Agent Carmichael rolled his bottom lip under his top teeth, acknowledging his culpability with a slight lilt of his head. He had been stationed with Albert Hicks through various government agencies, in all manner of clandestine posts, and he had always played the part of second fiddle to Albert’s conductor, mostly willingly. Albert was long lived, mild mannered, and even by Tiernan’s standards, methodically vicious. Carmichael and McMahon agreed on few things, but they were both quick to acknowledge that Albert Hicks was a good man to have between you and the almighty.
“You’ve spoken to Miller then?” Hicks asked, unsure whether or not it had been solely his text message which had stirred Miller into action.
As much as he respected him, McMahon still struggled to keep a straight face around Albert. It didn’t help that the timbre of his voice was unnervingly thin and boyish, like it had never quite finished breaking. Albert could have changed his voice it if he’d wanted of course, and that bothered McMahon even more. Why would a man with Albert Hicks’ history not choose to do something about his peewee voice? His teeth too; yellowed, gnarly stumps of cracked candy, offering a paltry barrier against that sharp tongue of his. Why wouldn’t he just fix himself McMahon wondered. After so long in his company, he had come to the conclusion that Albert Hicks chose to be exactly as he was for the simple reason that it wrong footed people. He noticed now that Hicks was still waiting for a reply, and he snapped out of his disgusted reverie, “We stopped off at a coffee shop and used their phone to call Miller on the way here.”
Hicks scratched his scalp, running his murderous little hands through a thick black head of hair as he tried to imagine how McMahon’s conversation with Miller had played out. “Brad Cobb’s on this now. He’s got David Beach’s twenty , and he’s pulling together a team to head up a grab in New York.”
McMahon’s head bobbed in vacant contemplation, “Who’s Cobb?”
Hicks shrugged, “He’s a good man. Unfortunately, he’s pulled together most of the loose ends the two of you left dangling.” He scratched his forehead and inhaled slowly, always paying attention to those subtle affectations, “I’m not putting you back on lead, but I’ll make sure you’re on Cobb’s roster.” He looked out onto the floor and saw Cobb now, “I’m not sure who else has David Beach’s back, but you’ve both witnessed what West is capable of.” His eyes wandered from McMahon to Carmichael, unconvinced that either of them understood fully what he studiously avoiding saying, “Just don’t leave any loose ends.”
Charlene opened the door to her own apartment and stepped over the threshold cautiously, all at once feeling like this was a stranger’s home. Having spent only a handful of hours in West’s apartments, she looked about her own, and wondered why she had allowed it to become a shrine to her past. There had been a point, surely, when she had stopped imagining a future for herself. She looked over her shoulder and touched the back of Stanwick’s hand with her fingertips, “Excuse the …” she stumbled over her words, because mess really wasn’t the word for it; decay might have been more appropriate, but it would suggest more squalor than was actually present. She allowed her sentence to trail off, and the hording and detritus to speak for itself. She had lived her life.
Charlene had suggested that she should take care of her hair while the others prepared breakfast. Stanwick politely offered to help, and when Charlene vouched that she’d dyed her own hair many times over the years, and would be quite comfortable going it alone, Stanwick had insisted that she go along with her. She didn’t want to alarm Charlene, but she couldn’t get her mind off the fact that they were only a short drive from Arctum Industries. It was possible that they would have a couple of hours to prepare for the road, but it was equally likely that an army or Tiernan’s Blood-Bastards would turn up at their door at any minute.
As Charlene sorted through the bags of shopping, Stanwick slumped into the comfort of one of the fabric sofa cushions. On the side table closest to her, there was a color photograph set in an overly ornate brass frame; a woman sat on a porch swing, resting her head against an up-stretched arm. It wasn’t easy to make out if the woman was smiling, or squinting in the sunlight, but she looked at ease in her surroundings. Stanwick held the photo up over her shoulder, “Is this you?”
Charlene didn’t have to look up from what she was doing to know which photograph Stanwick was pouring over, “That’s me alright, the only picture I have of me on my family’s farm holding in South Carolina.” She pulled the dye out of its bag and stepped closer to the couch, brushing her fingertips over the cold metal of the frame, “It was taken just after my Aunt Carina passed. I went down to organize the sale of the estate. Young agent who was photographing the property was kind enough to take that and send it on to me.”
Stanwick set the photograph back on the side table, and resisted the urge to rummage further. She turned, resting her head on the couch back, “Were you close to your family?”
“Close enough to know better than to be around them.”
Stanwick smiled, and nodded towards the box of dye in Charlene’s hand, “Do you mind if I keep you company at least?”
Charlene shook the box and pried open the lid as she walked towards the bathroom, “So long as you don’t get under my feet, you are more than welcome.”
West poured a few drops of oil onto the cast iron pan and watched the smoke rise into brushed steel vent which hung over the hob, “And how would madame like her steak?”
Stephanie shuffled forward on the tall stool, leaning over the counter, “Juicy!”
David helped himself to the coffee which had just finished brewing, “Blackened with a hot red center usually, although she sometimes gets a bit squeamish if it’s too rare.”
“Do not!” Stephanie protested, lifting off the stool and leaning to the side so that she could see what West was doing.
West turned the steaks over in the glass bowl one more time, making sure they were all seasoned well, then he picked them out one at a time and laid them out in the pan. Stephanie clapped her hands together, cherishing the sizzling sound and the smell of oregano and garlic that quickly filled the kitchen, “Are we having baked potatoes too?”
West set the timer on the hob, then spun quickly to face Stephanie, “Baked potato for breakfast? Are you mad?”
Stephanie giggled, “It’s the same as hash browns.”
“It’s not too different,” West conceded, “but we don’t have time to cook them.”
Stephanie moaned as she slid even further forward on the counter, “Dad always cooks baked potato with steaks.”
West glared at David indignantly, “My good man, why was the chef not informed of the proper dining etiquette required by madame?”
David rolled his eyes, “Spiff, you usually leave more than half the potato anyway.”
Stephanie pouted jokingly and slid back onto the stool, then she confided in West, “I’m only little. Daddy usually cooks humongous potatoes.”
West pointed over his shoulder with his plastic spatula, “Those are some humongous steaks madame. I’m sure you will not find your breakfast wanting,” he looked at the timer on the hob, “six minutes okay?”
David hugged Stephanie and whispered, “Go wash your hands stinker.” She sighed and climbed down off the stool awkwardly, “Where are the restrooms chef?”
West pointed to the hallway, “By the front door, on your right.”
Stephanie held her hands out in front of her and shook her right hand, shuffling her feet dejectedly as she went.
West leaned his weight against the kitchen counter, flipping the steaks casually as the buzzer sounded. He reset the timer and turned to face David, “She’s not safe.”
David’s face twisted in disbelief, “What … What do you mean she’s not safe?”
“I mean that even with you as you are now, even with Stanwick and myself at her side, we can’t protect her from what’s coming.”
David’s eyes glassed over, his hand covering his mouth. His finge
rs shook visibly as his words bubbled in a panicked froth, “She has to be safe. You brought us here. You have to be able to protect her, for god’s sake.”
West stepped around the counter and came to David’s side, resting his hand on David’s neck, “She has to be turned. You understand that don’t you?”
David stopped breathing, his hands stilled by the momentum of West’s words, “Turned?”
“She has to become one of us. It’s the only way she can be safe.” He could feel the fear, David’s pulse thick and strong under his fingers, “Even as one of us, a child as young as Stephanie is at grave risk, but she will be strong.”
David looked towards the hallway, half expecting to see his daughter there, “I can’t make this decision. It’s too much. I can’t bring her into this.”
West’s hands went to David’s cheeks, holding him firmly “Your father made this decision. Your father took this decision out of your hands years ago. The moment your family became involved in our world, your fates were unwritten. Stephanie was born into this. It’s her birthright as much as it is yours.”
David’s eyes were wild now, “How can you say that?” He tried to shake his head, but West’s hands were tight, and he was left gasping in his frustration, “How can you ask me to do this to her?”
West pressed his forehead to David’s, “You misunderstand me. I’m not asking you to make a decision. I’m telling you what has to be done. Your father has started a war. More than that … your father has made gods of our kind. There will be many who refuse to believe it, because religion is pervasive, and it is belief, and it is a way of life that can’t be swayed by the resurrection of another man’s god, but Lucas Miller’s words today said it all. ‘Let this be a subject for philosophical debate … remember today’s events as a rebirth, a renaissance of consciousness.’ What exactly do you think he was talking about David?”
West let go of David’s face and returned to the hob, plating the steaks as if nothing had passed between them, “The power grab has been going on for decades, and we have all lived too long in the shadow of the great dream to think we could change that.”
David turned his head to the sound of the bathroom door clattering as Stephanie slammed it shut behind her. He wiped his eyes on the back of his wrist, and he breathed in deeply, “You ready hon?”
Stephanie smiled innocently, “I was born ready.”
Brad Cobb shook agent Carmichael’s hand as he shielded his eyes from the helicopter’s downdraft, “Brad Cobb. I suppose I should thank you.”
Carmichael shook his head in deference, yelling over the whining engine, “Hicks told us you’ve done some great work Cobb.” He patted agent McMahon’s back, “You always worry some bright spark’s going to show you up as a phony right?” He laughed, but McMahon shrugged him off, “Yeah, nice work on that Cobb.”
Cobb looked back and flashed a smile at Danielle Wheatley who had already staked her place in the rear cab, “I’m sure you already know Agent Wheatley.” He climbed in and took his place beside her, waiting for the other two men to climb in and buckle up before he continued, “Between Wheatley and Daniels, I’m not sure I deserve any credit.”
McMahon shouted as he pulled on his headset, “Agent Wheatley … You worked comms on the Salt Lake cell with us a few months back right?”
Danielle Wheatley slapped the side of her headset, “No need to shout about it.”
Carmichael yelled back, “Don’t be so modest Danielle! We would have been literally lost without you.”
She shook her head and pointed at her ears, her voice coming calmly through the relative quiet of the headsets, “You don’t need to yell.” She looked down at the tablet on her lap and adjusted the volume levels on the other agents microphones, “Is this it?” she looked to Brad Cobb for confirmation.
“Affirmative. We’re grouping with three from NYFO when we touch down.”
Danielle nodded, pulling up the updated roster from the case file, “I’m pushing their dossiers to you as we speak.”
Cobb pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started to thumb through the contents of the three dossiers. He handed his phone off to Carmichael, “You two worked with any of them?”
Carmichael held the phone out to agent McMahon and allowed him to flick through the screens. McMahon avoided making eye contact with Carmichael as his voice came over the headset, “We’ve worked with them. They’re thorough.”
Cobb smiled inwardly, confident that he was working with a strong team. He patted the roof of the cab to signal to the pilot that they were all ready, then he allowed his head to fall back into the padded seat back as the helicopter lurched into motion. He loved his job.
Charlene pulled a polythene cap over her wet hair and rinsed out the bath, “Twenty minutes.”
Stanwick set the timer on her watch, “You know, this will probably be the last time you need to dye your hair.”
Charlene laughed as she tossed her gloves into the waste basket by the sink, “You clearly don’t know me.” She checked herself in the mirror, and satisfied that she hadn’t spilled any dye on her blouse, she picked up a towel from the wall rack and headed out of the bathroom, “I’m pretty sure I’ll be changing my hair as often as I change my face, now that I can.”
Stanwick stood up from the tiled floor and followed her host, “It’s not as easy as all that. Even that first regression takes most people a long time. It’s impressive that you’ve found your face so quickly.”
Charlene tutted, “Hush now.”
Stanwick watched as Charlene headed towards the bedroom, “Seriously Charlene, it’s no disservice to you, but I’d be surprised if you can alter yourself that easily.”
Charlene turned as she opened her bedroom door, her eyes narrowing in concentration, focusing on Stanwick’s face. To Stanwick’s shock, she could see the contours of Charlene’s cheeks change subtly, her brow line altering, the bows of her lips filling out just a little until she looked unnervingly familiar. Stanwick folded her arms, her mouth falling open as she stared at a woman who could now easily pass as her twin, “Well shit.”
Charlene grinned, “Indeed.” She stepped into the bedroom and threw open her closet doors, “Now dear sister, this is something you probably can help me with.”
Stanwick followed her inside and sat on the edge of the bed, “I hate to break it to you Charlene, but as much as I’d enjoy watching you throw yourself into the brink in a turquoise dress, you might want to dig out something more practical.”
Charlene looked at the small stained rings on Stanwick’s knees, the remnants of her first meeting with David and she imagined that slipping in David’s vomit with bare legs would have been a low point. She turned back to the wardrobe and started throwing dresses, skirts and blouses on the bed beside Stanwick, “You know the last time I fit a pant suite?”
“Nineteen ninety something…” Stanwick tried, trailing off awkwardly.
“Bitch!” Charlene turned on Stanwick suddenly, joining in her laughter. “You know I don’t have anything quite that,” she pointed to Stanwick’s pants, “functional.” She threw Stanwick’s word back at her, raising her eyebrows in riposte.
“Here, let me look.” Stanwick stood up from the bed and shouldered past Charlene, who stepped aside, jumping past the pile of clothes on the bed and slumping into the comfort of the blanket. She leaned her head into a fat pillow and watched Stanwick clatter through the hangers, “Good luck in there.”
“Don’t worry,” Stanwick started to pull some of the clothes off their hangers, “I think I already hit the jackpot. There appears to be some sort of secret portal to the seventies in here.” Stanwick stepped away from the doors with several pairs of faded jeans slung over her left arm. She dropped the pile on the edge of the bed and walked towards the other side of the bedroom, “Try some of those on. You want something with plenty of movement okay?”
Charlene sighed and saluted as she clambered out of her comfortable nest, “Your wish is my command
.” She fished out her new lingerie from the shopping and hid behind the wardrobe door, “Excuse me.”
“You want me to …” she pointed towards the bedroom door, but Charlene held a hand out and twirled it in the air. Stanwick turned her back to Charlene, leaned against the wall and she listened to her shuffle out of her clothes.
“You should throw the rest in a case or something if you have one.”
Charlene grunted as she pulled a navy blue blouse on over her head, “We’ll be leaving that soon?”
“We should have left already, but needs must.”
Charlene buttoned the front of the jeans and pulled up their awkward little zipper, “You can turn around now.”
Stanwick smiled approvingly, “You look like you’re ready for a Led Zeppelin concert.”
“I wish.”
“Okay, now drop and give me twenty.”
Charlene looked dubious, “You’re kidding right?
“You have to make sure you can move in them … jumping jacks at least.”
Charlene laughed and jumped up and down on the spot a few times, throwing her arms and legs out to the sides, “Satisfied? Plenty of movement for you?”
Stanwick’s eyes widened, “You’ll thank me later.” She glanced at the wardrobe, “What about shoes?”
Charlene knelt down and pushed her hands into the depths of the wardrobe’s bottom, rummaging through the cluttered pile of foot-ware that had amassed over the years. Going by touch alone, she judged the strata until near the bottom of the pile she felt the aged rubber and cloth, pulling out a pair of slightly battered looking converse. She held them out triumphantly, “The shoe for all seasons.”
“Except rain, or really anything involving water.”
Charlene pouted, “So I don’t need to worry about bullets, or nightmare crossbreeds, but wet feet are a serious hazard?”
Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams Page 25