Chapter #21Memories Like Constellations, Part 3 by: Seuzz   "You should be over there," Joe murmurs to you.
"You should be over there," you retort.
"Funerals are your thing."
"And Rosalie is—" The reply dies on your lips as flames appear in Joe's eyes. "Sorry. And this isn't a funeral, that was months ago."
"Still, it is a cemetery."
Yes, it is. And a nasty one it is, too, with listing granite slabs and rotted wooden posts. The sun is shining brightly, but that only makes the site look even more like a swollen scab on the green landscape. You glance over at the blackened and gutted ruin of the Cuthbert church. You wonder if the people in the cemetery were laid in its sanctuary before being buried—and what things crawled into the open caskets and wrapped about the corpses as they rested under its blasphemous roof.
But the late Will Shabbleman is probably safe from that, for Fane's army destroyed the church three years before his funeral. Still, as you gaze at the distant figure of the slim girl looking down at his tombstone, you think maybe you should move his body to a healthier resting place. Of course, you'd have to talk about it with his widow. But not now, not so soon after her waking from the slab in the Chamber.
You're grateful to be distracted by a sigh from Joe. "I wish Margaret were still with us."
Huh? "So do I, but why do you? You never liked—"
Joe makes a face. "No one did. But it did you good. I need to talk to someone."
"Father Ed's calendar has nothing vacancies," you tease. You're surprised that Joe's expression turns thoughtful. "What, no snappy comeback? Oh, right, my jokes are never—"
"I wasn't thinking of it as a joke," he says somberly. "I never think about the padre, but you're right, he's the one I need to talk to, now that Margaret's—"
"Are you okay, Joe? Have you been out in the sun too long?"
"Shut up," he growls. "I am totally serious. That girl over there— We failed her. Bad."
"How?"
"Whose grave is she looking at?"
"How is it our fault that her husband got drunk and drove into a wall?"
"We shoulda kept an eye on him," Joe says heatedly. "This whole fucking place fell apart after we hauled her away."
"We had to. It was sick."
"No it wasn't," he says through gritted teeth.
"Sure it was. From everything we learned it was sick before she took it over—"
"And she was making it better! She's a Glundandran!"
"And it was making her sick too! Maybe she wasn't a witch-queen when we caught up to her, but it was starting to get ahold of her."
"We did right, Frank, I'm not arguing that. But we dropped the ball. We shoulda taken responsibility for this place while she was asleep."
You raise your hands. "Joe, I'm the one who's supposed to feel guilty for no good reason, and I'm telling you my conscience is totally clear."
"Then maybe you're not guilty of anything. But I am. Of something."
Yeah, of being in love with Rosalie Stewart, you don't say, for you know better.
"I'll be in the car," he says, and stalks away.
You wait a few minutes, then enter the cemetery and quietly make your way up to Rosalie. "You can stay as long as you want," you say. "If you see that Joe and I are gone, it's only because—"
"No, I'm ready to go," she says, and her expression, though grave, has a light behind it. "I've made my apologies to him. And to the others."
You take her hand in yours. "You did as you could, Rosalie. The burden was crushing you and should never have been laid on your shoulders."
"And you saved me in time. Thank you."
You have the sudden urge to lean in and kiss her.
And as you hesitate, wondering over that spasm of desire, she looks around. "Where's Joe?"
You don't know whether to be chagrined on your behalf, or pleased on Joe's, by her question.
* * * * *
You open your eyes. The crystalline drill bit gleams above you. Dr. Plante looms into view. "How do you feel?" he cautiously asks.
For just the briefest moment your lips feel unnatural as you smile. You grunt softly and let the sensation of a body come to you. Legs. Hips. Torso. A left arm. A right arm. An arm thrusting through your chest. Your smile sharpens just a hair as you gently grip Plante's throat with invisible fingers. A troubled expression crosses his face, and he swallows with difficulty. You release him.
"I feel fine," you say, and your new baritone momentarily surprises you. You sit up, and grimace as your muscles bunch up and ache. "Exhausted as fuck. That was a—"
Your larynx doesn't want to form the word helluva.
"—one starfucking cunt of a hike, and I didn't even get what I went in for." The flannel hoodie binds tightly as you roll your shoulders. "Nnh. But I'm whole and hale. How about you, doc?" You fix your eyes on him, and he pales. "You need to do any kind of follow up on me?"
"Just one little, uh," he stammers, and takes a pencil light from his pocket. He licks his lips as he shines it in your eyes. "Yes, the mounting seems perfect," he says. "Excellent. Given the nature of the P2," he murmurs, "I worried that—"
"Worried what?"
"Well, we've never replaced the P3 in a, ah, gifted individual such as, ah—"
"Such as me?" You stand up, and lean over him.
"Well, like this individual," he says and shrinks back.
"Like me," you repeat. "What did you do with Frank's—" You tap your forehead.
He pats a small suitcase on the floor. "Carrying it back to London for safekeeping."
"And my old meatsack?"
"Your team has already transferred it to the other vehicle. Also for travel."
"Mm. I'll leave it to you to explain things to them, then. I have places to be." You clap him on the shoulder—lightly, you think, but he staggers—and the van creaks and groans as you jump from the van to the ground.
You go into the station through the back. The break room is empty, and you step into the bathroom. As you close the door, you notice a gamey odor. You sniff at your shoulder. Phew! You'll need to change. You run some cold water into the sink, and when it's full you splash some onto your face, but it bounces off the beard. You raise your head and regard yourself in the mirror.
It's the face you've been studying recently: pale, with hard features only barely softened by the full beard and the unkempt hair. You tug the former at a few spots where the tips need trimming, and swing your head from side to side to take it all in. How many birds you got nesting in there? Father Ed cackled on your last retreat. Your faint smile is lost in the thicket.
You stand up and straighten the faded red hoodie, which was too small for your shoulders and chest even two years ago, before you really bulked up. You're only wearing it now because all the other clothes you packed stink even worse. You tug at the belt, and guesstimate this trip took a quarter-inch off your waist. It won't be a problem if you get it back, though.
You close your eyes and roll your shoulders and neck around, getting everything loosened up, and you let your concentration relax before leaning forward, to grip the sink and peer so closely into the mirror that you can only see your eyes, eyebrows and bridge of your nose: the standard first maneuver on an infiltration, to check for cracks.
Frank Durras looks back at you from irises so dark that the pupils are almost invisible. You smile, just a little, and it's a melancholy smile; and you murmur a brief, cryptic memorial that softens the flintiness of your eyes. For it is only meet that the new Frank Durras should say a few words over the body of the old.
You straighten up and tug the cuffs of your hoodie, and your gaze hardens as you think of the jobs ahead.
* * * * *
Clemons and Howland are taping up the windows you shattered as you trudge back into the lodge, and they turn worried double-takes on you. "Plante will brief you guys on this new technique," you tell them without any kind of prelude. "Cox, take down this info." He fumbles out his cell phone as you rattle off Durras's number and email. "You can call in an emergency, and text anytime without worrying, but use the spam system. You can release the biffs tonight after you leave, but I want the team in town until I say you can go. Any questions?"
Clemons keeps his mouth shut, but Howland raises his hand like he's in school. You nod at him. "This guy," he squeaks, and points gingerly at you. "Is he, uh—?"
"Is he what, White? Spit it out."
"Is he one of those, uh—?"
"Did he do this?" Clemons asks, and points at the shattered window.
"Yeah, that was him, and yeah I'm infiltrating one of those guys."
Your partners exchange a wide-eyed glance. "Are there going to be more, uh—?"
"Yeah, there's going to be more infiltrations. At least one more, relatively soon. Don't give me a reason not to pick you when the time comes. Finish up here, and keep your fucking phones on." You march into the parking lot.
Relatively soon, did you say? Why not this afternoon? Let Cox or Muniz have Durras, and you'll make the second infiltration. You now know that it wasn't Frank who blinded you. It was Joe. You could infiltrate as him.
Or as Rosalie Stewart. She and Joe have been getting awful close recently. That'd be a perfect place to fuck him from.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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