by Adam Carter
Catherine.
Perhaps Catherine would be more amenable, saner, than Dalton. Perhaps in her he could at last find someone he could talk to, someone he could love.
Perhaps once day Baronaire would even know happiness.
OPERATION WETFISH
BOOK 9
HAPPY FAMILIES
CHAPTER ONE
Charles Baronaire was whipping up a mean sirloin. He had the wedges in the fryer, the bread keeping warm in the oven and the vegetables in the steamer. He did not eat, not in the conventional sense of the word, but if there was one thing Baronaire appreciated it was different scents. His sense of smell was perhaps his most proficient, and the various aromas of the food were enough to bring a smile to his thin lips. Charles Baronaire was a tall man, broad of figure, stern of appearance. He was at home in casual-smart attire and his trademark trench coat, but he had pulled up the sleeves of his shirt and had temporarily forsaken his coat in lieu of an apron. He was not at his flat: his flat did not have any food, let alone an oven. His flat was certainly not a place to be entertaining a young lady. The house he was in was terraced, two storeys, with a reasonable-sized garden out the back and a strict wooden fence separating it from the neighbours either side. The house was well-furnished, with pictures hanging at various spaces upon the walls, a montage of animal paintings travelling up the staircase. The house had a certain homely appearance which Baronaire had thought he would grow to hate very quickly. In reality it was beginning to grow on him, and after living here a week he was starting to glean tips on how to brighten up his own flat.
The steak was grilled to perfection and Baronaire removed it with fingers which never felt heat. Presentation was fifty per cent of good cooking, and Baronaire took great pains to carefully arrange the meal he had prepared. At last satisfied, he balanced the two plates – one for the bread – and with his spare hand grabbed a bottle of rosé before heading into the dining room.
His housemate sat at the table, staring out the window. Baronaire watched her for several moments, allowing a small smile of satisfaction for this happy home he had at last found for himself. Then he rather theatrically brought in the food and said, “Madam, dinner is served.”
The young woman looked at him with a rather sheepish smile as he placed the food before her. She was in her mid-twenties; Baronaire did not know her specific age and had thought it rude to ask. She was slight of frame, with a cute impish smile which could light up the room. He had seen it on one or two occasions, but more often would she flash only the false smile. The one which was designed to make it seem as though she wasn’t being rude, as though she didn’t hate being there with him. Her rich blonde hair was bound in a ponytail, her face lacking any form of mascara, her eyes entirely without liner. She did not even treat her hair with unnatural products, Baronaire could tell purely by her scent. She was perfect bliss to his sense of smell, his perfect woman. She also had a pretty rounded face and amazingly inquisitive eyes which Baronaire was finding difficult not to drown in.
It was taking all his willpower every day not to surrender to his baser instincts around her.
“Steak,” she said, looking over her plate. “Have you been shopping, Charles?”
He didn’t like anyone calling him Charles, but in this case Baronaire had made an exception. Rachael Webster was a special case.
“The freezer and fridge are well-stocked,” Baronaire said as he took a seat opposite her. “The cupboards too. It’s like being on a little treasure-seeking operation foraging through all the storage areas of this house.”
The young woman took up her fork and absently prodded at her meal. Baronaire knew her hesitancy was nothing to do with her dislike of the food, but was born simply of her frustration at being stuck in the house all the time. Baronaire would not let her out; it simply was not something he would allow. But she could enjoy herself here, with him. He had even found some steak knives in a special set tucked away in a drawer.
“You’re not eating again?” she asked as she finally skewered a wedge with her fork.
“No,” he replied. He had long ago ceased offering her excuses as to why he never ate in her presence. At first he had made things up, but Rachael was no fool and as time wore on the lies drew thin and Baronaire had ceased to explain himself to her. She had eventually stopped asking.
Rachael began to eat in silence while Baronaire poured her some wine. He watched the pale red liquid splash into the glass, through which he could see Rachael’s face framed, and his own hunger burned as his mind connected the two. But once again he pushed such thoughts away. This was neither the time nor the place to be indulging himself.
“You have any plans for tomorrow?” Rachael asked blandly, her fork playing with her food. Baronaire had hoped the sheer brilliance of his culinary ability would have encouraged her to eat, yet he supposed Rachael wasn’t thinking much of eating. Still, she needed to keep her strength up. He was not her father, however, and he would not preach at her. She was her own woman and it was not his job to convert her.
“I thought I’d stick around here,” Baronaire said. “The garden needs tending, and there’s plenty to do around the house. Maybe the two of us could redecorate the hall or something?”
“Yeah, can’t think of anything I’d rather do than redecorate a hall,” Rachael said, rolling her eyes. Beside her, a great black ball of fur and fang yawned lazily, and she rubbed absently beneath its ears. “Blackie seems to agree with me,” she said. “Can’t I at least go for a walk or something? Even to get the morning paper?”
Baronaire shifted uncomfortably. They had been through all of this several times now, and he was starting to truly feel as though he was her captor and pastor all rolled into one. Rachael liked dogs, which was why his boss Sanders had insisted on Blackie being here. Blackie was the constant companion she could actually love, as opposed to Baronaire whom she would most likely come to despise. That she had showed no outward sign of actually hating him yet was a good sign, but he had seen many indications of her boredom and he knew it would only be a matter of time.
However, Baronaire had his orders and while it wasn’t an ideal solution for any of them, it was what they had to endure. At least for a little while longer.
“Soon,” he told her. “I promise you’ll be able to leave the house soon. Just give us a little more time, and then you’re a free woman.”
She stabbed a piece of steak she had cut off. “I feel like a criminal,” she said bitterly. “I feel like I’m the one being punished.”
She ate her food without even raising an eyebrow. When they had first come to the house she had complimented Baronaire on his kitchen wizardry; now it was becoming commonplace for her. He felt like a housewife whose skills were being taken advantage of.
A shrill noise sounded through the room then. The large black dog’s ears pricked, and even Rachael looked up from her food. Baronaire withdrew a clunky device from an outside pocket of his trench coat, lying over the back of a chair, and fought to remember how to activate the thing. Finally he got the right button and, long antenna waving, he placed the device to his ear.
“Baronaire,” he said.
“He gave us the slip,” the gruff voice sounded on the other end. “Knew we were coming, which is always a bad sign. How are things your end?”
“Dandy,” Baronaire said, turning his back on Rachael but not quite bringing himself to leave the room. “How long?”
“He’s gone for the night, we’ll have to figure out where we went wrong, who tipped him off. I’ll pick up the trail again in the morning. Just be vigilant tonight in case he shows up at the house.”
Baronaire smiled into the device. “I’m always vigilant at night.”
It took him a few seconds to turn the thing off; then he set it on the dining table, where Rachael was staring at it as she chewed her meat. “That’s some radio,” she commented dryly.
“Mobile phone,” Baronaire replied. “My boss promised me a new phone after my l
ast one broke. Apparently they’re becoming very popular lately. This is one of the smaller ones.”
“Oh. Would be handy having one of them on the street,” Rachael said absently. “Has your boss found him yet?”
“No. Looks like you have another night with me.”
“Swell.”
Baronaire sat at the table close to her and placed one hand over hers. “Rachael, don’t worry. We’ll find …”
She withdrew with the speed of a striking serpent. He could see terror in her eyes which she quickly masked, reverting to her usual placid emptiness of expression. “Just don’t touch me,” she said quietly.
“Sorry. I was just ...” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Rachael rose, her eyes not meeting his. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed, if that’s all right with you?”
“Sure.” He was kicking himself inside, but said nothing more as she led Blackie away. The dog rose as she walked from the table, scampering off gaily after her. Blackie was her protector, her comforter and her confidant. Baronaire was just her bodyguard.
As he cleared the plates away he began to wonder when this would actually end. It had been so many days already and it only seemed to be getting worse. There was little chance Johnson had found the house, but sometimes Baronaire almost wished he would. At least then they could get all of this over with. Sighing as he opened the bin with his foot, Baronaire scraped away the remains of Rachael’s dinner. He thought about what he would be doing now and supposed he would head up to the roof, as he generally did at night. Baronaire did not have to spend the night on the roof, but he liked the feel of the wind in his hair, enjoyed the sense of freedom the darkness afforded him.
And it wasn’t as though Rachael was going to want him. She spent most of her nights crying and never made mention of it during the day. It was not something she wanted him to know, and so he kept his distance out of respect. Respect, and because he doubted he would be able to control himself should he watch her cry all night. He did not have to wonder whether that made him a bad person, because he already knew he was.
But he wasn’t Johnson. And that at least was something for which he could be grateful.
CHAPTER TWO
The garden did not tend itself and Baronaire was out there early the following morning mowing the lawn. He had trimmed the edges with a long pair of shears and was cutting down the rose bush when he heard the back door open. Rachael wandered outside, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her white dressing gown draped about her body, her legs bare. The sun beat down even at this early hour, although its heat would intensify later on so this was always a good time to be out doing the gardening. It made little difference to Baronaire of course, since he felt neither the heat nor the cold. However, it was always best to maintain a sense of normality when around other people.
Baronaire himself was wearing an old shirt and trousers, stained green with his work. His hands were concealed by thick gloves while he snipped at the dead buds of the rose bush. The scent of freshly cut grass lingered in the air, and it was a smell Baronaire did not find displeasing. He had never before been a homemaker and it was beginning to grow on him. As was the garden itself.
“Sleep well?” he asked while he made another precision snip.
Rachael shrugged. “What’re you even doing out here?” she asked tiredly. “Don’t tell me you actually care about the garden?”
“I like to keep busy,” Baronaire replied with a smile. “Beats sitting around all day. Besides, take a look over the fence.”
Rachael did so, shook her head. “What am I looking for?”
“Their grass?”
“It’s long.”
“Mmm. We have the best garden in the street at the moment. What’s the betting the little woman next door’s already on at her fella to get that grass cut so we’re not showing them up?”
Rachael shook her head. “You’re mad.”
Baronaire laughed. “Maybe I just don’t get out much.”
“Hey there, neighbour.”
Baronaire looked across to find a man leaning both arms across the fence. He was wearing a loose T-shirt and a somewhat fake grin. “And he shall appear,” Baronaire muttered aside to Rachael. “Morning, Sid.”
“Morning, Charles. Nice garden.”
“Thanks.”
“You do realise I’m being moaned at now.”
“Oh yes.”
“Can I borrow your shears?”
“Don’t you have a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer?”
Sid Matthews gave him a half-annoyed glower. “Bad enough I have to do the stupid garden to begin with.”
Baronaire smiled, reaching behind him and handing the shears across the fence. “And,” he said, “your carrot patch could do with weeding.”
“We have carrots?” Matthews asked, glancing about and grimacing. “Who planted them?”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Baronaire said, stripping off his gloves. “Some of us are finished for the day. Before it got too hot as well.” He noticed Rachael was watching the exchange with a bemused expression and led her back into the house. It was not as hot inside, but more stifling, and Baronaire headed to the bathroom to clean up. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No.”
“Give me a minute.”
“Baronaire, I can make my own breakfast.”
Baronaire stopped, his back to her, and he realised he had probably been pushing the whole happy family routine a little too far. He was supposed to be putting the young woman at ease, making her comfortable for the duration. Instead he was unnerving her. “I’m sorry,” he said, his shoulders sagging as he turned to her. “I’m not very good at this. I’m more of an outside kind of guy. I don’t do happy homes too well.”
Rachael avoided his eyes as she sat on the settee. He desperately wished she would go put some clothes on, perhaps spray some perfume or apply hair gel: anything to mask her natural odour. Baronaire was not a fan of artificial beauty products and the natural musk of a young human woman was by far the greatest smell he could ever know. The fact she was sitting there in nothing but her dressing gown, bare shaven legs curled up beneath her, did not do much to steady his urges.
“Where do you live?” she asked, the question throwing him. “I mean, I take it you don’t have a family.”
He noticed she had made herself a cup of herbal tea. She had learned at last to stop offering him one. “I live on my own in a pokey flat,” he told her truthfully. “I have two rooms. I’m sort of relishing the garden.”
Rachael shrugged and he wished she would try to smile more. He understood why she couldn’t, but if he could just cheer her up a bit their time together would probably go a lot smoother.
“Why do you sit on the roof at night?” she asked, sipping her tea.
Baronaire shifted uncomfortably. She was far more aware of her surroundings than he had expected, but then he supposed in her line of work it paid to be observant. “I take my work seriously,” he said at last in reply. “Johnson doesn’t know where we are, but if somehow he does find this place there’s no way he’s getting past me.” He saw something flit across her face and wished he had not mentioned Johnson. It wasn’t fear that crossed her face, wasn’t even hatred or anger. Baronaire had made a study of human emotions and he knew precisely what was wrong with Rachael Webster.
“You feel guilty,” he told her. “Why?”
It was Rachael’s turn now to shift uncomfortably. She looked away, her eyes resting on the car parked outside their house. “Car could do with a clean, if you’ve finished with the garden,” she said.
Baronaire half smiled to himself. “We shouldn’t be too much longer here, Rachael. I know you’re not comfortable around me, and to be honest this isn’t my first choice of assignment either.” Whatever he was trying to say he knew it was coming out wrong.
“You’re not on assignment,” she told him. “You’re a happy homemaker, remember?”
He knew she was throw
ing him a bone and he would not bury it needlessly. Especially since that would ruin the garden he’d just tended. “I’ll call the office later, see whether there’s any news.”
“I want to go out.”
“No.”
She met his eyes then and he could see a steely determination, a fear now she was even suggesting this course of action, and a desperate need to get some semblance of normality back to her life. “I’m going mad staring at these four walls,” she told him. “I’m not a criminal, but you’ve locked me up anyway. I want to go buy the paper, get some milk, window shop. I want to queue for half an hour in the bank then complain when all the tills start closing. I want old women pushing in front of me in the post office, I want to curse myself for not taking out an umbrella when the heavens open.” Her lip was trembling when she stopped, and she was breathing heavily. A sweat had even broken out upon her forehead. The words had come tumbling out and Baronaire knew they had been building for several days. What she said was correct, of course. She was a prisoner even though she had done nothing wrong. But that was just the way things were. Those were Baronaire’s orders.
“I’m not allowed to let you out of the house,” he told her, “except into the garden. Why don’t you go sunbathe? I’ll make fresh lemonade.”
“I don’t want to go god-damn sunbathing!”
Baronaire said nothing. Rachael sat there, her body visibly shaking, but it was not through rage. She was afraid, afraid of Johnson finding her. She knew Johnson was in the outside world, but she wanted to go anyway. She wanted to get back to normal, wanted him not to win. She was trying to prove she was strong enough not to allow Johnson to affect her the way he clearly had. Baronaire found he could respect that. When he had first met Rachael Webster he had really not wanted to take the assignment, had thought up a thousand excuses. Nor was he the first officer which came to mind for the assignment, but he was all that was available at the time. Baronaire had not relished the thought of being stuck in this house with her for days on end. But now at last he was seeing a different side to her. She had been cold and withdrawn for the first few days, but then that was to be expected. Now that coldness was turning into passion as the real Rachael Webster was fighting for release.