I snuck into the room as quietly as I could, fearing to give my position away to hypothetical ears. I hoped I was not being followed, but I didn't give myself the luxury of counting on it, not that day, not any day. I was assured it was safe, but until I see him, I couldn't risk it. Once I did, I'd have to.
I sat on my heels, waiting, not sure if I was more nervous about risking some exposure or telling him the truth. I didn't think he would hate me when he knew, but I knew once he did, I would have to get the hell out of Dodge. I didn't have to wait long. The approach of another person made me sit up a bit, tense, and grasp the handle of my hip knife. Just in case. My vigilance proved unnecessary; it was him. There wasn't much light, but we could recognize each other anywhere. I stood up, my knife forgotten, or more accurately perhaps disregarded. At first he moved to embrace me, but as I stood up, what little light there was fell across my face, as I intentioned. He stopped, and that was when I knew I didn't have to tell him. He knew. He could read it on my face. For a moment that seemed like an eternity he just stared, disbelieving. I wanted desperately to look away, to break eye contact, so that I didn't have to see what he was going through, but I forced myself. I hoped he could see how much pain and shame I felt.
Finally, he blinked. "No," he said, without much conviction. "It can't be true."
I blushed furiously and looked away, my shame finally overcome my will power.
"No!" he cried, even though he knew it then. It was just a visceral reaction, that denial, but it burnt me much worse than rage and anger. I was reminded of a night in my own past when I had felt that complete disbelief at being betrayed. Suppressing the flashbacks, I opened my mouth to try and explain, but couldn't make the words come out, which was probably for the better. I know it's unforgivable. I knew it then, too. I felt hollow. I still do.
"I should go," I said as his focus slid from me to his own torment. He sobbed and crouched over his knees in the fetal position. I knew I should have left but I couldn't.
"Why!" he finally managed.
Because I was a horrible person. Am. "I would undo it if I could." And I would. "I'm a coward," I said aloud to myself so he could hear. I assume he heard me, but it made no difference. He was rocking back and forth, although he didn't realize. Panic welled up but I pushed it away, along with the intense feelings of empathy. Was it better or worse when your betrayer regretted the betrayal?
Fear of pursuit began to gnaw at me, but I stayed there, unmoving, with him until his shaking and sobbing ceased, and he could leave the room under his own power. Whether that took hours or minutes, I wasn't sure. As he rose, I could see he had a strong desire to strike me, which somehow he mastered. He left without another word. Feeling almost as bad as he did, I left soon after, keeping up the semblance of stealth. I fled town, as was required, and although I've been back, in all the years since, I still get the feeling that I entered the Land of Nod that night, and never emerged.
Although, I had been wandering long before that night, and always have been, so I really ought to say I was born in the Land of Nod. And I fled south, not east. And I didn't kill anyone related to me. Or at all. This time, anyway. Yet… I can imagine, very acutely, the feelings of regret, and emptiness, and intense pain of fratricide. That which can never be undone. Such thoughts plague those who act in the heat of a moment.
I walk into a bar, and wait patiently for the barman on a stool. I know he won't cooperate without the proper incentive, but I think I've done my homework well enough that I can offer adequate incentive. Everyone has a price, although often times it isn't monetary, and there's a fine line between a bribe and a threat. A line I am very good at treading, even if I do say so myself.
"What'll it be?"
I feel a momentary sensation of being inside a stereotype. "What do you recommend?"
More than my question, it is my tone that gets his attention. He meets my eye, and I watch him closely as he gives me a rundown of the most popular drinks. We're being watched. The story of my life. Annoyed, but undeterred, I let him bring me something alcoholic, which I drink as slowly as possible, and repeatedly engage him in conversation when he comes my way. After four drinks and six hours, it's late enough that he has very little to do except keep an eye on the few seriously shitfaced patrons. None of them are observing us much, but there are plenty of customers tucked away in ones and twos by the tables in dark corners. I think I've got the watcher pegged, but I can't be sure until I do something that they're watching for. Unfortunately, talking to the barman is one of these things, and when I do I need to pay attention to the barman.
"So, wait, is this the same bar where those guys were killed last week?" I know perfectly well it is. I'm also immensely glad I'm not drunk, even though I'm a bit tipsy and playing it up.
The barman freezes, suspecting why I'm here now, although he can't be sure.
"Yes," he says shortly. "Live in the neighborhood?" He wants to know how I know.
"Not exactly," I say with a carefully chosen tone of irony. "The police sure don't." He freezes. Time for the bait. "You know, they'll pro'ly close the case. Don't sound like any new evidence is gonna show up on their doorstep tomorrow."
He digests the implications of this. I wait until he's considering what to say to me before I speak again. "Still… someone shoulda known what that guy was doing here." I know. And now the bartender knows I know. And by the look on his face, he knows, too. He opens his mouth to ask me what I want, but I preempt him again and stop playing drunk. "Is there a back room to this place?"
He looks at me for a long time. I can see the cost-benefit analysis running behind his eyes. Giving him the illusion of making the choice himself, I simply keep his gaze, not revealing any of my intentions in my eyes or expression. Finally, he nods, and gestures me to the side of the bar where I already know there are stairs to the safe house above. I suspect a trap, as usual, but my instincts belie my suspicions, and as usual my instincts win. The safe house is empty.
As soon as we enter the bare, dark little room, my eyes light upon a stereo and he turns to me, demanding what I want, and probably is about to ask me what I know, but I cut him off. I walk over to the stereo, turn it on full blast, and then walk back so I can talk in his ear.
"I want to know who killed them, because it certainly isn't the joker they've got locked up in county."
There are three primary organizations that I suspect of orchestrating the murders, but I need confirmation. All three have spectacular motives and track records, but none are tipping their hands. My information indicates all three were trying to have these guys killed, but no one seems to know who actually pulled it off. The circumstances of the murder are out of character for all three, which has made me suspicious of a fourth party or individual. The problem is, I'm running out of leads, and worse, out of time. The fall guy who's been arrested and will probably be sentenced didn't actually witness the killings, and although the police don't believe him I do. The bar's patrons had very little helpful to add, and the police did their homework there pretty well, which is why someone's been arrested. I suspect they've been leaned on, and if the barman is uncooperative I'm going to have to try them.
"What-" he starts, but I cut him off again. I can paint him into a corner pretty effectively. I'm just hoping it's not the corner with the door.
"Please. Let's not beat around the bush. Sonny won't find out you talked through me. He doesn't know what's going on any better than you do. Someone's leaning on him like he's leaning on you. You can either tell me the truth now or wait till I find out on my own. Those watchful eyes downstairs? They're watching me, not you. If I leave here looking pissed off, they'll assume either you didn't talk or you have nothing to talk about. I leave here looking like the cat that caught the canary, they'll be up here next." This is the bait and the threat all in one. I don't need to say that I could tell Sonny he talked, or that I could kill him where he stands. There are a multitude of unspoken things that are no doubt occurring to him. I just have to wait and let them.
"It was a girl," he finally says. "Skinny Asian girl, early twenties. Tattoo on the inside of her wrist."
Fuck. "A circular tattoo? Military looking?"
"Yeah. She was all dressed in black, too. Didn't think much of it at the time."
He obviously thinks he needs to be more descriptive, but I know exactly who it is, even with his generic description. I thank him and give him a brief assurance and make my way downstairs and out of the bar.
I don't need to fake the pissed off attitude I promised as I leave.
When I was born, the custom was to hold the newborn up to the light, either the sun or the moon. Sunrise was considered an auspicious time to be born, as was a full moon. Sunset wasn't exactly inauspicious, but weakness of some description was expected to sap your child. Eclipses… well it depended on the religious leader of the time. Some claimed your child would be a scourge on its people, others that your child was heralded by the gods themselves and would bring great joy and happiness. Sometimes both, depending on whether it was a solar or a lunar eclipse. And how many stupefying rocks the divine conduit used. Bad weather such that the light of sun or moon couldn't be seen usually was believed to induce mediocrity. If the weather was so inclement as to be dangerous, your child was dangerous; either for good or ill was up to interpretation. I don't know exactly when this custom was lost to the sands of time, but I do know it was often a self-fulfilling prophecy, if it was ever remembered.
When I was born, the sun was rising. My mom desperately wanted to wait until the sun had risen to have me, although why she thought this was so important while having labor pains I'll never understand. Unfortunately for her, a storm was gathering. The midwife tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn't listen. Finally her body stopped waiting for permission, and with some harsh words from the midwife, of which "death" and "arrogant" were probably among, my mother relented. As the midwife held me up to the disperse light coming from the general direction of east, the clouds broke just long enough to let through a single ray of light, which fell on my face before the clouds filled the gap and the summer monsoon started. My mother told me that story many times, she was so proud. She was convinced it was a sign that I would triumph over all the bad things in out lives, of which there were many. Little ray of hope is what she named me. I'm glad she never lived to see what would eventually befall me.
I hate the Watchers. Either they're idealistic morons who don't realize they're tools, or they're power-hungry bureaucrats who think they can play god hiding behind a mantra they don't understand or believe in. Or they're murderous bastards, but that can be said of any group larger than ten. I suspected they were behind the two murders in the bar, but with no concrete evidence I was quick to dismiss it, as lethal force isn't usually in their repertoire. I suspect one of their agents is acting without permission or consent, but I was pretty sure I knew who was involved in the victims' case and there were no Asian girls.
I haven't slept all night on account of interrogating the barman, and now I have to berate a Watcher, or rather one of their management-types. Hopefully his office will be bugged and I'll get him in trouble, the bastard. I've already shaken off my tails, of which there were two. Unfortunately, I'm taking a detour through a bad part of town, specifically to shake said pursuit, but some street gangsta kids decide I'm an easy target. I curse them mentally in several languages, not because I don't want to loose my purse but because they're going to cost me time I don't have. It won't take all that long for one of my tails to catch up, and I still haven't made that phone call. The whole purpose of delaying the phone call was so I could confront the region's head Watcher or whatever his title is, but if I have to fight off a street gang, even a juvenile one, it's going to cost me minutes I don't have.
So, time for an innovative solution. I don't often carry around much in the way of weaponry, seeing as many urban office buildings and public transportation employ the use of metal detectors. It's not so much that I can't get through the checkpoints if I want, as it's a hassle and a waste of time. Luckily, I've still got my knife and switchblade from my downtown bar stint. Drawing the knife visibly, I see the kids' eyebrows rise, and they exchange a glance, but they don't look worried. They're armed, too. Without breaking stride, I throw the knife at who I gather is their leader, but aim for between his legs. The knife catches on the fabric and rips it, but no harm is done, and the knife glances off the pavement and skitters past them. Before they all take in what just happened, I have the switchblade out and wave it vaguely in their direction. The manic gleam in my eye is frighteningly easy to call up, and it's all they need. They take off running. Trying not to show my amusement, I pick up my knife as I pass, putting both blades safely away.
It's only when they round a corner that they shout a racial slur back at me. I almost stop in my tracks, realizing how stupid I am sometimes. I'm not Hispanic, but I did go out of my way to look paler than usual last night and today, so taking a shortcut through a racial war zone was hardly excusable by obliviousness. I wish I'd tried harder to be unnoticeable. It hardly matters now; I'm not far from my destination.
I try to remember previous dealings I've had with the Watchers. It's not hard, I deal with them regularly. But when I do, it's almost always through a third party. This has always been as much for my security as for their peace of mind. However, it does mean that the number of encounters I can recall are few and far between, and will be of negligible help. The man I'm going to accost isn't an individual I would normally have business dealings with, anyway. He's more or less middle management as far as Watchers go, and I tend to concern myself with either the on-the-ground agents or the executives. I'm not entirely sure what his job with respect to the Watchers entails. He's in that fuzzy gray area where he could be very much involved with the agents under him, or just a parasite on the chain of command. That leaves a bit too much room for error on my part, and I'm beginning to think better of this meeting at all.
I pull out my cell phone and hope my usual "Minister of Watcher Affairs" as I tend to think of him is awake at this hour.
"Jerome Vaughn."
He sounds awake. "Tudor." That's the most recent one-use password. Combined with vocal recognition software it's enough to forgo longer, more cumbersome security measures. "I need a secure transmission of everything we have on Watcher agent in charge of the Brooklyn area. Unless I'm mistaken, his name is James Roman."
"Landline or satellite?"
"Satellite. I'm in a hurry, I'll risk the security breach." We try to use as secure a means of communication as possible. No one needs to tell me how insecure cell phone transmissions are, but this is pretty low-level information I'm asking for, and the actual data will be arriving via a more secure, encrypted method. "And make sure you throw a bonus at whoever actually worked on the file." Jerome only moonlights as my Reputable Source of All Things Watcher, he's a tax attorney, and a lot of his information comes from his underlings and various other sources. I have few full time spies, although I take my intelligence accuracy and completeness very seriously.
"Will do." I can hear a smile in his voice. "You should have it in five minutes tops."
Jerome is as good as his word. Scanning the file on my PDA I find my instincts were pretty accurate. Jimmy Roman - middle management not only in his Watcher capacities, but also in his rather antiquated movie rental business, with all the family, money, and job satisfaction problems that implies. He probably is very ineffectual in his Watcher job, giving his underlings headaches because he thinks he knows better than they do and his bosses cavities as he tries to rise through the ranks by a combination of bootlicking and taking credit for his subordinates' success. He won't take kindly to my meddling, and if it weren't for the fact that he'll probably divulge useful information in the heat of argument I would go back to my apartment right now and try to find another way of tracking the rogue Watcher. There are plenty of ways for me to find the girl, but I want someone to take all this out on and Roman seems a worthy straw man. Besides, I pump enough money into the Watcher organization; I can afford to poke a stick in their anthill once in a while, or at least vent some frustration on one of their deadweights.
Roman's office is up a few flights, and his secretary looks more like eye candy than a useful member of staff. Instead of insisting I need an appointment or calling security, she goes to get her boss when I prove belligerent. Roman is annoyed by the disturbance and threatens to fire her for the however many-th time. He sees me, and immediately tries to figure out if he's slept with me. Gritting my teeth, I move past him into his office.
"I have a bone to pick with you, Roman," I say as I pass him in his doorway.
He follows me into his office, more ruffled, but letting his curiosity get the better of him. He shuts the door with a little more force than necessary and moves back towards his desk and takes his seat, trying to defend his little mountain.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this disruption?"
"You've only your own incompetence to thank! You're supposed to keep your agents in line. They're supposed to keep their personal grievances out of their business, and it's your responsibility to make sure that they do."
He blinks, initially at a loss. It takes him a minute to realize I'm talking about Watchers. When he does, he glances at my wrists, which my shirt and coat cover. He thinks I'm someone new working for his boss(es). This is a bit unfortunate, as if he thinks he needs to impress me he won't divulge information as readily. I'm not about to disillusion him, but I'm not quite sure how to get him to tip his hand. I'm trying to figure out how to point out that if I worked for the Watchers, I would have made an appointment.
"Well, as I'm sure you know, this sort of incident has happened before, and will again. Containment is always a sticky issue and may take some time. It would certainly help if I had more say in the recruitment process."
He has no idea what I'm talking about. Perfect, making him seem an idiot should elicit the response I'm looking for. "Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"
He turns red, getting angry and defensive. "These are my people and my jurisdiction! What the hell business is it of yours-"
"Your jurisdiction, huh? So tell me, Roman, did you order two potential recruits murdered? Or was that just one of your agents making a call? I'd really like to know if you let this one slip through the cracks or if you've gotten so out of control that you don't even bother to arrange accidents anymore!"
He still has no idea what I'm talking about, but something's clicked. I was right, there's a rogue agent running around, and he was probably warned, as were all the other middle management types of the city. He sees an out, but is still mostly concerned about being held responsible.
"Now look! I took the necessary security measures! No one said anything about what she intended to do! I assumed if she was that dangerous, the police would have been notified. Since I'm not in a position to notify them, you can't really expect me to have done anything! As I understood it, the main concern was containing the potential recruits if they declined membership."
"So your solution to 'containing' them was to have them murdered in full view of the public? Even if the police are cooperative, it's still a complete waste of resources and human life. You know how delicate dealings with potential recruits need to be! This goes well beyond excessive force!"
"Wait just a damn minute! My agents didn't kill anyone! All I was told to do was track the two recruits and the Pao girl. No one said anything about containing her! I sent my best agents after the recruits, and I still haven't gotten their report back. Last I heard the girl was heading for Canada. I was told not to crowd her, otherwise there would be more detailed surveillance!"
My suspicions are confirmed. It's Pao. Although why she's lighting off for Canada is beyond me. Unless she's going on foot…
"Well, you've sure made a mess of things!" He's also itching to get on the phone so he can see if what I've said is true. I hope it's concern for the lives of his agents and not desire to prove himself right, that there really wasn't anything he could have done with the information he was given. At least I know Pao wasn't one of his agents, and was just shadowing the recruits here. "You fucking idiot!" It's about time to reveal that I'm not actually a Watcher. "Look, just pass on the word to your bosses that they should have better screening tests for their recruits. That girl should have been contained long ago. She's been a huge liability to you all from the moment she joined. There's no excuse for the slip-shot way this whole situation has been handled! I realize there's no way you could have kept those two dipshits from seeing what they saw, but there were a hundred different ways you could have quieted them, or discredited them, or otherwise kept them out of trouble!"
Roman's getting it now. I'm still really pissed off and want to rant some more, but I really ought to get out of here before he puts two and two together, even though he probably won't add it up correctly, anyway.
"Who are you?" he says, looking much more scared than when he thought he would be held responsible for the containment breach.
I roll my eyes, not even dignifying that with a response. It's either obvious or it's not, and I'm not going to spell it out for him. "Watchers!" I say with all the contempt I can muster, which is considerable and not entirely a put on. I storm out, hoping to pick up Pao's trail, cold though it is. I just hope I'm not too late.