Soul of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  Zoe contemplates, looking away for a moment.

  “I do, but Skot doesn’t always take her advice.”

  David throws up his hands.

  “You’re insisting on finding fault. There’s always a way to poke holes. Always. We’re always up against bad odds. We just do our best to do our best. That’s it.”

  “What if it’s not enough?”

  “Then we’re all screwed.”

  *****

  Lilja slowly turns the pages of the book, her washed and thoroughly dried hands moving with a smooth sense of delicacy. She has already inspected the calf leather binding, finding it in generally good condition. The non-descript cover gives way to the vignette, an etching depicting the burning of St. Paul’s Cathedral in 1666. She continues moving through the pages, not bothering to read the script of the 17th Century book. She searches for blemishes.

  “What do you think?”

  She glances up at the dealer, a man with whom she has limited familiarity, one Rosendo Costa. He gives her a light smile. He is not an unattractive person, but something about him gives Lilja to think of a rodent.

  “It’s in very good condition.”

  “The Causes of Decay of Christian Piety,” he intones, “by Richard Allestree. First Edition.”

  She looks at him, and he maintains that small grin. She has seen the book’s imprimatur and title page.

  “Six hundred and sixty-five euros,” she says.

  “The book is pristine and authenticated.”

  She gives a slight nod, looking down at the book, pondering.

  “Though small, your collection is known to contain many impressive pieces.”

  “It’s not my collection.”

  “Of course,” he grins more, “but you are its curator, and obviously, its procurer.”

  “The University has given me limited authority to make such decisions.”

  He leans forward, as though suddenly ensconcing them in conspiracy. “I’m sure you give consultation and advice on all acquisitions.”

  She blinks once, slowly, fixing him with an unwavering glance. “I do.”

  “Well, then,” he speaks first after some measure of quiet. “What do you think?”

  “I will let you know.”

  She begins to gather up her things. The book is in wonderful condition, and she’d like to have it in the collection, but there are other considerations.

  “The book is in demand, Ms. Perhonen. It won’t be available forever.”

  No book ever is, she thinks, but instead she merely gives him a polite grin and heads out.

  She stops at a casual restaurant on her way back to the City, having taken this short business trip to view the book. She expects to make it back before her work day would normally end, but she is in no hurry. She also knows the importance of lunch, so she makes time to have the meal, even if it is somewhat later than usual for it.

  The place is not empty, seeming somewhat busy. She expects it is because of its location on this highway. There aren’t too many choices around. She assesses the place, noticing a group of people at the counter seats, and she takes a table next to a wall. She quickly scans the menu, placing an order when the waitress comes over to ask about a drink. It doesn’t take her long to notice what is going on.

  “So, you support immigration?”

  The young lady glances around, seeming somewhat defensive. She is outnumbered, the four guys all but surrounding her.

  “I don’t see any reason to ban it.”

  The guy smirks, standing rather close to her. As Lilja observes, she notices more of the agitation. She had at first though they were all friends here together, judging from their manner of dress and similar-seeming ages, but it shows clear that they are not friends. Lilja sees bloodshot eyes on the questioner along with his awkward grin.

  “All these immigrants are coming in here, raping women,” he persists.

  Lilja looks over his companions, noticing a slightly slumping posture on two of them. The last one hangs back, looking a touch worried. He blinks slowly then finds a nearby seat.

  “They’re not all raping women,” the young lady retorts, her face tensing, and she moves back, trying to find distance from the man, though she is against the counter. “And not all rapists are immigrants.”

  “You might as well say you want to be a victim of rape.”

  The woman recoils at this, lips parting, forehead furrowing.

  “Immigrants rape women when they get here. Those guys see women as objects, and they think it’s okay to do whatever they want to them.”

  “And how are you showing respect for women by bullying this one?”

  The guy turns, seeing Lilja standing there. She sees as he moves his glassy eyes over her, that grin staying on his lips. She notices a collection of saliva at one corner of his mouth.

  “Ooooh. Are you here to protect her?” he challenges, smirking to one of his friends.

  This one looks her over, too, and though none show proper balance, she can sense the rise to them. One gives her more of a dreamy look, and he sways the slightest bit. The fourth stays seated.

  “They’ll rape you, too,” the guy states. “Do you want that?”

  “All of you calm down, have a seat, and leave this woman alone,” she says, using a more commanding tone of voice.

  The wobbly guy widens his eyes a bit and shuffles back, sitting across from his friend. The speaker, though, curls his top lip, looking more determined.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he all but yells. “Do all you women really just want a guy to force himself on you? Huh?” The grin comes back to his lips, taking on a sinister, hungry cast, his eyes moving over Lilja’s body.

  “You!” Lilja points at him, raising her own voice. He blinks, pausing in motion. “Go sit down and be quiet.”

  He stands there for a second, then he begins laughing. The only one of his buddies still on his feet adds his own titters. The guy then reaches out, surprisingly fast for one so obviously under the effects of alcohol. Lilja shifts back, dodging, but he keeps pressing.

  “Don’t touch me! Go sit down,” she continues.

  He doesn’t listen, reaching out with his other hand to try to grab her rear now that she has turned a touch sideways to avoid his initial accosting. She pivots on her right foot, now facing him fully, and she brings up her left leg, delivering a strong front kick. It comes off as more of a shove, but the force is undeniable, and he quickly ends up on his own ass.

  Most everyone reacts with a stunned expression. The guy turns to his side, cradling his solar plexus, moaning. The sounds turns into coughs. Lilja wonders if he might vomit.

  “I – I called the police.”

  She looks up to see the proprietor. He appears apologetic, obviously worried Lilja might get in trouble for her efforts. She gives a single nod, then looks back at the young guys. The wobbler has gone to help his friend, getting him to his feet with some effort. They look at her, some possible fire still in the main antagonist. Lilja slowly narrows her eyes, keeping balanced and ready. They opt to slip into the booth with their friends, heads tucked down, though some muttering emerges from the pained one. She watches them for a moment longer before going back to her table.

  She’ll wait for the police. She’s dealt with such before. She’ll give them a very concise report of what happened. She also still needs her lunch.

  *****

  He keeps his head down for several reasons. He feels the driving focus from within him, but he also doesn’t want to give the world any reason to intrude. He has the hood up on his jacket, the edges frayed, the material discolored. The weather tells a different tale than one generally requiring such a covering, but he doesn’t do so to ward off cold. He plods onward, steady steps finally interrupted as a light coughing wracks his body.

  It grows, and he moves to the edge of the sidewalk. The people out at this late evening hour ignore him. He’s just another denizen on the dregs of society. He does draw some looks whe
n the coughing erupts and peaks with a loud burp. He tries to conceal it, but the sound rings undenied. His body goes through a quick shiver, then he looks around. He takes a more attentive posture, peering. He finally sees what he looks for, going to a skittering sort of jog-shuffle as he makes way back down from where he has come.

  “Lance,” he hisses, leaning in close to his limping companion, “Keep up!”

  “I’m trying,” Lance replies to Pierce. “The pain’s really bad today. Can’t we take a break?”

  “A brea-?” Pierce raises his hands in exasperation. “No, we can’t take a break!”

  Lance gives a hurtful look, brow furrowed deeply, though he continues on, favoring his one foot. Pierce walks beside, impatience coloring his fallow features. They cut through one alley, coming up on another, busier thoroughfare. Pierce acts something like a driver trying to whip his horse to faster speed, using his right hand to deliver harmless, yet regular prods to his companion. They turn another corner then Pierce’s eyes go wide, and he uses that same hand to grab Lance.

  “Wait!”

  Lance glances quickly to his partner then down the street and back. “What?”

  “There they are,” Pierce hisses through clamped teeth, and he pulls them over beside a nearby building.

  Lance watches, not sure what is going on. He continues shifting his rheumy eyes from Pierce to down the way, trying to see “them”.

  “Stop looking!” Pierce swats at his associate.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Lance whispers, head now tucked down, both facing each other and the wall, trying to become unobtrusive.

  “Are you going blind? There are people all over the place.”

  Lance rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “I mean them. I don’t see who we’re looking for.”

  “You’re not supposed to. I know who they are. You don’t.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Because you’re supposed to be.”

  This gets another roll of the eyes, but Lance holds in place. Pierce eventually looks up, giving his own concentrated peer. He presses at his partner.

  “Okay, come on. Let’s go.”

  Still unsure who they are trailing or why, Lance follows, the compulsion that moves them both proving unyielding.

  Therese’s mode of dress might also seem much for the weather. Some might even say she looks better suited to mingle with those like Pierce and Lance as opposed to “regular” people. She’d agree.

  She practically stomps down the sidewalk, her heavy boots reporting each step. She walks with a purpose, hands stuffed in the pockets of her black, denim vest, hoodie pulled up, though a few, spikey strays of her black hair peek out.

  She’s out to meet a new contact, one she’s exchanged information with. She’s vetted that information, too, never assuming trust with anyone. Her feelers paid off, and she had been reached regarding Professor Denman Malkuth. Enough has been proven to lead to this – an evening meeting at a public coffeehouse.

  Doubt continues to nibble at her like a constant, coiling worm. She knows she feeds that life, giving it fuel to further grow and nag her. What does she hope to accomplish with this meeting? All of this had begun as part of her effort to prove if Lilja is the vigilante, but it seems to be going further. Her life, though, is one of investigation, and though she still holds much less experience with this off-line variety, she feels better suited than when she first tried.

  She makes it to the place, Infusion. She’s heard of it, but this is her first visit. It’s more avant-garde than the typical cafés, owing to its industrial feel, the bold, abstract art on the walls, and the unconventional seating offered along with the wood and metal tables. The place is also dark and sparsely populated.

  Therese glances at one of the two patrons in here – a woman who looks to be in her thirties. She gives Therese the typical quick look and away that most do. She’s not the contact. Therese sets her eyes on the older man. He doesn’t look up at all from his newspaper. She figures she’s the first to arrive to this rendezvous, so she wanders up to the barista, the spectacled girl offering a friendly smile.

  Therese gives nothing more than her typical, dry expression, then looks up to study the large menu that hangs on the wall. She knows these brews, not sure why she is even bothering to read the thing. She’ll just get a typical coffee and find a seat. Footsteps arise behind her.

  “Hello, Therese.”

  She turns sharply, recognizing the voice, and there stands ex-inspector Gaspare Duilio. He wears a light blazer over a button-down shirt, his slacks close to the dark color of the jacket. His hands are both held down at his sides, but he moves his right toward Therese.

  She reacts in a flash, grabbing his wrist with her right hand. She twists, moving closer, then around him, shoving his arm up behind his back, pushing with her momentum. He cries out, dropping to a knee, and she puts more weight on him.

  “I am not here to harm you!” he declares.

  The barista watches with shock, already reaching for her phone. The other two patrons have also become like beacons, watching the display with wide eyes and growing agitation.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Therese demands, not relinquishing her hold.

  Duilio does nothing physical to extricate himself.

  “I came to meet you. I am the one who was speaking to you via the e-mails.”

  “You set me up,” she growls, putting force on his arm, gaining a short, grunting cry of pain from him.

  “I did not. I swear. I didn’t even know it was you until I saw you just now.” He actually emits a short chuckle. “I should have known.”

  “Stop lying to me.”

  “Therese, please. I am not here to harm you.” He tries to look back at her, then his eyes spy the barista. “I think the police have been called. We don’t need them to interrupt us.”

  Therese glances at the young lady then looks around, seeming to remember others are here. She releases Duilio, stepping back.

  “Thank you,” he breathes, then stands, rubbing his arm. “Therese, wait!”

  She has already left the place. He mutters a quick apology to the barista, then rushes out in pursuit.

  “Therese!” he looks around, spying her none too far, and he goes to a trot. “Please, wait! I need to talk to you.”

  She is not running, but her steps come with a rapidity bordering on it. He picks up his own pace, still pursuing. People out here begin to take notice. She finally stops, turning, confronting him with her eyes. Her hands are out of her pockets, ready.

  He halts at this, keeping his distance, hands held up in a placating gesture.

  “I do not intend you any harm.”

  “Ma’am, do you need help?”

  Therese barely looks at the man who has stopped to offer this. “No,” she finally grates out, and Duilio sighs in relief, dropping his hands. The man lingers a moment, looking between them, but then he leaves.

  “You keep your distance,” Therese says. “I can hurt you.”

  “Yes, yes.” Duilio shows the flash of a grin. “You seem to have gained new skills since last we met.”

  “Getting kidnapped a couple of times seemed like a good reason to learn some self-defense.”

  He stares at her, finally giving a short nod. It becomes more emphatic. “Yes, of course. Good for you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Must we do this here?”

  She glances around, noticing a well-lit bus stop. She turns, heading to it. Duilio follows.

  “Thank you,” he offers once they have settled. No one else currently waits here, but there is the light and other pedestrians are not too far off.

  “What do you want?”

  He glances about, then back to her. He fishes out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to her. She slowly moves her head side to side. He lights up, taking a deep drag before exhaling a thick plume. He massages his upper arm, giving her a sheepish glance and another of his short, breathy chuckles. He
then suddenly looks serious.

  “You are looking for Denman Malkuth.”

  Silence returns. A pedestrian walks by.

  “He is a very dangerous man.”

  “He’s a philosophy professor.”

  “He …” Duilio begins, the word almost sounding like a question, then his grin emerges. “Of course, he is.” He takes another lung-filling drag on the cigarette then fixes his eyes on Therese. “I don’t know how much you know, and I don’t think I want to know, but I will tell you this, Therese, you are heading to a place that likely ends with your death.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Therese turns to leave.

  Duilio starts after her, speaking quickly: “I am not threatening you.”

  She turns, again projecting a force of will that is near palpable. “It sure sounds like it.”

  He trades stares with her, then looks away, huffing. He gives her another sheepish cut of his eyes.

  “I … work … for Denman Malkuth.”

  “What?” She blinks in confusion, giving a quick shake of her head.

  “They found out you were looking for him, so they, of course, wanted to know why. I was sent to find out the why … and the who.”

  “You didn’t know it was me?”

  “No, Therese, I did not,” Duilio says, his voice giving forth sincerity laden with insistence. “I was as surprised as you.” He offers another of his brief grins, then again takes on a more serious tone. “If I wanted to harm you, why would I have gone up and greeted you in a public place?”

  “That warehouse parking lot wasn’t exactly private.”

  “Fair enough,” he gives, again holding up his hands to demonstrate a lack of threat. “Why are you trying to find Denman Malkuth?”

  “You said you didn’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I did, but that is not what I mean,” he somewhat stammers, “I … care.” She rolls her eyes, but she does not give another turn and attempt to depart. “I am worried. I was worried before I knew it was you.”