Stanwick pushed the clothes aside and returned to her seat on the edge of the bed, “Honestly you can go barefoot for all I care.”
Charlene looked for a moment as if she was seriously considering the possibility, but eventually she turned back to the wardrobe and started rummaging again. She pushed aside mounds of orthopedic shoes, slippers, clogs and moccasins, finally dredging up a couple of pairs of thigh highs and ankle boots. Stanwick extended a foot towards the ankle boots, nudging them towards Charlene.
“You know,” Charlene began, arching her knee so that she could pull on one of the boots, “I’m pretty sure I was wearing these boots in that photo.”
“The one from the farm?”
Charlene grunted as she laced up the boot, “Mhmm. I definitely wore them to Carina’s funeral. I remember looking down at my feet at the graveside and thinking how ashamed Carina would have been. ‘Clod hoppers are not appropriate attire for a church,’ she’d have said. Bless her soul.”
“You believe in the soul?”
Charlene paused, holding the other boot to her chest in contemplation, “You know, if you’d asked me a couple of days ago, I’d have said no for certain.”
“What’s changed?”
“Everything. I mean, I’ve got nothing but questions now.” She pushed her foot into the other boot and laced it up, “I used to live in a world where dead presidents stayed dead.” She pushed herself up off the floor, shoving the other boots out of her way with her feet, “There, how do I look?”
Stanwick grimaced, “Honestly, it’s a little creepy that you still look like me.”
Charlene grabbed the cupboard door to check herself in the mirror. She squinted at her features, and summoned the best mental image she could of her own face. It was odd, she thought, that she was never actually going to look completely like herself again, but rather she would be an approximation of a memory. Close enough she thought, pushing the door aside and presenting herself for Stanwick’s appraisal again.
“Much better.” Stanwick smiled, glancing at her watch, “Six minutes left.”
Savoring every mouthful, chewing slowly, closing her eyes and humming, Stephanie hadn’t made it half way through her meal by the time West started to clear up after David and himself. She pulled her plate close, wrapping a protective arm around it, concerned that West might not realize that she hadn’t finished eating. Even if she hadn’t been cherishing the food though, Stephanie wouldn’t have had time to finish the meal, because she was deeply contemplative. She had noticed small exchanges of glances between her dad and West. She had noticed it while they ate their meal, and she was still aware of it while they busied themselves about the kitchen. Something was clearly up with them, and she was sure that it concerned her
Stephanie had been told that she had a propensity towards imagining that everything was about her. Propensity. She allowed the word to canter proudly about her brain, parading itself in front of lesser words. Not long before Christmas, Stephanie had overheard her father discussing her Christmas presents with Aunt Hannah, and this had occasioned her aunt to explain that not everything was about her. Whether or not she had a propensity for it, Stephanie knew some things were definitely about her.
The door to the apartment rattled, and Stephanie looked up from her plate expectantly. Torn between her desire to be social, and the best steak she had ever eaten, she was forced to greet Stanwick and Charlene with a mumbled mouthful.
“Well hello Stephanie.” Charlene twirled on the hard wood floor, booted feet clapping less than dainty footsteps, “What do you think of my new look?”
Stephanie turned in her chair and leaned over its back; pointing her fork towards her own head, she tried not to open her mouth as she grinned her approval of Charlene’s hair. She chewed quickly, trying to gulp down her food as she made to stand up from her chair.
“Stephanie Beach! What do you say?” Her dad’s voice froze her in her tracks.
She swallowed hard, and a little out of breath she asked politely, “Please may I leave the table?”
David leaned over the kitchen counter to examine her plate, “You may not leave the table. Finish your meal.”
“But I’m full!”
David looked about for support, but West walked straight past him, oblivious, his eyes fixed on Charlene.
“You like?” Charlene batted her eyelids as she tossed her hair from side to side, “I think I could pass as human now.”
“You definitely look more at ease with yourself.” West agreed.
Unable to contain herself any longer, Stephanie got up from the table and ran to Charlene’s side, “Can I touch it?”
“Sure you can.” Charlene laughed, crouching down to the child’s level. Stephanie wiped her greasy hands on her own top and stroked Charlene’s head, “It’s so lovely and smooth.”
“That’s because I always finish my meals.”
“Is not!” Stephanie protested.
“Is so.”
“You see Stephanie? It’s for your own good.” David called over from the kitchen as he placed the last of the plates in the drying rack.
Stanwick glared at Stephanie in jest, “You better have left some for us!”
“We did.” She looked up at West, “We did right?”
Before West could answer, Stanwick lunged forward and picked Stephanie up easily, running with her towards the couch in the living room, “You can’t have any more. It’s all for me.”
“Stop it!” Stephanie giggled, clawing at the soft couch cushions as she tried to escape.
“Nope, you’re going to keep me company until my steak is on the table, ready for me to eat.”
Stephanie gave up easily and leaned back against her captor, resting her hands on Stanwick’s wrists, “Those two are up to something.” She whispered.
“Who?” Stanwick joined in Stephanie’s conspiratorial tone.
“Dad and West. They were talking about me, I’m sure they were.”
Stanwick could well imagine the conversation that must have taken place. They needed to move. West knew what had to be done. She took Stephanie’s hands in hers and closed her eyes, looking for the child’s unspoken voice. She knew the thought would be there, a hand set in motion against the tide of time. Stephanie was on the outside of something magical, something otherworldly and she wanted in. Stanwick could could feel it, on the tip of her tongue, the question in waiting.
Say it.
Stephanie’s lips moved gently, unspeaking, her eyes shut slow.
Say it.
Stephanie gripped Stanwick’s hand tightly, suddenly too afraid to open her mouth.
It’s time.
“Dad.”
“What’s up hon?” He asked, walking over from the kitchen.
“I’m scared.”
David stared at Stanwick, her turquoise eyes wide and expectant, “What are you afraid of Spiff?”
Stephanie couldn’t say the words that were forming inside her head. She knew they weren’t her own, and she didn’t need them. She thought about the morning school run with her father. David wasn’t reckless, but sometimes he was rushed. He’d backed into the Bleaker’s trash can a couple of times, almost ran over their cat once. It had become a running joke for Stephanie to yell at him, “Look out for the cat!” as he was reversing. When he drove aggressively, Stephanie would yell melodramatically from the back seat, “Daddy, I’m too young to die, I’m too young to die.”
David looked into Stephanie’s eyes now, and he thought he saw a smile forming. She blinked imploringly, “I’m too young to die.”
David laughed through his tears. She was right of course. He suspected Stanwick’s coercion, but he felt no malice. It was right. If his stupidity had brought them to impending disaster, then he had forfeit his claim to sound parenting. When he stared back into Stanwick’s eyes, he could see that she was sympathetic; she managed to convey her empathy with scarce a change to her expression, but it was there. He opened his arms and waved Stephanie
to come over to him, and she jumped up from Stanwick’s lap without hesitation.
“Your breakfast is served.” West set the plates down for Charlene and Stanwick and left the two to their reverie. He walked past David and Stephanie, seating himself on the couch close by them.
“David.”
David hugged his daughter tighter, closing his eyes against West’s words.
“David, do you need to talk to Stephanie alone?”
David felt Stephanie’s cheek press against his, “It’s okay dad. I understand.”
“Will it hurt?” David sniffed, adjusting his hold on Stephanie, then setting her down on her feet beside him.
“Did it hurt you?” West asked calmly.
“I was shot in the leg. I presume there’s an easier way?”
West nodded, “Yes, there’s an easier way for Stephanie.” He stood up and walked back to the kitchen. He poured a glass of water, then took something from the fridge before returning to the sofa. He handed the glass of water to Stephanie, then he held out a glass phial, swirling its contents gently, “Stephanie, you see those little black dots?”
Stephanie leaned close, and examined the phial. She could see that there were a good number inky black pellets moving through the clear liquid, “Is that them?” she asked, a little incredulously.
“They’re tiny aren’t they?” West asked, smiling, “They’re just babies, but they will grow quickly.” He saw the look of disgust as it swept across Stephanie’s face, “How do they …” She looked at the glass of water in her hand, then her fearful eyes met with his, “How do they get inside me?”
West’s nose wrinkled apologetically, “I think you’ve already guessed.”
“Yuck!” She placed the glass of water on the floor beside her and took a large step backwards, “Beach out!”
West laughed, “It’s no worse than tapioca.”
“I hate tapioca.” She tugged at her father’s arm imploringly, “Why can’t they just shoot me?”
David patted the back of her head, “I’m not sure I need to dignify that with an answer Spiff.”
Stephanie took the phial from West’s hand and swirled its contents with dismay. It wasn’t like tapioca. When the clear liquid stopped its sloshing, the black dots continued to move of their own volition. She picked up the glass of water from the floor and handed it back to West along with the phial, “Well this pretty much sucks.”
West nodded, “I know.”
Charlene was surprised at her own appetite. She looked at her own empty plate, then her eyes wandered greedily towards Stanwick’s, which still boasted a good amount of untouched meat. The fork wavered back and forth in her hand. She could pounce, and have a meal of it before Stanwick even knew what had hit her. Perhaps. She breathed in heavily, blinking, horrified that the thought had even crossed her mind. She looked up from the plate and realized that Stanwick was sitting staring at her.
“I wasn’t …”
Stanwick didn’t look convinced, “Take it. Your need is clearly greater.”
“You sure?”
Stanwick pushed her plate across the table, “It’s honestly a pleasure to watch you eat.”
Charlene cut off a chunk from the steak and lifted it towards her mouth, salivating in anticipation, then somewhere a few feet to her left, Stephanie started to wretch, very audibly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fighting Shadows
Brad Cobb could see the two vans already parked up and the agents from the New York office walking towards the helicopter as it touched down. He was greeted by one of the agents as he disembarked. The man shouted over the wining engine, “Agent Middleton.” Firm grip, stocky man, late twenties, slicked back dark hair, Carl Middleton nodded and smiled broadly. Cobb returned the smile, bowing his head into the wind and yelling his response, “Agent Carmichael informs me you’ve all had the opportunity of working together?”
Middleton nodded, “You need help with anything?”
Cobb watched the other agents disembark, “No, we’re all good.”
Middleton gave him the thumbs up, then led the way back towards the vans.
Cobb looked expectantly around the new faces.
“Agent Clements,” the man stepped towards Cobb, made a fumbled attempt at fist bumps, followed by an awkward right hand to right handed shake. Had he not read Simon Clements dossier, which gave his age as thirty-two, Cobb would have guessed at early to mid forties. Clements’ rapidly receding and prematurely graying hairline could well be forgiven for trying to escape his thick and wiry eyebrows.
“Agent Myson,” soft hands, forceful shake, tied back blond hair; Phillipa Myson was thirty-seven years old and attractive enough that Cobb felt immediately uncomfortable. He mentally reprimanded himself for fawning over the only other woman in the group, but she returned his smile, either not noticing his overly enthusiastic greeting, or to Cobb’s relief, playing it off professionally.
Cobb stepped back so that he could include all of the agents as he spoke, “Agent Wheatley will be comms in the lead vehicle with myself and agents McMahon and Carmichael.
Carl Middleton shrugged, “We’re up to speed. Got the updated brief a few minutes ago. You’ve narrowed the sweep down to one apartment block at Madison and 30th?”
Cobb nodded, “I know this goes without saying, but stay sharp; whoever we are dealing with managed to blindside two armed agents yesterday.” Carmichael stared stoically at a patch of concrete, choosing to ignore Cobb’s statement.
Phillipa Myson spoke up, “This all seems a bit heavy handed, especially as we are now talking about a botched job at worst. I mean, Why wasn’t this just handed over to NYFO?”
Clements chimed in, “Right, I mean, all this shit about Tiernan this morning, it kind of feels like you guys down in DC are behind the curve.”
Not enthusiastic about being put on the defensive, Cobb’s shoulders slumped. “Honestly? We don’t have a good handle on what we’re dealing with here. I’d love to tell you that this is one guy working alone and that this will be an easy take down, but there is enough evidence to suggest that this could be a previously unknown terrorist cell … If this blows up, I’m confident that NYFO will put as many people on this as is necessary.”
Myson nodded, “I can call it in and have a team on standby.”
Cobb really hoped that Brice Daniels had his facts straight; he was going to look pretty stupid if it turned out he’d brought even a handful of the New York Field Office out on a wild goose chase.
No matter how many times his work brought him to New York, Brad Cobb couldn’t help feeling like a tourist there. It wasn’t as if DC was hicksville, but he could never get over the sheer scale of Manhattan and he usually spent his first couple of hours in the city feeling emotionally moved by it all. As Agent Carmichael steered the van onto 1st Avenue, heading towards the building complex which housed the headquarters of the United Nations, Cobb gazed down the length of 42nd Street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Chrysler Building. He was no expert in either art or architecture, but he knew what he liked and he liked the Chrysler enough to have learned a little about Art Deco. The silvery stainless-steel spire of the building came into view and Cobb’s spirits were immediately lifted by the sun motif which built in swag like layers towards the needle. Form over function; Cobb smirked as the phrase flitted through his mind. As the monolithic form of the Trump World Tower loomed overhead on the West side of the street, Cobb’s pulse started to race. They didn’t have far to travel.
Stephanie walked slowly towards the couch, her head spinning. Even the smallest movement made her stomach lurch, and caused her to wretch again, narrowly avoiding vomiting the glass of water and its vile contents on the hard wood floor. The exertion of trying so hard to steady her stomach had left her dizzy. She felt her father’s hand at her back, heard his frantic words spoken through the soft tin echo chamber of oxygen starvation. She closed her eyes tight and held onto the arm of the couch. A woman’s voice, Stanwick’s she gu
essed, apparently chiding her father, then her deft hands draping over Stephanie’s shoulder, pulling her onto her lap.
“Breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth.”
Stephanie tried to lift her head, sure that she’d be okay, but the darkness whirled around her heavy eyelids. She felt Stanwick’s Cool fingertips on her forehead, stroking, but at the same time, pressing her head back gently, “Don’t try to get up yet. Take your time.” Stephanie gave up her resistance and laid still, trying to block out all thoughts of the little black pellets she’d swallowed. It was impossible. With her eyes closed, all she could see was an ocean of ink black dots, and she was at a loss to steady her seasick stomach against those waves. She opened her eyes wide, covering her mouth with her hand, “It’s coming!” she managed to blurt out, “Let me up.”
Stanwick stood up from the couch, gathering Stephanie in her arms and running with her to the bathroom. She managed to pull Stephanie’s hair back and kick up the toilet lid at the same time, but Stephanie vomited on the floor anyway, a small pool of mostly clear water splashing around the base of the toilet. Stanwick stepped back and set Stephanie down carefully on a thick pile rug by the shower, propping her back against the glass screen.
“Well Stephanie, the good news is, that was all water.”
Stephanie groaned, “What’s the bad news?”
“Did I say there was any bad news?” Stanwick grabbed a towel from a wall rack and mopped up the little puddle, “Do you feel a bit better now that you’ve been sick?”
Stephanie breathed deeply and closed her eyes again, “I do!”
Stanwick slumped down on the floor beside her and smiled at David who was leaning against the door frame with West and Charlene at his back.
“All good news here dad. Your daughter is fine.”
All of Cobb’s reverence for the city, all of his awe had subsided by the time he entered the foyer of the old apartment block on Madison and 30th. He followed Agent Carmichael towards the back of the lobby and stood aside as Carmichael took the time to display their credentials to the doorman. Once Carmichael was finished, Cobb handed the doorman a tablet which was open to the contact sheet. He pointed at the photographs of David and Stephanie Beach, “We are trying to locate this man and his daughter.”
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