Magenta

(working title

 

III.

Crescendo, píu mosso

***

He doesn't know how many speed limits he breaks on the way to her apartment. The Mercedes screams in protest as he pushes it harder in a much too low gear. It doesn't matter. He has never cared much for the car.

He hates California in general and L.A. especially with a passion. What kind of a city cannot even afford to bring electricity to all of its inhabitants? His thoughts are racing, he barely manages to concentrate on the ill-lit streets flying past him. Deep in his mind he knows that he would not be able to stop should the situation call for it. Three red lights are already behind him, three close calls.

None of it matters.

She doesn't answer her landline, nor her mobile phone. He can't reach her father. And even if he could, what could he say without revealing his secret?

The last picture of her is burned into his retina.

She is at home, in her bathtub, trying to end her life. He mentally kicks himself for not seeing it earlier. For as much as he has watched her during all those weeks, he should have seen it. He is in tune with her daily rhythm, knows her quirks and habits, her way of moving, knows signs of elation and weariness.

Why hadn't he seen it before?

He shouldn't care. It had started out as a surveillance, out of curiosity. He was trying to find out all that he could about her, out of the interest one enemy has in another when he realises they're equals.

But something has changed. He knows it, knew it from the night he couldn't sleep without looking at her sleeping face. He never let on, never revealed to anyone what he was doing.

She has become his own private obsession. He doesn't allow himself to think further down this line, fears what he might reveal.

Yet here he is. Speeding all the way through Los Angeles to stop her from killing herself. He knows he should rejoice, for she still is an enemy.

But he can't.

He never could.

***

The black Mercedes convertible comes to a screeching halt in front of her apartment. The darkness indicates that her part of the city has fallen victim to the power cut as well.

He sprints over the street and races up the porch, only to come to a sudden standstill. He briefly considers kicking in the door, but decides against it. There has to be a more subtle way. A glance at his hands reveals that they're shaking.

What if he is too late?

He crouches in front of the door, his fingers tamper with the lock without a conscious effort. Irrationally, he thinks that it would be a perfect night for burglars.

His heart hammers against his ribcage in a frantic staccato, his face prickles from the wind that whipped across it during the drive. What if he is too late? What if he finds her in a pool of blood, her eyes empty ...

Breathing has become so hard. Something constricts his lungs, doesn't allow him to fill them with air.

He has to be in time. He must not be too late.

How long does it take for a person to bleed to death? An hour? Less? More? He knows he ought to know, but cannot remember. His thoughts are a swirling haze. His ears are hypersensitive to every sound issuing from the lock. He blocks out everything else.

The night is overcast, the air smells of rain. He almost thinks he can smell the coppery scent of blood, too.

Something clicks in the lock. Faintly. He straightens. Turns the doorknob.

A flash of light blinds him momentarily. "You will freeze right there." A menacing female voice states and presses something hard against his skull.

He goes utterly still.

***

Sark resists the urge to launch a quick and deadly attack. This woman behind him is Francie, Sydney's best friend, obviously coming home earlier than planned. He knows she doesn't have a gun. He knows more about this woman than anyone thinks.

"Turn around," she demands.

He turns slowly, carefully. Raises his hands in defence. "This is a misunderstanding, Miss Calfo."

"Is it now?"

As much as he enjoys sarcasm, this isn't the time. He needs to get into the house. Needs to check upon Sydney. His heartbeat is way beyond anything a doctor would call healthy.

"Indeed." The lie comes quickly, almost subconsciously. "Sydney and I were to go out tonight."

Francie raises a questioning eyebrow. He is glad that he hasn't changed out of his work-clothes yet. "Work-related dinner," he eases her doubts. "I just came in from a branch of Credit Dauphine in England and she graciously offered to help me feel more at home in this city." Time to go to the maximum and put on the smile.

Francie thinks for a while, then lowers the torch. Inwardly, Sark snorts. He wonders if she really thinks she could have stopped him with a torch.

But that is besides the point. The point is: He needs to get in the house. Right now.

"So you decided to break into the house?" She still seems suspicious. He wants to howl with frustration. He wants to knock her unconscious and race into the house to do what he has to do.

He does none of it. Wills his heart to beat normally and his hands to stop shaking. Time to act.

"The power cut took me by surprise. I meant to ask her whether I could come pick her up, but she didn't answer her phone. So I decided to come here and just - how do you American's say? - go for it." He opts for the timid smile this time. "I hope I haven't overstepped my boundaries?"

Francie stares at him for another ten seconds, then she returns the smile, placated. "It is a strange country, isn't it?" she asks, conversationally. "Those power cuts annoy the hell out of me. I even had to close the restaurant earlier today."

He is surprised that he has taken the act so far, that he hasn't simply throttled her. He nods, feigns interest.

He hears her laugh. "My, but you are nervous, aren't you?"

Thinks: If only you knew ...

He smiles, lets his boyish charm work for him. It has worked so many times before, and he is glad that it works on Sydney's best friend as well. It is almost too easy. "Do you think you could tell her I'm here?"

Francie seems to snap out of a short reverie. "Oh, of course! Come in, please." She ushers him inside, torch pointing the way. "Make yourself comfortable, I'll see if she's ready."

And then he is inside her flat. And the smell of blood is unbearable.

***