The Lost Seal: A Seal Romance

by Bell, Victoria

  Chapter 4 - Antoine

  When I wake up, she’s gone. It’s good because I’m already late. I just go to work as-is, with yesterday’s rumpled clothes; it’s not like they care at this point. They know I have an important job to do.

  Cracking an enemy agent doesn’t come easy, after all.

  So, after I get downstairs and get in my car, it’s only a few minutes until I pull up to the familiar building. Technically, I do work at IT – or did. Technically, my agency doesn’t even exist.

  When I arrive at my desk, Deidre comes over immediately.

  “A word in my office, Antoine?”

  I follow her past turned heads. Everyone knows what’s going on; this is the biggest case we’ve had in weeks.

  Inside, her over-air conditioned, the over-lite icy tomb of an office. Deidre herself is a sight to see – grey-white hair slicked back so tightly that it seems to pull the rest of her face up too.

  She’s sitting across from me, regarding me like I’m some flailing lizard in a cage.

  “She arrived on Saturday,” she says, and I nod.

  That’s what you do with Deidre; she talks, states asks – you only have one job: if asked, to answer.

  “And everything has been going smoothly. You’ve been growing closer.”

  Another nod.

  “So, you have some new information for me?”

  I shake my head.

  “I thought-”

  She holds up an ice pick-like finger.

  “Ah, ah, ah. I thought this was a job you wanted.”

  I open my mouth, but she just wags her finger.

  “Now Antoine, let me tell you. Most of the other executives didn’t think you were a good choice. Of course, everyone wanted to support you in your time of need, after the tragedy. But only I saw that determination in your eyes; only I stuck my neck out for you.”

  Her eyes narrow as she wags that icicle-like finger once more and her voice drops to a low husk.

  “Don’t make me regret my decision.”

  At this, I have no choice; I have to speak up.

  “With all due respect, Deidre. It’s been two days that she’s been here – I’m expected to get information out of her in two days, build trust in two days?”

  Deidre gives me a long slow blink.

  “I don’t think you comprehend just how much interest is in this case, how many higher powers are getting involved. Phoebe Williamson was the Japanese Mafia's top agent – responsible for hundreds of deaths. Need I remind you that this is the very same mafia that-”

  “Killed my family, you don’t have to tell me,” I spit out before she can.

  We regard each other for a moment, a glazed sort of pity sliding over her face.

  “A sickening tragedy.”

  Her bony hand slides over, pats mine.

  “But Antoine, you’ve made a miraculous recovery. Two years and – when you assured me you were the man for the next case, I knew. You were. You are.”

  She nods, then shakes her head.

  “You are, but the powers that be are getting restless. You’re going to have to get me some information – something. Something about the way the mafia does business, their next target, something.”

  As her too-light eyes bore into mine, I find myself nodding, saying “I will.”

  And, as I walk out of there, I think of her, Phoebe, the way she curled into me last night under the stars, and I know I can. I will.

  Without a word to anybody, I leave the office; no one really expects me to do any of my usual work anyway. I only came back for this. To have a purpose, to get my revenge.

  The first thing I do once I get to my favorite park bench is sit down. There, I shake away the images released from Deidre’s crass mention of my “sickening tragedy” – the bloodied bodies in the neat paisley hotel bed, the screaming from I-don’t-know-where. Maybe me. Doctor Dingham said I wouldn’t talk for a week; she said I tried to kill myself over five times. I don’t remember that; I don’t remember much afterward – only a purposeless void of gray, of forgetting only to remember, of feeling happy for a second, only to feel the guilt rip through me. Even now, sitting here, I can hardly take it – what happened to my wife and child, can only bear it when I remind myself of what I’m doing now. Helping – doing good for a good cause, helping stop a bad, evil person. Yes, I was in the room when they debriefed everyone, heard about Phoebe’s brutal work – she was one of the worst.

  As I sit on the park bench and the wind throws some far-off flower smell on me, I watch one squirrel chase another. It’s hard to tell who’s in the right, seeing them like that; if the gray one was just mean and irritable for chasing the brown one, or if the brown had done something so horrific that it deserved to be chased and caught and put down.

  “This is for you Kuya, Fanny” I whisper and close my eyes.

  I’m off to a good start with Phoebe, that’s for sure. Although it’s strange. Phoebe, talking to her, being with her, you’d never guess. Never suspect that she was a cold-blooded killer.

  She’s a professional, that’s for sure. A cunning, manipulative sociopath, there’s no doubt about it.

  I take a deep breath.

  Yes, I’ll always have to be on my guard against her and her manipulations. She came here to escape, to escape punishment for what she’d done. She’s a born manipulator, and that’s why I can’t forget myself how I’ve been doing these past few days.

  I start walking back to my car. I’ll go back home, tell her some lies while she tells me some more. Be on your guard, Antoine, I remind myself. Because if you’re not, if you’re not as vigilant as you need be, you’re going to be fooled. You’re going to fall for this charming lying murderer.

  Back at home, she’s waiting for some pepperoni pizza.

  “I ordered more,” she says with a smile.

  I smile back at her, kiss her, pulling away just as it gets good. Staying on task is essential.

  “Would you like some wine?” I ask, opening the cupboard.

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” she asks.

  Laughing, I take out two wine bottles.

  “Who knows where the night will bring us.”

  At this, she smiles. Poor girl. If she knew where I intended this night to bring us, she wouldn’t be smiling at all.

  --

  After the pizza, we start with the red wine.

  “I thought we could make banana bread,” I suggest, placing a bunch of bananas on the table.

  Phoebe gets up in my face, wearing an amused, aroused smile. She smells like musk and thirst.

  “Is this to rub my failure in my face?”

  Her gaze goes to my lips. My lips go to her neck, then her ear.

  “Only if you want me to.”

  I rub my crotch against hers, then pull back. Irritation flashed across her face, then she shrugs.

  I take a step back, turn around. In the black of the kitchen window, I can see the flustered man that’s me. That’s horny and ready, but has a job to do.

  “We’ll need sugar and baking soda and raisins,” I say, reciting as I go through the cupboards. Each item is set on the table beside the bananas.

  When I turn to Phoebe, she looks less-than-enthused.

  “You can drink wine while I bake,” I offer, and she grins.

  “I know there was a reason I liked you.”

  She goes over to the couch to lie down, bringing the bottle with her. I blow a kiss, smile. The poor, poor evil bitch. She’s playing right into my hand. If only I could stop being so charmed every time she scrunches up her nose at one of my jokes...

  The banana bread takes longer to make than expected, but then again, Phoebe drinks faster than expected too. Finally, I leave the loaf to bake while I join Phoebe on the couch. When she offers me her once-again full wine glass, I take a sip. When she tries to kiss me, I turn my cheek.

  “What- what is it?” she asks.

  I speak to the couch cushion; I’ve never been a good liar.
/>
  “I don’t know it’s just – that’s the thing – I don’t know you. Not really.”

  Silence, then “I could say the same thing about you.”

  When I turn to her, her stare on me is cold and insistent. Clearly, this is going to be a trade, not an extraction.

  “What do you want to know?”

  But she shakes her head.

  “I don’t want to rip things out of you that you’re not ready to tell me.”

  I nod.

  “Ok.”

  “But if you want me to share things, then you’re going to have to do the same.”

  “It’s the little boy you want to know about, my Kuya, isn’t it?”

  “Antoine, I-”

  “He was six years old. His favorite color was blue; his favorite superhero was Superman. He and his mother were my world – they were ripped away from me, wrongly, unfairly.”

  She’s looking at me, her face twisted with a pained shock.

  “Your turn,” I snarl.

  But she’s shaking her head, retreating behind her wine glass.

  “It doesn’t work like that, Antoine. I-”

  “Your turn!” I yell.

  Her face contorting in despairing rage, her voice comes out robotic, mechanical.

  “After my mom had got sick, I started doing odd jobs, stealing. They caught me. They killed my mom and dad when I was 17. They were going to kill me too, but the leader saw something in me, I don’t know why. So, they took me to work when I could barely function. That’s why I was so good at it; I could hardly feel anymore. All I had left was my brother. He was all that mattered. They kept pushing me, farther and farther. And then, when I finally refused them, they killed him before I could save him. I ran off, hid. Got a fake identity, met you online.”

  As I gape at her, in that same robotic voice, she says “If they find me now, they’ll kill me.”

  I keep scanning her face, but there’s nothing on it – no expression, no feeling, nothing. She’s not lying, but she’s not telling the truth either. She doesn’t look like she’s lying, but she has to be, plain and simple.

  “If who finds you?” I ask, but she says nothing.

  “If who – what did you do?”

  But Phoebe only shakes her head, leaps up.

  “That’s enough for tonight.”

  She storms off, up the stairs. Her door slams. I wait, take another sip of wine, ignore the burning stink of the banana bread, try to calm my thoughts. Because she was lying, had to be. Because if she wasn’t, if what I knew to be true wasn’t, then where did that leave me?

  Chapter 5 - Phoebe

  Antoine is stumbling around when I wake up. I wait, let him go to work. I don’t want to see him, not right now.

  The whole morning, even on my third cup of coffee, last night’s conversation and its implications weigh heavy on me. Why had I told Antoine that – just spilled my story after a few cups of wine? Why did I trust him so much? And, more than that, why did he tell me about his dead kid, his wife so soon – what did it all mean? Was that tragedy why he had turned to get a mail order bride? It doesn’t make any sense.

  The only thing to do is to go wig shopping. The taxi driver that takes me to the mall is unhelpful at best when I ask her for suggestions, but it turns out downtown Toronto had a few surprises up its sleeve, as a drawn-out Google search and extended determined wander reveals.

  Party City has what I need, a whole row of mannequin heads, staring dully at me under beautifully colorful locks. Would they be so blasé if they knew what I was planning to use their lovely locks for? Probably not.

  The storekeeper is wigged herself. Fat-lipped and big-grinned, every wig I put on she declares “the absolute best!”. Although just a few wig swaps reveal that royal blue is my color, lime green is not. No matter, I’ll probably only use the disguise for a few weeks at most, while I get settled in Boston.

  That’s where I’m headed next, in a month, not a year how I originally planned.

  Later, inside McDonald’s bathroom with my new hair, I purse my lips at my almost unrecognizable reflection. Already the thought of leaving is uncomfortable; ever since that night on his roof – the second night I spent with him, no less, I’ve felt strangely attached to Antoine. But attraction aside, there’s no denying that something’s off, especially after how he acted last night. The sooner I leave, the better.

  Next stop is Starbucks. I use their Wi-Fi to search out bus tickets; I wouldn’t put it past Antoine, the IT whiz, to unearth my search history if he wanted to. My search doesn’t take long; it’s obvious that Greyhound’s 7:30 am bus is perfect. It’s early enough to slip out without Antoine noticing, late enough that I won’t spend the whole ride cursing my tired existence.

  I get home almost simultaneously to Antoine.

  “Perfect timing,” he says with a smile that falls soon after.

  He closes the door behind him and touches my back.

  “Phoebe, about last night.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, “Really. We probably just had too much wine and too little sleep.”

  Antoine shakes his head.

  “No, it was before that. I crossed the line – tried forcing something that shouldn’t be. I’m sorry.”

  And, as he hugs me, I say the expected “I’m sorry” too.

  “There’s somewhere that I want to take you,” he says.

  “Do I get to find out where?” I ask, only half-jokingly.

  But in response he only pats my shoulder, laughs. And yet, as he takes my hand, I can’t help feeling a little excited despite it all.

  Chapter 6 - Antoine

  Hopefully, the plan will work. As I drive us into downtown, a quick glance over reveals that Phoebe looks as oblivious as ever. I may have messed up last night, but I’m not going to mess up tonight.

  When we get to Nathan Philips Square, it’s already half-abandoned, as if the whole building itself was in cahoots with me. The elevator arrives immediately and deposits us efficiently on the roof.

  “Wow,” Phoebe says as we step out.

  I squeeze her hand.

  “You haven’t seen nothing yet.”

  The whole place is lush and green with grass and vegetation. The air is cool and clear. We’re alone here.

  I lead us to my favorite bench, sit down, pat the space beside me. Phoebe sits beside me, so our legs are touching.

  “What’s this about?” she asks quietly. I shrug.

  “Does everything have to be something?”

  She nods.

  “What about us – what’s that about then?” I challenge her. She meets my gaze. Maybe it’s the reflection in them, but they look very sad.

  “I don’t know,” she says finally. I grasp her hand tightly.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re here; we get along better than either of us could have expected – what more can you want?”

  Her hand is limp in mine; her “You’re right” response similarly so. I try a different tactic.

  “I never asked – where did you venture off to today?”

  “Oh, just some shopping downtown.”

  “Find anything good?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  The pizza arrives just in time. Just as the conversation has run out of fuel, what arrives but a dreadlocked boy carrying fuel in an orange Pizza Pizza box. He makes straight for us.

  “You Antoine Rivieras?”

  I nod, and he hands me the pizza. I hand him a 20; he grins and then he’s off.

  Phoebe is laughing.

  “You really didn’t.”

  Sitting back down, I open the pizza box, take out a slice and take a huge bite that envelops half the slice.

  “You’re right I didn’t. Now please go away while I enjoy this pizza I didn’t order.”

  Still laughing, Phoebe whacks me before grabbing two slices of her own.

  Stacking the two on top of each other, with the dough part on the outside and
the cheese, sauce, and pepperoni on the inside, she takes a bite of her sandwich-like creation. At the sight of this, I crack up so hard that I practically choke on my pizza.

  Once I finally get my breath again, I smile, put my hand on her leg.

  “It’s crazy that you’ve only been here a few days, I feel it’s been much longer.”

  “Really?” Phoebe says.

  “What – you don’t?” I ask, and she shakes her head.

  Lifting up a slice, she turns it, so the dough side is facing me.

  “I feel like I’ve met this side of you – the underside of the pizza. The one you show to most people. The one that’s public-appropriate, relatable, likable. Good.”

  She turns the hanging slice so that the mass of sauce, cheese, and pepperoni is facing me.

  “This side, however, the real gooey stuff – most people never really show that to each other. Even family members usually don’t. It’s too unexpected, scary, too horrible.”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t tell most people about Kuya and my wife. Do you tell most people about your parents and brother?”

  Phoebe shrugs.

  “True, but even those stories were edited.”

  To more of my protests, she just shakes her head, shrugs again, smiles.

  “I’m not saying that it’s a good or bad thing, it just is. The real problem is thinking that it should be different, are people only connecting if they see someone’s gooey gross top half. That’s not what I’m suggesting.”

  In spite of myself, I’m smiling.

  “What are you suggesting then?”

  Phoebe takes my other hand.

  “Taking what we have for what it is for now. Accepting the underside of the pizza, liking it. I can enjoy yours if you can enjoy mine.”

  There’s such a simple happiness in her eyes, in her shy half-smile, it’s infectious; I find myself saying “Ok,” before I can think better of it.

  As soon as I bite into another pizza, the guilt returns. I can’t be true to what she said; there’s no way. I have a mission to do, and this woman, this conniving killer can’t be trusted anyway.