A/N: More of our third arc, Revaluations.


The Missionary


When you come like an iceberg float in darkness
Smashing my hull, send me to the bottom of the sea
I should know you better now

And when you come, your majesty to entrap me
Prince of light receding
The sooner the better now

And when you come to cover me
With your kisses hard like armour
The sooner the better now

I'll know you by the thunderclap
Pouring like a rain of blood to my emotions, hey
And that is why
I stumble to my knees

And why underneath the Heavens
With the stars burning and exploding
I know why I could never let you down
When you come

— When You Come, Crowded House


Chapter Fourteen: Going to the Mattresses


Chuck realized he was gripping the shelf; he could feel the stiffness of his posture.

Why? I don't care about Sarah's answer to that question. I don't.

Chuck glanced at Casey. Luckily, Casey was focused on the road, although Chuck had the feeling Casey had been looking at him a second before.

Chuck tried to calm himself.


Sarah hesitated, despite knowing it to be a tactical mistake.

She had a mental image of Chuck in the Buy More, smiling at her; she had his name on her tongue. She hesitated to keep from saying Chuck aloud.

And then she had to hesitate longer — because she had to hesitate.

Because her answer was yes.

She did have someone special in her life. That had not been true of her since…forever.

Chuck was special. Special to her.

She didn't understand how or why, and now was certainly not the time to work it out, but it was true. Not that she had him in any serious sense: he was not hers, her Chuck. But he was in her, in her consciousness somehow, he had somehow lit up dark spaces in her.

She could not make them go dark again.

He had made her self-conscious: she had been a mansion of many rooms, some lit, most dark, all her but not all hers. It was important that the dark rooms were dark. Without knowing what he was doing, Chuck had raced through her, room to room, floor to floor, a kid flipping light switches.

Every room was lit now, the mansion aglow.

This was the wrong time for Sarah to be aglow. It was dark outside — and Bob was waiting on her answer. Every second of delay made a convincing lie harder.

"No, no boyfriend. I've been so focused on my acting career, so busy trying to make it, that I haven't had the time. No extracurricular activities. I've been hustling."

Bob kept his eyes on the road. He was nodding his head, smiling. "I understand. Work can be consuming. But that makes taking every opportunity for play even more important."

He gave her a sideways glance.

She nodded, imitating him, and made herself laugh. "That's true."

They drove on in silence.

Bob's sidelong glances became more frequent. Sarah could tell that her romper and her bare legs, visible then invisible in the strobe-like effect of the passing street lights, were doing the job.

She wanted to bolt from the car but she sat still.

In the past, she had loathed herself during seduction missions but the loathing had been known, not felt — it had been like knowledge of how someone else felt. Knowledge in the third person. Now, she felt it, personally.

First-personally.

It was interfering with her ability to do what she had to do. Chuck was interfering. He was making her think about what she was doing, making her question her motives — but spies did not have motives, they had orders.

Sarah turned to look out the window, trying to collect herself, darken herself, match darkened LA. They were in a neighborhood of outrageous homes, all fenced and gated and all lit by security lights. Bob slowed the Caddy at an entrance with a wide iron gate. He punched a button in the car and the gate began to swing open. Sarah could see the house looming beyond the gate. It was lumpy and expensive and utterly hideous, an external projection, she was sure, of all that Mattress Bob was internally.

"Home, sweet home," Bob said, practically smacking his lips as he lifted his eyebrows at Sarah, his eyes on her cleavage, not her face. The gate swung open all the way and Bob drove inside.

Sarah hoped the comms would keep working. There was no way Casey was going to get the van inside that gate.

Bob parked the Caddy in front of the house and got out. He came around the car and opened the door for Sarah. She regretted the view of herself she had to give him as she got out of the car.

Sarah looked up into Bob's face as she swung her legs around to stand. He was staring at her legs, but then he shifted his gaze to her.

She almost jumped as she looked at him.

Perhaps it was a trick of the darkness but Bob's cartoonishness seemed to have vanished. His expression was darker, harder, more human but also eviler. A brimstone smile overspread his face.

Sarah wasn't sure how to account for the change. Smiling back at him required all her self-command.

Her nerves felt scorched. Bob put out his hand and Sarah extended hers to take it — the sensation was like stretching her arm across a gulf fixed between them.

His hand was cold and sweaty all at once, his eyes were onyx, blacker than the night.

"Come in. Come in."

He led her to the large wooden door. It opened before they arrived. A man stood there, dressed in a dark suit.

"Good evening, Sir, and welcome home. Will the young woman be staying — for dinner?" His English was perfect despite his French accent

"Yes, Jean-Philippe, she will. Sarah is her name. Whip up something, say, one of those French omelets you make, and a fresh salad. And something chocolate-y and gooey for dessert."

Jean-Philippe bowed slightly, stepping out of the way so that Bob and Sarah could enter. He shut the door and Sarah fought with herself, her nerves.

"We'll be in the den. Just ring the den phone when the dinner is ready."

Jean-Philippe took Sarah's purse and put it on a table near the door. He bowed to Bob again and left. Bob still had Sarah's hand. His eyes glinted as he squeezed her hand. "Follow me."

The interior looked like a battlefield of different bad tastes. And then it hit Sarah. The clashing items were undoubtedly the choices of different kittens, each trying to impose her taste on the welter of tastes displayed. Metallic colors, pastels, neons, ornate alongside rustic, delicate, and brutalist — it was all there in a numbing array.

Bob seemed unaware of how garish the furniture was, how expensive and yet gross each piece managed to be. He pointed to various items, all proudly, but the relevant feature in each case was the price he had paid for it.

He led her deeper into the house, past a staircase for forty, and down a long echoing hallway toward a closed door.

"My holy of holies," he announced as he opened the door; he made 'holy' sound foul. He tugged Sarah inside.

The room was not an extension of kitten decor. But it was created with them in mind. The decor was dark leather, stuffed to bursting. Each piece was large, playground equipment more than furniture. One wall was largely hidden by a TV screen. The furniture surrounded the TV like a fat, leather-clad besieging army. As Sarah walked farther into the room, she noticed darker stains on the dark leather and tried to unnotice them immediately afterward.

On the far end of the room, there was a desk, a laptop and a stack of books and papers on it, and a huge leather desk chair behind it. Just beyond the desk chair was a door, open enough for Sarah to be almost certain that it was the door to a bathroom.

Sarah faced Bob after surveying the room. The change in Bob was complete. He no longer looked like the illustration that opened the door to Bedroom Dreaming. His posture was better, his movements more elastic, and his face — that was the most striking change. His eyes had shifted from exaggerated desire to calculated menace. His welcoming tone and his eyes did not agree. That made his tone difficult to withstand. It was warm, welcoming — but it was the welcome of the butcher to the heifer at the slaughterhouse door.

"Do you like it? This is where I decompress. Work things out. Try things out."

Try women out, Sarah added without speaking. She molded her lips into a smile. "Very impressive."

Bob tugged her around the couch, then gestured to it. "Make yourself at home. I have a surprise for you. I'll be back in just a minute."

Sarah sat down, deliberately choosing the end of the couch closest to the desk. Bob left the room but did not close the door. Sarah jumped up and hurried around the desk. Besides the laptop, among the books and papers, was a planner. Sarah flipped through the pages to the current date. There, Bob had penned:

Commercial filming. Mona.

Sheila Armitage's name and number were written below the note. Beneath that, in the same hand, was written.

Mr. A, 9 pm.

Sarah checked her watch. 8:40 pm. Bob said he had a meeting.

She flipped to the next day. Nothing was noted during the day, but in the evening, there was a star drawn on the page with no further words or symbols The two days after were blank. That marked tomorrow as likely for the arms shipment. Carefully, in a distinct but not loud voice, she spoke. "Arms shipment. No address but likely tomorrow night."

She closed the planner and replaced it among the other items, then she rushed back to her spot on the couch, seating herself mere seconds ahead of Bob's return.

In his hand, he had a hanger, and on the hanger was a tiny bikini, three eyepatches, and a few strings. "I thought you might want to dress for dinner…"


Casey cursed inventively when, ahead of them, they saw the gate swing shut behind the Caddy. He passed the closed gate slowly, impressed by its size and heft.

Chuck had stood and was looking out from a vantage point, stooped between the driver's and passenger's seats. He was still listening to the comms but he had moved to his current position after Sarah denied there was anyone special in her life. He had to move after she said that, although he was not sure why.

Sarah's comments about acting were, Chuck knew, close to the truth about her spying. She had little time for anyone special. Excepting the missing period in her file when she had been partners with Bryce Larkin (and one brief period in her early career that Chuck had yet to look at in detail), she had worked alone, solo, and at a frenetic pace, with almost no downtime except when it was mandated by health or psychological tests. No extracurricular activities.

Despite spending almost every day with her for the past three weeks, Chuck still hardly had any conception of what it was like to be her. She worked hard, and was pleasant to him when he was not always pleasant to her. Truth be told, her reaction to his ill-advised comment about thresholds when they first visited the office was the only insight into her interior he had, the only one he trusted. It stuck with him. Seated at her desk, working, chewing absentmindedly on her coffee stirrer, he could forget that she held a gun to his head, that she had pretended to want him to enable herself to make that threat. Seated at her desk, her hair down, he could forget all that and remember nothing but how she had felt against him, how she tasted.

He shut his eyes for a moment to shake off the reverie of reverie. "What are we going to do?" Chuck asked Casey.

"Can you still hear them?"

"Yes," Chuck answered, checking.

There was crackling but the audio was still good. Casey stopped the van just after turning at the end of the block. "We'll wait here. You keep listening. I'm going to see if we can piggyback on Bob's home security. A gate like that, you know there're cameras."

Chuck moved back to his stool in front of the laptop and Casey came back to his. Chuck heard Sarah and Bob go inside, and heard Bob order dinner. Casey was typing furiously. After a moment, he threw his hands up, frustrated.

"Damn. Just what I figured. He's got the high-tech stuff here. No signal to steal without getting inside, tapping into it physically. Either that, or he turned it off. You keep listening; I'll gear up in case we have to go in after her."

Casey stood and turned, opened a cabinet. Inside it was equipment, weapons. He began to make choices.

Chuck tried not to think about Casey choosing weapons. Concentrating on the comms, Chuck heard Bob lead Sarah into the den.

Did Bob just say 'Holy of holies'? Christ!

A moment later, Bob excused himself. There was a long silence, interrupted by what might have been the sound of rapidly turning pages — or just more static. Then Chuck heard Sarah's voice, distinct: "Arms shipment. No address but likely tomorrow night."

Chuck relayed the message to Casey, who nodded.

A moment later, Chuck heard Bob return and say something about dressing for dinner.

Chuck glanced over at Casey's laptop, frustrated by the blank screen.


Sarah stared at the bikini and the phone in the den rang.

Bob's face fell. "Damn. I should've ordered something that took longer than an omelet." He carefully placed the hanging bikini on the back of the leather sofa. "Oh, well, something to look forward to. Let's go eat. I guarantee you'll love it."

Bob turned and Sarah blew out a breath as she followed him back through the house.

They reached the dining room a few minutes later. It was all the rest of the house promised. Too large, the table too long, the chandelier too glitzy. Jean-Philippe was standing at one end of the table. A place was set at the head of the table and on the righthand side.

Bob nodded at Jean-Philippe and sat down at the head of the table. Sarah sat down on his right. Jean-Philippe came around to the left and lifted the lid of a serving tray. A stunning omelet, golden and steaming, was revealed. Jean-Philippe had already cut it in half and he served one half to Sarah, the other to Bob. He put the lid back on the tray and took it away. A moment later he returned with a large golden bowl full of fresh salad. He served both again and left.

He returned with a bottle of Chablis and poured them each a glass. This time, when Jean-Philippe left, Bob spoke. He picked up his glass of Chablis and lifted it to Sarah. "To beautiful new friends."

Sarah picked up her glass and struck it lightly, tinklingly against his. "To new friends."

They drank. As Sarah put her glass down, she caught a glimpse of her watch. It was almost 9 pm. She took a bite of her omelet. It was all that Bob promised, light, made with a wonderful cheese she could not quite identify, but it was not cheddar. She chewed her bite slowly. Bob ate more quickly. Sarah could feel him becoming tenser.

After a few bites, he put his fork down. "Jean-Philippe will take care of you. It won't take long. I'm very sorry about this interruption, but, you know, business."

He gave her an I'm-sorry-I'm-not-sorry shrug.

Sarah nodded and smiled. Bob left the dining room. Sarah wondered if Chuck and Casey were positioned somewhere that would allow them to see Bob's visitor. A visitor this late, and at home, suggested importance. She needed to know who Mr. A was. The A in Sarah's mind was Armitage, but that seemed unlikely, unless it was Sheila's husband, if she had one.

Jean-Philippe came back into the dining room to check on her.

"Say, Jean-Philippe, where's the little girl's room, or the nearest one?"

Jean-Philippe told her. Sarah gulped her Chablis, gave Jean-Philippe her best smile, and left, following his directions.

But as soon as she was out of Jean-Philippe's sight, she headed toward the den. She stopped, bent over, and pulled off her heels. Holding them, she tiptoed toward the door. It was closed, as she expected. Voices were audible inside — but muffled. She walked to the door, popped out one of her comms, and pressed her ear against it.

Bob was speaking. "Everything is ready. Frankly, I'm annoyed that you were sent here. When have I proven less than fully reliable? Why do I need to be there"

"You understand there have been changes at the top, right? The new boss wants to see what's going on and wants new eyes on the procedure. You've been reliable; we don't expect any less. No one's doing anything other than relying on you. I'm here so that I can tell the boss how you get these reliable results. It's a preventative visit, not a corrective one. You've been tabbed for promotion…"

Sarah leaned back for a second, her brow furrowed, puzzled.

She looked at the lock on the door. It was old-fashioned, the sort of lock that took a skeleton key. Never in her career as a spy had Sarah peeked through a keyhole, but she did this time. Bending down, careful to keep her heels from making noise, she put an eye to the door. Through it, she could see the back of the man talking to Bob. The man turned and she saw his face.

It was Bryce Larkin.

She started, almost cried out, nearly dropped her shoes.

Mr. A. Anderson. She and Bryce had posed as a married couple several times, the Andersons. Sarah had been Mrs. Anderson, Mrs. A.

But Bryce is dead.

Sarah could not control her thoughts for a moment; they raced in every direction at once.

Bryce is dead. Bryce is not in the Intersect. Bryce is in Mattress Bob's holy of holies.

The only thought that stabilized was that she needed to get out of the house before Bryce saw her. Luckily, the conversation in the den did not sound like it was soon to finish.

She ran, soft-footed, back to the dining room, stopping just before arrival to put her shoes back on, her comm back in her ear. She slipped into her chair.

Jean-Philippe came in a few moments later.

Sarah made a face and put her hand on her abdomen.

"I'm not feeling so well. My bathroom visit…It's a female thing. Timing, huh? Tell Bob that I will be back in touch; maybe I will stop by tomorrow. Is my purse still by the door?"

"Yes, it is. How will you get home?"

"I'll call for an Uber, no problem. My car's still at Bedroom Dreaming; the Uber can take me there. It's not too far." Sarah stood, giving Jean-Philippe no chance to argue. She walked back to the front door. Her purse was where Jean-Philippe put it. She picked it up. "Is there a way through the gate, a pedestrian entrance?"

"Yes, to the side of the main gate. I will buzz you out." He walked to a panel above the table where Sarah's purse had been and opened it. A set of buttons were lined up on one side of a small screen. He started to press one of the buttons when a buzzer sounded.

Jean-Philippe pushed a different button. "Yes?"

The screen lit up. It showed Sheila Armitage's face; her smile was eager but cold. Mona's face edged into the screen too. She was wearing the Captain's hat from the commercial.

Sheila spoke. "Hey, Bob invited us over, but we're a little early. Mona was in a hurry, needy. Can we come in?"

Jean-Philippe pushed the button again. "Give me just a minute, please." The screen darkened again.

He turned to Sarah. "I'm going to go to inform my employer that the…ladies are here." He gave Sarah an interrogatory look.

"I guess I'm staying."

Jean-Philippe nodded — one shallow nod, as one eyebrow rose minutely. "Even in your condition?"

Sarah gave him a guilty smile. "I can't be the first girl who ever wanted to make a quick exit from here…"

Jean-Philippe shook his head. "No, you aren't. Not all have been interested in going to the mattresses." He paused. "Your excuse was convincingly offered, but you frankly seem too intelligent, too aware simply to have…forgotten…."

"I changed my mind. A woman's prerogative."

His interrogatory look returned, tinged with sympathy. "If you would like to leave, there are other exits. Other than the front and the back. My employer does not like the idea of being trapped in the house. And you are in luck — due to his meeting, my employer had me turn off the security cameras in the house this evening. And he had another filming in mind later."

"What will you tell him about how I left?"

"I will tell him you were in the bathroom when the…ladies came in, and that you left after I showed them inside, hoping to avoid a meeting, given your condition, and given why they are here."

"Okay, so how do I get out?'

Jean-Philippe smiled, then began to talk at pace, gesturing. "Go back toward the bathroom, but take the door before you reach it, the one to the left. It opens onto a staircase. Go down, a light will come on as soon as you start. At the bottom of the stairs, turn right. You will find a door with a keypad; 911 will open it. My employer has a limited, albeit repulsive imagination." He paused again but did not change his expression.

"That will put you in a tunnel that runs beneath the outer wall. You will climb stairs into an external building, outside the wall but still part of this property. It is a garage — my employer owns an obscene number of cars. You can find your way out easily enough once you are there. No alarms are tripped by exits only entrances. Now, I need to talk to my employer."

The buzzer sounded again. Jean-Philippe's expression became urgent. "Miss Mona is in a hurry. You need to be too."

Sarah started in the direction of the bathroom.


Chuck heard the conversation. So did Casey.

Casey was equipped — he had on a vest, a sidearm, but he was seated on his stool, his hands cupped at his ears, listening as intently as Chuck.

"Okay, let's go. Assuming that butler guy is telling the truth, the place should be behind us." He returned to the driver's seat and started the van, U-turning it.

Chuck rubbed his palms on his pants. They were sweating, even in the cool van.


Sarah found the stairs and went down them. The light came on as Jean-Philippe said it would. Then she found the door, the keypad. The door looked more like the entrance to a vault. She took a breath and keyed in 911. Tumblers tumbled and the door was unlocked.

Sarah opened it. Stretching into the distance was the tunnel, a hallway, soft lights coming on one by one, near to distant, as she moved — as if beckoning her forward.

She worked to control her breathing in hopes of controlling her thoughts.

She had been too preoccupied with getting out of the house to focus on why. She started walking, thinking as she went.

Bryce.

Step.

What the hell was he doing alive, not to mention in bed with Mattress Bob?

I kept the fact that Bryce was not in the Intersect from Graham.

Step, step.

Why did I keep it from Graham? — Because Chuck hadn't admitted it to Graham.

Chuck.

Stop.

I warned Chuck about Graham — I did that, that first night, after all that happened. I kept secrets from Graham for Chuck's sake.

Step.

Nothing's felt right since Chuck. — What team am I on?

Step, step, step.

It's taken me weeks to catch up to myself.

Faster steps.

Since the Buy More, she had been trailing herself like she was trailing the lights in the hallway.

But now she had to choose: return to the past she knew, the dark, familiar one, or take a step into a lighted but unknown future?

Chuck did not think Sarah was special.

She could live with that; she did not think she was special.

But maybe it was time for her to assign herself a mission.

The thought was brand new, almost beyond her comprehension. It terrified and excited her.

She climbed the stairs and found herself in a large garage, among a dozen Cadillacs, a door across the large, shadowy interior.

Proceed as the way opens.

Sarah had heard that somewhere, although she did not remember where.

Proverbs were not her thing.

She exited the building, holding her breath when she opened the door, but no alarm sounded — at least none she could hear — and as she stepped outside, she heard an engine.

She shivered, the night cold in her inadequate romper.

The van approached. A streetlight revealed Casey driving, Chuck searching through the windshield.

Searching for her.

The sight warmed her, despite his frown as she stepped into the path of the headlights.


A/N: How about dropping me a line?