A Path of Oak and Ash (25 page)

34

Marcus Kane grimaced at the clock. It was almost six thirty on a Thursday, his wife would be expecting him at the club for cocktails within the hour. Honestly he'd meant to leave at four thirty, five at the latest, but time had a way of running wild. A trend Marcus did not care for. At all. Being a very calculating man, the recent setback's associated with poorly derived intelligence had thrown him for a loop. It had been months, and his agents were no closer to obtaining the boy or the book. In sharp contrast, his above bar endeavors had never been more successful.

There was something in the air when it came to first world politics. Once principled elected officials now quietly enacted legislation-often as a rider to more popular initiatives-to further his interests. More specifically, the ability for him-and people like him- to use their ample means to persuade public opinion and line the pockets of appropriate individuals. All in all it was the public opinion sway he found the most comical. All he need do was hire an aspiring-therefore mendable-cinematographer, run the spot frequently and lo before Marcus could sign off on the invoice the masses were shouting drill, frack, mine and export. If only they had the time in their busy lives to read up on what they were endorsing, but that was the saying wasn't it? Man is intelligent but men are beasts, and thus became lemmings at his sway. Had he the media outlets available to him these days twenty years ago, who knew what accomplishments he'd be taking with him into retirement?

As he read over the latest trial results from their pharmaceutical holdings, his eyes flicked to the left to check the time. Seven fifteen. If he had the car brought round now, he'd still be fifteen minutes late. Mrs. Kane, much like himself, was a calculating creature. Such uncommunicated delays would be admonished.

"Crystal, please let Mrs. Kane know I will be late." He tapped the intercom button once more. "And bring me the Appencorp file and a martini, if you would." He never said please. Curtsey on servants elevated them to equals, or lowered him to servile. Neither was acceptable.

At Seven Thirty One the message indicator light blinked on his phone. Drawing his attention away from the reading material in front of him. It had been fifteen minutes and Crystal had delivered neither the files nor drink he'd requested.

He punched the intercom button. "Crystal. Where is my file?"

Two minutes ticked by, he received no response.  Marcus rose from his desk, a frown firmly placed on his usually stoic face. The girl never left without notification, not once since she'd been in his employ.
Perhaps there had been a family emergency
, he thought, buttoning his jacket as he approached the cherry double doors that led to his office. Even if there was, he still planned to terminate her. Failure was failure, regardless of what colored glass you viewed it from.

Swinging wide the paneled door until it latched on the stay-open floor groove he huffed in frustration at the sight before him. Crystal was hunched over her desk, head down on her folded arms.  He knew she had recently taken up night classes but that was no reason to be sleeping on his dime. It wasn't as though her pay wasn't more than sufficient to satisfy her lifestyle, why she chose to occupy her time with fabrics and paint swatches he'd never understand.

Marcus stormed over to her desk, his heavy stride failing to rouse her. 

"Crystal."

"Crystal." When she did not respond to vocal prompts he tapped her shoulder. Nothing.

He shook her. Crystal's head rolled to the side, a thin stream of blood draining out of her now exposed ear. Her perfect blue eyes listless and immobile. Marcus took a step back, his first impulse was to retrieve his cell phone from the charging dock in his office and call a medic. However, she was obviously dead. Finding her as such within his building would lead to inquiries, inquiries led to indictments...

"You failed me."

Marcus whirled around to find his office occupied, someone seated behind his own desk. With the lights out and monitor screen asleep, the man behind the desk was mostly a shadow. Light falling only on his tented hands resting upon the glass surface.

"No." His Italian leather loafers making no sound as walked back into his own office, slowly approaching the desk like a damned intern who'd forgotten to get signatures on part of a vital contract. "No, we still have leads. We still have a plan."

"You have nothing." The man leaned forward, his face dipping into the light. "Which is why you
are
nothing." The anger in his oddly hued eyes chilled Marcus to the bone. He had seen that look only once before. Some twenty years ago in an off-the-books arms deal with some less than forward thinking African tribesmen. It was a fire that burned only for those who crossed the river Styx, not by Charon, but by their own oar. Yet, even those who tread facilely betwixt life and death must fathom operational acumen. He took a step forward, putting both hands on his own desk as leaned in. "I am in the middle of preparing a ten point plan of attack. Please sir...allow me to-"

A long metallic needle pierced his throat, just beneath his Adams apple to the side. The point retracting in a small steady stream of blood, ruining his favorite Armani suit. Staggering on his feet he clawed at the small wound while his former boss tucked the instrument of his death back into the breast pocket of his suit coat. Marcus tried to speak, incoherent gurgles escaping his lips. His employer smiled as he picked up the receiver on the desk with a long fingered delicate hand, pressing the third speed dial option.

"Mr. Johnson, let me be the first to offer congratulations on your recent promotion."

As he slowly choked to death on his own blood, Marcus noted with lamenting surprise that it was not as painful as he would have expected.

35

Elizabeth brought John up to speed on everything, both what had transpired at the apartment complex and the events leading up to her capture, over a piping hot plate of Belgium waffles. With every bite-from Rick's supposed crime to her father's murder on their jog-she found herself smiling. One easily forgets how good real food tastes. Sure there were a thousand reasons to be sad, but in this moment right now, she felt surprisingly better with a belly full of deliciousness. In this precise moment, she was blissfully content.

"Then I told Rick's Mom I sent the book to Harvard, but that's not where it is." She paused to pour more syrup on her third helping. Yum.

"Why would you do that?" John asked. He wasn't eating waffles, instead he had a simple breakfast of black tea, eggs and grapefruit.

"Because I knew something was wrong. Rick's Mom...she never called him Rick. It was always Richard. She said because of King Richard? You know, Robin Hood? She always said he was lionhearted just like him. Then I told her and she...her eyes...glowed. Like someone had taken one of those glow sticks kids get on Halloween and shoved them in her eye sockets."

"Graphic."

"It's what happened." She shook her fork at him. "Maybe they gave me something, I don't know. Her voice got all crazy and she told them to kill me. That's when the guards took me outside, one shot the other one who then turned into...me. I ran, ran here just like he told me to. Then I found you."

"Quite a tale you have there." 

"It's what happened." She repeated with a mouth full of waffle, syrup and strawberries.. "I never knew Richard had a father. I mean, I knew he had a Dad once, everybody has a Dad, but thought he died in combat, Iraq or something. How did you meet him?"

"I suppose you could say I met him in combat or something." John sipped his tea.

"Are you always a smartass?"

"Better than a dumb one. Here." He set a cloth reusable shopping bag on the kitchen islands granite table top.

She'd been so preoccupied with the need for sustenance she hadn't even noticed him hiding it behind the counter. He pulled a handful of clothing out of the bag .

"These should fit. I also took the liberty of procuring a few of these." John waived a box of hair dye in the air like it was a fine wine. "Red, Brown or Black. So many choices!"

"I have to dye my hair?" Her flowing blond locks had served her cheerleading passion well.

"Come now Diva, I know you've seen a spy movie before, you know how the game is played. Color it, cut it, etc."

"Then are we going to have a training montage where you teach me ten years of martial arts and gun skills in a day?"

John laughed. "Do I look like the type of man who would be able to teach you either?"

"No, but looks can be deceiving." She picked up one of the boxes off the counter labeled Autumn Fire, flipping it over in her hands slowly. "So then, what kind of man are you John?"

His smile faded, deep brown eyes focused on her an unexpected intensity. "A
good
one."  For a moment her heart stopped. With absolutely no reason to believe him, she found that she in fact believed him more than any other living soul. What a fitting contradiction.

Before she could utter another word he took the box out of her hand, placing it into the bag along with the other options. "Go take a shower, clean up. Rejuvenate. I swear you will feel exceedingly better."

"Well, I am dying to make use of that bathroom." It was a spa worthy of celebrities. She had been so incredibly tired the night before she hadn't ventured inside, this morning her visit had only consisted of the facilities before the aroma of food had drawn her down the hall to the kitchen.

"Then be gone with you!" He laughed, pushing the bag of clothes into her hands.

On sore legs she hobbled down the hallway to her room, pausing to make the bed, and into the bathroom. The airy theme from the bedroom had extended into this space, white marble covered the floors and lined the walls up to a chair rail height. A white grass cloth wall paper had been applied to the top portion of the wall, one with off white on white embroidered silhouettes of bird feathers scattered across its surface, perpetually paused in a gentle float downward. An appropriately scaled powder blue tufted round ottoman sat in the center of the room, a large soaking tub behind it, vanity with double sinks to the right and a six foot wide waterfall shower enclosure to the left.

Setting the bag down beside her Liz sat on the ottoman, trying to decide if she wanted a shower or a bath. As she weighed the options, her left hand twirled a long string of her blond hair.
I guess I should do this first
, she thought. Pulling the boxes of hair dye from the cloth bag with disdain.

She set the three boxes of smiling beautiful women on white counter, pausing to look at her reflection. Yeesh. Dark circles and bags hung under her eyes. Her cheeks were hollow, almost borderline sickly. Most of her bruises were in the purple to green stage, an oddly selected blush for her cheeks. Although she had just passed her sixteenth birthday she felt like she looked like she had just passed her 30th. The light in her eyes had dimmed, corners of her mouth drooped. She smiled, hoping the expression would return her youthful face, but it just felt off. A forced strain on her facial muscles.

With a shaking hand she picked up scissors from the collection of beauty tools displayed on a silver tray besides the soap dispenser. Gently gathering her long hair at the nape of her neck with her injured hand she started to cut. It was easier than she thought it would be, her hair had never been particularly thick. Just long shiny and...blond.

Grabbing one of the boxes off the counter she popped the lid, pulling out the powdery feeling gloves, three little bottles and instructions written in two languages. Frowning, she read the so-called easy three step process trying to avoid reading all the warnings, cautions and tests written beneath it. She didn't have the luxury of a 'sample' dye job. With the precision of a master chemist she mixed the foul smelling liquid into the larger application bottle. Liz had never dyed her hair before, being a natural blond she saw no need. Sure she'd rinsed it with lemon juice before tanning in the summer and put hairspray and pink chalk in it for a few middle school mixers, but nothing like this.

Sitting on the powder blue vanity stool, she stared vacantly out the window while the circular wall clock counted down the time. It was beautiful outside. So much so that what had happened to her seemed like a bad dream. Wickedness shouldn't frolic between the Ramon and Santa Maria's. Such beauty was reserved for cocktails on the beach, spring breaks and honeymoons. Not that she had or probably ever would have any of those now.

Stop being so emo, Lizzy
. She chastised herself.

When half an hour had passed she stripped out of the tattered rags of her old life, stepping into the waterfall shower. The dark dye pooled at her feet as it circled the drain, reminding her too much of a horror movie scene. She closed her eyes, allowing the heat to consume her stress.
Every moment from here forward you should be grateful. You are alive. You survived
. She told herself. Her family had always been deeply Christian. Her mother chairing all sorts of volunteer work at the church. Elizabeth however, had never fully subscribed to her parents faith. She believed in life and she believed in death, the before and after she'd never given much thought. Liz lived for tangible evidence; religion carried little. Still, she hoped beyond hope, if there was some sort of heaven out there, her Dad made it through the pearly gates. Or whatever. Her own tears mixed with the waterfall above her head, an odd cleansing of both her body and soul. She lamented for her father and for the life she left behind. The future Elizabeth Waters would never have, for Elizabeth Waters was dead in every figurative sense of the word. She made a pledge to herself, here in solitude, drenched in the element of her namesake, that she would shed no more tears. She would not give those who did this to her that satisfaction.

As she turned off the water, she said goodbye to who she was. No longer the care-free privileged child, no longer the vacuous ninny or aspiring journalist. She was now only Bethany Blair, what that meant and who that was, she had no answers for. But hopefully, if she lived long enough, she would find out.

Stepping out of the glass haven she towel dried her hair in half the time she was used to, probably because 3/4ths of it was in the driftwood inspired designer trashcan.

John had been right, she was feeling a million times better than she had the day before when she'd stumbled into Stellas. Wrapping a thick white towel around herself, she finger combed her hair. Funny, her fingers didn't even hurt when she bent them. Which made little to no sense. A broken bone should take six to eight weeks to mend, and here she had gone to bed with at least six fractures and a plethora of internal injuries and awoke with the stiffness of a long gym session.  What had been in that concoction he had given her?

Reaching into the teal shopping bag, she rifled through the shorts, tank tops, undies and-surprising-matching accessories he had procured for her. It seemed he had a thing for the boho look, everything was earth toned and comprised of knits, linens and lace.

The final choice for the all new Bethany Blair was a pair of chocolate brown deconstructed linen shorts, white lace tank top. oversized open stitched cardiwrap in oatmeal, leather gladiator sandals and a teal beaded necklace. Everything fit like a dream. Due to her little fashionista moment enough time had elapsed to dissipate the steam in the bathroom, her reflection now visible in the wide oval mirror over the sink.

She didn't even bother to look before she exited the bathroom.  Feeling more relaxed and at peace than she could remember, Bethany meandered slowly into the living room only to find it empty.

"John?" She called, fighting the urge to panic. Had something happened to him? Was this place not truly safe? Before she could work herself into a full freak-out she spotted him in the garden through the windows. Her new 'uncle' was sitting in the lush yard with his back to her.

Quietly, she walked over to the open French doors wanting to surprise him with her new style. However, as she approached she heard him mumbling quietly.

"I understand that, but I think it is a risk worth taking." He spoke quietly, running his fingertips over the blades of grass. "After all, she has lost everything because of them, what greater ally can we have?"

"John?" She asked tentatively, hoping he was talking into a cell phone out of view.

"Oh well look at you!" He scrambled to his feet, brushing bits of grass off his shorts, it looked like he tucked something into his pocket but she wasn't sure.

She really hoped it was a cell phone.

"That color suits you better, makes your eyes pop like little sapphires. Come on now, let’s get you back inside. Maybe eat something?"

"We just ate." She countered while allowing him to tug her back into the house.

"Alright fair enough, perhaps a movie then? I have a large television gets all the wonderful networks and programs American's watch. Or so I'm told." He pointed at the sixty inch flat screen that was hung at the far end of the great room as he wandered into the kitchen area.

"I want to know what is in that book."

John frowned, pulling a bottle of water out of the fridge. "Are you sure? There are some truths...that once you learn them you are forever changed." He took a drink. "I can insert you into a wonderful college in Europe in the fall, Oxford maybe? Cambridge? Get you a marvelous education, have a normal life..."

"No." She cut him off. "No, I want to know what was worth my father's life. What was worth my own life...I believe I deserve that much. Please?"

With a sigh, he set his water bottle on the counter, looking her directly in the eyes. "As you wish." The intensity of his stare was almost tangible, a hum on her skin.

Then he turned from her. "Imagine the world," He paused, turning to digging about in the fridge again. "is like this onion. We live here on this layer, going about our business; working, sleeping yadda yadda." He waved his hand in the air. "Now. Imagine." He pulled off the first layer of the onions skin. "That on this layer there is another world, dependent on the same whole as the first. A world full of people and places and ways of life unknown to the first."

"So you're saying, I was attacked by cave people?"

John frowned. "The onion was probably a bad example." Tossing it over his shoulder, it landed in the wide kitchen sink with a plunk. "Not literally beneath, but occupying the same space on a different plane of existence."

"You could have just said that without the onion, I'm not a moron."

"Well Anthropos education has previously been somewhat simplistic. There are still those among you shouting the world is only a few thousand years old, not to mention flat as this counter."

"Try 4.5 billion and round." She went to twirl and end of her hair, as she had often done previously when deep in thought, but found it wasn't long enough. Darn it. "So...these 'planes', you are telling me there are all these little earth copies coexisting means exactly what? Is that book alien or something? Is that why no one knows the language?"