Disclaimer: Still playing in Jonathan Larson's sandbox, and still borrowing toys from the other copyrighted kids.
Author's Note: Stress: A reaction caused when the mind overrides the body's desire to beat the living shit out of someone who deserves it.
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NIGHT FALLS
By Etcetera Kit
Chapter Two: A Case
Mimi Davis leaned back in her chair, rolling her shirt sleeves up to her elbows. Their office was thick with cigarette smoke, combined with the dim light, they might as well have been starring on an old gangster movie. Except they were the cops. Officer Cortland was just outside, talking into a phone. His voice could be heard as occasional peaks through the glass that separated the cubicles and her office. Sergeant Davis… she wasn't sure what she had done to get the promotion, other than being in the right place at the right time.
Cortland hung up the phone and swung into her office, looking like some kind of overgrown ape. Mimi inwardly snorted. She used to call Roger that, years ago. He would do incredibly stupid, albeit, extraordinarily masculine things, and she would call him an ape or a pig, depending on the offense. She still called him a pig when they got into arguments over field work with the Patriots. He said that the kids needed someone, and she retorted that he should stay.
It wasn't right, using Tommy and Jo as bargaining chips. God knew that neither of them had asked to be born and brought into this hell. They were just kids, but Roger was right. What would their kids do if something happened to one or both of them? It was a good reason for both of them to steer clear of field work. She had said as much. The tension was still there, but they didn't volunteer for field operations anymore. She and Roger—and Mark—had to sit down and decide what their future with the Patriots was, and if this Alkali Lake thing worked out…
"Sarge, we've got clearance! They're sending us the case file."
Cortland was talking about Alkali Lake. What else would he be talking about? She nodded, leaning forward so her chair was on all four legs. She pushed back from her desk. "I want that file on my desk the moment it arrives. Don't let Tucker or Garret so much as breathe on that thing."
"Yes m'am!"
"And Cortland… go see if Aggie brought our cake donuts."
The young officer grinned. "Right away."
Mimi scooted forward so she was on the front lip of her chair. What kind of cops would they be if they didn't have donuts? She reached out, gently brushing her fingers against the picture on her desk. Tommy and Jo on the swings at the complex. Both of them had light brown hair and brown eyes, but Tommy looked like Roger, angular, square features, a smile to light up the earth, but a frown to drown everyone with him. Jo was more like her, softer features, large eyes. There had never been any dispute about their names. Thank God they had one boy and one girl… although with two girls, Mimi would have named one Angel.
God, Roger had actually been singing in the shower that morning. Singing! He rarely sang, not since they left ten years ago with Trent. The words had been nonsense, but he had belted them out like nothing else. He and Mark had managed to commandeer more chocolate chips and two bottles of wine a couple days ago. Last night, he had thought it would be a good idea to teach Tommy and Jo how to make cookies. Roger was bizarre, always had been.
What if they actually found the others or what had happened to them? They might not talk about it, but they were working with the Patriots in hopes of finding them or what happened to them. God, if they did find something about Angel, Collins, Maureen and Joanne… would they leave the organization? They could always flee to Canada or England. She and Roger had enough money to get themselves and the kids, and perhaps two others across the border. Mark could probably cover more than that. Would they flee? Would they stay to help others like themselves?
Ten years ago, still going through withdrawal, she would have thought her current life impossible. She had AIDS. She was an addict. She was a stripper. None of those things seemed to scream long life, family, lasting career… but here she was. Married to Roger, the mother of two great kids, a sergeant with the NYPD… And barely thirty. It was an accomplishment.
Count your blessings instead of sheep.
Tommy and Jo were normal, with no birth defects or other disorders. God, she had been terrified during each pregnancy that something would happen. She and Roger had both been addicts, and, while they had been clean for years before having kids, she still worried. The doctors at the complex had assured them that the kids were fine, developing normally… but still… Angel would have laughed at her worry. After all, they had been cured. Lives they had thought they couldn't have were before them again. Then again, Angel would have promptly driven Collins nuts by making them baby clothes and blankets.
Roger, for all his mood swings and eccentricities, loved them. He helped take care of the kids, splitting their work fifty-fifty. In fact, he had been taking most responsibility now that she had the promotion and had to work longer hours. He sang the kids to sleep every night without fail. There were nights he almost fell asleep. They comforted each other when they thought too long and too hard about Angel and Collins.
And Mark, a brother to her and Roger, an uncle to the kids, and a tireless fighter when it came to finding the others. He would sit for hours, sometimes, and stare out the window. It was like his fingers were itching for his camera, left behind at the townhouse with Roger's guitar. They couldn't risk creating their art.
"Case file!"
Cortland waltzed into the office, holding a thick manila folder in one hand and a box of donuts in the other. He set both items on her desk. He was younger than her by about five years, meaning he never had a chance to come out of the closet. She seriously suspected he would come out of the closet if things ever changed… "Coffee?" he asked, batting his eyelashes.
"Yes, please," she said with a smile.
"French vanilla or the house blend?"
The house blend meant whatever Maxwell House crap the precinct bought. "French vanilla," she replied. "Nothing in it." Cortland knew that. He grinned and waltzed back out of the office. He'd be back with the coffee and to help her comb through the file.
Mimi tugged the file towards her. If there was one thing she had learned about being a cop in this day and age, it was that they knew the truth about too many things. Investigations were handled properly until the public had to be informed—it was why the media was so tightly controlled. Mark saw how the cover stories were spun. Even more gems reached Roger in the City Council building. She got to see the raw cases and facts.
There were reports from various parties—officers, their superiors, a medical examiner, a coroner, one or two forensic experts, and a detective. Under the pile of reports were glossy, color photographs of the scene. A few aerial shots of the facility along with labeled pictures of the interior. Mimi shook her head, forcing herself to remain calm. There had been bodies, unlike the report from a few days ago. No positive IDs on the bodies… The bodies were all prisoners, wearing some kind of orange uniform. No doctors or guards except for one, apparently the man hired to burn the place to the ground, caught in some crossfire.
"Coffee!" Cortland chirped.
Mimi extracted the coroner's shots and DNA information from the bodies and thrust it at Cortland as he put the coffee on her desk. "Run these against people that went missing ten years ago."
"But there was no DNA information on—"
"Use the mug shots. The computer can match facial features."
"On it!" Cortland was off like a shot.
God, the people they had found were so wasted—their heads shaved, like they had been in some kind of… concentration camp. Malnourished, lesions on their faces, broken bones inflicted before death…
She shook her head. Cortland should have those matches in less than half an hour. In the mean time, she wanted to find out where funding for this place came from, and who the hell was signing their checks.
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I figured out years ago that you can send a letter through the United States Postal Service for free. All you have to do is forgo the stamp and return address. Without a return address, the postal workers can't return the letter to sender, but, if the address is good, they can't put it in the dead letter office. Sure, the letter might arrive 'postage due', but the mail people just put it in the box, didn't bang on anyone's door looking for a couple of cents.
This plan is brilliant. I wish I had thought of it years ago. Paul's been giving me newspapers for almost eight years. Addresses appear in the newspaper. And this entire front page article and picture are a miracle. I had just muddled through the interview this morning, and received a couple of kicks for being uncooperative. Then Paul gave me the newspaper, probably as bait to act like a good little droid. I have a pen and some pencil stubs, along with a few scraps of paper, hidden in my cell, behind the toilet where no one looks.
I opened the newspaper once I got back to my cell. Front page—Mayor's Office Announces a Code Yellow Curfew. And who should be standing behind the podium in the picture?
Who indeed?
Roger Davis—ten years older, with long hair, but clean-shaven. There was no way I could have possibly missed him. The caption under the picture said that he was secretary to the mayor of New York City. I know that Roger doesn't live at the townhouse anymore. I have no way of knowing where he is now. But I do know the address for City Hall. God, I spent so much time in college writing letters to those morons. It's one of those addresses that I would pull out to intimidate people.
I had seen an outgoing mail slot once. I just have to pay attention when the guard brings me to Paul and back again. I'm good at causing a ruckus. I know I can create enough confusion to get the letter in the slot without anyone realizing that's what I've done. And if it doesn't work? I tried. But, Christ, it's so close now. Roger, City Hall… I can taste it.
I scramble across the stone floor of my cell, pulling out the stash of paper and writing utensils. I have two pieces of paper big enough for this exercise. I tap the pen against the floor. What to write? I know this prison is somewhere in New York, probably close to the city, since Paul runs around with copies of the New York Sun and New York Liberty Star. I know the latter is out of Brooklyn. Maybe Paul lives in Brooklyn and commutes out here.
In the end, I think I just want Roger to know that I'm still alive. I won't be alive much longer if anyone finds out I tried to write this letter, but… my days are numbered anyways. I wish that he could tell me if Angel is still alive, but that's another pipe dream.
Write the envelope first. That'll give me more time to think of the letter's contents.
Roger Davis, I carefully print. Secretary to the Mayor. I finish the address, adding an Attn: Mayor's Office at the bottom, just for security.
That didn't take nearly enough time. Now the letter. Shit. What can I say to him that won't make him put his life in danger for me? Nothing.
I'm alive.
I'm in the psychological warfare prison.
How are you? Oh, by the way, you wouldn't happen to know if Angel is alive?
Stupid. All of it! Stupid drivel!
I need to say something useful in this letter. Like if he knows if Angel was one of the people at that Alkali Lake facility. I start with his name, and copy the date from the newspaper, despite the fact that I know this paper is a few days old.
It's me—Collins. I add Thomas B. Collins in parentheses, not that he would have forgotten about me, but a full name looks like it will lend more credibility. The next few sentences are about being held in the psych prison with people trying to pick apart my mind. I mention there is a doctor named Paul, and list what information I can about the location. The two newspapers are all I have to go on, and anyone within the vicinity of New York City could get their hands on these.
I inquire about everyone, but the bottom line is Angel.
Folding the envelope paper is a little trickier, but between a couple drops of water and some creative folding, I am confident that it might survive a trip through the mail system. Might. It could be destroyed. Maybe they'll pick up the pieces and put it in a plastic bag.
I want the outside world so much. I want to be able to feel the sun, the rain, the wind… Paul's been quoting from the Bible a lot lately. I hate to break it to him, but I've always been agnostic. I've read the Koran, the Bible, the I Ching… all kinds of other spiritual literature. I know there's a higher power—after all, someone had to throw the switch—but I don't know what it is. Angel believes in an undefined God—embodying the duality of humanity, but also love. She always said that, with God, there is only love.
I guess I'm supposed to think I'm degenerate, a freak. Please. The love of my life is a man. And it doesn't bother me.
But that's what bothers them.
Shit. I wonder if the guard will take me to Paul again soon. There seems to be a rotation, but I'm not entirely sure what it is. Maybe he'll put me in a room with rats, like in 1984. That would certainly break the monotony.
Operation Snail Mail is a go.
Damn—that's catchy. Maybe I should have become a novelist.
--------------------
"Have you got those names for me?" Mimi snapped as Cortland rushed into the office. She had spent the last half hour trying to cut through banking red tape—things were moving too slowly for her tastes. What the hell was he doing singing when he should have been working? Goddamn the help this fucking precinct hired!
"Yes," Cortland replied, handing her a sheaf of papers. "I did you one better and checked up on the possibility of a complete inmate list. None of the paper records survived, but Pam down in forensics has the hard-drives from their computers. She's going to see what she can get off them—logically and without a clean room."
Pam was another Patriot—computer genius. Cortland didn't need to know that nor did anyone else at the precinct, but Mimi knew that any names of interest—and Pam knew which names—would immediately be brought to her attention.
Mimi nodded sharply to Cortland as he took a chair in front of her desk, and picked a donut from the box. She needed to focus and try to detach from the situation. God, how could she when every waking moment was filled with dread that someone she knew would be on that list? She glanced at the top of the stack of papers. There was a synopsis of the findings. In others word, Cortland had compiled a quick list of the dead. Taking a deep breath, she read it.
Forty people. No one with the last names Collins or Schunard. The Johnson listed was a male, as was the Jefferson. "Only forty bodies?" Mimi asked. "That place had to have been able to hold hundreds."
"Thousands, actually," Cortland replied. "Twelve hundred cells, plus enough living quarters for doctors and guards…" He paused, considering. "I'd say there were about two prisoners per guard, and, at least, a hundred doctors."
"Jesus," she breathed. "We don't even have that at state prisons." She shook her head. "I want to know how places like that remain hidden."
Cortland shrugged. "There's a forensics team still sweeping the area. The forty initially found were all together in some kind of chamber." He paused. "I talked to Tony out there—he says they're thinking they'll find mass graves if the government doesn't pull the plug."
"We're still talking about eleven hundred people missing." She stood up. "I mean where are these five hundred guards and hundred doctors? That many people just don't go missing."
"Listen, Sarge, I know that you and Pam are really fired up about this case, but I really think that someone from the White House is going to—"
"Cortland, shut-up. Our job is to find as much as we can before that happens."
Mimi sank back down into her chair. This entire case was still confirming her worst fears. God, how many times had she, and Roger and Mark stayed awake all night, telling themselves that Angel and Collins, Maureen and Joanne, were dead? Too many to count. They wanted to know the truth and now… Christ! Angel? Trapped in one of these concentration camps for people that had done nothing wrong? Why did this fucking government hate them so much?
She stared at the papers, hoping that some insight would come. Pam would have the results of the hard-drives soon enough, and then they might know something else. In all the years she had known Pam, the woman had been able to recover all kinds of things from ruined machines. At least Pam knew this wasn't about the government, the Patriots… it was a personal vendetta. Their friends—their family—torn apart because different was bad. She could list all the reason why not to rid the world of people like them, but no one would listen.
Will someone care?
God, she did care. Too much, according to some people.
The phone rang. Thank God for small favors.
Mimi grabbed the receiver, barking, "Davis!" into it.
"Mimi, it's Pam."
Her entire demeanor changed. Mimi actually wanted to hear what Pam had to say, unlike some of the flunkies around here. Jesus, had she become so incredibly narrow-minded about finding the others that she had forgotten to treat people like people? She hoped not. "Pam, what's going on? Any progress?"
There was a pause. "I can't recover anything logically off these hard-drives." That meant she couldn't repair them using an outside source. "I'm going to have to take them to the clean room."
"How long?"
"Hours, depending on how severe the damage is. Someone wanted to make sure that no one figured out what went on at this place."
"Call me when you've got something."
"Will do."
The call disconnected. Mimi replaced the phone in the cradle. What they needed was a solid hit on who had been running the facility. If they could get someone to tell them either a funding source or a network… she hoped that Pam got some results soon. In the mean time, she wanted more updates from the team at Alkali Lake.
"Who's in charge on site?" she asked Cortland.
"Charlie Gill was on site there when he called with the clearance—he's the one that sent me the case files. I went to school with him—"
"How often is he sending us updates?" Mimi interrupted.
"Every hour."
"Make it every half hour. I want to know the minute they find anything else—mass graves, intact files…" She trailed off. "Hell, we should probably just go out there." She paused. "Then again, we should probably give Gill until tomorrow morning before we micro-manage his investigation."
Cortland nodded in agreement, punching numbers into his cell phone. Mimi listened idly as he talked to Charlie Gill, requesting half hour updates and handing out the various phone numbers where he or Mimi could be reached.
They were so close… and it scared her to death.
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You're terrified because Angel is sick. You know that this isn't an ordinary illness, but this also isn't something that they gave her. Maybe her entire immune system has finally broken down, gotten too weak to deal with the constant viruses. You're amazed that hasn't happened to either of you years ago. This was almost too much assault on your bodies.
You lie on the floor of your cell, your ear next to the mouse hole. You can hear her, coughing. Every so often, a coughing fit turns into a dry heave. There is nothing in her system to come up. You've heard her each time her body rebelled. They'll have to do something—she's thrown up all the food they forced her to eat. She can't even keep water down.
Heart pounding in your ears, you reach through the mouse hole, as far as the stones will let you, hoping to give her some fleeting comfort. You remember when Collins was told to plan her funeral and she was saved from the grip of death. That moment might be soon… you don't want her to die. You can't imagine life here without her. You want her suffering to stop, but you also don't want to be alone. The opposing wants pull at you. Your head feels like its going to explode.
"Maureen?"
Her voice is soft. You almost can't hear her. You brush her fingers with your own, just to reassure her that you are still here and you still care. Shit, what if… what if she thought you didn't care and she stopped talking to you?
"Angel," you breathe, unable to think of something else.
"Think they'll kill me?" Her tone is raw, sardonic.
"No!" That was louder than you intended it to be. Angel can't die! "You can't!" you choke out, voice breaking over sobs. "I can't… I can't…" You haven't cried in a long time, and this flood feels like a refreshing rain, but brings pain to your throat and chest.
"Maureen, shhhh." Her voice is soft, comforting, like she's talking to a child. "We don't know what is going to happen. I don't want to leave you. But I'll always be with you."
It's strange, you think, that she's comforting you. You should be the one coaxing her through this, perhaps talking about what heaven might be like. When you're both well—as well as you can be in this place—you joke and wish for death, but when it comes near… you run away, hands in the air, shrieking. Angel would never do that. She's too calm, serene, sagacious…
"I'm sorry," you whisper.
"It's all right," Angel replies. "We've become an inseparable company now."
That language, that tone… it's so snobby and sophisticated that you laugh. You have nothing. You are nothing. And yet Angel continues to make jokes, be funny… She always was the one you and the others went to for a smile or comforting word.
"What would I do without you?" you ask.
"My gift is my song," Angel begins to warble. "And this one's for you. You can tell everybody, this is your song—" The lyrics break off into a coughing fit. The irony is that Angel actually can sing, you've heard her. She sang when she thought no one was listening. You know that she's trying to cheer you up, but your heart is breaking.
Angel quiets.
"Remember the Life Café?" you ask softly.
"Yeah," Angel replies, the words coming with difficulty.
"Roger used to get those disgusting burgers with onions and mushrooms on them… and he would tell Collins that he was just eating, not barbecuing a kitten."
"I remember." Her voice is distant. "Collins never ate meat."
"I never understood tofu—the stuff looks like curdled milk."
Angel laughs mournfully. You haven't had anything like that in years. The times at the Life Café seem like a hazy past, a dream. You can remember the sharp smell of onions and melted cheese as the waiter brought Roger's food. Spicy meatballs, milkshakes, ice cream, strawberry wine… You once bought Joanne a bottle of strawberry wine, because you wanted some.
Your food here is awful. In fact, that's almost a compliment. Thin gruel most of time, while the rest looks like something that went through the garbage disposal. Food… you wonder what brought on that strange thought. It's not like you're ever going to get something else.
"Maureen, honey," Angel rasps. "If I die, you have to go on."
"Angel, don't say things like that!"
"I want you to hang on. Someone will discover this place. You'll be free."
"No…"
Joanne used to tell you about prisoners that had been 'institutionalized.' They were so used to prison and that way of life, they couldn't cope with the outside world. You wonder if you and Angel are now like that, unable to cope with the outside world. You want that world with all your being—every iota in your body screams for that. You want to taste ice cream again, feel the gentle caress of a lover, walk between Angel and Mimi through Tompkin Square Park, hold hands… Would you be able to survive in the outside world?
"Roger and Mimi and Mark are still out there," she continues. "They'll find you."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Friendship is thicker than blood."
She breaks off into another coughing fit. Those hacks send chills down your spine. Angel won't be able to talk anymore. You want someone to cure her, like someone did years ago. You want her suffering to end. Maybe Collins died too, and they'll be together. She never says much about him, but you can hear that wistful longing in her voice.
"Angel… don't die."
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Mimi walked into their room, dropping her keys on the dresser. The Alkali Lake case was taking much longer than she had expected. How long did it take Pam to dismantle those hard-drives and get the date off them? How long did it take banks to comply with the police? And who the hell in the government was holding things up? What didn't they want someone to know?
She could hear Tommy and Jo in the kitchen, doing their homework. Mark's voice could be heard, probably helping them. He was smarter than he gave himself credit for—most people didn't drop out of Brown with a four point GPA. Mark just couldn't stand the conformity. He preferred to be free with his art and his life. Mimi smiled to herself—he was the exact opposite of Collins, who had come close to getting a Ph.D. In fact, if Collins hadn't been taken, he might have done that. Angel used to say she wanted to call him 'doctor.'
Collins and Angel… on the surface, on odd couple, but underneath, they were perfect for each other. The strange mix of education and free spirit that they had—Collins a college professor, Angel the graduate of a prestigious fashion school, while Collins would stand on street corners and randomly protest, and Angel would drum. They were… something she was incredibly jealous of, until Angel told her that she had to build her own relationship with Roger, not mimic theirs. She and Roger had to come together on ground that was comfortable for them.
"Mimi?"
Roger came into their room, still wearing his clothes from work. His cuffs were unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His tie was loose and the first two buttons on his shirt were undone. She smiled inwardly. Then there was Roger… he dropped out of high school at sixteen to form a band, and barely had his GED. However, he had enough random college courses to hold his current job, as did she. Hell, she and Roger weren't that different. She had run away from home at sixteen to live in New York City, and didn't earn her GED until they joined the Patriots.
"Hey," she breathed. He came behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. She leaned against him, taking comfort in the feel of his hot breath on her neck.
"Any progress?" he mumbled.
"Lots of dead-ends," she replied. "Someone didn't want anyone to know about this."
"That much is obvious." Roger fell silent, pressing a kiss to her neck. "I wonder how long before the lid is blown off this whole thing. They know it can't remain secret."
"Roger," she whispered urgently. "Are they alive?"
"I don't know."
They remained like that for a moment, finding comfort in each other's embrace. Roger had calmed down, grown up. So had she. They all had to. Perhaps, when they were living a bohemian life ten years ago, they needed to grow up, but this forced them to. They had to take on roles and responsibilities people twice their ages could never dream of. Collins once told them that clubbing and barhopping was stupid. Angel had smacked him and told him he was just an old wet towel. Collins had barely turned twenty-six. Angel had been twenty-three. Neither of them had been old.
To hand-crafted beers made in local breweries.
She shifted in Roger's embrace, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You need to shave," she said in an easy, teasing tone. He only shaved every third or fourth day. She knew that—and wondered why the mayor's office hadn't started complaining. Maybe they did and Roger chose to ignore that.
"I know," he replied, absently rubbing a hand over his cheek.
"You know? Why don't you do something about it?"
"Because I don't feel like it."
There—the stubborn oaf that she had fallen in love with so long ago. At first, he was a challenge, something that would be hard to win. She didn't realize until he got mad on New Year's that she loved him. He was…
Roger pressed a tender kiss to her lips. Mimi hung on it, savoring the feel of his soft lips against hers. She could remember the raw passion between them during their first few weeks with the Patriots. They had lost so many people dear to them, that they clung to each other, that intimacy their only reminder of love.
"I love you," he murmured against her lips.
Mimi stepped back. While she never doubted his love, he rarely articulated those words. "What's wrong?" she asked.
He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "I don't know what's coming." He let out another long breath. "For the first time, I don't know, and I just want you to know that, whatever happens, I'm glad we're together."
"You really think we're on the verge of starting a massive uprising?"
"I don't know."
A knock on the door, followed by, "Mimi? Roger?" Mark.
"What?" Roger asked, releasing her completely, and opening the door. Mark was holding a telegram, his hand raised to knock again. Mutely, he held the telegram out to her. Mimi grabbed it, glancing at the addressee. Mark Cohen, Sergeant Mimi Davis.
The contents said so much in so little. Charlie Gill had found something they needed to see at the Alkali Lake facility. He couldn't say what over the phone, so he sent this. He was also requesting a media representative and knew of her close friendship with Mark Cohen.
"What's going on?" Roger demanded, breaking the silent exchange.
Mimi pulled her cell phone from her pocket, hitting the speed dial number for Cortland. She handed Roger the telegram. The emotions on his face went from confused to concerned to pure joy at having something solid to go on.
"Cortland," she said when the younger officer picked up his cell phone. "Pack your bags. We're leaving for Alkali Lake at 0600 tomorrow morning!"
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She had always loved the night, even as a child. There was something magical about the ink black sky, studded with twinkling jewels. The night was hot—the heat had been awful lately, but no worse, she supposed, than her childhood home in California. A breeze attempted to blow tonight, the warm air dried the sweat on her skin, making her shiver. Mimi smiled into the night. She had always believed she truly came to life after dark. God, she hadn't been out to enjoy the night life in a decade, if there even was a night life left, what with all the curfews.
Please take me out tonight!
Bars, clubs, dance halls—it never seemed to matter that she worked in a strip club and, consequently saw clubs all the time. She still loved the atmosphere, so dark, smoky, filled with mystery and forgetting. People came to bars to forget. For just one night, a shy librarian could become the wild dancer, and a bad day could be drowned in booze.
Mimi balanced herself on the window sill, one foot pressed against the opposite side, and the other on the floor for support. Their complex had no fire escapes, not like the ones in her apartment, the one underneath Roger and Mark. God, she would sit on that fire escape for hours, watching people pass by, living their lives, oblivious of their watcher. Night… darkness, mystery, seduction… Her life was so typical now, boring. Years ago, sex for Roger and her had been about passion, pleasure. It turned into a desperate need to be loved, close. In a sense, it was still that. They wanted each other during times of need and turbulent emotions.
She could still seduce him—she knew that. Some of her lingerie from her stripping days had made it to their present life. When she still worked at the Cat Scratch Club, he came to see her sometimes, the passion smoldering in those blue eyes… he looked at her like she was dancing for him and only him. And she was still in good shape—being a cop was different from dancing, but kept the pounds from childbirth and age off. Perhaps she would seduce him tonight. They deserved to have fun in their sex life. Angel would be appalled to learn that sex, for them, wasn't fun.
The door to their room opened and closed.
Turning, she saw Roger taking off his shirt and peeling off his undershirt. They had put the kids to bed a while ago. That was something they did together. Roger was still attractive, despite the long hours of paperwork. Hell, he and Mark ran away from delivery trucks enough.
She stood up. He stopped moving, his eyes following her movements. The room was dark. She was silhouetted in the moonlight. She unbuttoned the shirt she had been wearing—one of Roger's old work shirts—and shrugged it off her shoulders. The black lingerie worked its magic. Roger's expression went from neutral to passionate in less than a second. She moved closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Make love to me," she whispered.
He didn't argue.
He never argued.
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I miss Collins so much that it hurts. Just remembering the times when he took care of me. Our relationship was very much give and take. We took care of each other when one of us was sick. I'm so ill, feverish… common colds, AIDS, none of that compares to this. I want him to be here, mopping my forehead and holding me, telling me that things will be all right.
Another coughing fit seizes me. Missing Collins isn't the only thing that hurts. These fits feel like my entire chest is going to explode. I know that this has got to be pneumonia or tuberculosis or… something. Christ, I have a degree in fashion design. I am a fashion designer and part-time drummer. Collins had a medical book and he looked up diseases in it. I couldn't get past the medical jargon. But I know that this is something affecting my lungs.
The doctors took me to the hospital wing. I don't understand why they can't just let me die. There have got to be new subjects coming in. They did something—it was painful, that's all I remember—that was supposed to relieve my lungs. Maybe I have lung cancer. I did smoke for almost three years. Nowhere near as much as Collins, but still. People get lung cancer from second-hand smoke. The doctors seemed to think I'll get better. I was hooked to an IV for some time.
Maybe they have cures for cancer, pneumonia and tuberculosis.
Fuck, they had a cure for AIDS.
Maureen tells me stories now. We can hear the guards making their rounds. Once the heavy footsteps have faded, she starts talking. The stories range in subject and humor, and I'm amazed that she remembers in such detail. Or maybe she can tell stories well. She always was our drama queen, making things better or worse than they actually were. I don't know how much of what she says is true, but I don't care. I'd rather live a beautiful lie…
Maybe my entire life before this was a lie. People gave me shit all the time. I lived in New York City, where I was supposed to find acceptance. I did, but I also found intense hatred of people who were different. I learned to defend myself, to let their negativity and harsh words roll off me. None of those idiots knew me. I felt more comfortable in heels and skirts than jeans and t-shirts. Everyone knew I felt off because of what I was wearing. I am… I'm…
I'm more of a man than you'll ever be, and more of a woman than you'll ever get.
The duality of man.
I've circled back to that.
I glance to the mouse-hole, where I've hidden my writing. The penmanship looks so cramped and horrible, rather like the life I now live. I think about the first line. I am Angel. Just Angel. That is all anyone ever needs to know. It's true. The middle and last names were only ever added for show. In fact, I think Collins was the only one to ever use them. Angel to my friends and family, Schunard to my co-workers and professors…
"Angel, what if we were to escape?"
I take a ragged breath, the motion hurting my chest. Maureen… what is she talking about? How are we supposed to escape? "What?" I croak. It's been several days since I've been able to make my voice work properly. Properly… hell, I haven't been able to sound unlike a frog in years.
"I mean, if there was some way to get past the guards, what would we do?"
I don't know. My gut instinct is to reply, find Collins, but he's probably in a facility like ours. Shit, he could be in our facility and we wouldn't know it. The chances of Maureen and I finding Collins without outside assistance is laughable. "I would go back to New York," I reply carefully. "Get an apartment somewhere, with a flower box… someplace with lots of light."
Live in my house, I'll be your shelter…
I did have an apartment. It was kind of crappy, third-floor walk-up, but the building was secure, more secure than, say, Mark and Roger's loft. My landlord fixed things, but made no apologies for old plumbing and electricity. There was sunlight, and flowers… Old furniture I reupholstered, murals, clothes, designs on every wall… that had been home.
And all this is assuming that the New York I knew and loved was still intact, even in a remote sense. The gritty, earthy feel… people shouting at each other, people loving each other… Bad beer in seedy night clubs, prostitutes walking the streets, business men running to a meeting… Organic coffee in the Life Café, the fresh smell of new fabric…
"Why are we still alive?" I ask Maureen. "Why didn't they kill us when they had the chance?"
"I don't know."
She doesn't know.
Are we supposed to repent?
One of the coughing fits seizes me. Bring it on, I think. I apologize to no one for being myself. I was true to myself. How about the rest of you?
To be continued…
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Author's Note v. 1.2: Let me make another disclaimer for myself, all I know about the police and their inner workings comes from watching television and the movies. If something is inaccurate or such, feel free to PM me about it. Again, thank you to all who have reviewed! I used to do reviewer responses at the end of each chapter, but since that has been outlawed, I try to respond via the reply link, although, more often than not, I get busy or preoccupied. PM or e-mail me—I do get back to those quickly. POVs have remained the same. And, for those of you that asked, Joanne and our dear friend, Benny, return next chapter. Christmas is just plain weird. What other time of the year do we sit in front of a dead tree in the living room eating candy out of our socks?
