Christmas story 2020

(I know, it's Spring 2021. I had issues.)

Blood Pudding

Chapter Five: To Do Poor Sinners Good?

I've said my head hurts, I know, but it really does.

I must've hit it earlier. But, truth be told, it's been hurting me for a long time; since my first mission alone. A constant, dull ache that got worse if I used my gift much.

I told the CIA doctors and the CIA psychiatrist. They poked and prodded me, probed me with needles and questions. I've been poked and prodded and probed so much. They eventually told me that I wasn't in any serious danger from the headaches — and they handed me an industrial-sized tub of pills. So much for the vanguard of medical science. Basically aspirin, they said. Probably just Bayer.

Between missions, the headaches mostly went away, and the pills did keep them at bay during missions. — I wish I had a couple now, but I left them in my room. I didn't usually take them between missions. Not usually.

Of course, aspirin thins the blood, doesn't it? Probably not the best idea right now, thinning my blood, since I'm still bleeding. And cold, really cold, colder than when I mentioned it last.

The CIA shrink gave me a clean bill of health the last time I saw her — but that was a while ago. Like I said, after New York, I refused to see her, and I haven't since.

After New York — and after Miami.

After Sarah left me in Miami, I stayed on. I drank by the pool by day and stared at the ceiling by night. I lost track of time, of everything. I was sad, but I felt better — or, maybe it would be better to say I felt. I was risen, resurrected, reanimated, but to pain, old and new. I drank: but I didn't get drunk. I watched Miami beauties swim in the pool. Some approached, talked to me, but it was clear that I was taken; they picked up on that quickly, the ones bold enough to talk to me.

I was taken by a woman who was gone. My wife, my ex, Sarah. I replayed our time together over and over and over. If my memory were video-tape, I would've worn it out.

Finally, a couple of weeks later, I flew back to DC. I'd had all the sunshine and umbrella drinks I could stomach. All the Miami beauties. The Director called to check on me. She wanted to know when I was coming back to work. I told her soon but I'm not sure I meant it.

I walked the streets of my neighborhood. I haunted the library. Mostly, I checked my phone, hoping for a text, a call.

Hope.

You've probably noticed I'm all over the place where that's concerned, hope. What's that Gideons' line? Faith is the substance of things hoped for…

I won't say I had faith, but I did have hope. In Miami, Sarah never said out loud that she still loved me, but I believed she did; I believed her note. That made it all better — and worse. Maddening. I tried to have faith, to substantialize my hope. But I heard nothing from her.

Even so, I kept the faith. I believed that things between us were not done. That we could be reunited.

I finally went back to work and the numbness crept back again. But I did the job, chewing aspirin like Chiclets. Let's just say that — I did the job. Clickety-clack. Tick-tock. Like a toy train — wind me up, put me on the rails, and watch me go. Chew, chew.

— Say, how did those tree lights come on by themselves? Did you do it? Maybe there was a short in the wiring? I don't know. Christmas lights are a mystery, a tangle.

A mystery. I'm beginning to understand that we're surrounded by mystery. That doesn't seem as scary to me as it once did. I used to think mysteries were just darkness, that we couldn't see into them because of the dark. But I now wonder if we can't see into them because of the light because they are so bright. Maybe. Maybe mysteries light our way.

You don't say much, do you? Slow to speak, quick to hear, that's you. I should be like you.

Anyway, I went back to work. The numbness returned little by little. But the memory of Miami kept it from completely reclaiming me.

In off -moments, I thought about Sarah — and I thought about Janey.

Early in our time together, I think Sarah felt about me sorta like Janey did El Mencho. I mean that she loved me but didn't want to love me. I could pick up on that, but at the time, it came across to me as mixed signals, as if she first would get close and then pull back. I now believe she was getting close and pulling back all at once, not in alternation.

It must've been miserable for her.

I felt that way during one dark period of our time together, felt like I couldn't love her, even though I did. Janey died trying to save a man she loved but did not want to love.

Love, God, what a power it is!

In Miami, Sarah didn't seem like she loved me but didn't want to love me. There was a reticence in her but it wasn't that. I firmly believe when she left me at the desk that day she intended to run, to leave the hotel — but she didn't, maybe she couldn't. No more than I could give up on her. — Maybe I should've talked even though she didn't? I don't know. I don't know how I managed to keep from talking. I have lots of regrets about Miami. I slept too much. Almost every time, in between love-makings. I should've asked why we were still married, if we were still married.

So, I went back to work. And work led me home, back here, to LA. Brighton and his daughter, Karen. Stolen secrets. North Korea. And Sarah.

The CIA analysts were right. I was Karen Brighton's type.

She lit up when she saw me in person the first time, and, I admit, I liked her too. She was talkative, funny, cute. The first date was a success. She called me only an hour after we said goodnight, just to say again how much she enjoyed the evening. — Have I told you I am ashamed to be good at this job?

Over the next couple of weeks, leading to Christmas, Karen and I saw a lot of each other, and eventually, she took me to meet her father, Harold.

Harold Brighton was a son-of-a-bitch. Not obviously, but it was right there, just below the surface; it lurked in his eyes when he didn't know you were looking at him. — Oh, he loved his daughter, but in much the same way that he loved his mansion, his cars, his trophy wife. (I caught a glimpse of her.) Karen was a trophy daughter.

Karen seemed completely taken in by him. The blind love of children, huh? It was hard to believe, but that's how it seemed.

Meeting him gave me a chance to see the mansion, commit it to memory, in leisurely fashion, to know it as I could not from blueprints or photographs. Particularly Brighton's study, his computer, the security system.

Brighton ran a computer company, one that specialized in chips that were slowly dethroning Intel and other brands. That was just one of his companies, but it was the one that was of interest to the CIA, because it was the one that had a dedicated team working on AI, working for the US government on a top-secret contract. Some of the AI chips were intended for weapons, to make them 'smart', whatever 'smart' came to for the particular weapon. Some were to be implantable in soldiers, allowing them to go longer without rest, to increase their tolerance for pain, and so on. Brighton was suspected of selling the implantable chips to North Korea.

I went back to the mansion that night, in the dark, broke in. I worked deliberately, carefully toward the study. When I got there, I fired up his computer and went to work. His security, as you'd expect, was elaborate, cutting-edge. But it wasn't any match for me. Clickety-clack, tick-tock, chugga-chugga — like a train. Chew, chew.

I am akin to computers.

I got in. I found some of the plans, downloaded them, and I found a note about a meeting, on Christmas eve, the next day. He was to meet with two people, unnamed, but it had to be the meeting, the final exchange, the last, key part of the plans turned over, and the final payoff. — Why Brighton needed more money I don't know, but, as they say, money is the root of all evil. Get enough of it and I guess it takes root in you — and then you can't ever have enough. North Korea was undoubtedly paying dear.

I copied the plans and made a mental note of the meeting place and time. I would be there; I would stop it, and I would figure out who Brighton was meeting, and the CIA would squeeze him for information on North Korea's larger intelligence activities in the US. I'd end this, put Brighton away, and blow a serious hole in North Korea's intelligence plans. That last became the overarching mission objective.

When I got back to my temporary apartment, Karen was waiting for me in the lobby of the building. She smiled at me — that way, you know? — and I knew what was coming. She was there hoping to spend the night.

But I was a married man. And even if I wasn't...well, no. I didn't do that.

It wasn't part of the job and I wasn't about to claim it as an on-the-job side-benefit. I begged off as politely as I could, pleading a headache. As ridiculous as that sounds, it was actually true, even if it was not the real reason. The work on Brighton's computer had made my head throb. I just wanted a glass of water, a pill, but mainly to lay down — alone.

She was hurt by my refusal. I hated myself. I was lying to her and I was going to be the downfall of her father. I had just broken into her house to steal from him and she was ready to give herself to me.

She left. I stood there, spy-schmuck, numbly watching her leave. I had to make her promises for another night. My intention was to be gone before that night arrived.

I was paying dear too. I went to my room, chew, chew, and slipped slowly into total numbness, then sleep.

The next evening, I prepped for the meet. It was to take place in the office of one of Brighton's company warehouses.

I drove by ahead of time. The place was on the outskirts of the city, isolated. The office — that's where we are now, by the way, the employees had decorated it for Christmas, tree, and angel and all — was upstairs. I got a good look at the layout.

Although I was going to go in alone, there would be a back-up team. I met with the team leader and we made plans, working from a map I drew from memory. I just wanted to be done with it and out of LA.

Now that I think of it, what were carolers doing out here on Christmas eve?

I'm sure I heard them, The Holly and the Ivy. That makes no sense. Who sings carols to a warehouse? Maybe I was further gone than I thought even then, hallucinating?

Maybe I am hallucinating you too?

No answer? Is no answer an answer?

Well, whatever.

You can guess what happened next. I showed up and secreted myself in the warehouse between the time the workers left and the time when the meeting was to occur. The back-up team was in place, hidden nearby.

An hour passed. Dusk fell. Brighton arrived, carrying a leather briefcase. He walked up the stairs and into the office. I was in an office storage closet. I know, I know, not exactly a fancy hiding place, but I had no reason to think anyone would want office supplies.

Brighton took a bottle out of his bag and four glasses.

It took me a minute. Four glasses.

And then there were footfalls on the stairs. The door opened and a man I had never seen walked in. Sarah walked in with him, holding his hand. The man's other held a silver briefcase by the handle. He put it on the table next to the leather one.

I froze solid for a moment. Not paying attention to the briefcases.

Sarah!

Brighton welcomed them to the office, motioned them to come in. He poured alcohol in all the glasses. I saw Sarah see four of them and saw her look up, around the room. Her eyes stopped on my closet door — as if she could see me through the vent in it I was using to watch the office. She couldn't — but it felt like she could. I was back in the shadows.

And then there were more steps on the stairs. A moment later, Karen stepped inside, gun in hand.

Karen!

Jesus, had I screwed up!

Karen's eyes were son-of-a-bitch eyes, more intense than her father's — of course, she was a daughter, not a son. Anyway, I had misread her entirely. She was wearing some crazy faux-fur coat, tiger-striped, over high heels. "Sorry, I'm late."

She walked to the closet and spoke as she did, talking over the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor. "Come out, now! I know you're in there."

I calculated shooting her through the door. I almost did it. My hand moved on its own. Clickety-clack. But then I remembered Janey. Collateral damage. Sarah was in the room. The memory overrode the numbness, the mechanism. I couldn't risk Sarah. I stepped out.

Unluckily — you wouldn't think things could get unluckier, but they did — Sarah started when she saw me, jumped, her eyes widened, then closed, and she almost fell. The man with her caught her, held her up. She put her hands to her temples, moaned involuntarily, low. It was no act, but I didn't understand it.

Karen did not take her eyes off me. The man with Sarah kept one arm around her and pulled out a gun with his other hand, aiming it at me.

Karen waved me farther out, her eyes fish-cold. She was no longer cute.

"C'mon, Charles — or should I just call you Agent Carmichael?"

Sarah was now looking at me with an expression of...I don't know what...but it was not indifference. The man with her was looking from me to Sarah to me and back.

Sarah noticed, grabbed his hand. "I'm okay. I just didn't expect the CIA. It scared me."

He looked at her and, completely unexpected, he leaned to kiss her, but she turned her cheek so that his lips impacted it and not hers.

He looked at her, shook his head, and as he turned back to me, Sarah stared at me, as if trying to communicate something to me, her eyes as full as they were on our wedding day, during our vows.

And then her eyes changed, an act of will.

"So what are you going to do with him?" she asked softly, calling the man's attention back to herself.

I hadn't seen Sarah in action for a while. She sounded helpless, overwhelmed by the circumstance, terrified. It was completely convincing.

Brighton spoke, smoothly, an attempt to calm her, the situation. "Don't worry about that. He's our problem. — Do you have what you promised?" Brighton shifted his address to the man.

The man nodded toward the silver briefcase. Brighton stood it up, unlatched it, and looked inside. He seemed satisfied. He pushed his leather briefcase toward the man. "Good enough. Ok, Karen. We're done here. Agent Carmichael's spoiled our drink. — Let's finish this. Karen, we have a plane waiting..."

The man let go of Sarah and took the leather briefcase. He didn't open it, he just looked at Brighton and Karen and nodded. He took Sarah's hand. She glanced at me — she seemed lost, unsure — and then the man led her out of the office. Neither Brighton nor Karen saw the glance; the man missed it too.

I heard their steps on the stairs.

Before I could say anything, Karen's pocket vibrated. Her phone.

She pulled it from her pocket with one hand and answered. She smiled as she listened and then ended the call.

"So much for your back-up team, Agent Carmichael." A car started in the dark outside.

My rage returned, volcanic, like in New York. I rushed Karen headlong, but Brighton tripped me as I went by him, his leg hooking mine. I fell hard. — That must've been when I hit my head. I spun as I fell, turning, and slammed the back of my head on the corner of the desk.

No wonder it hurts.

I'm almost done with my story. I'm almost done. I can barely see, see you.

Where was I?

I must've lost consciousness for a few minutes because the next thing I remember is Karen standing over me. Brighton was gone, the silver briefcase.

"Bad time to go, Christmas eve and all, Agent Carmichael. I should let someone else do this, but I owe you. For lots of things, but mainly for having the gall to turn me down the other night."

Karen bent down and stabbed me. I was too woozy to stop it, fight back. I hadn't seen the knife. She drove it into my stomach slowly with a matching slow grin, and then twisted it for good measure. "I hope that hurts like hell...until it doesn't."

Pudding.

I fainted again, the pain, I guess. But I heard her talking to someone as I went under, on her phone. "Yes, the office. I need it cleaned tonight." She changed tone. "He's done or he will be by the time you arrive.."

I guess I die harder than Karen thought, huh? — Not funny? — It's a Christmas film. C'mon!

Look, it's time you say something for yourself? What about those carolers? Any thoughts? Where's Karen's cleaner? Where's Sarah?

Why won't you say something, say anything?

Look, I know you aren't real, but you would think I could manage a more convincing hallucination. Yes, I read around in Gideons. But I don't believe in You. I don't believe you're real. If you're real, why not show up before now? Why show up at the end, too late, when my head and heart and my stomach are a mess?

Why let all this happen to me, to Sarah? You're supposed to be all about love and we love...loved...love each other. I don't know; I don't understand. Why did I get this damn gift? Why did she end up with it and why did it steal her memories, steal her from me? Why does every gift in my life turn into a curse?

Did I inherit some kind of curse? Original sin?

Do you wonder why I'm talking to you at all if I think you're a hallucination? I guess because it's better than dying alone. I've been alone; I'll take what company I can get, illusory or not.

You're not the cleaner, are you? What's that song? Washed in the Blood?

Wait; show me your hands! Jesus, those look bad! — Sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn't think. — But wait, if you're a hallucination, those scars are too, right?

Still no answer? I don't have time to argue.

...

Well...anyway...thanks for being here. I'm done. It's finished. But I guess you know something about that too, don't you? Bleeding out? Blood as red as any…

I realize you're probably a hallucination. Maybe I just needed someone to talk to, think to, since I guess I really haven't said any of this out loud, have I? I needed — maybe we all need — someone to listen to us, to our lives, to watch them, to read them. We need someone who can make sense of them even when we can't, who sees the pattern we don't see, takes in the things we show but don't say? I don't know. But, hallucination or not, thanks!

No, really. Thanks for being here; it helped. — Uhh...I forgive. I forgive everyone, for everything. I wish I could talk to Ellie, to Sarah. But, I guess not. Sorry, everyone. Good-night.

I glance at the twinkling lights then close my eyes and hear footsteps climbing. Maybe they're mine.