Nicole begins to move about the room, her clothing its usual mixture of form-fitting and loose, the sleeves of the light-colored dress flowing with the fluidity of her motion. She gazes down at a trinket on a nearby shelf, her long, straight auburn hair framing her face.
“Of course it is not, and it is not just about her being the vigilante.” She then turns to look at him. “Lilja is the type of woman to go out and hunt demons on her own.”
He nods, looking away from that piercing gaze, musing, “She wants to make right what she can, even at the toll of what it does to herself.”
“And to you.”
He looks over, sighing, lips pressing together somewhat. “We know the risks involved.”
She closes her eyes, nodding once, slowly, then opening them again as she goes back to wandering about the expansive and warm chamber.
“We do, and we have all paid prices, and further tolls are yet to be collected. She needs further training, and not just in combat. If anything, that is the area where she is least in need.”
“She could very well be a trainer to some of our Hunters.”
“Indeed, so, we need address the areas where she does need help.”
“And what areas are those?” he asks, sincere, not pushing.
“I am not yet sure. I would like to spend more time with her, if she is willing. I am not sure if she is delusional in the sense of really seeing things that are not there-.”
“I doubt it’s that,” he interjects.
“As do I, but it is a possibility that must be considered,” she presses in her own way, and he nods lightly in acquiescence. “She may, indeed, be possessed of an awakening sensitivity as you mentioned earlier, and if that is the case, we may help her exercise and hone it. It would become a powerful ability.”
He nods again, waiting for her to continue.
“Or she may merely be trying to deal with the intense stresses of her life.”
“Regardless, she needs help,” he states, and his sister is quick to give a slow nod.
“She is stubborn, but not in every way. She also possesses a near child-like inquisitiveness and openness. I do not think she would become defensive and close up if this subject is broached in the manner it deserves.”
“Yes, well.” Skot exhales, standing, seeming to have forgotten his whiskey. “You don’t know her as well as I do.”
“I do not,” Nicole agrees, eyes slitting a bit.
“What?”
“Do not plant the seeds of resignation or failure.”
“I’m …,” he begins, but he stops himself, taking in another slow breath, “She is earnest, a person with great bravery, but she also exhibits signs of paranoia. I don’t mean in a clinical sense, but she very much is the kind to retreat, but not necessarily to hide. She would retreat into a fortress, a place of defense.”
“That is hiding,” Nicole observes.
“Somewhat, yes, but I think she also retreats and tries to figure things out by herself.”
“That is commendable, but there is only so much each of us may accomplish on our own.”
“Yes, yes.” He nods, the words tumbling out in a musing tone.
“She may have trouble recognizing her own limitations.”
“Yes, I would say that is accurate in some cases.”
“But she is also a very humble person.”
“She is.”
“Then she is somewhat prepared to see those barriers. Again, she needs help.”
“Do you think she needs therapy?” he asks after a moment of silence.
“No,” Nicole resolutely replies, “She just needs a way out of the dark places.”
*****
He is not that used to attention from women. He gets it, surely, usually as a direct result of his choice of employment, but his magnetism is unrefined. He takes care of himself in some regards, shaving often enough, keeping his light brown hair cut on a regular basis, the barbershop near his home being one of his favored daytime locales. But the barbers have to sometimes knock on the inside of their own window to get his attention to come on in.
He is not so much negligent as focused, practical. He keeps up some modicum of appearance, because he ought to, but he is not a vain man.
Were one to see him naked, they might think him so due to the physical condition of his body. Again, he is as he is due to the practical needs of his career. His unkempt growth of body hair might clue one in, were one to see him naked.
Yet, the attractive woman sitting less than half a dozen spaces down the bar keeps looking at him.
He had been paying more attention to his beer than to anything else, but he finally looked over, more just a casual, if not even bored, sway of his general focus. She met his eyes, her dark ones finding his paler ones, and she gave him a smile. Unsure how to react, he merely blinked, then went back to his beer. It was not a reaction of bashfulness, merely confusion. Her grin had grown.
She could be a cop, but he did not think so. Besides, though she is good looking enough, she is not some overdone model-type like the boss’ new girlfriend and the cohort of elegant, almost uncanny ladies that seem to be around her most of the time. This woman looks ‘real’.
He notes this with a few sidelong glances. She notices them, but she does not overtly react, letting him have his secret observance. She wears a tan trench coat, opened. He notes the dark clothing beneath, a dress or a skirt, as he gazes down, noting her bare ankles and the black pumps, not too tall, alluring yet still somewhat sensible. His eyes move back up, and he notes the look of her neck. She is not too young, either. Perhaps she is a mature-enough woman who happens to be single or merely out for some adventure. Who knows?
He does not, so almost as a shrug, he goes back to his beer, tilting up the glass and finishing it.
“May I treat you to your next?”
He looks over to see her there. How very sneaky of her to have gotten off her stool and walked over without his realizing. He finds himself liking that. He still says nothing, just looking at her. The bartender, ever attentive, especially with the amount of people in here being so low, waits.
“You’re drinking Saku, no?” she notes, her voice revealing an accent as though her native language may be French.
“I am,” he finally speaks, “What are you drinking?”
She smiles, then turns to the barkeep. “Two Sakus, please,” she orders, and he nods, preparing the drinks. She looks back, but her flair has not cracked his exterior. “What’s your name?”
“Soosaar.”
She perks somewhat thick, trimmed eyebrows. “That’s an interesting name.”
“It’s … it’s my last name.”
“Ah.” She nods, slowly, trying to encourage him. “Is your first name a secret?”
He looks at her for a short moment.
“Kalju, but most call me ‘Kal’ … or Soosaar.”
“Pleased to meet you, Kal, I am Livie Cloutier.”
“You’re French.”
The curve on her lips increases. “I am, and I don’t think you’re originally from here, either.”
He exhales through his nose, his own lips pressing together as though they might curl. “I am Estonian.”
“Ah, of course, I should have guessed,” she grins, glancing at their beers, and when she takes hers up, gesturing, he proves amiable enough to the toast.
Throughout their time talking, his mind is working. He continues to wonder why she is here, why she is talking to him. She might indeed just be a woman who has come in here for a drink and some possible company, but he holds doubts as to that. She appears quite comfortable and confident, so he thinks she’d not come to a dingy place like this. She wears no wedding ring, but he still wonders. Maybe she is married, or involved, and she is here for a quick, illicit incursion.
She’s quite forward, too. Pulling the nearby stool closer, though it is already near enough, and as they spend more time, she often touches him, placing a hand on his shoulder or arm. They
go through some more drinks, though they take their time, not downing shots like some young people looking to lose themselves or stir their courage.
“Well,” she says, glancing at her watch, “I think it’s time for me to leave.”
He feels an unexpected stab of disappointment, and he wonders if he ought to ask for her number or some such, but before he can decide, she speaks again.
“Would you like to come with me?” she bids, putting on a rather seductive smile.
He would, but he hesitates.
“Or at the very least, walk me to my car?” she opts, eyebrows perking again.
“Yes, of course,” he agrees, rising from the stool, slipping some notes to the bartender, and they depart.
The lot is mostly empty, but she parked on the edge, the meager lights from the space barely reaching one side of her car. A vehicle drives by on the road, but overall, it is relatively subdued on this week night.
“I thought it might get busier,” she says, offering her explanation to the obvious, though unspoken inquiry from him.
“If you’re worried, you shouldn’t park so far from the lights.”
“I know,” she says, and she takes on a slight expression as though a scolded child, though the obvious intent is to appear alluring.
It works, and he stares at her, feeling that undeniable hunger of which she has reminded him.
“But I like the dark,” she adds, sauntering to him, and she places both hands on his chest, guiding and turning him until his back stops against her vehicle.
They kiss passionately, hungrily, all pretext gone. Their hands work on each other, exploring. He begins to feel his excitement growing, a demanding stirring in his loins. As though sensing this, she pushes forward with her hips, pressing against him, all but mounting him right there.
“Excuse me.”
The voice intrudes like a barb, and she pulls away from him immediately. Again, his initial thoughts go to it being a cop, and he prepares to growl out some irritated words, but the man wears a suit, and he, just as with the woman, does not give off the vibe of the police. Kalju pauses, staring, brow furrowing. He wonders if this is Livie’s man, perhaps having trailed her or more likely determining where she has gone. He seems polite enough, even cultured, but he cannot be happy with what he has found.
Then he reaches into his jacket, and Kal stiffens, but the man pulls forth an identification.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I’m with the police,” he informs, and Kal narrows his eyes, not to further study the presented information, but because he knows the guys does not feel like a cop. “I’m in the area asking questions of people. Do you mind?”
Livie looks at Kalju with wide eyes.
“I do mind,” Kal grumbles, his words and manner quite clear.
“I’m sorry,” the man smoothly carries on, not perturbed in the least, “but I have a job to do.”
He speaks with a definite German accent, and his lighter toned hair and eyes, well-formed jaw, mark him as potentially of such descent.
“I don’t care.”
“Kal?” comes her voice, and he turns his attention somewhat to her, “Let’s not make a scene. Can’t we just answer his questions and be done with it?”
“Thank you, Madam,” the self-identified law enforcement officer says, giving a polite smile which does not waver as he sets his eyes back on the other. “Do you know a man named Kazimir Volkov?”
Alarm spikes in Kalju, but he does not show much reaction. Maybe the guy is a cop. Maybe he’s just one of those fancy Interpol agents. Still, something is not right.
“No,” he clips.
The man smiles a bit more.
“Well,” he continues, the word punctuated by a breathy exhalation like a patronizing chuckle, “You have been under surveillance for some time, Mr. Soosaar, and I feel quite confident that you do know the man of whom I speak.”
Enough is enough, he decides, and he reaches for his pistol, but it is not there.
The other man perks his eyebrows. “Looking for something?” he taunts, and when Kalju returns his gaze, the other glances briefly at the woman.
Kal shoots his eyes over to find that Livie is holding his weapon, looking suddenly like a more experienced handler of guns than men. She has moved further away, turning to face him, holding the pistol in an experienced grip with both hands.
“What the hell is going on?”
She says nothing.
“I am here to ask you questions,” the man reminds.
“Fuck you. You’re not police.”
“No.” He gives a grin, almost apologetic. “I’m not.” He slips the ID back into his coat, pulling forth a suppressed Glock 17, and before Kalju may much react, two quiet shots are fired.
He drops, hit in his right knee and thigh, the pain excruciating, and he cries out, more of an angry scream than anything, hoping to not only unleash his rage but also get attention from inside the bar. The shooter swoops forward, going down to his victim, angling the barrel at his head. Kal defies his own pain, lashing out with an arm to swipe away at the gun. The man does not lose his hold, but he is deflected, partially losing his balance. Kal uses his other hand to try to attack the man, but his opponent uses the sudden change in situation to slam his elbow into Kalju’s face. Bone cracks and blood spurts, and he feels a short stun.
“Livie,” the man calls, the word sharp and short, like a command, like familiarity, and the two go to quick work, dragging their prey back around to the other side of the car, the side shrouded in darkness.
She used her real name, Kalju finds himself suddenly and quite oddly noting.
Once done, she again steps back, getting some decent distance and covering with the appropriated firearm.
“Now, I will ask again,” the man says, patiently, “and every question I ask will be answered with truth or pain. You will decide.”
“Fuck you,” Kal manages, blood pooling and running aside his upper lip.
The man huffs out a short chuckle. “I haven’t asked anything yet.”
Then the interrogation resumes.
CHAPTER TEN
He stands in the shadows of the small arrangement of foliage. The trees were planted here years ago, artificial efforts at natural-seeming beautification. He thinks life does need its efforts at such improvements, even if it is just a charade. The trunks of these are narrow, the bark quite pale in color. He is not sure what kind they are.
He watches the doorway across the distance. He knows the occupant is inside. He had warned the dweller at one time to change his address. He realizes with some measure of satisfaction that the advice was not heeded. Still, this will not be easy. He takes another pull on the flask, the cap off, held in his left hand. He feels the nice burn of it, takes another drink, then puts the flask away. How does alcohol forge steel? Perhaps it is all just part of that charade. He feels more compelled by external forces than his own volition. He knows that is empty, an excuse, but he still feels that way. He’s made his decisions.
With a noisy huff, he plods over the ground, moving his bulk with no sign of difficulty. He passes through some light from streetlamps, the cone of illumination showing the person, the conflict there. Alec is determined, but he is also troubled. His face gives forth signs of regret, sorrow, but fear has no place in him.
Quain usually sleeps quite deeply. He also adheres to a fairly regular schedule, unforeseen demands of his job notwithstanding. He’s finished this day like many others, spending some time at the gym, then coming home, having a decent meal, then heading to bed. Thoughts have coursed through his mind. He wonders about this case, the children, his partner, her life, the vigilante, Therese, and yes, even somewhat of his ex-partner. He wonders how things could have gotten so terrible. When they worked for Gnegon things got bad, bad enough for him to go straight, but now, it just gets worse and worse. Why can’t they clean the city thoroughly enough to put a stop to this? What is it about this place that seems to attract so much th
at is negative, even as it continues to prove a cosmopolitan haven for many good things?
He turns to his other side, trying to cleanse his own mind and reach slumber. He doesn’t hear the expert work of the man who enters his apartment.
Alec carefully closes the door behind him, not even bothering to worry if anyone may have seen his illegal entry. He treads quietly on the floor, moving with a quiet grace some might not expect from the large man. He may be loose of tongue sometimes, but he is experienced. Sometimes one needs a rolling boulder, an avalanche, and sometimes one needs the silent slip, like a thorn or needle.
He pauses, looking at the living room. He’s shared a beer here with his ex-partner. Yes, though Quain is a fiend for fitness, he drinks a beer or two from time to time. Alec tries to recall the detail of the memory, why Quain was having a beer with him, what were they talking about? He can see it in his mind, but he can’t hear anything. His recollection narrows, becoming like a pinpoint. Things used to be a lot easier. He wishes for those times again.
He knows what he needs to do, but he just stands there.
Meanwhile, Quain lies in bed, now on his back, unable still to sleep. He thinks about his new partner, Maria. She’s a strong woman, that’s for sure. He respects her, and not just in her approach to her job but also how she deals with the trials of her own life. He still thinks she sometimes hides behind an occasional self-righteous veneer, but no one is perfect. They’ve begun to open up and share more, and he knows that she is also into fitness, though not to the same degree as he. She’s even told him a bit about her daughter.
The case, though, isn’t getting any better. It’s been too long since the occurrence of the crime for them to have a lot of hope, except he feels fairly certain it was perpetrated by the same element responsible for the child prostitution. He doesn’t think it’s some lone person who’s fled the area or gone into remission or hiding. There’s still work that can be done, and he also holds out hope for the information Therese may provide. He then lets his thoughts flow to the vigilante. He wonders what lengths they are willing to go in their fighting of crime. Does the vigilante already know who is responsible? Has it already been dealt with?
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