by Linn Chapel
“I never even saw you hit him,” Tressa said in wonder, eyeing the body of the tramp.
“Bludgeoning such curs and fools is a waste of time. There are swifter means.” He was standing just behind Tressa’s shoulder, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she thought he might be smiling. “Show me where you live,” he said, pointing to the map. “My car is parked nearby. I’ll drive you home.”
As Peter stared at the surveillance screen, his eyes narrowed on the dark figure who was standing next to Tressa.
As soon as the subject had arrived on the scene, he had disabled Tressa’s drunken assailant by some hidden means that had been very quick and efficient. Obviously, he wanted Tressa all to himself.
But why was Tressa waiting so long to act? She knew what she was supposed to do!
Her audioscanner seemed to be malfunctioning, as well. The two of them were speaking to each other, but Peter couldn’t hear a word.
Then Peter felt a shock of disbelief run through him from head to foot when he saw Tressa and the subject turn and walk away together.
The operative next to Peter cried out, “She’s not following protocol!”
Peter snapped up the communicator. “We’ve lost her audio! Follow them!”
Keeping his eyes on the screen, Peter saw their man on the street emerge from his hiding spot in the alley and follow the pair, clinging to the shadows. Seconds later, all three figures were out of sight, lost in the fog.
A voice came through the speaker. “I have them in sight.” There was a brief pause. “They’re entering a vehicle now.”
“No!” Fear raced through Peter like a jolt of high-voltage electricity. “Take the van and follow them!”
At Peter’s side, one of the operatives spoke up quickly. “Maybe she’ll switch on the tracking bead ahead of schedule. Then we could trace their movements.”
Peter’s gaze raked over the man’s tight face. He frowned. “Tressa would never think of that.”
Once again, the man on the street spoke through the communicator. “I lost them as I entered the van.”
Peter spun around to peer again at the screen. In the street below, the fog drifted past the lamppost. Only the rumpled figure of the tramp was still there, lying prone on the sidewalk.
Peter slammed his fist down on the metal table in front of him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a map flash onto the screen. He heard the other men quickly making plans to search the city streets in the equipment van.
Peter turned abruptly and headed for the stairs. He’d leave the maps and planning for the others and go by his instincts.
Tressa was still carrying the Operation’s devices in her pocket. But she had no experience with such a mission, and if things didn’t go well, he only hoped he could find her in time.
Two
Seated in the passenger seat, Tressa watched the city lights flash past the car. She darted a glance sideways at her companion’s profile. He was gazing ahead at the road, relaxed and at ease.
Why hadn’t he tried to mesmerize her earlier? He’d had plenty of opportunities while they’d been walking to his car.
Silently she grappled with the fact that he wasn’t what she had expected. Not only had he refrained from mesmerizing her, but he had protected her from a drunken assailant and then offered to drive her home. He didn’t act like a predator at all.
But just as they had reached his car, she had chanced to see his face more clearly in the light of a streetlamp, and the pallor of his skin had been apparent to her. Now, as the car turned a corner, Tressa darted another glance sideways to inspect the hands which were holding the steering wheel. They were very pale, too.
She shivered a bit. If she were to reach out and touch one of those pale, firm hands right now – would it feel colder than a human hand? She knew that it would.
There was no denying what he was. And because of that, there could be only one thing on his mind, only one reason for driving her home. She could seek his intentions right now and prove it to herself, but there was no time for that. Very soon, they’d arrive at her street.
Her right hand moved slowly over her lap. Underneath the fabric of her evening dress, she could feel the small bulges of the audioscanner and the tracking bead. Next to them lay the barrel of the injector.
She’d use the injector and complete her mission as soon as they parked, while they were still inside the car. Then she would make her getaway.
They turned the corner and up ahead, she could see the broad steps and carved stone columns that flanked the entrance of her apartment building, one of the historic landmarks of the city. She felt a twinge of embarrassment as they drove closer, for she knew it had a shabby appearance. The passing years had not been kind to it, but in her eyes, it still possessed an antique charm.
“There, just beyond the shops. That’s my place,” she told him.
Her companion surprised her by murmuring with approval, “An admirable structure.” Slowing the car, he parked along the curb.
It’s time to act.
With her pulse thudding, Tressa slipped her right hand into her pocket and gripped the barrel of the injector. But just then, a pedestrian walked past the car. Two more approached, strolling along at a leisurely pace. There were too many witnesses nearby.
Breathing unevenly, she slowly withdrew her hand from her pocket.
Her rescuer stepped from the driver’s seat and soon appeared on the curb, just outside her window. Opening her door, he held out his hand to help her from the car. When she didn’t take it right away, he gave her a reassuring smile. One lock of hair, black as a raven’s wing, fell forward over his temple. “Come. I’ll see you safely to your door.”
Gingerly, Tressa slipped her hand into his. The fingers were just as cool as she had expected. They were also very strong as they helped her step up to the curb.
Inside the entrance foyer of my building. I’ll do it there.
Filled with tension, she unlocked the entrance door and led him into the faded elegance of the foyer. But to her dismay, a pair of residents stood talking together only a few yards away.
Feeling more and more anxious, Tressa led her companion up the wide staircase to her apartment. As they climbed the steps, he asked, “How long have you lived here?”
“About a year,” she answered. Making conversation was having a calming effect on her nerves. “You’re from England, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Curiously, she asked, “How long have you lived in town?”
“A while. Much longer than you.” He laughed quietly as they climbed the second set of stairs to her floor.
Soon they’d be at her door – what would he think when she brought out the injector? Talking to him had been a bad idea, after all. His thoughts and feelings have begun to matter to me, and they shouldn’t.
She had to remain neutral. During her training sessions for the mission, she had learned the importance of that. Staying neutral had to be possible, for all of the doctors at the hospital where she worked had adopted such an attitude with their patients.
As Tressa led the way up the stairs, the memory of the past few months at the hospital suddenly came back to trouble her. So many of her elderly patients had died and there had been nothing she could do to help them. But tonight, there was something she could do, something that other people couldn’t.
When we reach my door – I’ll do it then. Despite her resolve, she felt a shiver of anxiety go down her spine.
Her hallway was empty, she was relieved to see. The faint light of the vintage sconces on the walls showed only a series of closed apartment doors. She walked with her companion down length of the dim hallway and, all too soon, they were standing in front of her own door.
Do it now.
Faint footsteps and the sound of voices came from the stairwell and then the same pair of residents she had noticed in the entrance foyer came into sight, still talking. They seemed to be in no hurry to enter t
heir apartment.
Tressa was at a loss, for she couldn’t allow any witnesses to view her actions. Her only option was to invite the subject inside her apartment, but she couldn’t do that, either, for it was strictly forbidden by the Operation’s protocol.
“I – I can’t seem to find my keys,” she murmured, stalling for time. She made a show of searching through her evening bag. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the subject standing beside her, a dark presence in the shadowy hallway.
To her relief, she heard the two residents unlock their door some distance behind her and enter their apartment. Their door closed.
When her companion shifted a step, her hand dove into her pocket for the injector. But she found there was no need to suddenly defend herself, for he was only stepping away.
“Now that you are safely home, I must take my leave.” As he took another step away, his dark eyes were gazing at her steadily with a look she couldn’t decipher.
Confusion swirled through Tressa. Why was he leaving?
He gave her a faint smile and took another step back. “Goodbye. I shall treasure our short meeting.” And then he added, so quietly that she could barely hear the words, “More than you can know.”
A look of resignation came into his eyes, a look that made them seem darker than ever, and almost haunted. Then he turned and walked away.
Tressa’s heart constricted with a strange surge of emotion. In a few moments, he would be gone.
She found her keys and opened the door. Stepping inside, she switched on a lamp and turned around.
“Please come in,” she called out to him. “I’d like to thank you properly.”
Over his shoulder, he responded, “You are very kind, but the hour is late. I must take my leave.” He retreated even further.
“But – I don’t want to be alone after what happened. I’m still too frightened. Please, come in.” She swung the door open wider and crossed the room to the sofa.
Her invitation would come to nothing, she was sure. He seemed so determined to leave.
Reaching the sofa, she sank onto it, filled with a sudden, aching disappointment. But when she looked up, a shock coursed through her. He had returned, and was now standing in her doorway.
“Please come in and tell me your name,” she urged.
As he stood in the doorway, his gaze ran over Tressa’s threadbare vintage furnishings, then moved to the candles on the windowsills, the potted ferns, and the bookcases lining the walls. Uncomfortably, Tressa wondered if there could be anything about her apartment that would give her away.
His dark eyes came to rest at last on Tressa. She felt her nerves jump as he finally stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is John Holton Langley, but over the years parts of my name seem to have dropped away, until it has become just Holt.” He took another step into the room. “And by what name shall I call you? Damsel in Distress? Or perhaps, Lady Lost?”
She felt her mouth twitch. “I’m Theresa Newman. But everyone calls me Tressa.”
His gaze left her and went to the bookcases. “Tressa,” he said in a chiding tone, “you have far too many books for a woman of this era.”
Tressa eyed him thoughtfully as he walked to the side of the room. She knew better than anyone that she was a bit of a misfit, but he seemed to find the signs of that humorous, rather than odd.
Holt stopped by a few stray books that were resting on top of a vintage cabinet and picking one up, he examined it with a melodramatic shake of his head. “And you have sadly outdated tastes in reading. Shakespearean Comedy: The Bard of Avon Pays Homage to Chaucer.” He made a tsk of mock-disapproval. “But you must have friends who share your outmoded interests.”
“No, my friends think I need some ‘updating’, just like my place,” she said, with a rueful glance upward at the high, old-fashioned ceiling where, over the years, numerous leaks had left brownish water stains. Her friends from high school and college had always wanted her to change, to stop reading and dreaming so much, and the new friends and acquaintances she had met at the hospital thought the same way. Something seemed to be ailing her and taking her away from normal pursuits, and the diagnosis was obvious to all of them. She needed to jump in and become more engaged with life – modern life.
“The posters on your walls must worry them as much as your books. There are no music stars,” he went on, taking a few paces about the room as he examined her posters. “Rome, Athens, the coast of Scotland. Have you visited these places?”
“No,” she had to admit, “but someday I hope to.”
“Hmm. The skies above Rome and Athens have become fouled with pollution,” he grumbled, “but the shores of Scotland remain as bonny as ever. You do not own a television screen, I see.” He glanced at her. “Do your friends disapprove of that, as well?”
Tressa’s eyes crinkled. “They think watching TV would make me normal.”
“What seems normal in this age will appear freakish in a hundred years. Trust me, it is so.” Holt passed by the bookcases next. “You favor English authors, I see. But you’ve placed the works of various English poets together as if these authors had been the best of friends. In truth, some of them bickered viciously with each other. I hope you don’t mind if I shelve their works separately.” He shot her a questioning glance, and when she made no objection, he removed several volumes and briskly reinserted them into new spots.
I wonder how old he really is.
Lifting a necklace from a nearby table, Holt examined the small silver medal which hung from it. “St. Teresa of Avila. Your namesake?”
“Yes,” she answered a bit distractedly. She had thought that his need would urge him to approach her on the sofa, but he was still far away, on the other side of the room.
Holt set the necklace down on the table next to the bottle of holy water. He seemed fully prepared to examine more of her things.
It was clear that she’d have to lure him closer. The flames that would spurt from the vents in the injector would protect her – and if she looked away, she wouldn’t have to see his face when he realized she had been deceiving him all along.
Firming her resolve, she picked up a book from a nearby table. “I read a lot of English literature,” she told him, “but some of the meanings aren’t clear. Since you’re English, maybe you can help me.” Steadying herself with a deep breath, she opened the book and read aloud.
“The outward shows of sky and earth, of hill and valley, he has viewed; and impulses of deeper birth, have come to him in solitude.”
As she read, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. A pair of black boots crossed the old carpet as she read the first line, and by the time she had finished the second, Holt had seated himself on the sofa beside her. His black-clad legs were only a short distance away from the pale silk of her evening dress.
He belonged outside, in the night – not here, in the familiar surroundings of her cozy living room. Tressa’s fingers trembled as she held the book open, but she steadied them by force of will.
“Wordsworth’s meaning is not difficult to understand,” Holt said. “He believed in putting away one’s books and going outdoors into nature’s solitude, especially if one wanted to journey into the heart of poetry. Books and learning would not help, or so he often said.”
“You seem to know a lot about poets and poetry, yourself.”
“I know enough to know that Wordsworth was wrong.”
“Wrong?’ she echoed in surprise.
“Yes. Even a man of letters can journey into the heart poetry,” he answered with a touch of wry humor.
Tressa wanted to ask him what he meant, but she was distracted by a few tiny flickers of light moving in the depths of his eyes, surely the same lights she had read about in the Operation’s Handbook. But then he quickly looked away. “The books upon your shelves betray your own lack of simplicity, Tressa.”
Tressa shook her head. “Don’t let the
books fool you into thinking I’m some kind of scholar. I read a lot because I’m searching for something, only I’m not sure what it is,” she explained. “It must be something we’ve lost in modern times.”
“We have lost many things.”
Again, she wondered how old he was. “But as for solitude, I’ve had plenty of it,” she continued. The dissatisfaction she felt with modern life wasn’t the only reason. There was that other matter, too, but she had to be careful not to make a slip and mention it. One wrong word, and she’d give herself away. Cautiously, she said, “Solitude can be a relief, but it can also be lonely.”
She looked up at him again and his dark eyes met hers in a searching glance. For an instant, something shared seemed to pass between them, and then he looked away.
She barely noticed that his hand was dipping into his pocket until it reemerged with a silver pocket watch. He pressed a latch and the cover opened with a faint pop. Inside, finely painted numerals ran around the perimeter of the dial and in the center, a miniature scene had been painted in soft greens and blues. Delicate black hands pointed to the time: it was eleven-fifty-five.
“It’s nearly midnight. I should leave, soon.” He held up the watch so that it dangled by its chain in the air. “Do you like it? I’ve owned this watch for a very long time.” He gave the watch a little push with his finger and it spun slowly on its chain, catching the light.
A moment later, a roiling cloud of drowsiness surrounded her mind and she knew that Holt was attempting to mesmerize her. The intention she had sensed out on the street, so bright and searing, must have returned.
Other people might find it impossible to escape from the numbing power of such a cloud, but with some effort, Tressa was able to brush aside the mental fog.
It was time, she told herself, to bring out the injector, stab him, and activate the flames. But despite her training, her hand wouldn’t obey.
A rush of strange and uncomfortable emotions filled her chest. There was something invisible that had grown between herself and Holt, some bond that would be utterly destroyed by her actions. He’d suddenly realize that she had been playing a part, duping him. He’d know that she was aware of his hidden life and his hideous means of survival.
