by JL Wilson
My, my. Aren't we in a pissy mood?
I reined in my temper. I wasn't about to admit that it had been years since I was with a woman. Hell, it had been years since I even considered it. "Why do you think Lucinda and I will--" I rejoined him in the living room. "You know."
It's a natural consequence of love, isn't it?
Love.
The word shimmered in the air between us, like those Easter decorations I saw earlier. "No one said anything about love." I settled in my chair and sipped my wine.
He scratched an ear, his eyes distant. I thought you loved Persa. My mistake.
"She's not Persa."
Of course she is. Why do you think she adopts every stray animal that comes along? She knows how we feel. She was one, once.
"She's just kind-hearted."
And you're in denial.
I decided not to address that comment. "Stereo," I said into my microphone. A custom-mixed CD started to play. Eric Clapton's 'River of Tears' rolled through the room.
That's a bit depressing, don't you think?
"It fits my mood." I sipped my wine, staring into darkness. "How do I know you're not lying about this? How do I know you're really with the History Patrol?" The more I considered it, the better it sounded. "Maybe this is all a delusion on my part. Maybe I've finally gone crazy after two hundred years of living."
Sorry, but I left my ID in my other fur. He snorted moistly. What is it about your species that makes you deny the evidence of your own eyes?
I started to protest this description but the words died in my mouth as I thought of the history I'd witnessed.
Upper management screwed up, the dog said. And they sent me to make it right. You know what government agencies are like. They don't admit culpability until someone higher on the food chain makes them responsible. Well, someone higher on the food chain had a little chat with the folks who run the History Patrol.
"And who would that be? Who's higher on the food chain?" The security headset thrummed against my head. "Scan now."
The computer voice in my ear said, "Three mammals, twenty feet from the stream, moving north. Presumed deer. Camera scan?"
"Scan." I glanced down at the panel built into my chair arm. The infrared cameras showed me a buck and two does, picking their way through the snowy woods. "Continue scan."
"Continuing," the soft voice said.
I looked back at the dog. "You were saying? Who controls the History Patrol? I'm curious."
Done with security? Are we safe from the attack of the killer Bambi?
"A man in my business can't be too careful."
He looked over his shoulder to the tall windows. You're a bit exposed, aren't you? He sneezed. Oh, I forgot. You're immortal. What are you worried about?
"Bullet proof glass, weight-sensitive perimeter and cameras on the house and in the woods. I can be killed. At least, I think I can." I sipped my wine as the computer updated me on the movement of the deer.
Really. Who told you that?
"I've earned several college degrees in internal medicine, clinical research and geriatrics. I've been analyzing myself for half a century, once the science evolved." The computer gave an "all clear" and I turned my complete attention back to the conversation. "If I suffer severe blood loss, I can die. Something like decapitation or the loss of a limb. Anything less than that and my tissue and cells regenerate."
Hmm. Sounds like a hokey TV show that was popular a few years ago. Do you carry around a big sword hidden in your overcoat and fight others of your kind?
I laughed at this succinct description. "No, I don't fight anyone unless I'm instructed to. I always wondered if Meyer had something to do with that television show." I sipped my wine. "I wouldn't put it past him to play a joke like that."
You're lucky you weren't decapitated during the Spanish-American war. Or lose your leg during the Korean War. That land mine was a near thing.
My head snapped around so fast I heard it creak. "How did you know that?"
We have our ways.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
For heaven's sake, I'm with the History Patrol. We can go to any point in time, any time we want to. Give us credit for some intelligence.
"You're the ones who stranded me here, with a damn recall chip that didn't work. Remember? I'm not inclined to give you any credit at all."
At least you acknowledge that I'm with the Patrol. That's a good beginning.
"I'm not admitting anything." Pink Floyd's 'Comfortably Numb' started playing on the Bose stereo, filling the room with sound. I was feeling like the rock star described in the song. "So why are you here? What do you hope to accomplish?"
Well, for starters, I'm going to stop you from killing Lucinda. Her death could have terrible consequences.
"How so?" Once again that nagging doubt tugged at me. Who wanted her dead and why? Why would a government agency want someone as innocuous as Lucinda Delacroix dead? What possible terrorist connection could she have--besides Meyer, of course?
Good questions, the hound said. Very good questions. His tongue lolled out when I shot him an annoyed look. If you don't want me to hear you, use some blocking techniques. Anyway, I was sent here not only to help with your love life--or lack thereof--but to make sure you didn't kill her. Oh, and to help you get Meyer, of course. That's a bit of unfinished business that the Patrol wants resolved.
It was hard to see his eyes in the dancing firelight, but I could have sworn I saw them glitter with intelligent curiosity. "You're going to help me find Meyer? I've been searching for him for two centuries. Every time I get close, he vanishes. Why would this time be any different?" I touched a button on the control panel and the random light program began, turning on lamps in different rooms. Behind me a wall sconce lit, blending its light with the glow from the fire.
That's interesting, isn't it? It's almost like he knows you're coming. Before I could comment, he continued. Well, this time you have help. Me. It sounded to me like Lucinda was close to him. But it also sounded like she wasn't certain about her feelings.
"You're reading a lot into a brief conversation." I thought the same thing, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing it. "She might be besotted with the man."
Cerberus snorted again. I doubt it. Lucinda's more intelligent than that. No, I think the more pressing question right now is--why does someone want her dead? His eyes seemed to take on the glow from the fire. And why were you chosen to do it?
"What? It's all coincidence." His words soaked in. Why, indeed, had I been chosen? I wasn't sure how many people we had in the Agency, but I knew at least two others who were based in the Midwest. To my knowledge I was the only one with a home in the Minneapolis area, though. Perhaps that was why I was chosen.
I started to point this out when he said, You more than anyone should know that there's no such thing as coincidence in the world. Someone wanted you to kill Lucinda. Someone wanted you to meet Lucinda, here and now, in this place. Somebody wanted you to get close to Meyer.
He peered at me through the shadows of the room. Why?
Chapter Five
His words set off a chain reaction in my mind.
I'd been with the Tactical Anti-Terrorist Agency for ten years. The main core of the group was based in Chicago, the better to hide our existence from whistle-blowers who delighted in shining spotlights on Washington funding. Parker Madison, my boss, had recruited me and handed out the assignments. We usually worked alone and most jobs were done overseas. The last time I did a domestic hit was three years earlier, when I caused the 'heart attack' of a corrupt prison warden in California.
The file I was given about Lucinda Delacroix was small, but that was expected. Each agent was supposed to do his or her own research. It was unusual to have only a few days to prepare for a hit, but it wasn't unheard of.
Who would want you here, in place? Think. Isn't it obvious?
I shook my head. "No."
Someone in your agenc
y is a traitor. Or someone in the History Patrol is a traitor. Either way, someone higher than you wants Lucinda's death and probably Meyer's death. They're using you to accomplish it.
"There's a third possibility," I whispered, data falling into place.
And that is?
"Someone at Lucinda's company. I've been asking questions in the financial community. Rumor has it they're considering an IPO, but Lucinda is opposing going public with the company."
This could be an interesting intersection of villains. Hmm. Cerberus settled his head on his paws. From what I hear, Lucinda's sister is quite a piece of work. It might be her. I wouldn't put it past her. Since their father died--oh, that reminds me. You know that Meyer was in partnership with her father? Roger Masterson and Robert Meyer are one and the same.
My wineglass dropped out of my hand and shattered on the wood floor.
Hey! In case you've forgotten, I just had a bath. I don't want your booze all over me. He padded over to the puddle on the floor. Hmm. Nice. The '86?
"What do you mean, Meyer was in business with Delacroix? Masterson died in..." My voice trailed away. I too had supposedly 'died' several times only to reappear years later. "Wouldn't Delacroix's children recognize...?"
Robert Meyer is now working as Robert Masterson at Delacroix Labs, Cerberus said. He's Roger Masterson's so-called son. Add a beard or a mustache, color the hair, do some tanning, work out at the gym, wear different clothes--sound familiar? He loped into the kitchen. I could use some more kibble. Better yet, how about opening one of those cans of food?
I got to my feet, my mind awhirl. "How do you know I bought canned food?"
I told you. The nose--
"Yeah, yeah. The nose knows." I was more disoriented than I could remember for decades. In the matter of four hours, this canine had taken over my house and turned my somewhat well-ordered life upside down.
So what's it like to be immortal? Cerberus asked, watching as I pulled one of the cans of dog food from the cupboard.
"What do you mean?" If Cerberus was right, Meyer had bought into a medical research company decades ago. Had David Delacroix, his partner, known Meyer's secret? I struggled to remember what I read about Delacroix.
What's the main difference you notice? Besides the not dying, of course?
I opened the can and wrinkled my nose at the odor. "You like this crap?"
It's not as good as steak, but it'll do. So what's it like, the immortality thing?
I dumped the can contents into the heavy ceramic bowl I bought and put it on the floor next to the kibble dish. I frowned when I saw the small kibble pieces scattered on the floor. "I guess the main thing is time."
He glanced up at me then reapplied himself to his food.
"When you're human, you don't realize how it preys on your mind." I looked out the window, remembering how long it had taken me to adjust to the idea that I had all the time in the world. "How often did I prioritize on learning, shopping, fun--all based on time? I used to think, 'oh, I won't have time to learn skiing' or 'that would take too long'."
And now? he asked, looking up from his feast.
"Now I have time to learn woodworking, or sculpture, or painting or sky-diving. I don't have to worry about time. It's..." I voiced what I'd been thinking for so long. "It's boring."
And lonely? He lifted his head to regard me. It must be lonely to not share with anyone.
My headset buzzed just as Cerberus said, Somebody's coming. He started barking while bounding toward the front foyer, sliding on the throw rug near the sink, falling on his butt, scrambling to his feet and lunging at the solid oak door. Come on! Do I have to do all the work here? Geez, somebody could be breaking in, getting ready to kill us and you'll be sitting, taking it easy while--
"It's Mrs. Taylor," I shouted, trying to be heard over his basso woofs. "She lives next door. The security system already identified her. Calm down, you'll have a heart attack. Or you'll give her one, she's almost eighty." I grabbed for his collar but he jerked away and got behind me, nails scrabbling on the rug at the door. "Behave yourself."
Friend? His tail wagged so hard it threatened to knock over the vase on the foyer table. I grabbed it before it could crash to the floor. Open the door, open the door, I want to meet her!
"Oh, for cryin' out loud." I jerked open the door and flipped on the outside light. Tiny Mrs. Taylor, all ninety pounds of her, peered up at me from the confines of her red parka, her white hair like cake icing peeking out from under the faux mink trim. She held a pink Easter basket.
Ooh, Easter eggs. Excellent. I can't wait.
The dog woofed out a noise behind me. It was a sign of how distracted I was that I had forgotten this little yearly ritual. Since I "moved" into the house eight years previously, I sent each of my neighbors a gift basket from an online food emporium at Christmas and at Easter. Most of them responded with cards, Christmas cookies or, like Mrs. Taylor, an Easter basket. One year I had even been subjected to rounds of Christmas caroling by a herd of small grandchildren who descended on the neighborhood. Luckily I was forewarned and had altered the security programming to accommodate the little heathens. When it came time for an Easter egg hunt, though, I drew the line.
I opened the heavy door, reinforced with bulletproof glass. "Mrs. Taylor, it's nice to see you again. How are you?"
"Hello, Nico. Happy Easter. Oh, you have a dog," she said as Cerberus darted past me to snuffle at her knees. "Isn't she pretty--and so big!"
Hey, lady, I'm a he, not a she. But I'll forgive you because you think I'm pretty and because you brought me food. Cerberus's nose traveled upward and I saw saliva start to form at the sides of his panting mouth.
"I'm just pet-sitting." I reached for the dog, but he jerked away, almost toppling Mrs. Taylor as he pushed out of the door to stand next to her. "Behave yourself."
"Oh, that's fine, I like dogs." She rubbed Cerberus's head. He grumbled low in his throat even as his nose inched closer to the basket, which Mrs. Taylor let droop. She pushed her hood back and her soft white hair and rosy pink cheeks were revealed. "I saw your lights and wanted to give you my annual treat. And I wanted to let you know that a few of us in the neighborhood are getting together on Thursday evening for a potluck before church. I hope you can join us. It's at our house. Nothing formal, just bring whatever you have. Are you listening to your stereo?"
I touched my ear. "Yes, I am. Thank you so much for the basket." I took it just in time, raising it high as Cerberus's nose came within millimeters of it. I glanced down and saw several decorated eggs, a large chocolate bunny in pastel cello paper and a handful of foil-wrapped eggs. Nestled in the pink "grass" were Mrs. Taylor's famous homemade frosted sugar cookies in Easter shapes. "I'm not sure about dinner, I may be busy."
"Well, I do hope you can come over, it would be so nice to have all the neighbors together. You know how Mr. Lewis is, he's not doing well." She regarded me with shrewd blue eyes. "Who knows what next year might bring?"
Behind me my mobile phone rang. I had set in its charging cradle on the kitchen counter and the sound echoed into the foyer as my headset said, "Incoming call on mobile. Answer?"
"Oh, there's your phone. You go answer that. Don't forget, Thursday night. If you have a date, you bring her along with you." Her blue eyes twinkled. She'd been dropping hints about some "nice girls" she knew for months now. I suspected that an unmarried male bothered Mrs. Taylor. She turned to Cerberus, who shifted his gaze from her to the basket. "You be good, now, and don't eat too many chocolate bunnies."
"Answer," I said softly into my microphone.
I'll be good, I promise. Those cookies sure smell good.
She rubbed his head with one mittened hand as my phone rang again. "Bring your dog and I'll make a special treat." As she slipped out the door I looked outside. Mr. Taylor, a small, wizened man, stood under the light at the end of my drive. He waved and I waved in return.
The dog scooted back inside then I closed the door. A soft voi
ce came through my headphones. "Mr. Haidess? Nico?"
It was Lucinda. I recognized her low, hesitant voice. Now that I had Persa in mind, I could hear the similar pitch and intonation. "Miss Delacroix?"
Cerberus's focus shifted from the basket to me. She's calling you? That's interesting.
I went to the kitchen and put the basket on the counter. "Stay away from those cookies."
I'll try, but they smell good. The nose--
"Cookies?" Lucinda laughed. I remembered Persa's low, chuckling laugh. I shivered at the memory. "You made cookies?"
"No, my neighbor dropped a basket off. Cerberus is eyeing it like he hasn't had food in a week. How much food can one dog consume?"
"Cerberus? You named him? Isn't that the dog...oh, of course. Cerberus was Hades' dog. That's perfect." She sounded delighted. "He's in your house? You fed him? That's so sweet of you."
Ooh, good move. You'll really impress her. The dog's snout was resting on the counter, just inches away from the basket. Just one little bite? Please? His entire body wiggled with his tail, which slapped the cupboards as he shook it back and forth.
I gestured him away from the temptation and back to the living room. "Lay down on your bed. Stay away from those cookies. They'll make you sick."
That sounds very good. Keep it up. You sound so caring. He yawned, turned around three times then flopped down on his mat. We could use a few more logs. Oh and don't forget to clean up that wine. I'd hate to get glass in my paws.
"It seemed the right thing to do," I said with what I hoped sounded like reluctant modesty. "And it's not much trouble. I have the space." I tossed a couple of logs on the fire then went into the laundry room for the dustpan and brush.
"I called to apologize for bullying you into taking him in," she said.
I laughed out loud. "Lucinda, I don't think you could bully anyone even if you tried."
She was silent for a moment and I took advantage of it to sweep up the glass pieces. "Are you saying I'm a wimp?"