by Dusty Miller
Two men with assault weapons slung came through and took up a stance on each side.
The Mahdi, looking resplendent in his highly-stylized tribal costume, upper chest area on both sides bedecked with medals and ribbons, stepped in, his glance cold and unfriendly.
He threw a sheaf of papers and photographic enlargements on the table. They spread all over the place, sliding on the table but not making it as far as Aubrey.
Herschel half stood, reaching out to grab the nearest at least, but a hard hand from the Colonel forced him back into his seat.
“Fake. All fake.”
“Wha—what?”
Aubrey paled, and went all cold inside.
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
Those glittering black eyes bored into his from the other side of the table where the Mahdi sat apparently calmly. He’d taken his hat off and his hands were folded in his lap.
“You were tricked. You were lied to. You bought a bum steer, Aubrey.” The mouth was a firm line.
Sweat flowed freely down his sides under the three-hundred dollar shirt.
“You have made me look stupid, something I will never tolerate, Aubrey.” The eyes went up over his shoulder and then Aubrey’s time had come. “Goodbye my old friend.”
“But—but—”
The Mahdi, already risen, halfway to the door, paused and then turned back.
He leaned on the table, that hard and fanatical face showing no emotion at all.
“You were kind to me once, Aubrey. And for that I shall always be grateful.”
Where it came from, he would never know, it sounded insane but it was torn out of him by dread—and knowledge, and expectations of what came next.
“I was—when?”
The Mahdi’s jaw worked back and forth.
“You have forgotten. For that I am doubly grateful.”
The Mahdi left but the two soldiers inside the door were in motion, one going left and one going right. Aubrey’s guts churned and he peed himself.
But it was not his time to die just yet.
***
With two and only two guards in attendance, sitting across from them in the limousine, the Colonel sat calmly beside him.
Aubrey spoke.
“Where are we going—” They had just driven past the entrance to the Mahdi’s largest prison, legendary for its overcrowding and the people who had disappeared inside, never to return.
It was the ride in the desert, wasn’t it?
Poor Sigrid.
In the last revelation he would ever have, Aubrey admitted that he loved her still. He should have thought of that earlier—
Fuck.
If only he could remember the words.
Aubrey Herschel trembled, oh, God how he trembled. He sat there in his own hot shit as people and faces, words he should have said, things he might have done differently flashed through his head.
The Colonel sniffed, bobbing his chin and reaching for a cigarette after a long and monotonous silence.
He looked over after calling to the driver to open all the windows.
Chill night air billowed around them.
“You’re going home, Aubrey.”
His jaw dropped. The amber illumination from tall steel standards up the middle of the controlled-access Highway One flashed their light and shadow across the seats under the open roof panel. The Colonel’s face was a study in indifference.
Home!
They were going to the airport.
No.
Please.
Not that.
Not like this.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The days were getting shorter and the nights were getting longer. The Toronto she had known, fascinating in its size and newness, was gone. It had been replaced with a darker, grimmer place.
A place where Lindsey would be tested, hopefully not to be found wanting but one never knew.
Her first autumn in the big city had been an adventure. It was sunny, brilliantly lit, and full of fun, music, sound and action. It was a place of discovery and exciting new things. Her second autumn was different. She kept to herself, avoided the few friends she’d made the year before. They all had boyfriends and girlfriends by now, or had revealed some true colours in other ways. Mostly there were busy and she was unwilling.
She put her head down and kept going.
Throwing herself into the work, it was her only solace. She would graduate at the top of her class. She would get offers where others would have to search far and wide. It was the only time her thoughts left her alone, when she was focused on another heavy book, another project, another report, an exam, or a paper.
To lift her head was to feel the pain, the despair. The bereavement. The loss of all that was dear, and familiar, and part of her younger, happier life.
And she had been happy. It was one of the things she realized. The first year was bad—a small child pining for her parents, but Dale had been pretty good, looking back. He really had gone the distance and worked a few miracles. It was one thought, one of many that brought a tear to her eye. Pretty much any and all thoughts were doing that these days.
She really was an ungrateful wretch, but she couldn’t go back to Espanola now. She’d get a job somewhere for the summer. She’d finish her third year if it killed her. The class was not usually so boring. She’d seen a couple of the jocks fooling around in the hall, all physical play and loud bragging. Part of it was just show, showing off for the girls.
The look on their faces made her ask what it was that she lacked. She wasn’t used to seeing enthusiasm, up close and personal. They thought she was a stuck-up bitch, of course, when she was merely unhappy and not all that eager to share the reasons for it.
At one time she would have found either one of them attractive.
They were just a couple of big kids.
Professor Johnny O. Callaghan droned on and on. His lectures were precise, his face professionally cheerful, bright blue eyes he had, although she couldn’t see much from the top of the lecture hall. This had become her habitual seat, with the losers and the ones who didn’t want to be there at all but for whatever reason needed the credit—if they could get it.
The class was HIS 303Y1, the Mediterranean: 600-1700, Crusade, Colonialism, Diaspora. There would be a few hours devoted to the topic and then the student would be expected to be thoroughly conversant in a subject that had perplexed scholars for centuries. The problems in the region were beyond solution in Lindsey’s opinion, and yet at one time she would have been fascinated. At one time she had fantasized about working as a curator (or assistant curator) in almost any museum of consequence in the area.
The thoughts of taking over Espanola’s little municipal museum weren’t nearly so attractive.
Thankfully it had come to an end, shocking her with her mental lapses. Half the students were already gone, the rest hurriedly bagging books and pens, taking up with their friends. The way they chatted, it was like there had been no real interruption in spite of an hour and a half lecture.
“Lindsey.”
She was just hauling herself to her feet. Lindsey hadn’t been gaining weight, but this lethargy would be worrying if she had the gumption to care.
“Lindsey.”
Shit.
Johnny Callaghan was talking to her, calling up over everyone’s head in a way that couldn’t be ignored. Someone in a peasant dress and Jethro Bodine boots caught her eye, and turning, pointed down to where Callaghan waited.
Lindsey’s mouth was flat and unexpressive as she pulled her knitted cap further down on her hair. Her once vibrant mop had been a bit stringy of late, but the thoughts of being alone and naked in the shower were such that she had been rushing through it without lingering on the luxuries.
“Ah, Lindsey, just the girl I wanted to see.”
“Yes, Professor Callaghan?” She was doing well enough.
She wasn’t behind in anything and had aced her last assignment. I
f he was looking for volunteers, he was going to be shit out of luck.
The professor was standing beside the podium. With a nod, he turned towards the office, which was always locked when there was no one inside.
It being a Friday afternoon, the building was unnaturally quiet and that wouldn’t change until the evening classes began.
John O. Callaghan slumped heavily into an old wooden swivel chair with high arms and a pair of beaten cushions tied on with ribbons. He inclined his head and she sat while he rummaged through a stack of envelopes pulled from the lower of three old-fashioned inboxes.
He selected one in particular. There was an unfamiliar crest on the corner. It wasn’t sealed and he pulled out the documents, obscure but white paper with dark line and text. He took a quick look.
Maddeningly, he set them off to one side where she could neither see them nor reach them. She was beginning to wonder if she was in some sort of trouble. If so, it was bullshit.
Lindsey felt the burn of anger snap into life deep in her guts.
Reaching down into the envelope, he pulled out a smaller envelope.
“They like us to keep an eye out for promising people.” He put his hand on the chest pocket of his pale blue cotton dress shirt, having forgotten for the millionth time that he had quit smoking.
The urge came out at odd times, seventeen years later.
He handed the small envelope across. There was nothing on it. Surprisingly, the professor stood, put the stack of papers down in front of her and then left the room without any explanation.
She sat there holding that envelope.
Uncle Dale? Aunt Marie? Cousin Minnie? Had someone been in an accident?
But this wasn’t the way they would handle something like that—if so, this was a train wreck in the making.
She tore the end of the envelope off and pulled out a single sheet of thin paper.
Her heart began to beat more strongly when she caught the fragrance…
She would know that aftershave anywhere.
Dear Lindsey,
I’m so sorry to have left you in such a hurry. Things were getting hectic and we had to move quickly. Our cases have a habit of doing that from time to time, and I am sure you will understand. As soon as arrests are made, you will be contacted.
Your deposition was helpful and precise.
I wish I could have properly said goodbye.
Duty calls and guys like me answer the call, almost unthinkingly sometimes. It was not without regret. Please don’t think I will ever forget you, for I won’t.
It is the only promise I can make.
That excuses nothing and I hope that you will forgive me.
Lindsey, please read the attached documents. I want you to think very carefully about what it says.
After that, it’s entirely up to you what you do.
You are your own person and you have your life ahead of you.
It is never a mistake to love someone.
You have a lot of love inside of you.
Don’t be afraid to let it out once in a while.
And if it is meant to be, you and I — then surely we will meet again.
You have to trust in Fate or something, anything, sometimes.
This is one of those times.
Keep the faith, Lindsey.
Your friend,
Liam Kimball.
Tears were flowing down her face when she set that aside, well away, to keep it dry if possible.
That bastard Callaghan.
No wonder he went out at a run…
She breathed strongly for a while, willing herself to pick it up.
She could barely read it. A cold tingle went through her when she saw what it was.
What in the fucking hell—
It was an application kit for the Canadian Security and Intelligence Agency. There were brochures, an introductory form letter, a description of what they did, the sort of people they were looking for and what sort of skills were required.
Lindsey put her hand up to her mouth.
This was unbelievable.
For the love of God.
Of all the colossal nerve.
And Mister Kimball was right.
There really was a certain inevitable fate to it.
And if Mister Liam Kimball was really that much of a bastard, then Lindsey might as well go ahead and do it.
Between the good guys and the bad guys, they’d stripped her down to her constituent parts.
They’d left her with nothing, nothing at all.
“Right.”
You son of a bitch.
She was tempted to crumple the whole thing up in a ball.
She sat there for a very long time.
Her stomach rumbled and she wanted to be alone.
When she left she had it with her. She set the lock to snap and closed the door with unnecessary force.
Callaghan, may his soul rot in hell, was nowhere to be seen.
End
About Dusty Miller
Constance ‘Dusty’ Miller has written fiction, non-fiction and worked for newspapers and magazines. She did a brief stint as sports editor of a small-town weekly. She likes to make people laugh as well as think. Her erotica has a strong sense of the dramatic. Out of work and recovering from a life-threatening illness, someone suggested writing erotica which she initially rejected for lack of confidence. But love makes the world go around, and Dusty can no longer deny its pull. Dusty squeezes a little writing time in between raising a daughter and building a home-based business.
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