“We know he is here. We see signs of his work.”
“Of course we know that,” another snaps, this one wearing a tie and jacket, his accent decidedly English, his dark hair cut short, his eyes peering out behind somewhat large, rounded spectacles. “We didn’t have to find out that intel on our own.”
The one who worked with Livie gives the man a patient look, though it speaks volumes of their professional relationship.
“You know we like to be thorough, Eldon. We’ve verified initial intel before on other jobs.”
“I know that, too.” Eldon narrows his eyes, hands going to his waist. “This shouldn’t be a big deal. We’re getting good money on a lot of faith. We need to end this one quickly.”
“He inspires too much fear. How do we get people to talk about him?” the other, Tomas, counters.
“We had a good lead on the one lieutenant, and you botched that.”
Tomas sighs, still showing signs of his patience.
“He was not going to tell us anything more, and we couldn’t leave him alive.”
“I don’t care about your killing him,” Eldon gets closer, his tension rising, “but we felt he had good information.”
“I’m sure he did,” Tomas responds, “but he was not going to share it with us.”
“Everyone has their breaking point. Everyone.”
“We’ve been doing this for a while now, Eldon. You know how I work. You’ve seen the results,” Tomas calmly speaks, “I can read people fairly well, and under the circumstances, we would have had to kidnap him, find a place for him, then spend many hours torturing him to get anything.”
Eldon huffs, then turns, moving away, going to grab his cup of coffee from the counter, sipping of it with a reaction that seems to belie his distaste with not only the conversation but also the drink.
“How are we doing with the police?” he then asks, and all eyes move over to Livie.
She finally realizes the focus is on her, so she speaks more into the phone, then ends the call.
“Alex is set up. He’s going to need a bit of time to get some initial information. He’s also working on getting deeper in.”
“I wish that paranoid brat would just-,” Eldon begins.
“He’s good at what he does, and his paranoia is part of it,” Livie breaks in, her relationship with their technical specialist going back to prior to the workings of this group.
“What’s got you so bent, Eldon?”
The basso voice is thick with a South Slavic accent, and the unshaven man takes a casual taste of his coffee as the challenged eyes of the Brit glare at him.
“We’ve only been here a few days,” Tomas interjects, “and you’re pressing us much more than usual on this one.”
“Our employers are very adamant about this assignment. As I said, we’ve gotten a nice bonus up front, and the desire on their part is for expediency. You all also know how important reputation is in this business.”
All three pairs of eyes look back at him. All three bear experience in their aspects. None say a word to this obvious lecture that is wasted on them.
“We’ll find him,” Tomas iterates.
“I think the police will be very helpful,” Livie adds, shifting her legs as she reaches for her own cup of coffee. “Volkov has been causing them a lot of trouble. They’ll have a good file on him. Alex will get access to it.”
“The former boss, Gnegon,” Tomas brings up, “He had police on his payroll. We’ll also try to find some of them, see if they can be useful.”
Eldon nods to this, suddenly thoughtful. He has another taste of his drink, his arm moving almost absently. The others again go quiet, watching, waiting.
“What about this vigilante?” the Serbian almost casually interjects.
Eldon actually chuckles briefly, almost silently.
“Yes, that’s an interesting thing, isn’t it?” he muses, then looks back up at the others. “Livie? Can Alex find out more about that?”
“I’m sure he can.”
“To what end?” Tomas asks, speaking quickly on the heels of the woman’s statement.
“Intelligence,” Eldon replies, a smirk on his thin lips, “Maybe this vigilante knows something helpful about our target.”
“You want us to be quick about this?” Tomas continues, “But you also want us to try to find this … individual and then capture and interrogate him?”
Eldon looks like a statue, his gaze and manner showing his displeasure.
“Just see what you can find. These are all potential angles of approach. You blew our best one, so get on it,” he orders, then checks his watch and leaves without another word.
“I wonder what deal he agreed to,” the Serbian all but growls out.
The others look over, then exchange a glance.
“It does seem out of the ordinary. Nenad?” Tomas summons, and the Serb looks up at him, having already drifted off to whatever takes his mind during such moments. “Do you think some of your contacts might help with finding this vigilante?”
“Maybe.” He gives a shrug, holding his shoulders up for a bit within the dark sweatshirt. “I’ve mainly been casing the city for Volkov’s operations.”
“Right, but I think Alex’s work will prove better for that.”
“You want me to alter my task?” Nenad asks, his demeanor not implying any preference one way or the other.
“Just add to it, okay? Just do like our dear Eldon has asked and see what you can find.”
Though his eyes do not move from Tomas, Nenad mentally chews on this. They know he is already planning methods. He then nods.
“Okay.”
*****
The hooded figure lurks just outside the glow of the streetlamps at the bus stop. This is not to avoid the light but the cameras. There’s one hovering there, its unblinking eye grazing over the area where people might wait for the next bus. Another hangs none too far away, but the two are not nearly close enough to overlap in their surveillance. There are many blind spots.
Footsteps. This is not a commuter. Quain has parked around the corner, feeling exposed, but he walks nearer to the bus stop. He has his pistol, his light jacket concealing it. He bears its weight with years of familiarity.
The hidden person sees him, eyes studying him with intensity. He hears the hissed sound when he gets close enough, and he stops, pocketed hands coming out of his coat. He peers into the darkness. He sees the shadowed person there, and he catches a glint of metal. It must be her. And as if to dispel any doubt, Therese steps forward just long enough for him to know, then retreats back as though swallowed by the blackness. He heads over.
“What’s going on?” he asks, noting the young woman’s agitation.
She jerks a hand, beckoning him further into the darkness. He blinks rapidly, frowning, but he goes deeper into the shadows. He can see her movements, how she sort of jigs in place, probably even unaware of it. Her eyes dart about within the covering of her hoodie.
“Are you on something?”
Her eyes stop on him, as does her motion. She is still, staring.
“No,” she answers, defensive.
“Want to tell me why you called me here, then?”
“Something’s happened.”
“I kind of figured that.”
“The P.I. helping me,” she continues, and he can feel the effort it takes her to talk. “He’s missing.”
“Missing?” His brow knits.
She nods, somewhat jerky.
“Yeah. I … uhm.” She licks her lips, the jewelry there again managing to find some remnant of the light, a dancing reflection. “I found a house … owned by our guy.”
He notes her choice of words, as if they dare not mention the name of the person they hope to catch. Something else dawns on him, then.
“When did your P.I. go to check it out?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I told him about it six days ago.”
“Six days! Shit.” Quain moves his head i
n exasperation, hands going to his waist.
Therese just stares at him, looking up from within her head covering.
“Why didn’t you give this intel to me?”
“What difference does that make now?” she throws back, but he can sense a change in her usual demeanor – she’s nervous, pleading for help in her own way.
“Well, why don’t you give me the P.I.’s name? I can run some checks, make sure he’s really disappeared or that maybe something else didn’t happen that has nothing to do with this.”
“What makes you think I haven’t already done that?”
“Come on. What does it hurt to give me the guy’s name? It will help me to find him.”
“Okay,” she finally gives after enough time to make him doubt if she would reply at all.
“Alright, and this house, you want me to go check it out?”
“I don’t know if you should,” she says, stepping closer.
He looks at her, his thoughts interrupted, already gone smoothly to the methods he’ll use to check on Macar, the P.I.
“Look, you don’t know if your guy even made it there. Let’s handle this properly, okay? I’ll check for him, and I ought to check into this house.”
“You don’t ..,” she begins, eyes darting away and back, “You don’t know if there’s anything there to find. Just … just look for Macar.”
“Going to that house is part of looking for him.”
“Don’t go alone,” she warns, her voice emphatic.
“What do you think I’m going to find there?” he returns, a bit confused, seriousness warring with an inclination to perhaps patronize.
“I don’t know,” she grates out, her own continued tension evident.
“Okay, okay. Just try to calm down. Let me do some digging, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Something bad has happened,” she says, and he notices the small, jittering motion again.
“What? What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she angles back, again going motionless, eyes glaring. “But Macar and I had been in regular communication, okay? We exchanged messages almost daily. I have not heard from him since I told him about the house and he said he was going to check into it. He had … found some things about our guy, things that scared him. He didn’t want to go.”
Her eyes have now latched onto him, like a deer’s staring into a bright light.
She’s worried, because she feels it’s something of her fault, he deduces.
“No one made him take his job.”
She rolls her eyes, shaking her head quickly. “Look, it’s dangerous. Just don’t go alone. You’re a cop. Take other cops with you. Take guns, whatever.”
“I know procedure. It has to be followed, especially if there’s something important or dangerous to be found.”
“Okay, good.” Her tongue moves inside her mouth, her jewelry again glinting, giving her an oddly contemplative appearance. “Be careful,” she adds, each word uttered with weight.
He nods.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fingers searching for the sure and stable grip, muscles flexing as she pulls herself higher while pushing with the legs. She looks up and to her sides, trying to find the next handhold. She sees something that looks promising and tries to reach it. Muscles tensing, digits outstretched, but she can't touch it, so she returns her hand next to the other. She extends her leg and tries to get a hold on the cool rock. The grip of the sole of her shoe feels sure, so she puts on some weight, reaching again to the possible handhold.
Thoughts mangle through her mind - the kids, being the vigilante, the growing problems between her and Skot. How can she help everyone, even herself? Can she? Is it possible?
Just when her fingers touch the rock, she loses the grip of her foot, slamming against the stone and barely managing to pull her hand back next to the other, hanging in there, fingertips digging, body tense. She keeps herself from falling. After regaining a position for her feet, she closes her eyes, taking in deep breaths, trying to calm herself.
Lilja eventually completes her climbing, finding herself in a familiar area near a large pond. The weather has been very nice today. She revels in it, letting it lull her as she sits in the grass, having ventured somewhat deep into this park area, removing herself from the urban noise of the city proper. One of the many things she misses from her home is the closeness she felt to nature. The population of this country is quite larger than Finland, and she is not used to such metropolitan density. Even after the time she has lived here, she still misses her forays into nearby lands where Mother Nature holds more sway. She tries to keep connected to such as much as possible, especially in times of duress.
She feels like she is disappointing Skot. Her mind and emotions are a clamor, like the growing clatter of rusted machines and instruments out of tune fueling a frenetic surge that threatens to overwhelm her. She does not show it, resting here, calm-seeming, amidst the trees, but she certainly feels it. It claws at her, snapping at her from within the shadows in which she has tried to dispel it, tries to ignore it. She knows that does not solve anything, but sometimes, a lost swimmer just treads water.
Her lips edge into the merest of smirks, eyes on the lovely calm of the nearby natural pool. She knows this body of water, knows this spot of it that lies nestled within the trees and rocks of the nearby hillside. It is a privacy, though one that offers no further barriers than the ones she has crossed. This is a cradle to some, a nigh impenetrable border to others. She so desires to be cleansed, to not just tread water, hold her breath, trying to live on false hope, but to do something to fix all of this. She wants this, wants to be better.
She imagines what he would say – probably that she should not so berate herself, that such leads to surrender, perhaps even willful martyrdom. She does not want that, but sometimes the lull of it beckons to her with its simplicity. Just lie down, shut off the world, go into shelter.
She has relished the feeling of freedom by being back in her apartment the past few days. But even with that thought, she somewhat chastises herself. Again, the lull, the lure – just run away, hide. She should not feel any freer at her apartment than in the townhome with Skot. She feels like the force of his will and expectation threatens to stifle her, control her in a way she does not want to be controlled. But even as Lilja recognizes this, she again reminds herself that not only is that not his intent, but he is also an imperfect human. As he has said to her so many times – they need to work together.
Still, this has been worthwhile to her. She needs the reflection, the quiet introspection. If she is able to calm her turmoil, even forget it from time to time, then she goes back to it with a renewed perspective, as though hurling herself out from under the pile, seeing the spread pieces, realizing the weight is not so great as she thought, the puzzle not so confounding. She tries to be meditative, clear the mind, then approach the problem later, but she has trouble emptying such thoughts.
She finishes changing into her swimsuit, quite like one a competitive swimmer would don, leaving her clothes and small pack in a tidy arrangement on the side of the pond, and she prepares to take a dip. She pauses, blinking, pondering, and she picks up a small rock, throwing it, disturbing the placid surface of the clean, cool liquid.
“Näkki maalle, minä veteen,” she intones, a Finnish folklore, some might say superstition, which is meant to dispel a malevolent water spirit, one intent on drowning.
She waits a moment, then another light smirk takes her lips, a short exhalation through her nose. She steps nearer the pool when she hears the movement, and looking over, she sees a rather large, dark green frog jumping out of the lake and onto the nearby ground, water droplets slipping along its bumpy, mottled back.
She pauses, eyes fixed on the amphibian who seems to pay her no heed. After a moment, she enters the water. She feels the sudden sting at her elbows, glancing down to the scrapes she got earlier when she nearly fell. She knew they were there, but this she had managed t
o erase from her focus. She’ll clean them thoroughly later. Extending her arms, she knifes through the water, going at a slow, relaxing pace, a cooldown after the tense exercise of her rock climbing.
She feels the soft floor of the pond, pushing off of it with one foot as she goes further, gaining depths that allow her more freedom of movement. She swims, feeling the stretch in her muscles, turning to her back to drift for a moment, arms swaying to keep to her heading. She hears the sounds of the myriad life here, knows there are things in the water with her, things out on the shore and in the forest. None of that bothers her as she knows it would bother some.
She treads water, realizing she is not succeeding in clearing her mind. She closes her eyes, takes in a deep breath, then submerges. She floats, moving about, just experiencing the buoyancy of her body held in the fluid. She pushes against the available density, straightening herself expertly, diving out further into the depths. She drifts until her momentum falters, then she kicks, her head breaking the surface. She breathes, hands wiping at the water on her face.
She presently finds the edge again, stepping out, pulling the towel from her pack to dry off and change back into her clothes. She glances at her phone, then at the sky, as if bidding of the angle of the sun’s light to affirm what she reads.
It’s been longer than she thought. As often happens, she’s lost track of time.
She has nowhere to be, but she does wonder. How is he doing? Is he thinking of her? She’ll call him later, but for now, she has the trek home ahead of her, so she sets out.
*****
He told her he wouldn’t come alone, that he’d follow procedure, but he just said these things to placate her. He has no real cause to investigate this house, especially since Therese’s methods of gleaning the information are not exactly legal. There is, of course, an ongoing investigation of the man in alleged ownership of this property, but there is nothing concrete to tie him to it. He’ll check it out in his own way, ways of which he learned when he worked less on the side of the law, and then if he finds anything worthwhile, he’ll take steps from there.
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