by D R Sanford
Guided by subconscious memory, he attacked, instinctively keeping under cover of nearby obstacles until he neared a mannequin.
He tapped the trigger twice.
Pft, pft.
On to the next one while bullets zipped overhead and pinged into metal.
Pft, pft.
The same spirit that possessed him the other night drove Cullen from target to target, the whole world black and white except for the red ovals that stood in his way.
Pft, pft.
This time Cullen welcomed it, reveling in the fire that pumped from heart to brain and along his limbs.
Pft, pft.
It extinguished doubt, crackled in all of his senses.
Pft, pft.
His hearing tracked the bullets that sought him.
Pft, pft.
Cullen tasted the sweat dripping from his upper lip, smelled the tang of gunpowder in the air, and delighted in the feel of a powerful weapon in his hands.
Pft, pft.
In seconds, Cullen disposed of the remaining nine dummies, dodging Cordova's fire while clearing the path ahead. A surprised Cordova was reloading when he looked down from his crow's nest inside the bed of a pickup truck.
Cullen's motion finally halted, the Aimpoint's dot resting eight feet away between the frightened look in Cordova's grey eyes. Cullen became aware of the rasping breaths passing through his flared nostrils.
Teeth grinding and fingers flexing on the carbine's grips, Cullen exerted control over the beast within. He toggled the weapon's safety on and lowered it from his shoulder.
Cordova stood still as a statue, the expression on his face molded by fear.
Cullen turned, looked into the truck's dust-covered side mirror, and scared himself.
—Chapter 15—
THE MYSTERY WOMAN
Cullen jumped back, caught off-guard by his image reflected in the mirror. He barely recognized himself. His usually limp, fine hair stood on end as though electrified. A feral snarl twisted his lips, the left corner of his mouth revealing bared teeth. Unblinking, nearly twice as large as normal, Cullen's left eye stared back at him, the pupil dilated and unnatural.
A firm hand on his shoulder cut the examination short. Ferdiad stood next to him, likewise appraising Cullen's features, though seemingly unfazed by the transformation.
A note of satisfaction rang in Ferdiad's voice. “Now we're cookin' with gas! That is the Cúchulainn I remember. It sent a chill through these old bones, watching you tear down Val's course. You failed the time limit but certainly have my appreciation for leaving him breathing.”
Cullen's only response was an involuntary growl as he pushed by Ferdiad and stalked away. Cordova shuffled around in the bed of the pickup but stayed there. His eerily perceptive hearing tracked Ferdiad's steps a few yards behind.
Struggling to cap the well of rage that boiled over inside, Cullen focused his emotions on the woman recovering at the ranch house, supplanting her image with Nora's. He imagined himself sitting on the edge of Nora's bed, surrounded by tranquil art, stroking her silken hair.
He felt the muscles in his face relax by minute degrees and continued to soothe himself with false memories as he weaved his way to the opposite end of the course.
Reaching the faded Oldsmobile, Cullen numbly deposited the HK and unstrapped the bulky vest. He let the vest fall to the red earth. Ferdiad's chair beckoned him, and he collapsed into its obtuse frame. Elbows in the air and head in his hands, Cullen massaged the scar prickling along the back of his skull.
The corner of Cullen’s mouth twitched in the last vestige of his transformation. He rubbed both hands from brow to chin, finding all had returned to normal. Inside, however, an integral part of him had changed. Some lapse of civilized behavior. A primal instinct for self-preservation rose within, asserting itself over the ethics and morality he’d learned in life.
Ferdiad's crunching footsteps drew close. A clearing of his throat called for Cullen’s attention.
“Cullen, uh, forgive me. I would have preferred a different manner of bringing you up to speed, but we have precious little time. If you’re to be of any use to us, I need to know that you won’t hesitate to act.”
Ferdiad’s gruff apology was heartfelt but did little to ease Cullen’s anger. With everything said and done, though, Ferdiad was right. Whatever their plans were, he had no expectations for involvement if he couldn’t carry his own weight.
He opened his eyes, focusing on the big man above, finding a kindly expression there.
“Ferdiad.” He sorted his thoughts. “I want to make it clear. If Nora is truly alive, there is nothing I won’t do to bring her back.”
A raised eyebrow of Ferdiad’s asked the only question between them.
Cullen answered, “I don’t know what just happened, whether that was Cullen or Cúchulainn. I’m done asking, so teach me what I need to know.”
“Alright, then. How about we move on to knives?” Ferdiad pulled his jacket aside, brandished a hunting knife from a hip sheath, and held its handle out to Cullen.
“Bah, you're telling him that's a knife?” Larkin’s voice called from the shadows. “I'll show you a real knife.”
***
The four men returned to the ranch house in single file, the sun high above their sweaty brows.
As they approached the barn, Larkin tapped Cordova on the shoulder and said, “Come on Val, I’ve got some good rot-gut bourbon in my locker.”
Cordova nodded assent, stripped a loaded duffel from his shoulder, and handed it to Larkin. They disappeared into the barn.
Cullen stopped briefly to examine a new car parked before the garage, but Ferdiad failed to take interest in it. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Laeg that morning.
Ferdiad held the side door for him. Exhausted from the morning’s activity, Cullen almost tripped on the entry steps but managed to reach the comfortable fireside chair without serious injury. Sinking into its cushions, Cullen allowed his eyelids to fall, reviewing the preceding hours in his memory.
Faced with Larkin’s undeniable knife skills, Cullen’s apparently innate fighting abilities simmered under the surface. Ferdiad had pointed out the basics, then Larkin toyed with him as a cat would a mouse, constantly adding more pressure to each successive attack. It only took a few cuts across Cullen’s knuckles or arms before he felt the spasms again.
His movements became more fluid, the footwork second nature. Whereas Larkin moved with grace, Cullen’s strikes were savage, forcing his opponent toward defense and earning a few stripes of his own.
The morning had been a hard one, and afternoon could wait for a few hours, he decided. Muted voices coming from the nearby bedroom plucked his curiosity for a moment but faded with the onset of hard-earned sleep.
***
Robbie drifted on calm waters, her canoe guided by the gentle lap of waves toward a small island. Without a paddle to steer the watercraft, she scanned her environment but found no immediate threats. The lake's surface absorbed encroaching fog banks and reflected a steely grey hue.
If it weren’t for the dreamlike quality of her surroundings, Robbie would have slipped into the lake and left the conspicuous vessel behind. Instead, she succumbed to the tranquility of the rolling waves and closed her eyes.
Silence. No bird calls from the island. Nothing in the distance. Just the waves against the canoe’s wooden shell. Peace.
She opened her eyes when the bow met the island’s pebbled shore, teetering briefly while Robbie regained her balance. Unseen before, she noticed a lone figure bent over a small fire on the beach. He faced the island, letting the lake’s breeze carry the fire’s smoke into the tree line.
Either oblivious to her arrival or unaffected by it, the stranger seemed intent on starting the fire by taking turns at waving his hand over it and blowing at its base. She decided he was an unlikely danger and stepped out of the canoe, wetting her bare feet in the cool, ankle-deep water.
Apparently she had d
ressed for her overcast dream in a comfortable sweatshirt and Capri pants but did not have time to pick out shoes. Robbie left the canoe on the bank and cautiously advanced on the man and his failing campfire.
Just in case, she snagged a fist sized rock from the beach and hid it at her side. With twenty feet between them and plenty of space to run, she called out, “Hello. You there, hello?”
He turned, seemingly aware of Robbie for the first time, and cast a smile in her direction. Waving a hello and then gesturing for her to come forward, he resumed construction of his fire.
She closed in on him and noticed that he was a young man, perhaps mid twenties, with bristly black hair and Asian features. His tanned face and arms conveyed a life spent outdoors, and the trail weathered clothes he wore confirmed it.
Coming to a halt beside the small bank of smoldering twigs, she passed judgment on his handiwork. “Where did you find this wood? It’s all wet or green.”
His passive face looked up, open for suggestions. “That’s the trouble on these islands. It’s hard to find dry wood during the rainy season.”
The voice reflected everything else Robbie could see. He spoke without guile. His eyes matched the saturated black of his hair. Everything about the stranger was peaceful, from the way he sat to the patient kindness of his eyes.
A stringer of freshly caught fish lay on the other side of him. He must be starting a fire to cook them. For some reason, the notion of a fresh meal set her stomach rumbling. Robbie made up her mind to trust him and worked an angle to fill her belly also.
“Tell you what. I’ll get that fire going if you share some of your catch with me.”
He just smiled back and replied in his soothing tenor, “I think that is a very good deal. I’ll get them ready to cook.” Raising an open hand to her, he said, “By the way, my name is Alex.”
Robbie felt an imperceptible nudge and a desire to take his hand. Instead, she turned toward the tree line, saying, “Nice to meet you.”
It wasn’t her habit to make friends. Nurturing relationships was not one of her strong suits, but taking care of herself always had been. Once inside the trees and underbrush, Robbie cast around for a sign of deadfall branches or anything else that could make a better fire.
There, a birch tree. It’s peeling bark burned longer and faster than newspaper. She stripped a few pieces and wandered about, constantly checking the undergrowth for lurking threats. The man on the beach and this peaceful island may appear perfectly normal, but being watchful and permanently suspicious had served her well through the years.
Here and there Robbie found dry twigs and branches suitable for a small fire and returned to the beach with an armful of fuel. Alex squatted at the water’s edge some twenty feet away, filleting the fish with a thin, tapered knife. She kept a watchful eye on him while assembling a teepee of twigs over the smoldering mess he’d left behind.
Satisfied with her preparations, Robbie stuffed a few strips of birch bark in the base, lay down on the cool rocks, and blew into the pile of leaves below. Hopefully some ember remained, otherwise she’d have to check Alex’s pack for matches. A few more exhalations and a strip of bark lit. The others caught fire, emitting a pleasing yellow flicker and igniting the surrounding twigs.
Robbie sat back, crossing her legs and rubbing her hands before the fire. Alex returned with a cast iron pan full of fish fillets and rummaged in his pack, pulling out various seasonings and a small jar of oil. Dashing a mix of herbs on the fish, Alex hummed to himself.
He continued with his simple song while setting up a three-legged stand that fit neatly over the fire. The pan centered over its rim, and before long the oil was sizzling, the aroma making her salivate.
He tended to their meal with a long fork, occasionally looking up to meet her gaze, that same smile at first unsettling her and then sneaking past her defenses to ease her mind. Alex served the first two fillets to Robbie and started on another batch.
Robbie devoured everything on her plate. The fish tasted so fresh, and the seasoning reminded her of a meal she’d eaten long ago in better times. Still hungry and eyeing the fish popping in the hot oil, she was surprised by the sound of Alex’s voice after his lengthy silence.
“I’ll make you a new deal,” he said. A smile lightened his voice, but something else in his tone was serious. “You can have the next two fillets if you tell me your name.”
He’d been kind. Nothing about his actions triggered her alarms. Robbie supposed the request was harmless, especially considering the reward.
“Roberta Fergusson. You may as well call me Robbie like everyone else.”
Again, Alex held out his hand, and this time she took it. The palm was dry, the fingers delicate, not rough like she was used to.
“Pleased to meet you, Robbie. My full name is Alex Kingston. What do you think of my little lakeside retreat? It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, but it looks the same as the last time I visited.”
Robbie breathed in the cool air, thinking the morning would be perfect if she had a steaming mug of coffee. “Very peaceful. I feel like I was on the move or cooped up for the longest time, and this place just slows everything down.”
“I know what you mean. Sometimes we all need a little refuge, don’t we?”
A perfect description. Robbie wondered what it would be like to come here often. Let the peaceful waves wash up on the shore. Sit inside the shifting fog banks that concealed any foreseeable destination.
Nothing in life was ever so simple, though. Her suspicious nature rose from its own fog and demanded answers. “Why are we here, Alex?”
His eyebrows rose, caught off guard. Good. Maybe she’d get a straight answer.
“That’s a pretty direct question, Robbie. Are you ready for the answer?”
She set down her plate, no longer interested in food. “I know this isn’t real, and you’re the only one here. Are we really going to sit here and eat fish in relative silence all day?”
Alex removed the skillet from the fire, set it on the rocks beside him, and mirrored her position. “Robbie, you have been through a very difficult time, and I wanted to meet you in a safe place. I thought we could take a walk, actually, though I suppose we can dispose with the pleasantries if you prefer.”
He paused to let that sink in. Robbie’s wheels started turning, trying to move ahead of Alex and figure out his game plan. “What do you want with me?”
“Easy question. I don’t want anything from you, only to set you free.”
“Free of what?”
“Do you remember anything before floating to this island Robbie?”
She looked out to the waters, thinking past the fog, miles of it until memories came in with the breeze. She arrived in a windowless room during the days of solitude following childbirth.
Seeing her baby girl led away while Robbie struggled against straps securing her to a table and screaming through a ball gag crammed between her teeth.
Months of solitary confinement before that. The only times she saw the sun were the times they moved her to a new location. Then down to the basement again. Just Robbie, the baby growing in her womb, and the occasional cry of another mother slowly going insane.
On her feet again and thinking about the fillet knife in Alex’s pack, Robbie shifted her feet, ready to attack. This may be a dream or some new method for her captors to break her will, but there was no way she’d play along with their games.
Alex made no move for his pack. His hands sat idle on his knees. That same disconcerting smile aimed back at her.
“I feel for you, Robbie.”
Her teeth grinding together, she spat back, “You feel for me? Do you have the slightest idea what I’ve been through? Do you honestly believe I’d cozy up to you with your little fireside chat and let you inside my head?”
His head shook. For the first time a sad look expelled the smile from his face.
“Robbie,” he paused, “I cannot undo what has been done to you. No
one can. But, I’ll make you another deal. Trust me, trust those who have already freed your physical self, and I will not rest until Amelia is returned to you.”
Robbie’s breath caught in her throat. Somehow, Alex had discovered her most tightly kept secret, the name she’d given the child in her womb. Knowing the fate in store for her daughter, ‘Amelia’ had passed her lips countless times as Robbie cried herself to sleep at night.
The man seated on the cool rocks beneath her was either a pure figment of her imagination or some unknown entity in a world she already knew was full of mysteries. Either way, Robbie decided to accept his offer. She had nothing left to lose except for a life that had been swirling the figurative toilet bowl for years now.
He raised his right hand to seal the deal. In one step, Robbie cleared the space between them to accept it.
She woke to find Alex’s eyes staring back at her. Smile lines creased the corners of his eyes. He sat beside her on the bed. She had his hand clutched tightly to her chest.
“Amelia is a beautiful name,” he said.
Robbie nodded wordlessly, twin tears rolling down and tickling her ears.
Releasing Alex's hand, Robbie used her elbows to prop herself up. A shooting pain in the center of her back stole her breath for a moment. Alex stood quickly to help her sit up and moved a pillow behind Robbie for support.
Her breath came back, but the ache in her back remained. Robbie gave Alex a passing smile of appreciation and took in the room. Yellow light emanated from the bedside lamp, easy on her eyes. Art covered the walls in sizes big and small. Everything from oil paintings to photography displayed the most serene images she'd ever seen. Only when she noticed the absence of windows did Robbie grow alarmed again.
“Where am I?”
“You are in a safe place, hundreds of miles away from where my friends found you.”
