A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

(Chapter Warning: child pornography, snuff)


Michael found Lottie browsing in the gift shop. She had already purchased something, and was swinging the pink and green bag negligently from her hands. She appeared to be studying with deep concentration a Green Gables Snow Globe, turning it over and frowning at the price tag, but when Michael walked up to her (a little relieved to have not been paired with Arwen or Éowyn; Lottie didn't seem the Assassin Type to him) she gave him a brilliant, white-toothed smile, hooked her arm around his neck, and pulled him close in an affectionate embrace. Michael was a little taken-aback by this – Lottie was a Habitual Hugger but somehow this didn't seem an appropriate time for it – but then he heard a soft, breathy whisper against his ear.

"Blue shirt, black moustache, squinty eyes. Four o'clock. Here."

She withdrew and handed him the snow globe. Michael looked at it in confusion, wondering what he was supposed to do with it. Helpfully Lottie lifted it in his hands and turned it so that the surface of the water mirrored what was happening behind Michael. He looked at the sloshing reflection with a little trepidation. Sure enough, behind him and to the left, a man in a blue shirt was looking at a hand-made quilt. Michael squinted, knowing it seemed as though he were paying undue attention to the tacky souvenir but not caring. Undulating slightly, the reflection of the operative moved, shifting around; then Michael felt a cold jolt in his belly when he realized the man was looking directly at them, no doubt secure in the knowledge they hadn't spotted him yet.

He glanced at Lottie, unable to keep the trepidation from his eyes. She winked, pouted expressively at him and said, her voice pitched a little louder than normal: "Oh, come on. Please? I haven't spent THAT much yet."

It took Michael two seconds to realize what she was doing. In those ensuing two seconds he was sure he'd gaped at her like an idiot. "I'd make a lousy spy," he thought miserably. "Absolutely not, dear," he said aloud, making sure he sounded indignant. "I wouldn't have that awful thing in the house. Now come on, don't waste money on stuff like that." It was almost verbatim what he'd overheard his father say to his mother, when she had contemplated purchasing a corkscrew-shaped plaster lamp to put in the corner behind the aspidistras.

"You're such a spoil-sport," said Lottie, her dark eyes flashing angrily. "I didn't say anything when you bought that autographed hockey puck in Portland, did I?"

Michael's eyes widened and he had to struggle not to laugh. The tension was too tight in him; between Doris' matrimonial hurdle, and the pinprick feel of the operative's eyes on his back, he could feel the mirth bubbling up in him, like soda when you shake the bottle. He knew he was going to break into hysterical giggles at the slightest provocation. He mouthed to Lottie, "Autographed hockey puck?" and she bit her lip.

"Oh, be that way," she said, her voice sulky as she turned away, her own back to the man in the blue shirt. "I have to pee. I'll be right back." She leaned over so that her lips brushed Michael's jaw, and he heard her whisper, "Count sixty and go to the men's room." Then she flounced away, pink-clad bottom bouncing indignantly, pink rhinestones flashing. Michael was sure that, if he could have seen her from the front, her pert pink-clad breasts would have been jiggling as well. "Cute but still Sexy," he thought jadedly to himself. "Sexy Éowyn, Sexy Legolas, Sexy Frances … Thank goodness for Doris and Grim and Gandalf; I'd be overdosing on it by now." Careful to keep his back to the man in the blue shirt, he started to count to sixty, hoping he wouldn't somehow forget his numbers halfway there.

His back itched where he knew the man was watching him. He didn't dare turn and alert the man to the knowledge of his presence, but at the same time it was a little strange-looking to just stand there and watch the snow globes. "Fifteen … sixteen … seventeen," he thought to himself, wandering around the gift shop and looking at the hand-loomed cloth. It was amazing how much you could do in one minute, how hard it was to waste that time deliberately. How many minutes had he frittered away in his life, watching television or reading trashy magazines or dating jerks? Why did those minutes go by so quickly while this one crawled along like a sloth on barbiturates?

"Twenty-seven … twenty-eight … twenty-nine … " He turned at the back shelf; out of the corner of his eye he could see the man in the blue shirt moving around at the entrance of the gift shop, hemming him in. What if he didn't let him out? What if he threatened Michael so that he missed his Potty Rendezvous with Lottie? Well, that would be pretty stupid of him – threatening someone in a public place. But it was still unnerving to see the man hovering there, even if Michael was only looking at him peripherally as a blurry blue blob while pretending to be reading an informational booklet. If the man ended up in Michael's way he'd just have to be Rude. It didn't come naturally to him, but quite frankly he'd rather be Rude to a bodyguard than piss Lottie off. There was the brief threat of violence, but it didn't bear contemplating what Éomer might do.

"Forty … forty-one … forty-two … forty-three … " He fingered a soft wool scarf, a little surprised to find that the blend of bright color was aesthetically pleasing. And if he wasn't mistaken, those were Frances' colors … he turned the price tag over and nearly choked. Highway robbery, what they charged for this stuff; exchange rate be damned. He could get a scarf just as nice from a department store. Then again it would probably have been made in a sweatshop in China, whereas this one was hand-made by some local yokel. It was difficult sometimes knowing which side of the fence he should drop off on – economy or principle. And then he wondered what would happen if he didn't buy the hand-made scarf – it would likely be bought eventually, and if not, whoever had knitted it would simply go on Government Assistance, whereas a drop in the Chinese Scarf Market could potentially send some poverty-stricken Oriental someplace even worse. Damn Principles for getting in the way of his shopping.

"Fifty-two … fifty-three … fifty-four … " He was going to have to leave the gift shop in six seconds. Where was the man in the blue shirt? Letting his eye rove absently over a series of collector's plates hanging on the wall, he saw that the man was standing in the shop entrance, blocking him. He was going to have to push by him to get out. His heart started to hammer and, keeping his eyes fixed on the merchandise, began to stroll casually towards the operative. He was going to have to be Rude, or at least Not Quite Polite. Stupid bodyguard … what was he thinking? Did he really think he could keep Michael from going to the men's room? Then again if the man DID threaten him Michael might just let fly, and a bathroom visit would ultimately be superfluous.

"Fifty-nine … sixty." He lifted his head, and he and the man in the blue shirt looked at each other.

Michael was careful to keep his face neutral. He felt a thrill of fear when the bloodshot eyes narrowed at him, and his natural sense of order was offended to see a spot of something – mustard, perhaps – marring the denim shirt, and the moustache raggedly trimmed. The man's spiky dark hair was greasy and poorly cut, and there didn't look to be anything except brute stupidity in his expression. "I don't suppose body guards care much about their physical appearance," he thought to himself. "Oh, I hope I don't panic!"

"Excuse me," he said in a bored voice. The man in the blue shirt stepped aside, his eyes flicking to the cashier, who was busy with a customer. Michael exited the gift shop, his heart hammering against his sternum. He could almost feel the skin between his shoulder blades crinkle against the operative's contemplative stare. He glanced around, saw a sign indicating the men's room, and with studied indifference headed toward it, reflecting as he did so that it was much harder to walk casually when you were nervous than to walk masculinely when you were gay.

There was a round gilt mirror in the dark little alcove where the men's room door hid. Michael glanced into it. The man in the blue shirt was following him, and he had his hand in his pocket.

Michael's heart stopped hammering. In fact, it seemed to him that it stopped altogether. His eyes tunneled and he could hear a drumming in his ears, drowning out the passing tour guide and the bright chatter around him. That was it; the body guard wasn't going to have to kill him after all; he'd just keel over from a heart attack in the potty and save him the trouble. He hoped the man appreciated it. He pushed the thin plywood door open and stepped into the tiny room. It was barely four feet by four feet, and housed a miniscule toilet with a broken handle, and a little porcelain sink, stained with rust. The door nearly obscured the sink entirely, and Michael had to push his way in, as it appeared to have gotten hung up – probably scraping the floor –

He felt a hand on his back and turned, his heart (now beating again, with a thumping and irregular rhythm) in his throat. The man in the blue shirt gave him a shove, his mouth twisting up in a crooked smile. Michael staggered back against the thin rough walls, throat tight with panic, his shoulder fetching up on the corner. The man stepped in after him, his eyes cold, and hooked his fingers around the door to pull it closed. In two seconds Michael would be dead. The man would shut the door, pull out his – probably not a gun – most likely a knife – slit his throat – and Ossë would have to settle for someone else because he'd end up a crumpled bloody heap on the cheap faded linoleum –

The door swung closed. Lottie, who had been hiding behind it, gave the operative a quick rap on the back of his head with a short black cudgel, and he lurched forward, eyes unfocused. "Catch him!" she hissed, and Michael clumsily gathered the operative in his arms, staggering under his weight. The man smelled of body odor and hot dogs. Michael's knees were weak, and he couldn't tell whether it was from fear, relief, or surprise. "Ossë still has a chance," he thought a little hectically, and once again he heard brassy, ghostly laughter in his head.

Lottie tucked the cudgel back into her purse, straightened her hair, and gave Michael a dazzling grin. "Good job," she whispered, and latched the men's room door. Michael noticed she was wearing surgical gloves; they looked very Efficient, a frightening change for her. "Okay, you can put him on the floor now."

If Michael had thought the bathroom was small before, crowding three people – one of whom was a bulky, muscular, and very unconscious bodyguard – into it made it seem small on a nearly microscopic level. As soon as he'd lowered the man in the blue shirt on the linoleum (having to wedge his head behind the toilet as he did so) he felt Lottie poke him in the arm. He turned to her, and saw she was holding out a pair of latex surgical gloves, white and limp and powdery. He took them uncertainly. "Put them on," she said, smiling in what Michael was sure she thought a very Comforting and Encouraging expression, but which to Michael's rather frantic mind seemed only horribly unnerving. He pulled the gloves on while Lottie knelt by the operative's side and started rummaging through her purse. She glanced up at him, saw he was fully Gloved, and gestured him down on the floor. Michael knelt, cringing a little at the greasy, gritty feel of the linoleum beneath his knees, and wishing he'd worn jeans. His back and shoulder were pressed into the far corner, and there wasn't enough room for his feet; his legs were shoved up against the operative's side. Michael could hear his breathing, hoarse and a little uneven; the man's face was flaccid, and although his eyelids were cracked open the eyeballs had rolled back, so that all he could see was white. It was rather disgusting.

Lottie pulled a little plastic tube out of her purse, five inches long and very slim; at first Michael thought it rather odd of her to be so anal-retentive in carrying around Feminine Hygiene Products, but when she unscrewed the cap and tipped the contents out on her palm he saw it was a hypodermic syringe. "Roll up his sleeve," she whispered. Swallowing heavily, Michael reached for the nearest arm, but Lottie said, "No, the other one, the left arm. He's right-handed."

Paling at the implication Michael leaned over the heavy chest and pulled the thick muscular arm up onto the man's body. He unbuttoned the cuff and rolled the sleeve back, his fingers shaking so much he made a pretty poor job of it. He considered trying to straighten it out, but then looked down at the man's outfit. Stained and untucked shirt with a button missing; wrinkled khakis and worn-down, scuffed sneakers. It would probably look more strange to have had this man roll up his sleeve properly – a messy result would be a little more In Character. He had to close his eyes when Lottie pinched up the skin with her rubber-clad fingers and slid the needle in, but he opened them in a hurry when he heard the man on the floor give a deep, gurgly sigh … and not inhale again.

Michael held his breath and listened. All he could hear in the tiny bathroom was Lottie's breathing, even, temperate, and the little tap-tap of the faucet dripping into the sink. When the toilet made a restless swooshing sound he jumped. He looked down at the man. He was not moving. He bent over the man's face. He wasn't breathing either. He looked up at Lottie, who was replacing the tube in her purse with a complacent look on her girlish, ingenuous face. Then, hardly believing his own audacity, he tentatively put his fingers on the man's jugular vein, seeking out a heartbeat.

Nothing. The man in the blue shirt was dead.

"Did you poison him?" whispered Michael. Lottie carefully placed the syringe by the man's right hand and started groping around in the man's trouser pockets.

"Cocaine and air," she whispered back, winking at him. "He's a junkie anyway. Look at his arms."

Michael looked; sure enough, there were the pinkish remnants of track marks. He thought about the prostitutes on the docks in Miami and wondered if they'd taken Legolas' advice. "The cocaine poisoned him?" he asked softly, thinking back onto the coke parties he'd been to in high school. He had never indulged himself (he figured he was irritating enough without Chemical Enhancement) but shuddered to think of the risks his friends had taken, just to look "cool."

"No, not enough for that," said Lottie, keeping her voice quiet, and digging through the man's pockets intently, her thin brows puckered over her eyes. "It's the air that does it … can you find his wallet over there?"

Michael rose to his feet and stepped carefully over the inert body. He wedged himself in between the toilet and the door jamb and started to poke tentatively at the operative's thick backside. He felt a square, hard thing there, and wormed his fingers into the pocket, tugging it out. "Here," he murmured, holding it up.

Lottie had also apparently hit some sort of paydirt; she was turning a small address book over in her hands, a thoughtful frown on her face. "Hm," she said. "Look through it, will you? I want to see a driver's license." She opened the book and began to look through it.

"Okay," said Michael, a little relieved he was wearing gloves. He flipped open the shiny, pock-marked wallet. It was full of money, haphazardly shoved in pockets and corners, ones and twenties and fives all jumbled together, and there was a thick stack of cards crammed in one overtaxed and splitting section. He pried them out and started sorting through them, hoping to find the driver's license before anyone else wanted to use the john, which would admittedly be rather awkward. Credit card, credit card, ATM card, business card for a towing company, business card for a handyman, membership card for a warehouse club, photo of a skinny girl with big poofy brown hair and raccoon-like eyeliner, photo of same woman topless holding her breasts out to the camera, several half-punched food court cards (one for submarine sandwiches and the other for cheap Japanese food), alumni card for Clemson University ("Figures," grunted Michael, thinking of the big-haired woman with the boobs), dental appointment reminder card (three years old), photo of a kid with a –

Michael froze, aghast. Photo of a small Hispanic boy, naked, probably no more than eight or nine years old, legs spread, blood smeared all over the insides of his thighs. Eyes open and blank, mouth grimacing, hands clutching like claws, blue lips, dark bruises on neck. Undoubtedly dead.

He dropped the photo and retched, clapping his hand to his mouth. It was horrible. It was awful. It was worse than anything he had ever seen. He closed his eyes but he could still see it, still see the pinched, sallow face, the expression of fear frozen on the face of a child who had died in a crescendo of shock and agony and terror. He tasted bile and retched again.

He heard Lottie move across from him, heard her murmur, "Oh, my god." Then her hand was on his mouth, her other hand pinching his nose shut. "Don't puke," she warned him in a soft, steady voice. "You don't want any of your genetic material in here, just in case they call in the experts."

The threat of Discovery was enough to make Michael swallow his bile, but nothing made the wrenching nausea go away. Still squeezing his eyes shut, afraid he might see the unspeakable photograph again, he whispered, "Oh, god … oh, god … oh, god … "

"Polaroid, too," said Lottie contemplatively. "So this was the guy." Against his better judgment Michael opened his eyes; Lottie was looking at the photo, her normally cheerful face gray and grim. Her mouth was set in a tight straight line. She took the wallet and put the photo back in it, then started going through the rest of the stack to find the driver's license. "Shame I can't resurrect him," she said, her voice cheerfully venomous. "I'd think of all sorts of awful ways for him to die." She shook her head. "Legolas is gonna be pissed. He wanted to be the one to off him."

"What – " Michael swallowed again; his spit was acid and burned his throat. "You knew – "

"We knew one of them was a snuffer," she said, locating the driver's license and studying it thoughtfully. "We were looking forward to catching him, but we wanted to punish him first – shit," she sighed, and gave the wallet back to Michael. "Put this back. We need to get out of here."

Michael wedged the wallet back in the man's pocket. He hated touching the operative now, knowing where those hands had been, what they had done to that little boy, to other children, missing, unnamed, their faces plastered on milk cartons and advertising circulars and poorly-Xeroxed sheets of paper in Wal-Mart. Something wrapped itself around his heart just then, something hot and hard and sinuous, like a burning snake with vengeful venom. His nausea was pushed firmly down and he could almost feel his spine straighten. Men like this were Abominations. Men like this were Evil with a Capital E. Men like this needed to be removed from the General Public before they perpetrated any more vile acts. Men like this deserved to die. Michael had helped to kill him, and he was glad – not just relieved, not just satisfied, but GLAD. He wished he were as skilled as Lottie so he could have done it himself.

Then he heard the echo of a deep voice, chuckling: "Ah, I will make you a hunter yet, Little Dreamer!" Then the bluish shimmery stuff that always seemed to occlude his vision during these episodes faded, and Lottie was whispering inattentively, "Okay, let's get going."

They stood up, and Michael tried to wipe the gritty stuff off his knees. He turned toward the bathroom door and contemplated its chipped and poorly-finished surface with vague disgust. "Won't it look funny if we both leave at once?" he hissed, putting his hand on the pitted brass knob. "And what if someone looks in when I open the door?"

"This way," whispered Lottie. There was a scrape and a thump behind him; Michael turned around to see that Lottie had lifted a loose piece of particle board away from the wall, and in the darkness behind it he could see studs and wires. Strange; it had never occurred to him to wonder how she'd gotten into the men's room in the first place. He followed her, squeezing with her into the narrow space under a flight of stairs, and helped her fit the particle board back into its groove. In the sudden stuffy darkness he heard her whisper, "Take off your gloves and stick them in my bag."

Obediently Michael stripped the damp gloves off his hands. He found the paper gift bag held before his chest and dropped them in. He could hear Lottie's breathing, close and loud in the stifling stillness, and his own, harsh and a little uneven, whistling through his nose. There was a rustling sound, and the vague bumps and brushes against him as Lottie shuffled around, then she whispered, "See that wall behind you? Go that way."

Michael turned and felt his way through the back of the walls. He could hear people's voices, muffled and surreal, footsteps on the ceiling above them, and could smell dust, and dirt, and old wood, and the faint sickly smell of something that had been dead for a while. He groped around until he hit the wall, and then felt Lottie behind him, warm and cushioned and smelling faintly of sweet, fresh-cut grass and tarragon. She pushed by him and started easing another particle-board divider away; Michael helped her, feeling the rough edge against his palm. They managed to worry it aside, and Lottie nudged him through; she followed, and together, trying not to make any noise, they set it back into place.

Michael tried to turn around, only to find a mop handle stuck in his back. He shifted one foot and found a bucket. "Good thing that rough board doesn't hold prints," Lottie whispered, trying to squeeze in beside him. "Now, we need to wait until it's quiet – "

Michael was never sure which one of them did it, but one of them dislodged something – a metal dust pan, maybe; it had that clattery whangy kind of sound when it hit the floor – and they both jumped; the mop wobbled and fell, knocking against the far wall with a bang. There were surprised exclamations on the far side of the closet door, and then to Michael's horror he heard loud, purposeful footsteps approaching.

He didn't even have to think about it. The only thing that flashed through his mind was that it was the second Brilliant Thought he'd had that day, and he hoped it didn't go to his head. He gathered up Lottie in his arms, pressed her roughly against the closet wall, and proceeded to kiss the breath out of her.

She felt supple, warm, yielding, her breasts crushed against his chest, her hip and thigh fit into the groove of his legs. She barely hesitated before she too wrapped her arms around Michael's neck and kissed him back, her lips softer and more pliant than a man's, though she kissed with as much enthusiasm as she did everything else; she tasted of mint and chocolate. Then with a screech the closet door was wrenched open, letting down a cascade of dust into their hair with the sudden jerk, and they froze, blinking, limbs intertwined, staring at the gift shop cashier, who stood, her hands on her ample hips, glaring at them. Behind her a small crowd of people, pausing on their way through the house, stared disbelievingly; most looked surprised, though there were a few stifled giggles here and there; however several looked very offended, as though Michael and Lottie had sullied the Spirit of the House somehow by snogging in the broom closet. Everything seemed to freeze for a couple of seconds, like some odd pantomime or game of charades. Michael was only vaguely aware of Lottie's hair, silkily wafting about his fingers, and his own galloping heartbeat.

"What on earth do you two think you're doing in there?" demanded the cashier, her eyes flashing. Michael and Lottie looked at each other; Lottie was obviously about two degrees from bursting into laughter. She was already smiling, hair mussed and covered in a dusting of debris. The laugh Michael had quashed in the gift shop bubbled up again, threatening to burst out if he wasn't careful.

"Um," said Michael. "Kissing?" He tried to stop the smile but he couldn't, without performing undue violence upon his mouth. Lottie gave a strangled snort and abandoned propriety for mirth's release.

"Get out!" exclaimed the cashier indignantly, stepping aside and pointing toward the front door; Michael knew they were somewhere between the entrance and the gift shop, so he knew the front door was that way, and felt it was safe to assume she meant to leave the house, not just the broom closet. "How dare you sneak in here and try to satisfy your base desires – "

"I couldn't help it, it was just SO romantic – " Lottie blurted, but Michael grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the closet, dragging a mop and two buckets with them, clattering and rolling on the floor.

"Desecrating the very essence of this house – " the cashier was continuing, but she only addressed their backs; Lottie and Michael made a break for it, hand in hand, running through the front door, weaving through the constant line of tourists, down the sandstone step, underneath the archway, past Doris' apple tree and down to the end of the pathway, laughing like children. They ran all the way to the bus stop, laughing until the tears rolled down their cheeks, and then the bus arrived, ejecting another troop of tourists, they bit their lips and tried to quiet down; when the bus emptied they boarded with hastily-erected decorum, paid the driver, and sat in the back, stifling giggles behind their hands the whole way back to Cavendish.