Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Forty-Three: Can't Get a Man with a Gun
I've got bad news: Updates might be a bit slow for a while. If there was any way to prevent this, by all means, I would do it, but I can't. Speech league season is here again, eating away my Saturdays (the only day I get to sleep in -.9;;) and several of my weekdays as well. But as soon as the evil time of speech league is over, my schedule will clear up considerably. Wait, no it won't because then play practice is going to start. Okay, okay. From now until let's say . . . May (hopefully this story will be finished before then 9.6) I'm going to write a chapter and then post it the moment I get it done. That could mean there will be updates on Fridays and Mondays like usual, but there could be new chapters up other days, too. I'm simply going to update whenever I can.
"Where are they?"
"Señorita, try to be patient –"
"Two days. It has been two days since you sent that American –"
"Agent Fusco."
"— out to retrieve him. Why isn't he back yet?"
"Señorita Barillo, you have not let me explain," Édouard Poisson stated calmly. From across the room, Ajedrez shot him a furious glare, her eyes flashing in warning. Unperturbed, Poisson continued, lighting up a cigar as he did so.
"I received a call from Agent Fusco on Wednesday –"
"The same day he was ordered to –" Ajedrez began to rant but Poisson interjected with a raised palm. He stalled for a moment, enjoying both his cigar and watching the haughty young woman stew. She had no patience, nor did he, but he did not need to learn forbearance. He was in control of one of the largest Mafia families in all of Europe! He had more power than the impudent señorita would ever know.
Ah, but she is the head of a drug ring, now. I must keep that in mind.
Poisson exhaled (and filled the room with foul-smelling smoke in the process) and smiled at his young accomplice. Flicking an ash into the brass tray in front of him, he began to explain.
"When he called, Agent Fusco informed me that your Agent Sands –"
Ajedrez made a noise of disgust and crossed her arms. Poisson chose to ignore her.
"— was caught in the crossfire that broke out at last Sunday's get-together."
He took a moment to pause and watch as the woman's fury melted from her youthful face, draining from her body, collecting on the floor, and evaporating before it had a chance to be absorbed by his Oriental rug. Ajedrez, her anger replaced with interest, was staring at him in a new light – a light Poisson recalled witnessing only twice before. Once, many months ago, when he had informed her that they knew the location of the CIA agents and again when she was told that they had successfully snare Agent Lynné Sands, the woman who had managed to elude them for so long. Poisson observed Ajedrez now as she gazed at him through honey-colored eyes, her brows peaked in interest.
"Was he injured?" she asked. Her voice was nothing but a dangerously low whisper, full of urgency, curiosity, and rancor.
"Yes," Poisson answered at last. "That is why he has not . . . graced us with his presence."
"When will he show himself?" Ajedrez demanded.
"According to Agent Fusco," Poisson began, "his wounds are healing nicely . . . it should be no more than three day's time."
"And he told you this on Wednesday?" she asked.
Poisson nodded.
Seeing this, Ajedrez grinned in knowing satisfaction.
"Perfect."
Don't you think you should be doing something more productive that sitting here?
What do you mean?
Trying to escape, perhaps? You undid the cuffs; now's the time when you make your grand escape, Houdini. Wow the audience.
But there is no audience, Lynné thought dumbly. Surely the voice knew that. The voice claimed to know everything.
I was kidding, it snapped irritably.
Oh, was her blunt reply. Well, even though I do have the cuffs off, I can't go anywhere. Only one leg, remember?
You've traveled on one leg before and you were bleeding! The voice was practically glowing with rage, ready to boil over at any second. Like a teakettle, it hissed at her, expelling hot steam and fogging her vision.
That's no way to be, she scolded patiently. As I told my man the other day, anger gets you no where.
Your man . . . Please. Spare me, the voice scoffed disdainfully.
He didn't love me anyway.
But you loved him, Lynnie.
Not anymore, she murmured venomously. She stared down at the cement floor beneath her, seeing nothing but gray. Cold. Hard. Lifeless – no, soulless. It reminded her of someone, but she would not say who.
Who do you love, Lynné?
She smiled coldly, shaking her head at herself.
Damned if I know.
I think you do, the voice whispered, so faint Lynné could barely hear it. But it was impossible for her not to. She always heard the voice. No matter how drug-induced she was, no matter how exhausted she may be, no matter how much blood she may have lost . . . the voice could always be heard. And when in a plain room with no windows or people and nothing but a single bulb for a light source, the voice could become exceptionally loud.
Who do you love? Who are the ones you love?
The voice was loud, but Lynné ignored it.
The kid?
No response.
Sands?
Still nothing. For once, Lynné was keeping her mouth (and her mind) shut.
Your father?
She wasn't even going to justify that with an answer.
The assassin?
He was old news as far as she was concerned. Women like her were always searching for something fresh and new. Sensing something, the voice's tone twisted evilly.
Liam?
Her fingers abruptly turned to claws as she flexed her wrists out in front of her. A silver ring hung loosely from her right wrist. The miniature chain and second ring dangled helplessly as she clenched and unclenched her fists. She still marveled, from time to time, at how she had gotten the cuffs off. It had been a long time since her own cleverness had surprised her like that. Picking the locks had not been as hard as she had imagined. And, scrutinizing the size of the cuffs now, she imagined it would not have been necessary at all if her hands had only been a bit smaller. She could have just twisted, pulled, and then she would have been free.
I can always use that on Fusco, Lyn smirked sadistically.
I thought you wanted to shoot him?
You can't get a man with a gun, she mused with cold humor.
No, the voice agreed quietly. You can't.
All around him, white walls – clean, sterile – glared at him, as if daring him to touch them with his grubby, sticky palms. On a normal day, he might have just to see what would happen. This wasn't his room, after all. It wasn't even his house. Why should he care if someone pitched a fit because their precious walls were no longer spotless? But he refrained from making a mess because this was not a normal day.
Below him, blue and white speckled tiles reflected his image. Or someone he imagined must be him. There was no one else in the room. But the person on the floor could not be him. When had he become so small and sickly? When had he started to look so afraid? So worried? So helpless? He was pitiful.
High above him, lights were blindingly bright, blazing down on him and making his eyes water. Or maybe that was being brought on by the panic, the worry, or the uncertainty of what lay ahead. He was in a strange room in a place he feared and hated and those holding him captive had locked the door.
He stared out at the room they had left him in, cold and in pain. The tables in doctor's offices were always freezing and he never understood why. The entire décor (white with pale and navy blue) was frigid. He shivered and tried to take his mind off of the iciness of the room.
Why is this taking so long? he wondered as his eyes drifting hopelessly to the door – the room's only entrance and its only exit. They know what's wrong with me, so what're they doing?
The opening of a door – the only door – and the person who stepped into the room, silenced all further thoughts. Sands stared, just a sickly, scared little boy, and the middle-aged woman gazed back at him, relieved that she would be ending his pain soon.
"Hello, Jeffery," she said. She smiled warmly but faltered when the little boy's eyebrows rose in suspicion. "Your mother told me you like to be called that."
"Where is she?" he interrupted.
The woman was sympathetic as she edged into the room. "Aww . . . you miss your mother?"
Had he not been so frustrated, Sands would have rolled his eyes at the question. Instead he threw the woman the deepest look of loathing he could muster, narrowing his brows fiercely and glaring directly into her eyes. He was cold, tired, and in more pain than he could have ever imagined . . . and this woman was mocking him? Treating him like a stupid little kid? Absolutely not. That was it. He'd had enough.
"Who are you?" he demanded to know, his temper flaring.
"I'm Dr. Hoffman," the woman tried to explain.
She thought that information might calm the child down and assure him that he was in safe hands, but she was dead wrong. It made matters worse. Instead of soothing his frazzled nerves, her name made the boy even more suspicious. Warily, as if she was going to lash out at him, his voice hollow, he uttered one word: "Doctor?"
"Yes," she answered delicately, sensing that the child was likely to snap at any moment. "I'm here to give you your injection."
As soon as the words left her mouth, Dr. Hoffman regretted ever coming to work that morning. The effect of her sentence was instantaneous. Never in her life had Dr. Hoffman witnessed such an impact. Her patient's eyes went wide with terror as he edged as far away from her as he possibly could, a stream of questions erupting from his mouth with unfathomable urgency.
"Injection? Why do you have to give me an injection? Are you allowed to? Who said it was okay?"
"Relax, kiddo," she tried to reason. "It's just a shot –"
"What kind of shot?" His voice rose to a shrill soprano as his panic crept even higher. "What's it for? What's in it!?"
"We just need to put you to sleep before we begin the operati –"
"Operation!?" Dr. Hoffman watched helplessly as her patient's terror and suspicion climbed even higher.
"What about an operation!?"
Dr. Hoffman was puzzled. "Didn't anyone tell you?"
"No," he answered resentfully, his eyes alive with fear, his voice shaking in anger. "No one's told me anything. I've been locked in here for hours."
A small smile inched its way onto Dr. Hoffman's face at the child's exaggeration. He had only been in the room for fifteen minutes, but she was certain that to him it had seemed like an eternity. Once again, she marveled at how seconds could stretched on like hours to a small child and how life seemed like the longest thing in the world to them and so very short to an adult.
"Well," she began cautiously, keeping her demeanor measured and unruffled as she approached him. "We've looked at the x-rays and the diagnosis is this." She sighed, wondering how to explain the situation to the boy but then just decided to be blunt about it. "There's a bottlecap inside you, kiddo. We've got to get it out of you."
"Did my mom say it was okay?"
The doctor blinked, confused. "We're not allowed to administer any kind of treatment without a parent's or patient's consent."
He stared at her.
Realizing that, to her patient, the words must have sounded like a foreign language, Dr. Hoffman quickly translated, "We can't do anything unless your mom says yes."
"Did she?" He sounded very skeptical. Unsure if her answer would suffice, Dr. Hoffman opened her mouth to speak but never got the chance to say a word. The pretty young woman who sailed through the door abruptly cut her off.
The little boy bit his lip, scarcely daring to believe that his mother had entered the unbearable, frozen prison that was the doctor's office. The room was too awful for a person like his mother. In his eyes, she was far too gentle for such a harsh climate. But there she was, standing in the doorway and glaring furiously at the doctor. If she was standing in the horrible room, then she was his savior.
"Mom?" Sands asked tentatively.
"I'm here, sweetheart," his mother assured him, pushing all other matters aside for her son. She put her arms around his thin body, holding him close as he stared over her shoulder at Dr. Hoffman.
"Did you say it was all right if they gave me a shot?" he whispered in her ear, his eyes fixed on the doctor.
"Of course, darling," she replied simply.
"What? Why?" he demanded, appalled.
"It's the only way," his mother answered. "I imagine Dr. Hoffman told you about the situation, yes?"
Said doctor cleared her throat and spoke up. "Yes, I did."
"You understand that you have to have an operation?" his mother asked, turning back to him.
Reluctantly, he nodded before pressing his face against her, hiding his eyes in the warm fabric of her tan jacket.
"It's nothing serious, bébé," she assured him. "They just need to get the capsule bouteille out of you."
"But why do I have to get a shot?" he mumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the menacing nurse from hell. She had her back to him. Her crisp, white coat – pure, angelic, unthreatening in every way – was just an illusion, a costume she wore to hide her scales and claws. Suddenly, her arm stretched out. He followed it. White . . . white . . . white . . . the flesh of a hand and then . . . Like a gruesome monster rearing its hideous head into the air, a syringe – nine, ten inches long? – full of crystal clear liquid appeared, clasped tightly in the razor sharp talons of the doctor.
"Bête, you wish to be awake while they make the procedure?" his mother questioned, raising her eyebrows skeptically. He looked deep into her eyes, gazing intently at the frosty blue irises – so unlike his own dark orbs. Why, he wondered, was he so worried? The operation was said to be a simple one, his mother had said so. And she never hid the truth from him. She wouldn't lie now . . . right?
Right, he decided at last. She would never lie to him. He stole one last look at his mother and then, slowly, hesitantly, he held out his arm to Dr. Hoffman.
Her nose twitching wildly, Zebbidy raised a long finger up to her slender neck, searching for the length of ribbon that usually encircled it. She was momentarily surprised when she felt nothing but the soft warmth of her own flesh and not the smooth silk she had been expecting.
Several seconds passed as she went on a fruitless hunt for the choker and two more seconds went by before she hit a bump in her expedition. And then she remembered.
She had quite literally hit a bump: The dark, raised bit of flesh that grew on the left side of her throat. It had always stood out against the pale, peachy tone of her complexion. A birthmark. An everlasting sign of identification. A single flaw on her seemingly unblemished neck that she had never been tempted to have removed. Until six months ago.
Sands, she remembered, had made her take off her necklace – remove the birthmark's mask, in a sense. He had wanted to know why she kept it hidden. To him, he had said, she seemed far too preoccupied to fuss over a small vanity mark.
"So why hide it?"
She had tapped the spot knowingly and replied, "It's noticeable, and that's not my vanity talking. This dot stands out. Worse yet, Poisson knows about it. And if there's one thing he's got his men hunting for, it's a chick with a growth on her neck."
"Okay," Sands had accepted, nodding. "I can understand that."
"It's strange, though," Zebbidy had said as an afterthought. "In the olden days, during the purification, a large mole or birthmark was one of the key ways to identify a witch." She smirked. "Especially if it was on the neck."
Now she found herself smiling once more as she stood in the doorway of one of the bedrooms – formerly Lynné's – leaning heavily against the frame and gazing intently across the threshold at the sleeping man in front of her.
But he has his back to me, she reminded herself, so I can't be sure if he's really asleep.
If Sands wasn't, then he could certainly act the part, Zebbidy silently praised as she watched his body rise and fall each time a breath was held and released.
"Are you going after her?"
"For the seventeenth time, yes."
"Did you call the CIA?"
"For the sixth time, no."
"Are you going to call the CIA?"
"For the ninth time, no."
"Well . . . do you have a plan?"
"I have an outline . . ."
"But you are going after her?"
"For the eighteenth time . . . yes."
"When??"
"For . . . the twelfth time," Sands sighed, speaking slowly and deliberately, "I – don't – know." He was more than irked at the other agent's persistence. Truthfully, he wanted to get his sister out of Poisson's clutches more than he let on – much more. But there were certain feelings he simply refused to express. Fusco was fretting enough for the both of them, anyway.
"But they could be torturing her!" he was exclaiming, ready to rip his fair moustache. Normally, Sands would have found the younger man's tangled hair, rumbled shirt, and wide popping eyes incredibly funny, but now Liam's frowzy appearance didn't seem remotely comical at all.
"Yes, I suppose they could be," Sands said in measured tones.
"Exactly!" Liam cried exasperatedly.
"She could be injured," Sands offered. Liam nodded vigorously.
"That's right, that's exactly right," he urgently agreed.
From the kitchen doorway, Zebbidy stared in awed puzzlement. The scene before her was unbelievable. The way Sands could discuss his sister's condition so easily . . . it was almost unnerving. But she had learned something about the agent in the months she had spent with him. That calm tone meant he had a plan. There was something up his sleeve and he was using it to bait Liam Fusco.
"She could be locked in a freezing cold cell with rats and shit-stained walls, the works."
And then it dawned on her.
"She could be starving to death!" Zebbidy blurted out. She looked to Sands, praying that he understood what she was doing (and that she had understood what he had been doing). Their eyes locked for a brief moment and comprehension passed between them. Though the connection only lasted for a single second, when they broke it, they were left with a shared insight.
"Hell, she's been missing for three days," Sands continued as smoothly as if Zebbidy had been playing along the entire time. "Starvation is not out of the question."
"God, she was so young . . ." Zebbidy simpered in a barely audible whisper.
"Was?" Liam repeated, clearly taken aback. "What – you don't think she's dead, do you?"
"One way to find out," Sands told him and he pulled out his cell phone.
Joséphine was determined not to cry. She knew she could not. Any sign of weakness was forbidden at any of her grandfather's homes, but that wasn't what dammed her tears. It was because she knew that she had to be strong for herself, for American agents, for Zebbidy Samhain, and for Mademoiselle Sands.
Tears could be incredibly forceful she soon realized when her eyes began to betray her. They started to sting and suddenly began to water, causing Joséphine to drop her head in shame. She felt as though she had failed. She had let la mademoiselle down by not warning her about the man and woman earlier. She could have run upstairs and explained to Mademoiselle Sands that the two were planning on taking her away and that Monsieur Fusco had betrayed her.
Instead she had stayed put and ripped into the anonymous male agent because he had treated her like a child. And she was a child. She knew that, but that did not give that man the right to talk to her like she was ignorant. Still, she should not have lost her temper. At six years old she should have known better and should have been more mature than that. But she hadn't, and now everyone she had grown to care about was suffering. It should have been her in their place, she thought miserably. Or those horrible agents who had deceived them all. They deserved to be punished even more than she did.
Her grand-père's idea of punishment was to ostracize her. She was shut off from the rest of her family and was allowed human contact only when the servants brought up her meals. Aside from the help, she was shut off from all life. It would not have been so bad, she figured, had she been able to see. She could have read her books, but they were useless now after the car crash that took her parents. Television was out of the question. Her grand-père had taken it away along with her CD player and her piano in order to deprive her of any kind of entertainment. She had often wondered if he was trying to drive her mad, and now she had no doubts of her grand-père's intentions.
As he typed at his computer, Vincent Poisson could not help but feel a sense of loss. And slight resentment. The team of American agents had failed him. They had promised to aide in him when his fled the country, they had sworn that he would reach Canada safely, and they had assured him that it would not be long before he was cheering on a hockey team and sucking down maple syrup for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
However, Vincent was not doing either of those things; he was still in Paris, still under the control of his overbearing father, and becoming increasingly irritated as the minutes ticked by. He was determined not to allow himself to be so riled over a broken deal, after all, a noble, artistic man such as himself should have a secure hold on his composure. However, he soon learned that keeping his temper in check proved to be more difficult than Vincent had originally thought. So when the phone rang and he slammed his fists down on the keyboard in frustration, he was more than a little surprised.
"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" he demanded, not bothering to hide his vexation. Then, he blanched. The voice on the other end was one he had not expected to hear. Sinking back into his chair, his eyes round with stunned disbelief, Vincent gasped out:
"Monsieur Sands!?"
I apologize for how atrociously late this chapter is. I honestly did not think it would take me this long to get it posted. But it was a long one, so hopefully that makes up for the lateness, if only partially. And before I forget (because you all know I do :D;;) when Lyn said "Can't get a man with a gun" in the second scene, she was referring to the song You Can't get a Man with a Gun from the musical Annie Get Your Gun, which is about Annie Oakley and makes me think of Lyn because Oakley was a cowgirl and Sands, of course, wore a cowboy outfit in OUaTiM. :D
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: Good to hear you liked the Vincent cameo. Lord knows I like that man even though I doubt I'll get around to writing a Collateral fic.
vanillafluffy: S'okay. The only person who was to take Zeb's witch-like skills as a complete shock was Sands. You guys had an advantage because you all knew about her visions. Actually, I was a little stunned when no one said they suspected her of being a witch when she first started seeing things.
fanfiction fanatic: Ooo . . . lamps can be fascinating, so long as they're not evil or demonic like the lamp that once sat in my hallway O.O;; And I'm planning on some action scenes in upcoming chapters so you know :D
Lynx Ryder: I don't mind you getting annoyed with the flamers, although if you read the insult and saw how stupid it was, I hope you wouldn't use your energy on those people. They constantly insult the people at FFN, calling them stupid and such when they can't understand the title. 9.9 I think the only thing that really got to me was when they started ripping on me for putting the accent on the end of 'Lynné.' I didn't like how Lynnae looked and I thought people would keep misreading if I made it Lynnet, even though that is the proper French spelling. Thanks for complementing my mimosa description, especially since I've yet to sample one :D Sands knows he cares about Lyn, yet he can't – or rather, won't let himself show it even in a dire situation. ;D The same thing goes for when Lyn's being passionate. She is a bit of a romantic, but it's not a side she's willing to express. 'Mr. Silver Fox . . .' XD! But unfortunately, so many hours with only a light bulb for company have begun to take their toll on Lynné. Aww, it's sweet that you'd put the hurtin' on Sands if he killed Zeb :D And 42 chapters . . . .9.6;;; Oy vey . . .
LadySparrowJack: Aww, it's okay to be a little abrasive towards Cat. Or even very abrasive :) Just be lucky you don't have to write her XO She always leaves me feeling incredibly disgusted whenever I'm finished writing one of her scenes. And it's cool that you've tried Sands' favorite dish. I've been wanting to, but so far, vegetarianism has held me back. Tequila with Mountain Dew . . . interesting combo and not bad sounding, either :)
The Logical Ghost: Honestly, I did some serious debating about whether or not to give Sands his sight back while writing Home. For the longest time I was against doing it, but then I realized that I had yet to read one post-Mexico story in which he wasn't blind (really, I thought there would be a lot were he could see again), so I decided to do something different. I think I'll take that as both a compliment and criticism, because I do tend to put a bit of myself in the ladies of the story – well, really just Lynné as far as I can tell – but I try not make it incredibly noticeable. Admittedly, I enjoy happy endings, especially when dealing with Sands because I put him through so much in the story, by the time I reach the end I think he deserves a bit of a break.
zigzag: I didn't think he was OOC in Autobio, but then I thought I might just be delusional or something. But then I read what all the criticizers had to say and was just like 'This is just stupid.' Here's the link if you'd like to read for yourself, just take the spaces after the dots out: http:www.livejournal. com/community/aiecaramba/1872. html#cutid1 And lot of chemistry? That's certainly good to hear!
morph: Zebbidy actually entered my head long before OUaTiM was out in theaters. Along with the visions, Zeb's OC had incredibly sensitive hearing and eyesight, as well as the ability to read minds easily. She and Sands met up in the RP I'm in while I was writing Home. They hit it off and now they're engaged o.o Thing was, I wanted to write a sequel story and I wanted to include a new character but it felt strange giving Sands a potential love interest when there was Zeb. So instead of creating someone new, I decided to throw Zebbidy in and . . . tone her down a bit. Okay, a lot. That's sort of a long way of saying I'm glad you like the idea of her being semi-human :) (gasp!) Somebody made the connection! Finally! I thought a lot of people would link the scene with Sands and his mom to the bottlecap story, but so far you've been the only one. Ah, Cat . . . no, her schemes and plans of betrayal are not a new occurrence. She's been up to no good for quite a while.
DragonHunter200: Glad to see you're all caught up :) And that you liked the Sands/Zeb scenes too. That's what I thought when I was reading the comments the flamers left on Autobio. I've read a good bit of Sands fanfiction and have, sadly, come across a handful that were incredibly OOC, but after reading them and then looking at mine . . . really, I'd like to hope that my fics weren't like those. I could be wrong, of course. Still, like I said, I'm not gonna let it get to me. People are creeps sometimes, unfortunately, and it's best just to ignore them. u.u
Oh, and for anyone who is reading the Lynné Dead Journal, it is being updated once again! Sands is writing the entries now since Lyn is . . . preoccupied. But if anyone is interested, just go to www. Deadjournal. Com/users/cia agent sands (don't forget to take the spaces out) to check it out.
o