FriendorFoe

by Frances Pauli

  Simon figured he'd set up shop a few miles past the town limits. He entertained no illusion that The Spartan would give up the town without a fight. He should have mentioned that to Agnes. His snort cracked through the darkness. Not that they'd had any time to really debate the matter.

  Either way, he didn't figure Spaulding would go far and he didn't care. He wanted to know where Agnes would go and that was proving more difficult to ascertain than he'd hoped. The mayor clammed up on him, swore he'd promised to keep her location, her donations and her involvement anonymous. Simon growled. Of all the times for the man to learn discretion.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and watched the remnants of the estate vanish into the line of moving vans. So far, he'd seen no sign of either Rutherford. A few of the staff appeared now and again, ordering the movers to use caution or to shift an item from one truck to the other.

  His gaze wandered to the upstairs window. Still no movement, nor any light from that particular room. He considered wandering closer. The shadows from the old tree fell out from the house, would provide enough cover to slip into the play yard.

  His belt bleeped. Simon pressed the call button and waited for the chief's voice to crackle from the comm.

  "Sim--Maximus?"

  "Yeah." Simon sighed and watched the swing twirl from its ragged tether.

  "Any problems out there?" The chief expected Spaulding to try something.

  "Not yet."

  "Good. Well, just keep an eye on them."

  "Of course." Simon bit his tongue. He'd rather be watching the hospital tonight. "Chief?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Did you find any leads on where she--where they may be heading?"

  "Sorry. The last living Rutherford I could locate was Spaulding Senior's sister. She lived upstate, but passed away four years ago."

  "An aunt upstate. Get me an address on that, will you?"

  "Sure, though it's far enough away, I think we'd be lucky to see The Spartan relocate there."

  "An address," Simon spied a flutter of red beside the swing. "I'll get back to you." He clicked off the comm and sprang down from the wall into the tree's shadow. The dying lawn crackled under his weight and the figure hiding behind the tree stepped out into the moonlight and peered in his direction. Simon stood up. He abandoned any hope of stealth and walked, chest out and head high, directly up the slope.

  "Good evening, Maximus," The Spartan sniveled from the tree trunk. He waited for Simon to reach the edge of the spread branches and then struck a villainous pose. "I figured you'd be here."

  "Can it, Spaulding," Simon said. "I'm not in the mood."

  "What?" The Spartan held the stance for a second and then deflated, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the tree trunk. "Jesus, Simon, you pout more when you win that you do when you lose."

  "How would you know? You've never seen me lose."

  "Funny."

  "It's not." Simon sighed and closed the gap between them, catching the swing and holding the old rope in one hand. "Has Agnes left already?"

  "Hell if I know."

  "Are you really leaving town?"

  "Maybe." Spaulding stood a little taller and grinned. He looked like the devil, all sharp features and shadow. "Maybe I'll try my hand at a bigger town."

  "Maybe." Simon didn't believe it. They stood there under the tree, two boys in moonlight and shadow, until one of the vans turned over and the sound of engines filled the night air. "What happened, Spaulding?" Simon asked. "I mean, why?"

  Spaulding shrugged and turned back toward the house. "I don't know. You always won." He stared up toward the empty, second story window. "She watched us, you know? She always watched us."

  "I know."

  "Is that why you always had to win?"

  Simon didn't answer. He watched The Spartan sneak back toward his family's home for the last time. "Hey, Spaulding!" he called after him, waited for the man to turn before continuing. "If it makes you feel any better, I think I just lost."

  The Spartan laughed--a high squeaky sound that continued to vibrate around Simon long after his foe had disappeared.

  * * * *

  Agnes glared at the cast and sighed. She'd never pull off the elliptical machine and the stationary bike was right out. She scanned the room for possibilities and drummed her fingers against the desk. Sit-ups, she thought. She could manage sit-ups.

  As much as she needed the workout, she hesitated. The doctor hadn't exactly said not to exercise. She stared at the pile of bills, the receipts and the rubbish on the desk and sighed again. She'd been home three days and she hadn't had a workout since the race. The restlessness could be easily excused as pent up energy.

  She should try the sit-ups. Instead she drummed her fingers and scowled at the pile of paperwork. She'd converted the study to a gym after her aunt passed. But the heavy desk remained stationed in the corner, opposite the mirrors and standing guard between two second story windows. Agnes liked it there. She enjoyed doing her business in the one room she felt most comfortable in. She stared across at her reflection. It had been three days.

  She stood. The inclined bench would increase the difficulty. She left her crutch leaning against the wall and hobbled past the elliptical to the weight module. She hooked her good leg under the padded bar and lay back on the board so that her head nearly touched the floor. The doctor had said to elevate the limb. She smiled and crunched upward, touching her left knee with the right elbow.

  Something slid past the windows.

  Agnes ignored the surge of adrenaline and forced herself to lie back slowly. She exhaled, tightened her abs and lifted again, this time turning toward the mirror just in time to spy the window sliding up a few inches. Holding the posture, she waited, eyed the light switch and cursed the crutch she'd left leaning against the desk.

  She could reach the switch, but the cast would make any movement a serious disadvantage. She exhaled and lay back, completing the exercise. She pointed her uninjured toe and moved her leg in the direction of the wall.

  Would Spaulding send a goon into her house? If he had, Agnes would teach the bastard one hell of a lesson. She flicked her lower leg out and kicked the light switch. The room went dark and she rolled herself onto her stomach and off the bench in a single motion. She heard the window thunk open, the shuffle of cloth against the sill, and her anger flared. After the goon, she'd find Spaulding and she'd put him out of her misery.

  Agnes waited for the intruder to move. She held her breath until she heard him land on the carpet. Then she pulled up onto her knees while his action masked any noise she might make. Her injured leg might hamper her movements, but Agnes knew her own house. She reached out and grabbed the elliptical on the first try, pulling herself into a crouch supported by her good leg. She had the element of surprise, the home field advantage, and if necessary, the cast as one hell of a club.

  He bumped into the desk. Clumsy and built like a Mac truck, no doubt.

  Agnes snarled silently and bounced on her good foot. She could spring halfway across the room from here, but landing worried her.

  The goon slid around the side and managed to miss tripping over the crutch.

  She could hear him breathing now, low and relaxed, used to this sort of thing. Her nerves lit up like candles and her heart thrummed inside her ribcage.

  The goon stepped forward.

  Agnes tested her knees. She could see his silhouette, dark on dark, against the window. More than that, she could sense him there, standing brazen as hell in the middle of her damned gym.

  He stepped forward again.

  She growled and launched directly at where she hoped to find his midsection. He grunted at the impact. Agnes scored a direct hit, but as his body gave and rolled backward, two arms clamped around her waist and pulled her down with him. She landed across his chest.

  He didn't struggle.

  When Agnes pushed against the floor and tried to sit up, his hands released her. She stopped ha
lfway, propped up on one elbow and squinted at him.

  "I've missed you." A deep chuckle shook his chest.

  "Simon!" His hands found her arms and traced along them to her face. Agnes shivered at the contact and the heat of his body against hers took on a whole different perspective. She leaned in and let his palms pull her down until his lips brushed against her mouth. The touch sent a wave of heat ripping through her nervous system. She found his shirt, grabbed a handful of fabric and pulled their bodies together.

  Simon moaned and pressed the kiss deeper.

  His tongue slid between her lips and Agnes opened her mouth. Her body trembled and Simon's hands found her waist again, wrapped tightly around her back and held her to his chest. His tongue danced around hers until she couldn't help but wriggle against him.

  He paused and pulled back, winding one hand into her hair. "Agnes."

  "This is breaking and entering. You know that?"

  "Can you forgive me?" He ran his other hand up her side, lingering alongside one breast.

  "Mmmm maybe. It took you three days."

  "You didn't leave a forwarding address." His hand moved forward and his fingers traced a circle over her bra.

  "Can you forgive me?" She gasped as the circle got smaller.

  "I'm in love with you, Agnes."

  She closed her eyes, even in the dark, and let the words settle over her. Simon's fingers did a wicked little tap dance around her nipple. "I've loved you since I was a little girl, Simon."

  He sat up, pulled her into his lap and nuzzled her neck. "Now," he said. "We just have to sort out this whole Rutherford, Maxwell thing."

  A shot of fear grabbed Agnes by the spine. He might have waited, she thought, to bring it up. Whatever happened between them, Agnes didn't want to lose him before they even got out of the gate. She held her breath and pressed her eyes tight. "How do you feel about a long distance relationship?"

  "I don't like that plan," Simon sounded far too cheerful about it.

  "You never do like my plans," Agnes said quietly. Did he have a better one?

  "I'd rather you came back with me."

  "I can't."

  "You can if you come back as a Maxwell."

  She wished she could see his face, stared hard at the dark patch that could be wearing any expression. "Are you proposing to me?"

  "Marry me, Agnes."

  "Oh, Simon." She laughed then, let the motion bring her head down to rest on his shoulder. "You're so damned cute."

  * * * *

  The comm unit pulsed inside his jacket pocket. Simon reached across the backseat and retrieved it. He'd ignored it longer than he should have. The button flashed below the small, round screen. He pressed it and waited.

  "Maximus!" The chief got it right on the first try.

  "Sorry, Chief. This really isn't a good time."

  "This can't wait! Wait. What did you say?"

  "I just got married." Simon grinned across the limo at Agnes. She lifted her champagne flute and gave him a look that almost made him toss the comm back to the floor.

  "You did? I don't. Well, congratulations."

  "Simon," Simon said. "Simon got married, I mean."

  "Right."

  For a moment no one spoke. Simon raised his eyebrows at his bride. She smiled and sipped her drink and the button flashed red reflections all over the leather interior.

  "So." Simon shrugged. "What can't wait?"

  "Mayor Lee's been kidnapped."

  "What?" Simon stiffened. A knot of dread clumped in his stomach and he recalled the flash of a hostile expression. "The driver?"

  "Who?"

  "Never mind. Have they left a message?"

  "Yeah."

  "Show me."

  His comm screen flickered and a familiar face appeared. The features twisted in rage. The chief explained while the suspicious limo driver outlined his demands.

  "He calls himself Furious."

  "Nice."

  "I don't know, Maximus, I think this guy is big time. He's after more than tearing down a few buildings."

  Simon nodded. A big time villain. He'd sensed as much when he met the man. "Do you think he's working with The Spartan?"

  "No." The answer came from inside the car. "Spaulding never had those kinds of connections." Agnes shook her head slowly. "He wanted them, mind you, but he never pulled it off."

  "Maybe he finally did?" The chief suggested.

  "I don't know," Simon said. "I don't like it." A shiver of excitement raced through him. A big time villain. He looked sideways at Agnes and grinned. The woman of his dreams and a super villain in one day. "I'm on my way back. Don't worry chief, I'll--"

  Beside him, Agnes cleared her throat. She gave him a different sort of look.

  "I mean we'll take care of it," he said. "We're on our way."

  About the Author

  Though she always held aspirations to be a writer, Frances originally chose to pursue a career in visual arts. Her stories, however, had other plans for her. By the time she entered her thirties, they were no longer content existing solely in her head. Compelled to free them, she set aside her easel and began to write in earnest

  She currently resides smack in the center of Washington State with her husband and two children. When not writing, she dabbles in insane things like puppetry, belly dance and playing the ukulele. She collects rocks, and is a firm believer in good wine, fine chocolate and dangerous men.

  Her short fiction has appeared in Alternative Coordinates magazine.

  More information on Frances and her writing can be found on her website.