A/N: So I'm back! (obviously) NaNoWriMo went really well, but I'm nowhere near done with my new original, so updates will be delayed b/c of working on two WIPs simultaneous. But I said I wanted to get another chapter for Psych Ops done before December was over – and I made it! And it's a long one! Happy New Year, everyone!
2.8 Where They Went On Sunday
Sutton Bay was the sort of place Merlin thought he would like to live, someday.
Clusters of oak groves and quaint cottages gave way to wide meadows and scattered small businesses. A veterinary clinic, an insurance agency, a hair salon, a daycare… Downtown was slow and easy, the sun warm on the brick and people's thoughts untroubled as they ambled about their errands and passtimes.
He cut his motor to half-speed to trundle through – glass-windowed storefronts with second-story apartments. A music store, a consignment shop, a coffee house, a corner market. There were quite a few people on turf-bikes like his, a little more impatient to finish business, a little father to travel into town… Deliveries.
And beyond, a sprawling marina. One of several, he gathered, at the mouth of the estuary – the crawling blue he saw down the hill toward the horizon, half-hidden behind rolling green, wasn't yet the sea, but shared water, comfortably exchanged and traded back with the tides.
At the top of the hill he found a large casual restaurant with shaded outdoor seating, surrounded by half a dozen vacation cottages, timber and stone and ivy.
He parked the turf-bike next to the fence granting tacit privacy to the outdoor terrace and removed his helmet to lean his face into the sun, willing the rays to ease the vibrating soreness of his muscles after a second day spent riding the machine. Couldn't do a thing about the ache on the inside, though… He inhaled the homey smell of hot grease and beef, teased by the subtler wildness of brine on the shifting breezes, and absorbed the murmur of lunch-crowd bustle.
If only he could stay here. If only he could disappear into obscurity in a place as idyllic as this…
But he was torn, even now, between the twin senses of responsibility and emotion – that which drew him back to Essetir, and that which pursued him. Relentlessly, he thought, though would that change at the border? He hoped so – he was rather betting on it…
Noon, and his appetite betrayed him, stomach pinching and rumbling a demand for sustenance, reminded by the delicious scents wafting forth when a server opened the door between the restaurant and the terrace. There weren't many people enjoying a plain-air meal, maybe for the heat of the sun overhead – lunch would be indoors, crowding up to the bar, and dinner, later in the evening, would be relaxed and outdoors.
Vacationers, hobbyists, sportsmen…
He listened with his eyes closed, mentally ambling down a sidewalk that looked more like downtown Sutton Bay than a neighborhood. Each home – representing the people nearby – was light and airy, windows open and voices trailing through delicate bamboo shutters.
…Get out there and really open her up…
…Means the waves won't be too choppy today or tomorrow, and the current will…
Tonight we can settle in…
Did we bring enough bait… or beer… or sunscreen…
It'll take another three days to navigate north along the coast around Nighthead, but as long as it doesn't storm – and that's not been forecast – we can be back to Stacy's by next weekend…
Merlin opened his eyes and squinted about – that last one sounded promising.
An older couple sat at a small café table, aluminum seats with colorful cushions adjacent rather than across from each other. He was heavyset with short salt-and-pepper hair and beard-scruff and laugh-wrinkles on a ruddy face. Her hair was colored youthful-dark and cut stylishly, but windblown, and she was dressed as he was in cotton and denim and rubber soles for boating, a large floppy straw hat next to his ballcap on an unused section of tabletop. They bent close over a map between teacups, and she nodded, listening to him.
Merlin dismounted the turf-bike, trying to stretch without drawing attention to the stiffness of his movements, and secured the key in the seat-back storage compartment. He scuffed a little in the gravel along the fence separating the road from the restaurant terrace, and only vague general notice was taken of him before the seated clientele turned attention back to their own concerns.
The boater seemed quite adept at translating the map into bathymetric terms. The woman anticipated waves and coastal scenery, the movement of the boat her husband would handle expertly, and his happiness made her happy, even if she didn't understand the technical side of navigation or boating equipment.
He smiled involuntarily around the pang of his heart – then focused on approaching the man's mental house. Up the front porch, over to the window, scan the interior…
There. The Newsy Queue – he was an editor? – a good-sized yacht with a second-deck wheelhouse and a turquoise stripe circling the sleek hull. Docked at the end of quay thirty-five.
"This isn't actually a parking place for your turf-bike, sir," someone said to him.
Merlin was startled into looking around – a waitress, short and trim, with wide dark eyes and full plum lips. Tight-fitting red t-shirt, and one eyebrow quirked as she tipped bouncy black curls toward the turf-bike he'd abandoned, helmet on the saddle-seat.
Momentarily he checked his back-trail – and yes, the contained fury chasing him was still mobile. Undiverted. Still several hours behind, though.
"My friend is going to be here in a while," he told the girl. "It's his bike, I borrowed it. He'll be glad to have it back." Over her noise of skepticism, he added, "Could you give me directions to the train station, then? Going to take a trip down the coast – I love the scenery."
"Most do," she said cheerfully, conceding the point of the turf-bike. "But you've gone a ways past the station – you've got to head back into town, then take a right on the Fish-Market road. All the way to the end, then left – you'll see the tracks, you can follow them to the station from there."
"Thanks," Merlin said, moving leisurely away from the terrace. Even with his back to it, he was aware of her focus returning to her work – the Newsy Queue's couple ordered cheesecake from her, and no one noticed Merlin turn his steps down the gravel path to the docks below.
There was a harbormaster's hut with an open-counter front, but no mandatory ID check to venture onto the docks themselves, the main walkway anchored with pilings or the smaller structures let float to the sides, bumping and clicking at the chains linking them in an organized maze with every rise and fall of the waves.
Children threw stale popcorn from paper bags and dark enormous fish – he didn't know what kind, but they seemed to have whiskers – slid over and around each other in the water below, toothless mouths gaping to swallow the tiny floating bits. Carp, thought one young father, flushed with the sun's reflection from the water, obligingly holding the day's shopping while his family threw more money into the water for fat, tame… carp.
"Look, momma, the big one got that bite!"
And the slender curly-haired momma kept her hand fisted around the tail of the enthusiastic youngster's t-shirt. "Yep… did you run out yet?"
"Not yet!" Another handful flung inartistically.
Merlin's second-hand military boots felt odd on the perpetually-damp wood of the dock, though no one seemed to notice inappropriate attire. He kept his eyes away from meeting anyone else's, focused on the distance and strode purposefully, unhesitatingly choosing his turns from another man's memory.
Down to the end, there on the left. He slowed, aware that he could be seen from a considerable distance even by folks who weren't particularly watching, and had no reason to care about what they'd seen, unless he made himself memorable with unusual behavior. The dock shifted under his feet and it was an oddly unpredictable sensation. There were occasional ladders for hapless folks who might lose their balance from the dock-ways, but he was a double-stone's-throw from the shore, now.
News editor and his wife still eating cheesecake and focused on their map.
A thigh-high wall enclosed the Queue's deck, but on the rear there was an aluminum ladder for swimmers to mount a pace-wide platform over the motor-propellers. No locks on a gate that could be stepped over, just a latch to secure it in place against the boat's movement.
Main cabin with generous windows – beyond that an open forward deck. Ladder-stairs up the wall to the second-story wheelhouse – probably an amazing view – captain's chair and control panel and maybe room for a visitor or two.
Merlin waited, senses extended and alert to just the right moment – awareness stretching all the way to the restaurant, and… there.
He took the step to the back ledge – the boat's movement far looser and more careless of his balance than the dock under his boots – over the wall and around the side of the main cabin, out of sight.
Except from the water-side of the harbor, of course, and there were boats puttering in and motoring out, though none close enough to enable recognition of anyone aboard after the fact. He moved confidently – slowly, to keep his feet and not tumble down or over, to the door of the main cabin. Just a latch, no lock.
Inside, it smelled more of sand and sunshine and salt than fish-and-salt. There was a little kitchen nook – galley, did they call it? – with bar stools clamped to the floor. Maybe they swiveled… And a large horseshoe-shaped couch, probably similarly secured, with a table in the middle. Two coffee mugs waited beside the tiny sink in the galley, tapered out to a heavy-looking base; the fruit bowl on the counter was similarly fashioned and Merlin was fascinated with the details of practical life at sea – logical, but hitherto unimagined.
And there – a railing protecting a steep stair downwards.
Merlin lurched his way past the galley, grabbing the banana that made the arrangement look lopsided, and through the living room – what did you call a living room on a boat? Another gate protected the stairway, but the latch was intuitive and the passage narrow enough for him to brace himself on the wall paneling, going down to the belly of the craft. The toes of his boots hung over each step, and the rocking was unnerving when it felt like it could slide out from under him, and he worried about smashing the banana between his palm and the wall.
Then he was down to the lower level, and there was a short passage leading toward the rear of the boat – what was the term again? because stern was the front, right? Two closed doors, and at the end a third opened into a sort of floor-latch to keep it in place, not swinging back and forth as the boat rose and fell on the water. Through the doorway he could see a massive bed with covers tucked in, the frame rising higher than the mattress – to keep anyone from rolling out, he thought. Instead of a headboard there were built-in cabinets and drawers in a warm, light wood, and he was happy for the editor and his wife in a wistful sort of way.
But that was not the place for him.
Instead he tried the other two doors, noticing the slap and swish of water on the exterior of the hull, the distant squeal of seabirds and the flexible shadows rhythmically exploring the walls.
The middle door opened into a tiny guest-bunk with literal bunks, and a second door leading – he assumed – into lavatory facilities shared with the master bedroom. But the first door at the bottom of the stair hid a dark little locker, mostly storage bins with enough space to turn around in and a padded bench atop more cabinets. Coiled ropes latched into place and oblong flotation-bumpers hung from hooks on the wall and natural light from a single round porthole-window above the padded bench.
Merlin checked behind the door – all very narrow, and low, and light – and thought he could squeeze back there if he was so unlucky that Mr. Editor or his wife had occasional to seek something in this room. Otherwise, at least he'd know when they were coming. And the editor was efficiently organized, mentally, he'd know just about exactly where they were on the coast as they traveled north.
A kilometer or five from Ghrimery in either direction wouldn't matter much. And if Mrs. Editor spent time in the wheelhouse as they traveled – did one say sailed if there weren't actually sails? – he could raid the pantry in the galley this afternoon.
Merlin latched the door again, not minding the salty-musty smell of the locker in the least, and curled up on the padded bench to wolf down the banana and rest his weary-achy bones and muscles. No sleep, no rest, and nothing to eat since last night's pizza and vodka.
But choices had been made that felt right, even if his life was much more complicated and uncertain now because of them, and that settled his conscience in a way he hadn't felt in months. He set the peel aside to toss overboard later – biodegradable – and closed his eyes, focusing on relaxing and stretching out.
Arthur was yet hours away. Nimueh unsuspecting. Gwen… ignorant yet and trusting.
As for those he was headed towards in Essetir…
Cradled between the padding of the bench and the curve of the hull, rocked by the water reacting rhythmlessly to the near passage of other vessels, Merlin surrendered to slumber.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Gwen's briefing was brief, the Old Man blunt and obscure.
Here are your orders, don't open them until you reach point A in Fuller's Edge.
Yes, sir. Load up and move out.
At least Gwen's unit were all Psych Ops ground-pounders; they wouldn't question or wonder or worry over any… unusualness. Unusual was their routine.
Rumble-rumbling along in the transport truck, Gwen wondered. That was her job, and Gaius should expect no less. She fingered the flap of the manilla envelope, and Cartwright shifted on the bench next to her, boots braced on the floor for the turn, eyeing her hands on the thick paper. Maybe he wondered about her.
Why not Pendragon? Had Gaius figured her out, or had he only picked up on her resistance to their relationship developing? In that case, why not Pendragon instead of her, leading the mission? Was it only proximity, and since Gwen hadn't left for her weekend yet and Pendragon had, she was called up?
Fuller's Edge, and with cloaked orders. The only reason for which was to keep from knowing, before they were in position, which meant… a psychic was their target. Someone who could read or sense or anticipate their coming. She wondered if this was connected to their information from Urhavi – but then, wouldn't it make more sense to send someone who wasn't her or Pendragon?
She eyed Cartwright back, hairy arm muscles below the casually-shoved sleeve cuffs, hands and fingers expertly checking and securing his weapon. No holsters, probably he'd tuck it behind his belt and flip his shirttail down to cover it til needed. Hers was under her elbow, hidden under a light canvas jacket – but all of them wore body armor hidden beneath street clothes.
Armored and armed. Meant they weren't following rumors of a possible psychic, to discover and question amiably, if closely. Dangerous psychic meant known psychic…
Mentally she flipped through their most-wanted files. Folks like that kept an extremely-low profile. Below-ground profile… rarely glimpsed, even from afar in an accidental photo or recording.
Except, now they had Merlin? She didn't think Edwin Muirden had ever volunteered insight when he wasn't asked, but would Merlin know or recognize or sense another psychic with inimical intent? What was his range for something like that – all the way into town? Or maybe he'd picked up on something from their infrequent trips to the Sunrise?
She braced her own boots so as not to slide into Cartwright as the transport truck took a tight turn, and the brakes squealed a soft warning of their arrival at Point A. She was closest to the rear exit, so she stood, pushing the back-flap up and tossing the slack over the canvas roof of the truck.
"Let's go," she told the troop, shortly and unnecessarily, swinging her leg over the tail-gate without bothering to unlatch and lower it. Step on the bumper, hop to the ground.
The sky was clear at high noon, and it would get warmer by a few degrees this afternoon. Still, the various civilian jackets and shirttails covering their handguns weren't immediately obvious. The transport gathered attention, though, and maybe their black uniforms rather than denim and khaki and plaid would have actually drawn less attention.
"They paying us overtime for a Sunday?"
She thought that was Fletcher, flirting mildly with McKenzie.
"Man, they own us. That's what military means. Twenty-four-seven," was McKenzie's response.
Gwen let them mutter while she unsealed the envelope, and – surprise, surprise, found a handful of smaller letter-envelopes. Were they double- or triple-blind now?
The envelopes were blank, and she handed them out without paying much attention. Fletcher flapped his to look on both sides for the missing instructions; Gwen's was the only one with a name, and an attached order-sheet.
"We're after a suspected murderer with mild psychic abilities," she said aloud to the soldiers clustering around her at the rear of the idling truck. "Mind-reading, pre-cog. Pair up, cover all possible exits of the flat complex – no one in or out. At-" she checked her time-keeper – "two-forty. Open the envelope, it has the photo of the suspect. That will give me time to get into position at the flat itself…" Briefly she wondered if the psychic was physically dangerous, else why the body-armor? "And at that point, one of each pair needs to move forward to meet me in lobby to keep searching, if the suspect isn't found at the address. Let's go – move out on me."
Gwen started out at a steady quick-pace, striding but not yet jogging. North on the Avenue to Main, then left.
They moved through the foot traffic in casual pairs, catching only peripheral attention from people out to enjoy a nice-weather weekend day. Gwen signaled surreptitiously, raising her outer arm as if to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, and half her troop peeled off to the other side of the street.
West on Main to the Boulevard, the Park, the flat complex. Moving faster now, as a psychic would probably catch a hint of them coming – just not in enough time to slip their net.
Another signal, more obvious, and pairs split up – to the back, to the side, to the roof, inside and down.
Momentarily she thought of Merlin, surrounded by black-clad Essetirian soldiers, ditching them to show up at the bed-and-breakfast, fidgeting uncertainly behind Arthur, whose blue eyes were determined and set as his unshaven jaw.
"Thompson," Cartwright said from her right elbow.
The pairs weren't in place yet, the expectation of bottling up the building not fully in effect – but the glass front door opened and a girl in a ponytail bounced out. Track pants and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, eye-catching running shoes in magenta and lime.
"Should we-" he suggested dubiously.
From across the street, loitering inconspicuously at a corner, she and Cartwright watched the girl check her time-keeper and stretch briefly as she glanced about for traffic. Gwen's instincts focused – if the girl had spotted them, took off into a gap in their cover, in the opposite direction, that meant that she…
The girl bounced into an easy jog, crossing the street halfway up from them, then headed right toward the corner, settling into a sustainable pace, cheerfully focused on her exercise.
Cartwright exhaled his tension, focused again on the front door of the flat complex. Moments only til they moved, blocked exits – and Gwen could open the last envelope, see the floor and room number, see the photo reprint of their target.
The jogger dodged smoothly toward them, ponytail bobbing – "S'cuse me-" breathlessly, "S'cuse me…"
Gwen inadvertently shifted to clear her way, but-
The curve of her pale, naked lip. The flash of an unlined eye. Totally different from bar-night makeup and… braids. Not a girl – the woman Merlin had walked out with to the alley behind the Sunrise. And had returned minus the sweatshirt Arthur had given him – the sweatshirt the jogger was wearing.
The moment the memory linked in Gwen's brain, the girl's eyes linked with hers.
Not a girl. A woman, anywhere between twenty-two and forty-two, impossible to guess, young-looking but experienced-confident, and – Gwen didn't believe in coincidences. If she was wrong, she could apologize.
She stepped right in the jogger's way, palm out to stop her. "CPO!" she shouted. "Stop! Camelot Psych Ops-"
Other pedestrians gasped, tried to step back or hurry forward.
Cartwright reacted more slowly, confused by her choice – and the others, out of sight, would converge on the flat complex on schedule.
The jogger braced herself to stop, expression old and hard and calculating – then spun to dart back the way she'd come.
Gwen wasn't wearing flexible-supportive running shoes. But she had passed her last road-test in full gear with twenty seconds improvement on her best time. From a dead standstill Gwen sprang forward.
"CPO! Stop right there!"
Warning enough. Maybe the psychic could tell which way folks were going to leap but when it was all happening too fast for anyone to think about it – she dug deep and gained two paces, enough to fling herself forward at the jogger's back.
Not a tackle, like a sportsman might do on a grassy field. Gwen hit the jogger – the runner – squarely in the back with her shoulder, rolling to avoid kicking heels, bruising joints on the paved walkway, and was back up before the other woman caught her breath or squinted her eyes open again.
"Camelot Psychological Operations, military authority," Gwen informed her around several swallows of air, forcing her to turn over.
The woman's hands shook. Her palms were bloodied and scraped, the track pants were torn open - and there was the barbeque stain on the corner of the pouch-pocket on the front of the sweatshirt, below the block letters CNU, from a spill that very night, months ago.
"I don't believe this is yours," Gwen said, flicking a fold of the sweatshirt as she dug a plastic restraint from her pocket. "We're going to need it back, in a few… Give me your hands."
"What's going on?" the woman shrieked out. "Omigosh, who are you? What are you doing – what do you want? Please, you can have my money, just don't hurt me? Help, someone – call for city security!"
"Thompson, what the hell?" At least Cartwright had the presence of mind to flash ID at the gawkers shuffling around them. "CPO. This is an official investigation. Move along – give us some room. Thompson?"
"Please help me!" The black-haired woman sobbed and quivered beneath Gwen, effectively resisting having her wrists restrained for the zippered plastic tie. "She just – attacked me! Knocked me over!"
"Give me your hand," Gwen growled, grinding her knee into the woman's spine as she reached – eliciting another squirm and howl, though the flailing did the woman no good. "You can stop pretending – you're being placed under arrest."
"For murder?" the woman squawked. "Me?"
And how'd she know that if she wasn't their psychic, Gwen noted sardonically.
"Thompson," Cartwright said, crouching just beyond the woman's reach. "The flat complex – our target…"
"Open your envelope and take a look." Gwen positioned the plastic tie, looped it around the woman's fluttering hands, and tightened it with satisfaction at the high-pitched zinging sound.
Rocking back over a bruise on her knee she winced, but pushed to her feet over the woman. Cartwright cooperatively ripped his envelope open, sharing with her the view of the grainy reproduced photo – but slanted her a skeptical glance instead of nodding in decisive agreement.
"Fine," Gwen sighed. "Help me get her up and take a better look before you decide I'm wrong." She bent for the woman's left arm and Cartwright took hold of her right, lifting her upper body high enough that her weight could rest gingerly on her scraped knees.
The woman managed ugly tears, complete with a drippy nose. "I'm not a murderer, I'm not," she quavered. "You've made a mistake. I'm not-"
"ID in your sweatshirt pocket?" Gwen inquired, feeling maliciously cheerful. "What do you want to bet the name and address on the sheet in my envelope matches your ID?"
"I don't bring my ID when I jog, I just go around the park – please," the woman begged, squirming back on her knees like she was considering jumping up and running, even with her hands tied behind her back. Or maybe she could slip her legs through the gap so they were bound in front of her; Gwen knew some who could do that.
She shifted to block two of the most obvious escape routes, and the woman paused, eyeing her.
Cartwright was still comparing the photo to the kneeling woman. "I don't know…"
"I'm calling it," Gwen said. It was her op, anyway. If she screwed it up, Gaius could station her permanently at Camp George – but she hadn't, so no worries.
They were still in view of the flat complex's front doors, and one of her team stood on the top step, watching – probably Fletcher, judging by the build; short legs and wide waist meant he was always dragging his trouser cuffs. She sent him a shrill whistle and a series of signals. He gave an exaggerated nod and yanked open the door to relay the message to the other troops, unseen within. Then he let the door shut and loped toward them, across the road and through the crowd the woman was still petitioning.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what's going on, but they've made a mistake – they can't just knock a person over, won't anyone help me stop them, they can't do this, they don't have the authority-"
"Is this our suspect?" Fletcher demanded, trotting up.
"What do you think?" Cartwright said, offering the photo for Fletcher's judgment, unwilling to commit to an opinion.
"Keep her here," Gwen ordered them both sternly, then turned to the street-corner comm-box. She trained one ear on the tenor of the crowd in case of trouble and tucked the block up to the other, waiting a few moments through a pair of forward-connections.
"Gaius," he answered her call immediately and tersely.
"This is Thompson, sir," she said. "We've got her, but there's a bit of a situation – do you want us to march her to the transport location, or-"
"You're ten minutes from transportation?" he guessed, having planned these details himself. "I'm slightly closer – I'll take custody."
Gwen twisted a bit more, enough to see the woman clearly as she spoke – on her knees and begging Cartwright and Fletcher both, importuning the uncertain crowd. "She's not a murderer, is she, Gaius?" she said deliberately, and watched the woman's head tilt just enough for her to be able to see Gwen also from the corner of her eye. "Is she Essetirian? Coming after Merlin?"
The click of disconnection echoed in her ear; the corner of a sneer showed on the woman's face.
Maybe this was why Gaius put Gwen on it. Her, and not Pendragon.
The sneer widened, and Gwen smirked, replacing the comm-block. You've a helluva range, she thought, returning to her captive and her men – Cartwright still holding the photo and Fletcher waiting unflappably for further orders. But we're better.
"Fletcher, take this." She passed her envelope to him. "Check the specified flat for this woman's missing ID – once you've confirmed her identity, send half our team to me, and keep half searching the flat for further evidence."
"Will do," he agreed shortly, loping off again.
"Please can't I get up," the woman pleaded with Cartwright. "This is humiliating – you'll see it was a mistake, and then you'll wish… if you had a mother or a sister-"
Gwen was watching for it. Psychic, after all, and this one seemed far more like Edwin Muirden than Merlin – or Gaius. Manipulative, borderline-creepy – not helpful, not logical-professional.
Cartwright reached to help her to her feet, bashful and gentlemanly because he did indeed have both mother and sister – her unexpected lurch knocked him sprawling off the curb, right into the path of a passing turf-bike. The turf-bike slewed and went down, scattering bystanders with screeches of alarm; the woman balanced her weight and turned-
Right into the eye of Gwen's sidearm.
"Oops," Gwen said sarcastically, as Cartwright rolled to his feet and refocused on them with a completely different mood. "Just lost your balance? Ever so sorry? Happy to cooperate with investigation? Get back on your knees."
Those who'd gathered and lingered to watch were uncertain now, not sympathetic – shocked and cowed by the near-miss accident and the appearance of the weapon, but Gwen handled it with professional care. Secure the suspect, reassure bystanders, who were themselves helping the turf-bike rider to her feet, effectively protected by the gear she was wearing.
"He hates you, you know," the woman spat venomously. "There's nothing he sees in you but convenience – a dull mouse like you. Sure, when you're right there where he sleeps, beyond civilization, but here the women line up willingly to share his nights, why would he ever look twice at you?"
It took Gwen half a second to realize who the woman referred to, and then she laughed right in her face at the attempt to unsettle her. "For a psychic you're pretty slow, aren't you?" she said. What she and Pendragon had shared – whether they kept it or continued it or treasured it or ignored it, in future – was inexplicable to someone like this. "And the last guy you lured into the alley behind a bar…"
She slowed, the spark of recognition and the impossibility of coincidence cooling to… there were connections. But what were they exactly?
If she'd meant to assassinate Merlin, like they'd anticipated was a possibility, then why not… months ago… then what was…
"He said he wasn't any good at this," the woman observed – her turn to be cheerfully malicious, as premonitions flip-flopped unpleasantly in Gwen's gut. "But, wow. I can't take you in for a minute, but he played you successfully for months."
Gwen's thumb rubbed the safety on the side of her weapon, and she took half a step back. Cartwright was pushing the crowd for more space, glancing murderously back at their captive – he wouldn't be fooled again, she believed. But…
He, Merlin?
Not this woman's target, but… contact?
Impossible.
Yet she couldn't laugh this one off…
The woman smirked, and didn't need a single smear of makeup to look confident and formidable, to make Gwen feel sweaty and thick-heavy in her body armor.
"You trusted him," she hissed, and Gwen couldn't look away from her electric-blue eyes, even as she noted the arrival of another transport truck on the street just paces away, slowing for the foot traffic and squealing to a stop – all the trucks needed oil for their brakes, evidently. "You took him in, and told him things, and showed him things…"
Doors opened – Gaius descended, with troops in regular uniform. He gave his own orders in a series of succinct gestures, and they approached to take custody. The Director caught sight of her – her unholstered sidearm – and his singly-lifted eyebrow was also an order.
Gwen wordlessly surrendered the female psychic to Gaius' troops and joined the Old Man in the street next to the waist-high tire of the transport truck.
"What did she say?" Gaius demanded without preamble. And wasn't that an answer in itself, if he was worried about the psychic being able to rattle her?
"How did we find out about her?" That would answer more.
He considered. And they watched Psych Ops troops lift and escort the woman to the back of the transport. She arched an eyebrow at Gwen and mouthed, Don't trust him… before she was hustled up into the back of the truck.
"Merlin informed Arthur about her identity and purpose," Gaius said only. "Essetirian scout, undercover, relaying information back to her handlers."
Don't trust him. Had the woman meant Merlin – or Gaius? Who only told them need-to-know information on a need-to-know basis, but had proven himself capable and dependable for years. They might've lost this woman this morning if she'd sensed more specifically correct information from Gwen's mind any sooner…
Or Merlin. Who wore his heart on his sleeve, and was still struggling to learn how to be a free person in the world – much less in Camelot, much less a psychic person, free in Camelot…
Merlin informed Arthur.
Contact, not target.
"Under what circumstances did Merlin inform Arthur?" Gwen demanded, beginning to feel alarmed. If Merlin felt pressure from the country he'd escaped, was that information voluntarily offered, or unintentionally discovered – and then there was the question of Arthur's reaction. She was just starting to understand his reactions, personally observed or second-hand-rumored. "Where are they?"
Sequestered at battalion? Under guard – under arrest?
"Merlin bolted," Gaius said bluntly. "Pendragon is in pursuit. I rather expect a comm-block contact with him quite soon."
Well. Dammit. Never mind to the train tickets and the vacation.
"I'm with you, then," Gwen said determinedly, sliding her weapon back into place under her elbow, beneath her jacket. "Til we hear from them."
"What about-" Gaius gestured to indicate the street, the crowd, the flat complex where the woman had lived.
"Fletcher's searching the flat. Cartwright can handle the rest." Gwen had never presumed so far on the Old Man's goodwill, to be allowed to give her own preferences priority over obedience to his orders.
Gaius considered again, but not for long. "Get in, then."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Two choices. Sutton Bay, and two choices, and Arthur couldn't afford the time wasted to be wrong with his first choice.
He'd pushed the turf-bike as much as he'd dared, over the roads, and had a few close calls with hand-carts and farm dogs, and had bloodied tears in the sides of his jacket sleeve and his jeans – elbow and knee. Scratches in the paint job on the turf-bike, too. And more than once his t-shirt had stuck to blood or sweat down his back, only to crack-and-sting away from whatever was beneath. His whole body grumbled rebelliously to be allowed to stand down from this self-imposed mission and heal.
So. Rail station, or marina?
Arthur eased off the accelerator, slowing for the town-streets before he had to make the turn for the station. The psychic had tried to shrug him off on the rail-lines earlier that morning, with the neighbor at the cross-street. And if he meant to cross the border by rail, that would have been his best bet, to choose a random station and Arthur would have to guess lucky to catch up with him, in spite of the possible border guards posted by Gaius, calling the warning ahead.
East at the crossroads indicated the marina as most intuitive destination.
Except he could probably tell that Arthur was following. What was his range? they all said, and no one really answered. With a photo of Lancelot's night-flyer he could access the pilot's last moments from thirty kilometers distance. With the pieces of the explosives, he could go on for hours in minute detail, and not repeat himself. Did he even need Arthur's turf-bike? Could he have pocketed some object or other from the house that could connect him to Arthur instantly?
Figure on it. So he'd know Arthur was following, and he might also know the logical differences in choosing rails over waves. Waves over rails.
Arthur cut back even further on his speed, bumping over cobblestones, avoiding other riders on the streets, pedestrians and weekenders, under the shopfront awnings, loitering in sidewalk cafes. The sky was clear, the air moving coolly, snapping decorative and informational pennants, bobbing blossoms in wooden tubs on the curb-corners. It smelled of the sea, faintly.
They'd discussed an escape by rail, and then commandeered the skid-carts to go cross-country and over mountains.
There would be records at the station, names of ticket-purchasers. A psychic could easily procure an ID stolen from someone who looked similar enough to pass for. It might take a little time… Arthur would have to check the rail records against any stolen property reports at the local constabulary – if the person realized it was missing. And stolen, rather than simply misplaced…
But what would the psychic have done at the marina?
Arthur squeezed the accelerator slightly, motoring more deliberately down the street to the last place on the hill – restaurant, gift-shop, outdoor seating.
And there, for hell's sake, waited his missing turf-bike, parked at an angle and leaning insouciantly on its stick-stand, helmet resting on the seat.
Arthur immediately straightened on the saddle of his own machine even as he rolled closer. Searching the faces, the crowd, to the distances – as though the psychic would show himself, purposefully or unintentionally. As though the psychic was still in Sutton Bay.
No detail caught his eye at all, and he parked and cut his own motor just next to the other turf-bike, eyeing it. Reddish dust from that secondary road he'd taken north of Fennville, after pretending to the corner-neighbor that he was going straight on towards the rail-stations – then taking the turn that led them here.
Seat-compartment unlocked, key tilted composedly in the bottom of it. No scratches indicating rough travel or sudden spills.
"What's your interest in that turf-bike there?" a girl's voice said.
He looked up for a closer scrutiny of the waitress his subconscious had noted loitering on the inside of the privacy-fence of the restaurant's terrace. Tight red t-shirt, full purple-red lips curling coyly, black curls tipped just so. Serving platter empty and negligently propped on one hip.
She'd seen the psychic, maybe. But also maybe, she'd been set and left for Arthur like the neighbor. Distract, deflect…
"It belongs to me," Arthur stated, removing his helmet and dismounting at once. "It was stolen from my family this morning." His tone – confidently insulted and outraged – jarred her from whatever assumptions she'd made or believed from what she'd been told, just as he'd done with the neighbor.
"Stolen," she repeated uncertainly. "Well – he said…" She thought a moment, re-thought what she remembered, and frowned slightly. "Said it belonged to his friend, and you'd be glad to have it back."
Damn him.
Arthur gritted his teeth, letting the reactive emotion roll through him without showing it to her. That word – the cheek of using that word – at a time like this. He was taunting Arthur, damn him. Friend.
"If he's your friend and he left it for you to find, are you sure he stole-" she began.
"What else did he say?" Arthur didn't let her finish.
"He…" She eyed him. "Asked for directions to the rail station. Said he was going to take a trip down the coast. For the… scenery?"
Rail station. And down the coast implied south.
Cheeky bastard.
"When?" he said patiently, glancing over his shoulder to gauge the angle of the sun, dropping closer to the horizon than the apex of the sky.
"Just before noon," she answered immediately, confident of the accuracy of her information.
"Does your place have a public comm-block?" he asked, gesturing at the building behind her.
"Sure." She was back on more solid footing, back to comfortably professional service, answering customer questions. "Right through the front door, there's a hall to your left for the washrooms."
"Thanks," he told her, and she turned away to check on the few late-afternoon-drinks, early-dinner customers seated on the terrace.
He removed the elastic cargo-webbing holding his rucksack behind the saddle-seat, and shouldered it, careful of the tender spots on the back of his shoulder and behind his hip. Shrugging against the uncomfortable weight, he rounded the privacy fence and crunched his boots through the gravel walk to the front door. Weathered oak, and a bell jangled as he opened it, catching the attention of the hostess folding napkins and tableware into a plastic bin behind her station. The place smelled of marinara and french fries.
"Hi! Welcome to-"
"Just looking to use your comm-block." He pointed, and she subsided with a nod and a smile.
He cradled the block between his shoulder and his ear, punching in the battalion number and hoping the Director was there…
"Gaius," the Old Man said shortly, informing him that his hopes were answered as well as his connection.
"Pendragon," he returned the favor. "I've tracked him to Sutton Bay, but I'm still hours behind him. I don't think he's here anymore - I believe he's taking the water route to Essetir, so if you could have Oldham send someone for the turf-bikes…"
"You intend to follow him, then? Four hours by sea means he's in Essetirian waters by now, you know what you're-"
"I know what I'm risking, crossing over," Arthur said shortly, because they were wasting time. "As long as I can get to him before he reaches Fort Araun…"
"You cannot risk yourself in this endeavor," Gaius told him sternly. "If you were to be captured-"
I have to. And, I won't be.
"I know," Arthur said. But if he didn't, the sheer volume of information the traitor could give their enemies would be… catastrophic. And he hadn't even started thinking about the fallout for Camelot's operations, or the reputations and careers of the individuals who'd been involved with the psychic of Essetir. "I'll be in touch."
"We have his contact in custody," Gaius said, imparting information succinctly, not arguing further. "No sign she was able to alert her handlers before her arrest. We believe she was confident in her ability to bluff her way out of capture and maintain her cover."
Arthur felt a grim smile of satisfaction pull at his mouth. "Thompson?" he guessed. "Well done. You can tell her I said that."
And she'd bought him a few more hours, too, if no one at Araun anticipated their psychic's return or alerted to the need to protect him into custody based on his contact's warning of discovery. And if the psychic was too busy escaping and evading Arthur, maybe he hadn't had a chance to call ahead for an escort, himself. Maybe he wouldn't get the chance…
"Gotta go," Arthur concluded.
"Be careful."
He disconnected and returned to the hostess. "Any way I can get you to hold on to my turf-bike keys til someone comes to pick them up?"
"Um?" She was disconcerted, but only for a moment. "I think I've got an envelope here, you can seal them in…" She rummaged beneath the hostess stand for a moment, then offered a long white envelope with the restaurant's logo in place of a return address.
"Thanks." He dropped the keys in, folded the envelope instead of licking it sealed, then leaned over the stand to appropriate her pen for a moment. Property of CPO – that should be sufficient to keep the curious at bay.
"CPO?" the hostess said, surprise turning toward awe.
"Your country thanks you," he said in retreat, the sarcasm self-deprecating and friendly, and she grinned as the door-jangler signaled his exit.
Striding down the gravel path to the marina, he visually scanned the craft docked, departing, arriving. Some with sails and a supplemental motor, some for day-trippers, with seating and shade, yachts and party-boats, fishing and racing.
He headed for the harbor-master's hut, the customer counter open to the breeze and papered with maps. North along the coast meant arcing around Nighthead and passing the mouth of the Humboldt – the unofficial demarcation of the border here at the coast, the way the White Mountains were, inland. Say a hundred-twenty, twenty-five kilometers, then another eighty or so of Essetirian coastline. Three ports, and maybe twice as many smaller marinas like this one – that he was aware of, anyway.
But there were only three towns further inland where roads and tracks from the coast merged, heading to the bottleneck of Fort Araun. Arthur didn't actually have to follow the psychic's trail exactly, only catch up to him at or before the bottleneck, or be there before him…
Though he probably had the advantage of the awareness of Arthur's direction and proximity…
Damn him.
"Help you?" said the harbor-master, comfortably rotund in worn khaki and sandals, floppy hat decorated with a pair of fishhooks not quite shading a weathered complexion. He lounged in the doorway between his enclosed office and the front counter, eyeing Arthur's nondescript attire – maybe that bloodied tear at his elbow – until Arthur fished his official ID from his pack.
"CPO," Arthur told him, unnecessarily. "I need to see your records for any craft rented today."
"Can't show you without a court order," the harbor-master said, apologetically but correctly.
"Just verbal confirmation, then?" Arthur said. It was a good-enough secondary request, and the man more likely to cooperate after the denial. "I'm after a young man by himself – tall and thin, black-haired, he probably gave the name-"
The harbor-master was already shaking his head decisively. "Nope. Nothing like that."
"Okay… What about departures since noon, heading north to or through Essetirian waters?"
The harbor-master moved forward to a ledger on the desk below the chest-high counter. "Yeah, we've had several of those."
"General description?" Arthur suggested, with a gesture meant to encourage and hurry the man.
The harbor-master narrowed his eyes. "You think your man stowed away, or hijacked a vessel from my marina?"
Not violently, no. But he was psychic, damn him, so… "Yeah, maybe."
The old man grimaced, scowling. "Well, I've got four fisherman on a Hutchens Two-Fifty…"
That would be deeper-sea catch. Keep the coast in sight, but… Arthur didn't imagine the psychic would be eager for a swim of more than half a kilometer, unless he'd lied about the conditions of his training. No pools of any significant size at Fort Araun. He flipped his fingers at the harbor-master, who perused onward.
"Here's a Pandora Second-Class chartered for the weekend. Kid signed for it, daddy paid for it, two dozen guests and three attendants and not a one of them over thirty."
Party boat. Drinking and music and dancing and maybe anchoring to swim and certainly couples sneaking away into any available nook for privacy…
"No," he decided. "What else?"
The harbor-master's brows contracted in concentration. "Middle-aged couple working their way north on a houseboat for an anniversary week. Through Essetirian waters, no ports listed til Mercia…"
That, Arthur's instincts said. "Departure time?"
Probably hug the shore, and not a lot of open-her-up…
"Two… fifteen."
Arthur turned his head to gaze distanty at the map hung on the wall, calculating. "I need a rental. Shallow draw, roomy tank, steady at high speed."
"Cabin?"
"Not necessarily." He could get where he needed to be before midnight, and there was no way he was tucking himself into a cozy bunk with linens provided, at all.
The harbor-master's smile quirked sardonically. "Military charge, or private?"
Gaius probably wouldn't appreciate this sort of expense submitted, normally – but this wasn't normally. And since Arthur refused to touch a penny of his trust fund and only profited from being a son of his father by making use of estate resources for an occasional weekend getaway, he couldn't afford it, not without planning and budgeting.
"Charge it to Psych Ops," he said.