Broken Angels

by Harambee K. Grey-Sun

  “Her legal name is Stavan Darden. She would have graduated from high school last May if she had not disappeared shortly after her engagement with Marie-Lydia McGillis at that very same high school in March of that same year. As you have seen from the videos that made the rounds on the Internet, the girls fought each other so intensely, they beat each other into unconsciousness. Both girls ended up comatose. They and many of their classmates were taken to the hospital after that fight. Stavan—or ‘Ava’—was visited by one relative. Her mother. She came to see her daughter several times, but she probably never got to see her wake up. We could not find anyone who did. Ava simply disappeared from the hospital one day or, more likely, one night.”

  “Just disappeared?” Robert asked. “We’re sure her mother didn’t take her out?”

  “If she did,” Adam said, “she left no trace of coming or going.”

  “Didn’t the hospital report her missing?”

  “Apparently there was some confusion at the time. They thought she had been properly discharged, but now they have no records to confirm that. After you and Mister Ridley found her, we tried alerting her mother, but we had no success.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She seems to have disappeared as well. The authorities have already started questioning her old neighbors and acquaintances. No one has seen her in over a year, since last April, right before her house burned down. So far, it seems like she slipped off the face of the Earth.”

  Just like my father, Robert thought. “So Ava’s a lot like us, like the other Watcher agents here, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Adam said. “An infected young adult without parents.”

  “Scary to think that our numbers may be growing.”

  “You can add it to the list of items to be scared about. I have heard reports of secret clubs forming in Texas, organized for the purpose of hunting and killing people who have the Virus. Parlors have been set up, very close to home, for the sole purpose of allowing patrons to bet significant sums on confrontations involving Virus-infected combatants—a lopsided mix of willing and unwilling participants. I have seen reports from Atlanta concerning mutant strains of the Virus. There are talks of quarantines. And, of course, there are the Virus-infected terrorists—The Infinite Definite—an ever-growing, multifaceted problem.”

  “Yeah.” Robert let his eye unfocus as his thoughts drifted. Adam’s list was more depressing than scary, but something was beginning to worry him. He refocused on Adam’s mirroring mask. “You think this Darden girl’s connected somehow to The ID? I mean, I know it seems she’s on the right side, attacking those identity thieves and all, but maybe she just came at them for drugs or money or something?”

  “It is on the list of possibilities,” Adam said. “Unfortunately, we have a long list with this one since there is more than a year missing from her life on record—and from her mind as well. We do not know what she has been up to. One thing we do suspect is that she was never reported missing because her mother disappeared before she did.”

  “Or at the same time.”

  “Possibly. For the time being, all we can do is keep a close watch on her now that we have found her. Certain individuals at the Heartland Security Agency are also deeply interested in her, so they will be keeping a close watch as well.”

  “One more question,” Robert said. “Did Ava disappear from the hospital at the same time as the McGillis girl?”

  “No. Much later. The McGillis girl was only there for a day or two before vanishing.”

  “And her parents didn’t,” Robert said. “They’re still around.”

  “Around and angry enough to sue the hospital and anyone else they could think of.”

  “Did we—?”

  “Yes,” Adam said. “They were questioned about Ava’s mother. First thing. They did not even know her. Or Ava.”

  Robert looked down at his feet, thoughtful again. But the thoughts were incomplete, running half-circles in his mind.

  “I will keep you updated,” Adam said. “But that is all I have for now.”

  “Thank you.” Robert nodded and turned to leave as Adam turned his attention to one of the keyboards on his desk.

  The chairman was a busy man, serving as the sole facilitator of communications between IAI members. Robert always felt humbled and a little surprised when Adam took time out of his duties to speak to him in person. He usually feared overstaying his welcome, but not today. As he walked down the hall, considering everything Adam had just told him, Robert became more and more convinced Adam hadn’t told him all that he could have.

  In the old days, even as recently as six months ago, Robert would’ve met with Darryl to discuss the situation, going over and over every minute detail. They’d spend the evening discussing probabilities and possibilities. But these days, Darryl’s evenings were usually booked. And most others at the Institution had shown increasingly little interest in his hunches. Robert had no choice but to turn to his other resources.

  FIVE

  “And what does it mean, Mister Ridley, that you haven’t found a wife yet?”

  Miss Blake asked Darryl the question after he’d quoted her a snippet of poetry. He could tell, rather than admitting she wasn’t impressed, she was trying to change the subject. Darryl admitted— only to himself—the verse was pretty bad, but he felt there was good meaning behind it. He wanted to make that meaning plain to her. But he wasn’t pushy, and he could take a hint. He allowed the subject to be changed.

  “It means, Miss Blake, I’m not a sucker, that’s what,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  Darryl laughed, a little embarrassed. So soon after leaving T., he for some reason wasn’t feeling at the top of his game. “I just meant I’m a giver, not a taker.”

  “Oh, I get it,” she said. “Not a sucker, but a stinger—is that it?”

  They both laughed this time, but Darryl still felt embarrassed.

  He deserved it. After meeting and talking with her in the dawn-club earlier that day, he was the one who’d asked her out, thinking she’d be a relatively quick fix. When she admitted she was glad to see him walk into the club because she’d been looking for some company for the weekend, Darryl decided right then she’d be his next charity case. He knew her type. He was glad he’d seen her too. And when she told him she was some kind of artist, Darryl knew he had her pegged. He definitely knew her type. But that was no excuse for him to get sloppy in style or technique.

  The two of them had agreed to meet for lunch just before noon in downtown Washington, near the National Mall. After coffee, they’d walked by but decided against going into any of the Smithsonian museums. One of them had said and the other had agreed that on a warm, sunny day like today, the best beauty could be found in full display outside, in nature and architecture, in people and other creatures. So they’d chosen to walk around the grounds of the Mall, listening, looking, and talking.

  “All the relationships I’ve had over the past few years,” Darryl said, “none of them ever lasted more than two months, tops. But we always part on peaceful terms.”

  “Always?” Miss Blake said. “That’s unusual. You must have some streak going.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it seems like I keep getting mixed up with the self-destructive types. We start out fine, but things sometimes get a little rough after a while.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “But still,” he said, “I do what I can to make sure we both walk away from each other happier, and wiser. I’m happy enough if she walks away determined to never follow the path of the Beauty Fools.”

  “Beauty Fools?” Miss Blake looked askance at him. The look almost made Darryl laugh, but he had to keep it together. It was an important subject.

  “Yes, Beauty Fools,” he said. “From the poem.” A different one than the one he’d quoted earlier, but it was worth spelling out to her. “They’re the types that fall over and over again into the same traps, following the lure of their own poor definition o
f beauty, making judgments based only on surface appearances, and ignoring everything else, especially common sense. Like the woman who walks down the street, bemoaning the existence of calendars, thinking: ‘All these damn dates, again and again…No good men—wait, that one looks cute…I want him!’ She cries for more and more candy and cakes, but she can’t figure the cause of her recurring tummy aches.”

  “Bemoaning, huh?” Miss Blake said, shaking her head. “The existence of calendars? And it’s just gotta be a ‘she,’ right?”

  “Well, no,” Darryl said. Yes, it was all strangely phrased, but, “That’s just the way the poem goes. The roles could be reversed. Men can certainly act like fools in the face of beauty.”

  “Uh-huh. You don’t sound convinced by what you’re saying, Mister Ridley.” She smiled as Darryl wondered what made her think so. “Maybe you believe women are the greater fools when it comes to love? Maybe you believe women are naturally self-destructive?”

  “I just believe in peace, Miss Blake,” he said in a solemn tone.

  “Oh puh-lease.” She laughed. “Is that your standard line? Is that supposed to entice the ladies?”

  “Well it’s certainly not a threat.”

  She laughed again. “Do women, does anyone fall for that line?”

  “No,” he said, “but some trip themselves up while laughing at it.”

  He smiled and reached for her hand as they stepped off the curb and into the street.

  “Ah,” she said after they made it to the other curb, barely avoiding the car that wouldn’t slow down for them, “so you throw bad jokes and worse poetry at me, then, when I’m off balance, you go for my hand to pull me along. Sly maneuvering.” She glanced and grinned at him. “I see how you do.”

  Darryl grinned back. He was trying his best to stay cool, trying to hide his discomfort. He hoped it was working.

  He’d purposely overdressed, even though he’d known the day’s temperature would climb to almost eighty degrees and the sky would remain cloudless until nightfall. He was usually adept at controlling his body’s involuntary reactions to full-on sunlight— he took his medication religiously—but it was a first date. He wasn’t used to this one yet. She could say or do anything to surprise him. It was bad enough being in proximity to her was making him feel goofy. Pills or no pills, a lapse in concentration and too much exposed skin was a loud and clear invitation for the sun to play dirty with him. So he’d put on khakis and a long-sleeved button-down over a T-shirt, just to be safe.

  Miss Blake was much more daring. Even though she didn’t seem to be infected with the Virus, Darryl still thought she bared more skin than was wise. She wore a pink tank top, and on the left shoulder for all to see was an indigo tattoo of a swastika. Rather than the more familiar right-turning direction, it faced to the left. Even more curious, it was encircled by a bigger, fuchsia-hued tattoo of the Star of David. Darryl hadn’t bothered to ask her about the body-art’s meaning. It would’ve been pointless to ask for an answer he wouldn’t trust. He instead decided to research the symbol later and ask her about it afterward. If her answer jibed with what he’d found on his own, he’d consider that it just might be the truth.

  The two strolled around the Haupt Garden and stopped in the Moongate section, where Darryl explained the symbolism behind the garden’s square and circle forms—the former representing the mundane, and the latter, the transcendent. Having been through the garden so many times before, he knew the explanations by heart. His commentary almost always impressed. But when Miss Blake asked him, “What about triangles?” Darryl faked a sneeze and suggested they move on to the sculpture garden.

  This time, without comment, Miss Blake held up her hand for Darryl to hold before they crossed the street. When they reached the other side, he loosened his grip, but she only tightened hers.

  They remained hand-in-hand as they reviewed each sculpture, taking an extra amount of time in front of Auguste Rodin’s Crouching Woman, Aristide Maillol’s Nymph, and Emile-Antoine Bourdelle’s The Great Warrior of Montauban, a bronze sculpture of an excessively muscular man whose left leg was cut off at the knee and whose right was cut off in the middle of the thigh. After Darryl commented it appeared to be only six- or seven-eighths of a complete man, Miss Blake said, “It’s still frightening, even more so.” Maybe to her. To Darryl, it appeared vulnerable; after a series of conquests, it was ready to be finished off in a final battle.

  The last sculpture they viewed for longer than a DC-minute was Darryl’s personal favorite, Gaston Lachaise’s Standing Woman, majestically standing to show off her wide hips, pouchy stomach, thick thighs, muscular calves and biceps, large breasts, and pinched hourglass waist.

  “Her head seems to be the smallest part of her.”

  “She looks proportional to me,” Darryl said.

  “Is that so?” Miss Blake asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah, figures—I guess all those cakes and pieces of candy got packed into just the right places.”

  “Maybe she was born that way,” Darryl said as they headed for the garden’s exit. “Appearing grotesque and bizarre—even ugly— to some, but having hidden depths, depths containing shards and flints of true beauty. Someone, in the right frame of mind, who can see beneath the skin, may see one of these shards or flints, and based off of that one tiny fragment, judge the whole, the entire woman, as being truly beautiful.”

  There. That was a standard line of his. But Miss Blake said nothing in response. She only squeezed Darryl’s hand harder. He turned to look at her; she returned the look with a quick and awkward smile before turning away. It was then a thought that had been fluttering about his mind all day finally settled down on its object: her hair. Miss Blake had cascading blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders, and long wavy tresses of it fell over her face, obscuring her right eye. Occasional awkward smiles aside, the woman walked and carried herself in such a graceful manner that the shrouded eye remained hidden, the hair in front of it only swaying slightly. Darryl wondered if the effect was due to the fluidal way in which she moved her body or if she’d somehow styled her hair to obtain that effect. He then wondered about her overall style—the blonde hair, the unhidden blue eye, and the star-and-swastika tattoo—putting them all together. It all had to mean something. Probably nothing profound, though.

  “You talk about appearances, and the surface of skin,” Miss Blake said, “but what about the surface of your language? Switching between bad poetry and poor philosophy—it may’ve charmed some of the sillier women you’ve been with, but is it really authentic? Can’t help but wonder what’s really underneath those sugary words of yours.”

  “Well, you won’t have to wonder for long. Just keep your eyes open.”

  “Cute,” he thought he heard her mutter.

  “Not more words,” Darryl said, “but a person’s actions make his words into lies or truths. I agree with what you might be thinking, that the words are just a lot of gossamer. But that’s not how I mean them. To be honest, I prefer action to speeches. As they say, talk is cheap, and usually worthless.”

  “So I shouldn’t spend my time listening to what you say?” Her tone was playful. Darryl matched it, but kept his meaning serious.

  “Ignore it, or absorb it,” he said. “At my age, I’ve had plenty of time to learn, over and over, that a man can hardly talk to a woman without her expecting him to expect something deep to develop from it.”

  “A tangled sentence for a tangled idea,” she said with a sigh. “Something deep like what? A good, honest friendship?”

  “No, like—” Darryl didn’t want to say it. “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “And just how old do you think you are anyway?”

  Darryl laughed. “You know, Miss Blake, I’ve also learned that if I were to ask any adult woman that question, I can expect a five finger reply, if I’m lucky enough not to get just one.”

  “Grown men and women can be civil and friendly with each
other, Mister Ridley,” Miss Blake said, “close without being closed to each other, without expecting anything sexual to come out of it.”

  “Are you talking about the man’s expectations, or the woman’s?”

  “I’m talking about self-assured, secure, reasonable adults.”

  “Oh,” Darryl said. “So neither then.”

  “Ha ha, comedian.” She bumped him sportively with her elbow. “You know, you didn’t hesitate to engage me in conversation this morning, or to ask me out to lunch. What outcome were you expecting?”

  “An engaging conversation,” Darryl said, “and a nice meal.”

  “That’s it, huh?”

  “A rest on a bench would be nice. But I’m not greedy.”

  The two settled themselves on the first clean and shaded bench they could find. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the passersby on the grass and the gravel walkway in front of them. Darryl was about to remark how, despite the fact most of the people who passed by were tourists, there was far more variety in their languages, dialects, and accents (totem poles of babel) than in their styles of clothing. But she spoke first.

  “Wow. I just realized. You and I are on the exact same bench as you and she were.”

  Darryl looked at her. “Me and who?”

  “That short, kinda plump, really dark-skinned girl.” Darryl drew a blank, until she added, “The one with the Jamaican accent.”

  Now he had it. He remembered that girl’s name, but then he thought of the name of the woman currently sitting next to him. Forget the cute, flirty “Miss Blake” stuff…Veronica. Veronica Blake. Was that a familiar name? How did she know about him and Joyce?

  “Joyce, right?” Veronica asked. “Wasn’t that her name?”

  “How do you know that?” Darryl asked. “Do you know her?”

  “No. But I remember seeing you two sitting here.”

  Darryl thought for another moment. He hadn’t seen Joyce in two years. “You remember that?”

  “Well, yes, of course,” Veronica said. “I remember seeing you. You have a very memorable look, with that out-of-this-world tan and all.”