Under Cover of Darkness

by Julie E. Czerneda

  WHEN I LOOK TO THE SKY

  Russell Davis

  RISING TO THE surface of consciousness, my first awareness is of black. The blackness that lives behind tight closed eyelids or the strange hindbrain awareness of lucid dreams.

  Then, silver. The gleam of stainless steel knives or the bright mental flare that comes from a sharp blow to the temple.

  Finally, white. Untouched snow or a wedding dress worn by a virgin at the altar.

  I am awake.

  Aware.

  I breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

  My muscles spasm with cold and ache from an exertion I don’t remember. They twitch and pulse with uncontrollable shivers.

  Nearby, I sense movement and then a slow warmth as a thermal blanket of some kind is draped across my skin.

  Voices. I can hear voices, though they are unfamiliar and the words are not clear at first.

  My fingers and toes begin to tingle as my body warms.

  The voices gain clarity. A female voice says, “He is awake. Do you see how patient he is? He does not struggle or open his eyes, but waits. Waits and listens and assesses.”

  A male voice replies, “He can hear us, yes?”

  There is a noise beside my right ear. SNAPTH! I am reminded of fingers snapping, but the sound is not quite the same. It is that sound, with a lisp.

  “Yes,” the female voice says. “Did you note how his eyes, even closed, tracked to the sound?”

  The salt-and-copper taste of fear fills my mouth. The sensation is rare for me, unnatural, and I push it away. I do not know where I am or how I got here. For a moment, I am not even sure who I am, but I vaguely remember. . . .

  “You are Damon Graves,” the female voice says. “And you are here because we have chosen you.”

  The last part of the sentence, “chosen you,” reverberates and echoes in my mind.

  A memory rises to the surface of my thoughts. A woman, young and pretty with dark eyes and long hair the color of a raven’s wing saying, “Damon, look! That lake is the same color as your eyes!”

  The lake is in Montana. The woman is dead. I remember that on that same day we shouted “I love you!” echoes through a box canyon.

  I open my eyes that are the same color as that lake. Above me, a white ceiling that glows softly with some kind of hidden lighting comes into focus.

  “Yes,” I say. My voice is the croaking of a bullfrog. “I am Damon Graves.” When I say my name, I know it is truth. I am Damon Graves. I am—

  “You are an assassin,” the female voice says. “And you have been chosen.”

  The word “chosen” echoes in my mind once more. It is important, I think.

  Without moving, I let my gaze travel as much as possible. There is no form to go with the feminine voice, and the rest of the room, what I can see of it, is as white and sterile as the ceiling.

  I try to sit up, but while the shivering of my muscles has subsided, they are not yet ready to move. I stop trying. “Where am I?” I ask.

  “An astute question,” the female voice replies. “Your current physical location is what we call a nexus sphere. It is a place that stretches across multiple dimensions, including the one known as Time. To ease your understanding, you might think of it as a bubble or pocket that transcends time and space as most people think of those concepts. It is a location that is, in fact, everywhere and nowhere. The center of all things. And none.” Her voice sounds human, but some instinct tells me that she is not. Most emphatically not.

  “How?” I ask, testing my muscles again. They are starting to respond.

  “You have been identified and chosen for a task suited to your particular talents. Once you have performed this task, you will return to the nexus sphere. Then, you will be returned to where you belong.”

  Another memory comes. The Manhattan skyline glowing neon at night and a penthouse apartment with leather furniture and chrome lamps that cast indirect light. Below, the sounds of the city—car horns, yelling, laughing, police and ambulance sirens, fighting—rise into the air and combine with the unique watery scent of New York concrete. It is where I live, but it is not home.

  “I keep getting these flashes of memory,” I say. “What has happened to me?”

  The male voice answers this time. “An unfortunate side effect of your journey into the nexus sphere. Your full memories will return to you in time.” There is an odd, hollow sound, like a forced breath being passed over the top of an empty bottle. I realize that it is a sound not unlike laughter. The voice adds, “You ask many questions and you do not panic. Many people brought to the nexus sphere react . . . differently.”

  I test my muscles one more time, and this time I am able to sit up. My head spins slightly, and I reach up and pinch a nerve that sits between my eyes. The spinning goes away. “Yeah, well, in my business panic will get you killed more often than not.”

  The room is empty. White and sterile. Even the table and blanket are white. There is no one else in the room with me.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “We are here,” the female voice says. “But we cannot allow you to perceive us. Our existence is a well-kept secret. To some select few we are a myth, a rumor, a story to tell. To most, we are not known at all.”

  I take a careful step off the table and test my leg muscles, stretching carefully to avoid a strain in the cold. I am without clothing, but there seems to be little point in modesty. When I finish, I wrap the blanket around my waist. “That’s not much of an answer,” I say. “Who are you?”

  “We are individuals concerned with the fabric of history. As a group, we are sometimes referred to as the Weavers,” the male voice says.

  “The Weavers,” I repeat. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that we are concerned with the tapestry of history, ensuring that it is woven in the way it should be,” the female says. There is a pause, then she adds, “Our role is to ensure that when the threads of history are snarled, they are repaired in an appropriate way so that history may go on as it is supposed to.”

  “And what do you want from me?” I ask.

  “We have need of someone with your talents,” the male says.

  “So you want me to kill someone for you?”

  Another pause, then the female replies, “Yes. That is accurate.”

  I shake my head. “You’ve selected the wrong assassin, then. I don’t work this way.”

  “We do not make errors of this nature. You are the only candidate for this re-weaving,” the female replies.

  Memories of other times people have hired me for this work come to mind, and I feel my jaw clench in annoyance. “There’s a first time for everything,” I say. “I work anonymously. I don’t know the employer, and they don’t know me. My identity is secret.”

  “We already know your identity,” the male voice says, his voice tinged with ironic humor. “The tapestry is too important for such minor concerns.”

  “I hear that kind of thing a lot,” I say. “Killing someone is usually important—at least to the person wanting it done, and the person getting it done to.”

  “Still, this is a task you must complete.”

  “Not really,” I reply. “I don’t take jobs by force, I don’t do pro bono work, and I don’t do wet work without information.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the table.

  Another pause and a new voice, deeper and stronger than the other male, says, “What information do you require?”

  This must be, I think, the real employer. “All of it,” I say. “Who the target is, why you want this person killed, detailed information about the target’s location and circumstances. Oh, and then there’s the matter of payment.”

  “You fail to understand that the payment is your return to your own place in the tapestry of history,” the voice says. “We do not pay fees and we do not negotiate.”

  “You brought me here, remember?” I say. “That means you need me.”

  The female says, “We c
an leave you here, too.” Her tone is now as cold as the room itself. The very empty room. “Forever.”

  I nod. “You’ve made your point. Who is the target and why?”

  Across the room there is a strange hissing sound; on one wall, the thin outline of a doorway appears. “Step through the doorway,” the first male voice says. “You will feel a moment of disorientation. All will be made clear, and the information you require will be provided.”

  “What’s on the other side?” I ask.

  “Another place, another time,” the female says. “Be warned. You must mark well the place that the doorway opens and return to it, your task complete, within twenty-four of your hours. After that, the doorway will vanish and you will be trapped there. Some prisons have walls and some do not, but a prison is still a prison.”

  I cross the room, my eyes scanning for any sign of my employers and see nothing. Nothing but white. The other side of the doorway, wherever it leads, could not, short of death, be worse than this. I peer around the room once more, and ask, “Why me? There are others in my profession who are as good.”

  “When you get the details of the task, the answer to that question will reveal itself to you,” the male voice that I thought was the real leader says.

  I nod and pull on the door, which opens inward. The vision that opens before is a familiar landscape. A lake with water so blue it appears almost painted. A sky that runs wide into the horizon and mountains with snow-capped peaks. It is Montana. Not where I live now, but where I lived then. It is home.

  I have not been there in a long time. I step through the door and it shuts behind me. I turn to mark its location and find that I am mere inches away from an exceptionally large pine tree. There is an odd scarring on the bark and I memorize it carefully. I will remember it when I return.

  At my feet is a white metal box, about one foot square and next to it, a duffel bag. A simple note with a computer-printed message in block letters reads: OPEN ME.

  I kneel down and undo the clasps of the lid, opening it. Inside, there is another note, which reads: CLOTHING, DETAILS, AND NECESSARY EQUIPMENT PROVIDED IN THE BAG AND THIS BOX. TODAY IS 19-AUGUST-01. REVIEW THE CONTENTS WITH CARE.

  I set the note aside and look deeper in the box. The first thing I see is a photograph. It is the woman who is dead. In the picture she is smiling and beautiful, with a plane of sunlight crossing her left shoulder like a shawl. In the photo, I am standing behind her, lost in the shadows cast by an overhang of rocks.

  I remember when the photo was taken.

  I remember the woman. The woman who is dead.

  She is my wife.

  I set the photo aside. The next item in the box is the front page of a newspaper. There is a large, bold headline that reads:

  LOCAL CONGRESSIONAL CANDIDATE MISSING

  POLICE SEARCH FOR HUSBAND, SUSPECT FOUL PLAY

  Beneath this paper is a second one. The bold headline reads:

  HISTORY MADE! IT’S MADAM PRESIDENT!

  A wave of confusion washes over me as I see that the photo on each paper is of the same woman. I don’t understand until my eyes take in the date on each paper. On the first newspaper, the date is August 21, 2001. On the second newspaper, the date is November 4, 2008.

  In my world, the date is May 19, 2005, and the congressional candidate is no longer missing. She is the woman who is dead. She is my wife.

  Beneath the second newspaper is another note. This one reads: THE TAPESTRY OF HISTORY MUST NOT UNRAVEL. DO WHAT IS NECESSARY AND RIGHT TO RESTORE IT.

  Clarity arrives, and I understand what is necessary.

  The woman who is dead, who is my wife, is not dead in this particular place and time. It is August 19, 2001—two days before the media finds out that she is missing and less than one day before she actually died.

  Other than these items, the white metal box is empty. The other items I need will be in the duffel bag.

  The target, I already understand, is the person who killed her, preventing a career that would eventually lead to the White House.

  I open the duffel bag. Inside are clothes that are recognizably mine, and boots that appear well-worn and comfortable. Below them, a large frame Glock 9 mm with a silencer and four boxes of ammunition. A cross-balanced shoulder holster, and a leather coat to hide it under.

  I get dressed, tying the laces of the boots and tucking them in the top.

  History needs to be set to rights and I see this as a chance for redemption.

  This time, I will do it right for one simple reason.

  Because I am the target.

  My wife’s name is Diane. We have been married for three years, four months, and two days. She is smart, beautiful, and charismatic. She is in politics, preparing for her first run at a Congressional seat. There is little doubt that she will win. Late at night, sometimes we talk of other dreams. Dreams she has that go far beyond the House of Representatives.

  She believes I am a process consultant. This is a facade I maintain, and it works well. I travel a great deal and keep unreasonable hours. She does not ask many questions because I have made it clear that my business and personal life do not cross.

  In a way, the lie I have told her and so many others is true. I do consult on a process. That process is killing, and I am very good at it.

  People who have money and power will pay someone like me to remove someone like them. They live in fear—fear of losing their power or their money or both. Fear makes people do stupid things, but this same fear is what keeps me in business. The business of wet work is complicated; there are rules upon rules and plans and whispers and secrets.

  I rarely meet the real employer in person. I don’t want to because what I don’t know, I can’t talk about. They don’t meet me in person because what they don’t know, they can’t talk about. Financial transactions are digital, with money flowing from one blind account to another and another through various foreign banks until it is clean and untraceable.

  The information provided to me, required by my years of experience, is usually very detailed. Places, names, faces, security measures, reasons why, and so on and so forth. I am discreet and invisible, but information is power. I don’t do wet work without information. I don’t enter the situation without power.

  Except once.

  I am contacted by a contact of a contact. The job needs to be done fast. The target will be very difficult to get to if too much time passes and right now can be found close to my present location. Unguarded, alone, and on a brief sabbatical of some sort in the mountains of Montana.

  The pay is exceptional and I think I will spend some of it to take my wife on a vacation after the campaign. Somewhere exotic and warm. Somewhere that she can just be herself and I can just be myself.

  I take the job and get the minute amount of information available on short notice.

  I move fast because speed is important. A target that alone is rare. Often, there are bodyguards and security systems and dogs to bypass before the wet work can be accomplished. I drive my truck into the mountains, following the highway and watching the clouds.

  Once, I pause for gas and call my wife. She doesn’t answer. The last time we spoke, she mentioned how tired she was of the campaign trail and I suggested she stop for a day or two and rest. She promises to call me when she has more time. Perhaps she has heeded my advice and is resting somewhere. I hope so.

  The road leads me to a resort that has private cabins and a beautiful view of a mountain lake, not unlike the one Diane and I saw together. The target is in Cabin Four. I park the truck on an access road and approach Cabin Four on foot, from the back.

  There is a sliding glass door and I open it. I can hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. The target is in the shower. I move through the small cabin, light on my feet. I do not make any sounds and I do not touch anything.

  A small hallway has two doors—one leads to the bedroom, the other to the bathroom. The water is still running. Surprise will be my ally. I wil
l move fast and quiet.

  I open the door and steam rolls out into the hall. I can see the silhouette of the target—a woman—running her hands through her hair. Her figure is attractive. I have only seconds. If I can see her, she can see me.

  I pull the Glock from my holster and work the slide. It is already equipped with a silencer. The woman pauses momentarily, then resumes bathing. I take a step, another step, then open the shower door and fire three times.

  THIP! THIP! THIP! Two shots to the body. One shot to the head. The last is called the “make sure” shot in my business.

  The water is still running, very hot, and I wave away the steam and lean down to look at the target.

  It is hard, so very hard, to hold back my scream when Diane’s face comes into view.

  At the bottom of the duffel bag is a car key, and at the bottom of the hill, there is a nondescript sedan parked on the side of the road. The Weavers, it seems, have thought of everything. I move down the hill and climb into the car. There is a clock on the dash.

  In about four hours, I will be walking into that remote cabin and shooting my wife.

  Unless I stop myself.

  I shake my head as these confusing thoughts run through my mind, and I begin to understand why paradox was a problem in the time travel stories I sometimes read as a teenager. I start the car and begin driving down the road. I do not require a map or directions. The landscape of this place is forever a part of me.

  Many thoughts occur to me as I drive, and I am wondering about paradox. If I kill myself in this time, will I still exist in my own time? How can two of me be here at the same time? These questions plague me as I pick up the highway and head west.

  I stop once for food, paying with the cash I find in my pants pocket. The girl gives me my change and says, “Have a nice day.”

  I start to respond. Politeness is a habit, then I say, “Am I really here?”

  Perplexed, the girl, who is perhaps sixteen, says, “I think so. Don’t you?”

  “I guess so,” I say. “But it doesn’t always feel like it.”