Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)
Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.
mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.
Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.
Fort Tryon Park
The Cloisters
I roam through unearthly gardens, morphed into fantastic shapes by the veil of winter that envelops the landscape. Moonlit diamonds crunch under expensive Italian leather and I smirk, knowing my mother would disapprove. My feet find the path to the river's edge, and I marvel at the reflection of a million lights, captured by the silvery swells of the Hudson.
Behind these walls is a slice of the past that leaves the city behind, and for a time, I try to do the same. Pretend that it doesn't hurt. Wipe away the pain. Forget about the way she looked on that last day, parting with a promise to meet later.
But I can't do it. She won't let me. There's no escape for the guilty, and I've failed her on every level. 15 years gone by, and her killer still roams free.
It's not just the guilt; I feel her around me. Smell her scent. Catch a glimpse in a passing crowd. Reminding me.
And now she's warned me of impending doom. Frosting my already shivering frame with a layer of ice. Distracting me from my primary objective.
As I approach the West Terrace, Kendall's words come back to me.
"You'll arrive separately, posing as art dealers."
Brother and sister, no less. Kim and Laura Stanwyck. I roll my eyes, glad that Kendall can't read my mind as I scan my dossier, wondering if they ripped this out of a Barbara Cartland novel (heaped on my mother's night stand).
"Interesting," I say, tucking the folder under my left arm. "Why risk Syd's cover by sending her out of town?"
He raises an eyebrow and looks away. "We're expecting trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" An obvious question, but one I have to ask.
Kendall shrugs and steps away. "Good luck, Agent Vaughn."
So here I am, slip sliding away on the steps of the West Terrace, waiting for a match to flare against a cupped hand.
My signal that the target is in sight.
New York is an easy excuse for them, but it's not the right answer. When they vetted me, they dug into every nook and cranny of my background. It bought me a top secret clearance and hung my privacy out to dry.
"You have an aunt named Trish?" A voice that crackles like dead leaves.
"Yeah." Monosyllables piss them off, and I'm awarded with a glare from a pair of rheumy eyes.
"And you're close to her." That is not a question.
It had been a dozen years since our last meeting. "Not really."
"Patrice Moreau." He butchers her name and I manage not to wince at his accent. "Keeps interesting company, wouldn't you say?"
"I wouldn't know." Trish's life is her own business.
"She's spent a lot of time in Eastern Europe." Like that's a crime or something.
"So? Maybe she likes their art." Or maybe she just likes boning the artists.
He takes off his glasses and sighs. "Your aunt hangs out with commies."
"Is that a crime?" The Berlin Wall has crumbled and the boundaries between sides have blurred considerably.
"Maybe." It ends there, and I breathe a little easier. But all these years later, I wonder why that particular memory comes to mind. I don't believe in prescience, though Trish lives and dies on the turning of a tea leaf.
See, here's the thing about me and Trish. We're closer than anyone else in the family. I talk to her almost every day, though I rarely see her in person. So I know about her friends, and more than a few of her lovers. She's mentioned names that mean something to me, but I always let it pass.
But they watch her closely. Monitor her mail. Screen her calls. It's not like I have to tell her, because she knows. About everything. Me, what I do, the people who pay my salary. And that's why I'm here today.
I'm fairly certain that she'll be here tonight. And I'm almost positive that she knows Alexei Markarov.
And they know that too.
Light flares against the star-studded sky and I see the limo arrive, a silent black ghost that glides to a halt at the curb. I move closer, needing to confirm what I already know in my heart. A man emerges, tall and spare, limping slightly from the arthritis that plagues him. He offers his arm to someone and she steps out, red hair clipped into an elegant chignon, sparkling with the joie de vivre that defines her existence. But then he turns to help someone else, and that's when my jaw drops in stunned recognition.
The last person I expect to see. Elise Marie Delorme. My maternal grandmother, accompanied by her beloved Alex.