Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “Please,” he says, gesturing to the other chair, reaching the short distance and aiding in pulling it out.

  “Thank you,” she replies, slipping into it, accepting his assistance at settling in.

  He gazes upon her for a moment, long enough to take in the sight but not so much a duration as to cause awkwardness. Her lips are very well formed, lush, but not overly so, the top shaped delicately, demure, the bottom fuller. A subtle splash of freckling accents both sides of her face from below each temple to down over her cheeks, the bones beneath giving a high, smooth appearance to them. Her nose is subtly aquiline, the tip soft. Her chin provides a graceful curve, showing some prominence, the width a bit more than that of her bottom lip.

  Her pale skin is smooth, soft-looking, alabaster, and her almond eyes look fully upon him, seeming to sparkle, giving forth shades of such a frosty blue as to appear white, darkening toward the edges of the iris, some parts even gray. Her lashes are long, thick, brought forth even more by the touch of her make-up.

  “You look very nice,” he comments, after he has reseated himself, giving her a pleasant smile.

  “Thank you,” she smiles in return, “So do you.”

  He grins further at this, dipping his head once, “Thank you.”

  He cannot quite figure her out, though that would be expected at this juncture, but she holds an interesting mix of bold and bashful. She notes the strength in his forwardness, even as much as it is carried in culture and gentility, though one could presume a touch of impatience in such things.

  A moment of silence passes. He looks upon her, noting that she casts her eyes about. She eventually looks back, noting his observation, and the barest touch of a flush touches her cheeks.

  “Are you familiar with this place?” he asks.

  “No,” she shakes her head very lightly, “Are you?”

  He emits a short, soft chuckle, “No. I enjoy Japanese food, but I am not that familiar with the city, so I just looked up a place that might be suitable. I do hope you like it.”

  “Is it your favorite?” she asks, moving in the chair, making herself more comfortable.

  “Japanese food?” he replies, a smile on his lips beneath the blink of his eyes, a touch befuddled by the question.

  She nods, then raises her chin at the end of the motion, peering into his eyes, eager for the answer.

  “Well, I had not much thought on it,” he says, still smiling, indecisive as well as perhaps wilting the barest bit under her scrutiny. “Hmmm, well, I suppose it is, though I much prefer sushi over the other options.”

  She nods slowly, absorbing this information as carefully as she might do the same in her profession. Her attention shifting as she does, looking more right, outward, as though to again casually study her surroundings. He watches this, even glancing briefly in the direction of her gaze.

  Their waiter arrives, but he is quickly dismissed after they place a drink order.

  “And yours?” he says, looking at her.

  She returns her focus to him, blinking, her face looking open, fresh, somewhat unlike the more generally studied, polite, if not even subtly guarded expression to which he has grown used.

  “My …?” she leads.

  “-Favorite food,” he elaborates, still showing that pleasant smile, though the right side tries to edge up further.

  “Oh,” she nods, looking down, her lips coming together.

  He notices a movement at the lower edges of her jaw as she ponders. A few minutes pass. Their drinks are delivered amidst quietly murmured thanks, and then she finally speaks.

  “I'm not really sure what is my favorite food. It changes. I like many foods, if they are prepared well. I like a good steak, I really enjoy well-made pasta, I like smoked and raw salmon. I like sushi. I like reindeer. I like soups. I like good food, and I really can't name one absolute favorite. I'm also open to try different foods.”

  His grin has grown throughout her response, and when she stops, she blinks at him, her head tilting to the left. He notices as her own smile changes, lips parting, then she looks down as her cheeks become more prominent from the increasing grin.

  “And I thought we had to pick one,” he comments, and they share a brief chuckle.

  “Sorry,” she finally says, shoulders coming up a bit as her eyes shift to him, then away.

  “It’s fine. Really.”

  They continue the exchange of light-seeming, though subtly insightful banter throughout the meal, taking their time. He has ordered a bottle of Rikyubai sake, served chilled, which they finish off over the course of the evening. Once they have completed the meal, she asks the waiter to bring them a pot of sencha green tea.

  It takes but a moment to arrive, but the short time has been spent in quiet, the two looking at each other, occasional glances given to their surroundings, but the main focus still shared betwixt the pair. The ceramic pot is set down on the table, somewhat ornate, but not overly so, accompanied by two matching drinking bowls. She politely dismisses the waiter then raises the small lid of the pot to peer inside, leaning over for an inhale through her nose. He watches her closely, baring of a respectful amusement, and she nods to him, agreeable to what she has discerned.

  She then pours a decent amount of the steaming, green liquid into a cup, and he is surprised when she turns the vessel, then dips her head to him and offers him the drink. He blinks in confusion but manages to return the gesture, taking the bowl.

  “Thank you.”

  She smiles at him, pleasantly, then after it is obvious he is waiting, she bids of him, “Drink.”

  “Aren’t you going to join me?”

  “Just drink,” she invites again.

  He then raises the cup, sipping from it under her keenly watchful eye.

  “Is it good?”

  “Oh, yes,” he says.

  She smiles at this then holds out her hands, a light motion of the first two fingers of her right hand indicating to him that she wants the bowl. He decides not to question and gives it back to her. She smiles again, giving another dip of her head, which he returns, and then she turns the object, partaking of its contents.

  “Mmmm, yes,” she says whilst nodding, swallowing, “It is very good.”

  She then pours some tea into the other bowl, handing this one to him. He looks at her with some confusion but takes this, sipping of it as she continues with the other. A moment passes as they quietly enjoy the beverage.

  “Was that a sort of tea ceremony?” he finally asks.

  She offers him a gentle smile, “Not quite. They do have a nice enough flower arrangement there,” she points behind him, and he turns to see that indeed there is an unobtrusive arrangement of white flowers in a tall, narrow vase, standing atop a pedestal there in the corner, back-lit, “But many of the crucial elements are missing, and you really ought to prepare the tea yourself for the ceremony. I just wanted to do something similar.”

  “Thank you,” he smiles, and she returns it. “That has made it very special,” he adds, and this causes a very light flush to take her pale flesh, but she does not look away.

  *****

  “The research is coming along well,” he says, having taken the time to change into a pair of black, silk pajamas and pour a small measure of brandy.

  “I hope so,” speaks the person on the monitor.

  He glances over from his casual wanderings in the room, noting the image of his mother. She had left him a message, wanting to know how things were going, asking him to call tonight, no matter the hour. He knows she is something of a night owl, but he also knows that regardless of how old they get, she will always be the worrying mother.

  She also does not look her age, which is just shy of seventy. Her full, straight hair is out, the silver coloring a luster, where it had once been a rich sable. She also appears to have already made herself ready for bed, perhaps reading or some such until he had called.

  He prepares to speak again, but she presses on.

  “You’ve
been at it for a full week now. Have you learned anything?”

  “Yes,” he says, sipping from the brandy, letting the warmth have its way with him, “But you know as well as I do that the Three Books comprise a mystery of their own. They do not easily reveal the secret. It is another of the reasons we do not fully understand them. Were they written as a safeguard or as a weapon of annihilation?”

  She sighs, and he pauses in his sudden drift into musing, his eyes blinking back to her crisp image. He knows his own is being relayed to her, the small, state-of-the-art camera even set to track his movement.

  “You and your father are much better at this than I am,” she remarks, and he nods. “Though I did have an interesting talk with Nicole.”

  “Oh?” he leads, eyebrows perking, and he slips into the fine, cushioned leather chair.

  “You were out late tonight,” she observes, “And you sound a bit anxious. Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, everything is fine,” he says, giving a very slight curl to his lips.

  “Anything on Denman?” she shifts gears again, mentioning the Malkuth who had recently come on staff at the university.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. I am sparing some surveillance to that end, but I’d think that less attention from us would be the better method.”

  “Yes, well, if we’re to assume he does not know you are there. He’s very subtle and tricky.”

  “Yes,” he nods slowly, deeply, “I know,” exhaling at length through his nose, as he looks away, pondering. “I might risk more general observation.”

  “Has he been to see the Book?” she asks. “If he is there, they obviously suspect, and the first place he’d look would be the library’s collection.”

  “That is quite an assumption,” he replies, eyes back to hers, and he notes the narrowing. “Not of which I am aware,” he tries to placate by answering her question, “I have been spending a good portion of the days there, and he has not stopped by when I’ve been there. I can’t exactly ask the librarian if he has been by. That would arouse too much suspicion.”

  “We just need to get that book out of the collection.”

  “I am working on that, but it seems the university is not in any mood to part with it. They have money, so offering an endowment may be less attractive than the prestige of having the book itself.”

  “Then offer them more.”

  He exhales, pausing in his response to sip of his brandy, “The negotiations are underway. It has only been a week. I cannot appear too eager. I am sure the Malkuths would be watching for something of that sort, just as are we.”

  “If we’re to assume they know the book is in the collection at all,” she hurls a barb at him, a self-satisfied smirk to her lips.

  He grins, a forced exhalation of breath though his nostrils, “Yes, Mother.”

  They both share a short chuckle at that.

  “Oh, I spoke with Charleston,” she brings up, and he raises his chin, eyes widening to a more open, neutral gaze. “He’s found a few decent choices. He’ll need your input, of course, but I helped to eliminate some more obvious options.”

  “Thank you,” he gives a warm smile, “I’ll contact him tomorrow.”

  She nods, also smiling, “Nicole may also call you tomorrow. She has some ideas on how to assess and protect the situation.”

  “Alright,” he acquiesces, for there is little reason to object, and he senses it would result in an argument.

  His sister has quite different methods than his own, her attunement to certain ways far out-stripping anything in recent history. It sometimes worries him, to be honest, as though her mind had evolved beyond typical human expectation. She can be very useful with particular things, but he worries she’d compromise the subtlety required here. She is certainly not that reckless, but the very uniqueness of her presence and methods may be a beacon.

  “I’ll let you go, then,” she offers another warm smile, “Good night, Skot. I love you.”

  “Good night, Mom. I love you, too,” and the call is ended.

  He sits for a moment, in the silence, computer powered down, as he ponders his evening’s activities - going out on the date, seeming to be pushing toward establishing something romantic with Lilja. He is taken by it and quite obviously by her. He had not expected something like this at all, but he is also not inclined to ignore such attraction. He knows she is also experiencing it.

  He had let the thought pass his mind of telling his mother, but he would not have anticipated the most positive of responses. He has been single for many years now, and though he knows she’d like him to find someone, she worries of his being hurt as he was before. She’d also likely be displeased with the age disparity between himself and the young curator-librarian, warning him that a young lady would be more apt to want children. He smirks to himself at that thought, as if she’d not want more grandchildren.

  It is always a precarious thing when bringing someone new into the family, though such thoughts regarding that are obviously premature. He still ponders them, though, for he knows this is not some casual attempt at dating and pleasurable distraction while he is at work here. There is something about her which pulls at him deeply, a particular quality that he finds nigh undeniable. He shall continue.

  Chapter Four

  People mill about in the briefing room, some seated in the available metal chairs, which only provide a modicum of comfort and stability, others content to stand. The general level of chatter subsides as the captain enters. The older man walks to the front of the room, shirt sleeves rolled up, looking to already be under stress this early in the shift. The initial talk follows usual routine, many attentions focused elsewhere until something out of the ordinary perks everyone up.

  “Kenneth?” the captain calls out, looking over at the so-named detective, “How are things coming with the vigilante?”

  “No new sightings. We’re still going through initial intelligence gathering, checking city camera records, sending out officers all over the place to talk to people-.”

  “What?” the captain interrupts, brow wrinkling, “We don’t want the general public to know about this.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kenneth affirms, nodding, “We’re being discreet.”

  “Right, good,” the captain says, pondering, then, “You’ve got enough help?”

  “Yes, sir. In addition to the original Task Squad, Detectives Sladky and Contee have volunteered to help.”

  The captain looks over at Alec and Quain, “You two find out anything useful yet?”

  “No, sir,” Quain speaks up.

  “Alright, well, keep at it. We need some results … soon.”

  General nodding occurs from most of those on the special squad as the captain pauses, collecting his thoughts.

  “Alright,” he says, as an obvious preamble, gaining even more attention from the tone, “Some of you have heard, but last night we had a bad murder. A young lady, late teens to early twenties, was found dead, pretty much gutted, very messy scene. It’s been given to Pasztor and Mahler, but here’s the part that has to remain in-house,” and this perks up the already poised focus. “It’s not the first. Forensics has related it to another, similar homicide from almost a month ago. This one was another female, twenty-three years old, unlicensed sex worker. It’s also looking like this most recent one was in the same trade, too. We’re still waiting on all the necessary results, but we may have a serial killer here.”

  This gets a rise of murmured reactions from the group, some particular expletives piercing above the din.

  “Alright, calm down, people,” the captain presses. “This is being shared as a courtesy, and just in case anything comes up that could be useful. We don’t want this getting out of control. We’re having a press conference today.”

  “Is that a good idea?” chimes in one of the detectives.

  The captain cuts his eyes over, the steel within them evident, “We’re having a press conference today,” he repeats. “You all know the r
outines. This is bad news for us, and with that vigilante thing … well, we don’t need it. Let’s get out there and get results, or people will think we’re useless.”

  *****

  The media is a difficult beast to control, especially in this Information Age. The prevalence of such data, though, may present its own challenge with all the chaff hiding the promising wheat. There are those quite adept at monitoring such things, especially if they possess the acumen to properly coax and even manipulate the coded language riding the infrastructure of the data highways.

  Articles and tidbits have been marked, cross-referenced, verified. There shows no tremendous effort to hide this story, but it certainly does not warrant the fanfare of some banner headline on popular news sites. What this may say of society is largely not the concern of the one who has taken note. Reliable conclusions have been discerned, even reports accessed that should not be available to the general public, but hacking is not out of the equation here. The trail of breadcrumbs is really quite visible if one only knows where to look.

  The unfortunate young lady had been kidnapped three days ago. Tomorrow marks the deadline for her ransom, and her family may barely manage to come up with the money. They had been told, of course, to not go to the police, but they did. This afforded more information to those who may know how to find such. The modus operandi was quite regular for this criminal organization, what with their continued procurement of humans for ransom, or slavery. Another of their methods is to promise people passage from the East to the West, then charge them unexpected and exorbitant fees once they are away from home and support. If they cannot pay, they find themselves forcibly indentured, to put it mildly. This poor girl still stands a chance of joining many others as a drug-addicted slave in the sex trade, and she is barely seventeen.