by A P Bateman
He jogged up the short flight of steps and walked briskly into the reception foyer. A large man was checking in ahead of him, so he held back from the desk and allowed him some privacy. The walls of the foyer were donned with a variety of photographs, mostly of acrobatic skiing and snowboarding jumps, or fast turns with waves of clean, dry powdery snow. Stone assumed that this motel also served as a ski lodge, but only to those whose budget was lower than those who could afford to be in the mountains proper. Perhaps to the people who wanted a quick and easy route to the ski slopes but without the expense of being in the resorts paying resort prices. Simply call in, then drive a few miles further on to take the network of lifts to the slopes at the top and then spend the day enjoying the mountains.
The large man had finished checking in and was folding his wallet whilst holding the large tag of the key. He dropped it and bent down to pick it up, when he noticed Stone's feet just a pace away. He looked up and visibly flinched as he stared into Stone's face. He fumbled with his key and stood erect a full four or five inches taller than Stone. He seemed unable to make eye contact. He was impeccably attired in a smart, well-tailored business suit, crisp white shirt and a subtle floral print tie.
“Hello there,” Stone smiled. He noticed the man's shoes. They were like black mirrors, boned to a shine. They reminded Stone of his time in the military. “Lovely evening,” he added.
The man looked at him. Stone noticed a thin white scar running the whole length of his face. It seemed to shine in the spotlights above the desk. “Yes. It is." The man seemed embarrassed. “And a lovely part of the country,” he added, glancing back at the receptionist. “Good night.”
She smiled and Stone nodded curtly and then stepped up to the desk. He placed a ten-dollar bill down on the counter and smiled at her. “I need some quarters and dollars please, for the machine.” He nodded towards the vending machine in the corner of the foyer and glanced back but the man had already gone.
***
Too close. Too close by far.
The man hurried towards his chalet door, looking over his shoulder as he went. He slipped the key into the lock and twisted. There was no play in the lock. He jiggled the key but was fearful of breaking it off in the lock. He dropped the sports bag and gun carry case onto the ground and the barrel of the stripped-down M4 assault rifle clattered on the concrete through the thin material. He slipped the key back out of the lock and tried again.
“You have to pull the door towards you.”
The man jumped, startled by the voice. He tensed, let go of the key and slipped his hand onto the butt of his pistol and at the same time. He turned to the left, allowing the door to shield his right hand.
Stone stepped up to the threshold. “It happened with my door.” He caught hold of the handle, pulled it towards him and twisted the key.
The man eased the pistol a little from the snug holster, wrapped his finger around the trigger.
“There you go!” Stone pushed the door in a little and held up the key. “Cheap locks, I reckon.”
“Thanks,” the man said, his voice devoid of all emotion. He released his grip on the pistol and took they key from him. He bent down and picked up the two bags in a hurry.
“Don't mention it,” Stone replied. “Well, good night.”
The man watched him walk along the path and to his chalet door. “Good night,” he replied. And then he smiled and whispered, “Sweet dreams…”
THIRTY SIX
“If you don't mind me asking, what were you investigating? In order to come up with a lead at the bioresearch facility?” Isobel was sprawled out on the queen-sized bed, a can of soda in one hand and pulling the tab with the other.
Stone was drinking coffee, freshly made from the packet of instants next to the kettle. It was loaded with sugar and powdered cream. He sipped it and grimaced. “I can't say, but it was always going to lead me there,” he paused. “There was a major connection, that's all.”
“A person?”
“Forget it,” he chuckled. “I'm not going to crack.”
She rolled carefully onto her side, ever tentative that the tiny wounds on her stomach would hurt her if she moved too quickly. She propped her head up on her elbow and looked at him with intrigue. “You said earlier, about the President trusting you, trusting your family. What did you mean by that?”
Stone smiled. “I think I remember saying, it was a long story.”
“Yes, but we really aren't going anywhere. At least not for a while.” She took a sip of soda and looked dejected. “Come on, it will kill the time.”
“I'll give you one thing, Isobel, you are persistent, if not subtle.”
“It's what got me where I am today!” She scoffed. “For better or for worse.”
“My older brother was an FBI agent. A good one,” he relented. “He was highly commended, had all sorts of awards for bravery and all. But he got himself killed, as a result of his bravery or some would say stupidity. Prior to his death he stopped a major terrorist incident almost single handedly. I don’t know the details myself. All I know is that because of that the president trusted him enough to give him a free rein.” He looked away. It was hard to talk about his brother’s death. “Anyway, he made a name for himself in certain circles.”
“Which circles?”
“The ones that matter.”
“And do you have the same name for yourself?” she asked. “In the same circles?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because...”
“Because, what? Jesus, it's like getting blood out of a stone,” she laughed. “Blood out of a stone... Agent Stone!”
“Funny.”
“No, why? Why don't you have the same name in the same circles?”
“Because what I've achieved so far, I've done so in life. My brother made a mistake and ended up sacrificing himself because of it. He was brave, I'll certainly give him that, but he died because of it.”
“What was he doing, when he died?”
“He was investigating something. Something big and something that someone wanted keeping quiet.”
“And?”
“And he underestimated what he was up against.”
“And you'll never do that?”
“No.”
“Because you've learnt from his death, his mistake?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds fairly arrogant. If you don't mind me saying?”
“I'm sure it does.”
“So why won't you make the same mistake investigating this assignment, as your brother made with his?”
He stood up and put his cup down on the table, then picked up the remote for the television. He didn't like the conversation, wanted to get it over with. “Because I've got an advantage.”
“Which is?”
“My brother died,” he paused. “I know what I'm up against.”
“But that was his assignment…”
“Yes. And now the same assignment is mine.”
***
The man was pleased with the clarity. He could hear every word of their conversation as clear as if they were in the same room. The screen of the laptop still showed Isobel Bartlett's location, and the transponder was working perfectly. He adjusted the volume on the receiver, keeping it low and ambient in the background. Just enough to catch the odd glimmer of conversation and enough to inform him that they were still there.
It sounded as if they were warming to each other, relaxing and becoming comfortable in one another's company. He was pleased. They would soon become over comfortable and that would soon lull them into making mistakes.
That would give him the advantage, and that would be their downfall.
He thought of the Secret Service agent and smiled. What a silly profession he seemed to be in. A bullet catcher for men far from worth dying for. The protector of so-called democracy and freedom. By potentially giving their life so that others could continue to abuse their electoral power.
&
nbsp; “Stone, Rob Stone,” he said quietly. “Agent Robert Stone, of the Secret Service.”
His brother had been in the FBI, he recalled. And he had been a very competent agent. But would the younger Stone prove to be better? He doubted it. He would dispatch him as efficiently as he had dispatched his brother. He thought back to the night, that cold, bleak night. It had been as dark as coal and raining heavily and he had used that to his advantage. The sound of the lashing rain had been loud and obtrusive and it had allowed him to get within two steps of the FBI agent, as he had searched the body of the cop for any sign of life. The rain had allowed him to get so close, granted him silence in his movements and he had been able to position the knife and clasp the agent tightly, hold him, clamp him from moving for the vital seconds it took to cut out his throat in just a few movements.
He had recalled watching, as he usually did, as the man had struggled to hold onto his life, kicking wildly, his hands clasping the open wound. The FBI agent knew he was dying, his eyes were so wide with terror. Then they had faded, accepting his fate. Death hadn't taken long. Not even two minutes for the unsuspecting agent to die in the pool of blood and rainwater, on that cold wintry night.
THIRTY SEVEN
There were the deep reds and bright yellows of the leaves on the trees that only appeared in fall. A paradox that the most beautiful colors should come when summer is at all but an end. From a distance the foliage looked like the glowing embers of a forgotten fire, burning brilliantly though ever more moribund, in its last moments of existence before dying out completely.
The air was crisp and clean and autumnal. The change of season was in the air and with it the feeling of regret, of losing the impudence of summer, of having to face the dulling down of winter and the colder, darker months ahead. The sky was azure and the sun was opaque, lacking its brilliance as though exhausted from shining throughout the long hot summer.
The house was set back in a large clearing in the woods. The driveway cut through the trees from the quiet road approximately two hundred yards beyond. The trees cushioned and absorbed the occasional traffic, busier in the summer, less in the fall and scarce throughout the winter months.It was a back pass. A road connecting neighboring houses and beauty spots to the town, but finally arriving at a dead end roughly three-quarters of the way up the mountain to where a network of footpaths led to a scattering of hunting and fishing lodges on the fringe of the wilderness beyond. There was no other destination to be reached by the road and for six months of the year the road acted merely as a private drive for the residents dotted throughout the valley.
A tall maple towered alone and regal in the middle of a mounded knoll in the very center of the driveway. A swing hung from the lowest of the thick branches. It swayed gently, rhythmically in the breeze. Beneath it ground a deep channel in the dirt, worn through by the dragging feet of children outgrowing the seat's height. A child's bicycle, complete with stabilizers and red, white and blue ribbons trailing from the handlebars, sat propped against the wall of the house, abandoned by its rider in a hurry, most probably in favor of milk and cookies, or a much loved television show. It was a girl's bicycle and behind it, obscured from view, laid a boy's chopper-style bike with a battery-operated siren mounted in the middle of the tall handlebars. Less care had been taken with this bicycle, the tip of one of the handles had ground deep into the dirt and the front wheel was still spinning as its rider had left it in such wild and haphazard abandon.
He walked forward slowly. The property sounded quiet and deserted but he knew that the people were inside, knew that they would be waiting for his return. The day felt special, a day to be savored. He wanted to stand still and absorb the feeling, take it with him and hold it dear to him. He knew that his mother would be proud of him, had probably telephoned his aunts and uncles and cousins and told them of his achievements. He was a rarity in his family - the first they could think of who was actually attending college. Out of state and out of the small township at the end of the valley. From there the world would be his oyster. Although his family were far from poor, his father had worked at the lumberyard since the age of eighteen, as had his father before him. The mold had been broken, cracked from the cast and he was going to get the best education he could. And all thanks to his grades and partial scholarship and his father's hard work and overtime savings. He would make something of himself. Something of which the entire family could be proud.
His mother came out from the house, her arms behind her back fiddling with the strings of her apron. She was unaware that he was there and flinched when she saw him. Her face beamed brightly and she shouted something into the house. A little girl of about five years old came skipping out holding a half-eaten cookie the size of a tea saucer, followed by a boy of about nine. They smiled at him and waved excitedly and he grinned back, unable to contain the air of cool he had imagined and wanted to replicate on the bus home.
A tall, strong-looking man of about fifty walked out onto the porch. He was wiping his hands on a wash towel. He grinned and dropped the towel down onto a wicker chair. The family were smiling in unison, a picture of warmth and togetherness. He felt a tear at the corner of his eye and smiled back, as he walked across the dry earth driveway and towards his home.
He woke suddenly with a start. For a moment he was unsure what had happened, where he was and what he had been dreaming. Only now that he was back in the reality of the present day, he was sure that he had not been dreaming at all but had been merely remembering, recalling a past moment from his life.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and padded through to the bathroom and ran the faucet. He splashed a cupped handful of cold water over his face and rubbed it around his neck. It was icy and made him gasp momentarily, taking his breath away and refreshing him, un-clouding his mind all at once. He cupped his hand again and filled it like a vessel under the flow, then drank thirstily from it, supping the water down quickly.It was thick and chalky and he could taste the fluoridein it. He spat out the remainder in his mouth, then rested both hands on the sink and stared long and hard into the mirror.
The memory had been as clear as crystal, like it had happened yesterday. The woman was the same woman as in his earlier memory, though older. And he was now sure that she had been real and he was convinced that she was indeed his mother. There was no doubt about it, which meant that the other people in this memory had been his family his brother, sister and father. For the first time, he felt emotion.It was raw and jagged and pulled at his soul like he had never imagined, nor ever previously experienced.
He walked back to the bedroom and looked at the screen of the laptop.It showed nothing, had gone to standby. He ran his finger across the mouse pad and waited for the machine to come back to life. It took only a moment and when it did it showed the still, stationary red dot which indicated that the tracking device was immobile. He picked up the receiver and tested the transponder. He turned up the volume and could hear the faint sound of shared breathing, the fall and rise of two sets of lungs in close proximity. Both Stone and Bartlett appeared to be sleeping. He only wished that his orders had been to eliminate, and not to follow. They would have stood next to no chance, sound asleep and off guard.
He turned the volume back down and walked back to the bed. A part of him wanted to relax and return to the dream, or the memory, or whateverit had been. The thought comforted him, made him feel warm and wanted. He sat down and swung his legs flat, rested his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Only a part of him wanted the memory to return. And it was the part of him that had started to feel anxiety and curiosity at not knowing his past. The other part of him, the element that housed his survival instincts and desire for self-preservation wanted nothing more of it. Wanted the whole affair forgotten and put away back in the dark recesses of his mind. In essence, it was merely the part of him that was scared of what he may remember next.
THIRTY EIGHT
The coffee was fresh out of a vending machine and hot.
It came in a plastic cup. The cup defied the logic and probabilities of both physics and chemistry combined and seemed hotter itself than the liquid it held. The cup also possessed the ability to morph itself into any shape, except that of an original cup.
Stone looked across at Isobel, who was having the same problem with her plastic cup. It had morphed into a conical, semi-triangular receptacle and was threatening to spill the scalding liquid into her lap unless she sipped some immediately. He looked across the table at Captain Dolbeck who seemed to have conquered the quandary through attrition. Experience had taught the police captain that three cups were indeed better than one and as he sipped a mouthful of steaming coffee, he did so with both grace and confidence.
Stone put the cup on the desk in front of him, and as he did so he watched as the cup morphed once more to its original shape.
“You get used to it,” Captain Dolbeck paused. “Those damn cups.” He held the stack of cups high and smiled at Isobel. “Two cents worth of coffee and ten cents of plastic, all for two dollars and a taste like a mouthful of shit... if you'll excuse my profanity, ma’am.”
She smiled and placed her cup alongside Stone's on the table.
Last night they had eaten a delivered pizza and dough balls in the room with sodas from the vending machine in reception. This morning they had risen early, breakfasted on complimentary coffee and a selection of donuts piled high from a cardboard takeout box in the foyer of the reception building. The drive had taken an hour with a short stop off at a clothes store at a retail park on the side of the highway where Stone had bought a sports-bag, a thick suede jacket and a selection of underwear and clothes for Isobel. As she picked out the underwear from the racks, he had felt uncomfortable. Watching her choose what she liked was teasing at his professionalism to the job in hand. She had asked his opinion, just casually, possibly simply for something to say but he had found himself wanting to comment and more than on a cellular level. He looked at her, studied her figure, her looks, her glossy dark hair - could imagine himself being attracted to her, had he met her in a bar someplace. Maybe even make a move on her with drinks and some corny chat up lines. He wanted to keep his head clear of such thoughts, wanted her to choose the damn underwear and leave the store. When she had chosen what she needed, he bundled it off her and dropped it down on the counter without a word. His credit card was in his hand and there was no eye contact between them until they reached the parked Mustang. She had touched his arm and thanked him for the purchases. He shrugged it off quickly and had made a flippant comment that it was merely expenses and that he would get reimbursed. After that, they hadn't said much.