D. W. St John - Sisters of Glass

SISTERS OF GLASS

2009 D.W.St.John

Smashwords Edition

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ONE

Magnus Tate watches Auri rise on longlegs.

With a look that leaves no doubt in his mindhow long she will treasure the memory of their first encounter, shewipes away the residue of lovemaking, Well, what now?

Tired, as close to throwing in the towel ashes ever been, he hauls himself erect with a groan. Its beennearly twenty years since hes been this foolish, letting a clientsucker him into compromising himself. His age, slipping into herdress she looks half his sixty years. Still, there is somethingabout her that turns men to fools.

Now? Im going to send somebody else, thatswhat Im going to do.

Hands on hips, she looks at him, appalled,God, but youre hopeless! I thought you were competent! Dont youget it? Theyre not cutting it! Were no closer now than we were amonth ago.

He gets it.

Stepping into trousers, he pours himself adose of scotch, offers her one. She waves it away. Oh, yes, he getsit. If he doesnt do something right now, he might as well buy somerazors and draw himself a good, hot bath. Maybe he should anyway.Hes never liked sending men and women to die. They tried, andthey paid for their failure.

You said they were good.

The pleasant burn of Chivas dulls the edge ofpanic. He thinks of the dead. For the hundredth time he sees theirfaces. He wont have her dirtying them. The look he gives her iseasy to understand. They were good.

Then what good will another one do? Shegrabs her bag, heading for the door and out of his life. Im outof time.

Desperate, Tate watches her go, and with herhis career, his agency. Fear burrows in his stomach. In thisinstant he understands how a man will betray a friend. There issomeone.

Oh, dont bother. Hand on the door shehesitates, Youve had your chance, Ill try somewhere else.

Another second and shell be gone. He cantlet her go. God help him, he cant. Of course she knew he wouldreact this way. If she knows anything, she knows men. Half acentury shes spent them like tokens.

If anyone can do it, Karl can.

Bored, she sighs, All right, who is he, andwhy havent you mentioned him before?

Hes beenout of circulation.

She sighs, annoyed. Retirees, now?

Hes forty, best man ever worked for me.Unconventional.

She cocks an eyebrow, Whats that supposedto mean?

Independent as hell. Born five centuries toolate, is what I think. Sees himself as some kind of knight in blackostrich hide. Used to be a cop, but doesnt care about the law.Only cares whats right. You convince him what you want done is tohelp the underdog, and hell never quitnot while hes breathing,anyway.

And you think we can sell him?

Magnus knows he can. Karl would be a suckerfor it, he can feel it. I can sell him.

She opens the door. Why should I believe youthis time?

Hes smart, hes tough, survival instinctsof a mink, thinks on his feet.

If hes so damned good, why doesnt he workfor you anymore?

Hed hoped she wouldnt ask. Somethinghappened, he walked away.

Somethingwhat?

Tate doesnt answer.

Little boys and their secrets. Okay, letstry this: He walked away to do what?

Lives alone up in the hills by the sea inAnglo-Cali, raises cattle, sheep, grows his own vegetables, youknow, that kind of thing.

Oh. With an exasperated laugh, sheappraises him with a slow shake of her head, eyes industrialdiamond. A back-to-the-land has-been? You can do better thanthat.

Heart stone, he drains his glass, poursanother. Is there anything he wont do to hold on to the agency,anyone he wont betray? Disgusted with himself, with what hesabout to do, he looks out over the waters of 2030 L.A.. Hes theone we want, Auri. Dont ask me why, just trust me when I say hesthe one.

You know I trust no one.

He knows she wont buy it, tries anyway. Igave my word.

Her eyes, implacable, stay on him. Give me areason to stay or Im gone.

He has to stop her. She goes, its all done,all over. He can tell her or he can draw his pension, join thenetpunks in their Ultimate Reality stupor.

Did Judas feel this way?

He reads minds. He looks up to see her jawdrop. That reason enough?

She shuts the door, comes back to her perchon the couch. Slender legs splayed, elbows on knees, she leansforward, eager, So, tell me.

And he does.

God help him, he does.

The smell of straw, of alfalfa, of molassescob, of lanolin, of wool and dung hang heavy on the air of theshed.

Karl pushes the piston on the tube clampedbetween the ewes jaws, forcing the bolus down past where she canspit it up. Its fear comes through his hands. The ewe is afraid,but in a dull, uninterested way. Released, she runs bawling fromthe shed out onto wet grass as if its all a game. Worming time.How he hates it. Just one of lifes little pains in the ass.Nothing any stupider than a lamb. Birth them, vet them, feed them,and will they take a pill without fighting for their life? Theywont. Got to be done, though. Hes heard lambs cough, seen themeat and eat, gaining nothing, livers swimming with ray-like flukes.Bad here by the coast. Snails are the vector. Long wet winters andmisty summers make it a constant fight.

Bink, a beagle no bigger than his shoe, rollshappily in dung at his feet. His only company, Bink may be afreakthey have that much in commonbut he knows how to have a goodtime. Found him barely weaned, running down the centerline as if heknew where he was going and was in one damned big hurry to getthere. Sweeping alongside in his 53 Ford pickup, Karl scooped himup. On his lap, fleas porpoising through short fur, what he read inBink was longing for someone to love, a need so strong he suspectedthat somehow he was reading himself reflected back.

Now, when he can help it, animals are all hetouches. Bink is simple. A hunger for cats and jackrabbits tochase. A consuming love for him and for hocks of the lambs Karlslaughters. No undercurrents of dark guile, no greed, no envy, noresentment, no regretsjust love. Hell never find that in a woman,never. He knowshes tried.

Suddenly Bink springs to short legs, blackeyes alert. A low rumble rising from his throat, he tears out ofthe shed, kicking up straw as he goes. Karl steps up on a bale tolook out under the roof, shapeless felt hat pressed up againstdusty tin. Churning its way up gravel to the house below is anaquamarine Ranchero. Karl breathes, relaxingonly Mel.

Relieved, he groans, slapping his droopinghat against a thigh to dust it of cobwebs. No hurry. Digging apencil stub from the pocket of a worn Pendleton, he makes a note ona post which lambs hes yet to dose. He wipes his hands on cleanstraw as Mel winds up the drive, Karl scans the sea a mile awaydown slope.

Though he grew up here, for him CapeMendocino never palls. Sea, sky, land and trees clap violentlytogether here as they do nowhere else on earth. Here they gnaw ateach other, breaking off pieces and carrying them away for theirown. Here he feels more alive than he does anywhere else. Here heshome.

Now what can Mel want? Something, thatssure; he wouldnt bother driving up unless he did. With a tiredsigh, Karl heads down to meet him.

Mel parks, gets out, polishes the hood with asleeve. Stands back, judges, nods approval. Under his breath hesays it, the incantation, the benediction. Though Karl is still toofar away to hear, he knows what he says: Bitchin.