Chapter 12
The radio filled the otherwise quiet car with music to mask the uncomfortable silence. Sable followed the instructions precisely. Arnoldo had them printed out for her. Sands lived about only half an hour from the CIA building, not too bad considering the privacy he seemed to crave.
It was all country up here, the trees were all different colors and the mountains loomed up in the distance. The blaring rock song didn't fit well with the atmosphere so she lowered the volume a little, it was entirely too peaceful for distractions.
She turned down a lane and as she stopped the car her breath caught in horror. Checking the directions again she double-checked to see if she might have missed something somewhere. There was nothing she'd done wrong, but this couldn't be right.
The house was one story high with white siding and a cracked window. It looked as if it hadn't been lived in for years. The only thing keeping it standing was the steady foundation.
The yard was nice though, green grass and a black-iron fence to keep away intruders. Then the house, there had to be some way to get Sands to check into a hotel.
"Home sweet home," Sands' boots crunched on the gravel as he walked up to the gate. He reached his arm through one of the bars, frowned, then went to another. He had to do that twice more before the gate finally opened.
It was the seventh bar in, Sands remembered, from the angle he got out of the car he missed it by about four. He sidestepped a hole strategically placed in the ground and without much difficulty made it to the door.
Sable followed close by Sands, stepped where he did because she was sure there were traps in the ground. He was cunning enough to do it, but why people would even dare to step past the gate was beyond her.
He took out a key from his pocket and pushed the door open. Inside it wasn't much better, it reminded her of the depressing run-down motels, some of which she'd stayed at when on certain covert missions.
Sands smiled, but she didn't know why. He lay down on the couch with his arms clasped over his head. As he did little puffs of dust flew into the stale, hot air.
"So you're. . . settled?" Sable looked around, dirty glasses were on inch-thick dust surfaces and she counted at least three full ashtrays.
"Yup. Thanks for the lift, sugarbutt." Sands cocked a brow, "stay to the left side of the walk on your way out."
"You know. . . there are other places you can go until tomorrow."
"Twinge of conscience?" Sands laughed, "alright, come'ere. I want to show you something."
"He stood up, stretched, and walked over to a stereo plugged into the wall. It didn't look as if it still worked, the antenna was broken and the speaker had a huge gash down the middle.
"Go to channel 96.9," was all he said.
"What are you playing at?" Sable's eyes narrowed but she forced the dial to turn until it was where he had specified.
The refrigerator moved to the side and the water stained wall behind it slid open to reveal hardwood floors and perfectly painted white walls. No paintings, but there was an oak handmade clock with finely crafted antique hands and face.
"You didn't really think that I'd live in that hell-hole, did you?" Sands laughed again, "The CIA's salary wasn't used on cigarettes and liquor as they thought, I put it into this house."
"Nice façade." Sable couldn't believe the interior of the house. There was high tech equipment everywhere, thirty-six inch television with both DVD player and VCR.
"Arnoldo offered to up my salary," Sands grinned. "He came here once and said that if I lived like this he didn't want to know what I used the money for."
"I wonder why," Sable remarked dryly.
"So then when I showed him this part he gave me the typical you're-a- stupid-ass look and then left."
"You must get that look a lot."
"Only when I stand next to you, sugarbutt."
"One question?" It was something Sable always found to be annoying and since he called her it every time he had the chance, "Where did that come from? Why not use the other derogatory names men use? Babe, honey, baby, darlin', where did sugarbutt come from?"
"Dunno. It just kind of stuck," Sands shrugged unconcernedly. "Alright. There's an extra room down the hall to your right, sheets in the bureau and whatever else you'll need around the room."
"So you knew." Sable wouldn't have figured it any other way.
"Course. Arnoldo wouldn't let me home alone the first night away from the CIA's protective care," he snorted. "You'll have to go running to him first thing tomorrow to file the report that I'm still alive."
"There's no report."
"Bullshit."
It was a long shot but she decided to ask anyway. "Does everything come down to pain with you?"
"Nope. Ulterior motives. Everyone has ulterior motives, look out for yourself and damn anyone else."
"Nice to know someone else has a nice jaded view on life," Sable replied sarcastically.
"I prefer pessimistic, darlin'. Sands stressed the last word and decided that he really didn't like it. So much for trying new things.
"Mmhmm. . ."
"Down the hall to the right, I'm turning in for now." Sands shrugged off the black vest and threw it into one of the chairs.
* * *
It was time to switch the song around a little, move the shapes to new locations. He stood in the middle of his room, music blared loudly just as extra precaution. Sable was most likely in the other room or wandering around the house somewhere. She knew better than to come in here so everything should be fine.
Since when had he settled for fine? Sands hated weakness, he couldn't abide it in himself and any excuses he could have made for staying on the tranqs were useless. He could lie, quite fluently and in many different languages, but never, usually, to himself. It was time to face the pain no matter what the outcome.
His mental time clock was as good as it ever was. He had been off the tranquilizers for two hours the effects would be put into motion in a minute or two.
It started as a dull throbbing in the front of his skill that mirrored his pulse. The techno song that was playing switched to a hard- rock song with lots of bass and electric guitar. Perhaps not the most opportune of songs for the moment, but as the guitar rose and fell in time with his beat he decided not to change it.
Worst of all was balance adjusting. He understood now what Dawes meant by 'time to gather bearings.' However, to accept it would be weakness at its highest form and that's not who Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was. It would take some time to get used to, the feeling of not knowing what side was up, which was down, and where in hell he was in the middle of it all.
At the CIA building it had been easier, kind of a façade he cloaked himself with. Not to mention that he'd bow and scrape to a donkey before ever letting Dawes take the upper hand. Therein lay the problem. Theodore Dawes.
The moment he'd stepped foot in the CIA a personal war had been started. Sands had finally figured out why Dawes hated him. Sands' father, Jake, had been the undercover agent for the CIA. Dawes' father, Reynald had been the 'secretive in control' on the FBI
The FBI and CIA teamed up for a mission with the two men at top rank. None except them survived. Between the two years it took for the mission to complete, Reynald was supposedly killed by Jeff. A few hours later, during rigorous surgery, Jeff died as well taking what really happened to the grave.
Dawes blamed Sands for the death of his father, which Sands couldn't give a lesser damn about. They were both dead, the mission was completed, so why not move on and not dwell in the past?
Sands could believe Jeff killed Reynald. He certainly didn't have any compassion or pity in that cold heart of his. Away most of the day only to come home. . . fatherly love. Bullshit. Sands had been in training since he was old enough to walk.
Crying was not at all tolerated and food had been administered only once a day. Survive and get tough or die That was what he grew up with. During the day when his father was at work, Sands was locked in a dark closet until he came home. If he came home at all.
If Sands managed to pick the lock he got to sleep that night. If not he spent the remainder of the day locked inside with whatever food or water was left over from his rations. Water was placed on the other side of the door as motivation.
A new experience every time, he knew how to pick a lock now with a hanger, a needle, a piece of coarse burned rope, and even a broken scissor blade. He still had the scar on his hand to prove it. He survived and he'd made it through life with the lessons learned in the closet.
Pain was nothing new to him, and like all of the education learned the hard way, it gave him a new perspective on things. In actuality, the pitch-black of the closet calmed his fear of the dark. His greatest fear as a child, which served as the basis for Jeff's inspiration. The third day alone in the dark with only a needle put to rest his fears.
This was going to be a very long night.