little too well. None of her people are here and she hasn't been the slightest bit suspicious of me. Until now. She turns and smiles at me and the game is up. I've been made. She approaches two cops and starts talking. Hands emoting as she turns and points straight at me. Then she smirks as the two cops start bearing down on me. I watch as she jumps in a cab that starts to drive away. The police are 50 yards away and closing and I see a yellow taxi gliding to a stop. Two old women start to move toward the cab and I knock them over in my haste.
"Hey, you. Hold it right there," yells one of the cops and I launch myself into the back seat. The startled driver looks between me and the police, hesitating visibly and starting to reach for the door handle.
"Follow that cab," I yell, pointing at the rapidly disappearing profile of Irina's taxi. He looks at me dumbly and I guess I'm not speaking his language. My wallet comes out and I throw a fifty dollar bill at him. His eyes brighten and the cab is suddenly in motion, moving away at the exact moment the cops catch up with me.
"Where are you headed?" he asks in pleasantly accented English.
"Wherever they're headed."
"This is going to cost you," he cautions, catching my eye in the rear view mirror.
I roll my eyes and sigh. "Don't lose them," I bark, leaning back against the seat and catching my breath as the driver accelerates rapidly and heads toward the city.
******We climb Russian Hill and her cab stops in front of one of those impossibly expensive homes. My driver lets me out on the corner and I throw a pile of money at him. Without looking back, I see her disappear into one of those gated courtyards that are so prevalent in this city. When I get to the gate, I see her disappearing down a sidewalk that winds between lush gardens.
Private home. Gobs of money. I'm sure they won't mind if I trespass. So I follow her and see her talking to someone on the street. The man looks familiar and I suddenly realize who I'm looking at. Khasinau. Never picked up on our last raid. Still holding the fort in the city by the bay. He leans forward and kisses her on both cheeks. Hands her the keys to the shining Beamer on the street and walks into the house. Black (of course) with an American flag glued to the back window. Does a sense of humor share space with her assassin's heart?
She looks around and I duck behind some greenery, wondering why this enclave isn't better protected. Do these people think they're invincible? I hold that thought when a pair of hands tries to wrap itself around my throat. One backward thrust of my elbow and my assailant is on the ground. His thick arms wrap around my legs and he almost trips me, but I regain my balance and stomp on him as hard as I can. His watery blue eyes pop open in shock and he passes out.
I hear the BMW's smooth engine purring and see Irina pulling away from the curb. My window of opportunity is rapidly closing and I dash toward the black Corvette parked in the alley. Unlocked. Full tank of gas. No security devices. A yank on some wires, connect the ends, and we have ignition.
The Beamer is still in sight and I'm guessing she's headed out of town. As I jam down the accelerator I think of Trish. Teaching me how to hot-wire my mother's car and the joyrides we took during those impossibly boring visits from the Moreau clan.
Michael Vaughn, a not so nice guy in a stolen vehicle. Chasing a murderous bitch across town. I see her signal and get within three cars of her as we head south on Route 1. Passing Golden Gate Park and heading out of the city.
********I decide to check my voice mail. Maybe for the last time. Ten new messages, waiting for me. Imagine that. I'm a popular guy on the ten most wanted circuit.
Six messages from Jack. Thinly veiled threats. Get my ass back to the office. Polite and slightly worried at first. Snarling by the end of number six. His ass is on the line and I better not let him down. Sorry, Jack. Already been there and done that.
Two messages from Devlin. Telling me I'm done as an agent. Oh, goody. So what else is new?
One message from Weiss. "Where are you, Mike?"
We're back to Mike. He knows I hate nicknames.
"Devlin's on the war path and Jack....you better call in."
It's too late for that, Eric. I'm already at the point of no return.
The last message is from Trish. Rapid-fire French between drags on her Gitane. "Michael." She never anglicizes my name. Never. "Avoid the water.....I have seen something about a slide.....wherever you are....leave the car. Godspeed."
And I've never heard her say anything remotely religious. Until now. I get ready to turn the phone off but it rings. Three little chirps before I answer. "Yes?"
"Now this is interesting. You following me. I must give you credit, Mr. Vaughn." My ears freeze. Irina. Mocking me. Then she laughs and I feel the rage start to build. The slow burn that ramps to a fiery crescendo.
Don't bother asking how she got this number. She is too smart for that and I will only paint myself as even dumber than she thinks me to be. "Credit for what?"
"For your persistence," she replies with grudging respect. "You have gotten closer than all your agents. They wheel and deal and think they have turned one of mine. They will soon discover their mistake."
"What have you done?" I whisper harshly, wondering how it can get any worse than it already is.
"Your little cell....soon it will all be gone." Another sardonic chuckle. "And whatever you think you are doing here....."
I interrupt, "I'm here to take you down. You're finished."
"Is that so? Well, my friend, far better men than you have failed.....look at your father...."
She's trying to bait me. I take a deep breath and wait for the pain to subside. "I'm not my father. As you will soon find out."
A short silence while she thinks about my words. "Perhaps I have underestimated you, but no matter. You are here because I've allowed you to get this far."
"Really?" I'm not sure I believe that anyone is that good, but look at her record. Dozens of kills and not a mark on her. Part of it is pure luck, but the rest is talent.
Her laugh ....so much like Sydney's...so easy to forget how dangerous she is. So easy to cave in....and how well she knows this....knows that my weakness is her daughter.....still. For Sydney, I would do anything. It's why I followed her to Taipei. It's why I'm here now. In this cat and mouse game with her treacherous mother. "Come now, Mr. Vaughn, did you honestly think you escaped my notice with your pathetic disguise?"
"I thought....y-yes...." Stammering and sweating. Like I always do around women that intimidate me. The way I often acted around Syd.
"I saw you at the cemetery. And we knew that you followed us to LAX. And got on the same flight to San Francisco. And I made sure that you followed me downtown. And that car you are driving....how convenient that it was parked there. Unguarded and unlocked. Don't you find this the slightest bit strange? There is not so much coincidence in this life unless it is planned."
Hell. Am I the hunter or the hunted? "You lured me here."
"Of course. And I knew you would follow.....I know what you want, you see. It's what they all want in the end...." Irina's voice softens and just when I think she's getting sentimental, it hardens. "What lies ahead, Mr. Vaughn? And more importantly, think about the car you are driving and why we let you take it."
She terminates the call and leaves my head buzzing with a million questions. A setup. If I stop the car to check for explosives, I'll lose my one and only chance to capture the prize.
What lies ahead....what lies ahead.....I pound my fist against my head and my eyes open wide as a memory from my childhood comes flooding back.
Visiting my cool Aunt Trish in San Francisco. Shortly after my father's death. Endless rides in her Firebird. Hanging our feet over the ledge....a wall of rock....a wall of death leading to the water below. Cars whizzing by us at impossibly high speeds.
This is the Devil's Slide.
Why do they call it that?
No one survives a fall off these cliffs. Cars go over...never to be seen again. Smashed on the rocks. Burned by the fire. So, it is an appropriate name, don't you think?
I remember nodding my head, enchanted by my bewitching aunt with all her strange friends and her weird mannerisms.
So you must remember to stay away from here. Do you understand?
An adult admonishing a wayward child. But it all seems so clear now. Did she sense something all those years ago that she can't remember now?
What lies ahead is the road to Pacifica. A road that leads to the Devil's Slide. Hugging the cliff. Nothing between you and the water but a railing. People have gone over the side and died here. Trish is still on my mind and her recent warning comes back to me.
There is an accident...and lots of water....and the three of you.....all involved in this...this woman....Irene
The three of us. Me, Syd, and Irina.
She has an agenda.
Indeed. The words on the cross word puzzle. Leading me down the path she wants me to follow. The mother and the daughter. Using me for their own purposes. For different reasons...but using me all the same.
Yes. This is where it will end.
And then my brain comes screeching to a halt as Irina's words slam home.
Your little cell....soon it will all be gone....
Shit. Eric and Paulie. And the rest of them. If I don't warn them, they won't walk away from this. And Irina will win. Again.
******I hit speed dial and Weiss comes on the line. Breathless and gruff when he hears my voice. "Where the hell are you?"
Ignoring the question, I get right to the point. "You have to clear out of there. That guy you recruited...."
Eric interrupts, "How did you know about that?"
"Never mind!" I am practically shouting by now. "He's using you and they plan on cleaning house. Get out now."
I hear him cover the phone and yell something across the room. Good. He's taking me seriously. He comes back on the phone and says, "Michael, I don't know what you're up to...."
"I'm going after her. Derevko." The silence on the other end is palpable and I will him to say something.
"Where?" He's on the same page as me. Insubordination can wait.
"Route 1. Devil's Slide," I say, the phone practically slipping from my fingers as the Beamer picks up speed. "Look, there's more. Khasinau has a safe house....on Russian Hill..."
As I rattle off the address, I hear him chuckle at the irony of that location. "You've been busy."
"Just.....come soon."
"You bet." Weiss is already giving orders before he ends the call and I allow myself to smile. Competent to the core, Eric is one great agent and the closest thing I have to a real friend. And if anyone can pull this off, it's him.
******The 'Vette purrs under my fingers. A very sweet ride. Too bad I can't appreciate my stolen booty. If someone had told me that I'd lower myself to hot-wiring and stealing cars, I would have called them crazy. But that was then and this is now.
It's late in the day and the sun disappears behind a bank of clouds. The low mourning sound of a fog horn echoes in the distance and I am soon engulfed in a sea of fog. Obscuring everything but the hands in front of my face. Dampening the sounds around me....the faint ticking from my watch.....only my watch doesn't tick....and I know the car is rigged to blow.
But I don't give a damn. I fly past the warning signs. Falling rocks. Fog. And a spy on the war path. Not caring if he lives or dies. I'm past the point where it matters anymore. And like those moments in the movies where it all flies apart, it all slows down. Like the rise and ebb of the tides.
I speed around a corner and one wheel slips off the pavement. Squealing as it tries to find purchase....my sigh of relief when it re-establishes contact. A break in the fog. The silvery lines of a tanker trunk on its side. Twisted and smoking. Blocking the road on both sides.
A car-sized hole in the fence. Big enough for a black BMW. The sudden flash of movement....black and red....someone running at top speed....jumping in front of my car....arms waving....chocolate drop eyes pleading with me.
Sydney.
Her voice in my head. Screaming.
Michael, get out of the car now!
My foot hitting the brakes. The thud of my head on the steering wheel. Half-dazed as the door opens and a set of arms pulls me from the car. The scrape of my arms and legs on the pavement. Burning pain as I fall to the side of the road. Someone holding me close as the Corvette explodes into flames. Careening into the tanker. A huge fireball that lights the sky like a second sun.
Sydney's hands in my hair. Fingers caressing my face. Her lips on my forehead. The warmth of her smile as she dissolves into the mist. The whisper of her words in my mind. The last thing she ever says to me.
She is dead. You are safe. And I will always love you.
The moisture on my face that has nothing to do with the thickening fog.
She has saved me from myself.
I find myself walking along the fence line and I stop at the point where it all breaks apart. An open wound to the world. The chaotic scatter of my thoughts as I look down, still not believing it's over.
Can't help myself. Have to see that it's really true. That it's finally done. That the bitch is gone. It's too easy…..how can I believe the words of a figment? The brush of her soul against mine….
The rain seems to wash the fog away and I see a jagged pile of black metal melted into the mountains of rock at the base of the cliff. Flames dance along the frame of the car and I see a mass of blood and dark hair….more than I want to know….and then the car explodes….and I finally relent to the wall of grief I've held at bay for so long.
Torrents of rain pound at my back, competing with the tears that flow endlessly down my face. I look up at the embankment above me and see Weiss standing there with his hands extended. With a nod, I make my way up the hill, barely noticing his arm around my shoulders as he leads me away.
*****Two weeks later
The doorbell rings and I wind myself around the cartons and boxes to get to the front door. I release the chain and push back the deadbolt and am met by the inquisitive eyes of my Aunt Trish. She smiles and pushes her hair back from her face. "Are you busy?" she asks mischievously, noting the disarray in my living room.
"Not at all. Want something to drink?" Not that I ever need an excuse, but lately, I seem to be hitting the bottle rather hard.
"Of course. Just a few fingers." She sweeps by me and stops short at the sight of Eric wrapping my trophies in newspaper. "Oh, you have company."
"Hey," says Eric. "You must be Aunt Trish." He raises his eyes and I see him do a double take as he takes her in. Weiss looks over at me and whistles silently.
"And you must be the Eric Weiss," she replies, offering her hand. Weiss jumps to his feet and pumps her fingers with great enthusiasm.
She's flattering him and I manage not to smile as he smoothes his hair back nervously. As I pass him, I mutter, "What about Paulie?"
He follows me to the kitchen. "It didn't work out....she likes one of the guys from Langley."
I shake my head in commiseration. "Sorry. Want some JD?"
"Sure. Why not?" He watches my aunt as she fingers the boxes and shakes his head. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?" I pour out some JD and hand him the glass.
"About your aunt. She's smoking."
"So she is." I point at her cigarette and smile as he shakes his head.
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." I swallow some JD and sigh as it rolls down my throat.
"You think she'd go for someone like me?" he asks nervously. Poor Weiss. Always on the losing end of relationships. And Trish? She's a man killer and would probably break his heart.
I shrug. "Maybe. But she's.....you know....different. And she's pushing 50."
"So?"
Guess I have to try harder. "And she lives in DC. Long distance relationships don't usually work out."
He smiles. "Actually, I meant to tell you. I've put for a transfer. To Langley."
That's news to me. "Really?" His entire family lives in LA and they're a tight knit clan if ever one existed.
"Yeah," he hangs his head slightly and looks away. "Umm, there's a promotion in it for me. For....you know."
"Congratulations." My smile is genuine and he seems relieved that I'm not reacting badly. What's the point? It's water under the bridge and it's not what Sydney would have wanted. The fact that I am speaking about her in the past tense.....that should bother me....but it feels strangely peaceful. Like I have finally let her go.
"Thanks. So, you know, we might be neighbors," he jests and turns suddenly at the sight of Trish in the doorway. "You guys must need some time alone so I'll go back....and do what I was doing....."
He brushes by Trish and a huge smile breaks out on her face as he passes. "Your friend....he's very cute....and he likes me, yes?"
I hate being put in this position, but how can I stand between two people that might possibly belong together? Life is too damned short. I should know. Look what happened to me and Syd. The forces of life kept us apart until the very last second, and then it was too late. "Yeah. And he's moving to Washington soon."
She looks over her shoulder and that delectable smile breaks out again. Why the hell does it look so familiar? I shake my head and finally get around to the reason for her visit. "So why are you still here?"
"Unfinished business," she says mysteriously, propping herself against my stove. When she shifts her weight, I notice the parcel under her arm.
"What's that?" I ask, pointing at her package.
"The reason I am here." She hands it to me and watches my face as I read the writing on the outside. Her writing. How can it be?
"Is this some kind of joke?" I ask flatly, nearly dropping the package as I fall into a nearby chair.
"No joke, Michel. It arrived at my hotel on the day of your accident...and I've been trying to find a way to approach you. And now that you are moving...well, I knew it was time..."
I turn it around in my hands and feel its weight on my fingers. Another memory stirs...me holding my father's journal. Roughly the same size and weight as this package. When I look up at Trish, I see her dashing tears from her eyes. She gestures at me to open it and I unwrap it slowly. Black leather with gilt trimming. I am almost afraid to open it. "Did you know...?"
Trish nods quickly and moves to the window. Giving me some measure of privacy as I crack open the cover. Freshly inked with the scrawl of Syd's writing.
Diaries are not just for girls.
The slow drip of my tears as I turn the page and see more writing on the first page.
The first day of the rest of your life. Use it well.
Her words strengthen me and fill me with a few rays of hope. That maybe it will get better. That maybe I can get past the gloom and doom. That I can leave her behind and move forward. One step at a time.
The End
***********