(11) The Day the Sun Came Out

Tanya sat up with her back against the mound of pillows, the covers just showing the pink crescents of her nipples.

Her face was set with a grimly victorious look, her piercing hazel eyes glancing at Sanguineus as she held her phone for him to view a video she had taken in what appeared to be the dining room of a private residence, a strawy haired man at the table with his back to the camera.

"That's Heath Samson, remember him?" she said. "Copenhagen. An enforcer for Whitestone. He's the one I struck a deal with, to get the Red Rum courier who had outed one of our negotiators and her client. You know, the DeGroot hit."  [NOTE: This references the story 'A Death In Hysterium.']

"I took this in London, two weeks ago," she continued. "Heath had a flat in the Soho district."

"Had?"

"I broke his neck. Shh. Listen to it. Listen to what he says."

Sanguineus took the phone. The imagery was poor quality, a bright yellowish wash over everything touched by an overhead light. The view angled around to a partial profile of the man whom Sanguineus recognized from his encounter with him in the upper parlor of the DeGroot mansion where the Hysterium rituals were played out.

Samson was eating from a large bowl of pasta casserole, a notebook propped in front of him. The page had a handwritten list of names and phone numbers. Samson spoke between mouthfulls. What he said was somewhat garbled. Sanguineus had to replay the video to get what was said about the new Scottish Parliament building.

"...and none of them know about the cave... except... these checkmarks are the ones I have to bounce. Antoine D'Arc, or Tony or fuckhead, whatever he's called, he'll have the Top Banana on my case if I don't... Antoine goes in and out when he pleases, the jacked-up kiss ass."

Then Tanya's voice: "I know where the cave is, it's in Edinburgh."

Samson grunted a laugh, tapping the bowl with his fork. He said: "In the Parliament. Are you fucking taking a video, you bitch?"

The imagery blurred. There was a momentary kaleidoscope of warm colors, then a clunking sound and darkness. Heavy breathing. A thud. A clatter, footsteps. Then more blurry images and a brief glimpse of Samson on the floor.

"Interesting," said Sanguineus, setting the phone back on the nightstand. "You were spotted at Heathrow Airport three weeks ago by an ICS man, who was there tailing a subject for some client of his."

Tanya shouldered deep into the pillows, a sultry smile on her lips. "It took me a week to find Samson's flat. Do you know a street rat there named Pockly? I think you do, deny it all you want. He helped, and it didn't cost me much, either. I knew Samson had safe houses in Sweden and a place in London."

"The investigator traced your arrival at Heathrow back to Charles de Gaulle Airport," Sanguineus said, ignoring Tanya's reference to Teddy Pockly, "and from there to Schiphol, the Amsterdam airport. Your trip originated in La Guardia. So it seems to me that you were going the route of that Amsterdam assignment you had a couple years ago, or whenever it was, where you popped that old porn king, then went to Paris for a breather before getting involved with Heathcliffe Samson. Did you meet Benz on that first visit to Paris, two years ago?"

Tanya stared at him sullenly. "Yeah, so what? What are you getting at? I showed you proof that Whitestone has an office in a basement of the Parliament building. I was planning to jump Samson at his flat, to force the info out of him. But apparently he knew nothing about my abduction in Edinburgh or any of that. It hadn't gotten down the grapevine, I guess. Anyway, you bastard, when I got away from that shit Francois, I came here, to chill. It's home, you know. That's when D'Arc grabbed my ass."

"He followed you here. He thought you were Valentina Vizconde. Who was the double you set up to be killed in your place?"

There it was again, that introspective glaze over her eyes that had intrigued him in the Scottish restaurant.

"A Dutch slut," she said. "She worked for the 'old porn king.' Her name was Daniella. Satisfied? No? She looked enough like me to be of some help getting information off the target's business partner, in Amsterdam. When I found out that a strongarm from Francois was out to salt me, I got Daniella a first class ticket to Paris."

She raised her eyebrows at Sanguineus' skepticism. "The Netherlands have promoted the European Union idea since the nineteen-fifties," she said. "They were one of the first to join the EU. So there was no visa bullshit for Daniella to go through."

She looked up at the wallpapered ceiling. "I'm a bad girl, Ricklen. A really bad girl. I set Daniella up in my rental in the Elysée district. And, you know, she got toasted."

"What are friends for," quipped Sanguineus.

He stood and unbuttoned his jeans. He took off his leather jacket, dropped it on the floor, and pushed up the sleeves of his grey sweatshirt to his elbows.

All the while he kept his dark eyes on Tanya's changing expression. He wanted her to be relaxed and off her guard, sassy and aggressive in her sexuality, but open to the prospect of dividends paid for telling the truth. He had not much hope, but he had the drive to sustain what hope he did have. Her body, and the smoke from hell of which her soul consisted; her layers of eyes that she peeled like an onion in her attempts to deceive and manipulate; her hands that now held the covers to her neck in mock defense, hands that made real love only to knife handles and triggers; these things stirred his passion for justice, a justice never outside the shadow of his lust.

Other than to unzip his jeans, he did not bare himself to her. He threw off the covers and laid next to her, an arm under her that lifted her up and brought her over to lay half on, half off him.

She pulled his pants down past his hips and squeezed him with all her strength, but it was like trying to crush the handle of a club with just one's fingers. She settled on top of him, her thighs spread, as he lay propped up in a reclining position and massaged her back, indifferently, as if his mind was elsewhere.

He was looking at the windows.

The hot wet capture of his penis could be seen as universal, if in a moment of carefree insanity one saw its effect in the sun breaking free from the blackest clouds, the windows glowing with a heat that in the next moment was cooled by pellets of rain.

The wind of the storm was in her mouth and the promise of its thunder in her half-closed eyes. She moved her hips like the inrush and retreat of a tempest's waves on a beach that did not yield, but lay hard beneath the surges.

He waited until her throat arched and her breasts trembled, then he seized her upper arms and pulled her flat against his chest, kissing her mouth as if attacking an animal in its lair. His loins rose and their pinnacle drove deeper into her until she was impaled beyond escape and could only groan hot gusts against the teeth of his kisses.

The first storm broke, was swept away by the next, and always the sun burned within the thunderous darkness.

Then came the eye of the storm. A sudden cease of winds, a pale hovering light. She was pushed over on her back, the stiff stagnant lightning pulling out of her, his mouth and her mouth separating like a rift in the clouds.

She opened her eyes. He was staring down at her. It was lust, but the hard implement of his passion was the artillery of a peculiar approach to justice.

She caught her breath, her heart beating a different rhythm now, her wide eyes a strengthened redoubt.

Sanguineus said, "Valentina wants D'Arc to kill me. He told me so himself. Today. But we'll put that aside for now," he amended, seeing an indecipherable panic cross her flushed face.

"Rest," he said to her, "while you tell me exactly what happened in the Cave. And keep this in mind: I know something of what went on there, from D'Arc, so don't think to lie to me."