Color Of Blood

by Keith Yocum

She quickly wiped the tears and looked away.

  “I’m embarrassed,” she said, swallowing hard. “Please stop looking at me.”

  Dennis did as he was told and looked away at the bottles behind the bar. He let his hands fall to his side.

  “I bet my mascara is smeared,” she said. “Is it?”

  Dennis looked at her face and noticed how frail and exhausted she appeared. Her eyes were pink and puffy, and the mascara on her left eyelid had a small, black diagonal stripe. He reached out with his right thumb and gently brushed it twice so that it disappeared.

  “What an entrance,” she said quietly. “I feel so stupid.”

  “Let’s sit down,” Dennis said. He picked up his drink and the large, unfolded map and moved to a high-top table in the bar.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Yes, please,” she said. “What’s a strong drink? I need a strong drink.”

  “Do you want a gin and tonic?”

  “Sure. I’ll have one of those.”

  Dennis ordered her drink.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “No, I can’t eat right now. Not hungry. Thanks.”

  While they waited for her drink, Dennis sat quietly. He was shocked by her appearance. She was thin and haggard. Her facial muscles pulled the skin tight against her cheekbones; her forehead had two horizontal furrows that ran the width of her hairline. She nervously bit the inside of her bottom lip; he could see her repeatedly grabbing the skin between her teeth and releasing it.

  She stared at the large, thick paper document Dennis had placed on the seat of an open chair next to her.

  “What are you doing with a map?” she said. “I’m trying to change the subject.”

  Dennis smiled. She made an attempt at a smile.

  “Well, I can tell you about the map later. Do you feel like you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

  Judy considered his question for a moment and then took a quick visual sweep of the bar.

  An older couple in their sixties sat at another high-top table nearby; an Asian male sat at the other end of the bar toying with his phone. A group of young men—business travelers, she guessed by their dress and volume of banter—sat at a large couch and coffee table on the other side of the bar. The bartender was fixing Judy’s drink while he chatted up the waitress at the service bar.

  “So?” he said.

  “I just need someone to talk to about my problem,” she said. “I don’t need you to do anything except hear me out. I’ve no one to talk to, and you’ll see why in a moment. Is that all right?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Go right ahead.”

  Judy talked for forty-five minutes, and Dennis only interrupted three times to ask questions. As Judy talked, she grew more animated until, finally exhausted, she stopped. She had barely touched her gin and tonic, preferring instead to stir it relentlessly during her explanation. Now she drank most of it in several large gulps.

  “I’m confused about one thing, Judy,” Dennis said. “Actually, I’m confused about a lot of things you just told me, but there’s one piece I’m especially having trouble with.”

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Why you?”

  “Why did they come after me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dennis, I haven’t the faintest bloody idea,” she yelled. Instinctively, she stooped her shoulders and nervously looked around the bar. Alone for the past week with her own convoluted and increasingly desperate thinking, she found herself exploding with emotion.

  “That seems odd to me,” he said slowly.

  “Only that seems odd to you?”

  “No, of course the whole thing sounds preposterous,” he said.

  Silence settled over them. Judy suddenly felt drained and began to physically wilt; her back bowed as she rested her elbows on the .

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Silence.

  “Dennis?”

  Silence.

  “I can help you in a couple of ways,” he said. Judy noticed that his voice and demeanor altered slightly as he spoke. His shoulders stiffened, and he seemed more clinical, like he was discussing options for a medical procedure.

  “I think I can help you find the snitch in the WA office,” he said. “The Agency is always trying to find moles and dig them out of stations we have throughout the world. I’m not in counterintelligence, but I’ve worked on these efforts before, albeit peripherally. What I mean is that discovering a mole is painstaking but not impossible. I’m certain we can pull this off. Once we find the mole, you’ll be home free.”

  “You think so?” she said. “Truthfully?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know anyone besides me in the AFP,” she said. “And unless I misunderstood your position in the CIA, you don’t investigate criminal gangs.”

  “Well, you’re going to do all that police work,” he said. “This gang you’re dealing with will never suspect that you’re turning the tables on them. But it has to be done quickly. How long until Simon returns from vacation?”

  “About a fortnight.”

  “What’s that, two weeks?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Judy considered Dennis’s offer, and while she was thrilled to feel like she was back in control of her life, she could not avoid the gnawing implausibility of this Yank’s self-appointed powers.

  “Dennis, you don’t think I should just reach out to one of the blokes I’ve worked with back east?”

  “No; I wouldn’t, not now. But then again, if you feel strongly, you should do it. I’m just thinking of you and Simon. There’s something that really bothers me about a gang kidnapping a policeman and cutting off her toe.”

  “A policewoman: and it was only the tip of my toe,” Judy said defensively. “Not my whole toe.”

  “Of course: not your entire toe.”

  Dennis reached over and petted the top of her left hand. At first she thought it was a condescending gesture, but when he left his hand there, she felt comforted.

  He pulled it away.

  “Please put it back,” she said.

  He put his hand back on her hand and curled his fingers around the edges of her palm.

  She looked into his blue eyes.

  “Thank you for your help, Dennis,” she said. “I can’t tell you how lonely and desperate I’ve been.”

  “You look exhausted,” he said.

  Silence.

  “Dennis, can I ask you something that’s going to sound worse than it is?”

  He wrinkled his forehead nervously. “I guess so.”

  “Can I spend the night in your hotel room?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “Do you have a suite? With a couch?”

  “Yes, I do actually.”

  “Can I sleep on the couch? For the last week I’ve been all alone staying in the big house. They know where I live. Every time I look at the front entrance, I can remember the sickly smell of that stuff they used to put me out. I sleep with my service pistol under my pillow. I’m scared and lonely. One night—even on a couch—in pure safety would be such a relief for me.”

  “Of course, Judy; I can use the couch. You sleep in the bed.”

  On the way to the elevator, they argued loudly about who was sleeping where.

  Finally Dennis raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “I’ll take the couch then.” The elevator hummed as it moved upward.

  “Fine.”

  Dennis let her in the room, and they stood around awkwardly.

  “Do you want a T-shirt or something to sleep in?” Dennis said. “I don’t have any pajamas, or I’d give them to you.”

  “Yes, a T-shirt would be lovely,” she said.

  He handed her a white cotton tee. He told her that while she was changing in the
bathroom, he was going to change in the main room.

  “I sleep in an old T-shirt and gym shorts,” he said.

  “Whatever you normally do is fine, Dennis.”

  He folded his clothes and tried to remain calm. He was determined not to act boorish, but the situation had an overarching sense of sexual tension.

  Perhaps that was simply my tension, he thought. He was always slightly uncomfortable around women, anyway. Hell, Martha was the one who pursued him years ago, when they started dating.

  Dennis had changed into his old gray Georgetown University T-shirt and faded navy-blue gym shorts. He sat on the bed waiting for her to come out of the bathroom.

  As an afterthought, Dennis stood up and pulled the comforter off his bed and put it on the couch for Judy to use.

  The door finally opened, and she came out with her folded clothes in one hand, wearing the white cotton T-shirt down to the top of her thighs. On top of her clothes she had stacked her bra.

  “How do I look?” she said, mock modeling the T-shirt. As she lifted her arms, the cloth rode up, and he could see the edge of her white underwear.

  “You look fine,” he said. “Very dignified.”

  “I used your toothpaste, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Dennis went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth and reentered the room.

  Judy was curled up on the couch, enveloped in the comforter, with only her face showing. She watched him cross the room as he made his way to the bed.

  “Do you want to see my toe?” she said. “I haven’t shown it to anyone, obviously.”

  He grimaced. “Is it healing OK?”

  “Yes, it’s doing well.” She threw off the comforter and bounded over to the bed. Dennis sat at the headboard, his feet on the floor next to the bedside table. She had scooted onto the end of the bed and thrust her legs out so that the soles of her feet rested on his left thigh.

  He stared at the last toe of her right foot. The end of it was encased in a small black scab. He winced.

  “Does it hurt to walk on it?” he asked.

  Dennis preferred to look at her foot because the T-shirt had ridden up, revealing her pale thighs and white, lace-trimmed underwear. He stroked the top of her right foot gently.

  “I can’t believe they did that. Who does that kind of stuff?”

  “Dennis?”

  “Yes?” He looked at her face, trying to avoid her thighs.

  “Why did you come back to WA?”

  “Oh, that. It’s complicated.”

  “As complicated as my problem?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

  Silence.

  Dennis stared at her face for a while and then looked back down at her toe. She wiggled her feet against his thighs.

  “Dennis?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m flirting with you, you know.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I just realized that.”

  “Is this bothering you?”

  “No. Not at all: I just don’t want to do anything to hurt you. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “The only way you’d hurt me right now is if you ignored me.”

  “Oh, well, I can fix that,” he said, reaching over and turning off the light.

  Chapter 27

  She made a faint whistling sound exhaling that he found cute, almost childlike. Her hair smelled like a mix of lavender and a common spice that he could not identify. He turned and looked at the bedside clock—3:20 a.m.

  It had been a long time since he’d had sex, and it felt very good. Sex with Martha had been fine, but even Dr. Forrester had suggested that his depression had been a “low-grade infection” for years and had muted the joy he might receive from life’s normal pleasures.

  Or at least that’s what Dr. Forrester said, Dennis mulled. And what did she really know about the motivations of people besides what she had been taught in graduate school or read in a journal?

  Besides, he did not feel depressed now or disinterested in sex. In fact, he felt the stirring of a mild erection as he felt Judy’s panty-clad buttocks press against his left thigh. Initially Judy had turned away from him after falling asleep but unconsciously had backed up to press against him. She had fallen asleep quickly. He wished he could be that relaxed.

  Maybe his sleeplessness was due to his anger. He kept returning to the fact that men had kidnapped and tortured her. Who would do that to a woman, to this woman? While anger might distract and confuse some people, it acted like Ritalin on him: he was focused and task oriented. He was already working on a plan to help Judy.

  ***

  A scream penetrated his sleep and he bolted upright in panic.

  “My God, I’m going to be late!” Judy yelled, scampering across the room to grab her clothes. She pulled off the T-shirt and tossed it onto the dresser. Her breasts bounced and flailed, and she fought with her bra. With remarkable speed, Judy slipped on her blouse, stepped into her skirt, and looked around for her shoes, never saying a word.

  “Can I help?” Dennis said quietly.

  “Yes, cancel a meeting I scheduled for this morning,” she said, stroking her hair furiously with a small brush she had in her purse. “I need to go home first, shower, and change clothes. God!”

  “Why don’t you call in sick?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Though there’s nothing more I’d like to do than crawl back in bed and have another go at you.”

  Dennis smiled.

  “All right, perhaps that sounded crass,” she said. “Sorry, I’m in such a tizzy this morning.”

  “Before you go,” he said quickly, “I need to tell you something.”

  “Talk quickly.”

  “OK; I think I can help you with your work problem. Hey, don’t look that way. Just listen: I can help. I’m really crappy at some things, and really, really good at other things. This is something I’m really good at. If you come back this evening, let me ask you some questions; I bet I can give you some ideas. Simple as that.”

  “Dennis, you can’t get involved in this thing.”

  “Promise me you’ll come back this evening and let me ask some questions. That’s all. How hard could that be?”

  She rushed over to Dennis, put her hands on the sides of his face, leaned down, and said, “You are such an interesting man—for a Yank.” She kissed him softly, stood up, and ran to the door. “And you need to brush your teeth,” she said over her shoulder.

  “That’s a roger. And this evening?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “I really must be going.”

  ***

  He recognized the number on his mobile. “Hello,” Dennis said.

  “When were you going to check in?” Massey said. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

  “I spent enough time with the extraction team,” Dennis said. “Their team lead—what’s his name, Khory? He was such a pain in the ass: kept repeating the same questions. I thought you would have read the report by now.”

  “A report is a report. I thought I made it clear that you were to debrief with me on this case,” Massey persisted. “I never heard from you. And now you’re back in Australia.”

  “So you’ve figured that out already?” Dennis said.

  “Oh, come on, Cunningham, you know we have access to NSA data, and our Agency phones have GPS chips and cell-tower triangulation methods and God knows whatever new technology they can find. What are you doing back in Australia?”

  “I think Garder’s either here now or going to be soon,” Dennis said.

  “Well, given the fact that of all the agents we have hunting this guy, you were the only one to find him, I’ll go with your guess.”

  “It’s more than a guess,” Dennis said.

  “Let’s not quibble. I have a couple of questions. First: how did he get away so quickly? You had a gun and he was unarmed. The report says he jumped you?”

  “Massey, he’s a field agent, I’m not. I war
ned you at the outset, remember?” Dennis said. “He was quicker than I anticipated. The door opened behind me, I turned, and he flew at me. He just about ripped one of my eyes out of its socket.”

  “The woman he was with, are you sure she was French?”

  “I said he spoke to her in French, not that she was French. She could be Swiss, Canadian, or Belgian. I have no idea. Remember, she held a gun to my head, so I wasn’t too busy checking out her nationality.”

  “It says here that Garder told you that he was pissed off at the Agency for something and had tried to tell some newspapers about it. Is that correct?”

  “Massey, I have been through this already. Yes. It’s in the report.”

  “He used the terms ‘blind trawl’ to you? Those exact words?”

  “Yes. I’ve never heard of it before and thought he was bullshitting me just to bide time until his girlfriend came back. Have you heard of it?”

  “No,” Massey said.

  “I’m just pissed that your team didn’t get there fifteen minutes earlier. We could have bagged him.”

  “So here’s my second question: why didn’t he just kill you?” Massey said.

  Dennis had thought a lot about that. “I’m not sure, to be honest. He didn’t seem to have the look of a killer, so I’m not surprised.”

  “And you think you can spot killers?”

  “Most of the time, yes; sometimes I’m a little off,” Dennis said. “But in this case, from a purely self-interested point of view, I’m glad he chose not to put a bullet in my skull.”

  Massey laughed in a single, explosive bark that Dennis thought sounded like a trained sea lion.

  “But he did say that if he saw me again, he’d kill me,” Dennis said. “That particular threat was not lost on me.”

  “Do you want a protection team?” Massey said. “We could do that in a heartbeat.”

  “No teams.”

  “I guessed not.”

  “But now I have a question for you,” Dennis said.

  “You don’t ask questions,” Massey said. “I ask questions; you answer them. That’s how it works.”

  “Right, so here’s my question anyway: Why, with wars in Iraq and Afghanistan going on, and Al Qaeda cells everywhere to be dug out, are we spending so much time and energy chasing a kid who stole one million dollars from Uncle Sam? That’s the cost of about four armored Humvees in Iraq. He’ll show up eventually, and we can grab the bastard then.”