ALEVEN OF THE NINE: Chapter Three

HANLEY

TWO WEEKS. ONE DAY PRIOR. He watched as she slipped the evening gown off. She slid the straps over her shoulders and moved slightly toward the bed. It slinked down her slender body to the floor. She was his prize and he allowed himself to feel the want. His heart rate gained speed and his hands ached to feel her soft skin.She moved closer to where he sat waiting on the bed. Her hands caressing her body, they stretched out to him. He lunged for her, taking her in his arms and their lips met. Hungry. He flipped her over to the bed and pulled away for air. She was beautiful. Long blonde hair, deep blue eyes. She laughed and tried to pull him near. He was satisfied.

His hands were fast. Her neck snapped like a twig. She lay in his arms, the warmth draining from her. He tiled his head, mesmerized. Gently he set her back on the bed. his eyes traced her body as it wriggled, the last remnants of air leaving. She had been beautiful. Maybe as a child. Careless. Carefree. His hand pulled the sheets over her and he stood.

The room was much bigger now then he had remembered. He found her purse and went through it. Nothing. Moved to her dress. His fingers groping the silky fabric. Nothing. Then he went back to her. Removed the sheets and ripped the oval charmed necklace from her neck. He flipped a button. Flash. Damn. She's intelligent.

He stood and slipped the the gadget into his pocket. Quick, he exited the hotel room.

The hallway led him in a maze. He pulled a phone from his pocket. Dialed numbers. Send. His eyes smiled as he paused at the janitorial elevators. As he waited for its arrival the phone stopped ringing and he put it to his ear.

He listened.

"She was intelligent."

He listened.

He threw the phone down and crushed it with the heel of his boot. His fingers sifted through the debris and he pocketed the sim card. The elevators opened. He nodded to a cleaning lady. Flashed a boyish smile to which she blushed. He turned for the door that read "stairwell". Seventy-two floors. Typical.
____________________

The aged man sat in his parked car. His hands sore with arthritis. he felt his body deteriorating with each call. Someone was playing a game. Someone. The "who" were a couple of choices. Few he couldn't bring himself to think about. His phone vibrated in the palm of his right hand.

"Yes."

He listened.

"Your export is damaged."

He hung up and crushed the phone against the dashboard with one fatal blow.

ALEVEN OF THE NINE: Chapter Two

ISIS SULT

TWO WEEKS, FOUR DAYS PRIOR. Thirty-six minutes. The room was grey. Dark. It was cold. The heat had been off for a while. Her left wrist burned from the wear and tear of the handcuff. Her skin red, raw. The steel table her handcuff connected to sat in the center of the eight by ten foot space. Two chairs. One across from hers. And of course, the illusive two-way mirror. Her eyes did not fall against her reflection - vain was a not a sin she lavished in. Ever. There was one door. Approximately six feet to her right. Diagonally. They were waiting. She was waiting. Thirty-seven. She focused her eyes on the center of the table and concentrated on her slowed breathing.

His legs strained. He towered the other two men in the room. They sat in front of him mesmerized by the prize on the other side of the mirror. They hadn't stopped murmuring to each other. Their incessant muffled voices echoed throughout the room. It reached annoying. He shuffled his stance. His eyes focused on her. Curious. He knew the game. He knew she knew the game. Didn't they? Damn knuckle-heads. The bald one to his right stood. Leaned against the wall. His face pressed to the mirror. Eyes steady on her. The young one to his left uncrossed his legs. Murmured something and they both chuckled. The room felt crowded. Three's a crowd. He favored two. It was time.

The door opened. She did not move. Her eyes rested on the center of the table. Her breathing consistent. The man took the seat in front of her. It was always a man. They connected. Eye to eye. Five foot nine. Brown hair, blue eyes. A bit wrinkled. Thirty-five-ish. His suit was worn. His tie stretched. He was not as exhausted as he had made himself appear to be. There was no ring. No visible piercings and thought she'd be surprised if there were any tattoos. He was clean shaven. This was his tell. He kept her in the room under surveillance. It had been forty minutes. Shortest time. This was a record. She noted this. The man across the table lacked patience. Or he'd done his homework. It wouldn't be long now.

He swallowed hard. She had dark eyes. Intense. Her brown hair was askew. She was buried in the shadow of the room. And he felt nervous. He shook the feeling and settled back in the chilled metal chair. His hands rested calmly on his lap. He nodded, "Piper Elgen. Eileen Basille. Nikki Roberts. Rochelle Burke. Myra Halaas. Catin Beals."

She smiled in her thoughts. Even thought she heard a laugh. He had done his homework. He was at least educated. She needed to know if he was intelligent. And if so, to what degree.

"I'll go first. I'm Agent Yurie. My job for the past three weeks and all the way up until I walked into this room has been you. Everything and anything. You."

Three weeks? Probably more like one and half. Males always double everything.

"And," he continued, enjoying the moment, "I am the only one who knows what I know. So if you take me out now. It would not only be for your benefit, but most certainly for my own. Too many bad thoughts I've taken to bed with me."

Her lips formed a smile. She allowed it, "Tempting. Agent Yurie, You must know the dance we are about to begin is null and void. You know this. The most you have are names. Names that even you, yourself, still haven't put together. In fact, you probably only see subtle similarities."

"They're all deceased. And, may I add, that's precisely the same amount of times you have died."

Bingo. Intelligent. It's time to go.

He crossed his legs and began, "Piper was shot in the head at an ice hockey game halfway through the third quarter while enjoying cosmos with the late Charlie Epstein."

She was impressed. True.

"Eileen died in the arms of her lover after their car was sideswiped and rolled over a cliff. She had internal bleeding. The lover, Colt McFarland, was the son of the Ambassador to Germany. He lived only three hours longer. To which neither the authorities nor his family could understand him in his anguish as his vocal cords had been ripped from their body cavity."

He knew details, details that had been left out of official reports. True.

He licked his lips, "My personal favorite, a one Ms. Roberts. Nikki Roberts was found in bed with Sandy Choo. Both were drinking from the same wine glass. Both had the same organ failure. But not before bodily fluids were exchanged."

Typical heterosexual male reaction, but true, all very true. She sat up, her eyes never wavering. Intrigued, "Go on."

He smiled he was thinking of how long he had. How much more he could say before this tango was over. And then, he felt sad for a moment. Not for her, for himself. The last week and a half she had given his life meaning. He hoped she would reveal a little more. More for his own deep undefined pleasure. He was no longer nervous. Intrigued. "Rochelle Burke. Blonde. Died in the explosion of a yacht off the coast of Milan in the Mediterranean Sea. Married. Six weeks. They could only identify her with dental records. Her husband, the Defense Secretary for the former administration, Marcus Burke, was found as seared fish bait some weeks later by a couple on their honeymoon."

True.

"Myra Halaas. Waitress in a small town outside Tulsa. It seems someone didn't agree with her thinking. Instead of telling her face to face they knifed her in the back while she was sexually engaged with Roger Thomas in a sleazy motel off route 128. He was then tied to the back of a pickup truck and dragged for thirty-two and some change miles. You do know who he was, right?"

Roger Thomas. That was a sad and sorry way to go.

He knew she knew. He felt a tiny bit aroused. He thought about one day trying her on. But that seemed to be a deadly mistake. He shook his head in disbelief. "He was the son of the Democratic Senator from New York. I haven't wrapped my head around this next one. This one, I just... Well, you already know, don't you?"

"Catin. Catin Beals. Valedictorian. Doctorate. Physicist. Daughter of one of the wealthiest and oldest banking families in the world. She and her father were simultaneously killed while hunting on Thanksgiving. They turned their guns on each other."

She moved her eyes to the floor, yes, she remembered that very well.

He felt exhilaration wake his tiring thoughts. Is she playing him? Why would she look away? A woman like this could not feel remorse. Could she? Don't be a knuckle-head!

She allowed her eyes to wander about the room. Something was wrong. Export did not take this long. The agent was smart, but he was losing ground. His wealth of knowledge was decreasing. Her mind was exhausted and sleep was such a nice thought. She knew her eye movements were throwing him off track. Ha! Good. Keep him on his toes. If he only knew that this was just another day at the office. The clock was just ticking down until she could go home. How does one explain that? And with such little time.

He sat up. He felt beads of sweat run from his forehead. The eyes. This was her tell. And he had one final name. The name was his ace of spades. His last hand. Final draw. He'll throw down. All in. "Which leads me to Isis Sult. I have determined that this is not your real name. I want to know if she exists at all. If in a few days or even a week she'll end up on our radar. If I let you go, will we meet again?

A smile fell across her face. She allowed it. Her cheeks burned warm. She felt it. "Agent Yurie, what is my name?"

He felt embarrassment. I don't know. Are you an agent? A foreign agent with a fake American English accent? His palms were moist. "I believe that one of your many aliases is Isis Sult."

"You are mistaken." She felt the pain. The dislocation of her pinky finger and thumb were quick. Her hand slid through the handcuff. Free.

His eyes could not believe what he just saw. What? He lost breath and immediately felt weightless as his body was pulled from the chair and thrown into the wall. A sharp pain shuddered through his shoulder. A warm and fuzzy sensation tingled on the back side of his head. The room felt detached. His eyes drifted down with his body to the floor. Popping sounds went off in the distance. Muffled. From the floor he saw the door open and two pairs of boots enter. A wave of relief. He found his breath again.

There she was. Her beautiful face inches from his. Her eyes, though, had becomes vacant. Please, just leave me alone. Leave me here. Go. Leave alone, please. He felt the cold of metal pierce his right temple. Fear rushed through his body. Was no one to save him?

"I'm not the only one who knows about Isis Sult."

And the sound rang. She tilted her head and watched as life exited the body on the floor. She stood. The two men, one in the lead, the other in the rear exported her safely from the chilled, grey room.

Sirens could be heard. The three stepped out onto the roof where the rain fell in sheets from the black sky. She could smell the larger of the two in front, down wind. She raised her left hand to her nose, brushed the wet. Her right with the gun shot point blank into his left temple. Before the man behind her could react, the side of her left hand slammed into his juggler - paralyzing him long enough for her right hand to whip the gun into his face. The bullet entered through his cheekbone.

She flipped the safety, tucked the gun in the back of her jeans and looked up into the black sky. There through the falling rain, a beacon of light grew larger as it swiftly fell down toward her. A rope, heaved from the helicopter, landed feet in front of her. She looped her foot and climbed as the helicopter moved away from the building. Sleep. Sleep is only a little while more away.

She climbed through the sliding door of the helicopter. A man pushed her into a seat and buckled her in. "Isis Sult?"

"Bonne nuit."

He pulled a syringe and injected her arm with an oily yellow substance. It felt warm as it rushed inside of her. Then, with a pop - the helicopter caught a wind and the needle broke inside her arm. It was a pinch. Her fingers quickly pried the needle from under her skin. She slammed her fist across the man's face.

His nose bleeding, "Accident!"

"We make no accidents." She felt it. Like an ocean wave over her body. She closed her eyes and slept.

_________________________

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"Who was that man?" She was warmer now. Sweat pants and a sweat shirt. The hot shower was a good end to a long day. She rested against the desk in her apartment. Tied her sneakers. The ear piece in her ear blinked as she continued the conversation. "He knew me. Of me. Identities."

She listened.

"He was intelligent."

She listened.

"There were markings on the inside of his right wrist. I know he wasn't LAPD. I want to know who and why."

She listened.

"My export was late."

She listened.

"I realize, Sir."

She clicked off the ear piece and got on the treadmill. As she ran her gaze looked out onto the ocean. The black sky in conversion with the sea at their horizontal meeting point. The man across the table was a sign. A conversion of two. Difficult to make out the players. He hadn't asked her what she did. Or where she came from. Originally picked up for false tags. False tags. Tags on a car she just happened to jump into when a chase went wrong. A chase that ended in the reception area at LA's downtown Police Precinct. Where not only did they run her fingerprints for the identity that she wore. The man in custody, the man from the chase outed her. And after forty minutes sitting in that cold room, she meets Agent Yurie. Who never specifically identified himself as to what authority he was under. Yet, he knew more about her alias then anyone had ever known about her. Her export was late. No police officers were in the vicinity of the room once they excited and went for the roof.

She turned off the machine. Walked over to bathroom. Closed herself inside. She turned the hot water on at the sink and the shower. Undressed herself naked and sat in the center of the room on the floor. Indian style. In her meditative position, she closed her eyes. Her thoughts silenced.

_________________________

He hugged the phone to his ear. "You at least succeeded."

He listened.

"That does not concern you."

He listened.

"Of you? Probably LAPD on a power trip. Shall I list the counts they had on you? The snitch should have been taken care of. We make no mistakes."

He listened.

"And as far as I am concerned, and I make myself clear. This man that knows of you should be of no more thought."

He listened.

"Why were you late to your rendezvous? Your statement suggested that this man was working with someone else."

He listened.

"Treason has been committed here against you, and me for that matter. Ms. Sult, it is time to go."

He closed the cell phone. In two blows, it hit the floor and was terminated by the heel of his boot. His face was aged beyond his years. His eyes tired as they solemnly stared out at the rain tapping on the windows.

A door opened behind him. A man entered. He stood in the black of the room, "Sir?"

"I will be out of town for a few weeks. I'd like you to call my daughter and read the message I wrote for her. I left it on my desk in an envelope."

"Daughter? Sir?"

"On the desk. In the envelope."

"Yes, Sir." He came into the desk light and retrieved the envelope. He was a young assistant. Eager.

"Oh, and Colin..."

"Yes, Sir?"

"This would be a good two weeks to take that vacation you have been planning."

"Sir?"

"That will be all."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

ALEVEN OF THE NINE: Chapter One

K

PRESENT. It was a humid evening, A small, two story house. And a man pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on the porch.

A woman, shoulder length brown hair and deep brown eyes, wore jeans and shirt with comfortable sneakers. She walked up the sidewalk to the house. Made her way up the stairs and met the man face to face. She stood feet from him and paused.

"Can I help you?"

"My name is Pierre. I - I wanted to ex - express my -."

"Did you know my father?"

The man fumbled with the briefcase he cradled in his arms. He straightened his already straight glasses, "I did, well, sort of. Good man."

"Then I do not believe you knew him well."

She moved toward the door in hopes that he would allow her access. He did not budge. His thin body stood square in front of the door. His hands gripping the briefcase. They stared at each other for a moment. He let go of the briefcase and put his hand out towards hers. "Was wondering if I could have a word with you? An interview possibly?"

"Ah ha! A reporter! I knew it. And how did you know I would be here? This is not my home.”

"I know. I have been waiting -."

"Waiting?" Her arms crossed on her chest.

"Yes since Friday evening. Since.. The news broke."

Disgusted, she looked away from the puny man standing half a foot lower then her in a brown trench coat and wire rimmed glasses. His brown hair a flutter.

"Please leave."

He put his other hand out, a bit more desperate and waved it about in the air. She might have not seen it hanging there, this would just be a reminder. "Just a word with you, please. I believe I may have some infor -."

"You have nothing I could want or need. Leave my father's home. NOW!"

He moved away from the door and slowly down the steps.

The woman withdrew a set of keys from her pocket and fumbled with them. She approached the door.

The man paused on the last step. "I will be right out here when you change your mind."

She said nothing. Tried a different key as the first key was unsuccessful.

"It's all a shame, really. I am sorry for your loss."

Finally, the correct key unlocked the door and the bolt unhinged loudly. "I am not sorry. It is not my loss. I don't believe it is a shame."

And he retorted. Now his eyes locked with hers. "It is, however, um, interesting to see as how you, um, resemble your mother so unmistakably."

She stared as his tiny eyes grew bigger behind his glasses. The silence filled the space between the two. They stood engulfed in the humidity of the evening. Pierre broke his concentration, turned and walked to his car which was parked across the street from the house.

The woman opened the door. Slammed it shut behind her. entered the dark house and slammed it shut behind her. She made her way through the darkness slowly, one foot in front of the other. Her hand guided by memory moved to the right and she groped the air. It had been years since she had set her eyes on this house let alone walked through its door. Her right hand hit something in the dark. Quickly, her other hand reacted and steadied the object, felt it and flicked the switch, lighting the table lamp.

A dim orange glow gave the room a sick feeling as it illuminated the once quaint, family style living room that now looked as if a hurricane had moved in for a while and abruptly left without cleaning after its stay. The woman breathed heavily and her eyes darted about the room. Instinctively she backed up to the front door.

The couch cushions had been pulled apart, knifed. Magazines, pictures, china had been scattered, broken all over the carpeted floor. Patches of the carpet unearthed and wooden floor panels had been pulled up and strewn about the room. The light grew dimmer the further back and her eyes strained to see. The hurricane of whoever did not stop at the living room.

She found the door handle and in one quick motion she was out on the porch once again shutting the door behind her. She controlled her breathing and calmed as her eyes rested on the navy blue Honda parked across the street with the man, Pierre, she remembered that he had told her his name, sitting in the front seat unaware of her appearance on the porch. Moments later she found herself standing at the driver's side door. She rapped a knuckle against the window.

Pierre started the car and the window electronically went down as he looked up at her, "Changed your mind?"

"Off the record?"

"What?"

"I want this exchange here," indicating with her hands as she pointed from him to her and back to him again, "I want it off the record."

"Yeah, um, okay."

"What's your full name?"

"Pierre Madison," he said still sitting inside the car. He sat so low and it seemed he was a prisoner being interrogated.

"And what paper are you with?"

"The Washington Post," he said proudly.

"Uh, huh. And how is it that you know my father?"

"Under the circumstances, I'd say I am not the only person interested in your -."

She smirked, "you are the only one interested right here, right now. As I do not see anyone else parked out here. And you seem to know information that, even with little research, no one could possibly know.

They both stared at each other. The woman's eyes became slits as she held her stance, "You did not answer my question, Pierre Madison. How did you come to know my father?"

"He was my ..." Pierre nodded his head as if to imply what he did not want to say out loud.

Her voice lowered, "spy, informant, 'deep throat'" her voice sarcastic with the last remark. None-the-less she jumped to the next question and left this one open-ended and the abrupt manner of doing so she was sure Pierre understood as well. "You have been here for the past two days and two nights?"

"This makes the third night, yes," Pierre agreed.

"Anyone come in and out of that house?" She pointed at her Father’s house.

He paused, looked over at the house and then went on, "Yes. The first night. About an hour after it happened they came -."

"Okay!" She waved her hand to silence him and motioned for him to follow her back towards the house. Pierre rolled the window up, turned off the car and with briefcase in hand, quickly followed behind her.

As the Woman reached the front door she paused and Pierre’s hand tapped her shoulder. She turned to see him hugging his briefcase with one arm and readjusting his wire rimmed glasses with another. She laughed as he leaned in for a whisper, “What shall I call you?”

The Woman leaned back and asked, “What did you call my Father?”

“M,” Pierre whispered back.

The Woman smiled and nodded as she understood something Pierre could not. She leaned back by his ear and whispered, “K.” She took a deep breath, her eyes scanned the area behind him and she carried on, “Anything said between you and I from this moment on – ANYTHING! – is off the record. Is that clear?”

Pierre nodded, “You could not make that any more clearer.”

K’s hand touched the door knob, turned it over and they both entered the house and halted as the door as it shut behind them. K locked the door and turned as Pierre gasped.

“What happened? What did they do?” He asked.

K gently slapped his shoulder and put a finger up to her mouth indicating for him to stay quiet. She moved to the side of the room, watching where her feet stepped as she made her way to the CD player and turned it on. She moved over to the speakers and turned them and then hit play and The Beatles filled the house as it came through speakers scattered throughout the house. K heightened the volume and motioned with her hand for Pierre to follow her.

Pierre bounced his head to the beat of “I Want To Hold Your Hand” and smiled approvingly at K. She gave no such return. It was her father who enjoyed the earlier as K the latter of The Beatles’ albums.

K slowly led Pierre through the living room, his eyes panned every inch of surface they could drink.

“I saw them come. There were two cars, four men. They had keys -.”

“They had keys?”

“Yes,” Pierre continued, “They stayed no more then a half hour before leaving with boxes.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?” K stopped, turned and looked at him.

Pierre shrugged and said honestly, “They were the police. They left with about six boxes filled to the brim.”

“Do you know what kind of police?” K did quotation marks with her fingers in the air for “police”.

“I can take an educated guess.”

“So can I. I thought, however -.”

“No,” Pierre said firmly, almost ashamed, “I do not know who they are.”

K continued walking forward, “Could you ID them in a lineup?”

Pierre gave a nervous snort, “Without a doubt. But I don’t believe these men will be that easy to track down.”

K ignored him as she kicked things out of the way. A fallen picture frame that cracked as it slammed into the fireplace.

Pierre cleared his throat and caught up to K, “K, I know you haven’t talked to your father in a long time.”

“Estranged. We were estranged,” Her eyes roaming quickly all over the room.

“Yes, yes.”

Pierre followed her into the kitchen and sat down at a bar stool and set is bag down on the counter in front of him as he pushed aside broken glass and more photos.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be cleaning this tonight?” Pierre snorted to himself, as he was the only one in the room that found what he said funny.

“It’s not mine. I don’t care.”

“Then may I ask why you are here. And for that matter, why did you bring me in here?”

K opened the fridge and found two bottles of beer in the vegetable drawer. She pulled them out and popped the tops. She handed one to Pierre who nodded and accepted. K took a swig and leaned back against the far counter, roughly ten feet from Pierre.

K closed her right eye and looked at Pierre with her left. Then she closed the left eye and looked at him with her right. Then went back and forth, back and forth, left eye, right eye, left eye, right eye.

Finally she stopped and said, “I am here for information as I can assume that is why you are here.”

“Yes. But why am I here?” Pierre motioned his eyes around the room which indicated to K, inside the house with her at that very moment.

“I thought you might find it less crampy than that horrid machine you were stuffed in.”

Pierre raised and tipped his beer in thanks, “I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Good,” K stared at him intently as his thin rimmed glasses added a bit of character to sunken face and dark, beaded eyes. His furrowed brow gave him a sense of unnatural curiosity that seemed to leap from his face as soon as he smiled which revealed his perfectly white teeth and full lips.

Pierre laughed, interrupting her thought, “You’re staring. That’s not why I am here now is it?”
His tone reached sarcasm which repulsed K.

She brushed it off her shoulders, shrugged and said, “I know what my father saw in you.”

Surprised, Pierre’s eyes grew wide and his smile gave K the answer that he wanted to know what it was, that he needed to know.

“It’s why you have been sitting outside my father’s house since…” Her voice trailed.

Pierre relaxed and his wide smile faded. He gestured a reassuring nod.

“It’s the reason you said what you said about my mother. He knew, my father.”

Confused now, Pierre squinted at her.

“He knew I would take, as he did, to your kind eyes. Was probably a bit irritated by your snorting and constant twitching, though, but he asked you to park out in front of his house, didn’t he? Asked you to sit there and wait. If something were to happen. Something horrible and unexpected to – to him that your instructions were to sit out in front of his house and wait. Day into nights. He said for you to do so until…” K looked firmly into his eyes.

“Until you finally arrived,” Pierre finished her sentence and then pounded back a few gulps of beer. “How did you figure though, K?”

“The beer in the fridge.”

Pierre gave a snort and recoiled in embarrassment.

“My father is an alcoholic. He was anyway. Was sober for forty odd years.”

Pierre looked at the bottle of beer in his hand. He raised his bottle and said, “To your father for giving us something to quench our thirst.”

K took a few sips, she did not toast nor say a word. Her eyes trailed across the kitchen and took in the room that had not changed in the years she had been gone. The music filled the house at an even hum as the two drank in silence and watched the humidity move about the house enclosing itself around the broken fragments strewn across the floor and table tops. Crickets began their summer call and K finally broke the silence, “What other instructions did he give you?”

“I – he – um…”

“What? What else did he say other then sit in front of my house and wait for my daughter?”

Pierre shrugged his shoulders and began pealing the beer bottle’s label – he ripped and tore, ripped and tore. K waited. Pierre looked up from the bottle, like a child scolded by his mother, his eyes hid behind the bottle’s neck. Pierre’s thin expression was not one of curiosity or of knowledge that he wanted. It was, as K best interpreted, knowledge he did not want to let go of. Still K said nothing but stared and waited. Ripped and tore, ripped and tore.

Pierre finally sat up and adjusted his glasses yet again, “As you had inferred before, K, your father was my, for lack of a better word, informant. He offered me insight to many things. After a while it became apparent that the information had become a necessity to leak. It was now information they wanted out there for the public to read. Well, those of the public who still read. I figured this much when your father began finding our meetings more of a chore. But I never confronted him. I just left our meetings alone and reported on what I was told. I am not proud of this and I know you father felt the same way, though he said nothing of it ever to me.”

K laughed to herself. She felt pity for the poor scrawny man sitting in front of her. A bond he thought he shared with her father. What a rouse! The acting her father had perfected over the years had become believable. K quieted her mind.

Pierre finished his beer and continued, “The last time I saw your father was a little more then a week ago.”

“When I received a phone call from him,” K interrupted oddly perturbed by the coincidence.

Pierre looked at her surprised by her sudden out burst and waited for to elaborate. When she stayed silent, Pierre picked up where he left off, “I returned home from the paper at an awfully late hour and parked my car in my garage. As I made my way to the door that leads into my house, he sprang from behind some boxes where I guess he had been waiting for my arrival. Scared me to death and I almost had a heart attack. He cornered me.”

K finished her beer and set her empty bottle on the counter, her eyes not moving from his.

“He had not showered and looked as though he had been wearing the same clothes for the past week. He seemed desperate which caught my attention. He apologized for scaring me and motioned for me to follow him back over to my car. He took my keys, started my engine and turned on the radio just as you did here tonight.”

Pierre made a gesture with his eyes to show he was impressed. K felt her cheeks warm a little but stayed firm in her glare.

"He was worried and talked fast. Though he was not meeting me to give me information as I thought he might be,” Pierre’s eyes squinted through his lenses, tense. “He was there because he was worried for your safety. And only you, you alone.”

“Me?”

“He told me he was going on a trip and he believed it to be dangerous, the kind you aren’t sure you are coming back from, even hinted at it. I, of course, pleaded with him not to go, but he paid no mind to my rant. He went on with why he was no sitting in my car withy me, radio blaring. I knew something was up because this was not where we usually met. I never brought,” he paused, “informants home with me. He then gave me explicit instructions, made it very clear, his voice unwavering.”

K, on the verge of suspense, blurted, “Which was?”

“He would be out of town for a few days. If something were to go wrong, if he were to you know, I was to park myself in front of his house and wait, wait for you. He gave me an envelope which had a piece of paper with his address and a picture of a woman. He told me the woman was your mother and that you would resemble her. He told me to make a comment about that to you when I finally met you as I did earlier this evening out on the porch. And, if you don’t mind me interjecting, how remarkable and I will say that again because the two of you could be twins. I was astonished when I saw that you really did resemble your mother.” Pierre stared at K but got no reaction and returned to end his story, “After that he said nothing but nodded, patted my shoulder and hit the garage door opener from inside my car, then disappeared out into the night.” Pierre finished his beer and let out a long, drawn out sigh. He removed his glasses and wiped off the lenses carefully with his Polo shirt.

K pulled two more beers from the fridge vegetable drawer, removed the tops and handed one to Pierre. He thanked her and chugged nearly half before coming up for air. K felt somehow, though she could not understand exactly how, that he was leaving much out. She was curious about his prior meetings with her father. What previous information he had leaked and then what information was being deliberately leaked. And she wanted to read his articles, tear into them, one by one, searching for the answers she no longer believed he would be revealing to her on this night.

“And now,” Pierre interrupted her thoughts, “It’s my turn. Off the record, of course.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the faint light and his eyes opened wide with tempting curiosity behind his wire rimmed glasses.

K felt anger boil inside her. So angry that she did not want to speak. Did not since the day she got the phone call from her father. For little more then a week she had stayed silent.

“What did your father say on the phone when he called you a little over a week ago? As I am as certain as if my life depended on it, it was very unlike him to call you at all. It must have been, what?” He stared at her with excitement and affirmation in her information.

“Ten years,” and K gave it to him.

Pierre held back. His breath heavier as he heard himself breathe.

“So, yes, very unlike him.”

There was silence between them as The Beatles; “Help!” rang through the house and bounced against the kitchen walls like a beach ball.

K smiled, for the first time, “That conversation will have to wait.”

Pierre looked shocked as this is not how he had imagined the conversation going moments earlier. His face contorted to his emotion and he let out a disappointed sigh, “Understandably, I expected nothing more,” He lied through his pristine, white teeth.

And in the strange silence that fell over the room as the song died out and the crickets numbed the humidity, a key slid into the front door of the house and the bolt unhinged loudly. K and Pierre’s heads turned in the direction of the front of the house as if they had x-ray vision and could see who entered.

K turned, unshaken, and motioned her hand from Pierre to the back door and whispered so he could hear, “Time to go.”

Pierre quietly got to his feet, hugging his briefcase to his body and slowly followed K to the back door. They could hear more then one set of footprints enter the living room. The back door shut behind them without noise as the faint sound of The Beatles, “Yesterday” began before it was rudely stopped by the intruders. K and Pierre disappeared over the fence into the neighbor’s yard as the night, dark and murkier now, engulfed their shadows. There was no breeze as the humidity hung in air like drying laundry, stagnant in the moonless summer night.

Who I'd Like To Meet:

On a dusty road. In the dead of winter. Where the snow meets the sand. Upon tired legs, the sun at my back, arms stretched, fingers numb - a hazy shadow stood before me. And as I stumbled hands to earth, knees to dirt and peered, a smile formed across my face - for I had met my maker. I listened as the day turned into night and the sun rose once more. The shadow kneeled beside me and asked if I had forgiven. And with a nod I asked if I was in return. A sigh reverberated the world around and said, "I cannot judge those that come before me, just encourage. For it is only when one forgives can the soul truly let its vessel go." I closed my eyes and in the far distance I could hear her well. As my Mother called me home, my Father carried me there.

...

let me lie
down
my mind
there's a valley
of a void
filled with discarded
pages
i don't want to rewrite
let me unravel
here
for a bit
to wash the icky
inside my skin
clinging to the debris
of wasted words
let me bleed
the still
images
scraping the walls
of memory
to purge
what is
left me

i love you

those small silences
in between tangled words
everything is said
uttered in some other tongue
neither admits to know

in the uneasy wake
the moment slips
its simplicity,
remnants, cluttering thought
drowning into language

inside

would it be alright to purge my being here

is there enough space to take it in

can I borrow a page or two

tell my side of the world

both fantastical

and real

let my mind wonder freely

giving into the idea of letting go

letting it all out

screaming defiantly

that I am me

and me is this

all this

and nothing more

love me

love me here

love me

that is all one truly wants

love me

and in the deep satisfying silence

i hear the world at its feet

bated breath

eyes pierced

do they come for what I have to say

are they here for something I did

will they finally listen

in short

understand

because I don't apologize for my actions

because I choose what I do

and am

because I learned to care

when I need to show the world i don't