Second Door to the Right

by Nikki Hyson

  Curbing any attempts at introductions before they began the interloper nodded curtly. “Miss.” He touched the brim of his hat with a finger, and then turned away. “Forget about our meeting, Jas?” His tone remained light as air, lacking any trace of accusation except for the subtle nudge of shoulder to shoulder.

  James continued facing Lily, comments directed back over a shoulder. “Not at all. We’ve half an hour yet.”

  His co-worker nodded acceptance at the rebuff, but didn’t leave. The tight line of his lips implied disapproval, but he said no more. Giving them the illusion of space, he stepped from under the Plexiglas bus shelter and looked up. Snow, swirling in the street lamp above him, settled softly on both coat and dark hair.

  Silence stretched to awkwardness. Lily couldn’t help studying the sharp profile of this friend of James. The uncomfortable shift of James’ stance beside her made her want to dislike this man, but she couldn’t. Why not?

  Thankfully for all, a red bus rounded the corner, swinging into stride beside the curb only a few moments later.

  “My chariot,” she announced into the space between them. “Thank you for protecting me.”

  “My pleasure,” James said. He glanced at his friend, who appeared infinitely absorbed by the snow, but they both knew better. James dropped his voice a decibel. “Just go home.” Laying his flesh and bone hand on her shoulder, he added, “Don’t walk the dog.”

  Her spine stiffened, relaxed curiosity flinting into suspicion. Why in blazes would you say a thing like that? She dared a quick glance in his companion’s direction and found those dark eyes upon her, noting her reaction.

  Her turn to board, Lily jumped forward and James’ hand fell away. Inside the bus they grew veiled; fellow travelers shifting and settling on less occupied seats, blocking her view. Hugging her tote on her lap, Lily caught a glimpse of James’ upturned face.

  Relief and sorrow ran deep in the eyes that met hers. Why? The double decker belched once, creaking in anticipation of movement. Why did you tell me I could trust him?

  On the pavement, the man spoke, mouth forming a small string of words that did nothing to soften the tension in James’ posture. Still, James held her gaze, something akin to hope, yet mixed with despair, burning in the blue depths.

  Lily’s stomach twisted. He needs my help. The bus’ gears ground, this route always had the new drivers, and pulled away. Why?

  Silence.

  Her forehead fell to the cool window. “And I’m talking to myself.”

  8

  Bus chugging out of sight, Cris asked, “Have you decided to choose your own targets?” Lowering his gaze to James, he pressed, “Or did she offend you yesterday?”

  Had it only been yesterday? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” James said, walking back the way they’d come.

  “Liar,” Cris countered without ire, and fell into step beside him. A hint of concern colored his next words, “You’re going to get her killed, James.”

  “That’s not my intent.”

  “And what is? Exactly? She’s gotten noticed. You know Hyde. Persist, and it’ll end badly.”

  “You told them about the pizza.”

  “He already knew but, to cover my arse, yes. She’s more than an anomaly to them. They ordered me to follow her all afternoon.”

  James hissed a syllable of disappointment, argument poised. But then. Uh. So heavy. This beating. Each breath burning, his hand gripped the shirt over his heart. What’s wrong with me? As if knowledge could stop the acid from rising.

  He felt Cris’ concern, the slight stutter in an otherwise long stride, but refused to meet his friend’s eye. This feeling. This betrayal was so fresh. So raw. And I feel it. Savoring the moment, he stoked the embers. “Always the survivor, Cris.”

  “Don’t make this about me. You’ve read my book. You know what I’ll do, if I must.” Cris tried for a fold of James’ sleeve, to stay their steps, but James pressed on.

  Cris took three quick strides to catch up and revealed, “Just to ensure you wouldn’t cross paths again, they had her fired from a job this afternoon.” Concern darkened his eyes. “What’ll they do when tonight’s library encounter comes up?”

  “Because you will tell.”

  “James, you’d better listen to me.” Frustration spat out Cris’ words, shattering his usual calm. “They’ll be down on the both of you. Is that what you want? To burn?”

  Meeting his friend’s eye, James stopped before a crosswalk’s flashing red. Blue eyes locked on black, thoughts passing with the familiarity of years instead of months. Cris might be the only soul he’d ever thought of as a friend. Here, between the pages, or in the whisper of a life that sometimes teased at the corner of his mind. Reluctantly, James asked a question he knew would draw blood. “Why do you care?”

  “You make it damned hard at times.”

  A sea of pedestrians waited on the other side. James stared. “I know,” he said softly. The light facing the opposite direction changed to amber, their path still scarlet. He lifted a foot.

  Cris gripped his arm, staying the momentum before it began. “Don’t even think it.” Before the last syllable could be spoken the light flicked green, carrying them forward with the crowd.

  “You thought I would?” James couldn’t help but chuckle. “Really?”

  “I don’t know what to think of you anymore.” Weariness admitted on an exhale. “You never should’ve sought her out a third time. Twice is tempting fate.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You must have. You never go to the library on a Friday.”

  “I didn’t know she worked there. I went because I didn’t go yesterday. They kept me late. That’s the only reason I ran into her the first time.” Struck by this sudden possibility, James paused. “What if this is all Hyde? What if this is some game he’s playing?”

  “He’s as mystified as you are. Why do you think he ordered me to trail her?”

  “The Professor?”

  Cris glanced to the left and right as if, even here, they might be overheard. “Why would he?”

  James’ cane struck the pavement with force, new thoughts swirling as they continued on. “How many writers do you suppose there are?”

  “What do you mean? Living?”

  “Yes. Right now. How many?”

  Cris shrugged. “No idea. Why?”

  “Well, would you say more than a hundred? A thousand?”

  He considered. “In the world? Maybe a little more. They say new ones, real ones, are hard to come by. Maybe too much television. Something of a dying breed, I guess.” His look pierced James. “Why do you care? What possible good has a writer ever done either of us?”

  Lily. An honest answer would place her in danger. But you owe her nothing, the pirate half of him whispered. I know. “It’s nothing.” His eyes diverted, returning to the cane no writer had put in his hand. But she might be the key. A single head shake. “Nothing.”

  They’d drawn even with the entrance of a high rise. Already half past ten, their reports indicated the rum-loving night guard never strayed from his desk. Liking the late night comedians, he’d barely looked up when three scouts tested the security two nights ago.

  Cris turned up the collar on his coat. “Fifth floor. Flat five ten.”

  James nodded, begging his footsteps to take him elsewhere. Knees turned, ready to carry him back the way they’d come, but his feet remained planted.

  Heat kindled in the pit of his stomach, warning against the rebellion they’d cut from his heart once before. He focused. Bending every atom of his being against the spell holding him captive. Seconds ticked, flames licking through his blood and traveling up his spine. If he lingered any longer only ash would remain on the concrete beside Cris.

  Sweat cold on his brow, James took an obedient step forward and knew immediate relief. Still a slave.

  “You wonder why they don’t trust you,” Cris said behind him. “Why do you test them every single time?�
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  “Because what I was is not this. How can you stand it?” A hard swallow. “There is no honor here.”

  “Only because I don’t do what you do, Jas.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

  James rested a hand on the revolving door and pushed. “I know,” he said. Glass and chrome rotated soundlessly, granting him access to the lobby and all that lay beyond.

  The security guard barely lifted his gaze from the Telly, eye contact more foreign than pride. The lift stood empty, but James, preferring the stairs, took them two at a time.

  Room Five-Ten required a key card, a minor detail buying only a moment before the inevitable. A flick of his wrist and the lock clicked, swinging open a fraction. James held it there, counting to five. No sliver of light spoke of consciousness; no scream or shout warned that he was known. The room remained dark within. Stepping inside, he shut the door softly.

  A soft orange glow, cast by a hallway night light, fell across his shoes. He waited on the thick pile rug for several minutes, listening to the peace of a sleeping home. The refrigerator humming in the kitchen just up ahead and to his left. Beyond, a hot water radiator gurgled to life, heating the metal by popping degrees. Somewhere, in the shadows, a clock ticked loudly. James suppressed a shudder. Damned croc.

  Far from one of the largest flats he’d ever entered, by the sparse light, James found the furnishings to be economical. Telly fixed to one wall, a couch and chair stood facing it; each suffering from more than a few years of wear.

  The clock settled into the quarter hour with a loud clank and a soft whir. His step held, waiting until it chimed once and then went still. No reason to linger. Except. Grip tightening on the shaft of his walking cane, his thoughts wavered. What would Lily think of this? He drew a breath and froze.

  A man sat at a desk in the far corner, his back to James and head lowered to arms. The refrigerator went still. The furnace clicked off. Then James heard it, quite softly at first but distinct. Music. He dared a step, and then another, shifting his angle of entry to better see by the single shaft of light spilling across the desk. Whoever the man might be, his sleep and a set of headphones would make this an easy assignment.

  After last night’s job, James could use easy.

  He twisted the handle of his cane, shaft tucked under an arm to hold it fast. Three feet of glistening blade shimmered from its sheath, both edges capable of delivering death. He crossed the room in four strides.

  The man didn’t stir even when James stood over him, the marriage of brass and strings rising above the soft breaths of a slumbering man. James stretched out his artificial hand, prepared to press his victim to the desk should the slice of his blade create an involuntary spasm. Gaze falling to the desktop, his blade moved to the level of the man’s heart.

  Pages scattered across the oak top, black script filling white loose leaf in an unending stream from the tip of a pen resting between slack fingers. James forced himself to focus, to read the words half hidden by his mark’s resting arm.

  He took off the lid, blowing ripples across the mocha sea. “Still drink drip, or did a year playing barista corrupt you?”

  She took a long draught of the super-heated, healing brew and gave him a sideways look. She didn’t ask how he knew. “Their drip is crap.” Abby never asked the questions he wanted to answer. “I get Americano here.”

  He nodded, as if it really mattered, and drew a breath. “I didn’t do it, Abby.”

  “I didn’t ask.” She tipped the cup and swallowed deeply, steam curling on her breath when she spoke again. “And I don’t believe you.”

  “Bloody Hell,” James said, more plea and prayer than oath. “You’re a writer.”

  Despite such deep slumber, and the lulling ovations of an orchestra, the man awoke between breaths. Without turning, muscles bunching across his shoulders, he rose. Too late.

  The sword slid between the man’s ribs. Pinning him to the page strewn desktop, James sliced the marked life into seconds. Half expecting a scream to pierce the violin solo’s lament, James held his breath, one tick of the clock dissolving into the next.

  But the man never screamed. A writer of mysteries, he couldn’t go without solving his own. “Why?” Blood mixed with foam on his exhaled epitaph. “What did I do?”

  “I don’t know.” James twisted the blade one quarter turn. “I’m sorry.” Slicing the heart through and ending it, he forced himself to watch the final moment. As he always did. Penance.

  The man’s final breath came slow and rattling. Tension fading from his body, he slid off the sword and crumpled to the floor. Life continued to drip from the tip of the blade, puddling on pristine pile.

  James pulled a kerchief from his pocket, wiping the steel clean before sheathing it. His eyes never strayed from the half ream of paper now scattered, blood-stained, like snow. “I’m so sorry,” he said again, though no one heard and it changed nothing. What did you do? James couldn’t help but wonder. Did the Guild even know he’d just murdered a writer? They must have. They knew everything about every job before they accepted it. Yet, how could they have known? They would’ve never accepted the contract. Would they?

  Penetrating through the cloud of confusion and uncertainty came a quiet Rowr? James looked, straight into the liquid brown eyes of a sable and white puppy. A chuckle stuck half way up his throat. “Surely you jest.”

  The puppy gave a short, excited bark and leapt at James’ ankle, exuberance taking the lead. Striking his leg, the pup fell back as if it’d hit a wall. James smiled. The similarity of the puppy and Lily’s first encounter with him were too similar to shrug off.

  Lily. James looked at the dead man and wished he might be ash on the front stoop. How could he look at her after tonight? How could he gain his freedom if it didn’t come from her? Did he have any other choice? He already knew the answer. No.

  “And what about you?”

  The small spaniel gazed up, no answers, and all questions.

  James frowned. Have I ever held a puppy? He didn’t think so. He scooped it into one hand. Soft, warm, and wriggly, the pup thawed a place best left in darkness.

  They continued staring at one another, a memory poking its way up past nearly three dozen murders and one hundred years chasing Lost Boys. Once he’d been a boy. Once there’d been a Christmas. A hearth fire roaring and a puppy wriggling beside him. Tied round its neck, a bright red bow sparking color in an otherwise drab room. Two people argued in the hall, one harsh and the other weeping. Fear gripped James’ heart at the sound of that angry voice. His father.

  “You gave him up. You gave me up. Remember?”

  “Please, I only want to see him. He doesn’t have to know who I am. Couldn’t I be an aunt? Please, Andrew. It’s Christmas.”

  “I will not have him poisoned by such weakness. Get out. Never come back, or I’ll make certain your indiscretion is known to every paper in the country. Wait.”

  Footsteps stomped across the floor, muffled only when they reached the plush rug. A hand reached down, hooking the puppy by the ribbon and carrying it off without ceremony.

  “Take it. Your gifts are not welcome here.”

  The weeping faded. A door shut, and silence settled. His father claimed the only chair before the fire. Long legs stretched out, one elbow rested on the chair’s arm so he might puff the smoldering cigar with greater ease. James felt his stomach turn with the remembered smell. Father eyed him thoughtfully. “Well boy.” Exhaling a lungful of satisfaction, “Merry Christmas.”

  The click of a lock. The turn of a handle. “Jas?” A familiar footstep. “James.”

  Startled back to the present, James blinked. Cris was here already? Damn.

  His friend, his handler, frowned. “What are you still doing here?”

  The puppy squirmed in James’s arms, protesting it’s less than comfortable hold.

  The frown held. “And what is that?”

  James looked down. The puppy surrendered with a huff, and went momentarily still
. “I think they call it a dog.” Tucking it close, his muscles clenched. Ready to fight, or ready to run? “I better get going. Reports to make.”

  “Where are you taking it? They don’t want a mascot.”

  James drew even with his friend, answering with the barest flick of his gaze across Cris’ disapproving countenance.

  “To her?” Cris snorted disbelief. “Yer mad.”

  James didn’t answer. He’d known the moment he touched the puppy that disaster would be courting from every possible angle. Heart pounding harshly against his ribs, he also knew it didn’t matter. Leaving Cris behind, to do whatever Cris did after James completed his tasks, he took the lift down and fled.

  9

  Lily broke off a square of chai infused chocolate and laid it on her tongue. With the first hint of warmth-mixed sweetness touching her taste buds, she closed her eyes; allowing the moment to stretch and linger.

  The chocolate continued melting, seconds ticking by, passing slowly from pleasure to memory. Lily pushed the rest of the bar to the other side of her alarm clock. A diversionary tactic cut with procrastination; skills she’d spent years honing to a razor’s edge. A stray thought could slice away minutes. The simple powering up of her laptop had seen many an innocent hour slain.

  Amos, snuggled down about her ankles, stretched out a sleepy paw. A small growl rose up his throat, the only sound in the room after the latest mix CD played itself to completion. He pushed harder into her calf, a dream and his excited whimpers intensifying.

  Robbed of several chocolate-filled moments, Lily opened her eyes. Murmuring the beagle’s name, she slid a hand under the warm fold of his ear. Obviously romping through a rabbit filled field, Amos heard his girl’s voice and surrendered. A shuddering sigh signaled his return to their flat.

  Smiling, Lily hit play on the stereo remote. The first rumblings of a favorite Hans Zimmer track rolled across the room. She waited, counting the notes until it struck and washed over her.