Alec scoffs, which gains a confused look from the constable.
“Well, we’re just a small little burg here, and this is a big event for us. Do you have many vigilantes in your city?” he asks, and if the short-tempered detective may be inclined to take offense, it is even apparent to him that the question is pitched with complete sincerity.
“Errr, no … just this one,” he manages, blinking, then sharing a look with his partner.
The man nods, looking around, musing, “Well, I guess we’d better hope he doesn’t take on a sidekick or start training others or whatever it is they do.”
“Right,” Quain replies. “So what else happened?”
“Well, the vigilante left the others alive, but he put three in the Alpha’s chest. Poor guy was bled out when we got here.”
“What about the girl?”
“Oh, yes,” and the Constable leads the way to the smaller room, “She was in here,” and he points casually, “chained to the bed there, or handcuffed, whichever,” he waves the same hand dismissively.
“The report said handcuffed,” Quain remarks.
“Yes, that was it, then,” Nedza nods, quick to agree. “The poor girl was a mess when we got here. She even had a big glass of water held in her little hands. She was coming down from her usual dose.”
“She got up and got some water, then went back to the bed?” Alec asks, obvious confusion etched in his features.
Nedza shrugs. “Maybe the vigilante got it for her? He came to rescue her, after all. Then he called us the same as he called you back at the warehouse, using a cheap, disposable mobile, and there she was just sitting there on the bed, big eyes looking up at us. She was obviously scared, confused, but still under the effects of the drugs,” he intonates, facing the cot, hands on his waist. “And then since Plan A did not work, Plan B, and we took care of her with a P90,” he concludes, casually miming by pointing his right hand at the bed, index finger extended, thumb up, then lowering that digit in the unmistakable mime of a falling gun hammer.
After a brief moment of silence, which does not seem respectful in the least, he turns to the other two.
“No sign of the intruder, of course, but we got some real evidence. Looks like the P90 wasn’t even used this time.”
“Oh?” Quain looks back over at the constable who shakes his head.
“The vigilante has graduated to an assault rifle, used 5.56 by 45 millimeter ammunition, and he used a 9mm pistol on the Alpha. Doesn’t really matter, though.”
“Yeesh, what sort of arsenal does this guy have?” Alec asks, and Nedza nods to the rhetorical question.
“He’s obviously also ex-military, like your dead assassin,” Quain assesses, “Probably special forces, maybe even spent some time as a mercenary.”
The constable nods to this, too, a very agreeable, cooperative man, his bottom lip pursing out slightly, then he lets forth a loud exhale, bringing his hands together in a light clap, “Well, that’s about it here, unless you two would like to see more?”
“I wouldn’t mind a little walk around outside,” Quain says.
“Sure, then after that, we can get something to eat,” Nedza offers, that big smile back on his face.
*****
“So, everything is coming along, then?” he asks, talking out loud in his hotel room.
“Yeah,” comes the somewhat deeper, somewhat gruff voice over the speaker.
“Thank you, Jericho,” he returns, a cooling glass of bourbon in his hand. “Clarence is adept at what he does, but I need your help with making sure everything is secure. It’ll be good to have a home again.”
This final remark is greeted with silence, though he knows the guardsman agrees. He just isn’t as open about small talk or expressing himself. Skothiam takes a lengthy draw of his drink.
“I can send you some small arms if you’d like,” the voice on the other end finally speaks into the silence.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You know there’s something going on there,” Jericho presses, “This is not just about the book. Denman is there, and even your sister senses something.”
“Nicole always senses something,” he retorts, smirking somewhat.
“This isn’t a joke,” Jericho chides. “You found the first one conveniently hidden in your own home, then the explosion. We could have all been killed. And now the clues your family has been trailing for so long lead you to the second, and the Malkuths also know. You know you’re not the only ones. You know that.”
“Yes, I know,” he sighs, closing his lips during it for a more thoughtful exhalation through his nose, “And now the city seems to have a serial killer.”
“Do you think it’s related?”
“I am not sure, but let’s look into it.”
“Alright.”
And more silence descends for a time, another drink had. He wanders around the room, pondering.
“How are things coming along with Holden?”
“Pretty good, but it could be better,” comes the quick response.
“Well, he respects you more than most,” Skot informs. “His extreme sarcasm is blunted in your presence.”
“Not all the time.”
“Well, I suppose we can’t expect the impossible,” he says, and both men share a chuckle.
“He’s doing alright,” Jericho gives in, “Once I can get him to wake up and get out bed,” and this brings some more chuckling, “But you know he’s got more of a mind for this than the physical.”
“Yes, I know, but he needs to master some basics, regardless, and as far as that brain of his, he is not touching its potential, either. He ought to be in college.”
“College’s not for everyone,” remarks the guardsman, who only has a formal secondary education.
“I know, but it is for him. His mind is too keen. He needs further education.”
“Then you teach him, or let Nicole have a crack at him.”
He chuckles to himself, though it is not joined this time by the other. “Maybe,” he concedes, contemplating, “Well, definitely, of course he will benefit from us, but I just think he needs a change and some other exposure and experiences.”
“Give him time. Besides, he’ll eventually get tired of me whipping him into shape.”
“Right, or it will give him the discipline to be more motivated. Thank you, again, Jericho. You are a true friend.”
“No problem,” comes the matter-of-fact response.
“There’s something else,” Skot finally says into another bout of blooming quiet, then lets it stretch some more.
“Yeah?” Jericho finally prompts.
“I met someone, a young lady who works at the library.”
There is another moment of quiet before the guardsman speaks. He knew that Skot would meet people on this jaunt, so to mention it thusly means something more. “So, what’s going on with that? Who is she?”
“Lilja Perhonen, the Curator of the Rare Books Collection. We’ve gone out on two dates now.”
“Huh,” says the other. “What’s she like?”
“She’s very intelligent and very attractive. She’s young, and she is from Finland.”
“How old is she?”
“Mid-twenties.”
“Whoa,” comes another assessment, and Skot thinks he can almost see the smirk across the vast distance. “Well, maybe this will help with the book.”
“I’m not trying to manipulate her,” he is quick to point out.
“Yeah, but it might still help.”
A moment of contemplation passes, then, “Hmm, well, maybe so, but she has not gift-wrapped it for me,” he finishes with a light joke.
“Yeah, but you said you’ve only been on two dates,” his guardsman retorts in his typical dry fashion.
Later on, as he is looking over some analyses on his computer, a book he has brought for entertainment lying untouched nearby, he hears the telltale notification of having received a text. He casually reaches for his sleek
phone, thinking it may be Jericho, and he gets a little, surging thrill to see that it is from Lilja.
Hi, Skot. I hope I am not bothering you if you are asleep or something. I’d like to talk if you are not busy.
He smiles, warmly, and calls her.
“Hi,” she says as she picks up the phone.
“Hello, Lilja, it’s Skot.”
“Hi, Skot,” she says, “I hope I didn’t bother you.”
“No, not at all,” he is quick to reply, a smile on his lips. “How are you?”
“Fine. How are you feeling?”
“I am fine,” he replies, leaning back in the comfortable, leather chair. “I was glad to get your message saying you wanted to talk.”
“Oh,” she says, and he can hear the shyness, imagining her skin taking on a flush.
“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” he tries to gently lead her.
A moment of quiet passes. He hears her on the other end of the call, likely pondering, if not even hesitant.
“Would you tell me about your family?” she finally asks.
“Of course,” he agrees. “My mother and father met when they were both very young. His parents did not approve, and they ended up eloping, believe it or not.”
“Oh, that sounds romantic,” she interjects.
“It is,” he smiles, “And fortunate they did so, as they ended up being very well matched. They were together over forty years until he passed away.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” and he hears the sincerity in her tone.
“Thank you. It has been several years, so the pain has been blunted,” he informs, and she gives a gentle sound of acknowledgement “My mother is quite spry and healthy, and she is presently living with my sister. We generally keep a family estate, and it has enough room to comfortably house many people. We had a recent fire, though, so we’re in the process of relocating to a new one.”
“Oh,” she shows some surprise at this, “I hope everyone was alright.”
“Yes, all we lost was the house and many valuables inside,” he says, trying to efface the tragedy with sounding casual.
“Are you going to find a house in the same place? Maybe rebuild?”
“We thought of rebuilding but decided against it, so we have procured some new land and are readying the house there for our needs. It is in the same general vicinity.”
“Do you like living in the United States?”
“I do, though I very much enjoy traveling.”
“Do you get to travel a lot?”
“I do, yes,” he says, then as the silence resumes, he goes back to telling her of his family. “I have a younger sister, though we are very close in age, almost Irish Twins.”
“Oh, that’s neat.”
“Yes, and quite the surprise for my parents,” he says, and they share a short laugh.
“Do you have any children?” she asks, and he knew the question was inevitable.
“I do. One son. Holden. He’s nineteen.”
“Oh, nice,” she says, and he wonders if it enters her mind that she is closer in age to his son than to him.
“His mother and I divorced over fifteen years ago. It took many years, but things are usually amicable enough between us now … for the most part.”
“Good,” she remarks, the single word and how she delivers it telling much - she accepts the situation and does not wish to pry further.
“My sister has three children,” he relays.
“Wow, that’s a lot,” comes her evaluation.
“Yes, just like my own parents.” And since he realizes he has only mentioned his one sibling, he carries on, deciding for further disclosure, trusting her and hopefully generating bonds, “I had an older brother. He died when he was twenty-eight.”
“Oh, no,” and again her voice mists with evident sincerity, “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. That was a long time ago.” he again returns his own honesty to her, “So, what about your family?”
“I’m an only child,” she tells him, “and my mother and father are divorced. My father is a really nice guy, very supportive, and he travels a lot. My mom, though, well, she’s a bit odd.”
“Mmhmm,” he gives forth the non-committal encouragement into the sudden silence.
“She’s very much into New Age stuff and has a lot of strange interests.”
This piques his curiosity, but he doesn’t pursue it further.
“I …,” she begins, and he listens intently, noting the hesitancy, hoping she will open up to him, “I was in a long, serious relationship before I came here, but it ended very badly. He cheated on me.”
“I am sorry to hear of that,” he offers. “I have been treated similarly. I’d wish that on no one. Loyalty and respect are very important to me.”
“Me, too,” she says, her voice giving a distant, musing feel.
He hopes that she is alright, and that the conversation has not brought up old wounds. His time of being betrayed was so many years ago that he has sufficiently moved on, but he has no idea how recent hers may be.
“So, you said you’ve read a lot of the Marquis de Sade,” she pulls a new topic from a random direction.
“Yes,” he accedes.
“I did some research on him. You know he thought there should be no such thing as rape since he felt that if someone desired you, you should be obliged to give in.”
“Yes, I know. One of his less savory beliefs. Still, many who study him think he was not serious, that he did such things to challenge and shake up society, just as with his fiction.”
“Maybe, but what do you think of that?” she presses.
“Well, I find it deplorable, just as I do the idea of rape. It sickens me,” he continues, the very disgust of which he speaks beginning to somewhat color the sound of his voice, “Taking without consent is heinous.”
“So, the things he describes in some of his stories,” she proceeds, driving to a point all this time, “They are okay if there is consent between both parties?”
“Well, it depends on what it is and those involved. As long as someone is able to give consent, then I would presume that yes, it is okay. There are many … unusual, but safe and fun things in which any number of adults may engage if there is understanding, trust, consent, and above all, good communication,” he expounds, feeling a touch like a lecturer.
“You mean like BDSM?”
“Yes. Do you know much about that?” he asks, feeling a tiny surge inside from her question.
“No, not really, but I am curious about it. Do you?”
“I happen to know quite a bit, yes, and I would be happy to help you learn more, if you wish.”
“Thanks,” is all she says, and they wind down their conversation, bidding each other good night.
After the conversation is over, she just lies there in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the talk in her mind, over and over again, her thoughts sometimes wandering in directions that are not even related to the telephone call. After some time, sleep eludes her as she continues to think about what they discussed and what it means between them. Dali wanders into the room, the large cat easily jumping onto the bed, cuddling in with her. She merely goes to absent-mindedly petting the feline as she continues pondering.
*****
The darkly-garbed figure crouches atop the rise in the distance, the gentle hill providing a decent elevation. The motorcycle idles quietly nearby, adding something of a gentle background lull to the noises coming from the nearby structures. The small binoculars held in front of the rider’s eyes give a good view of the goings-on below, even offering extra enhancement if expected visual-spectrum light is insufficient.
This locale is again on the outskirts of the city, a part which has devolved into something perhaps less than desired, a place of immorality and crime. The latter concerns the silent, observant figure much more at this time.
The area’s isolation is made more evident by looking at the lights fr
om the nighttime metropolis, for they dwindle as one leaves the center, and darker patches of non-use or slumber show up before the dimness of this ghetto arises. There shows even some broken, flickering neon to draw attention to the various promises within. The police are certainly aware of this shoddy part of the city, but for whatever reasons, the illegal activities continue.
The figure spends some more time surveilling. Some of the buildings are so makeshift that their sides flutter, showing they are made of fabric or have been patched up so. The arrangement of them off the main avenues is also pell-mell, revealing that once away from the streets, traffic is generally on foot. Still, that is not the main concern, merely taken in for intelligence. The more structurally sound building nearer the center of this tiny district is the target.
The front of it shows what one may expect here – a small, neon sign in somewhat better repair than the others in the vicinity, two men out front, one of whom acts the salesman, trying to goad in potential customers, the other bigger, meaner looking, part of the security. Another sign affixed to the wall by the entrance advertises what one may expect to experience in the interior – drinks, girls, pleasure, and it displays a few low quality images of women purported to possibly be waiting inside.
The building, of course, has a back door, also easily observed from the vigilante’s perch on the nearby, night-enshrouded hill. Made of metal, the rear access also shows no windows, a single, caged lamp hanging above it, two large trash cans nearby. It has been observed this evening opening once, divulging a man coming out to drop some bags into one of the bins, his dark wind breaker rising up with the effort to reveal a holstered pistol.
After a time, the rider mounts the bike, moving slowly closer, leaving the vehicle parked in an opportune place for speedy location and exit without being too near or exposed to be found. Movement is now careful, though as quick as possible, body generally crouched low, steps deliberate, the figure’s eyes moving about within the near total coverage of the black balaklava, the minimal, exposed flesh covered in black paint. A spot is finally reached without incident, waiting in the shadows now in the crook of the building’s perpendicular shift of its walls, near the metal back door.
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