10:30 PM

Saturday, December 23, 2006

"Do you have any specific repercussions about sleeping in my bed?"

"Are you going to be in it?" Lisa pressed, tossing a pillow atop the fresh sheets and pulling down the blanket.

"That's kind of instigated in the possessive noun."

"Do I have a choice either way?"

"Not really. But if it's really a big deal to you, I can sleep on the couch."

She paused. "I'll sleep with you in your bed, but you try anything and I'll kill you."

Jackson, Lisa had learned in the past day or so, was quite different than she'd thought. She discovered something new nearly every time the clock hand made a full circle.

At two, he cooked quiche. Quiche.

At three, he expressed his love of Florinese literature.

At four, he told her about his four years spent studying in the Czech Republic.

At five, she found out that he was actually from Ontario.

At six, she learned of his distaste for coffee.

At seven, while they watched a cheesy entertainment story on television, she learned of his passion for Mexican war movies (not that the war part particularly surprised her, but the ethnicity came as a bit of a shock).

At eight, when she came back from a shower (which was pleasantly uninterrupted), she saw him poring over a wrinkled photograph with a bemused expression on his face.

At nine, she still hadn't figured out what it was.

But now, at half past ten, she discovered something completely different.

Jackson Rippner wore glasses.

"Wow," she nodded in bewilderment as he pulled them off and gingerly placed them on the nightstand. "Who'd have thunk it."

"What?" he grumbled irritably, flipping off the light and tossing the blanket over his shoulder. "I have bad vision. Get over it. Good night, Leese."

"Oh, no, you don't," she turned the light back on with a flick of her wrists. "I'm not done with you yet."

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then looked at her with an inviting glance. "I thought you didn't-"

Lisa slapped him in the neck. "Not even remotely funny."

"Then what do you want? And hurry up. I'm tired."

"What was that picture you were looking at?"

He sighed and lay back down, closing his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. Do you realize how many pictures I look at in a day? All part of the job description."

She curled up on her pillow, near him but still a comfortable distance apart. "The black and white one. When I came out of the shower."

He thought, and there was a heavy silence for a moment. He didn't open his eyes.

Lisa scowled at him and turned the light off, sighing dramatically and flopping to her side, not facing him.

"Fine," she grumbled. "Just don't expect me to ever share anything with you again."

She'd begun exploring the outer rim of sleep when his voice roused her. "It was Alec."

"Huh?"

"The picture. It was Alec Rocher."

"Why were you looking at it?" she turned back to him, pleasantly surprised.

"Trying to figure something out. He seems so familiar, yet I can't place it."

"It's weird you mentioned it," Lisa nodded. "Because when I met him, I felt the same way. It's kind of like when you see somebody in a dream and you know who they are but can't label their faces."

"Exactly. I've been trying to figure it out for two years, ever since I found him."

"You found him?" she frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Just what it sounds like. God, I remember that day so well. Like yesterday…"

xx

Jackson angrily kicked an empty soda can across the street, where it's journey was interrupted as it crunched into a solid brick wall.

"Goddamn them!" he muttered loudly to himself.

He'd been screwed over again. The job had been planned and, two hours before it was to be set in motion, the clients had canceled.

Thousands of dollars down the drain, which, naturally, he'd been able to pry from their otherwise cold, dead hands, but still. That was a lot of work for a lot of nothing.

He needed a drink. A dying neon sign blinked in the horizon. Probably a mile's walk. That was fine. He needed to walk off this frustrated adrenaline.

Jackson took a brief shorcut through a darkened alley, and the blackness formed a cloak over his eyes. He didn't care. He was relatively good at feeling his way in the darkness, and he wasn't worried about being assaulted. He had his strength, he had his wit, and most importantly, he had his knife.

His feet collided with something about midway and he swore as he tripped and fell over whatever it was.

Jackson felt around once he had regained his balance, and his fingertips grazed a pair of feet. Then legs. A torso, a head.

"Shit," he murmured, feeling a too-familiar stiffness about the body. Corpse, his mind reminded him.

No, not necessarily, he argued, remembering a movie he'd seen ages ago. The Princess Bride.There is a difference between mostly dead, and all dead. This guy wasn't all dead. He could tell.

Jackson felt in his pocket for his cell phone and flipped it open. The illuminated screen provided him enough light to work.

The drunken bluish haze lit up the 'corpse's' face. He was young, in his early to mid twenties, with a thick shock of long blonde hair that fell in his face and hooded his bright green eyes. They were partially open, along with his mouth, that gave evidence of extremely crooked teeth.

He was in bad shape. He looked strong enough, but he'd been through quite an ordeal. He was bleeding from what looked like a gunshot wound in the shoulder, and along with that his leg was jerked at an odd angle. Broken, most definitely.

A long scar ran from his hairline to his upper lip, the blood pouring out and covering his face. Jackson wiped some of it free with his sleeve because if the flow got any worse it could suffocate the kid.

He debated what to do. The most logical thing, for a man in his position, would be to leave him to die. But as the man shifted slightly on the ground and moaned loudly in agony, Jackson fought his brighter instincts and hefted him into his arms.

He was heavy, but lighter than he'd anticipated. Jackson turned around the way he'd come and tentatively set him in the backseat of the car. To hell with the interior lining.

They were almost back at the safehouse when the kid made another noise. It was the noise of death, a sound of rattling breath and pained gurgling.

Jackson slammed his foot to the accelerator and sped up.