A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael ended up in Legs' roomsThe The Lido for three days. When on that first night he attempted to protest his confinement, pleading work responsibilities, Frances told him brusquely that he might as well kiss his job good-bye and get over it. Michael had burst into tears, hoping that would sway if not Frances then Legs, but both men had studied him carefully and not a little sympathetically; finally Legs came forward, put his arms around Michael's shoulders, and said,

"There you are, then, Mary-Ann – no need to start the abdabs, won't do you a fuckin' bit of good. Bloody well stuck here and you'd best keep yer pecker up."

Hoping to sting Frances into a more compassionate state of mind, Michael nestled into Legs' embrace and sniffled against his throat. The skin was soft, hairless and fragrant, like a woman's, but the arms around him were strong and muscular, and he could see the adam's apple move when Legs spoke.

"Am I your prisoner then?" he'd asked. It did sound a touch histrionic but he couldn't help it; after the past week of unnerving surprises he felt he deserved to flash a bit of melodrama.

"You can think that way if it makes yer feel any better," Legs had said, voice thick with humor; Michael could hear it resonating in his chest. "Come on, then, Mary-Ann; give yer boyfriend a kiss. He's got an arseload of elbow-grease and he'll get fuck-all done rabbiting round here." So Michael and Frances had kissed, right in front of Legs, and then Legs had taken Frances by the elbow and led him out of the suite. Frances had been looking behind him when the door closed between them; Michael could see the wistful look in his eyes, and felt a little better. Frances was going to miss him. That wasn't so bad.

The first day was actually quite pleasant. It was nice really to just sit around and relax, watch whatever he liked on the television, order whatever he wanted from Room Service, not even shower or shave if he didn't want to. The next day was not as nice. He woke up late, then had the panicky thought that Today was The Day when Frances would come back for him; he'd rushed to the bathroom to go through an elabo toi toilet, dressed in the clothes Legs had left for him, and waited. And waited. And waited some more. He had lunch, he waited; he had dinner, he waited; at last, disappointed and a little angry, he'd gone to bed, feeling like he was wasting his time.

The third day he woke up on time, went through his shower-shave-and-pluck ritual with studied indifference, fixed his hair, dressed and decided to do something constructive with his time. He watched two educational programs on TV. Then he had a light healthy lunch, with poached fish and lots of vegetables. Then he watched an opera on TV. He found himself enjoying it, much to his surprise; he recognized the composer's name – Strauss – something about a bat – it was funny, entertaining. When it was over he picked up the Room Service menu with a sigh. He was getting a little tired of Gourmet. Could he risk ordering a pizza or something? He had a little money in his wallet –

There was a thump and crash behind him, and he jumped, heart in his throat. The balcony door had swung violently open, and Legs, his hair disheveled and his face streaked with sweat, burst into the room, looked around until he saw Michael, and stalked toward him, his face grim and set.

"Legs!" squeaked Michael; irrationally he felt that his pizza ruminations had brought the Wrath of Legs upon him and he felt a little guilty. "What – "

"Where's yer wallet, yer shoes?" Legs snapped, hiue eue eyes flicking over the floor. "Hurry it up, now. Come on, Mike, shoes, where are they?"

"I … uh … " Michael cast about wildly, saw his wallet on the side table and picked it up. Just as he slipped it inis bis back pocket he saw Legs leap smoothly over to the far corner of the couch; had he just taken five feet from a crouch without any visible effort? Legs picked up his shoes and thrust them toward him, looking angry.

"Put 'em on," he barked. His eyes were everywhere, looking from bedroom to doorway to dinette. "Hurry."

"Uh – " said Michael, but when Legs glared at him he gulped and hurriedly shoved his feet into his shoes, wriggling them down without unlacing them. When he felt his heels nestle into the backs of the shoes Legs grabbed him roughly by the arm and propelled him unceremoniously through the balcony doors.

It was early evening, and the traffic was horrible; Michael could hear horns honking and brakes squealing all the way up here. It was a terribly long way down, and he deliberately turned his face away from the sidewalk far below. But Legs didn't seem to notice; still holding him firmly by his tricep he propelled him to the far end of the balcony, round the corner to the back side of the hotel that faced another large building. It was darker there, and they looked down upon an alley. Legs pushed him to the fire exit.

"Down," he said curtly.

"But – " began Michael, turning pale; he was horribly afraid of heights. But the burning anger in Legs' face was even more frightening, and swallowing heavily Michael put tentative hands on the fire escape rails; they felt cold and rough.

He felt a push on his back; Legs was hurrying him along, looking behind and above them as they descended. The further down Michael climbed the less terrible it seemed, though that last storey was pretty bad; Legs pushed in front of him, dropped easily to the ground, swung the stairs down, and gestured impatiently to him. Michael turned around and clambered down, his back to Legs; when he turned he saw a large blue car – it looked like an old-model American sedan of some sorlurclurch wildly around the corner and come directly toward them.

Michael screamed, sure they were going to be hit, but the car screeched to a stop a mere six inches from the backs of Leg's knees. He didn't even flinch, just glanced back, grabbed Michael by the collar, and hauled him around to the rear door, which he opened, and unceremoniously dumped Michael on the seat. Then the car door slammed shut and the car was thrown into reverse, backed up quickly, and reeled out onto the street.

Michael was flung from the long low vinyl seat onto the floor of the car. It was stained and smelled of mold and stale cigarette smoke. He pushed himself up onto his hands, his heart in his throat, and peeked cautiously over the back of the front seat. The man in the front was concentrating on driving; all he could ses ths the back of a head, curly black hair; he glanced up into the rear view mirror and saw large blue eyes glance back at his reflection, then return to the horrors of the rush-hour traffic. There was another lurch and Michael fell onto the floor again with a grunt.

"I'd stay down if I were you," said the driver in a light, low voice; he sounded calm but very focused. Michael closed his eyes and lay still.

He was rocked back and forth every time the car accelerated or braked, and was flung from side to side whenever they rounded a corner. This went on for nearly an hour, then Michael could tell they had reached a portion of road far from the city, because they sped up, and there was very little, if any, deceleration – only the occasional lane change, heralded by the steady click-click-click of the turn signals. It was growing dark and Michael could see other cars' headlights bob crazily by, flashing in the car windows and rushing away.

"You can sit up now," said the driver calmly.

Cautiously Michael pushed himself upright, and slid slowly onto the vinyl seat. He looked out the car windows. They were speeding along a highway outside the city; he could see a few stars glinting in the lavender sky above them, but he had no idea where they were. He looked up at the driver. He was watching him through the rear view mirror again, his blue eyes crinkled up like he was smiling.

"So you're Michael," said the driver.

Michael swallowed nervously. Did everyone in L.A. and San Diego know his name? His mouth felt very dry, like it was filled with cotton, and his head ached from smelling the stale mold and cigarette smoke. "Yes," he said.

"My name's Frodo," said the driver, his eyes going back to the highway. "We'll be driving for a while so you might as well get comfy."

Michael slid tentatively back in his seaookiooking around warily. It was a pretty old car, with hand-crank windows and torn vinyl, though at one time it must've been pretty nice; it was covered in chrome and faux wood finish, and had little opera lights by the back windows. One of these was broken.

"So how long have you known Faramir?" asked Frodo, as though he were making simple and polite conversation.

Michael paused. Faramir? Isn't that what Professor White and everyone else he'd met lately had called Frances? Could he be certain that's what this, this guy meant – what had he said his name was – Frito or something?

"You mean Frances?" he asked. His voice sounded very small and shaky.

"Yes, of course, Frances," said the driver. "I keep forgetting."

Forgetting what? Frances' name? Michael couldn't really feel too indignant; after all he couldn't remember what this – Frito – had said his name was.

"Uh – about a year," said Michael.

Frito nodded. "I thought so," he said absently, scratched the back of his head. His hands were small and white, and looked as though they'd never performed any manual labor; they were al lik like girl's hands. He looked back at Michael in the mirror again. "You're very pretty. I can see why he likes you so much."

Michael blushed; this was a very strange conversation. "Um."

"It's okay. I'm bisexual but you're not my type."

"Oh. Uh …"

"I tend to prefore ore masculine guys. Or dark haired girls. No offense."

Michael didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. Still Frito drove them on into the night, away from the city. Michael looked out the window. He could see the occasional rise of a hill against the night sky, some vegetation, but he had no idea where they were. "I wish I knew how to find the North Star," he thought miserably. He wondered where Frances was, and suddenly missed him very much. It wouldn't be so bad if Frances were here with him, sitting beside him, calm, quiet, competent, controlled; he would be so protective, so safe. Michael wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered. He was afraid – his heart felt like lead and his limbs were weak. Even Legs would have been preferable to this.

Could he ask where they were going? Frito seemed very nice but he wasn't exactly forthcoming. But before Michael could screw up his courage to ask there was a high-pitched trilling noise – a cell phone. He saw the driver pick up a head set, fit it to his ear with the microphone by his mouth, and push a button. "Frodo," he said.

That's right – Frodo, not Frito. Two O's. He'd have to try to remember that.

There was a long pause, then Frodo sighed. The eyes in the rear view mirror looked suddenly hurt. "Shit," he said.

He listened a few minutes more. Then he said, "All right. Dammit. No, all right. Yeah, he's finee'lle'll be there in an hour." Then he pushed another button and yanked the headset off. "Shit," he said again. He sounded angry. Michael could see his face in the rear view mirror; his lips were pursed and his jaw clenched.

"What is it?" he asked tentatively.

"Got you out just in time," said Frodo shortly. "Five dead."

It was like an icicle slipping into his chest. "What?" he whispered.

"The bomb. At The Lido. Killed five."

Michael felt himself spiraling down. It was very dark and something was rushing, roaring in his ears. He saw sparkles in front of his eyes and he was shaking. Dead. Five people dead. A bomb. This was – this was not something he could understand, not something he could wrap his head around. All the Not-Discussed topics seemed to be looming over him. The name Faramir. Professor White. Legs. The veiled unfriendliness of the lunch at Café Deo Volente. Something illegal, that they were forcing Frances to do. Legs' authority, that unmatchable compulsion to obey him. And five people dead, for some unknown reason, but which obviously had to do with him. He realized he was hiding his face in his hands and Frodo was speaking to him, in a calm, soothing, authoritative voice.

"It's not your fault, you know. You're not the one they were trying to kill. They were targeting Legolas, not you. They knew you were in there and thought Legolas was with you. They didn't care if you died or not, but the one they really wanted to kill was him. This has nothing to do with you."

Michael dragged his breath in with a sob. Then the car slowed and went bumpity-bump over rough gravel, and stopped. Frodo turned, his arm resting on the back of the seat, looking at him.

"This has nothing at all to do with you, Michael," he said, reaching around and touching him lightly on the knee. His large blue eyes were full of pity and compassion. "This wasn't supposed to happen. The concierge talked to the wrong people at the wrong time, that's all."

"If it has nothing to do with me," said Michael, startled to hear his voice shake and quaver, and to feel tears streaming down his cheeks, "why was I even there?"

Frodo gave a smile, but it was an ironic one, pulling at the corner of his mouth. "You can blame Legolas for that," he said dryly. "Or Faramir, I guess. You were there to ensure Faramir's – " He paused, looked around absently, searching for a word. " – participation," he said at last.

Michael sat and looked at him, shoulders still heaving, tears still dribbling down his cheeks. Frodo watched him, large blue eyes sympathetic but the lush red mouth pressed into an uncompromising line. Finally something seemed to click for Michael.

"You're the one he painted," he blurted suddenly. "At the gallery, I saw you, I saw your portrait. A nude study. I saw you."

Frodo laughed; he threw his head back, ran his fingers through the blaurlsurls. Then he turned around and put the car back into gear, and pulled back onto the highway.

"He paints me a lot," said Frodo, smiling at Michael in the rear view mirror. "I’m always at his house, see – it's so peaceful there, I like to do my writing in the guest room. So I sit for him as payment – like rent, see?"

"Oh," said Michael. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and sat back onto the cold vinyl seat, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He stared out of the car window, watching vague dark shapes whip by, watching the occasional car pass them on the other side of the highway. After almost an hour Frodo exited onto a dark deserted road; they climbed into the mountains, the car's engine hardly making any noise as it shifted easily, pulling up and up and up. Michael's ears popped twice. It grew even darker, so dark all he could see were bushes and rocks bobbing and wavering in the car's head lights. Then Frodo turned off that road onto a gravel one. Pebbles pinged and donged the under-carriage and the car jostled and bumped.

Michael wondered what time it was. About an hour after sunset, maybe more. Still they jolted and bounced along, Frodo manhandling the huge car with ease. Soon enough Mel sel saw something besides bushes and rocks in their headlights, something large and metal and curved, but as soon as it came into view Frodo cut the lights and everything was dark dark dark.

They pulled up, slowed down, and stopped. Frodo turned off the car, opened the door, and got out. But Michael sat still, heart hammering in his throat. Now Frodo had him where he wanted him. Now that dissolute, wise, unhappy-faced man could have his way with him and no one would know, they were alone, Michael was alone.

His door was jerked open and someone grabbed him, hauled him out. He tried to fight but he was too frightened; his limbs felt weak, and anyway whoever had him was very strong –

Then he was pulled into a rough embrace; powerful men's arms holding him tight, a stubbled cheek rubbing his neck, a familiar fragrance –

"Michael – oh, god."

It was Frances.

Michael melted into his lover's arms. All the fear, anxiety, boredom, apprehension and terror of the past three days bled out of him and he felt his heart soar. Frances' hands were clutching his back, Frances' breath was in his hair, Frances' chest was pressed up to his and he could hear the quick hammf hif his heart. Frances was there, holding him. But – Frances was frightened.

Then Michael was frightened again. Maybe Frances had been captured too. These strange people, this Lego – something – Legs – and those others – they were so antagonistic to Frances – something had gone wrong –

But Frances pulled back, took Michael by the shoulders. Michael could just see his face in the dim dark light, framed by stars and the dark branches of trees. The air was cool, and smelled piney and fresh, and it was quiet, though Michael could hear voices further away, and the clink of metal on metal. Frances' hand was on Michael's cheek, caressing him; when he spoke it was with deep relief.

"I'm so glad you're all right. Oh god, I thought I'd lost you."

Then Michael was pulled into an embrace again, and he hugged Frances enthusiastically back. Oh, this nicenice, this was very nice; obviously they were safe now, and Frances just as obviously felt enough for him to have been concerned for his welfare, and to be relieved he was all right. Michael felt warmth spread through his chest at the thought. Frances was normally so reserved that he never knew whether he was liked or just tolerated most of the time – this was rather telling evidence that mere tolerance was not enough. "Frances LIKES me!" he thought over and over to himself, like a mantra; it was surprisingly soothing.

"I'm okay," Michael said into Frances' shoulder. What was Frances wearing – a flannel shirt? And he had obviously not shaved since Michael had seen him at The Lido. That was a first. "Frodo took good care of me. I'm okay."

Footsteps crunching toward them, two dark figures approached. A hand reached out, touched Michael's shoulder, a man's hand, gentle but strong. "Everything all right here?" asked the man. Michael recognized his voice – it was Dr. Walker.

"I'm all right," said Mel, el, feeling reassured; of all the people he had met the last week, Dr. and Mrs. Walker were perhaps the least frightening of them all. This was a good sign. But when Frances spoke he sounded angry.

"No, it's not all right," he said, his voice shaking. "What the hell was Legs thinking, going off like that? Michael could've been killed."

"But he wasn't was he?" It was Frodo's voice, he was standing beside Dr. Walker. "It's okay, we got him out. Don't go ballistic, man."

"He shouldn't have been there in the first place," muttered Frances. He pulled Michael in close again, pressing him against his chest. Michael could hear his heart fluttering by his ear. He wound his arms around Frances' waist and squeezed, eliciting a little huffing noise from his lover. "Dragging in innocent people – "

"Well, Faramir, if you'd done what he'd asked in the first place – "

"Don't give me that shit." Frances sounded very angry. "It was incredibly irresponsible of him, putting Michael in harm's way – "

"Hush!" It was Mrs. Walker's voice; Michael could see a pale glimmer of white in the corner of his eye and turned toward it. Mrs. Walker was standing there, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, clad in plain black clothes. The white glow seemed to be coming off her skin, which was ridiculous; it must've been the reflection of some sort of light. She walked by them, perfectly silent on the noisy gravel, drifting almost; she stood by the turn in the road, her head cocked. Then Michael could hear it too – the rumble and brap of a heavy engine, downshifting around a corner.

Michael held his breath, pressed closer in to Frances' side. What was this? Had they been followed by – by – whoever it was had set off the bomb in the hotel and killed five people? Was that it? What were they going to do? Were they all going to Die Horribly? But then he looked around, and as his eyes adjusted to the dimness he saw the people standing around him. Frances, upright sti stiff and strong. Dr. Walker, head raised, eyes calm. Frodo, relaxed, hands in pockets. Two other figures, bulky and obscured in the dark, but still and ready. And Mrs. Walker, incongruous, slight, but emanating a sort of power of her own, slim, strong, prepared.

The engine noise grew nearer, and now Michael could hear tires scraping and sliding on the gravel. A wavering, bobbing light from a head light emerged from the darkness, spinning, nodding, flashing over rocks and bushes and trees. Then with a final burst of noise a motorcycle came into view, cut its light, and coasted up to them. Pale white-blue light glowed up off the head of the driver, and Michael could see the long pallid hair flowing down the rider's shoulders.

He cut the engine and dismounted. But there was a difference in that long lean body; the kinetic twitchy energy seemed dimmed, the shoulders slumped. He trudged up to them, though Michael noted with surprise that he, like Mrs. Walker, seemed to make no noise when he walked.

"Well?" asked Dr. Walker.

"Seven," said Legs shortly. He was holding something in his hands, something that gleamed dully. "Last two were mine."

"The concierge?"

"Yeah, and an agent." Legs sat heavily down on the car fender, put his head in his hands. "Fuck," he saind tnd there was silence again.

Michael expected Frances to start berating Legs, expected him to start yelling at him for putting Michael in danger. But all the anger seemed to have drained out of Frances with Legs' admission. Instead there was a hesitant sympathy to his voice when he said:

"Patriots?"

"Yeah. Fuck it all. I hate killing people who think they're doing what's right. Fuck."

Michael went very cold. Legs had killed two people. He'd hated doing it and he'd done it anyway. Patriots. He'd killed two patriots. The concierge and an agent of some sort. Michael remembered the concierge, remembered the speculative look the man had given him when he'd arrived at The Lido. He thought about that man, that well-groomed middle-aged man in the suit, dead. Then he remembered what Frances had said the first night he'd ever seen Legs. Legs is dangerous. Stay away from him. Do what he tells you. Are you frightened of him? Stay frightened of him.

But Michael looked at the slumped shoulders, drooping head, hands limply holding the closed switchblade, fingers stained dark, and felt a surge of sympathy for a man who had to do something detestable, whether he wanted to or not, and felt lousy about it afterwards. Life sucked sometimes, even when you were beautiful and amusing and smart and strong like Legs.

He pulled out of Frances' embrace, walked tentatively over to the mournful figure. He put one hand gently on the stiff muscular shoulder, feeling it flinch beneath his touch. The pale face turned, eyes glinting up at him through the curtain of white hair.

"Thank you for saving my life," he said, and slowly, hesitantly, Legs smiled at him.