Wilderness of Mirrors
Once Upon A Time In Mexico Fan Fiction
Sequel to Sands Through The Hourglass
Rated: T

Summary: Sands must confront madness head-on, and rediscover himself in the process, if he wishes to reclaim his life. But how does a blind man survive in a wilderness of mirrors?

Author’s Note: This is a sequel to Sands Through The Hourglass (STTHG). This story will not make any sense if you haven't read STTHG first. 

Chapter 1 - Encounters

It’s fascinating, how quickly a crowd disperses after a show. It was a perfect example of the oddities that existed in the human psyche. It took far longer for a theatre to fill, than it did for a theatre to empty.

Now, you’d think it would be the opposite; that pre-show excitement would cause a rush, and after the show, you’d want to take a moment to reflect and digest the entertainment.

This was not the case; an illustration of how the mind often did the unexpected, and even the illogical. This was one of the many difficulties he’d run into with the PANDORA project.

The sound of people hurrying past made him chuckle. It was practically a race to see who could get out of the theatre first, and the only prize available to the winner was getting stuck in D.C. traffic.

Waiting for the herd to exit, he was mildly surprised when someone moved against the stampede, and sat down in the empty seat to his left.

Their silence made it impossible for him to tell who it was. Regardless of the fact, he turned toward the mystery guest and flashed one of his trademark smirks. “Fancy meeting you here,” he drawled, figuring his guest was probably someone he knew.

“Ever the people watcher, aren’t you?”

Sands inhaled sharply; the sound of her voice startling him. It shouldn’t have. After all, he’d heard it a lot lately, just not in person.

He hadn’t expected the mystery person to be her.

She’d known him so well… and not at all. But he couldn’t say that he really knew her either. Oh, he knew what made her tick all right, but he didn’t know her.

“Can’t unlock the door if you don’t have the key,” he said smoothly, covering his surprise. “Or another nifty tool of the trade. Speaking of keys, where did you find yours, Cecelia?”

If he’d kept tabs on her he’d have known that she’d been released from the sanitarium, but truth be told, he hadn’t expected her to recover... especially after hearing the tape Martin had acquired.

“It was only a matter of time,” she said, and her tone had an edge he’d never heard in her voice before. “You didn’t plan on me recovering, did you?”

Sands heaved a tired sigh as he turned away from her, absentmindedly adjusting his sunglasses as he did so.

Could have prevented this... “I plan for everything, and everything includes everything,” he answered offhandedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cecelia continued. It didn’t sound like she was listening to him. “It’s only a matter of time.”

He turned to face her again. “Threatening me so soon?”

“I’m sure you’re used to it by now,” she purred dangerously, closer to him than she was before. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Quirking an eyebrow, he said, “I’ll bite. Before what?”

He heard her chuckle softly as she shifted in her seat, then felt warm breath tickle his ear. “Before you join me,” Cecelia whispered.

Caught off guard, he pulled away from her, quickly getting to his feet. He didn’t understand what she meant by that. No. He didn’t want to understand what she meant by that. There was a rustling noise, as if she was opening up a bag, then something was thrust into his hands.

A box. He ran his thumb experimentally along one of its edges; it felt as if it was made of wood, and it seemed to be ornately carved.

“Something to remember me by,” she said, and the words made his skin crawl. Those innocent words turned terrifying by one special delivery. “I know how you love to open up Pandora’s Box.”

His grip tightened around the box. The world began to spin. The ground fell out from under his feet. The box disappeared. He was no longer standing.

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.

It took him a good minute to comprehend where he was.

Bed. He was in bed.

He’d gone to bed after…

Sands bolted upright as the real world hit him with the force of a Mack truck. The answering machine beside his bed beeped obnoxiously as he fought an oncoming head-rush with a few deep breaths.

Yet another lovely dream to add to your collection.

He supposed that dreaming of Cecelia was better than dreaming about the Day of the Dead, but it was little consolation. Cecelia’s scorn wasn’t even the worst of the dream; the most disturbing thing was that he was starting to dream like a blind man.

Selfish? You bet! But it made him wonder… was his memory of sight already slipping away?

Thoroughly depressed, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and with a single digit pressed the play button on the answering machine. He could care less about the waiting message… he just wanted the fucking thing to stop beeping.

“Mr. Sheldon Sands? This is Dr. Alex Beck, from the Windhill Sanitarium. You need to contact me right away…”

Sands cursed under his breath, dragging himself out of bed. How’s that for premonition?

Fucktabulous; another shit-storm was brewing on the horizon and he hadn’t even cleaned up the damage from the last one.

He checked his special watch; nine-thirty. He’d slept for, at the very least, fifteen hours straight, and hadn’t even bothered to change out of what he was wearing yesterday.

You’re really off-off-Broadway.

This day was already off to a bad start, and he hadn’t even left his bedroom yet. Snatching up his sunglasses, he put them on and raked a hand through his bedraggled hair.

No sooner had he washed and changed than the doorbell rang. As much as he didn’t want to deal with anyone right now, he was almost thankful; it meant he could put off dealing with what was in the sink for a little longer. Just… a little longer.

I wonder when I became such a fucking yellow-bellied coward.

Slowly making his way down the hall, and still retaining his orientation, he called out, “And what do we have behind door number one?”

He wasn’t in the mood for surprises, and wanted a heads-up on who was waiting for him.

The response was delayed a beat. “Metro police.”

Sands’ hand froze on the knob. Police?

What the Beelzebub are the fuzz doing here?

Even if he had committed a crime – and he hadn’t committed one in the States for quite some time – the Company would be more likely to handle him personally.

This could be a trick…

Not answering the door immediately, Sands opened the coat closet beside him and grabbed his 9mm subcompact pistol. As he tucked it into his pants, out of sight, he immediately felt more at ease.

A cop is always fun to play with.

Sands pulled open the door, the smile on his face so fake that it must have looked like it had been surgically applied.

“Are you Sheldon Sands?” a man asked, and Sands inwardly cringed at the way the officer had accented the ‘e’ in his first name.

“On a bad day,’ Sands answered.

“Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you. Probably won’t take long.”

“All by yourself? Not sure that’s a groovy notion. Don’t you want some backup?”

“Do I need it?” the officer asked, unsure whether or not the man he was talking to was being sarcastic.

Yup, the officer had a hint of country southern in his accent. Probably West Virginia, or some hillbilly hole like that.

Sands smirked but made no move to let the man in. “Do theaters need a show to sell tickets?” He folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. “Mind giving me the skinny on what’s going down?”

“There’s a warrant out for the arrest of Miss Ava Hunter.”

Sands’ eyebrows rose at the mention of Ava; he’d half expected this to be about Cecelia after the call from her shrink.

Funny; the police finally showed up at his door and it had nothing to do with him. He stepped aside, ushering the officer in with a free hand.

“So,” Sands began after the officer entered, closing the door. “Has she done something naughty?”

“You might say that,” the officer said, stopping in the living room as Sands joined him. “I’m Officer Weldon, by the way.”

“What’s this have to do with me, Kojak?” Sands asked, getting straight to the point. He had the feeling that Weldon was waiting to shake hands, but wasn’t about to guess wrong and show his Achilles’ heel.

There was a short pause, then, “You know her?”

“You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Sands said matter-of-factly, plopping down on his couch.

“Have you seen her around lately?”

Sands chuckled and propped his feet up on the table in front of him. He wasn’t about to make it easy for Weldon; in fact he was about to do the opposite. Really, it was just too much fun. “Can’t say that I’ve ever seen Ava. Sorry, I hate to disappoint.”

“You want me to swallow that you know her, but haven’t met her?” Weldon asked outright. Well, he wasn’t one to beat about the bush.

“I’m no jive turkey, Barney. I haven’t seen the dame; but there’s a big difference between seeing and meeting.”

“Then you’ve met Ava?”

“Bingo. You’re as sharp as a sack of wet mice, but believe it or not that’s a compliment to anyone working for the fuzz.”

If Weldon was getting irritated, he kept it under control for the time being. However, he did snort at the remark. “How d’you meet her?” he asked, attempting to stay on topic.

“How do you know that I did?” Sands asked, fishing in his pocket for a half-empty carton of cigarettes. “We didn’t exactly advertise in the local paper, Barney. For all you know, we’re just pen pals or email buddies.”

“We’re with the Feds on this one. They didn’t go about tellin’ us much, just that you might be able to tell us somethin’.”

“Well, the Feds giving you squat is better than zip, but it still leaves you with just squat, you dig?” he asked, lighting up. He was being easier on the guy than he’d originally intended, but it was beneficial to get your information before you burned the bridge out from under someone.

Barney’s arrival was something completely unforeseen, and the more he knew about it the better off he’d be.

“Not really, Mr. Sands.”

“They give you the 411 on me?” he asked. “Because, Barney, my Cousins just shoved you into a hornet’s nest. I admit that I sting. Hope you’re not allergic.”

“Uh… not much. Being’s the only thing they told us was that you worked a job with her.”

Poor hillbilly was having a hard time keeping up. “I’m just trying to figure out why the Feds are reeling Metro into national security issues.”

“Like I said, there’s a warrant out for her arrest…”

Fishy, very fishy. Week old fishy. The Feds should be handling him themselves; it was unheard of for the Feds to send the fuzz in their place. “What exactly has Ava done to get the Feds and the Po-lice chasing her cute little tail?”

“I thought you’d never seen her, Mr. Sands.”

Sands smiled slyly, taking another drag. “Clever, but you’re still only as sharp as a bag of marbles. You’ve got your synapses hot-wired for the hunt though. I’ll give you that much.” He exhaled cigarette smoke slowly. “But, Barney-Boy, you’re still barking up the wrong tree.” Leaning forward, he tapped ash into the ashtray. He was thankful this was taking place in his apartment; he knew where everything was.

“So, you were workin’ for her?” he asked, and he didn’t sound cheerful about it. Probably because it made Sands a suspect as well.

Sands laughed outright at that, not answering right away. The thought that he was working for her was pretty damn amusing.

Standing, he walked over to the living room window and slid it open to let out the smoke. Latching the top to keep the window open, he turned back to the local fuzz, taking another puff of his fag.

“Three strikes and you’ll be out, Barney.”

“Can you explain how I’m wrong, then?” Weldon asked, making his way around the room.

“Simple. You reflect that far-out little assumption of yours in a gilded mirror and you’ll see reality.” He wanted to appear as if he were cooperating; as if he didn’t suspect a damn thing.

Weldon will likely get sloppy if he thinks I’m easy.

“Simple,” Weldon deadpanned, clearly getting fed up with the doubletalk.

“Simple. Wrap it around your noggin. I’m sure it’ll come to you.”

“Always hated those riddles on tests,” Weldon muttered, almost to himself.

Snickering, Sands took one last drag, his cigarette cashed. “Sure you don’t need to radio for backup?”

“Hold up – you sayin’ she was workin’ for you?”

Ah, putting two and two together.

“Oh, I’m proud of you, Barney. Truly,” Sands said, not without a heavy dose of sarcasm. “But don’t let those horses loose from the stable; I didn’t know who I was getting until I got her.” Come to think of it, even then I didn’t know what I’d gotten.

“Who do you work for?” Weldon asked suddenly, and the thought that this might be a trick once again popped into Sands’ mind. Was it conceivable that a cop would know to come to him for questions, but not know who he really was? He didn’t think that even the fuzz was that inept.

He couldn’t see a badge, even if the cop showed it to him, and he also couldn’t see if the cop just happened to slip a bug under his couch cushions either. Hell, the guy didn’t even have to be wearing a uniform to pass as a 5-O.

He really hated that it would be so easy. So easy for them to pretend to be whoever they needed to be, without even investing in a costume. So easy to slip a bug without him ever noticing.

Worse of all, there was nothing he could do about it.

Zip. Zero. Zilch. I can only hear so much, feel so much… there are some things only sight can give me, and that cow really has gone out to pasture.

Fuck, he didn’t know if he should be annoyed, mad, depressed or a combination of all three.

Sands didn’t let his suspicions – or dismal thoughts – show. “You’re really not up to speed, are you?” he asked, then ‘looked’ down at his watch. “Wowza! It only took you fifteen minutes to ask me that itty-bitty detail.”

“Couldn’t find your employer in your file.”

“That’s a shocker.” Sands flicked his spent cigarette out the window. He didn’t believe Barney for a moment. If the FBI really was in on this they would have told the fuzz who he worked for. But if the officer wanted to play him… well, it would be rude if he didn’t play back. “Cousins In Action, Kojak.” When he was met with silence, he clarified, “CIA. Heard of it?”

Another long pause. “Have you heard from Ava Hunter?”

“Ah, now you’re getting it. Haven’t really stayed in touch since we beat cheeks out of Mexico a week ago.” Sands smiled shrewdly, and in a way that would inspire anything but trust. “But I’ll be sure to give you a jingle if she decides to catch up on old times. Groovy?”

“What do you do for the CIA?”

“Sorry. Can’t shoot the breeze about work. If I did, I’d have to shoot more than the breeze.”

“This is serious business. She’s wanted for money laundering and suspicion of treason.”

“Why does that sound so familiar?” Sands drawled, striking a thoughtful pose to accentuate the sarcasm. Something big was going down in the Company. He really wished that he knew what it was.

“Treason, Mr. Sands. These days it ain’t taken lightly.”

“Was it ever, Barney?” Sands was outwardly indifferent, but inwardly he’d been unprepared for the accusations against Ava. She didn’t seem to be the traitorous type, but then again her assistance to him in Mexico could have been enough for the Company to turn on her. He didn’t think the Company was aware of the two of them being in cahoots, but it was impossible to know for sure.

The whole situation was a fucking wilderness of mirrors; he suspected no one knew what the hell was going on, but everyone had a little piece of the jigsaw puzzle.

Sure, he lived for a challenging puzzle – it was what his job was all about – but hot damn, if this wasn’t the most fucked up government situation he’d ever heard of in the history of fucked up situations… and that was saying something.

“This is serious,” Weldon reiterated, starting to sound a little like a broken record.

“What? You mean they actually take all these spy games seriously? I would never have thought it!”

“This isn’t anything to laugh about!” Infuriated, Weldon began to approach Sands.

Sands had his hands clasped in front of him as he listened to Weldon drew near. His senses were on high alert, but he had the feeling that Weldon wasn’t going to get violent. If he was a phony, he was a covert and subtle one.

His voice was ice as he responded to Weldon’s rebuke. “I’m not laughing, Mr. Weldon. However, you are laughable. If I were in a better mood I’d express that salient point more thoroughly.”

“You’re walkin’ on thin ice, pal.”

Pal? Oh, it’s on now.

“It’s the only place I’m comfortable, Chief.”

The officer kept a little distance between them, and muttered under his breath, “No wonder…”

It was so quiet, Sands could barely make it out… but there it was.

That phrase could be taken a number of different ways. It could have been a direct response to his comment, but no, he didn’t think so. Not the way Weldon had uttered it.

No wonder…

No wonder… you were set up for the fall.

No wonder… the CIA wants your hide.

No wonder… they humiliated you.

No wonder… you’re disfigured… and blind.

It was enough to give him a headache; a piercing stab of pain behind the right eye socket. He resisted the urge to massage his forehead, and continued on as if he hadn’t heard Weldon’s whispered words.

“But you’re forgetting one tiny detail; if I’m walking on thin ice, then so are you.” He gestured towards Weldon before continuing. “Because you’re right next to me, and there ain’t no land for miles”

“You wouldn’t be the one responsible for all this, would you now?” Weldon asked suspiciously.

Sands kept his face absolutely neutral. “Can I call a time out? Groovy. What are you accusing me of? I’m not unaccustomed to being blamed for odd goings on, but it’s always nice to know what I’ve been up to. Apparently I’m out of the loop.”

“Are you?” Weldon scoffed. “Is that possible for a man like you? What were you in on? Selling secrets? Or just the money laundering?”

Now he knew this guy was a fraud, or at the very least, a turncoat in the fuzz. How else would Weldon know what kind of man he was? How far up and down the totem pole did this conspiracy go?

“Damn, I think I might have left five dollars in the pocket of one of my pants when I sent it to the cleaners yesterday,” Sands quipped, moving past Weldon and returning to the couch before going on. “The answer to your question would be a negative, Little Buddy.”

“And I’m sure you’d go about tellin’ me if it were true,” Weldon said, following him to the couch, but opting not to sit down and get warm and cozy.

“You know,” Sands began, focusing his attention on Weldon’s movements. “I probably would.”

The sound of Weldon’s rude snort made him smirk.

“Why don’t we cool it, Kojak? No need for you to out-psych the un-out-psychable. We’re on the same side of the fence, aren’t we?” he asked, finishing off the sentence in his best ‘shrink’ tone of voice; he hadn’t used it in some time.

Well, no time like the present to brush up. Might come in handy for PANDORA.

“Are we?” Weldon asked skeptically, but the tone was more civil than before.

After hearing Weldon’s under-the-breath comment, he was convinced that Barney wasn’t what he seemed. He’d have to get the apartment swept for bugs later, ‘cause who knew what kind of infestation he might have after the so-called-fuzz left. Come to think of it, he might have had one long before.

My brain really must be on an extended vacation. It was all he could do not to smack himself in the head right then and there.

Sands settled back into the couch, folding his hands in his lap. “Miss Hunter ran intel for me; period. Convenient job for a traitor to have, isn’t it? Now I can’t help but wonder if the information ever made it to the appropriate agency.”

“Well, I guess I have to take what you give me,” Weldon said, and he didn’t sound too happy about it. “Mind if I take a look around?”

“Of course I mind. I didn’t clean for company.” Sands smirked and stood again, with every intention of showing the cop out.

Weldon completely disregarded his remark, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

Well at least he didn’t go straight into the kitchen.

Sands’ smirk immediately faded. Weldon had just crossed a very thin line. No one just helped themselves to his apartment.

Weldon had nerve… well, that nerve could easily be severed.

Dropping to his knees, he reached under his couch and gripped a favorite piece of hardware hidden underneath. The subcompact was a nifty surprise, but the 10mm Colt Delta Elite was much more impressive.

Tucking it in the back of his pants, he followed after Weldon, and found him in his bedroom. No doubt he was probably planting another bug; the man was just too brazen for his own safety.

“Messages, Mr. Sands?” Weldon asked when he heard Sands approach.

Sands leaned casually in the doorframe as Weldon hit the play button. He could only hope that Weldon had never heard Ava’s voice. The first message that played was from Cam.

“I thought only the CIA played things off the cuff. Chalk one up for the Company; they’re only keeping up with the times after all,” Sands drawled. Of course, he was referring to the fact that Weldon didn’t seem to have a warrant to search his apartment.

It didn’t really matter. He’d be an idiot to keep incriminating evidence in such an easy to find place as his apartment.

As Ava’s message came on, Weldon immediately asked, “Who’s this?”

“My darling sister-in-law, Linda,” Sands answered smoothly, not missing a beat.

“Seems a bit worried for a sister-in-law. What’d she say at the end?”

“Not overeducated? The pearl of wisdom she left for me was, ‘I care for the future’.” Sands nodded at the message machine as Doctor Beck’s message played. “That would be the reason for Linda’s worry - her sister - but then dear Linda always was a worrywart in the worst way.”

When the tape stopped, Weldon continued his snooping. “Well, what do we have here?”

Sands only quirked an eyebrow in response, since he wasn’t sure what Weldon had found. He moved his right hand so that it rested on his hip.

“Government issue?” he asked, and Sands now knew what he’d found. The gun he had between the mattress and the box spring.

“Naturally.”

“Impressive,” Weldon said, and it sounded as if he was returning it to its hiding place.

To do that, Weldon had to have his back to him. Sands took the opportunity to bring the Delta out into clear view. “Isn’t it?” Sands asked conversationally. “But I kinda dig this one more.”

Weldon went extremely still when he caught sight of the pistol. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Absit invidia, Barney, but you better bug out,” Sands said dangerously, sure the look on Weldon’s face was priceless. Weldon was a flea’s jump away from receiving a serious lesson.

“Bug out?”

“Bug out. Scram. High tail it. Scat. Get the fuck out before I shoot you.”

“You have to be kidding,” Weldon said in that odd half laugh, half disbelieving tone that you hear when people are scared shitless.

“I’ve had a hell of a week Barney, and you’ve done little to jolly me into good spirits.” He had the gun pointed towards the ceiling, but pulled back the hammer just for fun.

He had no intention of shooting the rat; this wasn’t Mexico, and he wasn’t stupid. There was enough bad shit raining down as it was.

But enough was fucking enough. Weldon had to leave before he really did lose control of his infamously itchy trigger finger.

“Sweet piece, isn’t it? It’s worth over eight hundred dollars.” Sands pretended to shift his attention from Weldon to the gun. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, especially if Weldon was prepared to use his own hardware. But this was a calculated risk. He was willing to bet that Weldon wasn’t going to use his weapon.

Sands was needed alive. If he was dead, it would be hard to set him up for the current shit going down in the Company. Wasn’t he the lucky one? “It’s a classic. I’d never exchange a classic for something new and shiny, because this baby’s been tested in the field – it’s been used, misused, and abused – but it’s always performed.”

Sands shifted his focus back to Weldon, making it crystal clear that this wasn’t about the gun; the gun was only his point of illustration.

Weldon was deathly silent, and that made Sands smile. Lowering the weapon, he stepped out into the hall and motioned for Weldon to get the fuck out.

Waiting, Sands heard Weldon let out the breath he’d been holding and move into the doorway. As he passed and went down the hall, Sands followed.

He couldn’t help but needle the man a little more. “Maybe next time we’ll get in a little target practice; you’d be amazed by this classic’s accuracy.”

“I’ll… call you if I need anything else.”

“If you dare,” Sands drawled.

Weldon opened the door, and was out of the apartment before Sands could say ‘adieu’. Shutting the door, he couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

Making his way back to the couch, he relieved himself of his pistol and put it back in its designated spot.

He had to admit, he’d never expected a turn of events quite like this.

It was time for him to start fitting all the little jigsaw pieces together.

Absit invidia – No offence intended.

Wilderness of Mirrors - a spy operation so complicated that it is no longer possible to separate truth and untruth.

Cousins – Slang for the FBI. Also slang for the CIA, depending on which agency you work for.

Eric Cameron sat opposite his long-time boss, Marc Jacobs, in a small café near Langley. The day had barely begun, and Marc wanted to talk to him over coffee.

In his early fifties, Marc was a tired-looking man with a lean frame and hawkish features. Although his look was severe, he wasn’t hard to get along with. Eric would say that he considered the man a friend, but today he had a really bad feeling.

Sure, Marc had been affable enough so far, but it wasn’t normal for them to be sitting in a café at ten am on a workday. Cam was worried; the boss didn’t take you out for a cup of Joe without an ulterior motive or bad news... not in this business.

He could tell Marc was edgy by the way he kept fidgeting with his coffee cup. He’d pick it up as if to sip, and then set it back down without drinking.

Finally, Eric broke the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them. “Why am I here, Marc?”

Marc set down his cup and met Eric’s gaze. He got straight to the point. “You’re being suspended.”

That was Marc. Say what needs to be said with the least amount of words possible.

Eric sat nonplussed for a moment. Was he shocked? Yes. Was he surprised? Not really. He hadn’t been a prime example of a model officer lately. “Can I ask why?” he said, finding his voice.

“Do you need to?” Marc queried, picking up his cup again, and taking a large gulp from it.

“Mexico?” Eric guessed, taking a large swig of his own coffee. It wasn’t helping; in fact, it was doing just the opposite.

“Mexico.”

There’s a big fat policeman at my door, door, door.

He grabbed me by the collar, and made me pay a dollar…

Sands laughed wildly, shutting the freezer with a clammy hand. Leaning against the refrigerator, he tried to recall where he’d first heard the odd nursery rhyme.

I don’t want to go to Mexico no more, more, more.

Hell, he couldn’t remember, but it was fitting, and the absurdity had kept him distracted from what he’d just done. He didn’t think the self-induced delirium was going to work for long.

Damn, I need some tequila.

The phone began to ring, rousing him from his daze. He walked over to the phone in the living room, as if in slow motion, and picked it up on the fourth ring. No cute sayings this time around; his greeting was curt. “Yeah?”

“Sheldon Sands?”

It only took a moment for Sands to recognize the voice; it was currently on his answering machine. “Only when I have to be,” Sands answered. Two Sheldon’s before noon was two too many as far as he was concerned. It was also an unwelcome reminder of a particular person he needed to get in contact with as soon as possible. “What’s your malfunction, Dr. Beck?”

“Malfunction?”

“You gave me a jingle so you must have a mucho problemo,” Sands prodded. His light tone was entirely forced. It was not an accident that he’d managed to avoid the mucho problemo that was Cecelia for the past few years.

“Ah, that’s right,” the shrink said, as if recognizing Sands solely by his fondness for sixties slang and catch phrases. “Yes, it’s about your wife, Cecelia Sands.”

Sands would have rolled his eyes if it were possible. Who else would this be about? “I appreciate your reading the prologue, but why don’t you skip the first few pages and jump straight to the plot, Doctor?”

“All right. As of yesterday morning Cecelia is no longer under my care. She’ll be transferred on Monday to another facility.”

Sands’ grip tightened on the phone, and he struggled to keep his voice calm. “I don’t recall signing off for this new road trip of hers…”

“Don’t you?”

Oh, this could be bad.

“Evil doppelgangers are a bitch,” Sands said after a moment, a thousand scenarios racing through his mind; all equally disturbing. “Is this something that can be straightened out with our two tin cans and a string?”

“Not unless you want her transferred, Mr. Sands.”

Sands held back a sigh. Damn it. The last place he wanted to be was in the same building as Cecelia. Unfortunately, this reeked of the CIA’s involvement, and if he wanted to solve the entire puzzle, he was going to have to use every last piece. “Well, isn’t that just peachy? I’ll be there before you can say ‘hopscotch’. Oh, and I wouldn’t go buying her plane ticket yet ‘cause there just might be an explosion.”

“I can’t prolong Cecelia’s transfer any longer than Monday. I had to fight for that.”

“What made you call, if that paper says I signed her off to never-never land?” Sands asked, mostly out of curiosity. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out just what his fellow spooks were up to.

“He signed the appropriate papers with a desk nurse. I walked in just as he was leaving. I may have only met you once five years ago, but I knew he wasn’t you. The signature seems to match, but the face sure doesn’t. That’s why we need to see each other in person.”

Sands couldn’t help but think that seeing each other in person was going to be a little one-sided, but opted not to offer that particular piece of information to Dr. Beck.

“Then it shall be so,” Sands said smoothly, and didn’t even bother to say goodbye before hanging up.

“You’re not serious?” Cam asked incredulously. He took a large gulp of his now cold coffee, attempting to swallow the lump that’d lodged itself firmly in his throat.

Marc sighed, standing as he did so. He motioned for Cam to do the same. “I know you don’t like it. It’s the only offer I can give you.”

Coming to his feet, Cam followed Marc, who was already heading for the door. Cam couldn’t believe what choice he’d been given; career suicide or… no. He couldn’t even consider the other choice. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t him.

He’d never be able to do it. He couldn’t betray a fellow officer; he didn’t have it in him. It was everything that was wrong with the Company; everything that Sands had warned him against.

Grabbing hold of Marc’s arm, he turned his boss around to face him. “I… I can’t do this.”

Marc’s eyes held something that could – for a brief moment – be construed as understanding. Then, it was gone. “You better start searching the classifieds.”

He’d gotten to his seat quickly. An usher had guided him to the appropriate row with minimal embarrassment, and he knew the main lobby well enough to navigate from past visits to the theatre. The usher had provided him with a little device for the sight impaired – wasn’t he lucky? – before dissolving back into the noise of the crowd.

Settling back into his chair, he folded up his cane and tucked it away, listening to the hum of excitement surrounding him. He never thought he’d feel out of sync with the active crowd, but he did.

The anger he’d felt only a week before had left him. He would have killed to get it back, because after the anger all he was left with was an encroaching numbness that truly frightened him. Now, he was tired, and felt far older than his thirty-nine years.

The last thing he wanted to do was think about it, but now he had little choice.

You don’t know how to live this way.

Blind.

There was no denying that he was fucked. The system had used him in ways he’d swore he’d never be used, screwed him over more times than he could count, and taken him for one hell of a roller coaster ride that he was still waiting to get off.

The irony of it all? He’d actually thought he’d been screwing the mother of all pooches. He’d actually thought he was using the Company, and was above being used himself.

But, goddamn it, he’d show them all what a tough son-of-a-bitch he was. He’d make it, because he had to. There was no other option.

A couple squeezing past him muttering hurried pardons brought him out of his thoughts.

The theatre wasn’t his idea. Ava had FedEx’d a ticket over earlier in the day with a short note in Braille, written, like the ticket, as a girlfriend’s surprise to her boyfriend. Clever, he had to admit, but it drove home how tenuous Ava’s situation must be.

After the fuzz’s early morning visit, he was thankful that Ava hadn’t phoned. He’d been unable to get a hold of Cam earlier in the day, so the apartment still had to be swept for bugs.

Sands had flirted with the idea of standing Ava up; she was a wild card in this little game. He couldn’t trust her… wouldn’t trust her. Still, she’d helped him both here and in Mexico, and because of that he was willing to hear what she had to say… and who knows? Maybe she could shed some light on the strange goings-on within the Company.

It really all came down to one simple fact; he couldn’t ignore her. Ava was another part of the puzzle, and his gut told him that she was an important piece.

He was currently sitting in Orchestra seating, five rows back from the stage, in an aisle seat offset slightly to the right. Courtesy of Ava, he’d managed to bogart a prime viewing seat that was totally wasted on him. He couldn’t help but notice the irony, and he was damn sure that it wasn’t missed by the other nearby theatre attendees either.

The seat to his left was still empty. It was Ava’s, no doubt.

Although he could no longer see his surroundings, he knew them well. The chair he sat in was red, as were the surrounding chairs, the carpet, the opening curtain, and the walls. How’d he know? Experience. Of course, he’d been here before.

What he hadn’t noticed before was the scent in the air; it was a combination of musty velvet fabric, competing perfumes and musk.

He’d even dressed up for this “date” with Ava. If there was one thing he’d relearned in Mexico, it was that there were times to stand out, and times to blend in. Here in DC, with twice as many eyes, it was often better to blend in.

“Amantes suntamentes,” Ava said, sliding into the seat on his left. The Latin sounded very foreign on her tongue, and he quirked an eyebrow as he faced her.

“You memorize any other nifty phrases for me, Sugar?” he asked.

“Just one more, but I’m saving it for after the show,” she said with a half-hearted laugh. Leaning closer, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and then whispered in his ear, “We might have company.”

Sands smirked, moving in closer as he touched Ava’s face. Brushing his hand across her cheek he asked in hushed tones, “The Company or just company?”

“Pick one,” she whispered back, before pulling away and relaxing into her seat.

“Talk about the family from hell,” he muttered, listening as she settled herself in. He could hear the sound of pages turning, and guessed that she was flipping through the playbill.

Smirking, he sat back in his seat, waiting for the show to start. Of course, neither of them had any intention of paying attention to the show. “I hope you don’t expect me to whisper sweet nothings into your ear.”

She took a moment before answering, probably watching him fumble with the sight-impaired audio device as she thought. “I’m hoping they won’t be nothings,” she answered after he’d successfully untangled the earpiece.

Sands ignored her statement as he plugged in the earpiece, more for the benefit of anyone watching than any actual intent to use the damn thing. “What spectacular spectacle of spectacular-ness did you drag me here to see this time, Sugar-cube?”

Ava cleared her throat, and Sands heard her stifling laughter behind it. Before she could answer, the same usher who’d taken him to his seat interrupted.

“Excuse me, Sir?” Sands turned towards the usher who continued speaking. “I forgot to give you a playbill.”

Taking the playbill, Sands immediately felt the Braille on the cover. He couldn’t help but be a little surprised; he’d no idea that they made playbills in Braille.

“Madama Butterfly,” Ava said, sounding as if she was having a hard time keeping a straight face, although it seemed as if it was brought on by nerves more than anything.

“For the sake of my sanity, and your possible date with a bullet, you’d better be tickling the ol’ funny bone,” he drawled, letting his hand do the reading as he referred to the playbill.

Macbeth.

He was only slightly relieved, wondering if she’d deliberately set up their little tête-à-tête during the infamously cursed play out of some morbid sense of humor, or if she’d simply purchased tickets for whatever wasn’t sold out.

A voice came over the loud speaker, asking everyone to take their seats. It was only a couple of minutes later that the crowd quieted, the lights probably dimmed, and the show began.

When the opening act was underway Ava leaned in casually, and he did the same. He wondered if Ava knew that the fuzz had shown up on his doorstep looking for her.

“You went to a lot of trouble, Sugar,” Sands whispered once the show was underway.

“I have important information you need to hear,” she answered, keeping her voice equally quiet.

“I’m all ears.”

“That was the point, wasn’t it?” she asked, and he heard a note of hesitation in her tone.

Sands’ eyebrows rose. “You tell me.”

“I don’t know all of what’s going on in the Company…”

“That makes two of us.”

“I’ll tell you what I know. The Company knew about Martin before the Day of the Dead,” Ava began. “They had people stationed down in Mexico watching him, but they didn’t stop him from doing what he did to you.” She stopped, and he suspected that she was studying his reaction.

Sands kept his face neutral, but sat back slightly in his chair. He’d guessed as much, from what he’d pieced together, but hadn’t known for sure. “And?”

“Now they need you.”

Sands couldn’t help the bitter smile that graced his lips just then. “I assume you’re going to do more than point out the obvious?”

“They’ve opened the box.”

Nodding ever so slightly, Sands turned his attention back to the stage.

“What’s your role in this drama?” he asked quietly, switching off the sight-impaired audio device in his hand.

“I’d have thought you’d know by now.”

“Hmm,” Sands pondered, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Should I designate a classic archetype then? One befitting of your talents?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Sands could hear the smile behind her words. Their pointless banter wasn’t as inane as it seemed; it served a valuable purpose for anyone who might be eavesdropping. “You’re a fine shape-shifter, Sugar; a natural Mystique.”

“Funny, I thought that was you.”

A brief pause in their chit-chat allowed for part of Macbeth to fill in the silence. He was eager to hear what Ava had to say about the maze they both found themselves in now, but knew better than anyone that patience was indeed a virtue in the game of spy versus spy. So instead of rushing her to an explanation, he turned his attention to the stage.

“…with terrible numbers, assisted by that most disloyal traitor,
the thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict;
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, confronted him with self-comparisons, point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm.
Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, the victory fell on us.”

“But maybe you’re something more important,” Ava whispered, and Sands bet she hadn’t tuned into the play as he had; instead using the moment to try and figure him out.

“Well don’t blab, Sugar. I want it to be a surprise.”

She chuckled softly. “Oh, I think it will be.”

Amantes suntamentes – Lovers are lunatics.

Chapter 3 – Catch My Eye

The Washington National Opera’s version of Macbeth seemed to be quite good. The singers’ voices projected well and their performances were more than adequate, as far as Sands could tell. It was impossible for him to judge much else about the production, and he couldn’t help feeling a little bitter. There was no point in going to live theatre if he could get as much out of the experience by checking out an audio tape from the library.

He’d never seen Macbeth in the theatre before, and even now that he could say he’d seen it, he hadn’t seen it. Who’d have thought that one day Sheldon Jeffery Sands would be spurned by simple semantics?

Belatedly he realized that Ava had started whispering to him again, and leaned in closer as she continued speaking.

“… all this ruckus made over one little box.” Her tone was one of disbelief, and it dawned on him that Ava must not know much about PANDORA. But then, who did? He’d been involved in PANDORA’s creation, and right now it looked as if he knew diddly-squat about the project.

“A box?” Sands questioned. “A box is like a theatre. It’s an empty shell that’s nothing without something inside it.”

“You started it all, didn’t you?” Ava asked. He didn’t think he was imagining the uneasiness that had crept into her normally calm voice.

“I dig your theory. Like it better than the truth.”

Ava grabbed hold of his lower arm and squeezed, as if to get his complete attention… apparently she didn’t realize that she’d already firmly secured it. “What is the truth?” she asked; her voice almost impossible to hear.

“Whatever I make it,” he stated, leaving it at that. Telling her about the PANDORA project would serve no other purpose than to keep her awake at night, and waste the valuable time they had. Besides, his curiosity – oh yes, he saw the irony – about what Ava did know about PANDORA was getting the better of him.

“Where was the box opened?” he asked, curious to know the answer.

Ava shifted in her seat. “You mean to say that you didn’t open it?” she asked. Her tone suggested that she already knew the answer.

Sands quirked an eyebrow in Ava’s direction and propped his elbow up on the armrest between them. “I only stole a quick peek inside.”

“What did you see?”

His answer was instantaneous. “A solid idea, poorly executed.” He turned towards her as his lips bent into a crooked smile. He shot the question right back at her. “When you thieved a glance inside, what did you see?”

When she didn’t respond immediately, his mind formed an image of Ava sitting beside him with her mouth slightly agape. After a lengthy pause he heard a slow intake of breath.

“What makes you think I’ve seen inside?” she asked, and she really did sound curious as to how he’d come to that conclusion. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to her. After all, it was what he was good at.

Sands’ index finger rested on his chin, leisurely moving back and forth. His smile turned predatory at the subtle admission he heard in her voice; it was hidden in the faintly breathless quality of her ‘Why’ and ‘I’ve’. It was barely audible, but it was there nonetheless. “And bingo was his name-o!”

Before Ava had a chance to answer, a shrill alarm pierced through the theatre’s atmosphere like an arrow flying towards its target. The play stopped in mid-act; first the actors, then the orchestra. A few seconds of stupefied silence followed, and the only noticeable sound was the fire alarm’s shrill wail. Sands leaned into Ava, and casually said, “Our Company has arrived, Dear.”

As if on cue, everyone began to respond in synchronicity. The sound of people standing, shuffling feet, and disappointed groans engulfed the opera house as the entertainment was unceremoniously interrupted. He turned towards Ava, shrugged, and stood with the rest of the crowd. Being in the aisle seat meant he either skedaddled, or got trampled over. Besides, if this impromptu intermission was courtesy of the Company, it was better to leave with the crowd and be hard to find, than be separated from them and easily singled out.

Reaching inside his coat, he began to take his collapsible cane out of the inside pocket. Ava stopped him with a touch of her hand on his. “Don’t attract attention,” she whispered, gently pushing him forward into the aisle.

He returned his cane to his inner pocket, but the feeling of helplessness that engulfed him immediately afterwards was not a welcome sensation. He knew she was right; a blind man with a cane was much easier to spot than a blind man without one, but it still left the little matter of not stumbling on every other step, which would also be a dead giveaway.

He really did hate this.

Ava took hold of his arm and led the way to the exit. With Ava’s help and the sound of footsteps in front of him, he managed to make it up the flight of stairs with only a couple of minor missteps.

It was, he guessed, around the opera house doors that led to the lobby that he lost Ava. He tripped-up on something – what he didn’t know – only barely managing to catch himself before falling.

“Oh!”

That was Ava, whose hand was no longer tucked in the crook of his arm.

Standing up straight and making sure his sunglasses were still secure, Sands waited for Ava to take up his arm again… only, she didn’t.

Sands opened his mouth to call her name, only to be bumped from behind. He lurched forward a little from the contact, and felt the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the large glass doors of the South Grand Foyer. He turned, a biting retort on the tip of his tongue, when he became aware of the faint smell of smoke in the air.

Frowning, Sands walked forward with the throng, taking the cane out of his pocket and extending it as he stepped up on the inclining ramp that marked the entrance of the Grand Foyer from the opera house. It brought the unwelcome attention that Ava had warned about, but at this point he had little choice. As he descended the opposite side of the ramp, he grabbed hold of the steel railing and listened for any sound of Ava.

Hearing none, he continued forward, and kept with the crowd as they filtered out of the Grand Foyer and onto the outdoor River Terrace. Since he was on the ground level, the terrace connected to the north and south plazas, where he guessed most of the patrons would gather until the fire department arrived.

Heading towards the edge of the terrace that looked out to the Potomac River, Sands positioned himself on the outskirts of the crowd that was moving towards one of the plazas.

When his cane touched the cement half wall, and the well-pruned shrubs that acted as a barrier between the terrace and the steep drop into the river, he stopped and waited.

He had a pretty good idea who he was waiting for.

Taking the easy way out was never his style. Neither was postponing an important tête-à-tête. Since Ava had hitched a ride to splitsville, he had no reason to avoid the Company. After all, he’d be walking straight into the lion’s mouth soon enough, so this whole escapade had to have been a snare for Ava.

It was too bad he and Ava had been interrupted so early. Sands had a good deal of questions for the little spook. He had no doubt that the Company’s timing was anything but accidental.

He honed in on the sounds behind him. The last stragglers were leaving the Kennedy Center now. He reached in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, feeling the familiar urge. As he lit up, approaching footsteps told him that he wasn’t going to have to worry about killing time. His Company had arrived.

Sands waited patiently for whoever it was to make the first overture, using the time to take a deep pull at his cigarette. The wonders of nicotine worked their magic, relaxing him almost instantly.

“Nasty habit, Sands.”

Sands smirked, turning towards his ex-partner as he exhaled smoke through his nose. “But not my worst.”

“How well I know that,” Mike Gleason said. “Still terrorizing the rookies?”

“I consider it my duty,” Sands replied easily, taking another drag. “When did you suddenly become a patron of the arts?”

“Since it became my duty.”

Sands cocked his head at Mike, but he was really listening to what was going on around them. By the sound of it, almost everyone had cleared the building. “Did you get your woman?” he asked Mike. He had no illusions as to who this was really about – he’d become nothing but a bit player – at least for today. He didn’t think that would be the case for very long; he wasn’t good at sharing the limelight.

Mike leisurely made his way towards the North Plaza. “Let this one be, Sands.”

“I never could let sleeping dogs… sleep,” Sands said, staying put. He wasn’t about to follow Mike and lose their unspoken battle of resolve. “I hope you didn’t do any real damage to the Kennedy Center. That’d be downright traitorous,” Sands added with a suggestive quirk of an eyebrow, his voice rising slightly as Mike walked away.

“Of course not. It’s not our turf.”

Sands snorted, cigarette to his lips once more. Not bothering to respond, and knowing that he was going to have to wait Mike out, he took some time to listen to the sound of the Potomac rushing by and wonder what had become of Ava. He knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of Mike about her. Not if the Company didn’t want him to know. Mike was competent enough in interrogation techniques and psychology to keep his mouth shut about clandestine details, and wasn’t going to drop some big revelation easily.

It was a cigarette and a half later when Mike sucked it up and came walking back. Sirens could be heard from the opposite side of the building, which meant the two of them were running out of time.

“Did you ever notice that the contents of a box are far more interesting before the box is opened?” Sands drawled, still facing the Potomac as he spoke to his approaching ex-partner. Mike was standing to his right, and the long suffering sigh he let loose told Sands he was put-out by even being here.

“You don’t seem to learn. You start sticking your nose in the Company’s private affairs, and they’ll put you out on your ass, Jeff.”

Exhaling a stream of smoke from his nose, Sands finally faced Mike. “Like they did in Mexico?”

“Not exactly. This time they’ll finish what they started.”

Sands took another puff of his smoke, before tossing his cashed cigarette into the river below. “And what was that?”

Mike stepped closer to the river barrier; probably looking south towards the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge. He didn’t rush his response, and Sands had the feeling that Mike wasn’t looking at him when he finally did answer. “Ruining you.”

Sands’ jaw clenched, but he forced his voice to remain cool. It was the response he’d been expecting after all… but anticipating the statement didn’t make it any easier for him to hear it. “Oh, and I thought my special talents were going to get the Company out of their latest pickle.”

He was well aware of the fact that he was going to have to play ball if he wanted to get anything out of the Company – and that included his next job. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he was fully capable of doing so if it meant getting what he wanted.

“It’s one option of many. You know as well as I do that no one man is indispensable to the Company.” Mike wasn’t taunting or gloating. He was stating facts, plain and simple.

Still, Sands couldn’t help but think, ‘Especially a blind one, eh Mike?’

“Semper idem,” Sands said with a wave of his hand. “Are you telling me to play nice, or else?”

“I can’t tell you anything. Never could. Just pretend I’m talking to myself out loud.”

“Nasty habit,” Sands quipped, turning away from Mike and starting towards the South Plaza. “Who exactly was she working for?” he asked, referring to Ava. He’d meant under what sector; the answer he received was something entirely different.

“Not us.”

Sands stopped in his tracks. “Counter-espionage?” he asked, but received no answer. Mike walked away, in the opposite direction, apparently having said all he wanted to say; perhaps even more than he should have…

As Sands walked back to the plaza, he dialed Cam’s number on his cell phone. Again, receiving no answer, he rang off without leaving a message then punched in another number.

Not paying complete attention to how far he’d walked, Sands bumped into the barrier that marked the south end of the River Terrace, and stopped there as he waited for the man on the other end of the line to pick up.

“What is it?” the man answered after the fourth ring.

“You’re always oozing charisma and charm, Tom,” Sands replied smoothly, buttoning up his coat; the brisk December air significantly cooler near the waters of the Potomac.

“Aren’t you dead yet?” Tom asked grumpily. Sands didn’t buy the act. He knew Tom; the money paid to Tom for his special services warmed the man’s sub-zero heart.

“It’s only a matter of time, or so I’m told.”

Tom never was one to shoot the breeze, and got straight to the point. “You got something for me or not?”

“How about a little game of twenty questions?”

“Oh, Jesus…” Yeah, Tom was well acquainted with how Sands asked even the simplest of questions and it only increased his agitation – much like anything else Sands said to him.

“Ah, that’s right. You’re a busy man, aren’t you?” Sands said, turning slightly towards the sound of someone hurrying past him and down the terrace steps that led to the nearest plaza. “Then how about just one question? When you grabbed that shovel of yours and dug up Ava, what cemetery plot were you desecrating?”

There was a short pause on the other end as Tom interpreted his meaning. “Are you asking what agency? The Company, where else? She’s an undercover operative; specialty is deep undercover intelligence gathering. She came highly recommended.”

“How deep did you dig into her cover?” Sands asked. He was itching for another cigarette, but the pack was getting a little light and he felt it might be wise to save a few for the upcoming crisis.

“Deep enough,” Tom snapped, obviously not appreciating the implication that he’d missed an important piece of information on his end. “You know how I operate.”

“I’m hip to your methods, but I suggest you put away the shovel and drill your way to the core, because you haven’t discovered what lies beneath the mantle.”

Terminating the call with the swift push of a button, Sands continued his way to the plaza, intent on pushing through the masses and heading towards the taxi stand. He realized about half way there that he should have battled his way through the north plaza instead; it would have been quicker.

Just as he was passing through the shuttle depot he became aware of Somewhere Over The Rainbow emanating from his left pants pocket. He stopped, pulling out his cell phone and flipping it open.

“Are you the good witch, or the bad witch?” he asked in greeting. He expected it to be either Cam, or Ava.

“D.C. is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Last time I checked, yes.” It was Ava. Much to his surprise, he felt slightly relieved.

“The promise of America is a simple promise: every person shall share in the blessings of this land,” Ava said, and then added. “See you later.”

With that, Ava hung up. Sands snapped his phone shut, furrowing his brow. Obviously she still needed to meet up with him, and the quote was a clue.

Unfortunately, although the quote seemed vaguely familiar, he couldn’t place it. Her first question seemed to be a hint as well, but it wasn’t enough to jump start his brain.

“Vae,” Sands muttered. Slipping the cell back into his pocket he continued making his way to the taxi stand. He thought that she might be overestimating his knowledge of famous quotes. He was flattered, but that didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t recognize any quote thrown at him. Of course he could do a little research and find out who’d said it easy enough, but it would take too much time.

Arriving at the taxi stand about three minutes later, Sands waited in line for an opportunity to put his life in a D.C. cabbie’s hands. He was still mulling over the quote Ava had tossed him. It reeked of some goody-two-shoes politician, but that was little help when D.C. was cram packed with buildings, bridges, memorials and parks named after famous political figures.

The promise of America is a simple promise: every person shall share in the blessings of this land.

He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud until a lady about two people back in line responded.

“What?” Sands asked, turning to face her. It was worth a shot.

“Lady Bird.”

Sands cocked his head questioningly, and then it dawned on him. “Johnson?” he asked for edification.

“Yeah – it’s on a plaque in her memorial grove. What made you say that?”

Ignoring her question, Sands asked, “Where is it?”

“Right across the bridge. It’s on the George Washington Memorial Parkway.”

An odd feeling struck him as he stepped out of the taxi and onto the cement sidewalk. It was that niggling feeling in the corner of his mind when he believed something wasn’t kosher, but he couldn’t back it up with anything solid.

You need to know.

It was that thought that drove him on, into the memorial park and deeper into an increasingly tenuous situation. Unfolding his cane, Sands began his trek into the park, leaving the taxi behind him. He hoped the path would take him to the memorial marker, but having never been to the park before he could only guess.

The Lady Bird Johnson Memorial was quiet; so quiet he had yet to hear another person within earshot. His cane tapping the path in front of him was his only accompanying sound, and in his mind it grew louder with each tap.

Instinct kicking in, he directed his attention to the surrounding sounds, tuning out his own incessant tapping. He stopped.

Waiting a few seconds, he started to wonder if he should doubt his loose hold on reality. He’d thought he’d heard something, but it had been so faint he couldn’t be entirely sure what he’d heard, or even if he’d really heard it.

Now he couldn’t hear a damn thing. Shaking his head, Sands sighed and continued on.

Only a minute later he heard it again. This time, he could make it out. It was a sharp metallic sound, about thirty feet behind him.

Clink. Step.

Sands froze, certain that the sound was irritatingly familiar.

It’s not possible… is it?

Clink. Step.

It can’t be him. It makes no sense. What would a mariachi be doing in DC?

It wasn’t logical. Sands inhaled deeply as a brisk breeze touched his face, and dry leaves rustled nearby. A prickle at the back of his neck told him that he was being watched.

Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.

Sands forced aside his growing anxiety by snatching up his pack of cigarettes. He did his best to force his hand to stay steady as he lit up.

Indeed, if someone was up for a game of cat and mouse the elements of surprise and patience were called for.

After taking a couple of puffs of his cigarette, he continued walking down the path. He was doing his best not to tip the man off, and not entirely sure that he was successful.

Five minutes down the path brought him to a few descending steps. A little poking around with his cane and he discovered that he was in some sort of courtyard. The stone he stood on now was smoother – a finer quality – than the rougher stone path that he’d taken to get here, and the area was far wider than a path, sunken a few feet into the ground.

Sands’ right hand fiddled with his cigarette nervously as he walked slowly about the courtyard; it was the only thing betraying his otherwise calm demeanor.

He hadn’t heard the mystery clink for a few minutes now. Taking another drag, it occurred to him that one of these days it might be wise to listen to the little warning voice in his head; it was persistent in saying, this isn’t right.

But he was the first to admit that nothing had felt right since the Day of the Dead.

Distracting himself from his thoughts, he listened again for signs of life within close proximity. Still nothing but silence.

So he was downright shocked when his feet were swept out from under him. He fell to the stone hard. The wind was knocked out of him as he made contact with the ground.

Somewhere between his impact with the ground and trying to regain his senses someone snatched his cane from his grasp. Coughing, pain shot through his chest as heavy pressure was applied to his neck; the source was most likely his attacker’s knee. The assailant was making sure Sands didn’t get the chance to catch his breath.

Sands struggled for air, and for control, as someone’s hands grasped his own and pinned them down.

Feeling lightheaded, weak, and unable to breath, Sands couldn’t put up much of a fight. He was barely able to register what the man was saying.

“I’m afraid Ava won’t be making it tonight. She caught my eye. I see she caught yours too,” he said, sarcasm lacing his tone.

Sands didn’t think he recognized the voice, but his fight for oxygen might have been hampering his ability to recall it. He struggled weakly against the man’s grip, accomplishing nothing.

His attacker didn’t let up, and continued speaking. “‘Thou shalt not get caught’ was never one of God’s commandments, and no man can be saved by trying to keep it.”

Then, mercifully, the pressure against his windpipe was gone. If the attacker had kept it up much longer, Sands would have passed out. He heard the man’s footsteps walk calmly away as he fought to fill air in his lungs.

Over his own coughing, Sands barely heard the attacker tap a few times on the stone, about seven feet away and to his left.

Then, the mystery man left.

That was it. No threat. No torture. No date with death. Sands was completely thrown; at least he was after he’d regained his ability to breathe.

Sitting up slowly, Sands took a moment to regain his composure before moving to where he’d heard the tap. It was a familiar sound; one he’d been trying to tune out minutes before. He was hoping that the man had left him his cane, although he doubted someone who’d just attacked him would show that sort of consideration.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t his cane that he found.

The first thing he came into contact with was the deathly still form of a human body.

Semper idem – Always the same thing.

Vae - Damn

Terminology:

G-Man – Short for Government Man, and slang for FBI Agent.

Counter-espionage – Spying directed against an enemy's intelligence collection organizations. Methods include surveillance, undercover agents, and monitoring the behavior of legally accredited 'diplomatic personnel' (some of whom are sometimes actually spies or spy handlers), and similar means.

Quotes:

Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.
Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll

Chapter 4 – Adeste Fideles

Sands snatched his hand back quickly, as if the body might suddenly spring to life and bite him. Still shaky from his attacker’s stranglehold, he lost his balance, falling back.

This could only be one of two people; Cam or Ava, and the scale was tipping in Ava’s favor. He breathed deeply, and shifted his weight so that he rested on his knees.

He took another breath, trying to clear his spinning head enough to decide what to do. He never used to have this problem before. Deciding what to do; It had always been so clear… it wasn’t anymore.

On one hand, he desperately wanted – and needed – to know who was lying in front of him. On the other hand, he couldn’t afford being seen with a dead body in the park. If he was found kneeling beside the body, or any evidence pointed to him, it could be used by the Company as a smoking gun.

He needed to find his cane, or make sure that it wasn’t here. He thought he heard the man drop it, so odds were that he’d left it somewhere near the body.

For now, he avoided the body as best he could while searching the ground for his cane. As his hands brushed along the flagstones he thought about the implications of this visit from his not-so-friendly friend.

Ava. She would be a great asset to him in his current situation, so if it was indeed her lying dead before him, it was much to his regret. Then again, the thought of Cam lying in front of him wasn’t any more comforting.

Coming up empty handed in the search for his cane, he stood up slowly. Although still weak, he was feeling much better than he had a minute before.

Stepping around the body he continued the hunt. He realized then how close to the river he must be, because he could hear the water. A car honked off in the distance. He briefly wondered if it was the taxi driver getting fed up with waiting, but the sound seemed too far away. He hadn’t walked all that far, had he?

He groaned, knowing that there was probably only one place a crazy bastard like that would leave the cane. How about right where Sands would want to leave the least amount of evidence possible?

Sands reached for the body, aiming for the stomach. He guessed a little high, but sure enough there it was, underneath a hand.

Taking hold of the cane with one of his hands, he examined the body’s hand with the other.

Long, slender fingers. A ring on the pinky. Well-manicured fingernails.

It wasn’t Cam. It was most definitely a woman, and it all added up to one lady; Ava.

Shifting his weight and using the cane to lean on, he slid his hand up from her fingers to her wrist. Squeezing, he felt for a pulse. He didn’t expect to find one, and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t.

“Guess this was your swan song, Sugar.”

His touch moved back to her pinky finger. Pulling a sleeve over his hand, he took off Ava’s ring, knowing that D.C. forensics could lift a fingerprint off it, and rubbed it against his thigh. Once he was sure that he’d wiped off any fingerprints, he replaced the ring on her finger and got the hell out of Dodge.

“Yes. I’m here to see Cecelia Sands.”

“OK,” she said, looking down at a monitor that must have been a decade old and pecking at the keyboard as she looked up the patient. Her index finger tapped on the side of the keyboard as she waited. “Are you a relative?” she asked as Cecelia’s information appeared on the screen.

“Yes. Sheldon Sands,” he replied.

Her finger stopped tapping. A thin, dark eyebrow quirked as her eyes moved away from the monitor to the man standing in front of her. Their ages didn’t fit. Cecelia Sands was thirty-five, and the man in front of her was sixty if he was a day. But then, it wasn’t unheard of for a woman to marry someone twice her age, especially if he was rich.

“You have an appointment?” she asked, seeing that there wasn’t anyone listed for Cecelia today.

“Oh, should I have made one?”

“We prefer it, but you came by during visiting hours so you should be fine. Identification, please?”

He opened his wallet, showing her his driver’s license. Everything looked kosher, so she nodded, typed a quick note, and sent him off to Cecelia’s room.

It was a small room, barren of any harmful objects. Safe. Sterile. No personal items adorned the room. He couldn’t imagine how dreary and monotonous it must be to live in such surroundings day in and day out. He instantly felt sorry for the poor woman.

She sat on the bed; knees folded up to her chest, her chin resting on them. There was a single window, four feet square, affording a view of another wing of the sanitarium and a small portion of the surrounding grounds. That view was marred by steel bars, preventing patients on the upper floors from “checking out early” by taking a sudden leap.

Cecelia said nothing when he entered the room, nor did she shift her gaze, which currently rested on the opposite wall. Her glazed-over eyes told him that she probably wasn’t even aware of his presence.

Cecelia’s clothing was simple and as dreary as the rest of her surroundings. They were light gray, and looked like a cross between a prison uniform and a hospital gown. Her hair was cut shorter than he remembered it; a simple bob, straight and limp. It was easier to manage that way, he supposed.

She continued to stare off into space, and he didn’t wish to rush her, so he walked over to the window to get a better view of the grounds.

As he looked out the small window, he thought of the last time he’d seen Cecelia; it was at the wedding. He would have liked to know her better – she seemed like a driven and spirited girl. It hurt to see her now, witnessing first hand what fate had in store for her all along. He wished now that he’d stayed in touch somehow… perhaps he could have prevented this.

Sighing, he turned to her. He’d never gotten along well with his son. They were like night and day. It was because of their volatile relationship that he hadn’t kept in touch with either of them. He knew nothing of his son’s life… if Cecelia and Jeff had conceived a child together, he probably wouldn’t have known that either. Jeff had completely cut himself off from his family by the time he was nineteen. It was only because of Cecelia that he’d been invited to the wedding, and Jeff had no kind words to say to him during the entire affair.

He hadn’t spoken to Jeff since. They hadn’t exchanged a telephone conversation, a holiday greeting card, or a letter. There’d not been a single item of correspondence, not until Jeff’s package a few weeks ago.

He had to admit that when he opened the letter and saw his son’s handwriting he’d felt a fleeting sense of fatherly joy. They’d never gotten along, and he’d never really liked his son, but time could change a person… Well, no point in dwelling on what he’d felt at the time, because all hopes he had were dashed within a few seconds of opening the small package. It was postmarked from Mexico, of all places. Was that where Jeff was living now? Inside was a short note, nothing more. It was odd and disjointed and hard to read. Most of all, it was disturbing. The gist of it was that Jeff was apparently in a mess of trouble – only a matter of time as far as he was concerned – and needed him to hold on to the enclosed items. Oh, and don’t open said items, either.

So he hadn’t opened the small manila envelope enclosed within the larger one. His curiosity was killing him. He had to admit he’d held that small envelope in his hands, contemplating the possibility of opening it, at least a dozen times. But he never did open it. He wasn’t sure why; if it was out of loyalty, habit, or fear of what might be inside.

He turned back to the window, and noticed approaching storm clouds.

“He’s always watching.”

Sheldon turned to see Cecelia looking at him. When their eyes met, he let out a small gasp.

“Oh!” he said, putting a hand to his chest. “You startled me. Who’s watching?” he asked, walking over to her.

“He is. He watches from outside the window. From the cameras. From the little window in the door.” She leaned towards him, a hand grasping the bottom of his sportscoat with surprising strength. Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “He even watches my dreams.”

He had the feeling that he knew who she was speaking of; his son. Jeff had not done well by her, but it was clear to him that his son was not capable of being a worthy husband to anyone. He was born without certain necessary qualities, it seemed.

“He’s not watching you, Sweetie,” he said, after a moment. He knew it was probably useless, but he said it anyway.

“He keeps them from letting me out. Always watching my door. No soul. No eyes, no soul.”

He didn’t point out that someone without eyes couldn’t watch her. “Everyone has a soul. Even my son,” he said softly. “Although sometimes even I have a hard time believing that.”

“He’s not real.”

He furrowed his brow as he saw her gaze return to the opposite wall. It was hard to follow her, yet he instinctively knew what she meant despite her babbling. In a mad way, it all made sense. His son was capable of being many people, and of putting up a thoroughly convincing front whenever he wanted. It’s what made knowing his son impossible; you could never really know a man like that. The sad truth of it was his son probably didn’t know himself either.

“You’re right,” he said at last. He could see his response startled her, because she met his eyes again.

“I am?” She blinked, nonplussed, and then slowly lowered her legs to the ground. She looked at him a bit longer, then bit her lower lip and asked quietly, “Do I know you?”

“I’m Jeff’s father. We met at your wedding.”

Her eyes hardened, the quizzical expression on her face vanishing. “You’re part of it. You’re just another pair of his eyes.” She stood. “He’s always watching!” she shouted, coming towards him. “Always watching, always watching!”

Sheldon felt the urge to back away, but stood his ground. Although she was definitely disturbed, he thought that perhaps if he didn’t get excited himself he could get through to her. “No. Jeff and I have not spoken for years. Not since the wedding. That’s why we’ve only met once before.”

Cecelia stopped, hands coming up to the sides of her face. She shook her head violently. “I can always feel him. Always. He’s in my head!” She began to sob. “Get him out!”

He frowned. “Has Jeff come to visit you?” he asked, but before he got an answer the door to the room opened and two orderlies rushed in. One held a syringe, the other moved to hold Cecelia. As the orderly with the syringe sedated Cecelia, the other one told him that his visit was over.

As he exited the room he couldn’t help but wonder what his son had done to her.

None of it made sense. None of it. What event had to do with another? What was relevant and what was coincidence?

Then something came to him, and it stopped him in mid stride. Dry leaves blew across the path in front of him. A dog barked in the distance. “Vae!”

He picked up his pace.

Luckily the park wasn’t busy, and Sands made it to the taxi without passing a single person. It was for the best, because he knew he must look like something the cat dragged in. He’d rather shoot an innocent bystander than answer nosy questions right then. He needed to think.

The taxi driver was as good as his word, and was still waiting with the taxi – and the meter – running. Sands hopped inside and shut the door. A slight chill ran down his back, and he convinced himself that it was from the frosty air outside, and not from finding Ava’s dead body.

The cabbie asked where he wanted to go, and he gave the driver an address as he leaned back against the seat in exhaustion.

She looked up at him and smiled. “Yes?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure my contact information is up to date.”

“Sure,” she said, moving back over to the computer. “What was the last name again?” she asked apologetically.

“Sands.” He took an informational brochure out of its holder on the desk as he answered, and removed a pen from his inside coat pocket.

She nodded, and typed in the information. “Sheldon, right?”

“Yes.”

She read off a cell phone number and apartment address, and he quickly jotted it down. He told her the information was correct, and then gave her an alternate phone number to keep her busy while he wrote down the last bit of the address. She looked up from the screen just as he folded the brochure in half and slipped it in his pocket.

“Well, that should do it,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Have a good evening, Mr. Sands.”

He saw her first. That bitch, Ajedrez.

At least, that’s who it should have been. But belatedly he realized it wasn’t her.

It was Cecelia. He only saw her for a moment before his vision was blocked by Guevara, but he saw her long enough to register the cold, cruel smile on her lips.

“Sorry, Baby. I told you I wasn’t interested in your schemes.”

She said something more, but the sound of the drill, now in his line of sight, drowned out whatever it was.

As the pain hit, he jolted awake.

The feeling of motion made him feel slightly nauseated as he came back to reality; the tick of the turn signal reminding him of where he was. The taxi driver said nothing, but Sands felt the man’s curious eyes on him as the taxi slowed, then made a right turn.

Sands rolled down the window, feeling suffocated in the stuffy cab. It smelled of sweat and stale French fries, most likely left over from the cabby’s quick drive-through lunch. The fresh air helped alleviate his queasiness as he wiped the sweat off his brow with a portion of his sleeve.

Calm. Down.

He needed to deal with Cecelia. He needed to talk to Cam. He had to get back the microdots he’d taken off Jackson’s body. He had to stop the Company from framing him. He needed to know what information Ava had for him.

‘Easy as cherry pie.’

Most of all, he needed to get a grip.

He had a busy week ahead of him.

Adeste Fideles – Oh come, all ye faithful.

To Be Continued...