Lion's Tooth

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“There are currently three or four men outside the country,” Graeme Pleasance recalled. “Lidding is in Barbados following a lead. No doubt, he's already gathered more than a few strings. Ebbs, I hear, was in Hong Kong. Home is reporting that he was caught in Triad crossfire and is presumed dead. Nell is in America—Seattle, I believe. He is meeting with a CIA contact regarding some new technologies. And Ayers—last I heard, he had infiltrated a KGB compound in Barnaul.”

“How's his Russian?” John Baker asked, puffing on a cigarette.

“Flawless.”

“And his accent?”

“Muscovite peppered with a touch of Gorky.”

“And how are you these days, Graeme?”

“It's winter, John. It always has been.”

“How cynical of you. Is that what you asked me over for? To lament over winter?”

“What's a few lamentations between old friends, 'ay?”

“Ah. Is that what we are? A few pints and we became the strangest of bedfellows?”

“Bedfellows?” Graeme repeated.

“I meant nothing by it, Graeme. Though...”

“Don't you say a word! Hear? I'm a married man, goddammit!”

“What? You never wondered how things would have been had we met under different circumstances?”

“Stop it, John,” he said, nervously fidgeting with his shirt sleeve.

“But why?”

“Take a walk with me.”

The men rose from their chairs in a smoky parlor room lit with dull, morning light pouring in from a western window. They inched their way over stacked books, journals and newspapers, over rolled canvas and paints to a stark hallway where several pairs of mud-caked boots sat, lined sloppily at the foot of a bench. Graeme sat on it to lace up a pair of old walking shoes and asked John to leash the dog.
“No, it's over there, by the light switch. The latch is a bit stiff, so you have to really push it for it stay on the loop. Call for him—his name is Ray.”

“Ray? Lousy name for a dog, don't you think?”

“Yeah, well, I didn't name him. The girls did when they were young.”

“Ray, boy!” John called, “C'mere, boy!”

The men grabbed their coats as the dog doddered into the hallway, rasping heavily.

“Your dog is quite the specimen. He must be nearing twenty.”

Graeme faked a laugh. “I forgot you were a comedian.”

“I never was quite as funny back in school, you see. I'm making up for it. Now, can you make your dog move any faster? Or are we moseying?”

“Ray! Move your ass!”

“Oh,” John smiled and remarked mockingly, “that motivated him.”

He bent to the dog's collar and, with a little trouble, slipped the latch over the loop and the three of them exited through the hallway and out the front door onto a snow-covered driveway. Little flurries danced in the air, pirouetting around the men and the dog as they made their way beyond Graeme's Peugeot 205 to a stretch of slush extending hundreds of yards off into the sunrise.

“You're overdressed, John,” Graeme commented.

“And you're underdressed. I like to put on a suit, even when just visiting a friend.”

“John. Do you see the sun peeking up over the hill, behind those trees?”

“I do.”

“When I look at that grove of trees, I think about how I'd use it for cover when tracking down a target.”

“I think about going in and taking my clothes off...”

“I look at it and all I see is a hiding spot. When I look at that wall on the far side of the park, I think about ambushing a potential...”

“What?”

“This job becomes you, John. Doesn't it? Or is it just me?”

“Graeme, you know the answer to that question already.”

“It's not natural. My daughter visited me three nights ago and we took this very same walk. She hoped for spring. For green grass and dandelions—picking and blowing them. But I don't hope for spring anymore. Haven't in many years.”

“That is our world. You said it yourself: It's always been winter. And there aren't any dandelions in winter.”

“Can we be forgiven for the things we've done?”

“Is it a numbers game? If so, then I doubt it. But I don't think of it like that, Graeme. I think of it as a job. And we're doing the right thing. I have to believe that.”

“You don't believe that, John!” he yelled. “No, I know you don't. I know you better than that! And I know what you've said before. There's no way you've changed your mind about that.”

“Why? You changed your mind about us, Graeme. Or don't you remember?”

“Why do you bring that up? I'm not like that! I don't love you like that! I thought I proved it to you when I married Wendy.”

“Are you wishing it away? Or does it just hurt too much to say that you're a homosexual?”

“I'm not a fucking homo—”

“You can't even say the word! Jesus Christ! You can't even say it. I know too much about you to believe for one second that you actually love Wendy as anything more than just a friend.”

“You're a freak! You know that? You're goddamn certifiable, John.”

“And you're a faggot, Graeme! You and I both know it. You were right, though,” he sobbed, “you were right about me not believing that we're doing the right thing.”

“Why do you do this! We're too old to have these fantasies.”

“You were right to be ashamed of yourself, you little tracksuit-wearing faggot. No, not because you're a faggot, friend, but because you're too fucking afraid to admit it. Christ, you kill people for a living!”

“Keep your voice down!”

“Or what? The neighbors will hear? It's okay, Graeme. I know why you brought me here to your grove. And it wasn't to reminisce. It's actually in my best interest that the neighbors do hear. That dog isn't your dog and that house isn't your house.”

“No, you're wrong...”

“Graeme! Graeme, I knew from the moment you invited me over that this was a ruse. You had never invited me over before. That is not your house. I'm not an idiot and I don't expect you to treat me like one.”

“I don't want to do this anymore, John.”

“But you have to. Not only is it in your nature, it's your job. And your life depends on it. And the lives of your family. Even the life of that fucking dog,” John smiled.

“Don't you want to know why Home assigned this mission to me?”

“I know why they assigned it to you. Because they know you're a faggot, too, Graeme. And they know we care about one another. I have lost my edge and I'm a risk. And if you don't do this, they'll send for you, too.”

“I...goddammit, John.”

“I know what you can't say and I don't care. So, I think I'll go this walk on my own. I suppose this is goodbye.”

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

John trudged ten yards off into the grove and stopped. He removed his trenchcoat and opened the top couple buttons on his collar. With a few deep breaths, signaling his resignation, he closed his eyes and waited. One deep breath. Another deep breath. And another.

Graeme traced John's footmarks. From a pocket in his cagoule, he drew a garrote fashioned from a length of piano wire and two wood dowels. In one swift, studied motion he pulled the garrote taut around John's throat. John's eye's burst open as the wire cut deep into his flesh and blood spurted out in all directions, painting the snow red. The wire sliced through all but bone and John was no longer moving. Graeme zipped his tracksuit to cover a few stray specks of blood on his t-shirt and left the grove forever.

Word Count: 1326

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