Cloak and Dagger (The IMA)

by Nenia Campbell

  “Wait.”

  I paused in the doorway without turning around. I was breathing hard, winded almost. My facial muscles felt spasmodic. “What?” That sounded too abrasive. I tried again, “What is it?”

  “Adrian didn't…he didn't rape me.”

  I whirled around. “Do you expect me to believe that? With what he did to your face, and your neck, and your body, and your — fuck.”

  “He wanted to make you angry. He wanted you to think that.”

  I tugged at the taut skin of my cheeks. “That sounds too convenient. You're lying.”

  “No! I'm not! He tried to bargain with me first. He had a drug — like a date rape drug — that he wanted me to slip into your drink…and seduce you. That's what it sounded like.”

  “Really.” I went cold. Because we both knew I would have drunk it.

  “It's not like that, what you're thinking!”

  “And what am I thinking, darlin?”

  “I don't know! But I'm telling the truth!” She looked at me then, with unhappy eyes. “He hurt me only because I refused to hurt you! He hurts me because it hurts you! Don't you get that? Don't you understand what that means?”

  I stormed into the darkened kitchen, slamming the bottle of calamine against the varnished counter top. It bounced unsatisfactorily. I searched for something else, ended up settling for my fist. The pain was exquisite, but did nothing to balance out the turmoil I felt inside. I cursed, cradling my head and wishing I could squeeze out my headache with my bare hands.

  He hurt me because I refused to hurt you.

  He hurts me because it hurts you.

  Was I that transparent? A soft shuffling sound from behind made me tense. Yes. I knew who it was. I could recognize her footfalls out of a crowd of fifty.

  “He gave you the perfect out,” I said. “Freedom and vengeance, all in one swing. Why didn't you take it?”

  “That would be evil.”

  “Darlin, from what you've been saying all this time, so am I.”

  Christina shook her head. “No, you're not evil. Confused and damaged — and maybe even corrupted — but not evil. Not heartless.” She paused. “You told me you loved me.”

  I shook my head. “I said emotions make people weak, too. Fucking look at me now. Look at you. Look what love gave us. You're worth ten of me.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. When I saw the expression on her face — pity, for me — I would have done anything in the world to take them back.

  Christina:

  I thought for a moment he was going to get angry again, but his face smoothed out and became blank. You're worth ten of me. His words made me uncomfortable. I wasn't so great. I'd considered taking Adrian up on his offer. Even now, seeing Michael sad and repentant made a small, dark part of me feel vindicated. “It was the right thing to do,” I said uncertainly.

  “Are you sure?” He sounded skeptical, as well.

  “No…”

  “Well, it's too late now.”

  “I've been thinking a lot about what you said. About…loving me.” The way his eyes regarded me made me uncomfortable. With effort, I pressed on. “I'm not sure I'll ever be able to reciprocate your feelings. But I don't want to betray you, either. If you've found love…” I hesitated, about to say something about God, and how good it was that he had let Him into his heart, but decided against it. “Then that's good. It's like riding a bicycle; once you start, it's impossible to forget. It shows there's some good in you.”

  He shrugged. “You'd be the first to say so.”

  “There's a first time for everything.”

  “Hallmark sentiments.” Michael raised an eyebrow, leaning back in the chair provocatively. “Does that mean you're not at all attracted to my body?”

  I went red. “E-excuse me?”

  “It's a reasonable enough thing to ask. We both know I won't be winning any Miss Congeniality contests — and you don't need to be in love with me for me to show you a good time.”

  Tears jumped to my eyes. “What the hell are you — ”

  “Joke. It was a joke, darlin. Even I have my limits.” His face was torn. “First things first, though. You still have injuries you've been keeping from me.” He leaned down and picked up the bottle of calamine lotion, gesturing with his hand for me to sit on his lap. “Strip to the waist.”

  Michael:

  Her words had filled me with a warmth I didn't know I was capable of; a warmth I had been quick to suppress, because of the absent chill that would follow in its wake. I didn't think I had the capacity for affection — not the kind she wanted. I didn't say this, though. I wasn't a complete bastard. If she liked to think she saw good in me, if she wanted to take credit for it, I'd let her. She deserved that much.

  I tried to remain clinical and distanced, but when she took off the remains of her shirt I got a raging hard-on, mobbed by recollections of the one night we'd had together. Callaghan wasn't the only sick fuck around here. There was a thin line between rough-and-tumble sex and outright sadism. If I'd had my way with her at the beginning, I might have done something similar to her. The thought filled me with regret and disgust.

  Christina made a sound of pain, pulling away. Then she wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face in my throat. I froze, startled, as the heat of her tears soaked into my wife beater. She was shaking with sobs. I ran my hand down her spine, as if she were a cat. This made her cry harder, and I yanked my arm back as if I'd been burned.

  After a long silence broken only by whimpers, she said raggedly, “He was just like how you used to be.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “So fucking sorry.”

  “That won't make me forget.” She hid her face again. “It won't change how I feel. God, why — ” Christina broke off, adding tautly, “You've changed. We've both changed.”

  I had certainly changed. For the worse. She probably wouldn't agree, but she'd have been safer with the old me. At least then I'd have been able to do what it took to keep her alive.

  But she wouldn't have been happy. She would have been miserable, broken down until she was a mere shadow of herself.

  She slept in my bed that evening anyway, curled into me, in my bed, wearing my shirt: the only thing in my bedroom that didn't belong to me. There was too much damage; Adrian had burned that bridge between us. She would forevermore associate my forcing myself on her with his sadistic abuse. And I couldn't let myself soften anymore for her sake, either, or we both would die. I was fucked, and not in the way I wanted to be.

  Early the next morning I slipped out of bed, tugged on my shirt, and punched a familiar string of digits. Kent picked up in the middle of the first ring. “Hello?”

  “It's me.”

  “Michael? I'm glad you're OK. I managed to locate the girl's parents. It wasn't easy, but since it was for you…”

  “Thanks, but that's not why I called.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Not exactly. I need a favor.”

  “I'll see what I can do. What kind of favor?”

  So I told him.

  I told him everything.

  Christina:

  I woke up alone.

  His side of the bed was ice cold, which hurt me to the quick, until I remembered that this was his apartment; he had to take me home. He wouldn't just leave me alone. I wrapped myself in the blanket and got out of bed, where I promptly tripped over something. It was a bottle. I gasped, hoping I hadn't spilled any on the pristine, white carpet, but the bottle was completely dry. Had that been there the night before? I hadn't seen him drinking, and would have noticed the smell of alcohol his breath. Seeing the bottle gave me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I sat down in his armchair to watch the rain as I waited for him to come back. The black leather didn't smell like him, and now that I thought about it, neither had the sheets.

  What did I really want? I didn't know the answer to that. I wasn't sure I wanted to. Thinking that all of the
things I had done for him had been on a solely physical basis made me feel cruel and vain. Because when it came down to it, I was a teenage girl, impressionable and easily impressed by a pretty face and abs. Michael, the bastard, just happened to have both.

  The door opened. I turned. Once again, the man wasn't Michael. It was the old guy—the one from the safe house. Kent.

  I took a step back, tugging the hem of Michael's shirt down as far as it would go. “What's going on? Where's Michael?”

  He took off his hat, respectfully. “Don't worry, Miss…Parker, was it?”

  “Christina,” I said, groping on the floor for some jeans without taking my eyes off him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I'm a friend.”

  How neatly he sidestepped the question, giving me a detailed answer without really telling me anything. Kent went right to the fridge and got a beer. He seemed to know his way around, so that was encouraging. I was scared, though. I wrapped my hand around the telephone, ready to use it as a weapon or call the police as necessary. “Kent?”

  Kent inclined his head in my direction. He didn't seem surprised I remembered his name.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Michael sent me.”

  He did? “Why?”

  “Because he is a young man and doesn't respond well to emotional crises.”

  “What…kind of crises?”

  Sighing, Kent produced an envelope. “This might explain things.” As he held it out to me, I noticed the seal was broken and glared at him. “He told me to read it first. I hope you don't mind.”

  I did, actually, but didn't say that as I took the envelope. It was a letter, addressed to me. There was no paper inside; the actual message was written on the flap.

  This man will take you to your parents. Trust him, he's a close friend of mine.

  And then, in much smaller writing,—

  Thank you for everything.

  “What is this?”

  “A goodbye.”

  “I got that part. Why?”

  “He loves you,” Kent said quietly.

  I crumpled the letter in my fist. “He doesn't act like it.”

  “He can't. He has no template for relationships. But those who know him well can tell…that he gets out of character around you. Which is why he can't afford to be around you. There are many people out there who would love to get back at that man. Families of those he's killed, rivals, clients of the IMA, many more. Michael can look after himself. But you…”

  He didn't say anything else; he didn't have to. I was easy prey.

  “He told me, and I quote, 'This softening she sees in me isn't enough to make me affectionate, but it's just enough to render me inept. I can't give her what she wants — virtuousness — or what she needs — protection.'” Kent shook his head. “He traveled from Michigan to Oregon with a bullet wound in order to save your life. It was rash. Reckless. Completely against his nature. I advised him against it. He insisted. He risked his life to save you and now that he's realized that you don't feel the same, he is doing it again by letting you go.”

  I remembered the strange expression on his face when he found out I wouldn't betray him to Adrian. The sad smile when I told him that his apartment suggested he enjoyed his solitude. I sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around at the lack of personal touches, like photographs and pictures. The apartment could have belonged to anyone. What would it be like, I wondered, to live a life without love? Maybe he didn't enjoy his solitude.

  “He has a hard life, Christina,” Kent said, reading my mind. “No family. Not many close friends. Out of those few, there's only one or two he would trust with his life. I am one of those lucky few. I'm not saying that what he did to you was justified — you are a young woman and he dragged you into many situations that were” — he coughed — “probably out of your league — but he must trust you quite a bit. Especially to confide in you like this. It's a big step for him.”

  I stared out the window. The cloudy sky that had been so beautiful this morning was now starting to depress me.“He's so selfish.”

  “I'm not trying to apologize for his behavior. But he did his best, in the end.”

  “In the end,” I agreed. It sounded pettish.

  “If you care about him, and yourself, you'll let him go. Some people,” and here, he sighed, looking wistful, “Truly aren't meant to be together.”

  I wondered who he was remembering. “Can I ask you a question?”

  He hesitated. “That depends.”

  “How old is he? He never told me his age…and I wondered…”

  I hated the pity on his face. “He just turned twenty-four.”

  “He's only six years older than me,” I whispered.

  “I'm sorry, Christina.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “We should probably leave soon. I suspect you may have been followed. Michael told me he found some bugs in the apartment this morning…”

  “All right.” I stood up. “Let me…um…get dressed first. I won't be long.”

  Five minutes later, I followed Kent out. I left the envelope on Michael's bed, torn into four jagged pieces. I didn't want to give him even the smallest hope. If he suspected I harbored any vestigial traces of affection for him, he would risk even more than he already had. And there would be people who would try to use me against him. To kill me. To kill him. I knew how this story ended. It was just as Kent had said, some people truly aren't meant to be together.

  As we left, I did not even allow myself to cry.

  505