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fiction: serial fiction
the crown, book one: chapter 11
James' feet followed a circuit across the black and gold rug in his living room. The rug, he remembered vaguely, he'd bought from a street vendor after seeing it hanging over the side of a fence at Slauson and Angeles Vista. It was a simple golden diamond in a field of black, with fringed tassels of gold at the short ends. The simplicity of it leapt out at James, but his mind was considerably too occupied to re-examine the details of his decor at that very moment.
"Damian Dare," he started again, slowly, "an immortal one-man killing spree, a guy you've been dodging since before the Roman Empire, wants to hire us?"
Tonya, sitting cross legged on the couch, nodded slowly, her braids swaying in front of her face as she did so. Her eyes remained resolutely locked on the rug's diamond shape.
"Have you ever seen any horror movies?" James asked incredulously. "You have to know it's a trap!"
Tonya looked up at him, her eyes wavering like the water in a pond after a stone breaks its surface, and said, "I know a few things, James. I know I don't want you to fight him. I know you're hell bent on doing just that. I know he's very, very close. I know I've been running for a long time. It's just ..."
The shrill ringing of Tonya's cell phone cut her off. She and James looked at one another for a moment, and James reached down to pick it up from its perch near the door.
"Four Seasons Hotel ..." he said, reading the caller ID. "Why would ..."
Tonya let fly a strangled cry and leapt off the couch, grabbing the phone from James' hands and tearing the batteries out swiftly. Gasping for breath, she said, "They can triangulate the location ... he's at the Four Seasons."
James gritted his teeth. "This is the guy you wanna go work for?" he asked. "Look at you. You're a mess. You can't even take a freakin' phone call from this guy, he's so ... hang on ... he's at the Four Seasons?"
Tonya realized her mistake when she saw the look on James' face, part contemplative and part mischievous. "He won't be staying under his own name ..."
"I can fly," James said, thinking aloud. "I'll just look in windows until I find him."
"James, no!" Tonya exclaimed, grabbing him by his shoulders. "Let me talk to him again. It's possible we can talk our way out of this."
James shook his head. "Do you think maybe, after all these years, there's a reason he's finding you now? After all those years by yourself, why you're in love with me, now? Maybe I'm supposed to go after this guy!"
Tonya bit her lip, finding his reasoning strangely logical, but refused to give it any consideration. "I didn't fall in love with you just to lose you. We haven't even started the kind of training we talked about, to help you use your abilities better. We need time ..."
"We're running out of time," James said coldly. "Rapidly running out of time."
"Time is something that's always been willing to work with me," Tonya countered. "I've been staying alive a very long time. I'm just asking you to trust me on this. Yes, i'm influenced by fear, yes, I'm influenced by wanting to protect you, a bulletproof flying man that I love. I can get us through this."
James looked at her from a place she didn't recognize. His eyes seemed to be analyzing her, molecule by molecule. "I don't want you to be wrong, Tonya," he said finally, quietly. "I don't want you to be under his control, miserable. If I die, and you're with him, what's to stop him from attacking you again? How can I leave you in that kind of situation?"
Tonya bit her lip. "That's a good point," she admitted. "Still, don't you think you'd have a better chance to get him from inside? Don't you think we'd be in a better position if we knew where he was and what he was doing, instead of wondering?"
James furrowed his brow. "Get at him from inside his own organization," he said thoughtfully.
"Who would be able to stop us if we got him?" Tonya said in a kind of purr. She could feel the momentum shifting her way.
"You can negotiate with him," James said, his mind plotting again. "Make it tough for him to come to a deal, drive a hard bargain ..."
Tonya nodded, easing her grip on his arms and drawing closer to him.
"I guess I didn't see it that way," James said sheepishly, his lips now inches from her face. "You just let me work my way through that, huh?"
Tonya thought to herself, That sounds better than the truth, but simply smiled sweetly at him.
He closed his eyes and kissed her, the slow, deliberate contact of their lips across one another like a slow dance to smoky jazz. Tonya's head whirled, dizzy and intoxicated by the sensual pleasure of his proximity.
"One of the reasons I love you so much," he whispered, slowly nuzzling his nose against hers, "is because you're so much smarter than me."
Smiling, she kissed him again, tracing the inside of his teeth with her tongue, hands cradling the back of his head like a hard-won trophy. "With me," she said silkily, "your negotiations can be a lot easier ..."
* * *
Eliot frowned at the screen of his laptop. "The signal is going nowhere," he muttered. "Either her phone was off or she tossed it."
Dare, standing behind him, nodded slowly. "That's fine, it was a long shot anyway. Get back to tracking down all the properties she has locally, so we can send guys out."
Eliot nodded. "Brandon and Steven are back, too, so we've got tons of talent to move, and Scott just transferred over more funds to our operating budget out here."
"Keep me appraised."
Dare left Eliot in the makeshift office, one bedroom of the largest suite on the floor, all in use by Dare's staff. Dare walked into the airy sitting room, larger than James' entire apartment, and his black boots sank heavily into the creme-colored plush carpeting. Ignoring the brass-trimmed high-backed chairs and the chenille sofas with their plush enticements, Dare instead walked through shimmering glass portal on to the balcony, overlooking the palatial homes of the well-to-do.
Dare gripped the railing and stared out at the city. "Sooner or later your precious mortal has to die, Ka-yet," Dare muttered to the wind. "Time is on my side."
* * *
Tonya maintained a number of caches and safehouses around the world, owned under a variety of monikers and holding companies. Truthfully, it was hard for her to keep track of them all, but none of them ever fell behind in their rents or leases, due to a carefully balanced system and a network of employees who wouldn't know her if she walked by.
Her safehouse in Memphis was like that. A sleepy one-story home, set back from the street, just off Neely Drive in one of the so-called "bad neighborhoods" where people raised their families everyday and owned mobile homes. Lights and televisions calmly activated themselves at pre-set intervals, and the six-foot-tall wall and security system kept most people at bay.
Still, a human touch was required, and that's where Tracy Archer came in. Getting the job had been a real windfall -- it saved her from making the 30 minute commute into Mississippi every day to work at a nursing home, and the money was so good she had finally been able to move out of her mother's house for good and set her two children up in a nice daycare until she was ready to tolerate the little monsters. Since the job only required Tracy to show up once a week, she luxuriated in her free time, enjoying the greatest pleasure in her life, gluttony.
It was almost seven o'clock as the gate dutifully pulled back for Tracy's remote, then she slowly pulled the brown Buick Regal in to the driveway. The gate closed behind her of its own accord, and she climbed out of the car, balancing keys and a Krispy Kreme cinnamon bun in her hand as she reached for the remnants of the half-dozen she'd bought.
Tracy made her way to the side door, trying to move fast but betrayed by her girth. The oppressive Memphis humidity hung over her like a heavy blanket, and the dime-sized mosquitoes plodded through it, pushing their wings through the heavy air. Tracy almost dropped the keys before finding the right one. She opened the door, slid in, and slammed it shut behind her.
Inside, of course, the air conditioning was on, full blast, maintaining a pleasant 73 degree atmosphere inside the pristine house. Tracy sat down her keys and the half-eaten box of donuts on a delicate wooden table by the door, standing up to key in the security code that would keep the house from getting a lot more interesting. Smiling and fanning herself, Tracy looked around and nodded, noticing the cleaning crew had been here recently from the lack of dust on the furniture.
"I just don't get how somebody can let a house fulla furniture and nice things just sit here," Tracy muttered, but remembered that this empty house was paying for her new bath massage, so she should be grateful.
There were really only three things Tracy had to do in the two hours she was supposed to be in the house. Most of Tracy's duties for Pyramid Enterprises involved going to the one room office at Southgate Mall and opening and sorting through mail, almost all of which ended up in a trash can. On her way to the house, Tracy had dropped the scant bills and legal paperwork at the accountant's office, as she did every week, and fed the remainder of the website offers and office supply catalogs into the shredder. It turned out to be easy work, which always made Tracy wonder why the four interviews and the extreme background check were necessary. Again, her love of her leisure won out over this train of thought.
Inside the house, Tracy had to walk around and adjust all the timers, according to a schedule the accountant handed her every week. Tracy loved this part of the job, nodding dimly at the delicate statues and plastic-covered couches and chairs that tastefully decorated this small home. She always made sure to hop on one foot at the one point on the bedroom floor that made a kind of "thump" noise, which tickled her endlessly.
After the timers were set, Tracy made her way to the second bedroom (where the timers were never changed) and tapped on the keyboard for the computer, a shiny new iMac with a swiveling monitor. Every six months there'd be a new computer in this room, which sometimes vexed Tracy as she'd always have to deal with a new printout of instructions in the chair. This one had been here for about three months, so Tracy was well used to it. Grunting slightly, she fit herself into the forgiving gray Aeron chair and waited for the computer to get itself ready. When she started, it was explained that hitting the "g" key would make it do everything it needed to in order for her to see the video streams. Cameras were everywhere in the house, recording, and once a week Tracy was charged with watching the "unusual" parts and taking notes. Mostly it was just a raccoon or a fox, things the computer wasn't trained to recognize, or maybe some teenagers sneaking into the yard to smoke or drink beer. This week there were only two clips the computer showed her -- a family of possums traipsing through the yard, and a chair falling over, clearly left in a precarious position by the cleaning crew. Tracy noted the chair on a small pad next to the computer, tore off the sheet and folded it, placing it in a pocket next to her plentiful breast. It would have to be dropped off at the accountant's office in the morning.
Finally, Tracy was able to get to her favorite part of the job. Her contract said that she had to spend two hours per week in the house, and the aforementioned two duties almost never took longer than thirty minutes. So Tracy normally took this time out to watch a movie, something she'd rented earlier in the day. Tracy knew she'd seen Two Can Play That Game before, but she loved any chance she could get to watch that fine Morris Chestnut in action. Plopping down on the couch, she mentally lamented the father of her oldest child, a gap-toothed caramel colored man who'd disappeared in the night. He was nowhere as pretty as Morris, but he'd sure made a big girl from Memphis feel special.
The previews began and Tracy remembered that she'd left her Pepsi in the cupholder and her microwave popcorn in the trunk. Cursing, she pulled herself up off the couch and headed back for the door. She keyed in her code again, which made her angry because she'd probably have to explain why she left the house to that nosy accountant, and opened the door. The blast of aerosol that hit her face took her unaware, and she collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.
The man standing in the doorway looked down on her. He was tall and lantern jawed, and his olive-colored skin was pockmarked with age and wear. Underneath his leather trenchcoat, he still wore the Krispy Kreme uniform he was wearing when he bumped into her hours ago. He reached down and grabbed the button-shaped camera from the bottom of her shirt. He smiled, happy that he'd properly assessed her fashion sense and chose a style that melded well with her look. He dropped the button-cam into his inside coat pocket and walked straight to the computer room.
A few taps on the keyboard got him command-line access to the iMac's operating system. A few more called up the video camera recordings. He found a day with no unusual activity and copied it, renamed it to fit the current date, and replaced the files. Then he set up an Applescript to suspend recording for the remainder of the day, start back up at midnight, and erase the script itself.
He then proceeded directly to the bedroom, and kneeled down. Tapping on the hardwood floor, he quickly found the part of the floor that Tracy jumped on. Pulling a pocketknife from his coat, he felt for an edge and soon found it. Some pushing and prodding made a panel poke up, and under it he found a digital keypad. Cursing, he replaced the cover.
He walked back to the living room and shut off the television, which was still making its way through the movie. He pulled a cell phone from his coat, replacing the pocketknife, and dialed with one hand. As he watched Tracy, a sleeping lump in the doorway, the phone came to life.
"Report," a heavy voice came from the other end.
"I have entered the facility and encountered another digital keypad. I have the woman's security code to enter and leave, but I doubt she'd know the code for the materials stored below, and I don't want to risk detection.
The phone was silent for a moment. "Scatter devices everywhere, little brother," the voice said at last. "Sooner or later the subject will return. We've had to learn a great deal of patience."
"What about the woman?" the grim man asked testily, again watching Tracy's heavy belly rise and fall as she began to snore lightly.
"Use the bottles of alcohol you brought," the voice suggested. "Pour some of it on her. Given her relative intelligence, she may even believe that she simply drank herself stupid."
"This was supposed to be a major accomplishment," the man said through gritted teeth, frustrated.
"It is, Nikolas," the voice said soothingly. "You performed admirably, and we now have a solid information source for one of the afflictions. Just finish up and come on home. Father would be proud."
A smile cracked the grim man's face for a moment, and he nodded. "All right, Stavro, I'll report back once I'm back at the hotel."
Flipping the phone closed, Nikolas stuffed it back in his pocket, and withdrew the fifth of whiskey from yet another pocket. Unscrewing it, he glanced around and said under his breath, "We're going to find you, sooner or later."
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