by David Wood
Crowley closed the distance between them and rested a hand on her shoulder. “There’s a bench just out there on the footpath. Let’s have a seat while the shock and adrenaline settles down, yeah?”
She nodded. “Good idea.”
He guided her out into the streetlight and sat beside her. “And then maybe I should walk you home after all?”
She patted his hand gratefully. “Also a good idea. Thanks.”
Chapter 4
Threadneedle Street, City of London
Landvik leaned back in his expensive leather chair, letting it knock back against the huge mahogany desk as his eyes roamed the gray stone buildings and roofs opposite, visible through the large, multi-paned sash window. Dates and Latin names were engraved into the fascia of the buildings opposite, finely carved statuary stood in curved alcoves watching over the red and white lights of traffic busily moving to and fro through the night below. The hiss and rumble of a red double-decker bus drifted up to him as he ran a well-manicured hand over his ash blond hair, down over a neatly-trimmed salt and pepper beard.
He sighed. What was taking so long?
As if in answer, the phone on his desk vibrated in the quiet gloom of the otherwise deserted office. The tall man turned his chair around and snatched up the phone, tapped the answer button.
The voice on the other end was tight, breathless. “Mr. Landvik, it’s Jeffries. You were right; she’s definitely the one we’re looking for.”
Landvik sighed and shook his head. “So, bring her in.”
“Well, there’s a bit of a problem there.”
Landvik pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes. “A problem? You don’t have her?”
“She fought back at first, but that was no problem, but then some guy came running to her rescue. Big bugger, he was, good fighter. Things were getting loud and messy, so I called the abort and we got out of there before we attracted any more attention. It was just bad luck, really. Before that guy intervened we had it all under control.”
“Stop talking, Jeffries.” Landvik took a deep breath and calmed himself while he considered.
“Yes, sir,” Jeffries said, instantly disobeying the direct order.
Thankfully all Landvik heard after that was Jeffries’ labored breathing. There was an edge of pain to it, and Landvik took some pleasure in that.
“This man who intervened, do you think he was some random white knight or someone she knew?”
“Actually, it was a guy she’d just had dinner with. She walked off on her own, so we took our shot. He must have followed her.”
“Inconvenient.”
“Yes, sir.”
Landvik considered this turn of events. “Have you managed to establish where she lives?”
“Ah, no,” Jeffries admitted. “She took a taxi from the museum to the restaurant, so we decided to grab her as she walked.”
Landvik nodded to himself. It was a mess, but far from a lost cause. There were always hiccups in life and the trick was to move with them rather than let events control the situation. “So find out where she lives,” he told Jeffries in a slow, measured voice. “If she’s not there, grab her when she arrives at the museum for work tomorrow. This is only a short delay, yes?”
“Yes, sir. No problem.”
“One way or another, I want you to bring Rose Black to me in one piece. And soon.”
“So that last bloke wasn't the one?” Jeffries asked.
Landvik let out a harsh exhale. “Just find her.”
Chapter 5
Rose Black’s flat, Fulham
Crowley stood by the front door of Rose’s flat. “So you’re safely home.”
Rose nodded. She still trembled and he didn’t blame her. He was still buzzing as well. “Don’t leave just yet?” Her tone framed it as a question, but she sounded a little desperate. Scared. And understandably so.
“I’m happy to stick around for a while.”
She put her key in the lock and pushed the door open. Crowley followed her as she flicked on the lights and closed the door behind him. Her flat was bright and tidy, a polished rosewood table in one corner, red and white floral settee and armchairs facing a large television. It was roomy for a one-bedroom place, with doors leading off the main room to a kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom.
“I think I really need a shower,” Rose said. “Wash that whole experience off me, you know? Can you stick around until I’m done?”
“As long as you like.”
She gave him a grateful smile, dropped her light jacket onto an armchair, and went into the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of firm, smooth flesh as she peeled her shirt up before disappearing from sight. Crowley pushed away the thoughts that immediately arose, unbidden and inappropriate.
He wandered her living room. A couple of large images hung on one wall, slatted bamboo tied into a flat canvas for Chinese watercolors. One showed a red and white crane beside a waterfall, the other a stylized depiction of Zhangjiajie National Forest Park. Crowley smirked, shook his head. He couldn’t believe he still remembered that name, but after seeing a documentary on the area of sharp peaks and deep forests he became mesmerized and researched it. One day he planned to take a vacation there. One day.
Pictures on the mantelpiece caught his eye. One showed Rose with two people who must be her parents, a small, determined-looking Chinese woman with kindly eyes and a tall man, dark-haired and slim-featured, with laugh lines at his mouth and eyes. They looked like a happy family. Not far from it was another photo showing a teenage Rose with her parents and another young girl. The family resemblance was readily apparent; it had to be Rose’s sister. No other images of the girl were anywhere he could see. He wondered what the story might be there. Other photos showed her parents much younger on their wedding day, Rose with friends, Rose on a sleek red motorcycle. Crowley tried to imagine Rose riding the powerful machine rather than just posing on it and the possibility came easily. Maybe something else to talk about. He had often planned to take his test and get a bike, but had yet to get around to it.
He went into the kitchen and found the kettle, teabags, milk and sugar. He brewed two mugs of hot, sweet tea, the English panacea for all forms of shock and trauma. As he was stirring the sugar in, Rose emerged trailing a cloud of steam. Her hair was wet, flattened to her head and neck, her skin rouged with the heat of her shower. She pulled the rope belt of a towelling robe tight around her waist and smiled.
“Wow! A street fighter and a mind-reader!”
“I made it sweet,” Crowley said. He hefted the carton. “You want milk?”
“No, thanks. Black and sweet is good.”
She wrapped her hands around the mug and breathed in the steam first, sighed, and took a sip. “Thank you.”
“Tea I’m good at. Just don’t ask me to cook you a meal.” Crowley added milk to his and took a gulp. The burning sensation in his throat and chest felt good.
“No, I mean thank you for everything. It terrifies me to think what might have happened if you hadn’t come by.” She nodded to a chair and sat in the other one herself.
As Crowley took his seat he said, “You’ll torture yourself with what ifs. It’s lucky I came along, but you weren’t doing too badly for yourself.”
“Not well enough. They had me beat.”
He grimaced. “Yeah. But three strong guys is bad odds for anyone.”
They fell into silence for a while, sipping their tea and staring at nothing in particular. The slow, drudging release of adrenaline felt familiar to Crowley, but he doubted it was anything with which Rose was well acquainted. “Don’t be surprised if you feel a bit sick,” he said. “The shock might make you nauseated.”
She tipped her head toward the bathroom. “I nearly threw up in there, but it didn’t quite happen.” She lifted the mug. “This helps.”
“Nectar of the gods.”
They were silent again for a moment, and then Rose said, “Do you think they wanted to rape me? Kill me? They didn’t seem
to be robbing me.”
The haunted, beseeching look in her eyes pained him. “No idea. Some people are broken inside, you know? I do wonder why they came after you. Maybe just a random choice?”
She made a noise that was almost a laugh, almost a curse. “I didn't have time to ask them, but I'll be sure to check next time.” She threw him a crooked smile to show she wasn’t being mean.
“Maybe you don’t need to know. Best not to dwell on it.”
“Hell of an impression for a first date,” she said. “I’m not likely to forget this night.”
Crowley made his eyes wide in mock outrage. “For all the wrong reasons! I’d hope to have made an impression without a potential... whatever that was.”
“You did make a good impression, only more so after that.” A strange look passed over her face, her words fading to quiet.
“What is it?”
“I just remembered something. One of them said ‘This is her’, like they knew me.”
“How could they know you?”
She frowned, thinking, staring into her mug. Shook her head. “No, not like they knew me. One of them dragged up the back of my jacket and I thought they were going to pull my clothes off, to... you know. But then he said, ‘This is her. Hold her down.’” She turned a quizzical look to Crowley. “Any idea what that meant?”
A chill rippled along Crowley’s spine, the supposedly random attack suddenly seeming like anything but. “What might they have been looking for? Or seen? You got a tattoo back there or something?” He raised a hand. “Sorry, don’t mean to get personal or pry.”
Rose’s mouth twisted in concern and confusion, a strangely vulnerable expression. “Not a tattoo, no.” She stood, turned her back to him, and lowered the bathrobe.
Chapter 6
Rose Black’s flat, Fulham
Crowley swallowed, wondering what he was about to see. Rose’s smooth, lightly tanned shoulders gave way to a firmly muscled upper back. But as the robe reached halfway down her body, Crowley’s attention was completely absorbed by the distinctive birthmark. A blood red line, maybe an inch wide with slightly undulating edges, ran down her spinal column and disappeared into the folds of the robe a hand’s breadth or two above the swell of her hips. Almost at the top of the vertical mark a wavering horizontal line came off of each side, making a double downward-facing L pointing left and right, slightly rounded at the top.
“Wow,” Crowley muttered, a little lost for words. He swallowed. “It looks a bit like...”
“An ugly eagle?” Rose slipped her robe back up and over her shoulders, to Crowley’s subtle disappointment. “Pretty disgusting, huh?”
Crowley shook his head as she sat back down and faced him. “Not at all. It’s quite beautiful, really, sort of like a stylized tattoo.”
Rose sipped her tea again, looked away. “I call it my Blood Eagle after the Viking form of torture.”
“Viking torture?”
She laughed quietly. “Aren’t you the history teacher?”
“True.” Crowley tried to sort through all the Viking lore and legend he knew from the syllabus, but no particular forms of torture were forthcoming. “You’ll have to educate me on this one though.”
She nodded. “You haven’t watched the TV show?”
“Vikings? No, but people tell me I should.”
“It’s pretty good. They showed the blood eagle torture once. It’s about as grim as it gets. The victim is tied with their arms out to either side, usually on their knees. Someone slices them open along the spine, makes two cuts sideways and opens the flesh out to either side exposing the back of the ribcage.”
“Holy crap,” Crowley muttered.
“That’s not even half of it.” She grinned at him. “Then they use an ax to hack the ribs away from the spine, lift out the lungs and lay them on the victim’s shoulders like eagle wings. Hence the name. If the victim survives the pain and shock, they suffocate once the lungs are moved.”
Crowley grimaced. “Let me guess. You love slasher films.”
“No, actually. Hate them. But I love history.” She made a cheeky face.
Crowley chuckled and lifted his mug in gesture of defeat. “Fair call.” He logged away the information for future reference. He would study up on the practice and see where he might fit it into his lesson plans. Nothing like a bit of gore to get the teenagers’ attention.
His mind wandered back to the issue at hand. “But how does the birthmark matter? And how would anyone know you have it?”
Rose shook her head, lips pursed. “No idea. It’s not something I make public. Beyond my family and those who have seen me naked, no one really knows. I’ve always worn one-piece bathing suits rather than bikinis, because I’m a little self-conscious about it in public.”
“I guess I can understand that, but you really don’t need to be. It’s kinda fascinating.”
“I don’t really want to be fascinating to people.”
“Yeah, right. Sorry. I can understand that too.”
She smiled. “That’s okay.” Her eyes widened. “I just remembered something else. I went to a birthmark removal clinic last year for a consultation, but they told me nothing could be done. I wonder if there’s a connection there. When I heard about the possibility, I thought it might be worth checking out, though I didn’t really have much hope.”
“Why did you..?” Crowley stopped, didn't finish his sentence when he realized there wasn’t a way to phrase it that didn’t sound insulting.
Rose laughed. “You mean why didn't I care until I was almost thirty?”
Crowley shrugged. He’d actually been about to ask why she decided to get it removed at all, and decided it was none of his business. But she did make an interesting point. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said.
“It's embarrassing to admit,” Rose said. “But I did it for a girlfriend.”
A quick wave of disappointment washed over Crowley, with swirling crests of confusion. “Oh,” was all he could manage. “Right.”
“It was my first relationship with a woman. Her name was Alison. I kind of lost myself in it.”
Crowley was embarrassed to realize that his disappointment had already transformed to relief. She described a situation that didn’t preclude him and he was quite pleased about that. He shook himself mentally, throwing the thoughts away. It made no difference right now that she was attracted to men and he was a man sitting right here with her. The poor woman had just been attacked and the reasons for it were becoming potentially more sinister by the moment. “I guess I can understand that as well,” he said, for wont of something to say.
“You’re an understanding guy. Anyway, you don't want to hear my life story.” Rose stood. “Give me a minute.”
She disappeared into the bedroom and Crowley finished his tea while he waited. Her mug was empty, so he took them both to the kitchen, rinsed them, and turned them upside down on the draining board. Military training and neatness was encoded into his habits whether he liked it or not.
As he returned to his seat, Rose reappeared in a yoga pants and a baggy sweat top, carrying a laptop. Crowley sat quietly while she booted it up and tapped away for a few moments.
“The clinic was called The Holm Institute,” she said, forehead creasing in a frown as she read.
Crowley leaned forward, concerned by her expression. “What is it?”
“Found an article here. It says the clinic recently had a data breach.”
Crowley paused to think about that. “So if these guys are looking for you because of your birthmark, and they decided to hack into the records of a clinic that deals with birthmarks, they could have found your details there.”
“But why are they so interested in my birthmark?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for now, that’s not the relevant issue. It seems they are, and we need to know who they are first and foremost. If they’re likely to...” Crowley stopped, tipped his head to one side. Rose opened her mouth to speak and he held up one i
ndex finger to delay her.
Hairs tickled on the back of Crowley’s neck. Not only neatness was coded into his being, but awareness too. Years of training and months on the front lines of wars had hardened his senses into a state of sharp focus, something he couldn’t turn off. He raised one finger, catching Rose’s eye. She froze, her mouth opening slightly in fear.
A slight shadow moved in the line of light under the front door, the soft squeak of a shoe on the tiles outside, as of someone being deliberately sneaky in the hallway beyond. But not sneaky enough.
Crowley lowered his voice to a whisper. “Someone’s out there.”
Chapter 7
Rose Black’s flat, Fulham
Crowley crept toward the front door, silent on Rose’s carpet. A small wooden rack sat near the wall with a selection of footwear in two neat rows. He lifted a pair of sneakers, handed them over, and made a gentle hurry up gesture. Eyes wide with fear, Rose quickly put them on and tied the laces.
As she worked, Crowley put an ear to the door. Hushed voices outside murmured, but too quietly for him to hear the words. The tone was all intent and tight purpose. More than enough for Crowley to decide he wasn’t being paranoid.
“Is there another way out?” he asked, his voice pitched low.
Rose was already on her feet. She grabbed her bag, slung it bandolier-style across her chest, and pointed to the kitchen. She headed for it and Crowley hurried after her. A small white table stood against one wall, opposite a stove, fridge and sink. Beside the table was a door. Rose reached for the handle just as a loud bang from the front room shattered the tension. Rose yelped in surprise as her front door slammed back against wall.
A man’s voice, harsh and loud, barked out. “Nobody move!”
At the same moment, Crowley yelled, “Run!” and spun back to face the intruders.
He was pleased to hear Rose pull the back door open as he grabbed one of the white wooden chairs from beside the kitchen table.