Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  The result was not quite as he’d envisioned it: He’d reacted an instant too soon, leaving the cherry partially submerged in its rebound column. But after deliberation, he decided that he preferred the fault; the asymmetry made it seem more organic, which was an observation he found ironic. Satisfied, it was time for him to decide where and how to display the new piece.

  With the reopening of the south wing delayed, he could presumably release the new sculpture to sustain interest, but it could not be a part of the main exhibition. Despite the tenuous connection that he could draw between the cherry and ovaries—or perhaps even conception—he felt that its inclusion would detract from the wing’s purpose. However, it brought a new dilemma to light: Patrons would expect his own contribution to the exhibit, and he could create nothing less than the centerpiece. So what would capture the essence of the new wing?

  An idea formed out of his professional jealousy: If he truly wanted to surpass the masters, then he needed to create a work that exceeded Giovanni Strazza’s Veiled Virgin, which was his benchmark for realism. Costuming would be a concern; he needed to determine which fabrics could be translated satisfactorily into marble and how to drape the material over a form for maximum effect. He also needed to figure out what style of dress his subject would wear, and it would allude to the most famous mother, the Virgin Mary, and all the works that she inspired. However, the major stumbling block would be the subject herself.

  He had never worked with a human subject before, but his education prescribed that she should be a classical beauty who was full of grace, mystery, and sensuality. A woman like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn would be ideal, and it was a shame that he could no longer suspend them in their prime to preserve their splendor for later generations.

  He’d seen many human models over the years, and all had fallen short of the ideal in some manner. Many had been too young to be considered mothers, and some—particularly one model—had destroyed any air of mystery the moment they’d opened their mouths to speak. Worse, none of them had had that intangible je ne sais quoi that made the aforementioned movie stars irresistibly charming.

  He expanded his pool of candidates to women whom he met in his everyday life, including his assistant, Sitara Shah, and he rejected each of them in turn for the same lack of sophistication and allure until he considered Amanda Darling-Whitcomb. The former senator’s wife had the poise of New England aristocracy and the charm of a fifties housewife while maintaining the sharp mind of a pioneer suffragette. She had grieved publicly with grace while keeping enough cognizance to use the subsequent national sympathy to launch her own career, and she’d expertly countered any attempt to paint her as inexperienced. In her few years in office, she had become quite a formidable force.

  She also fit the definition of a classic beauty, using makeup to subtly enhance her natural good looks, and while she was on the thin side, she had developed enough of a matronly figure not to be mistaken for a girl. Even her personal style, from her hair to her wardrobe, was meant to reflect an earlier era.

  In short, she was the perfect subject. Now, however, came the planning stage, and he would have to be both crafty and precise to accomplish his goal.

  - - -

  Sitara appeared to have recovered somewhat from her ordeal when she opened the door. She looked refreshed, any dark circles beneath her doe eyes had been concealed by subtly applied makeup, and her dark hair was neatly pinned into a chignon. She was half-dressed, wearing a chiffon blouse in combination with plaid pajama pants, and she was barefooted. Her delicate smile fell slightly as she recognized her guests. “Officers,” she greeted with the forced politeness of an experienced host.

  “Good morning, Ms. Shah,” Connor said with his winningest grin. “Can we come in for a few moments?”

  Her lips turned further downward before she caught them, and self-consciously, she glanced behind her into her apartment. “I’m getting ready for work.”

  “Won’t take long, love,” he assured her. “We just have a few follow-up questions we’d like to ask so we can put the finishing touches on our report.” He retrieved his notepad from his jacket pocket and waved it at her, trying to be as disarming as possible.

  Sitara composed herself, smiling faintly, and nodded. “Alright,” she agreed and stepped aside to allow them entry. She didn’t offer them refreshments this time, opting instead to show them to her living room immediately, and she took a seat across from them. At first, she crossed her hands over her lap, and then, becoming embarrassed by her state of partial undress, she shifted them to her knees; the effect was a somewhat more dignified pose while shielding her worn, stained pajamas from view. She had mopped and dusted since yesterday, somehow making the already meagerly furnished apartment seem less cluttered, and now the air smelled of lemon and bleach in addition to eucalyptus, creating a sharp, almost offensive scent.

  Orion settled into the couch next to Connor, forcing himself to relax to reinforce his air of authority, whereas Connor propped his elbow on his knee as he pretended to skim his notepad. Dramatically with his pen in hand, he sniffed and began, “Now, I know you said the gallery was empty, save for you and Mr. Cole, but is it possible that you missed someone on your sweep?” Sitara inhaled. She was already starting to formulate a misleading response when Connor cut her off; he wanted to keep her off balance and make it harder for her to invent a plausible lie. “I’m asking because we came across something a bit odd,” he explained. “You noticed the spilled paint, of course. Well, unfortunately, it got tracked all over that nice floor by you, the paramedics, and anyone else who was there.”

  She shifted uncomfortably, clearing her throat. He’d seen a woman’s heels tracked from the coagulating lake and overlapping the mysterious bare feet, but her feet were too small to truly obscure the other prints, and in his haste to investigate Sitara’s employer, he’d disregarded the clue that she’d left behind. But his head had cleared after he’d viewed the surveillance tapes, allowing him to spot the traces of her tampering as they left Félicité; if he had acknowledged the trail that the video tapes had revealed sooner, they wouldn’t have run in unnecessary circles wasting time. “It was cleaned up, but that actually made it easier to see some bare footprints that had been made as well,” he continued seriously, watching her. “We think the owner of those footprints is the one who caused the accident.”

  She leaned back, sliding her hands up her thighs before wrapping one arm around herself; the other hand went to the nape of her neck, stroking it as if she were searching for stray strands of hair that had escaped her updo. “I suppose I could have missed somebody hiding in the bathroom.”

  “Of course. Can’t expect you to catch everyone. That’s the security guard’s job,” he said with an understanding, sympathetic smile. “Do you have any idea who this person could have been?”

  She shook her head. “We have a lot of traffic during the day,” she replied. She put her finger to her slim mouth as she thought, and then she offered, “I could check with the security guard… see if he saw anything suspicious or expelled anyone that day. It doesn’t happen very often.”

  He grinned wolfishly. “As it happens, we already spoke to the security guard,” he said in a mock-helpful tone. “Well, more like reviewed the tapes, and—”

  He was unexpectedly interrupted by a rhythmic knocking from one of the back rooms. He turned, trying to better understand the noise, which sounded like a closed door being repeatedly shoved against the jamb and strike plate. It was followed shortly by a soft, un-feline meow that continued like a cat demanding egress, and Connor gave Sitara a sidelong glance, eyeing her suspiciously.

  She reacted quickly, asserting, “Oh, that’s just the neighbor’s television. I’ve made complaints, but these walls are so thin.” Unfortunately, her explanation was immediately discredited by an ill-timed utterance from the back room that sounded faintly like a wh
impering of her name.

  He smiled sardonically. “I think I’d like to investigate just the same.” He rose, quickly crossing from her living room to the rest of her apartment, and Orion scrambled off the couch to follow him.

  “You can’t do that!” Sitara protested, her small stride struggling to catch up to his. The hallway adjoined the bathroom and what might have been her bedroom, and the doors to both were ajar. There was also a third room that had been barred with an impressive new deadbolt. Connor scowled at the plastic tub of water that was stretched across its entryway, and Sitara deftly leapt in front of him, admitting sheepishly, “Alright. I never stopped being haunted by the poltergeist.” She smiled nervously, a petite hand gesturing toward the container while she stopped him with her other. “Please don’t move that. It’s the only thing keeping him in that room.”

  Connor rolled his eyes; even if he’d understood the superstition she’d referenced, it wouldn’t have deterred him. “Either you open that door or I will,” he threatened, ready to invoke probable cause, but she relented unexpectedly. She slid the tub aside, splashing its contents across the floor, and reluctantly unlocked the door to reveal a child’s room. The walls were decorated with peeling decals with a hodgepodge of Disney characters, superheroes, and other popular children’s shows, and toys were scattered across the floor, along with puzzle pieces and several sheets of construction paper. A Lego tower dominated the far corner, and several paint bottles were strewn across the floor; at some point, their contents had been spread across the walls and subsequently scrubbed away.

  “See?” Sitara said weakly from beside the door. “It’s just an empty room. I use it to appease the ghost,” she added, trying to explain the worn toys that had unmistakably been played with. “I think he’s a young child.”

  Connor raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that,” he remarked cynically. “Starr, stay in that doorway, will you? And don’t let anything pass.” Orion moved into place, flashing Sitara an apologetic look as he moved past her into the threshold. Connor conducted a measured circuit around the room, examining it for further corroborating evidence. The scent of eucalyptus was overpowering, as if it had penetrated the thin wallpaper and seeped into the cheap walls, and he wanted to open a window to air out the stench, but he hesitated; the window had been sealed shut with nails and paint. He glanced back toward Sitara. “You know, love, this is highly illegal,” he scolded disapprovingly. “I could cite you for this.” Declining to provide an explanation, she looked away and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she licked her lips nervously.

  Connor reached the doorway, having completed his search, and raised his eyebrows expectantly at Sitara, affording her a final chance to come clean. She didn’t move, frozen in anticipation, so he shrugged indifferently, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a Ziploc bag containing flour. Theatrically, he coated his hands in the fine powder and then blew it in a steady arc over the entire room, covering everything in a layer of dust and revealing their concealed quarry. The shape was hunched down, hiding near the foot of the bed as if they were playing a game, and was very close to Connor himself. Before the agent could assign any significance to the scene, Sitara pushed past Orion, knocking him into the doorframe, and went to her brother’s side. Connor sighed heavily and declared, “That’s what I thought.”

  - - -

  Connor herded them back into the living room, where Orion took the recliner, and Sitara and the partially visible figure sat on the couch. It was disconcerting staring at the revealed Other: The flour had accumulated only on the horizontal surfaces, revealing mostly his shoulders and back, and powder clung to ill-defined tufts of hair and eyebrows. Orion could see through the space the man occupied, as if his shape were a crafted illusion, and even with the flour’s assistance, he couldn’t distinguish any features. Sitara encircled her brother protectively with her arms, and Orion was reminded of his bond with his sister.

  Connor remained standing, dominating the room. “See, I knew Reeves was onto something, but he was following the wrong subject,” he told Orion. Even though he’d already made it clear that he considered paranormal activity to be a hoax, his disdainful tone continued to underline his contempt. “Sitara’s older brother disappeared, alright, but he didn’t die. He just couldn’t reappear, so he’s been ‘haunting’ her ever since because she’s the only one who could help him.” He turned to Sitara. “Isn’t that right?”

  She stroked her brother’s hair, dislodging some of the flour and dispersing it across herself and more of his body. “I know he looks like a man, but he is just a child,” she said softly, almost pleading for clemency. Orion wondered whether she’d discovered the BSI’s mission or whether she would have made her appeal regardless. “He has a developmental problem. You cannot blame him for things.”

  The corners of Connor’s mouth quirked, and his face became expressionless. “I’m from an agency that helps people like your brother,” he informed her. He shifted his weight to one side and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Tell him to turn visible again, and we can all discuss what’ll happen,” he commanded, his voice flat and emotionless, as his gaze transferred to Nihar’s shape.

  She hesitated, biting her lip with downcast eyes. “He can’t,” she admitted regretfully. “That’s why we’ve lived like this for so long.” She returned her focus to Connor and, her face showing the slimmest glimmer of hope, asked, “Can you help him with that?”

  Connor nodded gradually, glancing at his feet as he pursed and licked his lips. “Yeah, we can,” he promised. He crossed the distance between them and forced a crooked smile as he patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

  Orion watched silently as Connor made arrangements for the custody exchange. As they waited, Connor gave a broad description of the bureau and the training it had provided Eric Dane, but he refrained from describing any specifics to Nihar’s case. Although Sitara asked probing questions like a concerned parent, Connor was skilled at answering evasively and she eventually settled for his approximations about treatment. They spent the remainder of the interim in awkward silence disturbed occasionally by Nihar’s various childish needs.

  The other team was on their doorstep within a few hours. The man was dressed in a suit, much like Connor and himself, but the woman wore a form-fitting jumpsuit that was padded in strategic places by heavier material; it counterintuitively seemed to be some sort of tactical uniform. In the dark-skinned woman’s presence, Orion felt a blanket cover his senses, as if his cells had become encased in molasses, and when she entered the apartment, the cloak concealing Nihar fell away.

  Nihar was older than Orion had expected. He was senior to them all in age, but the bright, goofy grin on his face belied his physical maturity. He was covered in patches of grime, despite obvious attempts to cleanse them, and his hair was shaggy, uneven, and matted. He was naked, save for the tattered remains of a pair of cartoon-decorated briefs, and he was sprawled contentedly across his sister’s lap. When it was time to leave, his sister took his hand, and he followed her from the apartment unquestioningly, asking excitedly if they were going to the park now. Although she answered in the affirmative, Sitara had been told that their escort would take them back to the Plum Island facility for final assessment and processing.

  Orion and Connor didn’t linger much longer after Nihar’s departure, though Connor delayed long enough for the dark-skinned woman’s distressful effect to recede from his senses, and he found himself wondering whether Connor’s consideration for his comfort was genuine concern or a pretense of compassion. The agent accompanied him back to his apartment, possibly expecting questions about the case, but Orion wasn’t ready to speak with him yet and instead began collecting his thoughts on the events of the day. Connor tried to goad him into conversation, ostensibly to entertain himself, but Orion managed to ignore him. Despite Connor’s mastery of irritation techniques, Orion
didn’t budge on his silence, and the agent instead amused himself by manipulating his phone wordlessly. He knew that Connor’s intent was to create discomfort with his presence—another method to coerce conversation—and he chose to combat his new approach by preparing dinner. The agent would nonetheless stay, and Orion’s preparation was mindless—almost meditative—as his hands moved in practiced familiarity. With his body occupied, his mind was free to wander, and he was better able to articulate his grievance and discontent.

  By the time dinner was served, he was ready to confront Connor. They ate at the island, with Connor sitting on a barstool while Orion chose to remain standing. He was leaning casually against the surface of the island in an effort to encourage self-confidence. “Why did you lie to Ms. Shah?” he asked, locking eyes with Connor as he’d seen the agent do when he wanted answers.

  “Eh? What do you mean?” he asked as he cracked a self-assured smirk, but Orion was starting to see people’s body language for what it was, and he noticed the sudden tension hidden behind Connor’s egotistic expression.

  “About euthanizing her brother,” he said, and Connor wasn’t quick enough to hide his surprise as it flashed across his face. “I’m not stupid, you know,” Orion continued disdainfully. “I have been paying attention. I read BSI guidelines.”

  Connor regained control of his mask and smiled disarmingly as he shoved his plate out of the way. “No one’s said—”

  “‘An Other is a threat to public safety if he cannot control himself’,” Orion quoted. “That’s what the guidelines say, right?” he demanded, emboldened by the agent’s lack of adequate resistance. “And her brother certainly can’t, so why did you lie to her?”