Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  Connor scowled, drawing his lips into a thin line as he looked away, and Johnson was inwardly disappointed. How could Connor not realize that he had an extraordinary ability? Connor been with the agency for three years, and his rate of identifying and capturing Others hovered around twice that of normal agents. No one else was that skilled, even if they were well trained in detective techniques, and while Johnson wasn’t aware of what sort of mechanism Connor used to perceive Others, he certainly should have noticed a difference between himself and regular people.

  Johnson sighed. “So, what’s the next step?” he asked, looking toward Connor. Even if he weren’t here under the pretext of a favor, Johnson didn’t know how to proceed; investigation was a part of Connor’s skill set, not his.

  Connor rose from his seat beside Johnson and started pacing, ostensibly to get his blood flowing. He muttered to himself, counting off ideas on his fingers and recounting aspects of the case that he’d witnessed or researched, and then he suddenly halted. His eye twitched and then closed, and he immediately pressed his palm against the offending orifice. After a sufficient pause, he appeared to shake it off and seemed ready to soldier on. He then resumed his thoughtful pacing. “I don’t know,” he admitted. Then another jolt of pain struck him mid-step, and he stumbled.

  Johnson leapt from the couch to catch him before he fell on the table or otherwise hurt himself. “What’s wrong?” he asked with concern. The other man stiffened, despite leaning hard against him, and Johnson lowered him onto the cushions.

  Connor seemed dazed, and his eyes rolled backward, but he managed to answer after a moment. “I’ve just got this seething headache,” he hissed, cradling his head even more gingerly than if he’d had a hangover. “It’s like… It’s like I’ve got a fire in my brain.”

  Johnson instantly recognized the indicators of a reaction to Antithesis’ suppressive field, and he realized that he needed to separate the two of them. Although he needed Connor to finish his investigation, it was also important to ensure that Connor didn’t perceive the fog that she created over his ability; prolonged exposure should, therefore, be avoided. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” he suggested, improvising. “Antithesis and I will head back to our hotel, and you can give us a call when you feel better.”

  His instrument—though he supposed that he should technically refer to her as his partner—stopped tapping her fingers like a cat irritably flicking its tail. While she wasn’t heartless, she was impatient and single-minded while in pursuit mode. “What? Why?” she demanded impatiently. “Just because of a headache?”

  It occurred to Johnson that Connor shouldn’t experience such an intense reaction to her field. His ability was to sense Others, so if anything, he should have felt only a blanket over that mechanism; only Others who attempted to use their abilities while Antithesis was nearby tended to suffer. However, Johnson didn’t have the luxury of time to consider the implications, as it was still his duty to conceal the truth from Connor, which, at the moment, meant swift departure. “We have no evidence that our target is an Other,” he told her. “We must wait until we’re reasonably certain before we can apprehend him.”

  “We drove two hours! How is that not reasonable certainty?” she exclaimed, crossing her arms petulantly as she locked her jaw and glared at him.

  Johnson mused that the tension of the situation would be assuaged if Connor weren’t inexplicably susceptible to her suppression field. He wondered what difference the current circumstances had made; he’d performed custody transfers with Connor present in the past—most recently with Nihar Shah—and Connor hadn’t experienced an adverse response to her company. He released his grip on Connor, whose distress seemed to have eased, and faced her with a stern scowl. “What’s our job?” he asked, casually removing the toothpick from his mouth.

  She met his eyes, staring back at him defiantly, before she broke contact and looked away. “Apprehension and escort,” she recited obediently.

  “What’s his job?” he continued, his hands confidently on his hips.

  “Investigation,” she mumbled.

  “So… ?”

  She huffed, uncrossing her arms and throwing her fists to her side. “If he doesn’t have evidence, then we can’t move,” she admitted, pouting. The young woman tensed her body, stomped twice, and then relaxed, her frustration ebbing away. Her Plum Island caretakers wanted to encourage her to express herself, more specifically through articulation and extended dialog, but Johnson found that he could wait out or dismiss her tantrums if he didn’t acknowledge them. Regardless, it would do her a lot of good if he placed her on Moise’s trail as soon as possible so that she could disperse her excess energy.

  He smiled at Connor, who’d turned over onto his back on the couch. “We’ll see you in a couple hours, Connor,” he promised, the dispute now settled with his charge. “We’ll do a bit of digging ourselves. Maybe we’ll find something you missed, or maybe we’ll be lucky and they’ll find something in the archives.” The other man, who was only partially listening, nodded and gave him a dismissive wave as he pressed his hand over his eyes and settled into a comfortable position on the couch. Johnson nodded toward the door, and Antithesis followed; even if their excursion didn’t uncover anything, she’d be occupied for a few hours until Connor could recover.

  - - -

  When Moise had moved to Brooklyn, it had still been a popular spot for artists in residence, and this had undoubtedly helped him establish himself in his community. It had also allowed him to meet his first patron, who had assisted with bringing his talents into the spotlight, and the diverse community had also assuaged any vestigial homesickness he may have felt. However, a decade’s worth of growth and conscientious rezoning had altered the borough’s landscape, increasing its worth to private business investors, and the subsequent increase in rent and living costs made many residents consider relocation. Moise was not among them, and he instead used his wealth to purchase neighboring vacant apartments to convert them into one unit.

  Moise met Amanda at the door, greeting her with compliments and kisses on her cheeks, and then escorted her to the table, where he graciously seated her and poured some wine. She was impressed by the setup; she had never been in a residence smaller than five thousand square feet, and Moise’s significantly smaller condominium seemed cozy rather than claustrophobic. His home was simple: It was lightly decorated in a way that suggested creative intent over meager funding, and the furnishings had a subtle Mediterranean motif that was indicative of an interior decorator’s guiding hand. Acanthus leaves adorned the crown molding, and a mosaic in the foyer hinted at a classic Greece style. While there were several raised stone designs, including a few sculptures, none of his designs were on display as they were at Félicité; perhaps even an artist could tire of viewing his own work.

  He had a lavish table set in anticipation of her arrival. He’d selected a Schweitzer tablecloth and Waterford dishes, and battery-powered candles faintly illuminated the table, where a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti and two glasses sat. The wine selection itself offset any unfavorable impressions about the size of his dwelling.

  Moise himself was casually dressed in a honey-colored button-down shirt, which emphasized the light specks in his eyes, and he’d generously applied Clive Christian cologne. Explaining that dinner would be several more minutes, he offered her a plate of olives, cheese, and crackers, but she politely declined the hors d’oeuvre in deference to her slim figure. Only then did he take a seat across from her.

  “Dinner smells lovely,” she commented, initiating conversation. She had been raised to believe that etiquette dictated that the host should encourage and guide discussion with the guest. However, she’d also maintained her decorum when courting potential donors and benefactors, and as a politician, the use of such skills had become a natural habit. A large part of her profession entailed being
likable, and involving others in her conversations contributed significantly to this goal, even if she didn’t personally concern herself with their responses. With Moise, she was courting him as a prospective sponsor, while he was potentially courting her as a future partner, and smooth dialogue facilitated both of their goals. “Do you cook often?”

  “It is an acquired skill,” he replied, lapsing into nostalgia. “My aunt loved to cook, but she did not really enjoy my assistance.” His surrogate parents had been hard workers, and both had held difficult jobs that had kept them employed for long hours. His aunt had found relaxation in preparing familiar Zairian cuisine—when she had been able to find the appropriate ingredients on the market—and in learning new dishes, especially region-specific fare from their adopted home. Moise had wanted to assist her, as any child desires to please their maternal figure, but he had often proved to be more of a hindrance, burning dishes or adding too much flavoring. However, her patient tutelage had borne fruit over time, and he’d developed excellent skills, which had been honed while he’d tried to survive his early hardship in the city. “Now I can afford a personal chef, and she does not like my interference either,” he explained, beaming in amusement, “but I do make an occasional exception and cook for myself.”

  She returned his smile and replied coyly, “If you cook as well as you speak, I may also make an occasional exception and forgo my personal chef.” He chuckled, his booming voice echoing off the walls, and his delight spiked momentarily, prompting her to read his emotional state. It was duplicitous to do so, especially on a date, but as a politician, she did it so often that she didn’t think twice before reading him. His excitement was elevated and intense, surging like an incoming tide, and like his eagerness at breakfast, it was tinged with something else—desire or perhaps even arousal—that she could not positively differentiate. She not only felt flattered, but her confidence also increased; his state meant that she would have the upper hand in negotiations—if that had been the reason they had come together.

  Instead of exploiting his obvious interest, she was judicious and diverted the conversation away from flirtation; it was better to maintain her class and an air of mystery than to act unmistakably coquettish. “Since we have a few minutes, why don’t you show me this statue?” she suggested.

  He gave a tight-lipped smile that had a touch of mischief. “She is a mystery, Amanda, and I do not want to ruin her surprise too early in the evening,” he answered secretively. “Like any beautiful woman, she will shed her mystique when the time is right.”

  She thought that his response had been phrased oddly, but he had proven to be a bit of an eccentric. She observed amusedly, “You like to speak in riddles.”

  His grin grew wider, lighting up his eyes. “I’m afraid it is one of the burdens of being an artist: We are only straightforward when we speak about price, if we care for money at all,” he replied facetiously, and she laughed in spite of herself, her own smile growing to match his. He reached across the table and, tenderly caressing her hand, continued, “I promise the wait will be worth it. Allow me to savor the time leading up to the moment.”

  She acquiesced as he poured more wine into her glass, and she found herself relaxing into his gentle banter. They skipped the traditional talk of the weather and traffic and eschewed discussion of their respective jobs. Instead, Moise guided their conversation toward minor anecdotes about the city and their lives. Gradually, they transitioned into tales of their childhood, and she discovered that he had been raised further north than she had assumed in the proud city of Boston. Even though he hadn’t acquired its distinctive accent, the Olde Towne had imparted to him a love of classical music, live concerts, and reading, the latter of which had helped him master the English language. In turn, she shared stories of her upbringing and her mother’s narrow, antiquated view of a woman’s place in the world. She had been an obedient child and a shockingly dutiful teenager—a mind-set that hadn’t actually changed until she’d discovered her abilities—but that hadn’t precluded her from having rebellious periods in her youth, even if they’d been relatively minor offenses. After she had grown sufficiently comfortable—and perhaps even a bit tipsy—she recounted the time she’d switched places with Barbara Flanders on a school trip to New Haven, as Barbara hadn’t wanted to go to see the then-President Bill Clinton. Amanda had slipped away from the tour to support her friend at his first music venue. Although neither the band nor the relationship had lasted, she had experienced an enjoyable and memorable afternoon.

  Moise had a way of placing her at ease and persuading her to open up, and during the meal, she’d spoken more freely than she’d meant to. Even if a romantic relationship was off the table, the wine was beginning to make her believe that a true friendship was possible. “I think it might finally be time to introduce my beauty,” he announced during a natural lull in the conversation, and she grinned; it was charming that he kept referring to his statue as a woman. To her, it indicated an appreciation not only for the work but also for the artistic process itself.

  “My dear Amanda,” he continued, standing as he took her gently by the hand and drew circles in her palm. “I am afraid you are quite underdressed for this occasion,” he informed her regretfully. “I have a more suitable gown available, if you would be so kind as to change into it,” he added as if it were a gracious offer.

  Although his tone had been polite, if a bit overdramatic, the absurdity of the situation cut into her intoxication and dredged common sense back to the surface of her thoughts. She was wearing a custom-made Ralph Lauren coatdress, and while it was considered a bit old-fashioned for the modern day, the style suited her, and it was by no means inappropriate for this informal event. She noted his hand, which had migrated to her upper arm and was poised to firmly guide her away from the dining table, and she scrutinized his emotions. Lust or desire—she wished now that she’d learned to better differentiate between the two—colored his excitement, whose level had not been abated by alcohol consumption, and she wondered whether he’d tricked her into drinking while he’d abstained. Her adrenaline increased, nearly sobering her completely, and in spite of it, she remained calm and diplomatic. “I must decline, Moise,” she replied, lowering the warmth in her voice to a more neutral tone. “I don’t think it’s in my best interest.”

  His large hand twitched, as if he might have used his strong grip to compel her movement, but he released her instead and stomped over to the butcher block, where he seized a chef’s knife. “I’m afraid I must insist,” he said. Despite his actions, his voice was strangely reasonable as if the night hadn’t taken a sharp turn. “It will only be for a little while, and I believe you’ll find the gown suitable and to your liking.”

  If he expected her to cower or yield, she would happily disappoint him. She was constantly protected from threats as a precautionary measure necessitated by her august position, and even without the mayoralty, she would still have chosen to be accompanied by a bodyguard, but this didn’t mean that she was entirely helpless. While she sometimes lacked the subtleties of exactitude, a sledgehammer did not need to be precise to perform its job, and she released a fear-producing pheromone that flooded the area near her. Instantly, Moise dropped the knife and took the quickest path away from her, which led into a corner created by one of his leaded-glass countertops and the terrazzo wall. Panicking, he briefly attempted to scramble up the barrier before he settled into an alert crouch and watched her warily with large, saucer-sized eyes.

  With the situation now in her favor, she leaned against her chair and considered her situation. She must have lapsed into shock, for the first thing that came to mind was damage control. Moise Kabamba had been the recipient of her favor, and she’d even consented to a private meeting with him; she didn’t think her presence at his residence would precipitate a scandal, but her first phone call should be to her public affairs aide. The police also needed to be notified;
he’d attempted an assault, even if she couldn’t characterize his full intent.

  What would she tell the police? Jack Everest had assured her that she was not alone in her abilities, but their existence was not public knowledge. A scandal would undoubtedly unfold if she disclosed that she had the ability to manipulate others with chemical signals from her glands, even if their use had been in self-defense. She’d visited Moise unaccompanied by her customary detail, and her diminutive, fragile physique begged the question of how she’d overpowered a man who was more than twice her size.

  She’d have to render him unconscious, improvise, and then hope that her account was convincing enough not to elicit a second look by the authorities. She crossed her arms as she studied his cowering form; the whole night had been a pretext—though for what, she didn’t allow herself to consider—and because he’d manipulated her emotions, awakening her girlish wistfulness, she would exact recompense. With a thought, her glands ceased secreting fear and instead produced a paralyzing allomone. As the new chemical wafted through the air and surrounded him, Moise stiffened, and his breath intensified as his body tried to resist the toxin, but he ultimately succumbed, collapsing onto his side in the fetal position. Aware that it was now safe to approach him, she grasped the empty bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti firmly in her hand and smashed it against his head; the bottle shattered, but he remained cognizant, distraught, and in pain.

  She searched the kitchen and, seeing the unwashed frying pan, seized it as well and struck him across the temple. This time, the blow produced the intended effect, and he lost consciousness as his blood began to spread across the laminate floor. Despite inflicting a grievous wound, she still felt spiteful and kicked him squarely in the stomach. Her husband, Johnathan, had often selected her outfits, also insisting that she had been unsuitably dressed for an occasion, and he had once controlled her every move and thought, having inherited the role from her overbearing mother. Amanda wouldn’t tolerate a successor now that she’d thrown off their yokes.