She shrugs.
“Just a dream?” he leads, peering at her over his mug as he tastes of the coffee.
“Well, with all that’s going on with these … demons … and everything. Are dreams just dreams?”
“I’ve wrestled with it, too, Therese. This whole thing will try to break you. Don’t let it.”
The morning quiet resumes, underscored by muted sounds of vehicles outside and the slurping of their brew.
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
For a fleeting moment, she thinks he means someone else, but his intent proves evident enough.
“Some months. We don’t have the best relationship. We lost my father years ago, and she sort of retreated and moved on, if that makes sense. She has her life now, whatever it is, and she and I don’t interact much anymore.”
He nods, solemnly, holding back yet another apology.
“Any siblings?”
She shakes her head.
“Aunts, uncles … cousins?” he continues, raising his dark eyebrows.
“No,” she answers after swallowing, not seeming perturbed. “What about you?”
“Oh, I am Italian.”
A gentle grin flickers across her lips, a premature laugh exhaled through her nose.
“I have two brothers and two sisters, and I am smack dab in the middle. My parents also came from large families, so even though they are gone, I have many cousins. Many.” He nods, thinking on this, and he is shocked to hear an actual chuckle come from her. It is short-lived, but it was, indeed, there. He looks at her, head quirking.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and they both have a brief laugh at this.
“You are right, of course,” he says, and they sober quickly. She nods. “We cannot risk dragging our families into this. No one else, actually.”
“There are others already in this,” she states.
“You mean the vigilante,” he says, and she is not sure if it is a question.
“No. I meant Kettle. Do you think the vigilante knows?”
“I don’t know, but why would we try to go back to Kettle? He’s a liability.”
“How do you know that?”
He takes in a slow breath.
“I don’t, but my hunch is to stay away from him. I … I still don’t know exactly what to do. Sometimes I think we should just run away somewhere far away and try to forget all this. But I don’t think anywhere would be far enough.”
She looks at him, really studies him. How much their relationship has changed. This man helped in her kidnapping, not once but twice. It was in attempt to bait the vigilante, yes, but it did happen. And for all she knows, they intended to kill her if the trap was a success. He claims to be seeking retribution, and with these new revelations, that past feels insignificant. It’s not so much that she forgives him, but it just doesn’t seem important anymore.
She also wonders of this running idea of his. What would it be like if they just picked up and left? Where would they go? They both are capable of taking care of themselves in their own ways, and their strengths and weaknesses complement. Would it be possible? She shuts the idea out of her mind, contemplating another.
“Could the vigilante be wrapped up in all this?” she posits.
The shaking of his head is slight, continuing, as though a conductor's baton lording over his indecision.
“What do you think?” he throws back.
A moment passes, their eyes locked. She decides to reveal something. “The vigilante is a woman.”
“What?” He blinks, his head jerking minutely. He then emits a chuckle. “Come on, Therese. That doesn’t make any sense.”
She smirks. “Think back to the first time I was rescued.” She perks her eyebrows, giving him a steady, open look. The expression is not angry, but it says much.
He shuts up and thinks.
“Remember when you got your ass kicked? You had some guys with you, too, and you all got your asses kicked? Remember?”
“Yes, Therese, I remember,” he concedes, deflated.
“Do you remember how petite the vigilante was?”
He narrows his eyes, blinking into an attempt at deeper recollection. “I … was he?”
“She,” Therese corrects. “I was the one rescued, so I was very close to the vigilante. When we got outside, there was a very nice motorcycle waiting. I took the chance to size them up, and I am telling you, the vigilante is not much bigger than I am. Then we got on the bike, and I took hold. The vigilante is a woman. I promise you.”
She looks around, trying to find a cigarette, a seeming reward for her conclusive revelation. Duilio notices and fishes a pack from a pocket, sliding it over to her. She takes it with unvoiced thanks, lighting up.
“Do you know who … she is?” he asks, carefully, reaching for the pack when she is done.
Therese leans back, exhaling toward the ceiling, shaking her head. “No,” she says, eyes returning to him.
He lights up, drilling her with his attention. His initial exhalation is less melodramatic than hers. With lit cigarette between his first two fingers, he points at her. “But you have a suspicion.”
She sits, motionless, returning his focus. A deep part of her wonders why she continues to keep up her guard.
“I do.”
“Who?”
Another shake of her head.
“I don’t want to say until I know better. It’s more like one of your hunches. A lot of coincidental evidence, nothing concrete.”
The condition of her empty apartment wasn’t concrete enough? She dismisses that thread as quickly as it crops up.
“That is what started all of this, isn’t it?” he asks, waving about that cigarette-holding hand, the abstract pattern of smoke accentuating ‘this’.
“Yes. Well, there’s more.”
He continues looking at her, having a drag, waiting.
“There’s a network of people, like myself, and we feed information to the vigilante.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you already knew that.”
“There was sufficiently strong suspicion to … accost you in the terrible way we did. I am sorry for that, Therese. Truly. But it was really more that … she-” Therese hears the doubt in the deliberate choice of pronoun “-rescued you the first time.”
Therese nods, slowly. “Yeah. I was really bumbling. I’m a lot better at investigation when it’s in cyberspace.”
“Well.” He chuckles. “The way you handled me when I arrived at the coffee shop proves you learned something.” He pauses, slitting his eyes at her.
“What?” she finally asks.
“Are you the vigilante?” he accuses, eyes widening.
“Of course not,” she scoffs.
“I am joking, Therese,” he reveals the obvious, his body moving with barely suppressed laughter.
He gets a shake of the head and roll of the eyes as reward.
*****
They sit about a small fire of David’s making. There is nothing to eat, though they do not experience hunger. It feels as though many hours have passed since the start of their trek unto this strange land, yet the normal taxes on the flesh have not arisen. Skothiam and Lilja are a small measure away, sitting in silent conversation.
“It is very dangerous for you all to be here,” the guide says, feeling the need to speak to alleviate the tension of those two sets of eyes upon him.
“I think you might could help with that,” David says. His tone and aspect are much more congenial than Zoe’s, but the hostility is there all the same.
The guide shakes his head slowly.
“I offered my best advice back in what was once my shop. When I said to not come here.”
“Was?”
He fixes his eyes on David’s, neither blinking. Breath passes in a seeming calm.
“I’ll never go back there.”
“Why?” Zoe joins the conversation.
“It has served its purpose.” The cryptic answer comes a short pause
after the question.
David has noticed this about their guide, especially hearing it in the partially overheard conversation between him and Skot. There was distance, yes, but sound seems to travel further here, as though in a fog.
“Bait?”
“Of course.” And this response is immediate, and it strikes David truer than others. “All of this is a trap. I will guide you, as best I am able, and we might make it. This is a very dangerous place.”
Nothing more is said for a time. The man studies the two Hunters, noting at once their calm and intensity.
“He is your leader,” the man says, glancing to Skot before looking back to David. “You are the second in command.”
“I’m not sure I’d-”
“He’s second,” Zoe clips.
“What if you both perish out here? That would be bad for you, would it not?”
“Sure it would, but that’s just the risk.”
“Your … organization,” the man continues, putting a question on the word, “would be in some turmoil were it to lose you both.”
David shakes her head. “I’m not second in line to lead the Family, if that’s what you’re asking. We don’t do it like that. Besides, he has a sister, and she’s much more capable than I am.”
“Ahhhh. I see.” Their guide nods.
“Why do you care?” Zoe challenges.
“I’m merely curious. Passing the time.” He puts on a warm grin, spreading his hand, supplicatingly.
“I heard you talking to that woman,” she reminds him, “though you won’t say who it was.” She narrows her eyes, leaning in, and he instinctively leans away. “I think it’d be better for you to shut up.”
The man lets forth a sheepish chuckle. “I see that youth does not mean a lack of confidence in your family.”
Zoe moves blindingly fast, jerking her machete from its sheathe where it lies on the earth near her feet. Before anyone may react, the blade is at the man’s neck.
“I’m watching you, all the time. Because Skot says we need you, you live, but just give me the slightest reason, and your head is mine.”
“Zoe,” David chides as the tense moment lingers.
She does not take her eyes off his as she finally sits back, returning the weapon to its resting place.
The guide takes a deep breath, trying not to tremble.
“I have made many choices in life, as have we all,” he finally speaks. “I must live with mine, regardless of how poor they have proven.”
Zoe scowls at the statement. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“Of course not!” Their guide heartily agrees, gaining further attention from this uncharacteristic rise in volume. “It is merely a salve to myself. I was naïve. I thought this day would never come.”
David fixes a look on the man, eyes squinting. “You do know you were in a place where time is different?”
“Were?” the man retorts. “We still are.”
David gives a smirk. “Then why’d you think this day would never come?”
The guide exhales, heavily. “You see how easily I am trapped.”
The conversation ceases as Skot and Lilja return.
“I’m sorry for that,” Skot says. “I think it’s a poor idea to wait here too long. Does anyone need rest?”
The Hunters all shake their heads. Skot then looks pointedly at their guide, the expression not wanting of an answer, more an unspoken command. He stands, nodding weakly. David stamps out the fire, and they resume the journey.
*****
The area waits like a graveyard. Mist hangs throughout, wispy scars. Stone interrupts the landscape. The grass shows more gray than green, hanging on in untidy clumps, encroaching onto the lower rocks. The sparse coloring is within and without, belying the unnatural aspect of this place. Scatterings of gravel and detritus form a mess of disuse, beginning sparingly enough to finally end at one side in a great tumult.
Noises have found their way here - alien noises in an alien place. A shuffling drags, raspy breath bleeds into a wet cough. The two shapes finally emerge from unaspected gray blobs into unlikely people, and they halt, looking about.
The stepped dais occupies focus, rising to call on any who might pass to investigate. What else may linger holds little consequence. Trek to the top and come what may. The two continue, their method and motion slow and haggard. Whatever lies in wait here would find easy prey of them. They finally reach the top shelf of the arranged stone.
“Nothing’s here,” Pierce eventually notes.
Lance does not reply, overcoming the pain in his leg to move further in, scanning the vicinity. “There.” He points toward the chaotic mess of broken rock down on the far side.
Pierce looks, slitting his eyes. He then shakes his head, swallowing with a grimace. A gurgling rises from deep within his gut.
“Help was supposed to be waiting here. There was supposed to be others.”
“I-” Lance tries, looking around to finally settle his eyes on his companion. “Should we wait?”
Pierce gives another shake of his head, his frown deepening. A reluctant sigh becomes a wracking cough, and Lance finally reaches over to help as he may.
“Stop it!” Pierce finally cries, waving Lance away.
Lance hobbles back, eyes agape, his expression one of dejection. Pierce leans over, hands on thighs, and he aggressively clears his throat, finally hawking a dollop of blood-infused phlegm onto the ground, the color an obscenity in this drained land.
He rights himself, finally finding Lance’s expectant eyes.
“We can’t wait. We’re slow enough as it is,” he says, giving Lance’s leg a pointed look.
The great weight of dejection grows greater still.
“How will we catch them, then?”
“I don’t know,” Pierce replies, his tone blunted of its usual edge.
They are lost, yet they follow unerringly. Their lives have become so consumed, they have no real recollection of what it was like before. Memories sometimes pry unto them like sharp attacks only to become a wet, abstract mess that quickly dries to nothing. They bob and float as refuse on polluted waters, yet they do so with purpose. Something of that oily shell is a balm to them, a comfort in this otherwise horrid existence.
Pierce walks to a nearby pile of the crumblings. Lance follows with his shambling gait. Pierce pushes through it with the toe of a worn shoe, finally crouching to sift with a hand. He finally stands, unsure, looking out again over the area. Lance joins the passive search.
As the two observe, their postures grow subtly more erect. Pierce’s eyes gain more color and focus.
“Come on,” he orders, heading forward.
“Did you see something?”
“More help ahead. There’s a trap. We need to hurry.”
*****
The somber coloring of this place has taken on a darker cast, creeping slowly like the ignored seep of a chronic wound. Lilja flicks on the light attached to her handgun, and only then does the contrast fully reach them.
“Time does pass here,” Zoe grumbles, slipping an accusatory glance at their guide.
“It does,” he agrees, keeping in the center of the group as they traverse the strange environ. “It just moves very slowly compared to what you all know.”
“Have you forgotten that pace?” Skot asks.
The man emits something of a sigh. He then nods, solemnly, eyes closing before he opens them and looks toward the gray sky.
“Still, if you think of time moving here based on the passage of some sun, then you are mistaken.” He begins this statement like a professor, but the end point is angled to the young Hunter. Zoe just glares at him. “We’re simply moving into an area of less light.”
The petulant shake of her head is miniscule, but it does remark on her maturity. She hacks with her machete at a gnarled, low-angled branch that is not much of an impediment, continuing in their trek.
“I’d like to know who built that ziggurat back there.”
/>
The guide looks at Skot, noting the calm to the curious gaze. The man is brought up by it, feeling that he has been pierced in an unexpected way.
“I cannot say,” he finally responds.
“Look.” They all glance over to Lilja’s bid then to where she points.
In the distance more concrete shows, this less deliberate-seeming than the prior building. Walls rise half-buried out of the ground, culverts angling out in an unfinished, haphazard manner. It is more of a chaotic mingling of structure and nature, there seemingly only for itself.
“I suppose you can’t say who built that, either, hmm?” Skot pitches, eyebrows rising.
The man shakes his head, then moves forward.
Lilja continues in her role as advance scout, reaching the area before the rest of them. The light has dimmed, but she can still see. She stands there a moment, staring, wondering how Zoe’s sense works, wondering if something of that nature is truly awakening in her. Surely this place is odd, giving up insistent questions as to how, who, and why. The others finally catch up. Zoe looks Lilja over, curious as to the sudden still repose in the redhead, then she moves on.
“It’s a trap.”
Zoe halts, and they all look at Lilja.
“As I have said,” their guide interjects.
“It’s a trap made to bait humans,” Lilja expounds. “A lot of us are uncomfortable in too much nature. The manmade is our attempt to impose order on what we think of as the chaos of nature. Nature is not chaos; we’ve just alienated ourselves from it. Then, we see something that appears of human construction in this weird place, and we’re going to investigate it.”
“Should we not?” Skot asks. He begins the question looking toward his girlfriend, but he finishes it by giving a pointed expression to the guide.
Lilja looks back, noting the exchange. She then turns fully, waiting.
The man offers a meager shrug and shake of his head.
“Maybe make him go first,” Zoe suggests, pointing at the guide with her machete.
He gives over more expression of the scratching fear that will not leave him, but he still says nothing.
“Let’s go,” Skot decides, gesturing with a casual upnod toward the tangle of concrete and earth.
Soul of the Butterfly Page 19
