Once Upon a Starman

by Allie Marell

  “It’s all good. The lady paid on her way out. I just thought you might like a receipt. For your expenses, maybe?”

  She shrinks away from him while he wrestles with the urge to run from the eating establishment and chase Andra down.

  “Where did she go?”

  “Can’t say, sir.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” He looms over her, catching sight of a male wearing similar dark garb to hers winding his way towards them. “Apologies.” Santar steps away, risking the smile that usually gets him what he wants.

  The serving female sends a subtle signal for her colleague to stand down and him a look of such pity, his insides curl.

  “I hope you make up before Christmas. But there are plenty of fish in the sea, don’t you worry.”

  Fish? She thought to distract him with talk of aquatic creatures? Snatching up the toy, he stows it in his tunic and strides with purpose from the dining room.

  He left the engine initiator key inside Andra’s vehicle. A foolish lapse of concentration.

  But he knows exactly how to track Andromeda down.

  Outside the dining room, he’s in the greater space of the church, converted now to a retail establishment selling memorabilia and used goods from a variety of stalls. A wizened old male is arranging painted animal effigies on a shelf, woefully neglecting his communication device lying on a nearby table.

  Santar palms it and exits the church, stepping into a chill wind, feeling his luck turning once more. He’ll leave it where it will be found and returned. But for now his need is greater.

  No surprise that Andra’s vehicle is missing from the parking zone. Santar’s fingers fly over the unencrypted screen.

  General Jo. Recent sale. He’s into the seller’s account on the third hack, follows the trail to user-name Andromeda Galaxy. Pinpoints Andra’s home address on the map facility and commits it to memory. He has her talisman. She wants it back.

  And he’s a Seeker. One of Centrum Command’s best.

  He’ll find her.

  Chapter 4

  She felt guilty about leaving him.

  She actually felt guilty about leaving the man who’d kidnapped her, robbed her and let her know he wasn’t about to let her go any time soon.

  Andra slipped out of the church door, took a furtive look over her shoulder and ran for the car. Chances were he’d taken the key, but she’d be foolish not to check. She half hoped he’d left General Jo in the car, too. But it had been there on the table between them.

  So near...

  She let out a shaky, thankful breath when she spotted the key in one of the cup holders where Santar dropped it. Diving inside, she locked the doors, half expecting to see him charging from the church, steam exploding from his ears.

  A man on the edge, for sure. But so sad and lonely. Gripping the wheel, she considered going back inside. Meeting him on her terms and persuading him to go get the help he sorely needed. When a man started ranting about space travel, it was time to see a specialist and she had enough problems with helping little Oliver while his mother lay in a coma.

  A line of coloured Christmas lights flashed cheerily around the church door, stringing up and over the arched windows.

  The most wonderful time of the year. Yeah, she thought. Go tell that to little boys lying in hospital beds. And lost soldiers wandering around still fighting wars in their heads.

  She groaned and watched the Christmas lights flicker and flash. Can’t save them all. An unstable man was a dangerous man. She was better off out of it and could only hope that General Jo brought him the comfort he craved.

  Backing from the space, she turned the car and indicated right. Snow still falling, settling thickly on the country roads. Hiding the slick layer of black ice requiring a four-wheel drive to navigate safely. Andra peered through the storm, the back of her neck prickling as she drove away from the church. Had she left behind any ID? Something he might use to track her?

  Thank goodness she used a collection locker instead of her home address for the parcel. He couldn’t find her from that and there was no address on the thank you note the seller included in the parcel.

  She eased the car onto a narrow road leading out onto the moors, wondering what possessed her to buy the lonely old farm cottage that looked so picturesque in the early spring with the trees bursting into bud and the birds singing. A quiet beauty spot where she could write in peace and a complete contrast to her life as an academic at Manchester University.

  Now, with winter approaching she saw only shrouded country lanes and lonely scattered houses glimmering on the dark, rolling moors. Bumping up the track leading to the cottage she realised her car wouldn’t hack the deep of winter and she’d have to spend more of her savings on a sturdy SUV to avoid being stuck out here in a snowdrift.

  At the head of the lane, the cheery cottage porch lights of Moor Cottage greeted her. Inside the small sitting room window a Christmas tree flashed and twinkled. She’d made an effort in case Oliver improved enough to come home with her for Christmas.

  Their mutual lack of family was a bonding point when she met Emma at university and they’d been fast friends ever since. With his father so far away, she was all Oliver had for now.

  As always, the feeling of doubt melted away as she parked her car in the barn and trudged to the cottage, door key in hand. Not so isolated, with a friendly neighbour’s house within screaming distance, as they decided darkly over a bottle of wine one night. The village, with pub and small convenience store, was less than a mile away and for a woman who liked her own company, this place was perfect.

  Jess, her ancient border collie rescue dog, appeared beside the tree, peering from the window, two paws propped on the sill. He barked out a greeting and then scampered to the door.

  Stamping her feet on the rug, Andra picked up the post and fondled his head, glancing with dismay into the sitting room at the log basket beside the wood-burning stove in the hearth.

  Empty. And it was too dark and cold to trudge across the yard to the woodshed to replenish supplies. She’d have to use the heating tonight, though the bills were a little scary for this uninsulated, seventeenth century stone cottage where draughts lifted and rippled the rugs and the wind whistled through the badly fitting windows.

  All a part of its charm, she told herself sternly, shivering at the frigid chill. In the kitchen, she found a can of dog food and searched a drawer for a can opener. Jess sat expectant, tail thumping the floor, tongue lolling. Charming and the reason she got the cottage so cheap. It still needed a heck of a lot of upgrading.

  This was her time out from the hubbub of city life, from the volatile relationship with the brilliant professor of physics who’d been impossible to live with. With her own place, away from distractions, she made the decision not to renew her tenure at the university and capitalise instead on her profitable little side line as an independent author writing crime novels.

  Surprisingly, the reading public loved her cosy female detective investigating village crimes. So far it paid the bills and, more importantly, gave her space to think about her life. Dog fed, she flicked the switch to turn on the storage radiators and realised that apart from a few bites of cake, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  It was tempting to go straight upstairs to the modern bathroom, the one concession she’d insisted on when she lost her mind and put in an offer for the cottage. It was tiny, but sleek and functional with a shower over the tub and perfect for a single woman living alone.

  Bath or work? She’d left her heroine investigating a death at a village fair and as always, Peggy Martin Investigates, won out. Andra fixed a quick sandwich then wandered into the tiny sitting room to power up her laptop on the desk that doubled as her office. She pulled the curtains closed, shutting out the winter storm and listened to the gusty wind rattling the roof tiles.

  The perfect abode for a fictional murder mystery detective. At least the draughty old place was paying its way as a model for her heroine’s c
ottage. She was half way through chapter five when her landline rang. A number she didn’t recognise and immediately she thought of her abandoned soldier, sitting alone in the cafe waiting for her to emerge from the bathroom.

  He’d taken her mobile phone battery. She had no replacement in the house. Pushing back her wheeled office chair, Andra swiped up the handset from the antique bureau and hit the green button. Few called her on the landline apart from sales reps and scammers.

  “Hello?” She glanced at her watch. Who’d call at this time on a Friday night? The soldier didn’t have her number and John had stopped calling in the summer when she made it clear she wasn’t going back to her life in academia. She was taking a sabbatical to see where this writing led.

  Jess wandered in to flop beside the wood-burning stove, eyeing her reproachfully for neglecting to light it.

  “Sorry, not tonight,” she mouthed at him and waited for the caller to speak.

  Hello, am I speaking to Ms Dalesio?

  “You are.” Instinctively, she walked from the room to check the front door. Locked, bolts thrown. The security lights all working.

  Oh, that’s good. I’ll come straight to the point, Ms Dalesio. Are you still there? It’s a very bad line. The caller broke up in a crackle of static. Must be snow on the phone lines. And then his voice came through again. Loud and clear.

  You purchased something recently. On the internet. An action figure. Do you know what I’m referring to, Ms Dalesio?

  Oh hell. She froze in place. Was it him again? Her traumatised soldier? It didn’t sound like him. This voice was slick and assured. Maybe he was using an agent.

  She took the three steps to the small kitchen at the back of the house, wishing she’d installed the blinds she’d promised herself to replace the frilly gingham curtains that came with the cottage and were more for show than shutting out the night. The kitchen looked straight out onto the moors, lit only by the waning and waxing moon.

  No moon visible tonight. She turned her back on the black night, reaching for a mug and the tea bags, the phone tucked under her ear. The soldier already had General Jo, along with the certificate of authenticity that came in the parcel. Why would he employ an agent to ask after it?

  “I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “I think you’ve got the wrong Ms Dalesio.” She snapped the electric kettle power switch and turned to lean on the kitchen cabinet. Someone else was after the figure? Highly likely, given its rarity and the current surge of vintage action hero movies hitting the big screens.

  And after months of trawling forums and specialist internet sites, she knew how fanatical these collectors could be.

  I don’t think so. You live at Moor Cottage? Am I right? Please don’t be alarmed, Ms Dalesio. I can hear that I’ve scared you. My client is willing to pay you much more than it’s worth. I do hope we can do business.

  Andra listened wide-eyed at the veiled threat in the smoothly polite voice. Beside her, the kettle boiled and switched off with a click that made her jump. He knew where she lived. And she didn’t have the damned toy to sell to him, even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t.

  Ms Dalesio, this is a genuine offer and my client is a very determined man who doesn’t take no for an answer. The caller’s voice dropped conspiratorially. Which means I can get you a very nice figure for your little toy. I think that might replace a roof tile or two for the cottage, don’t you?

  Okay, don’t panic. Anyone could have found the cottage on Google maps street view. It didn’t mean they’d already been up here to take a look at the state of her roof, now safely hidden by a fresh fall of snow.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said and took a moment to pour hot water onto a tea bag. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I certainly don’t own any action figures.” She warmed a chilled hand on the hot mug and adjusted the phone.

  Oh, I think you do, Ms Dalesio. These specialist sales are easy enough to track and I must say, unusually, this one took us by surprise. You performed quite a coup swooping in on it like that. But you must understand my client is a determined collector. And to put it simply, he wants it at any cost.

  She was having trouble keeping in the laughter, most of it of the hysterical kind. This was a conversation straight out of one of her novels.

  “Well, I wish him all the best in his search,” she said and switched off the phone. Immediately, she grabbed a pen stuck to a board on the wall with a blob of Blu Tack and scribbled down the number from the caller ID. Jess poked his greying head around the kitchen door. With an anxious whine, he padded silently to her side.

  Andra stared at the phone, wondering if she’d just dreamed the strange conversation. First the soldier, then this. Was General Jo cursed, or something? Maybe a good thing she no longer had it in her possession.

  In the living room, she hooked a finger around the curtain to peer out onto the front drive illuminated by four security lamps set at strategic intervals. Only one set of footprints from the barn to the front door, but with the snow turning to a blizzard, any earlier footprints might easily have been covered up.

  She let the curtain drop and moved half-heartedly to the laptop, little enthusiasm left for Peggy Martin and her murdered vicar. She hit save and changed the screen.

  Centrum Command. Is that what the soldier said? The search page populated as she slid into her chair, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. An organisation called Central Command was a part of the US military, but no hits for her soldier’s mythical spying organisation. She leaned back in the chair. If it was top secret, she’d hardly find a Wiki page on it. But he’d seemed so convinced.

  And when did he start being her soldier? His trauma, his delusions really weren’t her problem. Only they were if she wanted General Jo back.

  She ran a hand through her hair, thinking about her crazy day. Of course she wanted it back. Oliver was depending on her. If she returned to the cafe, would he be there, waiting? They were open until eight pm tonight in deference to last minute Christmas shoppers.

  Too nasty a drive in this weather. And leaving Santar the way she did might have tipped him past the point of reason. She gave her word and broke it. Betrayed him. And he was obviously feeling paranoid enough.

  Tapping a pen on the desk, she knew she was being unfair. The man needed help, not crazy labels flung at him. Maybe he needed General Jo more than little Oliver.

  She shouldn’t have left him like that. But what else could she do? At least she’d given him a break and not alerted the waiting staff at the cafe to call the police on him. He didn’t need that to add to his dubious resume.

  Changing screens, she ordered two mobile phone batteries on next day delivery. Oliver liked to call her from his hospital bed. She’d already missed his goodnight call.

  As she clicked buy now, the landline shrilled from the kitchen where she left the handset. She ignored it. General Jo was no longer hers to sell. If the mystery caller persisted, then she’d block him, call the phone company and report it as harassment.

  Searching the number she’d scribbled down took her up a few blind alleys and to a couple of paid directory sites. She gave up. A rich client, the man said. There had to be other General Jo’s out there on the dark web, or wherever these obscure desirables lurked. Anyone with the means would find one.

  The phone stopped ringing. Immediately started up again. Andra closed down the laptop, letting the call ring out. Torn between answering and having the same conversation with the slick guy, or ignoring it and allowing them to think the house was empty.

  Oh get a grip, she told herself. This wasn’t one of her crime novels. They weren’t about to appear on her doorstep and make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  Were they?

  She set the house alarm that had a horrible habit of going off at the slightest hint of wind or obstruction to the sensors. Zoning it to the front entrance and sitting room to avoid the cat and dog setting it off. Please don’t go off tonight. Her nerves couldn’t stand com
ing down, flashlight in hand to investigate.

  Jess followed her, huffing up the stairs. He settled outside the bathroom door with a sigh, completely in tune with her routine.

  “Bed,” she said, and he raised himself with a resigned huff of doggy breath. Poor old thing and little use as a guard dog. She could almost hear his joints creaking. But she was strangely reluctant to put him through the indignity of sharing his duties with a younger dog he’d see as an obvious replacement.

  “It’s just you and me, lad.”

  She went through her nightly routine, forgoing the anticipated soak in a hot bubble bath. The day couldn’t end soon enough. The landline rang again. She burst into a rendition of White Christmas, the song they’d played when it started snowing at the Christmas market in Manchester, singing until the ringing stopped, plunging the house into the heavy silence she’d become used to.

  Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year for some. A massive headache for others. She’d always fallen into the first camp. And then the crash happened and she found herself running between Oliver’s hospital bed and the ICU where she spent endless hours trying to talk Emma out of her coma.

  So far, she’d given them a few twitches and maybe a smile. The doctors were reluctant to wheel Oliver in at first, not wishing to subject the boy to the sight of his mother covered in wires. When he’d insisted on seeing her, she usually went along, pretending his mummy was asleep and just needed to hear his voice to wake up.

  So far, they’d both been disappointed.

  Okay, some Christmas’s sucked. And this was going to be one of them.

  For herself, Oliver and Santar.

  She fell asleep wishing she’d been able to help the poor confused guy. Hoping someone would. Surely he had family to call on? Or had they abandoned him to walk the streets this festive season like so many other forgotten people?

  Yes, some years Christmas just sucked.

  Chapter 5