TALES OF THE LEGENDARY
REUNIONS
(a HERO SANDWICH production)
Chapter Three
Terrence
woke early, despite the hectic day before and the busy night. He
blinked and yawned, then slid out from under the blankets without
disturbing Lisa or Rhea and tiptoed into the bathroom.
Once that
business was taken care of, he crept back through the room and out into
the hall, belting on a robe as he went. A quick stop by the kitchen to
start the coffeemaker and pour himself a glass of juice, then through
the living room towards the front door. He opened it, double-checked
that the knob was unlocked lest he spend another morning stuck on the
front steps, then took the stairs two at a time to retrieve the morning
paper and enjoy the cool, fresh air that filled Steel Canyon before the
traffic started. It was only a little past dawn, and while the sun was
bright, it was still hidden behind the War Walls and left the city
bathed in dim greyish-blue light.
He picked up the newspaper,
slapped the dew off the plastic cover with a quick whack against his
robe-clad leg, and turned to go back inside when something caught his
attention. He frowned and paused to look.
Rhea woke
reluctantly, savoring the last remaining dregs of sleep as they slowly
drained away. She stretched and hummed happily to herself as she caught
sight of Lisa's sleeping face next to her on the pillow. She glanced
up reflexively and saw Whiskers sitting there.
"Hi, fuzzbutt," she whispered to the cat, keeping her voice low out of deference to Lisa's unconscious state.
(You're happy this morning,) Whiskers remarked.
Rhea nodded and smiled.
(Tabby,)
Whiskers teased, and Rhea let out a giggle. She inched away from Lisa,
eliciting a soft mumble but not waking the other woman up, and
retrieved a t-shirt from the hamper. She grinned as a sudden thought
struck her and tossed the shirt back, rummaging through the hamper for a
different one. When she found it, she slipped into it with some
difficulty -- it was barely long enough to fall to mid-thigh, and tight
across the chest; it was a souvenir that Terr had picked up for her.
She settled Whiskers firmly on her shoulder as she left the room,
closing the door gently and making a beeline for the wondrous aroma of
java emanating from the kitchen.
Her favorite mug was waiting,
and she filled and doctored it carefully while the toaster worked on a
pop-tart. She gathered up her spoils of conquest and headed for the
living room, pausing only momentarily to un-stick the spatula from the
brownie batter that had hardened like concrete and scrape the mass into
the garbage.
Terr was seated on one end of the couch when she
cleared the doorway. She collapsed onto the other end, drawing her
knees up and tucking her legs under, grinning in anticipation of his
flushing cheeks as he noticed what she was wearing -- or wasn't -- and
hurriedly looked away. It was so cute how he did that.
Except... today it wasn't happening. Terrence didn't even appear to have noticed that she was there.
"Hey,"
she said softly. No response. She frowned. Something had to be
wrong. She stretched out one leg slowly, pointing her foot, and nudged
Terrence solidly on the shoulder with her big toe.
He jumped, startled, and yanked his head around to face her. "Oh, hi, Rhea," he mumbled, flushing.
"I wanted to see you blush," she said wryly, "but not like that."
"Heh."
Terrence grinned weakly and scratched at the back of his head with one
hand. And, worst of all, Rhea noted amusedly to herself, he still
hadn't noticed what she was wearing. (Last time I try to dress up for him,) she commented to Whiskers.
(A t-shirt is dressing up?)
(Hello, it's the Hooters shirt?)
(Ohhh.)
"What's the matter?" she asked quietly, nibbling on the corner of her pop-tart. Still too hot.
"What? Uh... nothing."
Rhea
rolled her eyes. "C'mon, you big lunk, you're like an open book. Even
Whiskers can tell there's something bugging you. Right, fuzzbutt?"
She regarded Whiskers fondly for moment and nodded firmly. "See?"
"... mornin'..." Lisa yawned from the hall, shuffling towards the kitchen and fumbling with the ties on her robe.
"Saved by the bell," Rhea said, nudging Terr again.
"You're the Southern girl, not her," Terr replied, regaining some of his usual good cheer.
Rhea blinked. "Lisa?" she called out. "Something's wrong. Terr just made a pun." She wrinkled her nose. "A bad one."
"Does
that mean he needs to be punished?" Lisa said as she entered the living
room, trailing steam from a mug, the size of which probably violated
legal limits for caffeine intake.
"Probably." Rhea winked at Terr. "I dunno, though, he might just be a punk."
"Always. What did he verbally hemorrhage, anyway?"
"I said he was saved by the bell, he said I was the Southern girl, not you. As puns go, it was pretty puny, but this is Terr we're talking about."
Terr
mimed gagging and holding his nose. Rhea rolled her eyes. Lisa took
another sip of coffee, then offered, "Perhaps he was just... punchy."
"Ack," Terr remarked. "What have I done?"
Lisa
smiled and bent over the back of the couch to give Terr a quick kiss.
"Nothing," she said, straightening up. "... that I can bell-ieve,
anyway."
Terr groaned as Rhea laughed. Lisa grinned and gave a
mock bow before coming around and settling down between the others on
the couch. Rhea draped her legs over Lisa and grinned conspiratorially
at the shorter woman as Terr finally realized what she was wearing and looked away, flushing brightly.
"It really is cute how he does that," Lisa said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Mm-hmm," Rhea said, nibbling at her pastry and trying (failing) to suppress her grin.
"I'm cursed," Terr grumbled halfheartedly. "Whiskers, you're a guy, help me out here."
(I'm on her side,) Whiskers said, with a mental bump against Rhea's cheek. Rhea laughed into her coffee and nearly spilled it.
"Do I want to know what he said?" Terr asked resignedly.
"Probably not."
Terrence sighed.
For
a while there was a companionable quiet. Rhea finished her snack and
entertained herself by stretching and watching Terr's face for
reactions, while Lisa studiously ignored the byplay (except for the
constant grin tugging at her lips) and finished her coffee. Finally, it
was Lisa who broke the silence.
"You said you'd answer any questions we had today," she said quietly, looking Rhea in the eyes.
Rhea
nodded. "Yep," she said. "Ask away, I've got nothing to hide from you
two." With a mischievous smile, she added, "You've seen it all
already."
Lisa smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She set her
mega-mug down on the coffee table and folded her hands in her lap,
gently nudging Rhea's legs down in the process. "Do you still love
him?"
Rhea blinked at the question. She felt Whiskers prodding
her -- (Be honest, girl!) -- and took a deep breath. Looking at first
Lisa, then Terr's, faces, she nodded slowly. "Yes," she said. "I... I
do still love Danny. I'd be lying if I said I didn't."
Terr
growled something under his breath, too quietly for Rhea to catch, and
sank down in his seat. Lisa nodded as if she expected the answer, but
her features betrayed some hurt, too. Rhea leaned over. "I love you
guys too, you know," she added. "I'm not going anywhere... unless... unless you want me to?"
Suddenly
she was afraid. Maybe she had misunderstood the question. Was this
it? Was this Lisa's hint that she'd overstayed her welcome? That was
probably it, Lisa was too nice to simply come out and say it was time
for her to leave, so now that Danny was back they were going to let her
down gently. It made sense -- oh, it made perfect sense! -- but it
wasn't what she wanted, not that that mattered, she'd known it would
happen, hadn't she told Whiskers as much way back when... people always
left her, she was like a curse to them... Rhea bit her lip to keep from
sobbing.
She wouldn't do that. Not to them, not to herself. If it was time to go, then she'd go, with no fuss. Calm. Cheerful.
"Hey! Rhea!" Lisa shook her by the shoulders, and Rhea found herself staring into smoldering eyes.
"... w-what?" she managed after a moment.
"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"
"You... I mean..." Rhea tried to gather her thoughts. Finally she shook her head. "I guess not?"
Lisa sighed. "I said, silly, that we don't want you to leave."
(You've really got to try to listen first and panic later,) Whiskers said in gentle reproach.
"I wasn't panicking!" Rhea burst out.
Lisa and Terr eyed her strangely.
"Uh..." Rhea flapped a hand at Whiskers. "His fault. Sorry." She took a deep breath. "I'm okay, really."
Lisa
nodded. "Okay then. Next question." She paused for a moment, eyeing
Rhea with a concerned look. "Do you know a girl named Marilyn Harris?"
Rhea
frowned, puzzled. How did Lisa find out that name? "That was a long
time ago... I didn't know her very well. She was my dad's friend's
daughter, I think. I used to call him Uncle Mark, but he wasn't my
uncle. You know how it goes." She shook her head. "Wow. What's going
on? Been checking up on my sordid past or something?" She let out a
weak chuckle.
Lisa's face was very grave as she replied, "Danny killed her last night."
Sell-Sword
glanced up from his work as Ifrit entered the room, passing through on
her way to points unknown. He nodded cordially in response to her
greeting, then returned his attention to the display.
He didn't suppose she'd particularly mind
that he was rifling through the Legendary personnel files -- what he
could access of them through the coalition link, that is -- but at the
same time he didn't think she needed to know what he was doing, either.
EMERALD
BLAST, the heading read. The public file was sparse -- not much more
than he'd already known, really, though it did include a detailed power
classification -- but gave him the interesting note that she didn't
maintain a secret identity. And having her real name had let him dig up
far juicier information.
Like the fact that she was seeing a
therapist. She'd said as much herself in an interview. He supposed it
had to do with her Army discharge for mental health reasons -- that
tidbit was publicly available as well -- but a little poking revealed
that there had been a heavily redacted event of some sort that triggered
it all. He wasn't finding any details that might explain the interest
of a hired thug (he couldn't bring himself to use the word professional
in regards to Smith), however.
From public sources.
He
saved his work to a secure chip and removed a small device from the
computer. The display flickered and resumed normal operation. Anybody
poking around would see nothing out of the ordinary, but a determined
investigator might notice a small blip in the logfiles. A power outage,
perhaps, causing this terminal to drop out for a few minutes. Nothing
more.
He pocketed the device and left. He, unlike Smith, was a professional. And he had other ways to get the information he sought.
Danny entered through a window, passing between the heavy drapes without a sound and closing the sash noiselessly behind him.
The apartment was quiet.
Spacious
and roomy, it held plenty of evidence of occupation, but had that
undeniable air of neglect about it. A thin layer of dust coated most
surfaces, and several days worth of mail piled beneath the slot in the
door. While it obviously hadn't been lived in recently, it just as
obviously wasn't completely abandoned; the utilities were still
connected and as Danny poked around, he noted that what little food
inhabited the fridge had not yet gone bad. Except for the milk, which
was so far past its sell-by date that he suspected it could harbor the
cure for Superadine's side effects.
Which fit the apartment's
owner perfectly, he noted with a small smile. Rheabeth was many things,
but she'd always had a hard time handling the food side of household
chores. He'd done most of the cooking and grocery shopping himself,
when they were together, just to preserve his palate. He snagged a can
of cola and popped it, letting the carbonation settle a bit before
sipping.
He moved on, through the gap between counters that
separated the living room from the kitchen, and went down on one knee to
look through Rheabeth's mail. Most of it was inconsequential and
mundane. He came across an envelope with an interesting return address
and without hesitation slid the tip of a dagger under the flap and slit
it open along the glue line. He extracted and scanned the contents
quickly. The note was hand-written on the letterhead of Psychiatry
Associates -- Licensed Mental Health Counselors. Danny snickered as he
read. Apparently Rheabeth's therapist was concerned that she was
missing so many appointments lately and wanted to discuss whatever
issues she felt might be causing it.
She didn't need therapy, he
mused, she just needed a good -- well. He chuckled and folded the note
along the original creases and tucked it back into the envelope, then
hunted around the desk against the wall. Rheabeth always kept a junk
drawer, and he found it on the second try. Nestled among the stamps,
scissors, rubber bands, half-chewed pencils and pens, and assorted other
detritus, there was a tube of superglue. He used it to re-seal the
envelope, then dropped it unceremoniously back on the pile inside the
door and resumed his mostly-aimless drifting around the apartment.
He
wasn't sure exactly what he expected to find. He rather suspected that
Rheabeth hadn't changed much, except for her newfound abilities, and so
far everything he'd seen and talked with her about had only served to
reinforce that. She was still soft, over-emotional, and mostly
helpless. She'd always needed someone to take care of her, and had
turned to this Knight character for it when Danny himself wasn't around
any more. All too predictable, but then, she'd always been that.
No,
he wasn't surprised that his little Rheabeth had found herself another
protector. What did surprise him a little was Gamma Emission. He'd
contemplated bringing another girl into their relationship back when he
and Rheabeth were an item, but had regretfully decided that that
was a bit too much for the small community they'd been living in. Word
always got around, after all, and he'd been practicing keeping a low
profile since before he was in high school. What had made it so
tempting in spite of that was Rheabeth's reluctance on the subject.
She'd been a good little Southern girl, doing her best to please her
man, and the little spikes of pain she felt whenever he indicated
interest in another girl were like intoxicating hors d'oerves,
stimulating his appetite for more. She never said anything, of course,
but he could tell.
So it was startling that she now had a woman
in her bed -- an attractive, powerful, intelligent, and dangerous one,
at that. He had assumed, perhaps prematurely, that Rheabeth was as
straight-arrow as it was possible to be, which made it all the more
entertaining when he managed to nudge her into what her upbringing told
her was depraved, sinful, or wrong. Obviously he'd had more of a
long-term impact than he'd thought.
Regardless, he rather suspected it was this Gamma that wore the pants in whatever twisted three-way relationship they'd forged.
He
paused in Rheabeth's bedroom, regarding the tangled sheets with a fond
half-smile. He leaned over and inhaled deeply over the crumpled
pillow. Rheabeth's scent still lingered there, though he knew it had
been some time since she'd spent a night alone in her own bed. She'd
always been a bit of a wildcat in the bedroom, and given the choice, she
wouldn't choose to sleep alone... or sleep at all, sometimes. He
laughed softly and ran his fingers along the pillow. Tiny, wispy
tendrils of his power leaked through the cloth, tracing along the
contours where Rheabeth's head had been, but found nothing to bite on.
He didn't expect there to be anything, of course. It was very rare to
find the sort of energy he needed just lying around, and it was much
more satisfying to rip it pulsing from an agonized living person than to
merely absorb what was left over from their nightmares, anyway.
He
slid open her closet and grinned. Some things, it seemed, didn't
change. Rheabeth was still a clotheshorse. He pawed through the
hanging garments, which were tightly packed on the closet rod, not
really searching for anything in particular but trusting in instinct to
alert him if something interesting cropped up. One item caught his
attention, and he withdrew it carefully. It was perhaps the flimsiest
bit of condensed, colored air he'd ever encountered, as thin and
insubstantial as the most delicate cobwebs, so light it drifted
languidly in the vague, barely-perceptible wind currents from the air
conditioning. He pictured Rheabeth wearing it and grinned. He'd have
to remember it was here. She would wear it for him the first night they
spent together again. Soon.
He put it away and pushed the
entire rack aside, checking the bottom and back of the closet out of
habit. Nothing except shoes and various accessories in boxes. He put
everything back the way it had been, closed the closet door, and
returned to the main room, frowning thoughtfully. He wasn't sure what
he was looking for here, but he hadn't found it yet. He forced himself
to stop, and think, and remember Rheabeth's habits.
Slowly, he
lowered himself on to the couch, at the end where his left side was
cradled by the cushions on the arm. It felt right. Rheabeth liked
curling up this way, her feet tucked under, sometimes with a blanket
when the weather was cold. On their couch back in Georgia, the only
cushion with any wear showing had been the one on the left end.
Smiling, he leaned forward, reached down, and fished under the couch.
His fingers found a hard, flat object, just within fingertip reach, and
he drew it out easily.
"You haven't changed, Rheabeth," he murmured.
It
was a simple hardcover notebook, the type used by college students the
world over. It bore no ornamentation, but the corners were well-worn
and ragged. The spine creaked a little when he opened it.
He'd
read her diary many times before, of course. It was an easy way to keep
track of where her mind was at. She didn't write in it often, and when
she did the chances were good that it would be nothing but inanities,
useless bits of ephemera that, for whatever reason, she was discontent
to let float away. Vague bits of poetry, a pithy description of how
much she disliked so-and-so or the food at such-and-such restaurant,
observations on politics, and the like. But at other times she treated
the diary almost like it was a friend, a living person who could listen
and sympathize with whatever little problem was bugging her that day.
It was those entries that Danny had always found most interesting. They
gave him vital intelligence. It was like knowing exactly which brick
to remove to cause the entire house to collapse -- or in Rheabeth's
case, knowing exactly which buttons to push, and how far, to cause her
the most pain. It was a delicate balancing act. As dependent as she
was, there was a core of steel there. If he pushed too hard or the
wrong way, her pain would become anger instead. He could feed on that
as well, but it was nowhere near as satisfying, and of course, if she
was angry about something he'd done or said, he'd have to spend the time
and effort to calm her down and appease her. Rheabeth was at her best
when she thought she was happy. She would tolerate more -- she could
tolerate more, emotionally as well as physically -- and the desperation
with which she clung to her happiness made the agony that much sweeter.
He
smiled as a memory rose, of the knife tracing her curves, of her face
as it mingled terror, pain, and pleasure all in one, and of her
exhausted but willing -- almost cheerful, in fact -- disposition when
she rose from the bed to clean up the mess he'd made. Her blood -- not a
large quantity, more symbolic than anything, but there all the same --
would stain the sheets unless promptly handled. She did so without
complaint, a smile on her face.
Yes, it was vitally important to
know where Rheabeth's mind was at. She could be the perfect victim, and
the willing accomplice, at the same time -- and remain perfectly
innocent while doing so. It was a rare combination, but it required
careful maintenance.
He flipped through the book until the first
blank page -- perhaps two-thirds of the way in -- then backed up to the
most recent entries. They weren't dated -- Rheabeth had very rarely
bothered with dates, in her diary and in general, he recalled -- but
from context he gleaned that they weren't very old, relatively speaking.
Its hard staying cheerful all the time, Rheabeth had written, but
I need to. Lisa took care of it last time, but what if she isn't
around next time? It's scary knowing that Whiskers can cause that much
damage. I'm lucky that the Legendary picked up the bill, and I don't
want to think about how much it cost to fix that hospital up. Eva
tells me not to worry about it, and Lora just gets tight-lipped and
doesn't say anything. I think I'll tell the accountant to donate the
profits to rebuilding hospitals or something, I have to make up for it
somehow. It's not like I need the money anymore.
Danny
raised an eyebrow. Lisa would be Gamma Emission, he gathered.
Precisely what had she done? It could be useful to know... and what was
this about an accountant? Had his little Rheabeth come into money
somehow? She'd been as broke as could be when he cleaned out their
savings and left. And the Army wasn't known for its exceptional wages,
so that didn't seem likely either. The interview she'd given on TV had
mentioned a toy line, but he'd dismissed that as inconsequential. Now
he wondered.
He turned the page.
... said they love me
too, and I'm so happy, even if I know it won't last. It never does.
But I can dream, right? And when they tell me to leave, at least I'll
still have Whiskers, I guess, so it's okay.
I thought of a haiku today. Whiskers likes it, at least.
Silly tabby cat
Rubbing against Terrence Knight
Lisa will be mad
Danny
flipped through the rest of the entries, but most of them were of the
inconsequential sort. The very last was the only one that seemed
telling:
James said that he's concerned about my relationship
with Lisa and Terr. I love them and they make me happy and he just
doesn't understand. I don't know what he's all worried about anyway.
He's a nice guy, but he just doesn't understand what it's like being a
hero. MAGI stopped paying for the visits a while ago, so they must
think I'm okay.
He said he wanted to meet them, but that's not a
good idea, I don't think. Terrence especially. And Lisa's like me,
she's a pro herself. What's that saying again? Physician, treat
thyself? Something like that.
Well, I'm going to. I don't think I'm going to see him anymore.
Thoughtful,
Danny closed the diary and returned it to its resting place. He left
the way he came, through the window, closing it behind him.
Terrence
was the shield. Lisa... Lisa was the keystone. He wondered if his
little gift had made it to Rheabeth yet. It had been simplicity itself
finding out where she was staying. She was so pathetically eager to
resume contact with him that he now had her beacon ID and personal cell
phone number. And now he had a name to put to the spitfire's face.
Danny inhaled deeply of the morning air, smiled to himself, stepped off the fire escape, and vanished.
Sell-Sword let out a disappointed sigh. Shaking his head, he deactivated his cloaking field and faded into view.
Mr.
Smith was good enough to be a decent burglar, Sword admitted to
himself, but the professional in him cringed at the other man's
sloppiness. No gloves, no wipedown. Consuming the target's food, and
worse, leaving the half-empty can on the counter. Opening the mail and
re-sealing it haphazardly. All things that Sword had himself avoided in
his search of the apartment.
But -- and here he felt a bit
aggrieved -- he hadn't found the diary. Smith had done so. Now that
the other man was gone, Sword made a beeline for it and quickly scanned
it, cover to cover, using the high-resolution camera built into his
helmet. He would read it later.
Then, returning everything to where it had been when Smith left, Sword departed. The apartment was quiet and still once again.
"I don't believe it."
"We
saw him, Rhea." Lisa suppressed her desire to scowl in remembered
disgust, guessing that such an expression would be a bit too much for
Rhea to handle. Beside her, Terr completely failed to follow the same
chain of thought, and she mentally shook her head as his face crashed
down into a glower that often sent would-be villains running for cover.
Rhea didn't appear to notice.
"No!" Rhea cried. Her eyes were bright and shimmering with tears. "I... I can't... you shouldn't say things like that! It's not true!"
"We're
not lying," Lisa said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. "Ask
Terrence. He saw Danny too." Beside her, Terrence shifted, clearly
uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny Rhea directed at him.
"You saw him?" the distraught redhead demanded. "You saw Danny?"
"I...
yes? I think." At Lisa's incredulous glance, Terr shrugged. "Hey, it
was dark and I just saw this guy running away. I chased him for a bit,
but he never turned around." He nodded firmly. "But Lisa saw him, and
she ain't the type to lie. You know that."
Rhea closed her eyes. "Oh, Lisa, I'm sorry, I ... I didn't mean..."
Lisa took Rhea's hand and gripped it tightly. "It's okay. I -- we -- understand."
"But it can't have been him," Rhea wailed. "Danny is a good man! He wouldn't have done that -- not to anyone!"
"He's
not the man you remember." Privately, Lisa suspected Danny had never
been what Rhea thought he was, but she felt bad enough pushing Rhea like
this anyway. It had to be done, but... better to spare the poor girl
what she could. She wouldn't mention the sarcastic and demeaning
comments Danny had made -- it was starting to become obvious that Rhea
wouldn't listen anyway.
"I still don't believe it," Rhea finally
said, hot tears running down her cheeks. Her voice, Lisa noted, was
firm -- too firm; Rhea had decided something. And Lisa knew that once
Rhea had the bit in her teeth, she was difficult to stop.
"We're not lying," Lisa insisted firmly, but without much hope. Rhea nodded and gripped her hand.
"I
know! I believe you, Lisa." The redhead sighed. "It must be someone
trying to frame him. Mr. Whiskers even says that's a possibility, and
you know how skeptical he is." A faint smile crept onto Rhea's face.
"The fuzzbutt thinks you're telling the truth... but he doesn't know
Danny either -- not like I do. Just like you two." Rhea wiped at her
tear-tracks and sniffled a little. "I don't know why I didn't think of
it sooner, really. He said last night that some people were after him.
I bet that's what this is all about -- they're trying to get us to do
their dirty work for them. I need to warn him!"
Before the
others could respond, Rhea leaped to her feet and headed for the
bedroom. "I'm going to get dressed," she called back. "Back in a sec!"
The bedroom door closed with a faint click.
"What," Terrence rumbled incredulously, "just happened?"
"Trouble,"
Lisa replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I can't say too much
or I come off looking like a jealous bitch, and what I can say, she
won't believe. We need proof."
"He knows where we are,"
Terrence admitted glumly. He reached out and moved the newspaper that
lay on the coffee table, revealing a small oblong box that had been
hidden beneath. Lisa raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. "It
was by the front door this morning. I ... didn't know what to do with
it."
Lisa picked up the gift and examined it. A small white
corner of paper peeked out from the lid; Lisa extracted the card and
opened it, then sucked her breath in sharply.
My dearest Rheabeth, it read in elegant handwriting. I
enjoyed our wonderful evening together. It was just like old times --
how I've missed those! Please, accept this as a small measure of my
love for you and when you wear it, think of me. I can't wait to see it
on you. Yours forever, Daniel.
"That son of a bitch," Lisa snarled. She made as if to tear the card to bits, then froze.
"Yeah,"
Terr nodded sadly. "I couldn't do it either. I was about to hurl the
whole thing, gems and all, straight through the War Walls... but..."
"But
if you did, you'd have walked into his trap," Lisa finished sadly,
forcing her fingers to fold the card neatly and tuck it back into the
box.
"Yeah." Terr looked glum. He sighed. "We have to give it to her, don't we?"
Lisa
nodded. "Yes." She closed her eyes and forced herself to hold back
the scream that wanted to erupt. "He's playing us, the sick bastard."
"How do we stop him?"
Lisa took a long time answering. Finally: "I don't know."
They
sat in silence for several long minutes until Rhea returned, breathless
from a quick and cold shower. She was dressed in casual clothes and
vigorously toweling her waist-length hair. Lisa felt a faint pang of
regret that Rhea had changed out of the Hooters shirt, but shoved it
aside and waited for the shoe to drop.
"Hey, what's that?" Rhea asked, precisely on schedule. A slim finger indicated the gift box.
"This
was left for you," Lisa replied, handing it over. She was perversely
proud that she managed to do that with a straight face. She watched as
Rhea opened it and gasped.
"Oh my god," Rhea breathed. She
tucked the card back into the box and withdrew a thin, delicate silver
necklace. Dangling from it, a small but exquisitely crafted pendant,
with two rearing lions forming a circle around a small emerald, the
whole thing no bigger than Terr's thumb. She clasped it to her chest,
looking at Terr and Lisa with tears welling in her eyes once again.
"You see? He isn't the sort to do what you saw. That had to have been
someone else."
Terr and Lisa shared a glance, then Lisa shook her
head. "I know what I saw," she insisted, and held up a hand to
forestall Rhea's outburst. "But we'll go along with you for now, okay?
If you're right, then we'll apologize to Danny. Fair enough?"
Rhea
nodded. "Okay." She turned around and lifted her hair out of the
way. "Someone get the clasp?" she asked, holding the necklace in
place. "I'm terrible with those tiny things."
As Terrence fumbled through the task, Lisa glared daggers at the box, and by extension, Danny. You won't win, she vowed to herself.
I blame Sweno.
Or maybe I should thank him, actually. His posting of the latest Staking A Claim reminded me that I really needed to get back to this. And unlike Sweno, thread necromancy doesn't bother me.
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs
REUNIONS
(a HERO SANDWICH production)
Chapter Three
Terrence
woke early, despite the hectic day before and the busy night. He
blinked and yawned, then slid out from under the blankets without
disturbing Lisa or Rhea and tiptoed into the bathroom.
Once that
business was taken care of, he crept back through the room and out into
the hall, belting on a robe as he went. A quick stop by the kitchen to
start the coffeemaker and pour himself a glass of juice, then through
the living room towards the front door. He opened it, double-checked
that the knob was unlocked lest he spend another morning stuck on the
front steps, then took the stairs two at a time to retrieve the morning
paper and enjoy the cool, fresh air that filled Steel Canyon before the
traffic started. It was only a little past dawn, and while the sun was
bright, it was still hidden behind the War Walls and left the city
bathed in dim greyish-blue light.
He picked up the newspaper,
slapped the dew off the plastic cover with a quick whack against his
robe-clad leg, and turned to go back inside when something caught his
attention. He frowned and paused to look.
Rhea woke
reluctantly, savoring the last remaining dregs of sleep as they slowly
drained away. She stretched and hummed happily to herself as she caught
sight of Lisa's sleeping face next to her on the pillow. She glanced
up reflexively and saw Whiskers sitting there.
"Hi, fuzzbutt," she whispered to the cat, keeping her voice low out of deference to Lisa's unconscious state.
(You're happy this morning,) Whiskers remarked.
Rhea nodded and smiled.
(Tabby,)
Whiskers teased, and Rhea let out a giggle. She inched away from Lisa,
eliciting a soft mumble but not waking the other woman up, and
retrieved a t-shirt from the hamper. She grinned as a sudden thought
struck her and tossed the shirt back, rummaging through the hamper for a
different one. When she found it, she slipped into it with some
difficulty -- it was barely long enough to fall to mid-thigh, and tight
across the chest; it was a souvenir that Terr had picked up for her.
She settled Whiskers firmly on her shoulder as she left the room,
closing the door gently and making a beeline for the wondrous aroma of
java emanating from the kitchen.
Her favorite mug was waiting,
and she filled and doctored it carefully while the toaster worked on a
pop-tart. She gathered up her spoils of conquest and headed for the
living room, pausing only momentarily to un-stick the spatula from the
brownie batter that had hardened like concrete and scrape the mass into
the garbage.
Terr was seated on one end of the couch when she
cleared the doorway. She collapsed onto the other end, drawing her
knees up and tucking her legs under, grinning in anticipation of his
flushing cheeks as he noticed what she was wearing -- or wasn't -- and
hurriedly looked away. It was so cute how he did that.
Except... today it wasn't happening. Terrence didn't even appear to have noticed that she was there.
"Hey,"
she said softly. No response. She frowned. Something had to be
wrong. She stretched out one leg slowly, pointing her foot, and nudged
Terrence solidly on the shoulder with her big toe.
He jumped, startled, and yanked his head around to face her. "Oh, hi, Rhea," he mumbled, flushing.
"I wanted to see you blush," she said wryly, "but not like that."
"Heh."
Terrence grinned weakly and scratched at the back of his head with one
hand. And, worst of all, Rhea noted amusedly to herself, he still
hadn't noticed what she was wearing. (Last time I try to dress up for him,) she commented to Whiskers.
(A t-shirt is dressing up?)
(Hello, it's the Hooters shirt?)
(Ohhh.)
"What's the matter?" she asked quietly, nibbling on the corner of her pop-tart. Still too hot.
"What? Uh... nothing."
Rhea
rolled her eyes. "C'mon, you big lunk, you're like an open book. Even
Whiskers can tell there's something bugging you. Right, fuzzbutt?"
She regarded Whiskers fondly for moment and nodded firmly. "See?"
"... mornin'..." Lisa yawned from the hall, shuffling towards the kitchen and fumbling with the ties on her robe.
"Saved by the bell," Rhea said, nudging Terr again.
"You're the Southern girl, not her," Terr replied, regaining some of his usual good cheer.
Rhea blinked. "Lisa?" she called out. "Something's wrong. Terr just made a pun." She wrinkled her nose. "A bad one."
"Does
that mean he needs to be punished?" Lisa said as she entered the living
room, trailing steam from a mug, the size of which probably violated
legal limits for caffeine intake.
"Probably." Rhea winked at Terr. "I dunno, though, he might just be a punk."
"Always. What did he verbally hemorrhage, anyway?"
"I said he was saved by the bell, he said I was the Southern girl, not you. As puns go, it was pretty puny, but this is Terr we're talking about."
Terr
mimed gagging and holding his nose. Rhea rolled her eyes. Lisa took
another sip of coffee, then offered, "Perhaps he was just... punchy."
"Ack," Terr remarked. "What have I done?"
Lisa
smiled and bent over the back of the couch to give Terr a quick kiss.
"Nothing," she said, straightening up. "... that I can bell-ieve,
anyway."
Terr groaned as Rhea laughed. Lisa grinned and gave a
mock bow before coming around and settling down between the others on
the couch. Rhea draped her legs over Lisa and grinned conspiratorially
at the shorter woman as Terr finally realized what she was wearing and looked away, flushing brightly.
"It really is cute how he does that," Lisa said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Mm-hmm," Rhea said, nibbling at her pastry and trying (failing) to suppress her grin.
"I'm cursed," Terr grumbled halfheartedly. "Whiskers, you're a guy, help me out here."
(I'm on her side,) Whiskers said, with a mental bump against Rhea's cheek. Rhea laughed into her coffee and nearly spilled it.
"Do I want to know what he said?" Terr asked resignedly.
"Probably not."
Terrence sighed.
For
a while there was a companionable quiet. Rhea finished her snack and
entertained herself by stretching and watching Terr's face for
reactions, while Lisa studiously ignored the byplay (except for the
constant grin tugging at her lips) and finished her coffee. Finally, it
was Lisa who broke the silence.
"You said you'd answer any questions we had today," she said quietly, looking Rhea in the eyes.
Rhea
nodded. "Yep," she said. "Ask away, I've got nothing to hide from you
two." With a mischievous smile, she added, "You've seen it all
already."
Lisa smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She set her
mega-mug down on the coffee table and folded her hands in her lap,
gently nudging Rhea's legs down in the process. "Do you still love
him?"
Rhea blinked at the question. She felt Whiskers prodding
her -- (Be honest, girl!) -- and took a deep breath. Looking at first
Lisa, then Terr's, faces, she nodded slowly. "Yes," she said. "I... I
do still love Danny. I'd be lying if I said I didn't."
Terr
growled something under his breath, too quietly for Rhea to catch, and
sank down in his seat. Lisa nodded as if she expected the answer, but
her features betrayed some hurt, too. Rhea leaned over. "I love you
guys too, you know," she added. "I'm not going anywhere... unless... unless you want me to?"
Suddenly
she was afraid. Maybe she had misunderstood the question. Was this
it? Was this Lisa's hint that she'd overstayed her welcome? That was
probably it, Lisa was too nice to simply come out and say it was time
for her to leave, so now that Danny was back they were going to let her
down gently. It made sense -- oh, it made perfect sense! -- but it
wasn't what she wanted, not that that mattered, she'd known it would
happen, hadn't she told Whiskers as much way back when... people always
left her, she was like a curse to them... Rhea bit her lip to keep from
sobbing.
She wouldn't do that. Not to them, not to herself. If it was time to go, then she'd go, with no fuss. Calm. Cheerful.
"Hey! Rhea!" Lisa shook her by the shoulders, and Rhea found herself staring into smoldering eyes.
"... w-what?" she managed after a moment.
"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"
"You... I mean..." Rhea tried to gather her thoughts. Finally she shook her head. "I guess not?"
Lisa sighed. "I said, silly, that we don't want you to leave."
(You've really got to try to listen first and panic later,) Whiskers said in gentle reproach.
"I wasn't panicking!" Rhea burst out.
Lisa and Terr eyed her strangely.
"Uh..." Rhea flapped a hand at Whiskers. "His fault. Sorry." She took a deep breath. "I'm okay, really."
Lisa
nodded. "Okay then. Next question." She paused for a moment, eyeing
Rhea with a concerned look. "Do you know a girl named Marilyn Harris?"
Rhea
frowned, puzzled. How did Lisa find out that name? "That was a long
time ago... I didn't know her very well. She was my dad's friend's
daughter, I think. I used to call him Uncle Mark, but he wasn't my
uncle. You know how it goes." She shook her head. "Wow. What's going
on? Been checking up on my sordid past or something?" She let out a
weak chuckle.
Lisa's face was very grave as she replied, "Danny killed her last night."
Sell-Sword
glanced up from his work as Ifrit entered the room, passing through on
her way to points unknown. He nodded cordially in response to her
greeting, then returned his attention to the display.
He didn't suppose she'd particularly mind
that he was rifling through the Legendary personnel files -- what he
could access of them through the coalition link, that is -- but at the
same time he didn't think she needed to know what he was doing, either.
EMERALD
BLAST, the heading read. The public file was sparse -- not much more
than he'd already known, really, though it did include a detailed power
classification -- but gave him the interesting note that she didn't
maintain a secret identity. And having her real name had let him dig up
far juicier information.
Like the fact that she was seeing a
therapist. She'd said as much herself in an interview. He supposed it
had to do with her Army discharge for mental health reasons -- that
tidbit was publicly available as well -- but a little poking revealed
that there had been a heavily redacted event of some sort that triggered
it all. He wasn't finding any details that might explain the interest
of a hired thug (he couldn't bring himself to use the word professional
in regards to Smith), however.
From public sources.
He
saved his work to a secure chip and removed a small device from the
computer. The display flickered and resumed normal operation. Anybody
poking around would see nothing out of the ordinary, but a determined
investigator might notice a small blip in the logfiles. A power outage,
perhaps, causing this terminal to drop out for a few minutes. Nothing
more.
He pocketed the device and left. He, unlike Smith, was a professional. And he had other ways to get the information he sought.
Danny entered through a window, passing between the heavy drapes without a sound and closing the sash noiselessly behind him.
The apartment was quiet.
Spacious
and roomy, it held plenty of evidence of occupation, but had that
undeniable air of neglect about it. A thin layer of dust coated most
surfaces, and several days worth of mail piled beneath the slot in the
door. While it obviously hadn't been lived in recently, it just as
obviously wasn't completely abandoned; the utilities were still
connected and as Danny poked around, he noted that what little food
inhabited the fridge had not yet gone bad. Except for the milk, which
was so far past its sell-by date that he suspected it could harbor the
cure for Superadine's side effects.
Which fit the apartment's
owner perfectly, he noted with a small smile. Rheabeth was many things,
but she'd always had a hard time handling the food side of household
chores. He'd done most of the cooking and grocery shopping himself,
when they were together, just to preserve his palate. He snagged a can
of cola and popped it, letting the carbonation settle a bit before
sipping.
He moved on, through the gap between counters that
separated the living room from the kitchen, and went down on one knee to
look through Rheabeth's mail. Most of it was inconsequential and
mundane. He came across an envelope with an interesting return address
and without hesitation slid the tip of a dagger under the flap and slit
it open along the glue line. He extracted and scanned the contents
quickly. The note was hand-written on the letterhead of Psychiatry
Associates -- Licensed Mental Health Counselors. Danny snickered as he
read. Apparently Rheabeth's therapist was concerned that she was
missing so many appointments lately and wanted to discuss whatever
issues she felt might be causing it.
She didn't need therapy, he
mused, she just needed a good -- well. He chuckled and folded the note
along the original creases and tucked it back into the envelope, then
hunted around the desk against the wall. Rheabeth always kept a junk
drawer, and he found it on the second try. Nestled among the stamps,
scissors, rubber bands, half-chewed pencils and pens, and assorted other
detritus, there was a tube of superglue. He used it to re-seal the
envelope, then dropped it unceremoniously back on the pile inside the
door and resumed his mostly-aimless drifting around the apartment.
He
wasn't sure exactly what he expected to find. He rather suspected that
Rheabeth hadn't changed much, except for her newfound abilities, and so
far everything he'd seen and talked with her about had only served to
reinforce that. She was still soft, over-emotional, and mostly
helpless. She'd always needed someone to take care of her, and had
turned to this Knight character for it when Danny himself wasn't around
any more. All too predictable, but then, she'd always been that.
No,
he wasn't surprised that his little Rheabeth had found herself another
protector. What did surprise him a little was Gamma Emission. He'd
contemplated bringing another girl into their relationship back when he
and Rheabeth were an item, but had regretfully decided that that
was a bit too much for the small community they'd been living in. Word
always got around, after all, and he'd been practicing keeping a low
profile since before he was in high school. What had made it so
tempting in spite of that was Rheabeth's reluctance on the subject.
She'd been a good little Southern girl, doing her best to please her
man, and the little spikes of pain she felt whenever he indicated
interest in another girl were like intoxicating hors d'oerves,
stimulating his appetite for more. She never said anything, of course,
but he could tell.
So it was startling that she now had a woman
in her bed -- an attractive, powerful, intelligent, and dangerous one,
at that. He had assumed, perhaps prematurely, that Rheabeth was as
straight-arrow as it was possible to be, which made it all the more
entertaining when he managed to nudge her into what her upbringing told
her was depraved, sinful, or wrong. Obviously he'd had more of a
long-term impact than he'd thought.
Regardless, he rather suspected it was this Gamma that wore the pants in whatever twisted three-way relationship they'd forged.
He
paused in Rheabeth's bedroom, regarding the tangled sheets with a fond
half-smile. He leaned over and inhaled deeply over the crumpled
pillow. Rheabeth's scent still lingered there, though he knew it had
been some time since she'd spent a night alone in her own bed. She'd
always been a bit of a wildcat in the bedroom, and given the choice, she
wouldn't choose to sleep alone... or sleep at all, sometimes. He
laughed softly and ran his fingers along the pillow. Tiny, wispy
tendrils of his power leaked through the cloth, tracing along the
contours where Rheabeth's head had been, but found nothing to bite on.
He didn't expect there to be anything, of course. It was very rare to
find the sort of energy he needed just lying around, and it was much
more satisfying to rip it pulsing from an agonized living person than to
merely absorb what was left over from their nightmares, anyway.
He
slid open her closet and grinned. Some things, it seemed, didn't
change. Rheabeth was still a clotheshorse. He pawed through the
hanging garments, which were tightly packed on the closet rod, not
really searching for anything in particular but trusting in instinct to
alert him if something interesting cropped up. One item caught his
attention, and he withdrew it carefully. It was perhaps the flimsiest
bit of condensed, colored air he'd ever encountered, as thin and
insubstantial as the most delicate cobwebs, so light it drifted
languidly in the vague, barely-perceptible wind currents from the air
conditioning. He pictured Rheabeth wearing it and grinned. He'd have
to remember it was here. She would wear it for him the first night they
spent together again. Soon.
He put it away and pushed the
entire rack aside, checking the bottom and back of the closet out of
habit. Nothing except shoes and various accessories in boxes. He put
everything back the way it had been, closed the closet door, and
returned to the main room, frowning thoughtfully. He wasn't sure what
he was looking for here, but he hadn't found it yet. He forced himself
to stop, and think, and remember Rheabeth's habits.
Slowly, he
lowered himself on to the couch, at the end where his left side was
cradled by the cushions on the arm. It felt right. Rheabeth liked
curling up this way, her feet tucked under, sometimes with a blanket
when the weather was cold. On their couch back in Georgia, the only
cushion with any wear showing had been the one on the left end.
Smiling, he leaned forward, reached down, and fished under the couch.
His fingers found a hard, flat object, just within fingertip reach, and
he drew it out easily.
"You haven't changed, Rheabeth," he murmured.
It
was a simple hardcover notebook, the type used by college students the
world over. It bore no ornamentation, but the corners were well-worn
and ragged. The spine creaked a little when he opened it.
He'd
read her diary many times before, of course. It was an easy way to keep
track of where her mind was at. She didn't write in it often, and when
she did the chances were good that it would be nothing but inanities,
useless bits of ephemera that, for whatever reason, she was discontent
to let float away. Vague bits of poetry, a pithy description of how
much she disliked so-and-so or the food at such-and-such restaurant,
observations on politics, and the like. But at other times she treated
the diary almost like it was a friend, a living person who could listen
and sympathize with whatever little problem was bugging her that day.
It was those entries that Danny had always found most interesting. They
gave him vital intelligence. It was like knowing exactly which brick
to remove to cause the entire house to collapse -- or in Rheabeth's
case, knowing exactly which buttons to push, and how far, to cause her
the most pain. It was a delicate balancing act. As dependent as she
was, there was a core of steel there. If he pushed too hard or the
wrong way, her pain would become anger instead. He could feed on that
as well, but it was nowhere near as satisfying, and of course, if she
was angry about something he'd done or said, he'd have to spend the time
and effort to calm her down and appease her. Rheabeth was at her best
when she thought she was happy. She would tolerate more -- she could
tolerate more, emotionally as well as physically -- and the desperation
with which she clung to her happiness made the agony that much sweeter.
He
smiled as a memory rose, of the knife tracing her curves, of her face
as it mingled terror, pain, and pleasure all in one, and of her
exhausted but willing -- almost cheerful, in fact -- disposition when
she rose from the bed to clean up the mess he'd made. Her blood -- not a
large quantity, more symbolic than anything, but there all the same --
would stain the sheets unless promptly handled. She did so without
complaint, a smile on her face.
Yes, it was vitally important to
know where Rheabeth's mind was at. She could be the perfect victim, and
the willing accomplice, at the same time -- and remain perfectly
innocent while doing so. It was a rare combination, but it required
careful maintenance.
He flipped through the book until the first
blank page -- perhaps two-thirds of the way in -- then backed up to the
most recent entries. They weren't dated -- Rheabeth had very rarely
bothered with dates, in her diary and in general, he recalled -- but
from context he gleaned that they weren't very old, relatively speaking.
Its hard staying cheerful all the time, Rheabeth had written, but
I need to. Lisa took care of it last time, but what if she isn't
around next time? It's scary knowing that Whiskers can cause that much
damage. I'm lucky that the Legendary picked up the bill, and I don't
want to think about how much it cost to fix that hospital up. Eva
tells me not to worry about it, and Lora just gets tight-lipped and
doesn't say anything. I think I'll tell the accountant to donate the
profits to rebuilding hospitals or something, I have to make up for it
somehow. It's not like I need the money anymore.
Danny
raised an eyebrow. Lisa would be Gamma Emission, he gathered.
Precisely what had she done? It could be useful to know... and what was
this about an accountant? Had his little Rheabeth come into money
somehow? She'd been as broke as could be when he cleaned out their
savings and left. And the Army wasn't known for its exceptional wages,
so that didn't seem likely either. The interview she'd given on TV had
mentioned a toy line, but he'd dismissed that as inconsequential. Now
he wondered.
He turned the page.
... said they love me
too, and I'm so happy, even if I know it won't last. It never does.
But I can dream, right? And when they tell me to leave, at least I'll
still have Whiskers, I guess, so it's okay.
I thought of a haiku today. Whiskers likes it, at least.
Silly tabby cat
Rubbing against Terrence Knight
Lisa will be mad
Danny
flipped through the rest of the entries, but most of them were of the
inconsequential sort. The very last was the only one that seemed
telling:
James said that he's concerned about my relationship
with Lisa and Terr. I love them and they make me happy and he just
doesn't understand. I don't know what he's all worried about anyway.
He's a nice guy, but he just doesn't understand what it's like being a
hero. MAGI stopped paying for the visits a while ago, so they must
think I'm okay.
He said he wanted to meet them, but that's not a
good idea, I don't think. Terrence especially. And Lisa's like me,
she's a pro herself. What's that saying again? Physician, treat
thyself? Something like that.
Well, I'm going to. I don't think I'm going to see him anymore.
Thoughtful,
Danny closed the diary and returned it to its resting place. He left
the way he came, through the window, closing it behind him.
Terrence
was the shield. Lisa... Lisa was the keystone. He wondered if his
little gift had made it to Rheabeth yet. It had been simplicity itself
finding out where she was staying. She was so pathetically eager to
resume contact with him that he now had her beacon ID and personal cell
phone number. And now he had a name to put to the spitfire's face.
Danny inhaled deeply of the morning air, smiled to himself, stepped off the fire escape, and vanished.
Sell-Sword let out a disappointed sigh. Shaking his head, he deactivated his cloaking field and faded into view.
Mr.
Smith was good enough to be a decent burglar, Sword admitted to
himself, but the professional in him cringed at the other man's
sloppiness. No gloves, no wipedown. Consuming the target's food, and
worse, leaving the half-empty can on the counter. Opening the mail and
re-sealing it haphazardly. All things that Sword had himself avoided in
his search of the apartment.
But -- and here he felt a bit
aggrieved -- he hadn't found the diary. Smith had done so. Now that
the other man was gone, Sword made a beeline for it and quickly scanned
it, cover to cover, using the high-resolution camera built into his
helmet. He would read it later.
Then, returning everything to where it had been when Smith left, Sword departed. The apartment was quiet and still once again.
"I don't believe it."
"We
saw him, Rhea." Lisa suppressed her desire to scowl in remembered
disgust, guessing that such an expression would be a bit too much for
Rhea to handle. Beside her, Terr completely failed to follow the same
chain of thought, and she mentally shook her head as his face crashed
down into a glower that often sent would-be villains running for cover.
Rhea didn't appear to notice.
"No!" Rhea cried. Her eyes were bright and shimmering with tears. "I... I can't... you shouldn't say things like that! It's not true!"
"We're
not lying," Lisa said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. "Ask
Terrence. He saw Danny too." Beside her, Terrence shifted, clearly
uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny Rhea directed at him.
"You saw him?" the distraught redhead demanded. "You saw Danny?"
"I...
yes? I think." At Lisa's incredulous glance, Terr shrugged. "Hey, it
was dark and I just saw this guy running away. I chased him for a bit,
but he never turned around." He nodded firmly. "But Lisa saw him, and
she ain't the type to lie. You know that."
Rhea closed her eyes. "Oh, Lisa, I'm sorry, I ... I didn't mean..."
Lisa took Rhea's hand and gripped it tightly. "It's okay. I -- we -- understand."
"But it can't have been him," Rhea wailed. "Danny is a good man! He wouldn't have done that -- not to anyone!"
"He's
not the man you remember." Privately, Lisa suspected Danny had never
been what Rhea thought he was, but she felt bad enough pushing Rhea like
this anyway. It had to be done, but... better to spare the poor girl
what she could. She wouldn't mention the sarcastic and demeaning
comments Danny had made -- it was starting to become obvious that Rhea
wouldn't listen anyway.
"I still don't believe it," Rhea finally
said, hot tears running down her cheeks. Her voice, Lisa noted, was
firm -- too firm; Rhea had decided something. And Lisa knew that once
Rhea had the bit in her teeth, she was difficult to stop.
"We're not lying," Lisa insisted firmly, but without much hope. Rhea nodded and gripped her hand.
"I
know! I believe you, Lisa." The redhead sighed. "It must be someone
trying to frame him. Mr. Whiskers even says that's a possibility, and
you know how skeptical he is." A faint smile crept onto Rhea's face.
"The fuzzbutt thinks you're telling the truth... but he doesn't know
Danny either -- not like I do. Just like you two." Rhea wiped at her
tear-tracks and sniffled a little. "I don't know why I didn't think of
it sooner, really. He said last night that some people were after him.
I bet that's what this is all about -- they're trying to get us to do
their dirty work for them. I need to warn him!"
Before the
others could respond, Rhea leaped to her feet and headed for the
bedroom. "I'm going to get dressed," she called back. "Back in a sec!"
The bedroom door closed with a faint click.
"What," Terrence rumbled incredulously, "just happened?"
"Trouble,"
Lisa replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I can't say too much
or I come off looking like a jealous bitch, and what I can say, she
won't believe. We need proof."
"He knows where we are,"
Terrence admitted glumly. He reached out and moved the newspaper that
lay on the coffee table, revealing a small oblong box that had been
hidden beneath. Lisa raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. "It
was by the front door this morning. I ... didn't know what to do with
it."
Lisa picked up the gift and examined it. A small white
corner of paper peeked out from the lid; Lisa extracted the card and
opened it, then sucked her breath in sharply.
My dearest Rheabeth, it read in elegant handwriting. I
enjoyed our wonderful evening together. It was just like old times --
how I've missed those! Please, accept this as a small measure of my
love for you and when you wear it, think of me. I can't wait to see it
on you. Yours forever, Daniel.
"That son of a bitch," Lisa snarled. She made as if to tear the card to bits, then froze.
"Yeah,"
Terr nodded sadly. "I couldn't do it either. I was about to hurl the
whole thing, gems and all, straight through the War Walls... but..."
"But
if you did, you'd have walked into his trap," Lisa finished sadly,
forcing her fingers to fold the card neatly and tuck it back into the
box.
"Yeah." Terr looked glum. He sighed. "We have to give it to her, don't we?"
Lisa
nodded. "Yes." She closed her eyes and forced herself to hold back
the scream that wanted to erupt. "He's playing us, the sick bastard."
"How do we stop him?"
Lisa took a long time answering. Finally: "I don't know."
They
sat in silence for several long minutes until Rhea returned, breathless
from a quick and cold shower. She was dressed in casual clothes and
vigorously toweling her waist-length hair. Lisa felt a faint pang of
regret that Rhea had changed out of the Hooters shirt, but shoved it
aside and waited for the shoe to drop.
"Hey, what's that?" Rhea asked, precisely on schedule. A slim finger indicated the gift box.
"This
was left for you," Lisa replied, handing it over. She was perversely
proud that she managed to do that with a straight face. She watched as
Rhea opened it and gasped.
"Oh my god," Rhea breathed. She
tucked the card back into the box and withdrew a thin, delicate silver
necklace. Dangling from it, a small but exquisitely crafted pendant,
with two rearing lions forming a circle around a small emerald, the
whole thing no bigger than Terr's thumb. She clasped it to her chest,
looking at Terr and Lisa with tears welling in her eyes once again.
"You see? He isn't the sort to do what you saw. That had to have been
someone else."
Terr and Lisa shared a glance, then Lisa shook her
head. "I know what I saw," she insisted, and held up a hand to
forestall Rhea's outburst. "But we'll go along with you for now, okay?
If you're right, then we'll apologize to Danny. Fair enough?"
Rhea
nodded. "Okay." She turned around and lifted her hair out of the
way. "Someone get the clasp?" she asked, holding the necklace in
place. "I'm terrible with those tiny things."
As Terrence fumbled through the task, Lisa glared daggers at the box, and by extension, Danny. You won't win, she vowed to herself.
I blame Sweno.
Or maybe I should thank him, actually. His posting of the latest Staking A Claim reminded me that I really needed to get back to this. And unlike Sweno, thread necromancy doesn't bother me.
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs