Glamis Castle Rose – Formatting gremlins! (Not that I don't have my fair share of typos, but usually Word screams at me w/ squiggly red lines…) I'll go back and hunt up the run-together words… Thanks for letting me know!
And to Midnightmuse and Captn-Jacks-Bonnie-Lass – again, thank you!
I hope this chapter is as good – it's been a bit of a struggle to write as I enjoy Beth and Sands together so much myself… but it's time to crank up a whole different kind of heat…
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"I've been muckraking through the palace moats of my past, rousing the alligators, listening to their allegations and let me tell you, it's been fascinating…"
an old friend
Chapter Eight
An Old Friend
In that hazy place between sleep and wakefulness, I stir – and my arm falls across… the empty space on the mattress next to me.
Well, what the fuck else did I expect, I wonder acerbically. Just because I remember falling asleep with an arm tucked securely around my waist and the warmth of a woman's body pressed up against mine… Right, fuckmook. I know what I look like – even if she's kind enough to look me straight in the face… I know what I look like. I know that no other woman will ever look at me again… not like I'd like them to… not the way I'd like…
Nurse.
Patient.
"One fucked up patient," I mumble to myself.
I lay still and listen to the world around me. Birds. Day. No fucking clue what time of day – but day. I guess it's a start.
The house seems quiet – which doesn't necessarily mean that something horrible has happened while I slept. In fact, it probably just means that Beth has decided I'm well enough not to need a constant baby sitter. I rake my fingers through my hair (it does feel good to have it clean again – even if it does smell a little girly) and wonder just what day it is, anyway…
Let's see – Friday – Saturday – Sunday? Monday? Gotta start keeping track of these things… which is kinda hard when you can't even tell whether it's day or night when you wake up. How do blind people do it, I wonder (yes, I know I'm a fucking blind person too… but that's a relatively new development and I guess I'm having a hard time lumping myself in with the rest of them. Us. What the fuck ever.) I know about Braille – I too have seen the Miracle Worker enough times to want to puke... damn, I am in a surly mood this morning. Maybe it's just as well Beth's stepped out for a little while. She doesn't deserve my short fuse.
I feel around for the shirt I never got around to putting back on last night – it has to be here – ah-ha. I feel for the tags – no sense in looking like a moron with my shirt on backwards or inside out. After pulling it over my head, I reach for the nightstand where Beth told me she'd put my sunglasses – they are right where they should be. She said she cleaned them up for me – not that it really matters. I couldn't see out of them anyway… with the glasses no one will ever know… no one but me. And her… some sadistic (or maybe masochistic) part of my brain whispers at me. She knows what I look like. Skull face. Freak. Ok, I always was a freak – but now I look like one. I think Holly might call that Karma.
"All right, Sands," I tell myself aloud, "Pity isn't in your vocabulary – and that includes self pity. Time to get cracking – get to work – come up with something that is going to pull your sorry ass out of this mess."
Right. I don't even know the extent of the damage… Ok, one thing at a time. And first on the order of today's business is answering Nature's Call.
I feel my way to the bathroom and go about taking care of the usual morning necessities – although I can't quite help but smile as I brush my hair, thinking of Beth and her little rebuke last night… (it takes me several long, annoying moments to find the brush, first, however… gotta start remembering where everything is… fuck, too much little shit to think about, especially first thing in the morning – morning? Christ, it could be evening, for all I know.)
I find the pony holders in my toiletry bag… and stop dead in my tracks (perhaps literally) as a painfully familiar sound comes to my attention… it is the distinctive click of a pistol's hammer being cocked. And it is very, very close to the back of my skull – which generally speaking is not the place one wants to find a pistol pointed.
Slowly, I drop the handful of hair and set down the brush. I put my hands behind my head and lace my fingers together… and all I can think about is what I'm going to do to this fucker for hurting my angel – both of them.
I concentrate very hard on breathing – just breathing… breathe. Listen. Think…
"Take it easy Jeff. I'm only here on vacation."
I know that voice. It's been a Hell of a long time since I've heard it… but there are people in this world I really would recognize even with my eyes drilled out. My mind swims with all the possible reasons the Company could have for sending this man out to find me… I don't particularly care for any of them. "You picked a Hell of a place for a vacation, Milo" my tone is cold and steady – quiet. I begin to think of what I'm going to do to him if I discover he's hurt Beth or Cicily (Milo isn't like me – so there is some chance he hasn't even touched them…) I flash him one of my charming little half-smiles but keep the rest of my face positively still. I no doubt he can see my face reflected in the mirror.
"Tell me about it. This little shit hole of yours is even worse than I'd imagined."
"You should have been here a couple weeks ago. Mind if I turn around – have this conversation face to face like men? Or are you just going to shoot me in the back?" My tone remains cold – calm – mildly sardonic. We've never been partners – but I've had this guy's back more than once – and I never stabbed him in it. Have I mentioned that people suck?
"We both know if I'd wanted you dead, you would be," Milo's tone is easy – smooth. Calm.
This is as good a place as any to mention that until ten seconds ago, Milo Givens was at the top of that very, very short list of people I believed had yet to screw me over. And he's about the only one on that list with at least a couple of very good reasons not to screw me over – but apparently someone came up with a good reason for him to do it anyway. I guess I'm the first person to tell him – or anyone else – that "old time's sake" doesn't count for shit.
See, we have a very strange history together – and it all starts out with a time when I could have made Milo's life very uncomfortable but I chose not to. The dirt wouldn't matter now, but to a kid of twenty-four, it would have been emotionally devastating to have certain facts leak out back at Langley. (Granted, I let him sweat it a little – but after watching him dance on razor blades for a week and a half, I invited him out for a beer and assured him that as far as I was concerned, the intimate details of his personal life were honestly none of the Company's business. I'm pretty sure it took him several months to actually believe that I wasn't going to tell anyone. That was fun to watch.)
I wouldn't necessarily think that that would count for much – but six years ago we shared a common nightmare… and that – I thought – did count for something.
I turn slowly, trying to remember what in this room will make a good weapon. He's close – I smell oil and the tang of gunpowder –the gun's the muzzle just a couple of inches from my nose. And it hasn't been fired in a while – I'd smell more powder if it had. Not that shooting would be the only way to kill someone, especially if he wanted to make a quiet entrance… which obviously he did… damn it, damn it all to Hell and back again… nightmare memories of breaking glass and flying bullets begin to infiltrate my brain…
Focus. Think. Keep him talking while I try to piece together what's really happened… just because you can't make out any sounds coming from any other room in the house doesn't mean something horrible's happened to Beth and Cicily while you were fucking sleeping… I tell myself. Tilting my head just slightly to one side in an inquisitive gesture, I ask, "So what do you want?"
"Rumour has it you're dead."
"Guess rumours have a way of turning themselves into reality."
I hear him laugh – it's a darkly amused laugh. "Just on vacation, Jeff," he tells me again.
Right. And I'm the Queen of England. "I'll bet."
"Any particular figure you'd put on that bet?"
I favour him with a smirk – it probably matches the one he's wearing on his own dimpled face. "Sorry – nothing to cut you in on this time. My little bonus seems to have walked away in someone else's pocket."
"Bummer."
Now – I know this isn't about money. Milo's a stand up guy – I mean, other than having a gun in my face… he is honestly my exact opposite in just about every way. (Picture this: five ten, five eleven, maybe – totally average build – not quite as skinny as me in the middle – brown hair, brown eyes, clean cut – boy next door – he even has dimples for Christ's sake. Hell, he's probably standing there wearing a polo shirt and Dockers. We won't even go into what he keeps in his CD player.)
"You here to bring me in?" I ask, still trying to feel out the situation. (Because back up doesn't usually arrive pointinga gun at the person they're backing up – and Milo isn't the guy you send in as back up, he's the guy who comes in to take out the trash… we haven't kept in touch, but I do have an idea of the path his career has taken.)
"Far as the Company knows I'm enjoying a couple of weeks of fun in the sun at the Santiago Resort in Palm Springs. I even booked myself a room and checked in, in person before sneaking off to come find you. Which wasn't easy, I might add. Rumours of your death not withstanding – you buried yourself pretty good."
"So if this really is just a social call, why precisely are we having this conversation over a loaded revolver?" If he's not here to bring me in – than he either waited until I was alone in the house or hasn't done worse than knock Beth out… and maybe Cicily is just in school… If it's Monday, that seems like a safe bet… but nothing is a safe bet…
"Because – you are who you are, and I am who I am," he tells me, "And because it's a little early in the day to be having it over a bottle of rum. Or cheap vodka." I think he's smiling… if it weren't for all the other thoughts going through my mind, I might be smiling too… Milo and I have gotten ourselves good and drunk just a couple of times – the first time it was rum, second time was something that was being passed off as vodka – but I swear might have been turpentine for all I know… at the time we really didn't care.
"It's just as well," I tell him, "The rum around here is about as bad as that shit they were calling vodka at the – what was the name of that joint again?"
"Hell if I remember. I barely remember stumbling back to our hotel. I only wish I could forget the Karaoke – I think Freddy Mercury was rolling in his grave that night." Now I'm sure he's smiling – I can hear it in his voice. Then the revolver's hammer slips back into place – feel the gun move out of my face…
And I ball my right hand into a fist and land a good one across his jaw. The impact knocks Milo backwards – where he stumbles over the lip of the tub, landing in it (a very awkward position with a very painful sounding thump). The gun falls to the floor, I kick it out of the room. Which isn't to say that he doesn't have at least two or three more weapons on his person…
"Jesus Christ, Jeff! What the Hell was that for?"
"For putting a God damned revolver in the back of my head, fuckmook!"
"Oh for Christ's sake, I was standing there for three full seconds before cocking the hammer – don't tell me you didn't see me!"
"I didn't see you."
"You were looking straight at me," I hear him start to haul himself out of the tub…
If I could see his eyes, I'd know if he was lying. If I could see at all, I wouldn't need to look into his eyes because I would have seen him standing behind me – probably fucking smirking at me in the mirror. I extend my hand (that would be the one attached to the arm that wasn't shot.) The instant I feel Milo's grasp, I haul him to his feet – and manage to keep him off balance as I spin him around and pin his arm into a very painful position behind his back (falling over into him as we go, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't realize that it's because I've recently had my legs pierced. Hmmph – kinda sounds like new trend – have you seen some of the crazy ass shit kids are doing these days?)
I shift my weight and shove Milo's face into the sink as hard as I can, kicking his ankles apart at the same time. A bit crude – but effective, as long as he doesn't resist too hard. My legs are already protesting the demands I've just put on them. I ignore it. I also ignore the mild throbbing in my skull. "Happy to see me, old friend, or is that a gun in your shorts?" I purr savagely into his ear before going digging… see the one place that most men are loathe to check for a gun is in the crotch – that's why it's the perfect place to conceal one.
"Damn – if I'd known it was this easy to get you into my pants, I'd've pulled a gun on you years ago. Hey – easy thereHandsome – or I'm going to make you buy me dinner when you're through."
Despite the levity of his words, I can hear the hint of real fear in Milo's voice. I am not a stand up guy and we both know it. I've always been just a little off-kilter. Duh, bet you need to see my psych report to figure that one out, right?
I extract the little revolver from its hiding place, haul him back into a standing position, and press the muzzle of his gun directly into the back of his left ear. "Now – one more time – what are you doing here?" I give that arm I have pinned an extra push upwards to emphasize that I am not in the mood to play games – and although he doesn't quite vocalize the pain, I know it hurt.
"You have really fucking lost it, Jeff!" Milo struggles – but at the moment I have a slight advantage in that I'm the one with the gun... my second advantage is that he apparently has no idea how badly injured I really am.
"Don't make me ask a third time," I cock the hammer of the little pistol, just to make him understand that I have absolutely no qualms about smoking his brains out right here. At the very least, he settles down a little. Probably doesn't want the gun discharging accidentally.
"I heard you were dead. I also heard you'd lost it. I'm beginning to believe that one."
"Anything else?"
"That you were sleeping with Armando Barillo's daughter."
That one makes me laugh.
"Jesus Christ – don't tell me you were banging Barillo's daughter - when did you get so fucking stupid?"
"Sticks and stones, Sugar Butt," I reply. Milo, you see, is the original Sugar Butt. And Christ, no, I do not swing that way! Even when we were being held together in a tiny dark cell, awaiting the next "session" with our jailor, I did not play Raoul Julia to his Bill Hurt. I did think we'd somehow come to a sort of real understanding, nursing one another's wounds in the dark, something that may have resembled friendship… I never thought I'd be shoving a gun into this man's skull… but there is nothing in our history that will keep me from pulling the trigger now – not with the way he came in – not with the possibility of someone like Beth getting hurt because she was kind enough to care about my sorry ass.
As for 'Sugar Butt,' that started one drunken night (long before the afore mentioned unpleasant adventure) over entirely too much rum – although that is the last time I let a gay man book my vacation, even if it was the dead last place anyone would come looking for us… Vanishing had been the general idea, after swindling some rather nasty men out of a rather large sum of money (just a little unofficial bonus for a couple of under-paid CIA officers)… but I digress… Over entirely too much rum, Milo admitted that he'd had something of a crush on when we first met – we had a few classes together back at Langley – although we were hardly what you'd call friends, even after I didn't blab his secret. He's another one who fell for the eyes… Damn. Of course even drunk, he immediately regretted owning up to his little crush, as I then felt obliged to start coming up with all sorts of annoying pet names. Mostly because I have always had every confidence that he knows I'm kidding (oh and because I know it really bugs the shit right out of him to be called Sugar Butt. Milo isn't exactly some flaming petunia, kids.)
What – it surprises you that Mr. Macho Sands isn't homophobic? Hell, I figure if he pitches for the other side, that just leaves more women for the likes of me. I even find it somewhat flattering to have him think I'm good-looking – as fucked up as that really is if I stop to think about it for too long… but hey, my sister would be the first person to tell you that I've always been a vain little prick.
"So what now?" Milo asks me. His voice is stained – so whatever exactly I've done, I'm hurting him (it is really difficult to gauge the extent of the damage one is causing when one can't see – going to have to figure a way around that… it is important to inflict just the right amount of pain to the target. Remember that.)
"I haven't lost it," I tell him. "And I was fucking Barillo's daughter – but I didn't know she was his daughter."
"Haven't you ever heard of a background check?"
"I had a God damned background check run on her!" Without quite meaning to, I push him harder into the sink – when I realize I've managed to do some real damage, I ease back just a little so he can breathe again. All I can think of is that someone was setting me up – six months ago, someone was setting me up… someone was taking their sweet ol' time, setting me up… and I want to know exactly who was in on it.
"Christ – you'd better fucking kill me, Jeff – because if you don't, I swear, I'm going to blow your nuts off for this!"
I manage a smirk, "Yeah, yeah, yeah – you've been making that promise for years. Now – give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow you straight to fucking Broadway, right here, right now." God, I need a cigarette.
"I'd rather not go 'straight' anywhere."
He's trying to remind me that we used to be something that almost resembled friends – it's a good tactic – or it would be if I was a civilian. But 'friend' is a word without meaning to guys like us, no matter how much history we have (or how fucking strange it is.) There might be honour amongst thieves, but there is no honour amongst spies. This wouldn't be the first time the Company has used someone's 'friend' to bring them down – except that the Company shouldn't know we were ever anything more than mildly adversarial classmates who happened to get stuck in the same Hell hole half a dozen years ago – all that other stuff was under the radar, so to speak… "Why?" I ask him.
"Why what?"
"Why bother? Why come all the way down here just to see for yourself if I've really lost it? What difference would it make to your little world if I've turned traitor?"
His laugh is incredulous, "You're a fucked up psychopath – but you're not a traitor."
I cluck my tongue in reprove, "You should have paid more attention, Milo – I'm a fucked up sociopath."
"Look – what do you want me to say to convince you that I'm not here on Company time? Because let me tell you – this is getting a little uncomfortable."
No shit – in about five more minutes it's going to be moot – I'm ready to fall over. "How did you know about the little bonus I'd arranged for myself?"
"I know you. I took a wild guess."
Shit. Me and my big mouth… "What about the woman who lives here?" I ask at last. I'm not quite sure I want to know the answer… I don't even know if I can trust him to tell me the truth… Milo isn't me – but he's still CIA.
"Her and the little girl went out about ten minutes before I came in. Who are they?"
"Just people who're better than the two of us," I tell him, as I ease back enough so that he can straighten up – slowly, I give him the use of his arm back. And I listen – Milo moves slowly. Nice, easy movements – he's not lunging at me – not reaching for any other weapons, at least not as far as I can tell. I feel him turn to face me. I'm about to collapse. But I still have a gun trained in the direction of his voice.
"So what's the deal, here – with the woman?" he inquires further… apparently Milo's curiosity has been piqued by my little angel. However, his tone (and the fact he's asking at all) suggest that he's telling the truth about Beth and Cicily stepping out… If either was dead, they wouldn't people anymore, just a targets. And no one is curious about a target that's been eliminated. Shoot and move on, that's what they taught us.
"Don't worry about her – she's not in on anything," I tell him – standing is definitely a struggle now – I can feel my legs starting to shake. "Hell, I don't think she's even figured out what kind of asshole I really am."
"She did look just a little too Sweet Mary Oatblossom for you."
I laugh – yeah, I'd kinda figured that out too. "Come on – I need a smoke," I nod towards the bedroom. What I really need to sit down…
"You expect me to turn my back on you?" I hear a very distinct smile in his voice. It's mixed with some healthy fear, too – he doesn't have any more reason to trust me than I do to trust him… we haven't see each other in six years – and "old time's sake" doesn't count for shit.
I still can't quite resist the urge to tease him, though. "What – afraid I'll finally make your fondest wishes come true?"
"That a proposition?"
"You know I'm just a tease," I grin, gesturing towards the bedroom again. Remaining stoic has become an effort of will alone. The body has seriously about had it.
After about thirty seconds of indecisiveness, I hear Milo finally turn and walk into the bedroom – he's taking everything nice and slow – probably still trying to figure out if I've finally snapped.
I manage to snag my smokes from the nightstand without having to feel around – and I get one lit, one handed, because the gun still isn't wavering. I sit down on the bed. "So," I take a nice long drag and let the nicotine work its way into my system. My head is still pounding. I need caffeine – I need food. I need drugs. And I wonder if I'm going to have these monster headaches for the rest of my God damned life…
"So." He replies – he's standing about five feet away – directly in front of me. "Stalemate?"
"Pretty much yeah," I take another long drag off my cigarette. Decision time. "I had a background check run in Ajedrez –Barillo's daughter," I tell him – I have no idea how much background work he did before trotting his happy little ass down here to find me. "She came up clean."
"She couldn't have – I fucking know who she is."
"Was," I correct him.
"You?"
"Bet your sweet ass."
"So what happened?"
"Everything went to shit on me is what happened. I called for a background check – but it looks like I got the abridged version. Which is still more than I got when I asked for backup because I knew things were about to go south on me." The room is starting to spin. I take a couple of easy, hopefully not noticeably deep breaths.
"What are you saying?"
"First tell me why you're here on your own time. Nothing that happened in Fucks-it-stan-okov is worth your career." It was twenty-six days of Hell – but it wasn't the kind of Hell to inspire any kind of loyalty – I didn't do any more for him than he did for me and by the time it was over, we were both in pretty rough shape. And that was six years ago… I haven't even dropped Milo an email since then.
"This has nothing to do with Istlanistan – stov –?"
I smile just a little – even he doesn't remember – and it doesn't matter – those ten square miles of Eastern Europe have probably changed names and regimes a dozen times since we kissed the place good bye. "So what does it have to do with?" Because I know it has nothing to do with Caribbean rum and a petty dictator's dough, either… we split that one fifty-fifty – Milo doesn't owe me shit and I made damn sure I didn't owe him shit either. As the Good Bard says, stay out of debt.
"This has to do with me and six guys pinning me to a wall, pounding the shit out of me, just because I walked out of a particular bar on a particular street in a particular section of town."
Christ – that was almost sixteen years ago… "I thought I told you to forget about it," I give him my best Brooklyn Mobster accent. "I got my jollies breaking a few knee caps – it had nothing to do with you." And honestly – it didn't. I didn't even like Milo – but there's still something about seeing a bunch of bullies beating up on a guy you know – a guy you're pretty sure couldn't possibly have pissed them off enough to deserve the pounding he's getting. And – there was also something truly satisfying about pounding the crap out of a bunch of guys who reminded me of Chet Wheaton. Watching the blood ooze from the hide of a guy like that – it's right up there with slow roasted pork or good fuck.
"One of these days you're going to wake up all alone and realize how many people in this world might have cared about you if you'd given them half a chance, Jeff."
"Skip the psychoanalysis, Doc, I'm not in the mood. Christ," a sharp, hot pain lances through my skull, right behind the place where I used to have eyes. I realize my whole body is shaking with it and – yup, I've doubled over… I set the gun down next to me. Wouldn't want to accidentally blow a hole in Milo's head – all things considered, he's been down right civil…
"Jeff?" I hear the concern in Milo's voice – fucking fantastic. Someone else who cares.
Why the Hell do people have to care? Why doesthis guy have to go and blow my whole fucking theory of the universe being one Big Ugly Place? "Just shoot me now," I mutter. "Right here," I point at my forehead, my hand mimicking the shape of a gun.
I feel him reach for me – probably trying to make sure I don't actually fall on my face. Or if I'm lucky, he's going to put me out of my misery… but we've discussed my luck on several previous occasions so – nope, still alive. Fuck.
I wave off the proffered assistance with a couple of surly comments and manage to regain my balance all by myself. Sort of. The room is still wobbling.
"What the Hell's wrong with you?" I hear Milo ask. I'm pretty sure his question isn't directed at the cheerfully colourful language I was using to get him to back the Hell away from me.
Well, I suppose body has pretty much given me away, anyway, might as well fess up… I lift my head in the direction of his voice. "I didn't see you when you were standing behind me in the bathroom – I can't see you now. And this is why," I slide the glasses away from my face.
"Holy Mother of God," Milo's voice is barely audible as he sees for himself why he was able to sneak up on me so easily. (I know that has to have been bugging him, since he realized that no, I was not playing with him – and I'm beginning to suspect that I may not have been bluffing as well as I'd thought aboutnot being in pain.) "Jeff – what – what happened to you?"
"I'd think that was reasonably obvious."
I hear him taking another a step back – probably just the shock – which was as much my intention as anything else. If he's here to shoot me – I just want him to know that nothing he can do is worse than what's already been done. Nothing the Company does can possibly be worse than what Barillo did to me… just the same, I find myself resenting his reaction (as a little tiny part of my brain remembers how close Beth has gotten to my face without even flinching...) "The condition isn't contagious, Milo" I snap. "Your eyes won't suddenly shrivel up and fall out if you get too close." I shove the glasses back into place trying to get a better reign on my temper.
"I – sorry – Jesus, I don't think I've ever seen –"
"Don't puke on the carpet," I tell him mordantly – I don't really think he's anywhere near hurling, I'm just being an ass.
"I – really don't know what the fuck to say," Milo finally admits.
"Say you'll help me figure out what happened – what really happened."
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Raoul Julia and William Hurt starred together in the movie "Kiss of the Spider Woman."
The quote that begins this chapter really is from an old friend who periodically tosses off these delightfully witty quips.
And just for the fun of it, imagine if you will a pair of drunk off their assess CIA agents in a Karaoke bar somewhere in Eastern Europe, nursing the wounds of their recent incarceration/escape on cheap vodka, singing Queen…
I'm the invisible man,
I'm the invisible man,
Incredible how you can,
See right through me,
When you hear a sound,
That you just can't place
Feel somethin' move
That you just can't trace,
When something sits
On the end of your bed
Don't turn around
When you hear me tread.
I'm the invisible man,
I'm the invisible man
Incredible how you can
See right through me
I'm the invisible man
I'm the invisible man
It's criminal how I can
See right through you.
Now I'm in your room
And I'm in your bed
And I'm in your life
And I'm in your head
Like the CIA
Or the FBI
You'll never get close
Never take me alive
I'm the invisible man
I'm the invisible man
Incredible how you can
See right through me
I'm the invisible man
I'm the invisible man
It's criminal how I can
See right through you,
Hah, hah, hah, hello,
Hah, hah, hah, hello,
Hah, hah, hah, hello-hello-hello-hello,
Never had a real good friend - not a boy or a girl
No-one knows what I've been through - let my flag unfurl
So make my mark from the edge of the world,
From the edge of the world,
From the edge of the world,
Now I'm on your track
And I'm in your mind,
And I'm on your back
But don't look behind
I'm your meanest thought
I'm your darkest fear
But I'll never get caught
You can't shake me, shake me dear,
I'm the invisible man,
I'm the invisible man
Incredible how you can
See right through me
I'm the invisible man
I'm the invisible man
It's criminal how I can
See right through you
Look at me, look at me