by Gavin Green
"We'll see, we'll see," I grumbled, knowing I was probably on my own. Barnabus seemed too calm to be bullshitting me.
He sat forward in his lawn chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "Mr. Beck," he said calmly, "emails were sent from your computer to both of your employers, stating a leave of absence. Your utility bills have been paid. Notes were slipped under your neighbor's doors that told of some unexpected travel plans. Your life is no secret, Mr. Beck." He paused for a second. "Considering your compromised mindset, I doubt you'll care about what I'm going to say, but hopefully you'll remember when your head is clear. No small effort was made to ensure your liberation, and to the specific details that mitigate the suspicion of your disappearance. Someday soon, I hope you'll appreciate that fact."
At that moment, I was anything but appreciative. "Well, you sure did your homework, didn't ya?" I asked sarcastically, although a small part of me was glad to know that no one had to worry. "But it wasn't you, was it, Mr. Merritt? I doubt you're too modest to take credit. I mean, seriously, a humble hemoholic?"
I thought that term might piss Barnabus off - and I wanted it to - but instead he laughed, the prick. "I haven't heard that one before. And no, I did not instigate the efforts made for your safety."
"Fine, who's pulling the strings?"
He grinned; it was still spooky. "A friend of your family, Mr. Beck," he answered. "You'll see him soon enough. Now if you'll excuse me, I have other chores to attend to." He stood and reached for the door. "There are some supplies in those bags to make your time here more comfortable. Good night."
I was just about to ask who the hell Barnabus was talking about when he quickly went through the door. I only saw darkness beyond it as he left. In the bags were toiletries, plastic cups, cleaning supplies, some jugs of cola, a stack of dog-eared books, a few clothes, and two bottles of Jack Daniels. The last thing I found really surprised me: in a nice silver frame was the photo of my brother Al.
WINDOW
For a long while, I stewed in silence. Anger, confusion, shock, pangs of despair; I was supposed to be with my Doyenne. Instead I was taken from her and thrown in a dark, dirty prison cell. Barnabus and Pedro had taken me for no good reason I could think of. I had no idea where Sarah was, or if she was even alive. I first thought that the successful kidnapping came at a bad time; if Evan or Dominic were still alive, they could say what happened. Then I came to suspect that Barnabus wanted them to know.
Dawn came slowly and weakly through the grimy windows. I kept the blanket around my shoulders and went to look outside. The window sills were deep, with old spider webs in the corners. The glass behind the bars was thick - I assumed bulletproof - and streaked with dirt. I was on the second floor of some old commercial or industrial building. About fifteen feet across from me was a uniform, two-story red brick wall. I looked left and right and only saw a littered alleyway. It wasn't exactly picturesque.
While I was checking out the dismal scenery, I heard the squeak of metal. Looking over my right shoulder, I saw something lying on the floor in front of my door. Two wrapped deli sandwiches had just been pushed through an inward-swinging panel that was set into the base of the door. It was too small to even stick my head through, so it gave no hope of escape. The sandwiches were good, though.
I submitted to the idea that I wasn't going anywhere for a little while. I set out the carpet scraps like throw rugs, made myself a drink, and worked up the courage to clean that scary toilet. There was no way in hell I was going to sit on that thing before it got a scrubbing. Hell, the whole room could have used a bleach bath, but I had my priorities.
While I procrastinated, I rubbed my chilled arms; the sill was cold when I was leaning on it. Making the best of the situation, I set the cola on one of them to cool down. Since there was nowhere else to set or hang Al's picture, I cleaned out the cobwebs from the other sill and propped it in the corner. If only he could've seen me then. It was better that he couldn't.
An hour later the toilet was clean, and I managed not to vomit the whole time. Exhausted, I cranked the space heater and crashed; my sleep habits were so screwed up. I woke to the squeak of that door flap. Boxes of oatmeal and pop tarts, plus a plastic bowl and spoon, had been delivered. I was at the windows again a while later with a bowl of cold apple and cinnamon oatmeal in my hand, absently taking bites while I stared at the darkening gray sky above the building next door.
I glanced over at Al's picture. I wanted to look away, but couldn't. I studied the look on his face; a familiar grin, a sly 'I-know-a-secret' smile. His hair was lighter than mine, but we both had the same blue eyes - our mom's eyes. Al was happy in that photo. For the thousandth time, I hoped he was that happy just before he wrecked his car all those years ago, that he left this world smiling.
And then, damn it, the waterworks started. I wasn't crying for Al that time; I'd cried for him enough when I was eleven. The tears came, along with the body jolts of trying not to sob. I cried for my mother, who died in pain. I cried for Bill and Rodney, and other Marine buddies I'd lost. I cried for Craig and Dan, who both went down hard. And mostly, I cried for myself.
My cheeks were wet and my eyes burned, but I kept staring at the dull dusk through the bars and dirty glass of that window and wondered if my Doyenne was thinking of me. I'd never felt more alone in my life, and I hated myself for it.
VIGGO
I'm not sure how long I was on my own in my prison before I had another visitor; a week and a half at a guess. In the bleak confines of my room, the days and nights had started to blur. More than once I remembered the offer from Realm for a downtown loft, and then looked around me with a bitter laugh. I cleaned the place up as best I could, but it was still just polishing a turd.
Scrubbing kept my mind occupied for only so long. After I ran out of things to clean, or attempt to, I had no choice but to face the truth of my little dilemma. In the process, my emotions got the best of me. There were bouts of depression, fits of rage, and stretches of hopelessness. After a week or so, I reached an unstable balance of acceptance and spite. As the sunrises and sunsets crept by, I could almost feel the bitterness and resentment and injustice of my situation darkening my moods, staining them.
My sleep pattern became sleep randomness. The TV managed to pick up two local stations, but not well; sometimes I left it on just for the noise. The books were a small assortment of Steven King and John Grisham paperbacks; they helped pass the time. I daydreamed of Lady Le Meur, a bittersweet pastime. Whenever I had pent up energy, I exercised and practiced my katas until I had nothing left. I didn't trust the tap water, so I kept on a slow but steady intake of Jack and Coke; refills thankfully came with the silent grocery deliveries. That was the only reason I didn't stomp on the hand that supplied me.
I was sitting on the couch one evening, watching the grainy images of some European travel show on PBS. By then, I'd gotten used to the shitty reception. The host had a soothing voice, but I stayed awake because the show wasn't half bad.
"Ah, Vienna," a low, rumbling voice said somewhere behind me.
I shot off the couch with a yell, my drink flew out of my hand, and I might have pissed myself a little. "You asshole!" I bellowed. "Don't ever f -" My words got stuck in my throat when I turned and saw who had somehow snuck into my room: Vormund, the shadow man.
"I remember when I first passed through there; it was only a trading village called Vindobona then," he commented from back in the dark corner of my room.
I was busy trying to keep my heart from busting out of my chest, so I didn't pay much attention to what he was talking about. "What?" I asked while releasing a deep breath.
He nodded at the TV. "Vienna; I can recall nearly all of my visits there."
"Hey, good for you," I said as I slowly regained my composure. Just like the first time he and I talked, something about the big guy seriously spooked me. Unlike that first time, though, the shape of him didn't pulse and flow with shadows. Another small difference from the first time we m
et was that I was angry and tired of feeling helpless. "Not that I don't want to go walking with you down memory lane, but fuck you. I'm not feeling chatty, so fuck you. I doubt you're letting me out, so fuck you. Go away."
He stepped toward me, and I stood my ground. The light from the TV let me see him for the first time. He was taller than me by a few inches, and broad-shouldered but lean underneath his dark overcoat. He wore a black turtleneck under it; more contrast for his pale skin.
Then he got close enough that I noticed his face and hands, and . . . holy shit. The flesh looked like parched earth, hard and cracked all over. The hair of his thick eyebrows was dull white and scowled over black eyes. I don't mean they were dark; I mean his wide-set eyes were entirely inky black. He was bald on top, showing more of that baked skin. Long, wiry hair the same color as his brows fell back behind his large ears and down near his shoulders. I managed not to scream.
He reached one of his long-fingered hands out at me. I swung a forearm block to swat him away. It was like banging my arm on an I-beam; no effect whatsoever. His hand grabbed my neck. I struck again to break his grip, and again, nothing. He lifted me off the ground like I was a bag of feathers. My false bravado and my oxygen were both choked out of me.
"I understand your temper, Leopold," he said deep and guttural while he looked up at me, "but I will not tolerate your disrespect." His grip tightened. "Please do not make me do this again."
I cleverly replied with, "Gnnkh."
He nodded, lowered me to the floor, and released me. Gasping for breath made me cough. I gave myself the excuse of making another drink to keep my distance from him. Slowly walking around the couch to the windows while rubbing my neck, I cleared my throat and asked, "You're part of this whole thing with Barnabus and Pedro, aren't you?"
"Actually, Mr. Merritt and Mr. Viera acted on my request," he informed me. "This was my plan; I am the reason you are here."
I poured a heavy shot of whiskey. "Okay, I have you to thank." I topped my drink with cola and turned to him. "Sometime I'll want to know how you slipped in here, but for now I only have one question: what do you want, Vormund? Or should I say, guardian?"
He barely shrugged. "Of course, that word was used to guard my anonymity; some of my kind might have coaxed the truth out of you, and I currently do not want my presence known. But that title, Vormund, also has some truth to it, as you well know. My true name is Viggo."
I took a gulp and then asked, "Just Viggo, that's it?"
"In the time that I was brought into the night, surnames did not exist yet." Holy shit, I thought, how old was that creepy bastard?
"One of the reasons I have come," Viggo explained calmly, "is to simply introduce myself so that we will already be familiar for the next time we meet."
"Next time . . . yeah, great. Look, thanks for the info, but that's not what I meant." I took a deep breath, trying not to lose my temper and getting another unwanted neck massage. "I meant, what do you want with me? You helped me out at the Everett mansion, and I didn't mention you or the kid with the tote bag to anyone. We're even, so why the hell am I being held here?"
"Leopold, I will not waste time trying to explain it now. You are still in thrall to the Doyenne, so you would not accept any explanations at this point."
I drained my cup and replied, "In thrall? If you mean loyal, then yeah, I am. Kidnapping me and locking me up in this shitty place sure as hell isn't going to make me change my mind, either. You're wasting your time, okay? So just let me go, man." I would've begged and pleaded with him if I had to.
"I apologize for this, but it really is for your own good." Viggo then took a step over to the TV and turned it off; the room went black.
I waited for a few seconds before I asked what he was doing. Viggo didn't answer, so I carefully made my way to the bedside lamp while my eyes tried to adjust, hoping like hell that I wouldn't accidentally bump into him. I clicked the light on and squinted, looking around the room without knowing what to expect. Viggo was gone - not the first time I'd seen that trick.
DREAMS
More time passed. To stop the days and nights from blending into each other, I started keeping track of them by making scratches on the wall with the empty air-freshener can. Since when I first woke up in my roomy cell, my emotions settled from a boil into a simmer of burning hate. Not that it did me any good.
Hours were spent missing my Lady Le Meur and hating Viggo. Both distractions were so stressful that they gave me indigestion. It could have also been that log of summer sausage I ate for a single meal, but I didn't want to blame food. To avoid any more depression, I worked out, finished one book after another, and kept coming up with ill-conceived plans of revenge. Without a razor, I'd gone from having a goatee to a full beard; the image in the cracked mirror looked sort of feral, which matched my mood. I also started talking to TV shows just for some sort of interaction. I was getting a little jumpy.
Early one evening, while I was lying on my bed reading the last paperback, I had a disturbing chain of thoughts. One of the characters in the book reminded me of Craig. That brought me back to his wake, which still hurt to think about. I remembered Gwen's ugly pantsuit. Then some little tidbits of info that she'd told me came to mind, mainly the rumor of Realm Management sending a kill squad after Everett. Craig, Dan, and an innocent couple died that night. From what I knew, Lady Le Meur ran at least part of Realm. So if all that was true, then . . .
No, I wasn't going to believe that. I trusted Gwen, but maybe her sources were wrong for once. Maybe there was more to the story. I felt sort of sick just having the thought.
I was just getting back into the book when my prison door opened. Barnabus stepped in, looking as disturbing as ever, and shut the door behind him.
Not even bothering to get up from my bed, I turned my head back down to my book and said, "What." I was determined not to look at that big, bloody eye and get all creeped out.
There was a tense pause of a few seconds before he spoke. "I realize it was nearly two weeks ago, but I hope you enjoyed Viggo's visit." I didn't respond, so he goaded me. "I trust you're enjoying your stay?"
It was an effort to keep my eyes on the book when I replied, "I'm sure there's some nice way to tell you to kiss my ass, but I can't think of it. Say hi to Viggo for me, and tell him to invest in moisturizer."
"I see," Barnabus said slowly. Then I heard the door open and shut, as well as seeing it out of the corner of my eye. I wanted to smile, thinking I pissed him off, but for some reason I felt kind of shitty for trying. I shook it off and kept reading.
That night, bad dreams had me tossing and turning. Images began as they did most nights, with my gorgeous matriarch Emmeline Le Meur smiling at me and softly brushing her fingers on my cheek. But then the smile faded and she turned away. Flickering visions followed; a bloody Dan Harper on my front porch holding a white fur coat, the top half of Sarah as a hand puppet, and a wine bottle filled with gold chains. Le Meur's face came back again, a horrible beauty full of disdain. She came closer, and then spat blood in my face. I woke up roaring with fury intense enough to hurt my throat.
I sat on the side of my lumpy bed, my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. My skin felt cold and clammy; the rest of me felt disgusted with myself. "Oh, you bitch," I mumbled. I didn't mean me.
DOOR
The rest of that day was spent thinking with a clear head about my situation. The fog of Le Meur's influence had lifted. I couldn't imagine what she would have had me doing if I was her guard dog; she could have turned me into a very bad person, a single-minded killer. Over three weeks I was kept away from her manipulation, long enough to break the bond her blood had made. Granted, I wasn't too happy about being locked up all that time, but I figured I was better off in a cell than under Le Meur's thumb.
Viggo saved my ass at least once, and then sent his friends to come get me on the night before I began my bootlicking career for that Doyenne bitch. Okay, so why? Maybe Viggo planned on doing the same th
ing to me, or maybe he had an issue with Le Meur and I was just a toy he took away from her. I had no idea. It took me a while to admit it to myself, but I was afraid of all of those hemos that'd barged into my little world. I just wanted to go listen to Gwen's weird stories, have a drink at Keegan's, trade dirty jokes with Diego, have a barbeque with my neighbors, and clean my guns. I wanted to go home.
A few hours later, I was sitting on the couch eating granola bars and watching Antiques Roadshow when the iron door opened. Just like the night before, Barnabus stepped in and shut it. And, just like the night before, I turned away when I saw who it was. This time, though, it was because I felt like an ass. He'd gotten me out of the museum in heroic fashion, and then was nothing but a gentleman. I did remember his words from a few weeks back; words about liberation, efforts made on my behalf, and appreciation. I doubt he personally did all the shopping for me, but still.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
I turned my head his way but couldn't look him in the eye, not even the normal one. "I've seen the inside of Pul-e-Charkhi prison in Afghanistan; I can picture a lot worse places than this. So . . . yeah, I'm not doing too badly here."
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I'm sorry to say that the Doyenne has made no request for your return." Barnabus stated it as a matter of fact, but it was also another prod to see if I was still under her control.
"I'm not surprised; I bet she's too arrogant to admit that you guys took something of hers, and made it look easy." He grunted his agreement. "Hey, uh, Mr. Merritt," I went on, staring at the cable-spool table, "sorry to ask this, but I can't help but wonder . . . Did you have to kill that Dominic guy?"
"Kill? I didn't kill Dominic. Belying his appearance, he has a great deal of endurance. He and I have met before under unfortunate circumstances, and I knew I had to put him down quickly. If I were to have removed Dominic's head, then he'd be dead. I'm sure that by now he's back in full form."
