Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 37
Five Days, Fifteen Hours, Ten Minutes
Under the cover of darkness, Matthew led Richard DeMarco through the DC neighborhoods back to the safety of the Thirteen Stripes Delicatessen. Lisa met them at the door, unbolting it, and, together, they all walked into the back and down the concealed staircase to the lair beneath the streets. On his way past the massive refrigeration locker, Matthew stopped and took a chilled bottle of wine. Lisa found three glasses, and they sat silently as a group, sipping the wine.
DeMarco finished his glass first. Satisfied, he rose and pulled his shirt over his head, taking off the black form-fitting nylon and throwing it toward a corner.
"Burn everything," he said.
"Richard," Matthew tried, but he silenced when he noticed his friend's expression. "As you wish."
The terrorist stepped through the curtain, and he made his way to the bathroom. Inside, he splashed cold water onto his face. Comfortable, he slipped out of the rest of his clothing and stepped under a hot stream of water now running in the shower.
His mission had been a disaster. Well, perhaps that was too hard. Disastrous, yes, but far from a disaster. After all, he did locate an underground fortress from which Arthur Pendley was doing ... what? He didn't know. Before he could learn what purpose the hidden base served, they had to escape, going after Indiri Farris, hoping against hope that they could locate her, shoot her, and leave her for dead. Another victim in DeMarco's growing list of exploits. He killed every woman he slept with. It was – the only frame of mind in which he could operate – efficient. However, the loneliness overcame him again as he thought of her face, but he dismissed it as easily as one might a case of indigestion. He refused to care for her. He refused to care for any woman. So far as it mattered, he was alone on the planet, and staying alone was all that mattered. Friends – Matthew and several others within the United States – were an occupational hazard. At times, they disappointed him, but he understood their necessity. They served a purpose – to further his individual agenda – and nothing more. It was a healthy outlook on the profession of terror, and DeMarco decided it was all that mattered.
Over the rush of water, he heard a short scuffle of footsteps. Someone had entered the washroom not long behind him. To his surprise, the shower curtain pulled back, and a blissfully naked Lisa stepped into the steaming water in front of him. She stood perfectly still, staring up at the man with her profoundly innocent eyes, and he watched as she studied his face. He returned her scrutiny – her pouting lips, her firm small chin, her perfectly plucked eyebrows, her high cheekbones. She was – in any estimation of the word – perfectly beautiful. She blinked her eyes slowly as she found him studying her, and, without hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed her firm, athletic, naked body against his.
DeMarco felt her warmth. He sensed the stead rise of her breathing on his chest. Her body felt wonderful against his, and he trusted that she felt the same.
"Don't worry, Richard," she whispered as she ran her lips across a tiny scar on his left shoulder.
"What is it, Lisa, that I should not worry about?"
"That woman," she said gently. "We will find her, and we will kill her."
"Do you think so?" he asked.
"I won't disappoint you again."
Reaching up, he grabbed a healthy handful of her dripping wet hair, forcing her head back so that he could stare into those darkly innocent eyes. She only smiled up at him. He found himself slowly aroused, melding his arm around her waist and pulling her mouth easily up to his.
"There is something we must do first," he told her.
Matthew sat alone at the table.
In the corner, a small black-and-white television set played, and he watched an area newscaster talking about the unconfirmed reports of a drive-by shooting a DC gentlemen's club. He smirked at the news, wishing in the dark recess of his evil mind for a chance to strangle Indiri – a woman who had inadvertently bested him while under the command of Richard DeMarco. He knew that the woman had to die. It was Richard's code, and it was the only code that he believed Richard respected. Women were an inconvenience ... or, in the very least, caring for them was. A professional, he knew, could never surrender to the whims of passion for anything other than momentary gratification. Love spoils the mind. Love softens the heart. Love drives insanity into an otherwise sane mind, and it corrupts the ideals of purpose. Respect, on the other hand, lasted forever, and Matthew trusted his life to respect ... to that of his counterparts in the exploits of terror ... to that of his friends made in the line of business ...
... but love was unnecessary. It was trash best left at the curb, and he would have none of it ...
... save for loving his only sister, Lisa.
The curtain parted, and DeMarco emerged. He wore a fresh pair of denim and while athletic socks. His chest and his hair were still damp from the welcome shower. His expression was dour. He stepped up to the small table and sat down opposite Matthew.
"We have made a grave miscalculation," the terrorist said.
"It's of no consequence."
DeMarco shook his head. "That woman can identify me, Matthew."
"That woman will be dead by tomorrow," the younger man countered. "I give you my word, my friend, as you would give me yours."
"I don't make a living on the words of others," the man stated. "I make my living on the deeds."
"Richard," Matthew interrupted calmly, "I understand why you're upset. However, I think you're voicing these concerns to the wrong person. It was Lisa who let Indiri escape. It was Lisa who drove the car when I tried to put a bullet in the head of that beautiful exploit of yours."
DeMarco's cheeks flexed as he slowly ground his teeth together.
"You are saying that you disapprove of me."
"I've said no such thing," Matthew offered. "I would not insult you."
"You disapprove of Indiri."
Patiently, Matthew threw his head back, rolling it around on his shoulders. His neck had began to kink, and he calmly cracked the vertebrae in order to relieve the stress.
"I have no right to disapprove of anything that you do, my friend."
"Then what is it, Matthew? What's troubling you?"
Grinning modestly, the younger man said, "All right, Richard. If you really want to know, then I will tell you what I think. That woman? Indiri Farris? She's a bit old for your tastes, don't you think?"
DeMarco tilted his head.
"You know precisely what I'm saying," the man continued. "I've known you for many years now, Richard, and I've seen your taste up front – in action, as they say. That woman must be ten years older than any beauty I've ever seen you with ... and, please remember, I have seen you with many. I don't understand the appeal, and now, as luck would have it, she is out there. She is far too ... adult ... for your tastes. You prefer women who are much younger. You prefer women who can be bended, shaped, and forced to explore whatever your will dictates. Older women? They tend to be more responsible. They tend to have a better concept of what is right in the world and what is wrong. Were she to know who you are? Were she to learn who you are? Why, she wouldn't hesitate but go to the police ... and that is a danger that Richard DeMarco – at least, the Richard DeMarco I know – would never take. You prefer a young woman. You prefer a woman with less experience so that you may – how can I put this politely – impress upon them your worldliness far more easily than one as well-traveled as Indiri Farris. You prefer a woman like ..."
"Like your sister?" DeMarco interrupted.
Suddenly, Matthew realized that Lisa was nowhere in sight.
Before he could react, he felt the knife piercing his throat. It sliced into his skin easily on the right side, and it tore across his jugular vein effortlessly, cutting the critical passageway easily. Matthew sensed the warm blood on his neck, and he immediately brought his hand up in a vain attempt to save his own life. Within seconds, he knew that it was far too late. He knew that he would be dead in a matter of mere moments, and he sensed an overwhelming vertigo that caused the room to saunter in his sight. The room went dark as he lapsed into tunnel vision, but he had enough strength to rise and spin around and realize that the last face he saw – the face of his killer – was that of his dear little sister, Lisa, the one person in his life that he had dared to love, and now love – as he had long feared – was every man's undoing, even his own.
He slipped to the floor, closing his eyes, falling in a dead lump.
DeMarco smiled up at the young woman, and she smiled back at her new lover.
"Get your things," he said. "We must leave this place at once."
END of Chapter 37
