An hour later, the Watcher was almost enjoying himself, like the good old days strolling the exchange floor after a hit with some really good crack. Perhaps even better, for he was in control of a woman, something he’d never experienced before death. She was drop-dead gorgeous, lovelier than any of his fantasies, with soft skin and long flaxen hair that he ached to touch. Her eyes, irises a spring green in daylight now a bluish-gray in the gloom of the bar, had a trick of reflecting light, making them difficult to read.
Arching an eyebrow in her direction, he ordered her another refill. Though she was an experienced drinker, he noted her softening hand movements and slowing speech patterns, signs that Rachel was experiencing the tingling sensations of relaxation and inebriation. Now, if only he could consume alcohol, his life at this very moment would be half-bad, especially for a dead guy.
That ‘dead guy’ thought ruined it. For a moment, his mind took him back to his early days with the specter. It had taken him forever just to tune in after his mind had initially been ripped open and introduced past the fourth dimension into hyperspace.
For weeks he had reeled in pain, thinking he’d gone mad, as the snaps, pops, crackles and whispers of alien energy waves, beyond the beyond the highest end of the electromagnetic spectrum, teemed in his head. Bizarre colors, different than any he’d experienced on heroin, exploded along with the sounds.
As time progressed, he’d wince from an errant high-pitched jolt, as if someone had spun a radio dial and a faraway station suddenly tuned in.
Then, one day, the super-high frequency of his quarry flamed white hot, startling him by its solid, unyielding purity. After that, its thrumming edged into his consciousness a little at a time, then slid away, like a tide.
Now, as he watched Rachel Willingdon’s pretty nose sniff the Bell’s whiskey, it was a continuous throb, subtle yet sharp, tugging at him like a jagged hangnail. He had just honed in on it when a new problem presented itself.
For the first time in his duty, the Watcher was stymied. Access to the source was somehow restricted. Entrance would require the involvement of another. Couples are less suspicious than a single man.
His fingers curled at the thought of the prince of darkness and he stared longingly at his tonic water. He envied Rachel her weakness, wishing he could drink, snort the drugs he used to, do anything to liberate himself from the unbearable pressure of stalking his target. Even the juiced terror of the stock market floor had been easier to handle.
He blew out his lips, fingered his soul patch and sighed.
He grimaced at the foul taste of his soda water. Eternal life isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
Rachel began to rise from her seat, but Harry put his hand on her arm and she froze.
“My fine Rachel, just hear me out, please? A good broker knows the market, right?”
Rachel felt herself being pulled toward the silky sound of his voice. She heard herself saying, “What market?”
Harry froze for a moment, blinked very slowly then began again, softly.
“Rachel, you’re a take-no-prisoners kind of gal. I dig that. I really do. I’ve seen you in action, babe, and you’re one dynamite show.”
He touched her hand.
She shivered at the tingling, uncertain whether she liked it.
“We can work together, y’know, like pieces’re greater than the pie or whatever BS it is they say.” He winked. “I’m talkin’ business. My superior’s great to work for. Richer than Bill Gates. Into stranger stuff than Jeffrey Dahmer. A bit of a holy roller, you might say. Fanatical about folklore and religious phenomena. Fit you to a ‘T’.” He reached forward conspiratorially. “Confidentially, I believe you might make the buy yourself.”
She edged back, hand gripping the glass tumbler. “Make the
buy?”
He nodded.
“You’re crazy,” she said, downing the scotch. Steeled by its warmth, she leaned toward him and whispered. “You’ve got balls to follow me. Y’buy me drinks—yet you don’t touch the stuff—I barely know your name and you wanna work with me? Ha!”
Pulling back, she sniffed with more dramatic punch then she felt. “Forget it. Like I said, I work alone.”
Harry smiled but she felt no warmth. He traced a finger along a drop of condensation, pushing until the liquid evaporated.
There was a long silence until he finally spoke. “Told you before. Name’s Harold R. Holt. Harry to a select few, like you.” He stood, towering over her.
She squeezed her eyes briefly against the nausea then opened them to find his outstretched hand. He gravely shook hers. “At your service, Ma’am.”
Despite her inner warning bell, she smiled at his comic display of chivalry.
“Now, my fine Rachel,” he added, dropping into the chair beside her. “What would you say to a stake in the biggest game in town?” He frowned at her shrug. “Don’t be like that. Listen.” He paused, eyes boring into her. “What if I gave you the chance to expose the greatest religious hoax of all time?”
“Oh, yeah?” she exhaled with relief, welcoming the subject change. The liquor found her brain and she began to snicker again. “The greatest religious hoax of all time. And what would that be, Harold? Armageddon?”
She ran her fingers through her hair, reveling in the physical release of her silly laugh. “No thanks, Mr. Holt. I don’t need some wing nut who can’t even grow a—I mean, get real. What is that, anyway?” she asked, pushing an index finger beneath her own lower lip.
Harry’s face darkened.
“Dirt? You forget to wash?” She giggled again and snapped her fingers. “I find my own mysteries to solve.” Riding the heady rush, she stood, too quickly, and had to grab the table for support. “Been a slice.”
He stood as well now, grinning, and trumped her. “Forget the slices, Rach. How about the whole friggin’ pizza?”
She hesitated, then he floored her.
“Your mother’s whereabouts. Interested?”
Speechless, Rachel slumped back into her seat.
