Catalyst
By
Steve Winshel
Copyright 2012
Chapter One
Josh Barnes sat looking at the computer screen, massaging the almost-healed bullet wound on his left leg. Two weeks ago the image would have been inconceivable. A lot can happen in two weeks.
He traveled for work, almost continuously. A steady stream of cities distinguishable only by whether there was a decent place to eat at the airport. Things were always moving, never dull. But after more than a dozen years it was getting stale. The go-to technology guy wherever he worked, he ran departments for companies needing someone smart and savvy. Josh was good at it, but he had started feeling unsettled even though he changed employers every couple of years. Like it was something to keep him busy and paid until he found the one thing that really excited him. He wasn’t even conscious of the struggle, but it showed in his increasing restlessness and job changes. And the travel wasn’t so good on relationships. Josh looked at the spot on his desk where people usually kept pictures of loved ones. There was a stack of unpaid bills instead. The women he dated told him the traveling wasn’t really the problem. It was the restlessness, the absences – not being there – whether he was on an airplane or sitting across from them at dinner. Josh’s mind drifted to those words and he looked out the window of the office he kept at home. There used to be a picture in a frame on the desk. He pushed aside the thought of Jenna, still surprised at how sharply he felt it. Today was different. A new start. The wound on his leg throbbed. His looked back at his computer screen, a decision waiting to be made.
Two weeks ago he was in Minneapolis. It was Tuesday night and he was sitting in the bar at his favorite hotel. He wasn’t on the prowl, just trying to get work done and he liked having background noise. Plus there was always the chance for some flirting in case work got boring. His laptop was open and he was trying to make it work with the hotel’s wireless network. No luck. Better luck with the soup and burger the guy behind the bar had just put in front of him. It was a hip place for a hotel bar. And for Minneapolis. It opened into a fancy restaurant and the bar/lounge area was modestly lit and well-furnished – just right for seeing and being seen if you wanted that but offering enough privacy in case you didn’t. Josh was the only one at the bar. The lounge had the usual crew; a table with two 30-something guys with slicked back hair and custom suits pretending to be enthralled by the loud stories their boss or client or whoever was bellowing. One muted couple at a table off to the side whispered to each other. On the center couch, a traveling salesman worked a pretty gal from a NY advertising firm who was just waiting to meet up with colleagues.
“C’mon, you can’t plan on working all night! A little nightcap later. My room. I’ll show you how to make the best mini-bar martini in the world.”
Josh had just given up on the wireless thing and pushed his laptop away to cut into the burger so he could examine the color of the center. It was his running battle with the kitchen at every hotel: how hard was it to understand his demand for no pink, only brown on the inside? Then Helen walked in. He saw her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and felt a sense of instant recognition.
Josh liked the scene in the movie with Robert Redford and Matt Damon where the old guy is teaching the young kid the tricks of being a CIA agent. They’re sitting in a cafe in some Middle Eastern country and Redford starts firing questions at his protégé. What is the woman behind you wearing? How many people were at the outside table when we came in? What color earring is in the waiter’s left ear? Damon knew all the answers; that’s what a good spy does – observes and remembers everything. Josh was no spy, but he was observant. He noticed what was going on around him, whether he meant to or not.
Helen had been on the airplane. She was wearing a different outfit then; white slacks, black pumps, some kind of satiny vest over a clingy white blouse. But the features were the same and the hair black, soft, shiny, just below her shoulders, the kind you see on a Pantene commercial but know the model doesn’t walk around like that. It takes hours of work by the stylist and a team of assistants to get her ready for the shot where she flips her head and the creamy cascade of silken hair draws you in and makes you turn to your spouse and say “that looks like a good product.” Helen’s hair was like that just walking around.
Josh had been sitting in 4B on the plane, a first-class aisle seat like he always did. She had been in 2C, across the aisle and two rows up. From that position you see the back of the person’s head, snatches of profile, and their left shoulder and leg. He had noted her for the hair, but couldn’t help also noticing delicate, strong features. To be fair, he would have recognized just as quickly anyone else who had been sitting in that cabin and then suddenly appeared in the bar, but if he were honest with himself, he probably would not have absorbed as much detail about someone else. It didn’t matter what anyone said, beautiful women on airplanes were few and far between. That’s why it was every man’s fantasy; it was rare.
Helen was wearing a black skirt now, and heels that appeared an inch or so higher than the airplane pumps. Her exposed legs were slim, tan, and with an outline of calf muscle. Josh didn’t see this in the bar mirror. He had turned around on his stool. This was his first view of her from the front. The blouse was still white, but this one was looser and more flowing. Before her gaze could turn in his direction, he swiveled back around and concentrated on his dinner. He was here to get some work done. Innocent flirting is a lot more innocent when it’s on an airplane or standing in line for a taxi. It’s a different story at night in a place serving alcohol and your bed a short elevator ride away. He’d played enough of those kinds of games when he was younger. Nowadays he was more reserved, more conservative. At least that’s what he told himself. The burger was cooked correctly. Josh focused on that. The stool two down from him squeaked on the hardwood floor as someone pulled it out.
She heaved a gentle sigh as the bartender appeared instantly. Faster than when Josh had sat down. She ordered a chocolate martini. He checked in the mirror to see where she was looking and did not catch her suddenly look away from him. She was already looking away. Josh returned to his burger, which looked lonely and was cooling down quickly. He focused on getting the ketchup out of the little bottle by tapping it on the side, holding it at an angle, committed to not using a knife to dig it out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Helen looking at nothing; aware but not distracted. Unlike Josh. He was constantly distracted. He inadvertently looked into the mirror straight ahead and caught his own reflection. The unexpectedness gave him a brief moment where he saw himself as someone else would – that split second where you don’t recognize yourself and can make an unbiased evaluation before deep familiarity with your own face burns your objectivity. Josh was not particularly impressed. He thought his preppie jaw-line and overly intense eyes unremarkable in a city like LA where he lived, filled with would-be actors. It didn’t matter that women seemed to find the effect appealing; he was an unrelenting critic. All this in a flash, as he harshly evaluated himself and drew the same conclusion he always did – his good fortune with beautiful women was a gift he received only because he could be a little charming, kind of funny, a bit self-effacing, and a damn good listener. But he was committed that none of that was going to be on tap tonight. He had deadlines looming at work.
Her drink came and it looked good. Josh turned and told her so. Not to say anything would have been wrong. So much for his commitment to work.
Josh liked incidental contact. Ask a woman to pass the salt. Or hold the door open for her. Give a hand putting the suitcase in the overhead bin on the plane. Maybe let her know as she gets on the treadmill in the gym that it isn’t working before she wastes five minutes fiddling with the controls. Or tell her
with deep epicurean longing that the chocolate drink in front of her looked delicious. Totally non-provocative, just a gentle invitation to have a chat, enjoy a little repartee, share a few minutes of human interaction.
Helen didn’t play by those rules. She looked directly at Josh. “Here, have a sip. It’s delicious.” She pushed the drink toward him, but not all the way, so he would have to reach toward her to get it.
“Uh, a sip? That’s kind of forward – we don’t really know each other.” He was feigning timidity, but it balanced her aggressiveness.
“Sure we do - you were on the plane.”
That did it. This was officially their second meeting.
He had a decision to make. Taking a sip was more intimate than he was expecting. It would be crossing a line. For Josh, the line was very clear for flirting when his intentions were social and not sexual. Helen was still smiling. Josh didn’t understand his own confusion; what was it about her that made him feel off balance, maybe a little intoxicated?
He took a sip. As someone who didn’t drink very often, Josh thought he could get used to chocolate martinis. He told himself this was nothing, just a friendly hello. He did so with less assuredness than usual.
Helen’s smile was broad and sincere. Very little makeup, but some lip gloss that paled next to the glint of her flawless white teeth. Eyes that seemed blue but were probably more aquamarine. Steady gaze, beautiful smile, perfect skin. And the hair.
Josh started to banter. He liked this part, a chance to test out the other person’s chops. Something about martinis, then the coincidence of being on the same plane and the same hotel. His goal: to see if she could carry on a conversation. She passed. Flying colors, even.
Josh was definitely not feeling like he was committed to an evening of work. He was even starting to feel kind of handsome, even funny. She flashed that smile.
“My, you’re not just handsome but funny too”
Okay, maybe he only felt that way right after she said it. He offered her the fries the bartender had delivered with his burger despite Josh’s clear and repeated instructions to leave them off, and told her his name. She took a fry in her left hand. As she put it in her mouth she extended her right to take his.
“Helen. A pleasure to meet you.”
Left hand still holding the fry, right hand still holding his. Just as Josh was about to let go – too long a handshake by his count –Helen let go first. She dipped her finger in the ketchup he had worked so hard to get on his plate. She put the finger to her mouth. Josh felt a little tingle in the base of his spine.
Somehow during this slightly dizzying interlude, they had wound up on the stools next to each other. Josh wasn’t sure which of them had moved off their perch toward the other. But he was inclined to think it was him – just to be courteous so she could reach the French fries. But getting this close, he was hit by a subtle, delicious scent. It was a little perfume but mostly soap. Or maybe it was shampoo. It didn’t matter. Josh was easily distracted, but this was different. This was more like walking down the street with your head bent trying to dial a number on your cell phone and looking up just as you smacked into a street sign. An unexpected jolt that rattles your teeth. Suddenly Josh didn’t feel so innocent any more.
He decided enough was enough, though with more regret than he would have admitted. Josh told her about the series of meetings he had to prepare for in the morning, followed by a long flight home. Not very subtle, telling her indirectly but clearly he wasn’t going to be trying to sweep her off her feet tonight. In response, Helen ate another French fry.
Josh took a deep breath, mostly so he could take in the intoxicating aroma. It helped erase the beginnings of a recrimination he felt his conscience preparing for him. He asked her how she got that Pantene effect with her hair. She laughed and tossed her head to prove the point. And when she put her hand gently over his and suggested they get a table and have dinner to discuss shampoo and showers, Josh got that increase in heart rate that only came when a beautiful woman looked you in the eye and said – well, it didn’t really matter what she said. Five minutes later they were at a table in the corner, martini and burger left to fend for themselves at the bar and drinks and fresh seafood on their way. An hour later Josh lost track of how they had gone from laughing and telling witty stories to one another to Helen leaning against the wet marble wall in his walk-in shower with soapy water streaming down her smooth, perfectly tan thighs. When he carried her into the large bedroom of the suite, he didn’t bother pulling back the heavy down comforter, the part of his mind that never completely let itself go knowing it would keep the sheets from getting wet. Another hour passed and Helen was back in the shower, alone this time, Josh still breathing heavily atop what was left of the bedding. When she came back in, dried, dressed, and hair looking like a commercial again, she sat next to him on the edge of the bed. With nothing covering him, Josh looked like the beast next to Helen’s perfectly put-together beauty. She flipped her hair for effect and laughed.
“It’s all in the genes. Allison’s got beautiful hair, too.”
That brought Josh’s warm feeling to a cold stop. Allison was Josh’s sister’s name. She’d been staying with him in Los Angeles since a particularly ugly divorce that included an unexpected late night flight for Josh from LA to Washington D.C. to have a little face-to-face chat with the now ex-husband. Josh hadn’t mentioned any family members during the time they were telling each other stories, but maybe Helen knew her through business and made the connection when she heard his last name. Before he could ask her about it, Helen added, “You’re a good brother to be helping her out. Divorce can be tough. Dead can be tougher.”
Josh felt like frigid water had been thrown on him, his previous mood gone in a flash. Helen’s scent suddenly had a sickening undertone that wasn’t there before. He looked at her and said nothing, feeling very naked now, confused and head starting to spin but sensing this was real. She kept smiling, legs crossed off the side of the bed, both hands leaning on the covers next to Josh. Still brilliant, still dazzling, still enchanting. But now there was something else in her look. He could see that her eyes were hard and cold.
Before he could ask her what the hell she was talking about, or suggest this was some kind of bad joke, Helen put her hand on his forearm. Josh didn’t feel the tingle he had felt earlier, only a dead weight. “Stay calm, sweetie. Everything’s going to be okay. If you listen and do just what I tell you, it can all be okay and Allison won’t be dead when you get back to LA.”
He didn’t move from the bed, Helen perched comfortably on the edge. His life had had more than a few moments of surprise. Josh had a habit of staying calm. Time slowed down, so he could process the event and decide what to do. Baseball players say when they are in the zone, the pitch comes slower and the ball looks bigger. They are thinking at normal speed but the world slows down. They have more time to react. Josh felt that way during times of crisis. Maybe it was an unexpected event at work or someone next to him on the plane choking on a peanut. Or it could happen when he tripped on a staircase – time slowed and he would catch himself. This time, he was the batter and he was in the zone, except the pitch was coming right at his head and he had no idea what to do. This woman sitting next to him, who had just been part of what most men would consider a fantasy come true, was suddenly threatening his sister. He still said nothing, trying to grasp what was happening.
Helen watched him. Clearly this was not the first time she’d had such an impact on someone. “Breathe, Josh. You’ll feel better.”
He took a breath, but did not look away or say anything. She crinkled her brow, mildly confused by his outwardly calm reaction. But she was also amused. “You’re holding it together nicely. All you have to do is listen for now.”
“Here’s how it works.” She leaned in close and he could see the pores in her nose. They were tiny and clean. Her skin was perfect and her lashes thick and evenly spaced. As she spoke, her breath reached across the small s
pace between them: fresh and clean, with a hint of chocolate from the martini earlier that evening.
“Everything is fine. For now. Your sister is safe. And she’ll stay that way. As long as you do as I say.”
Josh didn’t notice her reach into the small purse sitting on the nightstand on her other side, but he did notice the two Polaroids in a neat stack she put on the mattress. She spread them so they were visible and tilted toward Josh. His first thought was “who uses a Polaroid anymore?” That thought was immediately displaced by horror. The first picture was of the entrance to the local grocery store Josh visited frequently. His sister was about to go in and pick up some things for dinner. She was an excellent cook and insisted on preparing meals while she stayed with him so she didn’t feel like a freeloader. Standing outside Gelson’s Market this time, though, Allison had stopped and was talking to a woman. It was Helen. The snapshot caught Helen with her hand on Allison’s shoulder, as though she had touched her from behind to get her attention. And Helen was smiling, the same smile that had hovered next to Josh in the bar in Minneapolis.
The picture was a threat, sitting on the bed next to his exposed leg. But a new fear poked its way through his torpor: Who was holding the camera? The second picture gave the answer. This one was in front of Josh’s house, in the middle of a neighborhood with tree-lined streets and a wide median meant for dog walking and sidewalks designed for bikes. Allison had opened the door and was standing on the porch. The picture had been taken from a car; Josh could see the side mirror out the passenger door and the frame of the window. Helen must have taken this picture. He knew because there was a man standing with his sister.
He was tall and thin, in an unhealthy way that didn’t belong in Los Angeles. He was dressed neatly, but in an old-fashioned style with a brown vest visible through his open suit jacket. He held a hat in his hand and was pointing it toward the house. Allison looked curious, but not afraid. Nothing dangerous here, nothing to cause concern. Except Helen had just shown Josh that she and her partner had been to his house, knew about his life, and could get to him and his sister. The threat didn’t need to be spoken.
Catalyst Page 1