Worthy of Trust and Confidence

by Kara A. McLeod

  “It is absolutely not okay,” Allison spat bitterly.

  I frowned. That sort of outburst was uncharacteristic. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I have no doubt you can handle it. But you don’t have to handle it alone. Let me help.”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Allison teased.

  I couldn’t help chuckling. My initial instinct was to shoot back with something flirty, but I didn’t want to get completely off topic. Something was obviously wrong, and I really wanted to know what it was. So, I opted for the still playful yet relatively innocent “Touché.”

  “Come on, Ryan,” Allison insisted, all business now. “One for one.”

  I tugged on my earlobe, trying to decide how to phrase my revelation so she felt like I was giving her something while not actually imparting too much. “You were right. I’m still not sleeping very well.” When she didn’t reply, I said, “I went to work today because I’m hoping that with something else to focus on, my mind will slowly let go of the nightmares I’m having.”

  “Oh, Ryan.” Allison’s voice was soft, her tenor equal parts sympathy and exasperation.

  “Your turn.”

  “You still won’t talk to me about them? The dreams you’re having? Or…anything else?”

  “I’d much rather talk about something that has an actual solution. Unfortunately, this just requires time.”

  Allison sighed heavily, but she didn’t push. “Not sure my problem has an actual solution, either.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me about it anyway?”

  “Okay. My boss is being a complete ass. He’s been giving me a hard time since Hong Kong.” Her voice sounded slightly shaky, a physical manifestation of the truth of the statement. “It’s starting to get to me.”

  “What happened in Hong Kong?”

  “Nothing. That’s just when it all started.” The words came a little too quickly, were a little too sharp. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I knew she wouldn’t be pressed into revealing the truth until she was ready, so I didn’t call her on it.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her sincerely. I had no pull on PPD, and even if I did, she wouldn’t have wanted me fighting her battles for her, so I knew I couldn’t do anything. But sometimes it was just nice to have somebody willing to listen.

  “Ah, what can you do, right?” Suddenly she sounded very tired.

  “Soldier on, I guess. Or win the lottery, quit, and move to your own private island. That’s my backup plan, at any rate.”

  That got a sort of halfhearted chuckle. “Why am I not surprised? So, what do you have planned for tomorrow?”

  “Going to the office for a bit. And then Rory and I plan to visit the cemetery.”

  The long, drawn-out pause on the other end of the line stretched on for so long I started to wonder whether we’d been disconnected. I pulled my phone away from my ear to check the status of the call. Everything appeared fine.

  “Allison?”

  “Yeah?” Her voice broke a little. She cleared her throat. “Yeah?”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah. Fine. I was just thinking. It’s nice you asked Rory to go to the cemetery with you.”

  “I didn’t ask her. She asked me.”

  “Wait. What? Why would she do that?”

  I chuckled at her obvious surprise. “I know, right? She never wants to know if we can go there. I always have to cajole her. Even on Reagan and Dad’s birthdays she actively looks for reasons to get out of it. I don’t know why it bothers her so much.”

  Allison hesitated a beat before replying. “Oh. I thought you meant…Never mind. Death affects everybody differently, I suppose.”

  “I guess that’s true. But we were two when they died. It’s not like we remember them very much.”

  “Still, I think it’s nice you’re going.”

  “Yeah.”

  An easy quiet settled between us, and we spent long moments listening to one another breathe. There were so many things I wanted to say to her, but I couldn’t seem to make myself utter the words. I doubted they’d carry effectively across the metaphorical divide that separated us anyway.

  “Listen, Ryan. I—”

  A voice in the background interrupted her, and inwardly I fumed at whoever’d had the gall to intrude. Her tone had been solemn as she’d started that sentence, which indicated to me that whatever she’d been about to say had been important. I lamented that I likely wasn’t going to hear the rest of it.

  Allison must’ve pressed her phone against her shoulder the second the interloper had spoken because all I could make out were muffled tidbits. Whoever had just crashed our party must’ve asked her to do something because I clearly heard her ask, “Now?” in a thoroughly exasperated tone. That was followed a few beats later by her demanding to know why whatever it was couldn’t wait ten minutes, until she was off the phone. That didn’t sound good. Who could she possibly have been talking to, especially in such a fashion? I kept coming up blank.

  “Ryan?” Allison said finally, sounding infuriated.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to go wash the cars.” Her voice dripped with derision as she said that, and I was willing to bet she was glaring at whoever had just made the ill-timed request.

  I was thoroughly disappointed for oh-so-many reasons, but I tried bravely not to let my hurt seep through to taint my words. I neither wanted to anger her further nor make her feel guilty about something obviously out of her control.

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “I’m glad you do, because I’m having a very difficult time figuring out exactly why I’m being forced to do something that is not my job.” Allison sounded positively livid, and I was fairly certain the comment was pointedly directed.

  “Um.” I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I’ll call you soon,” Allison promised, but the edge in her voice sapped the vow of all comfort.

  “Okay. Good night, Allison.”

  The lack of reply let me know she’d already hung up.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It took me a long time to drift off to sleep that night, and my mind fought it with all the ferocity of a swarm of driver ants avenging one of their own. As tired as I was, and as much as I craved a good night’s rest, I knew that wasn’t what awaited me. But between the exhaustion, my body’s need to heal, and the cocktail of sleep aids I’d fixed myself before crawling into bed, I could only battle for so long before I lost.

  The dream always started out the same. Without question. Without fail. The beginning never deviated from an apparently carefully regimented script. The theme of the ending didn’t either, come to think of it. And all of it had been slowly becoming more and more vivid with each nightly rendition. Which is why it came as no surprise that my dream that evening began with me all geared up for work and standing on an eerily deserted Lexington Avenue outside the InterCon Hotel.

  As I did every time, I started looking around, trying to figure out why the street was empty and where everybody was, but I didn’t get very far in my analysis before gunshots rang out, and I immediately rushed inside the hotel and tried to find someone, anyone, who could give me some sort of clue what the hell was going on.

  I failed, of course, as I always did, and ended up escaping the endless hallway by forcing my way onto an elevator—by way of a conveniently placed halogen tool—that managed to take me maybe five floors before suddenly careening in a wild free fall the rest of the way down to the ground. The car landed with a spectacular crash that jarred the doors open to let me out in a dusty, dark basement of sorts.

  Strategically placed bare lightbulbs provided the only illumination, and they were far enough apart from one another that everything in between the weakly cast pools of light was shrouded in shadow and difficult to see. The bulbs seemed to stretch on and on, and I was overcome with a momentary pang of dread at not being able to determi
ne which way was out. Swallowing hard, I took my flashlight from its usual place on my belt and swept the beam over the closest area of darkness, squinting in an attempt to see through both the gloom and the considerable amount of dust the elevator’s crash had stirred up.

  The floor in front of me was littered with an astounding assortment of boxes, papers, and bric-a-brac, piled and strewn haphazardly with no seeming intent toward order whatsoever. Gingerly, I began picking my way through the rubble, trying desperately to avoid brushing against anything as much to attempt to keep my suit clean as to avoid toppling one of the teetering piles.

  If this’d been real life, I’d have wondered at the seemingly random and oddly disassociated collection of objects hoarded in the dank basement of a hotel, none of which were situationally appropriate to the location, but dream-me didn’t seem to pick up on the peculiarity of the situation. No, dream-me merely took the lone boxing glove hanging off the handlebars of a toddler’s Big Wheel, which was perched precariously atop a barrel sitting next to a mannequin dressed like Doctor Frank-N-Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, an empty fish tank full of various kinds of fruit, and a box marked STAR CHARTS in stride.

  A crash sounded off to my left, and I spun, training the beam of my flashlight in the direction of the noise. The ray wasn’t powerful enough to cut through the shadows to the origin of the din, so I clicked it off and reholstered it. Then I eased my right hand quietly underneath my suit jacket so I could unsnap the retention strap that held my gun in place. I wasn’t ready to draw it just yet because I couldn’t be sure the source of the noise was a threat, but I wanted to be able to get it out that much quicker if need be.

  I slowly, silently crouched behind a weight bench almost completely shrouded with bathing suits so as to be virtually unrecognizable and gave my eyes a few moments to adjust to darkness again. I listened intently for any clue as to who or what could’ve knocked over all that stuff but came up empty. As far as I could tell, I was here alone. Perhaps the pile had simply toppled on its own. Unlikely, but that was the best theory I could manage.

  “What are we looking for?” a low voice whispered right next to my ear.

  “Jesus Christ!” I yelped as I leapt up and spun around, drawing my weapon and aiming it in the direction of the speaker. I scrambled backward a few steps to create distance between me and the newcomer and succeeded only in crashing into the weight bench. Sharp stabs of pain shot up from the back of my right hip where I’d banged into the racked bar, and I bit back a curse.

  Lucia was smirking at me in the near darkness, appearing far too amused with the situation for my liking. She was dressed for work in a tailored charcoal suit that flattered her frame and somehow, against all odds, managed to make her look feminine.

  “What the fuck, Luce?” I demanded, not even bothering to try to hide my annoyance. I slid my pistol back into its holster and put my hands on my hips.

  “What?” she asked innocently.

  “What the hell are you doing sneaking around in the basement of the InterCon?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “I’m not sneaking. I’m looking for the way out.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you should do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because it isn’t a good idea.”

  “Huh?”

  Lucia regarded me sadly. “I’m sorry. I’ll rephrase. I can’t allow that.”

  I did a double take. “What? What do you mean you can’t allow that?”

  “I mean, you’re not leaving. Not yet.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “You and I have some unfinished business.”

  A spark of anger flared inside me. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  I shook my head and clenched my fists. I didn’t have time for this nonsense. I needed to find the rest of the detail and make sure everyone was okay. Determined to outsmart her once and for all, I turned on my heel, swept past the nuisance of a weight bench, and headed in the completely opposite direction.

  Lucia stepped out from behind a child’s pop tent directly into my path. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be quite so easy.”

  Never one to be deterred—or to pick up on a hint the first time—I simply changed direction once more and tried again. This time she let me get a few steps farther before simultaneously scaring the hell out of me and foiling my escape by emerging from an old wood-burning stove.

  “Damn it, Luce!” I fixed her with a menacing glare. “I have to go.”

  “Not yet, you don’t. Sit. Relax. Let’s chat.” She gestured to a life-sized carousel horse as though she actually expected me to hop up onto it so we could discuss shoes and ships and sealing wax. Clearly, she was out of her damn mind.

  I folded my arms across my chest and glowered at her. “Luce, we don’t have time to chat. Someone’s in trouble. Didn’t you hear the gunshots earlier?”

  Lucia’s lips quirked in some semblance of a wry smile, and she mimicked my pose. “I heard them.”

  “Then you see why I have to get the hell out of here.” My words were colored with a hint of pleading and desperation.

  “There’s nothing you can do about that now. What’s done is done.”

  My heart sank. “Does that mean somebody got hurt? Was it the detail? Is the protectee okay? I have to get to them!”

  “Sorry,” she said with a shrug, not sounding the least bit apologetic.

  “For what? Did somebody get hurt?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.” She didn’t sound like she cared. “My point is, you can’t change the past. So why dwell on it?”

  “What the hell has gotten into you today?”

  “Ah. Now you care about my feelings.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Forget what it’s supposed to mean. Focus on what it does mean.”

  “Okay, stop with the passive-aggressive bullshit. If you have something to say to me, just say it.”

  Lucia favored me with a thoroughly disappointed look. “I think it’s more important for you to listen than it is for me to speak. You need to see, Ryan. That’s the problem. You’re still not completely seeing.”

  Okay, she’d officially lost me. And I was no longer inclined to listen or speak or see or anything else having to do with this exchange. We were getting nowhere fast, and I really needed to find the detail and see what I could do to help.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.” She sounded frustrated now. “You just don’t know that you do. You need to focus.”

  “Focus on what?”

  “Why.”

  I frowned. “Why do I want to know what I’m supposed to focus on?”

  “No. Why is what you need to focus on.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “That’s because you’re still not listening to me.”

  “What do you want from me?” I asked her point-blank.

  “What does anyone want from anyone?”

  I scowled at her. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “I’m not laughing. Neither are you, come to think of it. So, it must not be a very good joke.”

  I let out a long, slow breath and dug my fingernails into the meat of my palms. “I can’t do this with you right now. I don’t want to play these ridiculous games. Either help me get out of here or get the hell out of my way.”

  I blinked. And in the space of that fraction of a moment when my eyes were closed, everything shifted. And when I opened them again, I was staring down the barrel of a gun.

  Instinct took over faster than I ever would’ve thought possible, and in another tenth of a heartbeat, I had my own weapon drawn and pointed right back at her. No sound shattered the stillness that stretched taut between us, as fragile as newly forming ice on the top of a lake, as we stared at one another.

  “What are you doing?” I finally ask
ed her.

  Lucia’s facial expression was strangely wooden, which, frankly, gave me the creeps. She watched me for another long moment before formulating a reply. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Luce, this is crazy. Come on. Stop it.”

  “I can’t let you leave, Ryan. I told you that. Not until we talk. Not until you see.”

  “See what?” I demanded angrily.

  “Everything.”

  “Why don’t you save us both some time and aggravation and just tell me what everything is?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  I rolled my eyes and made a rude noise in the back of my throat.

  “Besides,” she went on, “I think it’ll be more meaningful if you figure it out for yourself.”

  “Whatever.”

  We went back to staring at one another in silence. It was strange. Obviously, had this been reality, you’d expect I’d be nervous or anxious or terrified having this conversation at gunpoint, but all I felt in the dream was slightly irritated.

  “Look,” I said as I shifted so the muzzle of my weapon pointed straight up in the air. I lifted my other hand in supplication. “You holster yours, and I’ll holster mine, okay?”

  Lucia’s grin was nothing short of maniacal. She pursed her lips and pretended to think about it, but the malicious gleam in her eye told me no way was she going to comply with my request. “Hmmm. No.”

  The click of her pulling back the hammer to cock the weapon was ridiculously loud and obviously done for dramatic effect, since she didn’t need to do that in order to fire. She adjusted her grip and her stance slightly as she continued to stare at me mockingly over the sights of her gun.

  I swung my own muzzle back down so it was pointed at her and tried not to let my discomfort with the situation show. I didn’t want to shoot her, but I also didn’t want her to know I didn’t want to shoot her. Perhaps if she thought I was indifferent about the task, she’d be less inclined to force me to do it.

  “Luce, don’t do this.”

  “Why?” The muscles in her hand and forearm tensed as she began an agonizingly slow trigger squeeze.

  “Luce, please,” I whispered. My hands were trembling, now, too, but for a completely different reason. They wanted to pull the trigger, wanted to give in to the desire to preserve my own life. And I was trying so hard to best that impulse.