by Amy Vansant
She heard him mumble to himself.
“Is tae a word.”
They approached a young man standing at the door. He raised his tablet and Catriona felt her mood darken.
Not again.
“Name?” he asked.
“Catriona Phoenix and Brochan...er...” She’d forgotten they’d yet to christen Broch with a surname. He’d only known himself as Brochan when he arrived. Since then, they’d discovered he was Sean’s real son, so she guessed Sean had used his own last name when adding them to the party list.
“Brochan Shaft.”
She heard it the moment the words left her lips.
Oh no.
The young man squinted at her. “Broken Shaft?”
She winced.
I just gave him the worst porn name ever.
When Sean arrived from the past, nearly thirty years before Brochan, he’d been questioned about his last name in a room with the poster for the movie Shaft hanging on the wall. He’d panicked and said his last name was Shaft. He’d lucked out. Sean Shaft sounded acceptable. But Brochan Shaft—
“—tenstein,” she added, pretending she hadn’t finished. “Brochan.”
The young man’s glower grew deeper. “Brochan Shaftenstein?”
She dropped her head into her hand. Oh my god. This keeps getting worse.
Catriona took a deep breath and decided to start from the top. “Look, we’re security from the studio. Just let us in.”
The doorman tapped his tablet. “You’re not on the list. I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.”
Catriona dug through her evening bag for the badge identifying her as Parasol Pictures security. With the exception of her phone, the badge and lipstick were the only things she’d been able to fit in the child-sized purse she’d found in her old bedroom closet.
In the end, she’d had to strap her gun to the inside of her thigh to keep it from showing beneath her condom of a dress.
The doorman peered at the badge as she held it aloft triumphantly, and then shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Burson. Step aside.”
Catriona was about to tear into the young man when a booming voice cut her short.
“Catriona!”
Director Konrad Burson appeared on the threshold of the warehouse, arms raised in welcoming, his round belly leading the way. The doorman stepped aside, clearly perturbed his tiny bit of authority had been stripped.
Catriona smiled. “Hey, Konrad.”
Nice timing. She stuck the tip of her tongue out at the boy and he scowled.
“Here to save me from myself?” Konrad asked hugging her.
“Somebody has to.” She motioned to Broch as Konrad released his anaconda-like grip on her. “This is my new partner, Brochan.”
Just Brochan.
Konrad thrust a hand toward Broch. “You’re a big one. Ever do any acting?”
“Na.” Broch shook his head. Catriona had tried to slick back his shaggy locks with some hair gel she’d left at Sean’s years earlier, but his head shake sent wavy strands tumbling front and back. It only made him more handsome, which didn’t seem fair.
Konrad waved for them to follow him. “Come on in. The party’s about to start.”
Catriona and Broch trailed Konrad to a large room set up as a dining hall with two enormous tables in the center. If Henry the Eighth had walked in and taken a seat at the head of the table, Catriona wouldn’t have been surprised.
As they entered, a slight, dark-haired young man lingering at the end of one table turned to watch them. Judging by the scraggly hair on his chin, Catriona guessed him to be about eighteen, though his diminutive size made him seem much younger. She recognized him from pictures she’d seen online while researching Pinky’s history.
Konrad headed toward him as if he were magnetized.
“Catriona, Broch, this is Mason Lang.”
Mason smiled and held out a hand to shake. As Catriona took his hand in her own she felt the nub of a missing digit. Watching as he moved to shake with Broch, she saw the boy’s pinky was missing.
He caught her looking and held up his right hand.
“Dad needed a spare,” he said with a chuckle. Catriona could tell he’d used the line before to break the tension. She imagined life had to be difficult for Mason, knowing people knew him as the son of a monster. He probably had a hundred ready-made comments designed to put people at ease.
But something was odd about his missing pinky...
“I thought he always took the left?”
Catriona said the words before she could stop herself and then winced.
That might have been rude.
Mason smiled. “You did your homework.”
She shrugged, grateful he hadn’t been offended. “It’s my job.”
“They’re security,” explained Konrad.
“Ah.” Mason turned to him. “Can I tell her?”
“Go ahead. I’m going to greet the guests.” Konrad leaned to Catriona. “This is one of the secrets we’re revealing in the movie. You’ll love it.”
She nodded and returned her attention to Mason. “If it’s a secret you don’t have to—”
Mason ignored her. “My mother was missing her right pinky. Childhood accident.” He touched the nub of his own finger. “Dad took the left from his victims because they weren’t quite her.”
Catriona squinted one eye. “So it was kind of romantic?”
Mason chuckled. “I guess, in a way. Only family loses the right.” As he spoke, Catriona thought she saw a flash of pride cross his expression. She imagined the boy’s sick father had tried to convince him the loss of his right pinky was an honor.
She felt terrible for probing. “I’m sorry. It must have been hard, reenacting what he put you through.”
Mason shook his head. “Cathartic, really. Helped me get my head around things.”
“Really?”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but Dad seemed like a pretty normal dad to me, most of the time. Believe it or not, he was a nice guy.”
“He murdured eight wummin,” mumbled Broch, taking a goblet of red wine from a tray carried by a passing server.
Catriona tried to surreptitiously elbow him in the ribs, and he struggled to keep his glass from sloshing. “Whit? He did, dinnae he?”
Mason held out a palm, implying all was well. “No, you’re totally right. I meant, when he wasn’t doing terrible things, he was a nice guy to me until the end. Boring even.” He reached into his pocket with his left hand and pulled out his wallet. Opening it, he withdrew a photo of a pudgy, smiling, balding man. A tall man holding a golf club stood in the background.
“Is that Brooks Koepka?” asked Catriona, zeroing in on the man in the back. While she didn’t watch a lot of golf, it seemed every time she visited Sean he was watching, and she’d come to recognize many of the top players.
Mason’s expression registered his surprise. “Good eye. This was taken at the U.S. Open tournament. He was so happy to go—watched it from the moment it started until the end. He went to every event he could.”
Catriona looked away and tapped into the photographic memory she’d only recently discovered she had. Sean called it a mini-time-travel, where only her mind journeyed back to a moment and she could rewatch it as if she was there.
In her mind’s eye, she found herself sitting on the sofa in Sean’s office watching a golfer being interviewed after his win.
“Brooks won that,” she said.
“He did. Good memory,” said Mason.
Broch leaned down and peered at the photo. “Golf.”
“You know golf?” she asked before realizing it would seem an odd question to a person unaware of Broch’s time-jumping past.
Broch scoffed. “We invented it.”
“You, personally?”
The big Scot rolled his eyes.
She returned her attention to Mason, who’d already slid the photo back into his wallet. “So your dad did bori
ng dad things like go to golf tournaments.”
“And then he murdered wummin,” mumbled Broch, as he craned his neck to catch the eye of a server with a tray of mini quiches.
Catriona grimaced and Mason laughed at her discomfort. “It’s okay. Really. I’m used to it. Don’t get me wrong, I know Dad was a monster. I keep that photo to remind me of his other side, when my thoughts get too dark.”
“People are complicated,” said Catriona, watching a short, stocky man approach them.
“Who do you have here?” asked the man, slapping a hand on Mason’s back, his eyes never leaving Catriona’s cleavage.
“Hey, Sal, this is Catriona and...uh...” Mason shook his head. “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
Broch’s hand enveloped Sal’s as he sidestepped to block the man’s death-stare on Catriona’s chest. “Brochan.”
Catriona watched Sal wince as Broch squeezed.
“Quite a grip you got there.” Sal flexed his hand as Broch released him.
She stepped forward to shake his hand. “You’re Salvatore Soto, the officer who...” She glanced at Mason. It felt indelicate to finish her sentence.
“The cop who shot my dad and saved my life,” said Mason, once again gallantly breaking the tension. Catriona couldn’t help but be impressed.
Soto threw his arm around Mason, grinning. “Just doin’ my job, kid, just doin’ my job.”
“Your ankle seems to have healed well,” said Catriona, nodding at Soto’s feet. She remembered feeling a little ill while reading that the officer’s Achilles had been sliced.
Soto flashed a dimple in his right cheek. “You can’t keep me down.” He winked and stared into Catriona’s eyes as if they were the only people in the room.
Catriona thought she heard a growl rumble in Broch’s chest.
Seemingly oblivious to Broch’s ire, Soto raised both hands, as if urging a crowd to silence. “It was crazy. There I was, creeping down that dark, dark hallway. Razor wire to my left. Razor wire to my right. I hear this weird sliding noise behind me and poing! there goes my Achilles.”
Catriona winced. The cartoonish noise Soto used to describe having his tendon severed didn’t help make the image in her head any less horrific.
Soto pantomimed shooting a gun. “That’s when I fell, firing where the pain came from.” He shrugged, his perpetual grin failing him for the first time since his arrival. He waved his hand and muttered the rest of his tale. “Then that horrible stuff with the bomb outside.”
“You were lucky,” said Catriona.
Soto nodded. “I only wish my partner and the others had been so lucky. I just want to tell their story now. That’s why I’m here.”
An awkward silence fell and Mason scanned the now crowded room. “Well, I guess I better mingle. Nice to meet you both.”
Soto sprang back to life as if someone had flipped his happy switch. “Me too.” Soto took Catriona’s hand in his own. “Nice to meet you.” He glanced at Broch and held up an index finger, warding off a second handshake. “You too, big guy, but I’m not making that mistake again.” With a final wink at Catriona and a slap on Broch’s arm, he headed into the growing crowd with Mason.
As soon as they left, Catriona flipped her wrist to smack Broch in the chest with the back of her hand.
“Behave yourself, will you?”
“He likes ye,” said Broch.
“Who? Mason?” He’s just a kid,” said Catriona, knowing he’d meant Soto.
“The wee man. Ah’ll tie him into a Celtic knot.”
Catriona laughed. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything. He’s a hero. Be nice.”
Broch grunted.
A commotion rose behind them and Catriona turned in time to see the doorman stumble forward and sprawl to the ground as if someone had pushed him.
Two men dressed in what looked like black, unmarked S.W.A.T. uniforms closed the doors behind them. One spread his legs, standing sentry. The other held up an M16 rifle.
“Everybody listen up!” screamed the other.
Chapter Ten
Rune stood outside Maddie’s house, watching her watch television. The one-story Craftsman wasn’t an impressive home, but in the Los Angeles market, a single-family proved she had some earning power.
If she owns it.
Maybe she rents.
I wonder how much rent—
Rune dropped his chin to his chest and pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed his mind wandered to the strangest thoughts these days.
Who cares about Maddie’s rent?
She worked at Parasol Pictures. That was the important part.
Rune had felt it when he touched her, saw flashes of the Parasol logo again and again, knew she saw it every day on her way to work. He couldn’t say he’d been able to decipher what she did at Parasol, though. He assumed she was an actress, but the images he’d pulled from her mind—scissors, glue, paper and little flat wooden sticks—none of that made any sense.
But none of that mattered. What mattered was that she had access to the studio where all his enemies seemed to spend their time. Even his own daughter worked there.
He felt the scar on his neck and thought of Fiona.
Traitorous spawn.
Maddie could slip him inside the studio lot. Once in, he could kill them all.
Maybe then I can sleep.
When he closed his eyes at night he could feel their presence. His skin vibrated and itched. It was as if he were allergic to them.
They had to go. He couldn’t have them in the same time stream as himself. He didn’t want them anywhere, but especially the time where he found himself now. Where he felt his calling.
This feels like the right place.
Maybe his calling was simply to kill them.
They were so misguided. They hadn’t evolved like him. Sure, he had a vague recollection of inspiring good in the people around him, but what was the point? All that wishy-washy inspiring made mankind weaker. When he awoke to the realization his natural ability to inspire the best in people was counterproductive, his gut reaction was to kill everyone. Every person on earth.
But that urge passed, coming, raging like a fever and then breaking like one.
When his anger subsided, he was able to see things more clearly. More calmly. If he had been making the human race weaker by coddling them, couldn’t he make them stronger with tough love?
He’d been misguided, but that didn’t mean everyone had to die.
The realization was a tremendous relief. Having to kill everyone on his to-do list had inspired quite a bit of anxiety.
Everyone was a lot. It could take him eons to rid the planet of humans.
As his new consciousness evolved, he realized his mission wasn’t to kill, it was to toughen. It was easier to inspire mistrust than anything else. He made people think about survival of the fittest, where the fittest was always themselves.
That didn’t mean they were the fittest, of course, but if they weren’t, then they would die trying to prove they were, so it all worked out in the end.
Easy-peasy pumpkin breezy.
Rune shook his head.
Stop it. Why do you think such silly things?
He returned to his thoughts. Everything he wanted to accomplish was at risk with Sean and his son hanging around, inspiring the best in people.
They had to go.
So did Fiona, now that she’d turned on him. He’d thought she’d be a partner.
Rune took a deep breath and bopped his lips together, making a string of popping noises.
He was sorry about her.
Maybe if she just spent more time with me and less time with them?
He gasped.
That’s it.
If they could influence her down the wrong path, how hard could it be to influence her into understanding she was more powerful on his team?
“I could talk to her. Make it clear. That would be worth a shot,” he mumbled to himself.
Rune loo
ked up from where he had been studying the toe of his shoe, deep in thought.
What was I doing?
The glow inside the Craftsman caught his attention.
Oh, right.
He walked across the street and knocked on the Craftsman’s door. There was a click as the knob turned.
“Hello, Maddie.”
Maddie stared at him through the cracked-open door, lock chain still attached. Her eyes had opened wide when she spotted him. Rune thought for a moment they would fall out of her skull and roll across the threshold.
Before he could say anything, she slammed the door shut with a little yelp.
He frowned.
Why does everyone always have to make everything so difficult?
“Let me in.” He could hear the boredom in his tone. He hoped that wouldn’t make it easier for her to ignore him.
“I’m going to call the police. Go away.”
Rune rested his cheek against the door.
“You saw what I can do, Maddie. Do you really think the police can stop me?”
Silence.
“Let me in.”
“You’ll kill me.”
“Do you think I can’t kill you from out here?”
He couldn’t. At least not that he was aware, but she didn’t know that. It made him a little giddy how much clearer his thoughts were becoming. The fury of his glorious transformation had given way to clarity.
Look how clever I am now.
“I just want to talk.” He could barely get the words past his lips he was grinning so wide.
“How can I trust you?” she asked.
He cleared his throat.
Good point.
“You can’t. But if I wanted to kill you, don’t you think I would have done that earlier?”
Logic. She can’t argue with that. So clever.
Maddie opened the door again, the gold lock chain still hanging just below her eyes.
“What’s in it for me?” she asked, clearly fighting to keep her quavering voice steady.
There’s my girl.
“I think we can help each other. I’ve already helped you once, didn’t I? That’s how much I admire you. I did that for you. And what I need you to do is, pfft.” He flicked the air with his finger to show how inconsequential his request would be. Featherweight. Nothing. He could see the white feather he was flicking. He wasn’t sure if she could. At least she didn’t follow it with her eyes as it bounced up and then fluttered to the ground, scooping through the air back and forth like a rocking cradle.
