Bonus Scene Archive
If you subscribe to my email newsletter, you'll know that I typically include a bonus scene. They are set in the Of Imprints & Erasure world, but outside of the main storyline. They're usually not told from D's first person perspective; in fact, some of the characters haven't even appeared in the main series yet. Sometimes, they're just a bit of fun. Sometimes, they hold clues to future plot developments.
Which is which? Ha! Not telling.
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For those who missed the earlier newsletters, this page will collect these scenes some time after they appear.
Reassignment
Jamal Peters drummed his fingers on the center console of the limo’s backseat and stifled a yawn. The car’s deep tinted windows worked wonders for privacy but played hell with his ability to stay awake following the redeye flight from Boston. He needed all his wits about him for this meeting.
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LeVault hadn’t given him much notice. They’d summoned him yesterday morning - or was that two days ago now? - proclaiming urgency, neither knowing nor perhaps caring how difficult it was to find tolerable last minute flights from St. Louis to the UK. One couldn’t fly direct and he hadn’t risked layovers of less than ninety minutes in the heart of winter. Four hours stewing in Logan airport later, he’d at least endured one of the shorter transatlantic flights to London Heathrow. He couldn’t sleep on airplanes, so he’d had plenty of time to wonder just what was so important for LeVault to drag him halfway across the world at the last minute.
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Wheels crunched on gravel as centrifugal force pressed him against the cool black leather of the door. He peered out at the grounds of a country house, stark but immaculate. Precisely-groomed hedges framed rows of flower beds empty of everything but promise. A weathered marble fountain greeted him, silent and watchful, as he clambered out of the vehicle at the end of the drive. He squinted in the sudden sunlight, stretched his limbs and looked for his carry-on.
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“I’ll bring your bag in for you, sir,” said the driver, the first time she had spoken since meeting him at the airport. “They want to see you immediately.”
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Too tired to object, Jamal straightened his back and walked through the front door of the two-story brownstone house. Just inside the entrance, a security guard with the heft and demeanor of a nightclub bouncer inspected his identification and patted him down. The Foundation still had the jitters then.
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“Is LeVault in their office?” he asked. The guard appeared to think about it, then nodded. Talkative guy. Jamal suppressed a sigh and climbed the creaking wooden staircase to the upper floor. The house was bigger than it appeared from the driveway, presenting the base of its “U” shape to its guests. LeVault’s office was halfway along the western wing, overlooking the courtyard. He met no-one on his way up, although he caught murmured conversations behind more than one closed door. Sparse lighting gave the corridors a brooding atmosphere that did little to soothe his nerves.
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“Jamal! Come in. Please, sit down. You must be exhausted after your flight. I know I always am.”
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Kara LeVault ushered him into a tall leather-padded chair constructed of the same wood as their massive desk, probably mahogany. Blinds were drawn over the windows, muting the sunlight, and the bookcase-lined walls conspired to give the room a library vibe. Appropriate. LeVault always had preferred the academic side of things. They sat opposite him, fingers steepled, dark eyes brimming with what might have been excitement.
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“Why am I here, Kara? Why the rush?”
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“Missing St. Louis already? I thought you were tired of the place.”
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“I’m tired of being stuck on the periphery. Of observing and not doing. I’m wasted there and we both know it.”
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LeVault’s good humor faded as the old argument surfaced. “To business then. Very well. I wanted you to hear it from me first. We’re pulling you out of St. Louis.”
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Jamal stared at them and tried not to let his jaw drop.
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“Really? Just like that? After all these months of arguing about it?”
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LeVault shrugged. “We’re reacting to events on a wider scale, as we always do. We no longer feel you best serve the Foundation’s interests in St. Louis.”
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“I see. Where then? May I assume you’re moving me to London? From what I—“
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“No. You’re going to Chicago.”
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Jamal blinked. “Chicago? I thought we had that covered?”
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“Can you not think of any reason we might send you there?” LeVault arched an eyebrow and then realization dawned.
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“You want me to keep tabs on the cook.”
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“Exactly. And the girl, too. Your reports have attracted more interest than you are perhaps aware. Astbury has a new theory.”
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Jamal snorted. “Astbury always has new theories. They’re her favorite thing.”
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“Perhaps,” said LeVault, grinning. “But this is a good one. Potentially ground breaking. You can hear it from her yourself.”
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“She’s here? You lured her away from Cambridge?”
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“Just for the day, yes. She’s itching to see you. I believe she has some sort of demonstration planned.”
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Jamal took off his wire-framed glasses and rubbed his eyes. Almost thirty hours without sleep was catching up to him, ground breaking revelations notwithstanding.
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“Perfect. Any chance of a cup of coffee first?”
Revenge
Steven Rourke closed his office window blinds against the encroaching November night. He took absurd delight in doing so with the simple touch of a button on a lighter-sized remote, never leaving the comfort of his brown leather desk chair. The two motors hummed softly as the blackout fabric slats descended in unison. It never ceased to fascinate him.
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Unfortunately, no remote had yet been invented for pouring a man a glass of whiskey. He lifted himself out of his chair, stretched his back, and strode across the dark hardwood floor to his drinks cart. He unstoppered the crystal decanter of eighteen year old Jameson and poured a generous amount into a blocky square-profile glass. Swirling its contents, he contemplated the antique mahogany bookcase next to the cart, salvaged from a decrepit house in Benton Park two decades earlier. Its five shelves were stuffed with books, all hardbacks, some, so he was told, first editions. He had read none of them. They were window dressing, existing solely to cultivate his public persona as a civilized human being. He grinned, sipped his whiskey, and returned to his desk.
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Slumping in his chair, he scowled at the newspaper in front of him, today’s St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He preferred a physical newspaper to the online edition. There was something to be said for tradition, but he also found it much easier to ignore the deluge of advertisements in the print copy. They were not the cause of his current profound irritation.
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“Chouteau Village Gets New Lease On Life” blared the headline on page 4. He didn’t know what offended him most. The pun was cringe-worthy and he was certain the correct expression was “lease of life”. Did no one copy edit anymore? He had forced himself to read the article, grinding his teeth at tales of happier residents at the condo complex and the continuing solvency of its management company. Great, terrific, happy fucking story.
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He had read it five times now, and it got worse every time.
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Someone knocked on his door, two short raps on its solid core oak. He glanced at his watch. Five o’clock, on the dot. Punctual. Good.
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“Come in,” he called, and swiveled his chair in the direction of the door as it opened. The man who stepped through was short, slim, straight dark hair framing a forgettable pale face. Black leather jacket, dark blue jeans, white sneakers. The kind of man who would vanish instantly in a crowd.
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“Mr. Rourke,” the man said, inclining his head as he took up a standing position across the other side of the desk. “I heard you have a task for me.”
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“Indeed I do,” Rourke replied, cradling the almost-empty whiskey glass before him. Rings glittered on his fingers. If the other man was impressed, he betrayed no sign of it. “Are you familiar with Hickory, the restaurant on Cherokee Street?”
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“No, but I can Google it.”
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“Do. I want them out of business for the holidays.”
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The man didn’t blink, only nodded. “Damage or devastation?”
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“Damage, I think. Localized to the restaurant only, not its neighbors. Understood?”
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“Of course. I’ll see to it. For the usual fee.” The man turned to leave.
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“Wait.” Rourke folded the newspaper on his desk and proffered it at arms length. “Take this. Use it as fire starter if you want.”
The Boy
Two men sit across a table in a back corner of an upmarket chain restaurant. It could be anywhere in America, but it happens to be in Centennial, what is now a southern suburb of Denver.
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The servers still wear masks, as does one of the diners while they wait for their food. The other man, while sensitive to others’ safety and comfort, finds masks uncomfortable over his full beard. He took his off as soon as they sat down, and the flimsy blue fabric lies parallel to his phone to the left of his place setting. Part of him questions the entire point of the practice. Humanity has brought the pandemic on itself, it deserves to perish. But some deserve it less than others. Some are trying to make amends, to bring not just their species but the entire planet back from the brink. Those are the people that deserve protection.
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“Did you find a publisher for your book?” asks his companion. He is balding, wrinkled, his left cheek discolored by what might have been a birthmark. It is a burn, and a recent one.
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The bearded man scowls and sips his water before replying. “I did not. At least, not one with whom I felt comfortable dealing. That is one of the things I wished to discuss with you.”
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“Oh?”
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He cannot see, but the bearded man is certain his companion is grinning behind his mask. Smug bastard. What was it about the very wealthy that they were always so goddamn smug?
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Patience. Don’t let him goad you. His heart, what there is of it, is in the right place. He’ll give you the money. You just have to let him play the game his way for a while.
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“I wish to publish the book myself, or rather as an LLC. Independent of the organization, of course, if in harmony with it. The publishing costs themselves are minimal. Selling it is something else entirely. If we wish to change hearts and minds, it will take means more than I currently possess to promote the book enough to make a difference.”
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“You’re not considering major talk shows and Super Bowl commercials I take it?”
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“Of course not.” He ignores the gentle mockery. “Discretion is still the better part of valor after all. I was thinking more along the lines of book signings, Amazon ads, perhaps a strategic podcast or two. I think we can go after a higher-end market than we’re currently used to. We have foot soldiers. We need lieutenants and colonels.”
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“Very well. Draw up a plan for me and I’ll secure the necessary funds.”
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Just like that. The bearded man is so surprised, he scarcely notices the server setting down a plate of seafood linguine in front of him. He thanks the young woman absently, and only after his companion does so with far more grace.
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“Tell me,” says the older man, removing his mask at last. The burn continues almost all the way to his jaw bone, skirting thin, colorless lips. “How is the boy?”
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The boy. The bearded man dwells over his first mouthful of linguine as he ponders the question. He still cannot fathom the other man’s interest in this new recruit to their cause.
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“Well enough, for the current stage of his rehab. It’s his third go round and he’s still in his early twenties. Once he gets clean, I’m thinking of bringing him here. He needs close attention.”
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The burned man shakes his head. “No. Not Denver. Send him to Chicago.”
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So that’s why you were so quick with the purse strings. You want to keep tabs on Daniel.
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“Isn’t that a bit close to home for him?” the bearded man asks, carefully. He doesn’t want to antagonize his most prolific donor, but neither does he want to risk losing such a potentially valuable asset.
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“Chicago is further from St. Louis then you think,” smiles the burned man. “And the organization there is well-established and competent. He’ll be in good hands while you’re on your book tour. Leave his parents to me.”
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“Very well,” says the bearded man, making a mental note to call Brendan in Chicago as soon as possible. He offers his hand across the table. His companion shakes it amiably and so the bargain is struck.
The Other Couple
Lana Gunderson tutted at her phone as the Ring doorbell’s chime faded. It was him. Later than he had promised, but at least he was still walking and talking. They had wondered.
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She paused The Last of Us on their fireplace-spanning TV - there were only minutes left, Joel and Ellie had been ambushed leaving the empty hospital, she’d have to finish that before bed - and smoothed down her scarlet mini-dress before heading for her apartment door. Her hands lingered over her curves in an almost daily critique of her figure. She still had it, she thought with satisfaction. Her options were still open if this strange new opportunity didn’t pan out.
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“I didn’t think you were gonna let me in,” Donovan grumbled, slipping out of his scuffed gore-tex jacket and hanging it next to the door.
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“You’re late,” she said, looking him up and down. “Are you still in one piece?”
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“For now. I need a drink.”
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His kiss was too perfunctory for Lana’s liking. She quelled a twinge of panic and followed him into her kitchen as he grabbed a Bud Light from the fridge and popped off the top. The door had almost closed when he thought to ask if she wanted one. She shook her head.
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“I want to know what Rourke said. I told you what he said to me.”
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Donovan grimaced and leaned against the kitchen island. Damn, the man was fit! That long-sleeved athletic top hugged the well-sculpted muscles of his chest and upper arms. He smiled when he caught her looking and she grinned as she arched her back against the opposite counter. Come on, pretty boy! Tell me what I want to know.
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“He wanted to know what I told the cops, mostly. And he didn’t ask, but he was obviously concerned that I left his name out of it. Which I did, of course.”
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“You probably wouldn’t be standing in my kitchen with a smile on your face if you hadn’t.”
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“Quite.”
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“What did you tell them?”
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“Rattled off our cover story. We’ve used the Pest Control front for our other visits, it’s a legitimate business. I told them we got into an argument with some people who didn’t look like residents and were acting suspiciously.”
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“Some argument. A fifty year old woman threw you against a wall.”
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Donovan scowled and looked away as he took a swig of beer. He likely missed Lana’s satisfied smile. That’s what you get when you waltz in here like you own the place. I’m not that easy.
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It had been a very good throw. Lana wanted no part of Rosalind Hill.
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D Rodriguez on the other hand…
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“What else did Rourke want? Is he mad at us for losing the Tether?”
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“What do you think? But Jamal was fascinated, apparently, and proud of us for executing a two-point lock by ourselves. I think Rourke’s taking a longer view. Keep his partner happy, and live to fight another day. He still wants us working for him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
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She frowned. “I do worry about it. You know that.”
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“Yeah, me too.” Donovan set down his beer bottle and drew her into an embrace. “I got you, babe. I’ll make sure you’re safe and that you get the life you deserve. I love you.”
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Lana kissed him then.
The Moaning Room
“I don’t think I can do this, love.”
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Rosalind Hill gripped the handle of the passenger door as if to prevent its spontaneous opening, although her husband had not yet turned off their SUV’s engine. He had just parked behind a line of a dozen vehicles, many bigger and more luxurious than this one, that barely covered the front yard of their destination. The house reminded her of a country estate from the English Cotswolds where she had grown up, all sprawling brick and mismatched wings and even a covered arch leading to an unknown number of garages. Yet here they were, in one of St. Louis’s most exclusive suburbs on New Year’s Eve, and exclusion would be just fine by her, thank you very much.
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Martin reached over and laid a comforting hand on her arm, fingers wrapping around her puffy winter coat. “Do you feel something… off?”
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“No, it’s not that. Not yet at least. There are just so many people, and I won’t know almost any of them.”
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“You know Pierre and Elaine, even if you haven’t been to their house before. You’ve talked to them at some of my work parties. Victor and Chrissy too.”
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“I know. But I’m barely comfortable being back at work, love. I don’t think I can bear anyone asking about it. Asking about Daniel.”
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Martin took her hand in both of his, shifting in the driver seat so he could face her. “No-one is going to mention Daniel,” he promised, face solemn. “I’ve made that clear to everyone. Please, Rosa. You haven’t left our house these last six months, except to go to Gold Cross. You need the company of other adults.”
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She grinned despite herself. “My high-school girls don’t count as adults, is that it?”
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“Nor do most of your colleagues,” he said, eyes sparkling as he killed the engine.
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“Fine. You think you can call me ‘Rosa’ and I’ll do anything for you.” Steeling herself, bracing herself against the old year’s winter chill, she opened the car door and climbed out onto the sidewalk. Perhaps it was time. Perhaps she did need to “get back out there”. But social anxiety wasn’t the only source of her trepidation as Martin led her to the imposing double front doors.
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As the doorbell chimes faded she closed her eyes, cocked her head and listened. Sniffed. Nothing. Nothing, but her own breathing, deep and slow. Perhaps this house was safe.
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“Martin! Rosalind! Please, come in!”
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Elaine Beaulieu made up for her slight, petite frame with a vivacious personality and inexhaustible energy. Rosalind didn’t dislike her; she had soon discovered the older woman shared similar opinions about most matters she cared about. But Elaine could talk for hours, to the same person if others were not made available. So, although their hostess was one of the few faces she recognized, Rosalind disengaged from their conversation five minutes later via the time-honored pretext of needing a restroom.
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Instead of returning to the kitchen afterwards, Rosalind wandered through the elegant, spacious home. It was like something out of a catalog, and a high-end catalog at that, not ostentatious, simply luxurious. Every room was at least twice the size of the equivalent in her own home. Every furnishing was top of the line, every tasteful painting and sculpture accented its space to perfection. This was what riches could do, at least if you chose to spend them on yourself.
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Rosalind wasn’t the only guest admiring the house. She exchanged polite nods to others as she passed them, but avoided attempts at conversation. Clearly their hosts welcomed the admiration, having left almost every door open. So she was surprised to approach a closed one, alone on a floor of immaculate bedrooms. She would have passed it by without a second thought, but for the moaning she heard coming from within.
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Her first thought was to flee, to find Martin and make their hasty farewells, to put as much distance between her and this house as possible. Why was this happening to her? Her curiosity had yet to triumph over terror at the strange phenomena that had begun popping up left and right, ever since the end of the summer. This was why she was reluctant to leave her house. She wasn’t that anti-social.
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“That was their son’s room.” Rosalind jumped, spinning to find a man and a woman standing a few paces away, having just emerged from the master suite. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, a pleasant smile on his ruddy face. She was younger, her bleach blonde hair framing angular features and a curious expression. “They discourage visitors,” she continued. “Apparently it upsets some people.”
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“I heard they tried to put the house on the market a couple years back,” the man said. “Their realtor freaked out when they saw the room, apparently, and they gave up on the idea. Mark Zellars, by the way.”
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He held out his hand, followed by the blonde who introduced herself as Nicole Kelly. “We’re realtors too. The Beaulieus are always buying and selling property in the city, we’re just two of many who help them do so. Not this house, though.”
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“I can imagine,” Rosalind murmured, glancing back at the closed door as a whiff of lemon tugged at her nostrils.
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“Do you… sense something?” Nicole lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes. “Mark thought he did, but…”
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Mark’s laugh sounded nervous. “I think the heat just turned on is all. It’s probably nothing.”
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No, damn it. There’s something here. And I’m tired of running from it.
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Rosalind composed herself and grasped the door handle. She half-expected it to be locked but the door swung open easily. Pitiful sobs reverberated around the room, the anguish of someone in great pain, growing louder with every tentative step she took inside. Her senses, always on high alert, especially in a strange place, sharpened, but except for the two realtors watching her from the doorway there was no-one else here. Or was there? Sounds of suffering surrounded her but the twin bed against the far wall was the heart of it. I want to see!
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Her gaze bored into the pillows at the head of the bed and suddenly she could see him, the boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, writhing in pain with an icepack clamped over his jaw. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp and his eyes rolled without sight in their sockets. That must be one hell of a toothache. She’d had one a few years back, a proper jaw-cracker, and had lain awake in torment until Martin had played one of her favorite playlists on her old iPod. She didn’t know if music would help this poor boy, or if he could see her as she could see him, but she couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. So she sang.
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She had a good voice. She didn’t know what kind of music he liked, so she sang the songs of her youth, a homage to 1980s Britain. She didn’t stop to think about how crazy she might look, crooning and humming cuts from New Order and The Cure. Soon, she could hear herself over the sobs and moans and then, abruptly, the sound and the boy were gone. Vanished. It was just another bedroom.
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As Rosalind turned to face her audience, the nausea hit. She clutched her chest and willed her gorge to descend. She was so thirsty. Her tongue stuck to the inside of her mouth, and her knees trembled. Then Mark was there, his gentle, strong hands guiding her into a reading chair next to the bed.
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“Easy!” he said, concern battling curiosity for control of his expression. “Are you okay? Did you… did you feel anything strange?”
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Rosalind fought a sudden urge to laugh. She looked up to find Nicole watching her shrewdly from the doorway.
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“I did,” Rosalind croaked. “But I don’t anymore.”
Aftermath
The nausea began in the elevator, a fluttering in her stomach stirring things that were best left unstirred. Jess would’ve put it down to that morning’s breakfast except that D and Rosalind noticed something too. Plus, she’d been unsettled all morning, assailed by strange scents and hints of sound on the edge of hearing while she followed D around the Chouteau Village condo complex.
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What the hell was going on? Could she be sensing what D was sensing? Was it happening to her too?
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All hell broke loose after the doors opened on the first floor. She didn’t know what Donovan and Lana were doing, and happily stood back while D and Rosalind dealt with it. The air virtually crackled with tension before Rosalind stepped forward and somehow threw Donovan into the wall behind her. You go, girl! Elation gave way to fear when Rosalind collapsed, and Jess abandoned the elevator to kneel by her side. Blood sprayed across the older woman’s pale cheeks and continued to trickle from a nose that listed to one side. That was gonna hurt.
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“Rosalind needs a doctor,” Jess started to say and then choked on the sudden stench of asphalt, as if she was slow-driving past a road construction zone on a hot summer’s day. D gasped, and she looked up to see him staring into space in that way he did when we was trying to erase an Imprint. He looked terrible, sweat beading above hollowed eyes, his cracked lips trembling. Jess reached for his hand, wanting to offer comfort, offer strength, do anything to ease his burden.
And that’s when it got really weird.
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Afterwards, as the vision of the assaulted young black man and his friends had faded, Jess was barely aware of guiding a slumping D to the ground. Her head was pounding, and as soon as she made sure he was still breathing she turned to the side and threw up. God, she hated that! Few things disgusted her more than the taste of bile. She fumbled for her water bottle, swished her mouth and then spat out the residue. She didn’t trust herself to swallow any.
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“Sucks, doesn’t it?”
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Jess spun to see Lana watching her with a wary expression. The blonde woman had crawled over to Donovan’s prostrate form. It almost looked like she was using his body as a shield. Sweat plastered her hair to her scalp and smudged her makeup. Not so pretty now, are you? But then, I probably look like crap too.
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“Is he alive?” Jess croaked, nodding at Donovan.
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Lana looked down at her boyfriend, who had landed awkwardly after his collision with the angle of the wall. She ran tender fingertips over his face and Jess was suddenly embarrassed.
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“Still breathing,” Lana murmured. “He’s adorable when he’s sleeping.” A frown wiped away her dreamy expression as she glanced at Rosalind. “Her?”
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“Think so. He broke her nose though. I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
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Lana shrugged, and turned her attention back to Donovan. Insufferable woman.
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“They’re three minutes out,” Jess told her, after she placed the 911 call. “We’ll have fun explaining this.”
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Lana stared back at her. She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn’t go through with it. Jess had her own questions.
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“So what were you doing? How are you imprinting memories? Why—”
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Donovan coughed and his entire body convulsed in its reluctant embrace of consciousness. Lana took both his hands in hers and waited for him to settle, meeting his eyes before smiling a tight smile. The first wail of distant sirens permeated the lobby and she climbed to her feet.
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“Are you going somewhere?”.
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“Yep, I don’t need to be here,” Lana said, angling towards the front doors. “Donovan’s got this. Take care of your people, Jess.”
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Jess glanced down at where D was beginning to stir, and Rosalind too. “Lana.”
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The blonde woman hesitated on the threshold. The sirens were a lot louder now. “What?”
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“I’ll see you around.”
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Lana grinned. “I can’t wait.” And then she shot out the door, leaving Jess to face the music.
Trick or Treat
“What the hell happened to your house?” I asked Martin Hill as he opened his front door. I gestured to the blood running down the flanking windows, the cobwebs choking the porch light sconces, the open vampire coffin nestled amongst a family of pumpkins, and the gravestones scattered through the front yard.
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“Your girlfriend happened,” he told me, his grin managing to convey both amusement and resignation. He wore a flat top skull cap and waistcoat of the same florid blue and red design, which I recognized but couldn’t place, and he didn’t look altogether happy about it. “Aided and abetted by my dear wife. You’d think we’d never celebrated Halloween before.”
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“Sorry, man.” Jess did over-the-top very well when encouraged with excessive tolerance. I stepped inside the Hills cozy suburban home and took off my shoes, a habit from visiting Jess’s parents. The beguiling scent of nutmeg and cinnamon confronted me as I sought the kitchen. Rosalind had promised wine and apple cider mulled with her secret concoction of spices, and if the taste was half as good as the smell, I was in for a treat.
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“There you are!” Jess looked up from an old-fashioned metal laundry tub on the floor, which she was filling with water. Real nurses didn’t wear miniskirts or fishnet stockings, at least not at any hospital I’d ever been to. “Just in time to help. Can you carry this to the front porch for me?”
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“What’s it for? To wash away the bloodstains?”
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“Ha ha. It’s for apple bobbing, of course.” She prodded a five pound bag of Granny Smiths by her feet. I glanced at Rosalind, who was supervising two bubbling cauldrons on the stove. She rocked her witch costume, although the brim of her pointed hat kept sliding down her forehead. Her grin was all mischief and merriment. The bruising had all but faded around her recently broken nose.
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“Did you consider moving this to the front porch before you started filling it with water?” I grumbled. I could barely lift the damn thing, and water sloshed violently as I lurched down the hall.
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“Never occurred to me,” said Jess. “Besides, I get to watch you flex your hunky muscles. Oh, your costume is in the guest bedroom by the way.”
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Costume? A black leather headband, a matching necklace strewn with bones and teeth, and what looked like a scratchy brown towel were laid out on the bed. She’d been serious, then.
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I tried not to look too sheepish as I slunk down the stairs, nor self-conscious about parading my bare chest in front of Rosalind and her husband. Rosalind turned away and covered her mouth as soon as I re-entered the kitchen, whether concealing laughter or blushes I didn’t know. Jess clapped her hands in glee and threw herself into an embrace, almost knocking me back into the hallway.
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“Ooh, Conan, protect me,” she cooed.
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“Maybe later,” I said, struggling to disengage. “The sun’s just set. We’d better get ready for the trick or treaters.”
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Jess stuck out her tongue, then set off for the front porch with another pitcher of water and the bag of apples.
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“Is this how they do Halloween in England?” I asked Rosalind. “Or do they go for the old time burning of witches at the stake? No offense.”
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“I can’t remember ever celebrating it,” she mused, stirring her mulled concoctions. “Although I believe they do today, borrowing traditions from our dear American cousins.”
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“Besides, we’ve got Guy Fawkes Day on November 5th,” said Martin, lurking near the stove in the presumed hope of being first to sample the wine.
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“Guy who?”
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“Guy Fawkes. Conspired to blow up the British Parliament back in the seventeenth century, in protest of their restrictions on the Catholic king. Executed, obviously. Instead of trick or treating, British kids roam their neighborhoods with his effigy in a wheelbarrow, asking for ‘pennies for the Guy’. Then the adults build bonfires to burn the effigies, and set off fireworks.”
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“Sounds charming. Fun for the entire family.”
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Martin grinned, with relish this time. “It’s our July 4th equivalent. Old World carnage.”
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“The hordes are descending,” Jess interrupted, poking her head into the kitchen. “I could use some help out here.”
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“Alright, you two,” said Rosalind, setting her spoon down and fixing Martin and I with a beady eye. “Grab a pot each and let’s go.”
​
I hadn’t given out candy on Halloween since my last year of high school. Mom had drafted me because my half-sisters both had parties to go to, and I’d sat in sullen silence the entire time. This was much more fun. Fall’s benevolent warmth encouraged a high turnout and the variety and invention of the costumes impressed me, everything from Disney princesses to zombies, trains to alligators. One teenaged boy wore a red shirt with the rear fender of a car sticking out from his chest, and claimed he was “a brick wall across the highway”: no-one knew whether to laugh or call a psychiatrist. Jess forced every kid middle school-aged and older to bob for apples, and even the most reluctant ended up laughing as they wiped themselves dry, trophy apple in hand. We forced the younger kids to endure the peculiarly St. Louis tradition of telling a joke before receiving candy; some told theirs with flare, while most mumbled their way through it in a just-give-me-the-candy way. We all laughed at everything, and Rosalind passed out mulled cider and wine to grateful parents while their children rummaged through bowls of chocolate or fruit treats. Everyone had a good time, and as the flood of trick-or-treaters dwindled to a trickle I sat back in my Adirondack chair with a third glass of Rosalind’s wine and sighed in profound contentment.
​
“Ghosts may not exist, but they still inspire a lot of fun,” I said after a prolonged lull in the conversation.
​
“It’s the stories, really,” Rosalind said, snuggling up to Martin in their loveseat glider. “We’re all fascinated by tales about things we don’t understand. And, for some of us, by more than tales.”
​
“Not now, love,” murmured Martin, kissing her cheek. She smiled, a little sadly I thought.
​
“C’mon, Conan,” said Jess, rising and extending her hand. “Let’s clean up and get out of their hair before we ruin the mood. No, you two stay there. We’ve got this.”
​
We hauled everything back inside, then said our goodbyes. It had been a good evening, a welcome respite from some of the many unanswered questions we’d avoided. And as if that mere thought drew the universe’s attention, the night held one more surprise.
​
I saw the envelope this time, a corner of white paper just visible underneath my apartment door as I emerged from the stairwell. I held off an increasingly-frisky Jess and stooped to pick it up. Blank. Another damn anonymous note, although I couldn’t help but suspect its origin.
​
“You gonna open it?” Jess demanded, her lips brushing against my ear.
​
“Getting tired of this,” I grumbled, but slit the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper inside. Just like last time, it bore a single, laser-printed word.
​
TRICK.
New Year's Eve
From his window, Daniel watches the sleepy suburban town settle down for the night. Holiday lights flicker from street lamps and from the storefronts across the train tracks. All but the hardiest joggers and dog walkers have abandoned the trail that cuts through the modest downtown area. Snowflakes swirl in the dusk, taunting those who would have been ecstatic to see them a week ago, to enjoy a white Christmas. A white New Year just doesn’t sound the same.
​
Daniel shivers, despite the warmth of his bedcovers. For all that he doesn’t want to be in this room, in yet another damn clinic, however charming the location, at least he’s not out there hunting for a place to sleep in the frigid Chicago air. He’d vowed never to come back to this city. He’d wanted to head south, somewhere warm, where sleeping rough wouldn’t kill him. But Shae at the last clinic, the one in Denver, had connections here, and somehow her connections had landed him a decent job and a roof over his head. So he’d come. And for a while, everything was good. Until the visions caught up with him again.
​
“Were they worse, in the hospital?” He didn’t know who the old man was, the man with the burn scar on his face who’d talked to him after he arrived at the clinic earlier that day. Daniel assumes he was just another do-gooder, trying to fix what was irreparably broken. He doesn’t know why he’d mentioned the visions as an excuse for his latest relapse, but the burned man had seized on this explanation like a vulture settling over roadkill.
​
“Worse than what?” Daniel had hedged, scratching his arm, fighting the cravings. He’d wanted oblivion, not an interrogation.
​
“Worse than before. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen things, felt things, that others cannot. Am I right?”
​
“I’m a junkie. Of course I see things.”
​
The burned man’s thin, colorless lips had twisted in displeasure. “Don’t give me cheek, boy. My time is far more valuable than yours. I don’t talk to every resident here. Hell, I don’t talk to most of the staff.”
​
“Then why bother with me?” Daniel had tried not to sound petulant, but wasn’t sure if he’d succeeded.
​
“Because you possess certain unique qualities that interest me. Your firing from the hospital was unfortunate, but perhaps something of a silver lining. There are people here who can help you, beyond simply kicking your addiction. Let them. You cannot guess how important you are to addressing the imbalance.”
​
“What imbalance?”
​
The burned man had simply smiled and departed, leaving his enigmatic pronouncements behind.
​
“Crazy old bastard,” Daniel mutters, turning away from the window and surveying his new accommodation: a wooden desk, a chair, and a four-drawer dresser join the twin bed in a surprisingly large room. He even has an ensuite bathroom with a shower. The faucet in the sink leaks - he wonders if the slow dripping will torment him overnight - but this is a step up from the cramped apartment he shared with two other men in Chinatown. He has privacy here, time to spend with his own thoughts, to wrestle his own demons.
​
“Because I’m important.” He chuckles, but the laughter sounds hollow even to him. He draws himself into a ball, hugging his knees, rocking slightly in the middle of the bed.
​
He can’t forget the predatory gleam on the burned man’s face.
An Anomaly
Charli Simpson tripped over her own feet as she emerged from the elevator, and almost lost her grip on both laptop and coffee, as she flung her arms out to regain balance. She wasn’t sure which she’d regret losing more. Eight in the morning was far too early for a meeting, one reason she stumbled bleary-eyed through the bland corridors of this Cambridge office building. At least the surge of adrenaline had woken her up.
​
She shouldn’t be here. There was no good reason why she’d had to leave her Bristol flat, why she couldn’t be lying on her sofa with her laptop and coffee, still be in her pajamas. Secure remote access to the Foundation’s servers and private cloud had been implemented long before COVID. Researchers didn’t need to congregate to discuss their work, and much as they all loathed their virtual meeting software, it was perfectly adequate for their purposes. But not for a few of the old guard. Especially not Charli’s boss.
​
She halted outside yet another white door, set in a white wall opposite a miserly window, which could only suggest the arrival of dawn. The fluorescent light overhead picked out the door’s nameplate: EMMA ASTBURY. Gritting her teeth, Charli rapped on the door, and was greeted with an imperious “Come!”
​
Tucking her laptop under one arm, she entered a surprisingly small and spartan office for someone so high in the organization. Its occupant loathed wasting paper, would chastise anyone foolish enough to bring her information in printed form, so no shelves or bookcases cluttered the space. She disliked visitors, so no chairs either. Her only furnishing was a massive steel-framed desk, supporting three monitors, leaving just enough room to maneuver her wheelchair around it.
​
“Ah, Charli, you’re almost on time. Do close the door behind you.” Emma Astbury peered around her leftmost monitor just enough to identify her guest, then returned attention to the screen. Age had carved deep lines into her weathered face. On some this might hint at frailty of an already-compromised body, but for Astbury it only bolstered her authority. Taken with a generous shock of white hair, she looked like one of the pre-Christian goddesses from Charli’s grandmother’s folk tales.
​
“You wanted to discuss the latest projections in person,” Charli stated. She wasn’t sure where to stand, so hovered by the nearer end of the desk. Astbury tsked, and with an irritated gesture, indicated she should set both coffee and laptop down on its gunmetal grey surface.
​
“I am particularly interested in the data from the American Midwest, which I believe is your specialty. I am curious what conclusions you draw from the St. Louis results.”
​
“My conclusions?”
​
“Yes, girl, your conclusions. I hired you for your brain, not your looks, and I expect you to use it.”
​
Charli could never decide if Astbury’s flirtation with old school workplace impropiety was ironic or not. Pull yourself together, girl. Don’t be the bimbo she accuses you of being.
​
“St. Louis is an anomaly, one of the biggest we’ve seen for months, if not years. It’s never been as active per-capita as Kansas City or Memphis, let alone Chicago. But intrusion density spiked eighteen months ago, and we had to send one of our senior agents there to deal with it.”
​
Astbury nodded impatiently. “I know who we sent. That’s the raw data. I asked for your conclusions. Why did the intrusion data spike?”
​
Charli masked her own irritation with a sip of coffee. “We recorded at least five freelancers operating in the city this year. Two were taken under our wing. The others opposed them, destroying their Tethers and more besides. The relapse ratio skyrocketed. I believe this destruction weakened the boundary in St. Louis, more than our model accounted for. I adjusted the weighting in this last run.”
​
“Good girl.” A smile cracked Astbury’s face. Charli suppressed her thrill of pride at such simple praise. “And?”
​
Astbury knew. Of course she knew. It had been a whim, based on Charli’s casual scan of their St. Louis agent’s recent correspondence.
​
She licked her lips. “Two of the opposing freelancers are moving to Chicago. At least one of them shows unusual strength and sensitivity, on a par with our best field agents. I decided to feed their estimated level of activity into the model, and it looks like we can expect a surge of intrusions in Chicago next year.”
​
Astbury nodded, thoughtfully this time, and turned back to her monitors. “I wondered where that came from. There’s something unusual about those two. The implications are disturbing.”
​
Charli squirmed in place, unnoticed by the other woman. What had seemed like inspiration at the time, now felt like rashness. Should she have asked first? But if she’d been hired to do a job, why shouldn’t she own that decision? By the time the older woman focused back on her, Charli stood up straight, raising her own eyebrow in question.
​
“Excellent,” said Astbury, wheeling herself away from her desk. “Gather your belongings, we have a train to catch. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Bible Study
“Mom, you can’t keep throwing magazines away in the regular trash,” Paul Dimitriou yelled from the kitchen, as he discarded the non-recyclable wrapping from their microwave entrees. Macaroni and cheese for him, meat lasagna for her. He’d tried to get her to eat vegetarian, but she wasn’t having it. He dug out at least a dozen flyers and women’s magazines from the grubby white plastic trash can - crafts and cooking and stuff Mom never did anymore - and dumped them into the cardboard box he used for recycling. “They end up in the landfill.”
​
“Sorry Paulie,” she called back from the living room. Sure, she was sorry. He’d say the same thing tomorrow night, and the night after that. She just didn’t care. Just another small way in which the world was going to shit.
​
Good thing he had friends who did care. Powerful friends.
​
He wandered into the living room. Mom sat in her favorite armchair, a blanket over her legs like it wasn’t eighty degrees outside, and stared at their TV. “I’m going out this evening,” he reminded her, one of the few phrases that could distract her from yet another talent show. “Bible study.” The words had their desired effect, reassuring Mom that her beloved son, her only family in the world, would leave her only to go to work or to cultivate his faith in the Lord. Both were true, in a manner of speaking.
​
Paul took the Pink Line to the West Loop through the choking hellscape of downtown Chicago. He wedged himself into a corner of the grimy elevated train car so he could glare at its other occupants. Too many. Far too many. Cities were an abomination, cancerous growths sapping the life from an ailing planet. Their time was coming to an end.
​
His book club’s other members awaited him in the back room of Sophie’s Books. All but one of the eight were women, which would scandalize Mom if she knew, even if it had legit been Bible study. Most were younger than him, and some were pretty too, but this wasn’t a social gathering.
​
“Paul, glad you could make it,” drawled John, a squat, powerfully-built black man, who wore a faded Bulls jersey to show off all his tats. Except the one that mattered, the one they all shared, behind their left ear. He scratched his own, absently, under a mop of thinning brown hair.
​
“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled. John scared him a little. Not because he was black, but, well, he just scared him is all.
​
“That’s OK,” John said, drawing out the chair next to him so Paul could sit. “As long as we’re all punctual on the day. Do you have the badges?”
​
Conscious of everyone’s eyes on him, Paul slowly unzipped his backpack and drew out seven security passes. He slid each one across the table to the woman matching its photograph. His heart beat faster and his fingers trembled. Finally, his boring job at the O’Hare Airport Badging Office was going to make a real difference.
​
“They will work?” Tiff, an older woman with wispy dark curls, heavy tan, and a permanent sneer, examined her badge with a skeptical eye.
​
“They’ll work,” he said defiantly. “At least, they’ll get you inside the security perimeter on the day of the operation. I wouldn’t push it past that. Our cover is only so deep.”
​
John clapped him on the back, and he almost jumped out of his skin. “Great work, Paul. The cause won’t forget it. Now, before we go over the operation details again, let’s read. This is a book store after all.”
​
Obediently, Paul extracted the final object from his backpack: a dog-eared, paperback copy of Allen Weston’s The Gaia Contract. Bible study, indeed.
The Phone Call
“Visiting time ends in ten minutes,” the nurse told Jamal as she passed through the dimly-lit ward, closing blinds and straightening unruffled bedcovers. Her tone was gentle, even sympathetic, but she meant what she said. She had a job to do, just like everyone else.
​
Jamal acknowledged her with a curt nod, then turned back to his brother. Kendrick sat up in the twin sized bed, his powerful hands resting in his lap, as sure an indicator of something amiss as his slack face and closed eyes. Kenny could never sit still, not even as a child, always demanding to be involved in whatever his big brother was doing. He called him every day during college, and when he couldn’t call - because he was on the other side of the world, bungee jumping at Victoria Falls or hang gliding in Queenstown - he’d send a torrent of messages and selfies. It used to drive Jamal nuts, but what he wouldn’t give for one more picture of Kenny’s goofy grin, maybe as he was about to parachute jump from an airplane, with the typical accompanying message: “GOALZ!!”
​
It was hard to believe the motionless man in the bed was his kid brother, even though they looked so alike. Kenny hadn’t started losing his hair yet, a fact he attributed to his “intense lifestyle”, but he had the same wide nose, the same square chin. This could have been me, Jamal thought mournfully. It still could. He spared a glance for the other silent residents of the ward, and wondered how many of them were here for similar reasons. How many of them worked for the Henry Lyons Foundation?
​
Jamal waited until the nurse left the ward, with one last not-so-surreptitious consultation of the wall clock before she passed through the doors. Then, he dug his iPhone out of his pants pocket, pausing to unlock the home screen. He’d only had the device for two weeks, and still marveled at the pace of technological innovation. He’d never be able to go back to a flip phone. He navigated the on-screen menus with his thumb until he saw the list of voice mail messages, then scrolled through the list until he found the most recent one from “KENDRICK”. He paused, holding his thumb poised above the Play button, and raised his eyes to his brother’s face, as if trying to imagine Kenny speaking these words in real time.
​
“Hey, big brother, I know it’s late over there in jolly old England, but call me if you can. We’re doing it, tonight! Me and Rissa! No, not that - well, I dunno, maybe, probably - but we’re finally going after a Level 5 together. Angel thinks we’re ready. Hell, I know we are! Your little brother is blazing into uncharted territory! I just wish you were here to see it. If I don’t hear from you tonight, I’ll call you tomorrow. Love ya!”
​
Jamal waited as long as he could, desperate to see a twitch of a lip, or a flutter of an eyelid. Then, with a heavy sigh, he covered one of Kendrick’s hands in his and stood. “Love ya, Kenny,” he murmured.
Happy Birthday
Who the hell was calling her at seven in the morning?
​
Izzy Fisher rolled over underneath her jet black comforter, and gave her Pixel phone a baleful glare. She was tempted to ignore the insistent buzzing, as she ignored most phone calls she hadn’t been expecting. Which was all of them. But then she saw who was calling, and with a muttered curse, she dislodged the charging cord and swiped the screen to answer.
​
“Happy Birthday, little sis!” Aston sounded offensively cheerful, and then she remembered. He and Mel were somewhere in Italy. It was early afternoon there, so he was probably well into his first bottle of wine.
​
“You woke me up, Aston,” she said reproachfully, glancing at the empty space next to her. Last night’s date had been a bust, so at least she was the only victim of his pre-dawn phone call.
​
“Good, then I’m the first to say it,” he replied, undaunted. “I win this year. Bri and I always used to race to see who could wish you ‘Happy Birthday’ first. Do you remember?”
​
Oh God. Childhood memories. Maybe he’d already made it to the second bottle.
​
“I remember. It’s not much of a race anymore. Bri hasn’t talked to me since before COVID.”
​
She could hear background chatter during the awkward pause, and it was definitely Italian. It sounded like he was outside. “How’s the tour going?
​
“Oh, you know what these food influencers are like. Busy influencing each other. I can’t get a word in edgeways!”
​
“That must be a new experience. Tell Mel I said Hi.”
​
“I’ll try, ha ha!” His voice sobered again, probably unlike the rest of him. “Do you think you’ll talk to Mom?”
​
Izzy sat up, letting the covers fall to her lap. She’s worn her Skinny Puppy final tour t shirt to bed; when did that happen? Hopefully she’d remembered to clean off her makeup at least. She probably looked ghastly.
​
“Izzy?”
​
“I’m still here. I don’t know if I’ll talk to her. I got a busy day at work.”
​
“At this mysterious job you won’t tell me about?”
​
“I could tell you about it, but then I’d have to kill you,” she joked, without thinking. The silence at the other end of the line was deafening. Izzy covered her mouth and stared at her covered legs in horror. “Shit. Sorry. That was tactless, even for me.”
​
Aston forced a shaky chuckle. “I thought I was the inappropriate sibling, especially when I get a drunk on. You okay, sis?”
​
“I’m fine. I’m in trouble with the bosses at work, although it’s not my fault this time. Got a couple crazy new hotshots doing stupid shit, and I’m kinda responsible for them. They’re a pain in my ass.”
​
“Sounds like your kind of people.”
​
Her laugh was genuine. Aston knew her too well. Always had. “Yeah, they are. Look, I’m gonna go. Seize the day, and all that crap.”
​
“You do that! Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
​
“I won’t. Promise me you won’t drink yourself into a coma.”
​
“I’ll try. Promise me you’ll talk to Mom.”
​
Izzy bit her lip, then sighed. “I’ll try.”
Contingency Plans
COMING SOON!