Green Eyed Burn

by David A. Lloyd

  Her eyes and aim did not sway from Stein as Smyles slowly moved toward her. She either did not see him or did not care. Smyles opened his jacket and touched the handle of his .357.

  Suddenly there was a blur of motion and the .38 roared. Blood sprayed from Smyles’ shoulder as he slammed into the wall and slumped to the floor. Stein stepped forward but froze as Catherine pointed the weapon at her initial target.

  “Don’t move, Gene,” Catherine said. Her voice was flat, official. “You are under arrest. Turn around, hands on your head,” she ordered, closing the gap between them.

  “What are you doing, Cathy?” Stein asked naively. His voice had an unusual gentleness to it.

  For a moment Catherine wavered, “Ne dit pas ça. Tu ma usé,” she whispered under her breath as the focus seemed to leave her eyes. Then suddenly she screamed, “You son-of-a-bitch! You used me!”

  “How?” Stein asked flatly.

  “You opened my eyes. I never told you I was meeting Vladimir. I never said anything about a data disk. I just told you I was using my prostitute cover to meet a contact.”

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  DAVID A. LLOYD

  Stein’s handsome face seemed to melt as an almost mystic change slid across his features. All the hardness and anger melted into a reflection of innocence. Now that he had the time to gather his thoughts, Stein slowly, gently, reached out with an open hand. “Cathy,” he said softly, “we’re partners, remember? You’re ill. Smyles pumped you so full of drugs you’re hallucinating. Please give me the gun before someone gets hurt.”

  Again Catherine wavered as a ballad of images choired behind her emerald eyes. He had no ideal how she felt about him. Or did he? They night they first met was magic. He was... he was... The night they first made love was enchanting. Snowed in - how quaint - in that cabin of his in the Rockies. She had made love before, but this was different.

  This time it was a man.

  He introduced her to new experiences. He opened new doors. All she had known or wanted before were women. Maryam, Bonita, Mademoiselle le Point... Gene would always be her first. He was witty and charming and handsome beyond belief. Gene was supportive when she needed it. He was her partner. Their lives were in each others hands.

  Catherine’s grip on the weapon eased as a flood of emotions started her nerves to fray, “Gene... no... don’t... please...”

  “Just give me the gun, Cathy. Then everything will be fine. Just like before. I’ll see to it.” Charm oozed from his smile. “You remember the times we had together,” he stepped closer, “Trust me.”

  “Non... arrêter...” her voice became no more than a whisper, “Non... please...”

  “The gun Cathy,” Stein said with a little more authority, “Hand me the gun,” his fingers were only centimeters away.

  Catherine felt his eyes pulling her in. They were strong, sure. His eyes. Gray... hypnotic... trust him. I’m doped up. Trust my partner. Trust Gene. Frozen in time, John watched the drama unfold before him. The harder he tried to speak, to shout, to something, the harder it was for the sounds to come. No! No! No! Catherine! Fight it Catherine, fight it! Fight.... please... don’t give in.

  “Trust me Cathy... trust me,” Stein preached slowly, evenly, tonelessly,

  “You can believe in me.”

  Trust... trust... me... trust him... he... he... lied... he lied to me... lied... lied.... “You lied to me Gene,” Catherine wept. Hot tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Catherine started to blink rapidly as tears blurred her vision.

  “Lied... you lied... about everything I believed in... everything...”

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  Stein realized he was about to lose her and lunged for the weapon. Catherine felt her soul tear open and found herself floating in her mind. So frail. So tiny. So helpless. Helpless... I need help... Oh God I need help.... Her mind’s eye looked skyward.

  Oh God I can’t do this myself. Please help me please help... Catherine.

  Johnny?

  He’s coming.

  The fog suddenly burned away and her world snapped back into focus. Catherine squeezed the trigger as Stein grabbed the for the weapon. The hammer slammed down and with a defying crack a wad of metal discharged. Stein’s eyes were wide with disbelief as a crimson flower blossomed from his chest. His lifeless body slumped to the floor.

  Catherine felt the hot sting of tears on her face as she lost him a second time. When she knelt down to touch his face, Catherine watched her tears mix with the blood on the floor. It was like a piece of her had been torn from her soul.

  The gun was a dead weight in her hands.

  105

  14

  “Catherine?”

  There’s no one here by that name.

  “Catherine?”

  She blinked, “Johnny?”

  “Are you okay?”

  Catherine suddenly whirled on the balls of her feet and faced Smyles, who was curled and whimpering in a corner.

  “No… don’t kill me,” his hand was pressed to his shoulder and blood seeped between his fingers.

  Catherine grabbed Smyles by the tie, “Donnez-le moi!” she said and yanked him to his feet. “Key!”

  “In-in my p-pocket,” Smyles stammered.

  Catherine retrieved the key then shoved him forward. Smyles stumbled and fell on his face, screaming in agony. With the key in hand, Catherine freed John from his restraints. In sync with her train of thought, he bolted toward Smyles, scooped him up by his shirt and pitched him into the chair. Catherine fastened the restraints on his wrists.

  John stepped back from the bleeding assassin and faced Catherine. “What happened?”

  “Later,” she said and pressed the dangerous end of the .38 to the ugly man’s temple, “Où sommes-nous?”

  “What? Talk normal,” Smyles said with a feeble attempt at defiance. Catherine pressed the barrel deeper into his temple, “Where are we?” she hissed.

  “You won’t kill me,” Smyles whispered. His voice told her he believed 106

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  she would.

  Catherine thumbed the hammer back, “You ready for the next life?” she snarled.

  His eyes locked with hers. That was all he needed.

  “Toronto. In The Projects near Spanner Park,” he squeaked. Catherine smiled. The image chilled Smyles to the bone. “This is for me. And this is for Vladimir, and Tom, and anyone else you screwed you bâtard,”

  she said tonelessly.

  “Catherine,” John said softly.

  It was a moment before she could glance into his eyes. She knew what he was going to say and every instinct told her he was right. But...

  She felt his spirit reach out. His warmth encompassing her. His heart beating for her. His every breath for her.

  Catherine looked back at the slime of a man whimpering before her. She looked at the mindless instrument of death in her hands. I could take his life. Piff and it’s gone. Squeeze the trigger and I could take his life like he has taken so many others.

  She felt John’s eyes on her. She remembered she enjoyed the sensation that it brought. Her soul weighed heavy with the weight of what she was prepared to do.

  Catherine looked at John. She looked into his eyes and understood. Thank you, Johnny. This won’t return Vlad, or Tom, or anyone else.

  “This would sink me to your level,” Catherine said after a moment before easing the hammer back into place. She let her arms, weak from exhaustion, drop to her sides.

  As John removed the weapon from her grip she offered no resistance.

  “Lets get out of here.”

  John blew out a breath he did not realize he was holding. Her left arm slipped around his naked waist as they moved toward the door.

  “Hey!” Smyles cried out, “You can’t leave me here!”

  Catherine flicked off the lights and shut the door behind them, leaving Smyles in total darkness.

  *****

  Catherine and John found themselv
es at the end of a dimly lit hall in what looked like an old apartment building. At the far end was a rickety stairway 107

  DAVID A. LLOYD

  leading up. On each side of the hall were a half dozen sets of numberless doors.

  Catherine gestured toward the third door on the right, “That’s where they kept me locked up,” she said.

  “I was somewhere else,” John replied. “I remember the stairs when they brought me here.” Then after a moment he added, “How’d you escape?”

  “Stein left his tie in his jacket pocket. It was that and his name dropping that told me he was not who he seemed,” Catherine explained. “When DeTully opened the door to pull him out I shoved the end of the tie in the doorjamb to offset it enough for me to find the seam. It was pretty much invisible from the inside, but once I found it the rest was easy.”

  “That was quick thinking.”

  Not quick enough I’m afraid.

  Catherine opened the first door, “Bedroom.” she said peering in. The apartment was largely spartan, with only two beds and some cardboard boxes for clothes and toiletries. It reaked heavily of body odor and cigars.

  “This must be where Smyles and DeTully stayed,” John said. The next apartment on the left was used for storage. In the middle of the floor by the door was a large cardboard box marked, ‘To be burned’. Catherine opened it and found all their clothing. Catherine handed John his clothes, then gathered hers. They did not turn away as they dressed.

  *****

  The rest of the apartments were empty, but behind the last door was a surveillance room. Stacked across one wall was a row of video monitors. John sat down at the control panel before them and punched up the video. Catherine remained standing behind him.

  “You know how to work this stuff?” she asked watching his hands fly across the controls. “What am I saying? Of course you do. You were living in a TV studio when I met you.”

  “Very funny. I—” John’s words choked off in his throat as the monitors flicked to life. The top row of screens each showed a different apartment, but the scene was the same. Rooms with three or four people sitting on the floor smoking or shooting up Ink. “Oh man,” he breathed.

  The windows were boarded up in each apartment and naked bulbs provided the only light. The walls and floors were stained with blood and urine. Beer and wine bottles, cigarette butts, glass vials and dirty needles were scattered 108

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  everywhere. Garbage hid the floor in the halls.

  John cupped his mouth and nose with his hand.

  “You’ve never seen an Ink house before,” Catherine said. It was a statement as much as a question. “I’ve seen one too many.”

  In one room a sweaty fat man was photographing a woman masturbating.

  “I’ve seen them before. I…” his voice trailed off. Kris died in a place like this.

  In another room a pregnant woman was rummaging through a plastic garbage bag looking for food.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Catherine placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s time we left.”

  “I think so.” John turned in his chair and his foot bumped into Stein’s briefcase, “What’s this?”

  Catherine sat down in the chair next to him and placed the case on her lap. Satisfied there were no booby traps, she opened it. Inside was her badge, weapon, and a thick file folder with her name written in marker across the top.

  “What’s that?” John asked.

  “I don’t know,” Catherine and picked up the folder. She thumbed through it. “Oh my God. It’s my psychological profile.

  “Where the hell did they get that?”

  “I don’t know.” But I have an idea.

  Catherine picked up her pink Beretta. “My gun. I thought I lost it.”

  “Nine millimeter Beretta Model 84 short barrel,” John said. “I like the color.”

  “You know your guns.”

  “No, not really. Hate them.”

  Catherine looked at him. This from the man with a SKB M-7300 Slide Shotgun with a 762mm barrel. Don’t think I didn’t see that scar on your thigh. I know a bullet wound when I see one. I think I’ll ask him about that later. “We have to go,” Catherine closed the case, “Hand me the phone.”

  John obliged, “Who we calling?”

  “911.”

  “Oh.”

  Catherine dialed and identified herself to the operator. She then explained that she was calling from an Ink house and told them to trace the call because she didn’t know the exact address. After that Catherine called Special 109

  DAVID A. LLOYD

  Operations and requested an emergency pickup.

  Twenty minutes later Catherine and John were directed out of an armored van and into a freight elevator by four large Mounties in body armor. Moments later the doors opened and deposited them in a plush lobby on the thirteenth floor of the Snow Chatéau Building where they were greeted by a small attractive Asian woman in a lab coat.

  “Hello,” she said to John, “I’m Doctor Bonita Yen-ping.” She studied the blood caked on John’s face. “You’ve seen a bit of trouble.”

  “I think my nose is broken,” John said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Catherine grinned, “It’ll add character.”

  “Thanks a lot,” John found himself laughing, then regretted it as pain shot through his sinuses.

  Dr. Yen-ping turned to Catherine, “Hello Cathy. How about you?”

  “We better talk in your office.”

  *****

  In the small eggshell colored office, Catherine briefed Bonita on the events of the past few months. She described what she could remember about Smyles shooting her in the back, her confinement and the incident in the limousine. Catherine did so without tears and kept just to the facts. When she finished, Bonita stared at Catherine silently for a moment then began her physical examination.

  “Whoever operated on you did a hell of a good job,” the doctor said, examining the exit wound on her back. “All you need is a change of dressing. I’ll do that for you now.” Bonita changed the compress, then prepared to draw some blood samples.

  “What for?” Catherine asked.

  “You said Smyles indulged himself.” When Catherine paled, Bonita pulled up a stool and faced her. “When Smyles molested you, was there any penetration?”

  “No, no... I don’t think so. He just took photos and…” Catherine whispered. A fresh new horror settled upon Catherine’s shoulders when Bonita’s question became clear.

  When Catherine described the event moments ago she was able to remain detached from her feelings. “He just...” this time, however, the horror started to settle in on her. What he did became more real, more palpable. Her stomach soured as the image of Smyles straddling her in the limousine spewed back 110

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  into her mind. Don’t! His penis clenched tightly in his fist. Please don’t. His nakedness gleaming with sweat as he worked himself. Faster, faster. Harder. Until...

  “Oh God…” Catherine sobbed. “Non.”

  Dr. Yen-ping drew four vials of blood then placed them in a small cooler.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly then pressed the intercom button, “Send in Mr. Riel.”

  “Don’t tell him about what Smyles did,” Catherine said pulling her shirt on.

  “I understand.”

  John entered and looked at Catherine sitting on the examination table.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fine. Good as new,” she chirped. “So Doc, is that all?”

  “Yes. You may go.”

  Catherine hopped down and trotted toward John, “Be good for the doctor,”

  she said and give him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Catherine left and closed the door behind her. She scarcely made it out of the office before her emotions exploded through her fragile facade.

  *****

&nb
sp; Dr. Yen-ping examined John and discovered his nose was not broken, just really squished. She cleaned up his face, set his finger and drew some blood. Bonita carefully broached him about his interpretation of events, but John refused to provide much detail and none about what happened between him and who Catherine referred to as “the mystery woman.”

  “Thank you Mr. Riel,” she said and removed her gloves. “The officer outside will let you know what happens next.”

  “Thank you Doctor.” John left the office and was greeted by one of the Mounties who escorted them from the Ink house.

  The big man in armor held out his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Kurt Burton, RCMP Special Tactics.”

  John accepted his hand, “John Riel, no title.”

  Burton smiled. “That’s good.” He motioned down the hall. “This way please.”

  John fell into step alongside the big man. “What happens now?”

  “The Deputy Director of Special Operations, Sylvia St. James, will be flying in tomorrow morning. She requested that the two of you remain here 111

  DAVID A. LLOYD

  ‘til she arrives for the debriefing.”

  “Do I have a choice?” John asked.

  “To be honest, no,” Burton replied.

  John liked the cop instantly. “Well as long as you’re honest, but I’m going to want some answers.”

  “Understood,” Burton said and stopped at an unmarked door. “Tomorrow,”

  he pushed open the door, “Welcome to your home for the next few days. I’ll have some fresh clothing sent in shortly.”

  “Thanks.”

  Burton nodded, then turned and disappeared down the corridor. John stepped through the door and into a small apartment. On his left was a living area with two plush chairs and a couch facing a tinted bay window overlooking the city. Beyond the living area and sunken three steps into the floor was a bedroom with a queen-size bed partially hidden behind a vanity. Fastened to the vanity was a desk with a phone. On John’s right was a small kitchenette and a second door leading to the washroom. The apartment screamed “open concept.” He figured he knew where two of the surveillance cameras were hidden.

  “Well, here we are,” Catherine said from behind. She circled his waist with her arms and cupped her chin on his shoulder.