by Linn Chapel
That evening, she had been listlessly turning the pages of a book when Peter had dropped by her apartment. She had always welcomed his company before, but that night she had just wanted to be alone.
Peter had noticed her blue mood right away and had questioned her. When Tressa had told him about her troubles at the hospital and the string of patients who had died that month, he had sympathized.
Then he had peered over her shoulder at the book of 18th century verse she had been reading. With his voice full of growing concern, Peter had read a verse aloud from a poem about winter.
Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave.
As soon as he had read that, her brother had drawn a heavy breath. Planting himself next to her on the sofa, Peter had told her that she was dwelling too much on all the deaths at the hospital. He had been worried about her low spirits for weeks, he had said, worried that she might become morbid and withdrawn.
There was only one remedy, according to Peter, and that was to become more engaged with life.
It was the very same advice he had been giving her for years, the same advice she had heard from well-meaning friends... but so far, she had never really taken it to heart.
But that night, she was ready to make some changes. Glancing up reflectively at Peter, she had surprised him by murmuring her agreement.
Of course, she had known that Peter would never like the kind of engagement she had just chosen. But she had planned to hide the matter from him as long as possible.
Then Peter had gone into her kitchen to find something to eat, and she had set aside the book of verse. Almost at once, the coldness within her body had ebbed and a flush of determination had taken its place.
In the following weeks, her training sessions had been held at headquarters without Peter’s knowledge. At home in her apartment, she had diligently studied the Handbook that she had been issued.
Peter had eventually found out – sooner than she had hoped – but in the end, her arguments had prevailed and her first active mission with Operation M had taken place on schedule.
As her memories continued to flood her thoughts, Tressa turned over onto her other side in bed, and pulled a blanket up to her chin.
She had departed so greatly from protocol during her mission last night that whenever Peter caught up with her, he’d be steaming with indignation. There was no telling how far he’d go to prevent her from engaging in any active missions in the future.
But did she even want to undertake more active missions? Her experiences last night had been too confusing – and far too personal.
She realized unhappily that another failure was looming. She’d have to add it to the steadily-growing list of failures that had marked her life so far.
Turning over again in bed, she burrowed her face into the softness of her pillow and tried not to think anymore.
She must have fallen asleep, for she was startled awake sometime later by the sound of cupboards being opened and closed. Next she heard water gushing from the faucet in the kitchen. Sitting up in bed, she sniffed at the appetizing aromas that were drifting into her bedroom.
Nervously, she arose and made her way to the kitchen. Just as she had suspected, Peter had let himself into her apartment while she was asleep. He was busily chopping a pile of vegetables and his head was bent over his task as he wielded a chef’s knife with forceful, staccato motions. She could almost feel his tension traveling across the room to her in waves.
“Peter!” she called out breezily, hoping to lighten his mood. “What’s cooking?”
Her brother swung around at the sound of her voice. Impatiently, he swept back the strands of sun-bleached hair that had fallen into his face and pinned her with an angry look. “What happened last night?” he ground out.
Tressa felt her cheerful mask slip. She swallowed with an effort. “I completed the mission in the end.”
Peter tossed the heavy knife he had been using onto the chopping board with a clatter. With his hands on his hips, he glared at her. “Why didn’t you follow protocol?”
Tressa shifted uncomfortably. “I was waiting for an opening to inject the subject, but – I lost my nerve. Then we came here.”
“Here? You were alone with him in your apartment?” The volume of Peter’s voice had been steadily rising, and now it rose even higher. “You broke the most important safety rule of them all!”
She held up both hands, hoping to calm his temper. “Peter, it’s true that I was alone with him, but he didn’t hurt me.”
“Did you have trouble with him after you used the injector?”
Tressa crossed her arms protectively. If she had had only one wish, she would have used it that instant to be transported some place far, far away – Antarctica would have been perfect.
“I didn’t use the injector, Peter.”
He must have misread her meaning, for he only grumbled, “All that effort, and the subject never even received a dose of blood.”
“No, he received a dose. Without the injector.” Tressa kept her eyes fixed on the opposite wall. Still, she flinched at the cry that emerged from Peter.
“Why did I listen to you?” he raged. “Active missions are dangerous, even for someone sensible like me. Tressa, you don’t seem to have an ounce of common sense! Did he try to mesmerize you first?”
“Yes.”
“Did you succumb?”
“No, I was able to fight him off. But his power was very strong. Stronger than I had expected.”
“You were never supposed to be in any real jeopardy. I should have cancelled your mission as soon as I found out about it.”
“But Peter, I just wanted to do something that would make a difference. There’s so little I can do for my patients at the hospital.”
He shook his head despairingly. “You’re too helpful, Tressa. I never thought a person could die from good intentions, but in your case, I could be wrong,” he added darkly.
Then the militant look began to fade from Peter’s eyes. He stepped closer, and sweeping back her long hair, he carefully inspected her skin above the collar of her uniform.
“So, what does the expert in these matters have to say?” she asked.
“Hmm. Hardly a trace of the puncture wound is left,” he replied. “How do you feel?”
“I was tired today during my shift at the hospital, but I feel better now that I’ve had some sleep. I hope you didn’t eat everything in my cupboards again, Peter. One of these days, I’m going to take back the spare key that I gave you.”
Peter granted her a half-hearted chuckle and returned to the vegetables on the chopping board. Soon he was dishing up a pair of mushroom omelets with thick slices of toast and a colorful salad. Together they sat down at the cozy little table in Tressa’s kitchen.
“By the way, your audioscanner stopped working last night,” Peter told her as he made short work of his food. “The signal failed to transmit right after the subject arrived on the scene.”
Tressa shot him a guilty look. “I turned my audioscanner off,” she confessed. “It made me feel self-conscious.”
“It was supposed to keep you safe!” Peter shot back hotly, his temper flaring again. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What about the tracking bead? Did you do something to that, too? We haven’t received any signal from it at headquarters.”
Tressa dropped her eyes and poked at her salad. “I forgot to plant it on him.”
“You forgot about the tracking bead?” Peter sputtered. “The success of the mission depends upon that!”
Tressa rose from the table and went to her bedroom, where she retrieved all of the Operation devices – the audioscanner, the tracking bead, and the injector – from the pocket of the dress she had worn during the mission. To her relief, Peter’s temper had cooled a few degrees by the time she returned to the kitchen.
With a reproachful look, he stowed the devices away in his jacket. “No more missions, Tressa,” he said flatly.
Tressa was about to argue w
ith him, but the words never left her lips. In her heart, she knew she wasn’t cut out to be an operative. Despite all of her training sessions, her ability to remain neutral had disappeared as soon as Holt had spoken to her.
“Peter, I’ve been wondering about the subject. Why did the Operation single him out in the first place?”
A shadow of unease flitted across her brother’s face. “All I was told was that he’s supposed to have connections that could be useful.”
“What kind of connections?”
There was a short silence. “I asked for clarification several times, but I was never given any.”
“Peter, you have the right to know everything that goes on in the Operation,” she reminded him.
He stared back at her. “I know,” he said in a hard voice. “And I’m going to find out what’s going on, one way or another.” He rose abruptly from the table and began clearing the plates.
Tressa joined him. “Don’t worry about cleaning up. Go to your studio, now.”
Peter’s face brightened as he set the plates down near the sink.
“Go on.” Tressa waved him toward the door, knowing how badly he wanted more time to work at his studio.
Peter gave her a brotherly smooch on the cheek and left the kitchen. As Tressa continued with the cleanup, she heard her doorbell signal the arrival of a visitor downstairs at the street-level entrance to the building.
Briing.... psst.... psst. Tressa’s ancient doorbell sputtered in between bursts of ringing.
Standing next to the kitchen sink, she wondered if her visitor could be Gerry. Her brother’s old college roommate had been dropping by now and then, angling unsuccessfully for a date ever since she’d moved to town. She sighed and dried her hands with a towel, thinking she’d have to find a way to evade Gerry once more without bruising his feelings.
The ringing had stopped. Out in the living room, she could hear Peter speaking through the intercom box, the most up-to-date of all the amenities in her apartment, and even it was old and cracked, with its wires hanging from the bottom.
“Who is it, Peter?” she called out from the kitchen.
“Someone named Holt. He’s here to return a book.”
Her heartbeat seemed to stop for a long moment, and then it started up again, thudding heavily. As she walked into the living room, her legs grew weaker with every step.
“Let him in, Peter.”
Peter dutifully punched the button to unlock the entrance door downstairs. He turned to frown across the room at Tressa. “He must be English, judging by his accent. I didn’t know you had any friends from England,” he added suspiciously, for he was always ready to cast a critical eye on any man who seemed to be pursuing her. “Did you meet him at the hospital?”
“I know him,” she answered in a faint voice, “but not from the hospital.”
Her thoughts were spinning. Peter must have gotten a look at Holt’s face on the surveillance screen last night. Her brother would surely recognize the visitor who’d arrive at her door any moment now.
“Peter,” she whispered in an urgent undertone. “It’s him!”
Peter stiffened. His eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “The subject?”
She nodded. “I never thought he’d come back! Let me spend some time alone with him, Peter. This is my chance to plant the tracking bead,” she added.
Peter’s jaw tightened. He stared back at her, looking torn.
Just then, a firm knock sounded at the door. Peter’s chest heaved with reluctance, and then he stepped forward and opened the door.
Holt was dressed all in black, once again. His coal-black hair swept back from his forehead to fall in waves down to his shoulders, just the way Tressa remembered. But a hard look came into his dark eyes when he saw Peter standing in the doorway. Tressa knew what he must be thinking. Her brother might be quick-tempered and bossy, but he was also good-looking enough to be a film star.
With a wobbly smile, Tressa stepped closer. “Holt, please come in.”
Holt’s gaze speared past Peter, coming to rest upon her face. Tressa met his look, feeling more nervous than ever. She cleared her throat.
“Holt, I’d like you to meet my brother, Peter. He was just about to leave,” she added, giving Peter a pointed look.
Peter stepped aside so that Holt could enter. Her brother crossed his arms over his chest, looking distinctly unhurried.
As Holt passed through the doorway, the hard light faded from his eyes. “I came to return a book, Tressa. I borrowed it last night, don’t you remember?” he asked smoothly, holding forth one of her books. “No, I can see that you don’t, but you were very tired last night.” He stepped past Peter’s stiff figure and handed her the book.
Tressa examined the slender volume of modern poetry. “Between the Lines of the Sky. Did you like it?”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t.” He sighed. “I tried to find some merit in it, but I couldn’t. Like so many modern poems, its verses were filled with pretty words all jumbled next to one another, like colored pebbles in a stream. But it was a dry stream. There was no meaning flowing through the words, no current to bind them together.” His tone was faintly bored.
“You certainly have some strong opinions!” she said with a little laugh.
“Have I offended you, Tressa?” He flashed her a searching look.
“No, not at all.” Out of the corner of her eye, Tressa noticed that Peter was standing with his hands on his hips, now.
“Tressa,” he growled.
“Weren’t you about to leave, Peter?”
“I need to ask you something, first.” Peter’s eyes bored into hers. Leading the way into the kitchen, he swung the door shut behind them and gestured for her to follow him to the sink, where he turned on the faucet. Tressa joined him, speaking softly so that the gushing water would mask their words.
“Peter, stop the overprotective brother routine,” she whispered.
“It’s not a routine,” he hissed back.
“He won’t need another victim for a week or more. You know that,” she murmured under her breath. “Stop worrying, Peter. Give me a chance to plant the tracking bead on him.”
“I’ll leave, if you agree to two conditions.”
“What are they?”
“First, you need to go someplace where you won’t be alone with him. Try one of the cafés by the riverfront. I’ll follow and watch from a distance.”
“Alright,” she whispered back. “What’s the second?”
“This has to be the last time you ever meet him.”
“Alright, Peter. He’s probably going to disappear soon, anyway.”
Peter nodded. “Let it happen. He’ll drop out of sight, just like all the others.” He reached into his pocket. “Be careful, Tressa. Remember, the dose of blood he’s had could make him more dangerous than ever. Play it safe while you’re planting the tracking bead.” He placed the small, perforated metal bead in the palm of her hand.
Slipping the bead into her own pocket, Tressa proceeded to fill several glasses with water as a cover for their activities in the kitchen and then turned off the faucet. Adding ice cubes, she placed the glasses on a tray and led the way from the kitchen, sure that her face was flushed. With any luck, Holt would assume she’d merely been arguing with Peter over something of no consequence.
In the living room, Holt had seated himself on the sofa in their absence. He observed their return with a look of silent amusement, and as they sipped at their ice water, Peter made stilted small talk.
“I have to leave, now,” Peter soon announced. He gave Holt a long, measuring look as he crossed to the door.
Holt seemed unperturbed. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Peter.”
Peter did not return the pleasantry. After he had closed the door behind him, Tressa looked over at Holt. They were sitting together on the sofa with only a short distance between them and her nerves were humming with tension now that she was alone with him.
“I
’m sorry about my brother – he’s very protective of me.”
“There’s no need to apologize.”
“He knows all about how we met last night,” she murmured. She added, “He should have thanked you for the way you helped me, instead of being so rude.” She dropped her eyes to the flowered pattern in the vintage carpet. “Would you like to go for a walk?” Still studying the carpet, she said, “We could stop by one of the cafés near the river.”
When Holt did not answer, she looked up to see that his earlier poise was gone. He gave her a shuttered look and rose from the sofa to pace restlessly about the room. In a few moments, he came to a stop before a vintage clock that rested on a wall shelf. He seemed to be staring at the time, or perhaps he was listening to the sound of the clock ticking.
Then, just as abruptly as he had left the sofa, he strode back to Tressa. His dark eyes rested on her face. “The night air is unusually fine tonight. By all means, let us enjoy it together.”
A sense of relief came over her, a feeling that was almost heady in its intensity. Tressa tried to dampen it, knowing his agreement shouldn’t matter so much to her, but the feeling remained.
Noticing for the first time that she was still dressed in her white uniform, she said, “I forgot to change after work. I’m a nurse’s aide at the hospital near the city center,” she explained lightly, rising from the sofa. Holt knew perfectly well where she worked, but if she chose her words carefully, she’d be able to keep up the pretense that he’d never seen her before last night.
Holt seemed content to wait, and Tressa crossed the room to her bedroom. Closing the door, she frowned over the old sweaters stacked inside her closet. On an impulse, she brought out a midnight-blue dress and fitted jacket from the back of the closet, an outfit she rarely wore. Changing quickly into it, she placed the tracking bead within one of the dress’s pockets. Then she moved to her dresser where her hand passed over the hairpins and stage glasses and landed on the brush.
Her conscience pricked at her as she brushed her long hair smooth. Eyeing her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, she fought away her qualms.