Suspense/Intrigue
No Title # 13
By L
Aug 18, 2007, 13:06

                Only, she wasn’t sleepy, and she wished she had a real nightlight, instead of the stupid moon. Mom had shown her the shadows of the branches on her wall, but it wasn’t the same as climbing the tree.

            Or anything like the trouble she’d get into if she climbed out of bed.

            She stood up and bounced, stretching the “stay in bed” by wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. Then, she tried making shadow birds for the shadow tree, but it didn’t work very well.

            Finally, bored and fidgety, she dragged the blanket over to the window and puffed on the glass to make steam birds. This was her tree, her yard outside, and her window. It wasn’t even dark tonight—it was brighter outside than in.

            She became so intent on her sketching, that she didn’t see the movement…at first.

            She blinked, and blinked again, but she was having trouble with her pictures. They were distorted and out of focus. It wasn’t the drippy runoff from her steam—it was the glass. It had turned weird, like tiny bits of metal silvering the inside. She rubbed her eyes, annoyed. It wasn’t like there was all that much she could do with the lights off.

            Stupid glass! She hit it with her fist—just loud enough for complaint—not loud enough to bring Mom.

            The glass shiver started something—or maybe it was her fist, and her anger. The silvery bits were vibrating now…reassembling.

            And she felt like she was doing cross-eyes—seeing a view in front of a view. There was a 3D room forming on the glass. A room with form, and substance, depth and contours…except the only color was shimmery glitz, like crystal in rock.

            Nor was it a mirror room of her own. The lumpy furniture was vague…undefined.

            The first tremors of fear sent gooseflesh dancing down her back. Bravely, she reached out her hand to wipe the room away, off the glass.

            Except she couldn’t see her hand—only the shiny room.

            A room that wasn’t empty. As she watched, finger shapes appeared on the glass next to where her own hand should have been. They were big fingers. Man fingers. Next came a bumpy patch for a man nose, and the shiny press of a forehead, lips, and square-chinned jaw. While behind him, stood the indistinct lumpy furnishings of his shiny glass house.

            The little girl began to scream.

                             *** 

            Travis Carrithers wasn’t listening to Henry Latimer’s commentary on the deplaning passengers. He was too busy staring.

            “Way to be discreet.” Henry nudged him, but Travis ignored it. He didn’t want to lose track of her.

            There was one woman who stood out from the crowd, even though she was doing her best to blend. Unlike the others leaving Customs, this one wasn’t gazing out the windows. She was either accustomed to, and therefore, impervious to, the view, or she had some reason for avoidance, and Travis guessed it wasn’t introspection. There was an edginess of excitement to her—a tension in muscle and movement which gave away her thrill at being here. She should be snatching every chance she got to take in the view. Her avoidance was out of character.

            Almost as if she sensed his perusal, she turned her head and gazed, directly into his eyes. She should have looked away then, the way social interaction and personal space and the subtleties of etiquette demanded. Only, she didn’t—she smiled.

             Just like that. “It’s her,” Travis blurted.

            Henry Latimer frowned down at the grainy photo. The fax machine had chewed it, and when they’d left for the airport, the email confirmation had yet to come through. “Don’t think so…” Henry squinted her way, then back down at the picture. “Though, now that you mention it, there does seem to be a certain simil-”          

            Travis cut him off with an amused, “Not her—her!”

            Henry gathered he was missing the point. He just couldn’t figure out what the point was. “Oookkaaaay…”

            Travis shook his head—at himself as much as Henry. He couldn’t expect Henry to understand something so uncharacteristically stupid. H*ll, he didn’t understand it himself. He enunciated slowly, “The—woman—I’m—going—to—marry.”

            “Oh.” As explanations went, it no doubt explained a lot—Henry just wasn’t sure what. He hadn’t even known Travis was engaged. In fact, he could have sworn the man had a date tonight. Stranger and stranger.

            Henry supposed congratulations might be in order, but it seemed a little premature, considering that Travis was still playing the field. All he could muster up was a noncommittal, “Hmm.”

            He looked over, at Travis’ silhouette, and noted the determination there. It was the expression Travis always got when venturing into new territory—when he knew he might be facing tough odds to get the thing done. It was then Henry realized the truth: Carrithers doesn’t even know her.

            His brain started rattling on about all the on-duty regulations they frequently ignored, and—particularly—the impropriety of making a move on a woman in an airport—when they were on duty, for crap’s sake—and where any mistakes would be recorded ten times over on security cameras. He knew, as Travis’ partner—more, as his friend—that he should say something to stop him—a professional reminder, of sorts—but it was already too late. Travis was heading her way, determination in every forward stride.

            What made it worse—or better, depending on how this first meeting turned out—was that Henry was supposedly the one in charge here, and—unless Henry’s recalibration of the photo in his head with the woman in his view erred—they were in trouble. The woman Travis was so bloody determined to marry, was the very one they’d come here to kidnap.

                             ***

            Cate Rothgard didn’t give him the chance to do it. He was heading her way, but she’d known from the first that he was up to no good. Oh, he was making a move, too, but that wasn’t what this was about.

            He might as well give up, right now. She wasn’t here for trouble. He could keep those bedroom eyes to himself. However long she’d matched his stare, he should have recognized it for what it was—a newcomer issuing a challenge, the spirit of adventure making her overstep the bounds. She was here, in New Zealand, about as far away from home as she could get. What did he expect, tameness?

            It didn’t mean she wanted him to take her up on it.

            Maybe it’s the way Kiwi men act.

            She risked a quick look around. Mostly family groups, but there were a few lone males, too…and nobody else was dashing forward to confront her.

            Nobody except him. She went back to her original assessment—whatever was stirring the man to action, it wasn’t solely regard for her person. He was trouble—and if she were to give him enough rope now, the silly man would hang himself—ruin all the potential for a good thing, simply because he wasn’t giving himself a chance to think things through, before doing something stupid.

            Still, there’d been…something…in his look. He hadn’t been looking for a lover, until he’d accidentally stumbled on to one. It was causing his associate no end of frustration. Cate could read it in the second man’s face.

            She read something else in his person. It was only a glance, but the sensation was as strong as another woman’s might have been walking through a dark alley.

            I’m prey.

            Her eyes caught those of her pursuer again, briefly, and she sighed gustily. If only he weren’t so d*mned cute.

            Her determination might be wavering, but her feet weren’t. She went into scurry mode, eager to be away from here before daydreams could run smack into reality. Anyone searching for her in an airport was far more likely to be in pursuit of her “talents” than her company. If only they know how happily she would have traded her gift for a chance at a normal life! How unfortunate that her documentation must have carried a reference. This was her vacation—her big adventure, dammit!

            She was practically running from Bedroom Eyes now, toward the glass doors. Stupid to do in an airport, particularly if you were running away from the planes, instead of toward them.

            Security be damned.

            She glanced up once at the glass-doored exit, only to find her perspective wavered, and fearful, she looked down again, before the glass could do her in.

            No, no, no! Not here, not now.

            She sped on, aimed in the right direction, and unless the doors opened slowly, she’d be safe. Out of here, into a taxi, away.

            They opened slowly.

            Only, Cate didn’t realize it, wasn’t looking, couldn’t see it—until she ran smack into the thick glass. In a splat and drop which would have done honor to a slapstick comedy, she swanned backwards, bag flying, arms flailing, onto the industrial linoleum, her head thumping with a loud and hollow thwack. Her skull went into instant throb, and her brains felt like they were jiggling.

            Jelly in a bowl. She opened mortified eyes to the ceiling. Done it now.

            In an alternate mental landscape, she pictured that splatted landing as a roll, a graceful somersault, and then…voila! Back on her feet. One of those slips where—not hurt!—you gingerly dusted yourself off and limped away, pretending against pretension that it had never happened.

            In the real universe, the here and now, she rolled onto her side, and…blood poured out of her nose.

            Oh—my—God!

            Her nose was swelling, and blood tickled a trickling passage across her cheek. Her forehead ached, almost as much as the back of her skull, making her feel like a bloody loser, in every way. Quick tears sprang to her eyes, but she told herself it was the wounded-warrior response—not the shame. She went to chew on her lower lip—the way she always did when she got nervous—but she tasted blood there, too. She’d already bitten it, apparently, in her splat.

            I am such a fool!

            She forgot the blood and wiped a stray tear from her cheek with her sleeve. “So sorry…” she murmured, again and again. Sorry for the trouble, sorry for the mess, sorry I’m such a bloody moron.

            She made it to her knees and plastered a fake smile on her sore lips. “Okay!” she managed, waving away help. She’d gathered quite a crowd.

            Probably waiting to see what I’ll do for an encore. “All good,” she tried brightly. God, please help me to be “all good” and get out of here…

            …before I throw up.

            Before He sees me throw up.

            Because He—her airport stalker—was here. She knew it from the moment he took her hand—knew it even more from the way he took charge.

            She’d never felt so ugly in her life.

            Mortification was coating her in splotchy red. She couldn’t see herself, but she could d*mn well picture the vision she made, bumped, bruised, and bleeding.

            If that wasn’t bad enough, he was in her face next—scrutinizing her intently. There was nothing lover like in his eyes now, which actually made it easier.

            If I throw up on him now, I won’t feel half as bad.

            When he started giving orders, though, she objected.

            “Ah’m fawinnne!” she told him confidently, and made it all the way to her feet.

            She shivered, and wobbled, and even took a step…somewhere. She could remember feeling proud that she was not only on her feet, but in motion.

            The next moment…somehow….she’d motioned into his arms, and he was laying her down on the floor again, but her landing was a lot gentler than the first time around.

            He was giving orders again, too. “Stand back,” he told the crowd. He took off his coat and put it over her. “Warm enough?” The words were kind but impartial, as he carried on doing first-aid type things like sticking her carry-on bag under her legs to elevate them, and then—God help her!—mopping gently at her nose, and squeezing it, to stop the bleeding.

            Cate could have crawled, right then, into a hole in the Earth and died of shame. Again, with a wave of hot-red color.

            He smiled, but it wasn’t a real one. It was a practiced-reassurance one. “No need for embarrassment,” he said.

            Of course, it was the wrong thing to say. For a practiced first-aider, he was horribly tactless. Mortified, she cringed.

            “Pain?” he asked quickly.

            So much for pride.

            “Only you,” she retorted, realizing only belatedly that she’d said it aloud. Rude as h*ll. She didn’t think it would help her cause, either, to tell him that never, in all her life, had she wanted to see the back of somebody the way she did him in that moment. On his feet and walking away. Out of here, and out of her sight.

            But she also knew that she’d been horrible, and given such a miserably nasty retort to all his kindness. Maybe he’d think she was delirious—or-or maybe, he hadn’t understood because her lip was so swollen.

            Whatever his interpretation, he didn’t seem to mind. The way his fingers were checking out sore spots told her he was accustomed to doing this—a doctor, more than likely. Probably heard nasty comments all the time.

            Probably deserved a lot he didn’t hear.

            Worser and worser.

            She had to fight against a sudden urge to bite him. She didn’t know where the inclination came from, but if he didn’t stop being so d*mn nice, he was gonna be short a couple of fingers. One thing was sure—no way was this man for her, not after this. All that remained was whatever evil he’d had on his mind when she’d first seen him. Whatever he’d wanted from her then was probably still on his mind.

            In the background, his cohort was attempting to blend in with the crowd, and as far as gawking onlookers went, he was doing a good job. At least, he wasn’t being offensive.

            Yet.

            I am a bitch.

                 Worse—I am a suspicious bitch. Dammit if she could control it, either. The impulse seemed to have arrived at the same time Bedroom Eye’s face had appeared in hers.

            No—when I disgraced myself. Disgraced! It made her want to cry, which wasn’t like her at all. She felt so shamed, at such a disadvantage, and nothing but an absolute moron for running into a stinking door!

            And he was trying so hard to make it okay. There was nothing romantic in the way her doctor-man was touching her, even when his fingers lingered on the sides of her face. He seemed to be deliberating. “You’re going to be just fine,” he assured her, and she very nearly believed it. She was already fantasizing her dignified escape when he did it.

            Afterwards, she could have sworn he didn’t mean to. He was doing that light flicky thing with her pupils, or she would never have turned her head.

            But then, he moved, and she was caught…

            …staring at the glass. For a moment, she even hoped. It didn’t always happen—and this was a public place. No great traumas, no angst, no tragedy...nothing to capture her interest and hold her.

            She was wrong.

            The glass was already shimmering, vibrating, dancing, and she wanted to cover her eyes. But, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. In some distant background, she could hear his voice—even hear him call a name.

            Her name.

            He knows my name.

            It almost brought her back.

            Almost…but not quite.

            Because the shimmers were reassembling now, and she was unable to tear her eyes away. The scene before her—as crystalline-coated as a scene sunk in snow—was too graphic, too holographic, too full of movement.

            It was a shiny glass airport of older vintage—fifteen, maybe twenty years past. Just slightly tawdry, as though in need of modernization. It was all an impression, because in monochrome, she couldn’t see much more than light, and shadow. All scurrying movement and hasty passengers, baggage in hand, baggage on cart.

            Then suddenly, their movements changed. A few people were pointing now, running, fleeing. A woman with a toddler in tow dropped her suitcase and ran. Another woman opened her mouth in a silent scream.

            And, in front of Cate, a child’s fingers appeared on frosty glass. A child, nearly unaware of her mother’s panic. She must have twisted at the scream, though, because her small fingers trailed lines as she turned.

            At that moment, the world beyond the child exploded. Glass shards flew everywhere, as a bus ploughed into the terminal. Cate recoiled, her glass vision shivering, as the giant vehicle rammed one of the decorative columns and the building shook in response.

            The woman, the toddler, the fleeing passengers…were gone.

            Cate didn’t know it, but in those seconds, her own screams echoed those of that long ago child, left behind.

                            ***

            Travis Carrithers was shaken. Henry Latimer could tell, because he felt the same way. Whatever he had expected, when he’d been briefed on her abilities, it hadn’t been that. “Scared the shit out of me,” he confessed.

            “Yeah.” Travis didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want to chat about Cate Rothgard’s “episode”. The trauma of it had, more or less, made his decision for him. “I don’t want to put her through that again.”

            Henry grimaced, but had to admit he agreed. “I don’t know if I want to put me through it again, either.” The woman’s screams had been so terrified and shrill that they’d rattled him. He couldn’t conceive running any kind of discreet op with that kind of reaction to counter, every time they passed a suggestive pane of glass.

            She's already here. His eyes narrowed. Henry told Travis quietly, "I don't think the Department will let her off the hook, just because the two of us opt out."

            Travis opened his mouth, his brow creased with the weight of his frown.

            Henry cut him off. "Even if you were to claim that pursuing it went against 'doctor’s advice'.” Another incident might be unpleasant for her, but it wasn’t likely to kill her. The same couldn’t be said for Charles Escobar Walsh, the man they were trying to find. “If not you and me, though, then someone else…” He shrugged eloquently. He might as well have been saying, Doesn't matter to me.

            He had a suspicion it would matter to Travis.

                            ***

            Travis knew it was true, but that didn’t make this any easier. Cate Rothgard’s gift was unique, and her aptitude for unraveling unsolved crimes unmatched. For some reason, the powers-that-be had decided to trust her brand of paranormal perspicacity over that of other psychics in the database. If anything, her outburst at the airport had confirmed what they’d already suspected.

            And it would all have been recorded on camera, dammit. Cate didn’t have a chance of wriggling out of this, especially since they hadn’t bothered to inform her of her “mission”. Her talents had been captured on disk, from four different angles. There was no way she could have been prepped to perform.

            Travis wasn’t convinced they needed her as much as they claimed, but the fact he was involved meant the medical perspective was at least as important as information retrieval. They wanted to use her, not kill her.

            I’m getting off to a good start.

            Travis knew the cameras would have recorded the fact that Cate had been running…from him. They might make a concession for the fact that Travis was a part-timer, at best. He was a consultant with a longing to play spy, and they used him ruthlessly for little pay. Travis really didn’t mind—had never minded in the past—as long as he could get in on the action.

            And he’d convinced himself that his presence on the scene—the medical man with a concern more for human welfare than politics, had saved more than a few lives.

            They’d gone to a lot of trouble and expense to get Cate Rothgard here, though, without her knowledge. He recalled thinking that if she were as psychic as all that, why couldn’t she figure out she was being manipulated?

            She did. At the airport, in a fast clip toward a slow door.

            Travis cringed at the memory. My fault.

            Amazingly enough, they still wanted to use her. More amazing, Henry and he were still on the case. There’d been a shift in power, though—Henry was leaving him in no doubt regarding who was in charge of this mission. If Travis wanted to play, he'd better start following orders.

                  Alas, for my dreams of going it alone. Henry was a good partner, but Travis had dreamed of the day when they'd trust him enough to retrieve info on his own.

            The Department claimed they still needed Cate’s “intercession”. The person they were seeking was living, not dead, which left out the mediums. The only thing she’d have to work with was a rundown building, and no forensic evidence to connect it to a kidnapping—only a passerby’s testimony.

            In other words, we have squat.

            Except a missing diplomat whose disappearance held international implications. Unless New Zealand wanted to be drawn into a war in which they had only nominal interest—and little economic or strategic investment—the man needed to be found. They could only cover his disappearance so long. This particular diplomat was well known—and Travis wasn't the only Kiwi who personally interpreted his political stance as a vociferous proponent of invasive commercial interests, masked in backhanded philanthropy. As such, the man had earned more than a few enemies—but his economic strategies had also made him a hero for the commercial sector. He had well-placed allies.

            What was that quote by Eldridge Cleaver? “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” If his country were to lose track of this rather tactless diplomat, they might well be considered “part of the problem”. Not a happy position for a nation which wanted to be considered more counterterrorist than neutral.

            Travis didn’t understand why they hadn’t just applied to Cate Rothgard for help—told her they needed her services to find him. Maybe the Department thought it would have tipped off the opposition—given away the game.

            Instead, they’d invented a contest win. Her winner’s notification had supposedly been lost in delivery, which in turn, had telescoped the acceptance date. All very contrived, but Cate must have been keen to travel. She’d been forced to depart in less than a week or miss her opportunity.

            Except Karma had bitten the Department in the butt. Cate had arrived, right on time, and done the proverbial run into a door. Not funny if you were there at the time, but definitely amusing from a management perspective.

            Only now Henry had informed him that the Department still wanted her—needed her. It wasn’t only to justify the expense of her trip. They’d yet to find clues to William Walsh’s whereabouts, and any leads had failed to pan out. Only the passerby’s testimony held some potential—and the man had been so certain about his identity that he’d listed Walsh’s name. Too bad forensics had turned up nothing but a hodgepodge of non-definitive information at the site. Some of it might have been promising if they’d known which bit to select…and how to interpret it.

            So, in other words, they were nowhere. No more clues, and no action. The situation was becoming so tense that they’d been ordered to escort Cate Rothgard from the airport, rather than wait to coax her to the factory site.

            Henry claimed that so far, the Department had managed to cover Walsh’s disappearance as a visit to the back blocks and a farm stay, but that could last only so long. They had him scheduled in the media for a Fiordland visit next, but it wouldn’t be long before one of his country’s representatives realized that Walsh had gone the way of the moa—extinct. Then, all h*ll would break loose.

            Travis had done a little research after Cate’s episode at the airport. It hadn’t been difficult to find articles on the bus incident, in which five people had been killed in the old airport lobby. What was harder to accept was the fact that Cate had seen it…as it happened. It gave horrifyingly fresh meaning to the word history. Travis had figured her visions would be a lot more static—and victimize Cate a whole lot less. He didn’t think she’d be drawn in that way. If anything, he’d assumed she saw any events as shadows, like images captured on photographic plates.

            Except—Travis fought the shiver lingering under his skin—apparently Cate’s images had movement.

            I would think it was creepy if I hadn’t met her.

            And there were undoubtedly those in the Department who did consider it creepy after viewing her reactions on the security tape. It was amazing how much more easily “creepy” people could be used and discounted without guilt or attempts at redress—almost a “get what you deserve” scenario. The idea of anyone else impersonally using her, like a tool to manipulate and discard, churned Travis’ gut. He knew it might have more to do with his reaction to her person than anything else, but it wasn’t strictly a personal call. Henry Latimer had expressed reluctance, too, and he had no personal stake in preserving Cate’s good opinion. Using her that way—subjecting her to that much stress and horror—was wrong. She’d gone into shock last time—deep shock. For hours afterwards, she’d been nearly catatonic.

            The Department had called him in on this as “medic at the scene”. Travis had interpreted his part in this wrong. He’d assumed they’d wanted a doctor involved, to provide medical testimony that nothing untoward had been done to stimulate Cate’s reaction—insurance against any outcries of ill-use or abuse. Now he knew that his presence was meant to be as much remedial as prophylactic. They wanted him on hand in case an episode triggered a seizure, or some other physical trauma—which meant that they’d anticipated one. 

            And it really pissed him off. It would have been smarter to hire her directly. Then, she could have signed all the waivers they wanted, and she would have known what she was getting herself into.

            Travis had every excuse he needed to opt out of this…except those first few moments of eye contact in the airport had voided them all. There’d been something in Cate’s expression—something in her eyes—which had held him hostage. The words he’d uttered to Henry hadn’t been in jest. He’d never experienced anything like that before—never admitted any willingness to commit in the space of a glance.

            Now that he knew who she was, he didn’t know whether he could trust it.

            Mind games.

            Even though the airport window incident was accidental, Cate now had every reason never to trust him again. He couldn’t even reassure her that it was an accident. Accidents were, after all, matters of timing. It was what he’d intended…even if he would never have considered doing it at that moment. To deny it would only make him seem foolish, especially since he’d planned to lead her into doing something similar, with the glass at Findosi’s factory.

            At that moment, Henry interrupted his thoughts. “So, what next?” In Henry’s mind, it was simple. There really wasn’t any choice. A life hung in the balance—with the nation’s international standing lying precariously above that.

            If not us, then someone else.

            That didn’t bear thinking of. Travis’ expression was grim. He did his best to remind himself again about the “greater good”.

            His eyes met Henry’s, and he couldn’t quite disguise his sigh. “We do it,” he agreed. “She’ll be out tomorrow, and ready to tour again by Friday.” Resolution made. He nodded firmly. “We’ll do it then.”