by C. J. Sears
She hesitated. “Llewyn?”
No, it couldn’t be. He was gone, far from here. That wasn’t his voice. It was an imposter, someone to lower her guard so they could get the drop on her.
“He’s hurt,” said the woman.
What if she was telling the truth? Donahue couldn’t take the risk. She kept her gun trained on the blonde as she stepped forward.
For a moment, as she came around the corner and caught the first glimpse, she thought he was dead, crumpled against the wall. Like so many bodies back in Lone Oak.
“Willow,” he breathed, “how’s Clarissa?”
It was him. Donahue dropped her gun and ran over to him. Llewyn was holding his right shoulder, bleeding. He’d been shot. It looked bad.
“Hurts like a son of a bitch,” he said, seeing where her eyes had traveled and acknowledging the obvious conundrum. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“She’s fine,” Donahue said, holding back the panic from her voice. “What happened?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. I leapt before I looked. Snooped in the wrong places. Pissed someone off.” He winced as she touched his wound. “That doesn’t help.”
“We need to get you to a hospital. You’ll bleed out if we don’t.”
“NO!” shouted the blonde woman. Who was she, anyway? Llewyn had never mentioned her.
“He’s going to die if we don’t. The bullet went clean through, which is good, but he’s still losing a lot of blood.”
“We can’t take him to a hospital. That’s where they’ll expect him to be.”
Donahue frowned. “Where who will expect him to be? What’s your name and what is going on?”
“Kasey,” she said, “Kasey Alexander. But that doesn’t matter now. There’s too much to explain and we’re drawing attention.”
She was right about that at least. Spooked neighbors shuffled into the hallway.
“There’s a first aid kit in the medicine cupboard,” Llewyn mumbled. “You can wrap the wound. Stop the bleeding.”
With astonishing strength, Donahue heaved him to his feet and carried him inside the apartment while Kasey distracted the neighbors. She carried him to the bed, laid him gently on the covers. Clarissa eyed her master from underneath.
Fishing the kit out of the bathroom cabinet, Donahue struggled to think straight. What ridiculous mess had Llewyn gotten himself into? What was the big idea, leaving her by herself in this crummy apartment while he went off to get himself shot? Didn’t he see how stupid that was so soon after the shit they went through in Lone Oak?
Her anger at him evaporated when she saw his meek figure lying on the bed, barely able to muster the strength to scratch Clarissa behind the ears. Now she was mad at herself. He was the one who needed help.
She tore the shirt off his body to get a better look at the wound before she wrapped it up. Definitely a handgun round, possibly a nine-millimeter. If it was government issued…better not to think about it.
Donahue finished tying the bandage around the wound and pressed Llewyn’s hand against it. What else? She grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under his legs. He needed to stay elevated, to keep the blood flowing to his brain. And he would need to drink something too and frequently at that.
She was glad she read those medical journals after everything that had happened to her and Llewyn. Donahue was prepared this time. Unlike with Rick.
Her brother wasn’t someone she liked to think about. Too soon to remember what killed him and what Rhinehold forced her to watch unfold. If that false idol had a grave, she’d spit on it.
Kasey shut the now useless apartment door as Donahue filled a glass with water. Donahue couldn’t help but notice that the blonde carried herself with an aloofness that Llewyn didn’t possess. How did he know her? And why hadn’t he mentioned her before?
Ignoring her for now, Donahue went back to the bedroom. Llewyn was still awake. Clarissa snuggled next to his uninjured side. Donahue tilted the glass of cool refreshment into his open mouth.
“Thanks,” he said after he gulped down the water. “What would I do without you?”
“Get shot, apparently.”
He cracked a smile. “Details. How’ve you been?”
“Llewyn, I don’t think you should talk right now. You’re hurt and you need to rest.”
The smile disappeared. “I’ve been running all over the country this past week with no one but Kasey and psychopaths to keep me company. A bit of warm conversation with Willow Donahue is exactly what the doctor prescribed. Now, how have you been?”
She sighed. “Bored, mostly. And worried about you.”
He stopped clutching his injured shoulder, laid his hand over hers. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Llewyn, you need to keep pressure on the wound.”
He ignored her. “I’ve missed you,” he said, caressing her palm.
She smiled. “I bet. But the Llewyn I know isn’t this clingy. Bullet must’ve rattled your brain.”
The former agent laughed in spite of his pain. “You know me so well. I thought I heard wedding bells but maybe it was a whisper in the wind.”
Donahue rolled her eyes. “I see your sense of humor has flown the coop. Is Llewyn S. Finch still in there or has he been replaced with an android?”
“Squall,” he said.
“What?”
“The S stands for Squall. I have Native American ancestry. Chippewa, I think.”
“Are you sure you’re not delirious?”
He shook his head. “Nope. My great-grandfather was half-and-half. His name was Soaring Finch. I guess I was born during a storm or something, so they called me Squall.”
Her mouth refused to close. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Nope,” he said, giving her a rueful smile.
“I don’t think we can be together anymore, Llewyn. If the S stood for Steven or Scott, sure, fine, whatever. I’d even settle for Sebastian. But Squall is a step too far.” She shot him a smirk and feigned getting up and walking away.
He coughed. “Damn it, don’t make me laugh. I figured I might as well tell you now, seeing as I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. I’m going to take care of you. I’d rather take you to a hospital, but that’s not an option. For some reason.”
He hissed as a fresh wave of discomfort hit him. Clarissa opened her eyes, concerned for her master. “Maybe I’m not dying,” he grunted through the pain, “but it sure as hell feels like it.”
“You’ll be fine.” She hoped.
He closed his eyes and soon started snoring.
“Sleep well, Llewyn ‘Squall’ Finch.”
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. Cold sweat soaked her lips. At least he was home. With her.
“We can’t stay here,” Kasey said, breaking the comfortable silence. “We need to leave.”
What was with this woman? Couldn’t she see that Llewyn wasn’t going anywhere?
“He’s in no fit state. It takes weeks to recover from a wound like this and months to heal.”
If Kasey heard what Donahue said, she pretended otherwise. “We can’t be here overnight. I’ll stand guard. Give me your gun.”
Part of her wanted to argue with the blonde, but at least this way she could keep all her attention on Llewyn. Besides, hadn’t this Kasey brought him here, kept him safe? Sure, she seemed to have the social niceties of an irate grizzly bear, but she had done enough to earn a little trust. Just a little.
“Fine,” said Donahue, handing the Smith & Wesson over to Kasey, “but give him an hour at least. We’re not rushing this.”
Kasey nodded. “Good. With any luck we’ll be out of here before the Smiling Man’s goons return.” She walked away, pulled up a stool, and aimed the gun at the broken door.
Who the hell was the Smiling Man?
REFUGE
Llewyn needed a haircut. His bangs were almost as long as hers, although not as wavy. The rich tufts descended over his brown eyes like chocolate-co
lored waterfalls.
Donahue found it easier to focus on trivialities like that compared to acknowledging how rough her companion looked. Bullet wound? That was nothing. If only his hair was shorter, then he’d be fine.
She sighed, her mind still unsure how to process the federal agent’s less than glorious return. It chose banalities and sarcasm rather than embracing cold reality.
He faded in and out of consciousness, mumbling non sequiturs. She heard phrases like “Founder’s Formula” and “Smiling Man” in addition to her own name—and Kasey’s. Donahue tried to piece together a coherent story, but none of it made sense.
She held his hand as he slept, keeping an eye on the bandage around his shoulder. The bleeding had mostly stopped. She took that as a good sign. They still should’ve gone to a hospital. Even if the woman was right about that being what this Smiling Man expected, how could he possibly watch all of them?
The only way to gain peace of mind was to get answers. She decided to talk to Kasey.
Llewyn’s mysterious acquaintance hadn’t budged from her position facing the door. Clarissa sat in her lap, her fluffy ears being stroked by the blonde woman. Traitor.
“Would you mind telling me what’s going on? How did Llewyn get shot? Who is the Smiling Man? And who are you?”
She launched her questions quick as an archer loosing arrows. This was urgent, a matter of life and death. Donahue had to know the truth if she wanted to help Llewyn get the care he needed.
“I’m his partner,” the blonde said.
Kasey refused to look at her, so intent on guard duty.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, Donahue said, “I wasn’t aware it worked like that. Llewyn’s never mentioned you.”
“Sorry,” said the blonde, “I misspoke. I was his partner when BOPAC first started up. We hadn’t spoken in five years. I only recently came back.”
“BOPAC?”
Kasey nodded. “It’s what we called ourselves. Biological, Occult, Paranormal, and Anomalous Crime. Not an official name.”
Donahue had to admit it was better than what she had come up with. “So why doesn’t he ever talk about you if you go way back?”
“We were lovers,” Kasey said. “Were being the operative word.”
The woman didn’t mince her words. Donahue felt her cheeks burn. The pit of her stomach drooped as if she’d swallowed a lead weight.
“So you were, uh, intimate. Why couldn’t he tell me?”
Kasey shrugged, the gun still pointed at the door. “Maybe he was ashamed of how we broke up. Maybe he still had feelings. Whatever we had, it’s gone.”
Donahue couldn’t help but feel somewhat sorry for her. The distracted, longing way she spoke, Kasey’s heart clearly ached.
“Why did you break up?”
The blonde shut her eyes, recalling a painful memory. “After one of our late night rendezvous, he surprised me with a ring. He wanted marriage. I didn’t, so I said no. We fought and…”
She trailed off. Again, Donahue felt pity. She had one failed marriage herself, a stupid high school romance. He was a juvenile creep, but she kept the name.
“Well, that’s that. But you still haven’t answered my other questions.”
“Where do you want me to begin?”
“What happened after you got arrested?”
Kasey frowned. “You might want to pull up a seat. It’s a bit outlandish.”
She hadn’t noticed before, but the blonde beauty had the slightest hint of a British accent.
Donahue declined her suggestion. “I’m fine standing, thank you. And I know something about crazy stories.”
“Alright. Let’s see. We couldn’t find anything on Sinclair’s cellphone, but the shooter sent us a text message demanding we meet him at a secluded location.”
“Llewyn sprang the trap, didn’t he?”
“Of course. So we went to an abandoned farmhouse. Turned out the sniper, John Wesley Herman, was an ex-Marine. And a lunatic hillbilly. He chased Llewyn through a junkyard with his dogs and a chainsaw.”
Donahue fought the urge to laugh at how absurd it was. Only Llewyn Finch could manage to stumble onto a psychopath killer in the middle of nowhere.
“I took Herman out of the game,” Kasey continued, “and we brought him back to headquarters. After they fixed his hand, he informed us that a key player—the one Sinclair met with—ran the Fairvale Research Center.”
Donahue’s wild theory was right. Llewyn had something to do with that mess in the article.
“You went undercover?”
It was a good guess. “Right. Our orders were to infiltrate the FRC, gather what data we could, and exit with Demi Conroy as our prisoner.”
“Risky,” said Donahue, “but I guess it worked. What did you learn?”
“They’re still running analysis on the data. Conroy said enough that we didn’t need it. Her, alongside this Smiling Man, have been working on a kind of reagent. They want to make some kind of super-soldier formula. Slaves. That’s why they needed the Lone Oak parasite.”
Donahue was appalled. The creature was disgusting and evil enough on its own. Using it to enhance the capabilities of infantrymen, taking away their freedoms, was another level of insanity.
“How are they doing this? The military wouldn’t be able to keep something like that a secret.”
“We don’t know who the Smiling Man is or who he’s running these tests for. But Sinclair thought they worked for a government agency. After what occurred next, I’m inclined to believe him.”
“What happened?”
“We’d posted guards outside Herman’s hospital room, but someone dosed his pills. Then another man forced Conroy to bite down on a cyanide tablet. Both our key witnesses are dead.”
Shit. “So that’s when you came here?”
Finally, they’d come to the part she both dreaded to hear and had to accept.
“Llewyn was at the front door when I spotted a suspicious man stepping out of a limousine. He was holding a gun. I tried to warn Llewyn, but he couldn’t hear me over the rain.”
Donahue tried to imagine what it would’ve been like to see him whole and smiling in her doorway. All she saw was a bloodied man sagging against a wall and looking like death.
“They shot him with a silenced handgun.” Kasey’s voice cracked. “I-I tried to stop them, but it was too late. They got away.”
A mix of emotions welled up inside Donahue. Anger. Fear. Sadness. Not at Kasey, but at the fact that Llewyn couldn’t seem to escape the clutches of destiny. Perhaps none of them could.
“So you think these people—whoever they may be—are waiting to finish him off? We can’t, say, get a hold of your boss to help us out?”
Kasey shook her head. “I don’t know who to trust. No one is supposed to know where any of us live. It’s not kept on record. If Sinclair wasn’t the only mole…”
“You think it’s possible you were set up?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not ruling it out.”
Llewyn moaned from the bedroom. Donahue walked back to see how he was doing. Clarissa jumped down to follow. Kasey watched them leave.
He appeared to be having a fever dream. His head swiveled, his eyes blinking wildly. She hoped he didn’t already have an infection.
“It’s my fault,” he grunted.
His fault for what? Did he still believe he was the harbinger of death?
“I should’ve stopped it. I tried, but—I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Llewyn. I’m sure you did your best,” she said, not entirely convinced that he could hear her.
“No! No! NO!”
His shouting reminded her of the mournful cries of a wolf who’d lost his pack. Whatever turmoil was going on inside his head must’ve been almost as terrible as his physical pain.
“Relax,” she said, trying to calm him down, “you’re going to get through this. Think happy thoughts.”
His eyes shot open. He seized her arm and wouldn’
t let go. He wasn’t really looking at her, wasn’t really there.
She stared into his bloodshot gaze. “Llewyn, what’s the matter?”
“Please forgive me,” he said, his voice softening, his head tilting back.
Whatever it was that he thought he’d done, whatever mistake or transgression he thought he’d made, Donahue decided it didn’t matter. He was hurting and she wouldn’t let him suffer.
“I forgive you,” she said, although she knew he couldn’t hear her, so distant in his own mind, in his waking dream.
He smiled and closed his eyes, content, falling back into the sturdy mattress and silky covers.
She couldn’t hold back the salty streams any longer. Her tears spilled like drainage released from a sluice. Tiny rivulets flowed down her cheeks, colorless beads wetting the bed.
*
Finch felt no pain in his arm. That was the first thing he realized when he woke up on the bench in Pastor Hartman’s church. In fact, there was nothing wrong with his arm at all. By magic or miracle, he’d been healed.
But comfort was far from him and he had questions that needed answered. Why was it so dark? Where was Hartman? Alarm bells not only went off but exploded in his head.
This was not the quaint, homely, and decaying community building he remembered. It was the fleshy darkness of the dream, the recurring nightmare made manifest once more.
He expected the familiar sight of Willow’s scarred corpse, but she was missing. No voices were present to accuse him of his crimes, no one to express the breadth of his depravity and sin. All was silent.
The door to Hartman’s office was ajar and projected the only pillar of light into the room. As if he’d been holding his breath for millennia, Finch exhaled and stood from the bench. His steps were soft and almost soundless, like a kitten prancing along carpet.
He nudged the door open the rest of the way. No Hartman, but he saw that the light was coming from an old film projector. Finch didn’t recognize the movie playing, but it was in black and white and so grainy that he thought it had actual texture.
On the screen, a little boy with dark brown hair played on the living room floor next to a fair-haired girl. Finch presumed it was the boy’s sister. Scattered wrapping paper littered the floor. The picture in the frame jostled and swayed; the camerawork was not at all professional. It must’ve been a home movie.
