An Agent for Camille

by Parker J Cole

Nightmares plagued him most nights as his secrets and sins tormented his rest. Since the day his world went up in smoke, the images of retribution and damnation grew with intensity. The silver lining lay in the fact that as soon as he woke up, the vestiges of his nightmares edged away, leaving no memory of their terror.

  Rounder swung his stockinged feet to the floor. Sleep would evade him for the rest of the night. Padding over to the window he opened it despite the frosty air that blew wisps of snow in the stillness of the clear night sky. He dug his hands into the snow that had collected on the sill, instantly numbing his fingers.

  Would that it could numb him from the inside out.

  A knife-edge moon sliced the dark heavens above. Wisps of clouds floated against its silvery light. Flakes of snow drifted in the passage of a gentle breeze. Soon, the sweat dried under the chilly kiss of the midnight air. When he could no longer stand it, he drew his fingers away and shut the window.

  Work. There was always work to distract him.

  Eagerly, he went over to the nightstand. He lit a single candle although his fingers, stiff with cold, shook. When the tiny flicker of flame illuminated the small area of the room, he held his fingers to it. Soon they thawed, throbbing with renewed sensation. Pulling open the tiny drawer, he withdrew his ledger. Opening the book to the last place he’d left it, he stroked the words that graced the pages.

  “Why are bodies being stolen?”

  Thinking back on the conversation, he recalled that Archie had questioned Cyril.

  “What do you mean it stopped?”

  “‘Xactly as I said. For about two weeks, the bodies weren’t being stolen. Now, it’s happening again.” Cyril insisted.

  Rounder frowned and stared off into the dark corner of the room as he remembered Camille’s foray into the discussion. “Why would anyone want to dishonor the resting place of the dead?” Her hollow voice had sounded flat in the room. “The idea…I can’t bear to think of it.”

  Just like that, despite his best efforts, he was thinking of her again. He was eaten with curiosity about her despite knowing he had no business with such an appetite

  The stricken look on her smooth, clear face had unleashed a part of him that wanted to protect her. If Marianne hadn’t gone over to her, he would have.

  That would have been serious error of judgment had he succumbed to that wild, leaping urge. Why would anyone hug the predator? They’d soon as not snap you in two and devour the meat from your bones!

  She didn’t look like the woman who seemed to know his secret. No. She’d appeared tiny, vulnerable, and child-like. Some part of his hell-bound soul longed to take her in his arms and soothe her.

  And in return be soothed by her

  With an aggravated sound, he snapped the ledger shut. Had he finally fallen into madness? How could he think like that? Camille Bradford was a predator of the heinous variety. The kind that used all its wiles to attract. Hadn’t Cyril and Perky been held captive by her appearance? They had become almost borderline disrespectful in their admiration of her.

  His teeth ground together. Did not a pitcher plant lure a doomed, besotted insect with the sight of its reddish leaves and fragrant sweet nectar? Once the unfortunate insect landed on its lip, did it not slide down the slippery slope into the gullet, drowned by the strange liquid within, never to be seen again?

  No. He would not be let Camille’s beauty, her surprising vulnerability or graciousness she showed to Cyril and Perky distract him from what he knew she was. A predator who, with those soft-looking hands, brilliant golden eyes, and sweet smile, would rip every secret and sin from his body and bare them for all to see.

  Tinkling laughter greeted Rounder’s ears a few hours later as he came down for breakfast. Following it, he came upon Camille laughing with Cyril and Perky. Today she resembled a bright, vibrant dawn. Dressed in a blue dress and white collar, the colors contrasted prettily against her skin.

  Perky grinned at his entrance. “’Mornin’ Rounder. Ya sleep good?”

  “I slept fine,” Rounder answered, trying to draw his gaze away from the fetching picture Camille made as she turned in his direction. “You?”

  “Slept fine. That boarding house that put us up for that night was mighty fine.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Addison,” Camille said in an unmistakable pointed way.

  “Miss Bradford.” He inclined his head, ignoring the call of good manners.

  “Say, what’s with all this formulity? Don’t you both know each other by now?” Perky’s brown gaze darted between the two of them.

  “Formaskity, you dolt,” Cyril retorted. “If’n you gonna try using big words, as least say ‘em right. Red would have put ya straight by now.”

  Perky and Cyril tried so hard sometimes.

  Camille gave a suspicious sounding cough and their eyes met in mutual amusement. Then he found himself wanting to head toward those golden orbs with an inner light to rival the brilliance of the sun.

  The moment of shared intimacy passed and he tugged the ends of his jacket. “I would never presume to use Miss Bradford’s Christian name without her permission.”

  “Permission?” Both Perky and Cyril echoed.

  “Of course.”

  “Say, have we been doing it all wrong, then, Perky? Was we ‘pose to ask to use folks’ first name?”

  “I guess so.” Perky scratched his beard. “But I already know yer name.”

  Camille held up both her hands in a placating gesture. “Let’s just say that we’ll be less…polite with each other.” She lifted her brow almost as if she dared him to contradict her. “All right, Rounder?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Camille.” Why did she have to make the sound of his name so enjoyable?

  Pearl served a stack of hot pancakes along with rashers of bacon and a pile of soft eggs. Looking for a place to sit, Rounder saw the only seat available was the one next to Camille. Steeling himself against her presence, he sat down to his breakfast.

  “You know, I’m wonderin’ if Archie’s gonna let you handle this case or not, Rounder.” Cyril pondered as he poured warmed syrup over his pancakes. “Seems to me that if he was gonna let ya do it, we would have found about it now.”

  “From what my sisters tell me, Archie assigns all the cases based on who he feels is the best person for the assignment. He assesses their skills, talents, strengths, and weaknesses.”

  “Yeah, but we already know Rounder. We know he can figure it out. Ya think Red woulda sent us here if he couldn’t?’

  “Red?”

  Perky snapped his fingers. “Right. Ya don’t know Red. She came to us about a couple of years after you left Texas. She’s sees to the house and takes care of the paperwork side of things.”

  “Is that her name, Red? It’s most unusual.”

  “That’s because she got a head full of thick red hair. She got another name, but we never asked her.” Cyril rubbed his temple. “See, if’n we had asked her first name all them years ago, we woulda known it. Don’t like being called nothin’ but Red though. Made no never mind to us.”

  “Back to this business you mention before.” Rounder figured he might as well try to get some more information. Although his superior was a good investigator, Archie didn’t have the advantage of knowing Perky and Cyril well. The men were good at leaving out important details, some even blatantly obvious. “How many people have been taken?”

  ‘Bout seven so far Rounder.” Cyril stabbed his fork into the eggs. “When we left, whoever been stealin’ the bodies took Mr. Tebbs.”

  “And he is?”

  “Aw, just one of the wealthiest people in Lantern. He settled down there a few years ago. Stayed to himself mostly. Didn’t bother nobody none.”

  “How do you know he was wealthy?”

  Perky sniffed. “He told us.”

  Rounder counted to ten in his head. “Was there anything else that made him seem wealthy to you?”

  Cyril swallowed the mass of food in his mouth before he spoke. �
�Well, it’s like this here: Mr. Tebbs got his money, so he said, from sellin’ this huge plot of land to a bunch of them railroad people. His wife had died and his son is an outlaw that ain’t doin’ no good for nobody. So he didn’t have nobody. He used to carry ‘round this pocket watch with a pearly face on it. Real fine, too.”

  Rounder opened his mouth to ask another question, when Camille said, “Who else?”

  He blinked. Since when did Camille become an agent?

  “Mrs. Lydia Thomas.”

  “Was she wealthy, too?”

  “Aw naw! She was poor as a church mouse beggin’ for a hole in the wall. She spent all her money on the gamin’ tables in the saloon. Her daughter, she had two but one of them died with the fever, had washed her hands of her.”

  Perky wiped his mouth off with the towel Pearl had placed by his table. “This is real nice, Miss Pearl,” he said as an aside. “Back home, I’d just wipe my mouth off with my sleeve.”

  Yesterday when Rounder had talked with Archie after the man had dismissed everyone from the room, his superior had made it clear he didn’t want to assign him. “It’s possible you could catch the fever. Although agents put their lives in danger, we don’t willingly try to make ourselves sick. A fit agent is a good agent.”

  “True, Archie, but someone in Lantern, Texas is disrespectful to the dead. Don’t the dead deserve justice just as much as the living?”

  “Yes, but the dead don’t complain.”

  Rounder stood up. “I’m going to talk to Archie about this. I want to figure out what’s going on there and I believe I can help you.”

  “We know you can,” Cyril said.

  He started to walk away, and it wasn’t until he almost reached the doorway that he stopped. Camille’s words, words he couldn’t believe she said, made it through to his mind. He turned around.

  “Pardon me, what did you say again?”

  Her chin lifted in a proud way. “I want to come with you. I want to help you solve this case.”

  ***

  “You must be joking,” Rounder barked. “You’re not a Pinkerton agent and I know for a fact that you didn’t not come here in order to become one.”

  Did he have to look so unyielding?

  Rounder bristled. His broad shoulders strained the material of his shirt which he now covered with his jacket. His blonde hair shone with an almost unnatural brilliance while his hazel eyes darkened until they resembled obsidian orbs.

  Was it so incredulous to think that she’d want to be a part of this investigation?

  She licked her dry lips. “That’s true. I came here to care for my sisters and their children when God sees fit to bring them forth. But, until they come back from their assignments, what use I am to them? Archie has been very kind in allowing me to drift in and out while I wait for their return. The boarding house proprietor has been gracious as well. But how long can I rely on charity?”

  “They should have thought of that before they accepted assignments.”

  Camille wished she’d had the strength of a man to shake him. Why couldn’t he see what was so obvious to her?

  Because he doesn’t know.

  She stilled. No, Rounder, had no idea about her ability.

  Before she could think better of it, she lifted her chin. “I know I can be of assistance to you.”

  Stains of high color slashed across his cheekbones. “I can’t believe you’d be of assistance to me.”

  Camille knew in her heart of hearts that it was entirely possible she wouldn’t be able to help either. But, listening to Cyril and Perky tell about the fever and the theft of the dead had intrigued her

  Could this perception be used for more than her personal insight?

  She’d once met a worker on her father’s plantation that had a sixth finger. Though a bit of an oddity, it didn’t make the woman less womanly because of the extra digit. In the same way, she saw her gift as an extra sense.

  Unlike a sixth finger, she was able to hide her second sight vision. But now, in this instant of time, all of that had changed.

  Could she help solve a crime? A sense of purpose pervaded her insides in a warm glow. Was this why she had been given this? To help others?

  She took in the impassive façade of Rounder’s face. She had to convince him. Nothing but the truth would have any impact on whether or not he advocated her assistance with the case.

  The next question she had to ask herself was a simple but important one.

  Could she trust him with her secret?

  Camille’s breath whooshed out of her as if someone had come along and stolen it. How could she entertain the idea of letting a man who feared her know her deepest vulnerability?

  How could she not? Did she keep her pride and her secret and possibly be indirectly responsible for a person’s death? Or did she bare all and do what she could to help?

  “Not everyone will appreciate what you can see, ma petite cherie,” her mother’s voice echoed in her head. “But the ones who do will be blessed.”

  Camille stood. “I can be of assistance to you Rounder. But in order to prove this to you, I’d have to speak to you in private. May I?”

  Rounder’s hazel eyes met her own with a shuttered look. After a moment of silence which seem to last for an eternity, he gave a curt nod. “Perky. Cyril. We’ll back in a few moments.”

  Extending his hand, indicating that she should go before him, Camille took in a deep breath and then led the way out of the kitchen and down the hall into the library. Trepidation danced along her nerve endings as the enormity of what she was about to do flooded her in a downpour of icy fear. When they arrived in the library, Rounder shut the door behind them. “Would you like to take a seat?”

  It was best to come to the point and get this over with. “Rounder, you said the other day that you sensed more to me than what meets the eye. Do you remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  She blanched at his dark tone but pressed on. “It’s true. There is more to me than what meets the eye.” She wrung her hands together. “I’m going to reveal something to you. Something you may find extraordinary. Promise me you will not say anything until I am finished. I’ve kept this a secret for so long that it’s difficult to talk about and admit to.”

  “You have secrets?”

  She refused to meet his eyes while she spoke, focusing instead on the bound books arranged on the shelves. Now she spun around. “Don’t we all have things we’d rather no one knew?”

  “Perhaps.” He glanced away.

  “Well, I do.” Pushing her shoulders back and clasping her hands together to still their flighty movements, she declared, “Your instincts about me are correct. I have an ability to see the color of the soul.”

  Rounder became unnaturally still. So still that if she didn’t see the rhythmic undulation of his breathing, she could have easily believed he’d turned into a statute.

  “What exactly does that mean? Are you clairvoyant?”

  “Nothing of that sort,” she assured him. “Such ability deals with the supernatural. I, however, deal with the natural.”

  “Explain.”

  She did, keeping it as simple as possible without convoluting it. Deep grooves marred the angular perfection of his forehead as he listened. When she finished, he walked over to a painting. His next words were spoken so low she almost didn’t hear what he said.

  “So, you can see the state of the soul?”

  “No, I can’t see the state of the soul. Its condition, if you will. Only God is able to do such a thing.”

  His shoulders relaxed and she wondered at that.

  “There is a Psalms my mother read to me that says, ‘If I say, surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me.’ I have wondered, and still do, if it’s because our souls are painted in such vibrancy that we can never be hidden.”

  He turned; his face revealed nothing of what he thought of her confession. “With that being said, what color is my
soul, Camille? What is its texture?”

  “I do not know.”

  He blinked. “You don’t?”

  “No. It is…different with you.”

  Rounder’s head cocked to the side. “How so?”

  “I perceive a heaviness about you but that is all.”

  Rounder’s eyes held her own in a compelling way and she was powerless to look away. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Was there are hint of satisfaction in his voice? Did a triumphant gleam shine from his eyes?

  “It does.” There was no need to be less than truthful. She’d revealed her darkest secret. What else was left? “I wouldn’t be lying to say that your soul, of all the souls I’ve met in the world, intrigues me the most.”

  Some emotion she couldn’t identify flittered across his face. “Why?”

  “I have a strong desire to know what you are underneath that pale skin of yours that others cannot see. What color did God stroke you with to identify you from all the others on earth?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve concluded that no one’s soul is the exact as anyone else’s. Perhaps the colors of souls that I cannot see elude my perception because it is a color only God Himself can identify.”

  “And if you could see the color of my soul?”

  “Maybe if I could see it, then I can reassure you that you have nothing to fear from me.”

  A curious note underlined his next words. “Don’t I?”

  “No.”

  “On the contrary,” he said as he walked around the settee that separated them and came to stand before her. “I believe otherwise. You are a fearsome creature.” His gaze drew her in, intent and hard. “Powerful and delicate. Beautiful and terrifying. I am thankful to whatever power that lies beyond this realm that you cannot see my soul’s color and texture. I shall continue to keep hope that its state eludes your strange, golden eyes. The moment you do, I think I shall kill you.”

  She drew back in alarm. “Kill me?”

  “Oh, not in the literal sense of the term, Camille.” He allowed a slight lift of the corner of his mouth. “But my association with you will come to an end.”

  “Our association?”