Sentinel of Heaven (14 page)

Moira had
chalked it up to nerves then, and to a craven idea of loyalty that would be
faithful to a man who dared scream in her face and leave bruises on her skin.

And she'd
gone... and look what had happened.  Ever since she had listened to the little
voice without fail, barely aware of the respect she gave it even on the silly
things.

“Move that cup
back, you'll knock it over,” it would say, and she would comply immediately.

“Bring your
umbrella,” it would say, and nine times out of ten it would rain.

“Take him
inside and patch him up,” it would say about the gigantic superhuman naked male
creature who had fallen to earth right outside her bedroom – and she didn't
think twice.

So when it
pointed to that upper right corner of an apparently empty page and said “Look
closer at this,” Moira damn well did it.

She felt like
she was standing on the edge of a high cliff, about to leap off.  Would she
fly?

She carried
the photo down six floors to the best copier she’d found in the building and
enlarged and copied that quadrant only.  She took both pages back to her desk,
practically drunk on anticipation.

Then, using a
red ink pen to stand out against the black and white, she traced the
half-visible letters on the copy.  The top part was one word, all capital
letters:

COLLECTORS

Then an equals
sign, and again in all caps:

PBYYRPGBEF

The
random-looking collection of letters was underlined twice.

What was that
dog's name, Ray?  Was it B-I-N-G-O?

This wasn't
Moira's first rodeo, not by a long shot.  She forced herself to be calm and
think logically.

What do we
hide?  Things that are personal or private.  Things we're ashamed of. 
Dangerous things.  Immoral or illegal things.

Collectors? 
What sort of collectors?  Trash collectors.  Tax collectors.  Stamp
collectors.  All honest, at first blush...

So why hide
them?

The company
currently under scrutiny was a metal salvage and recycling business... were
they paying scavengers for illegally gained materials?

She fired up
the spreadsheets and browsed – curiouser and curiouser; this account marked
COLLECTORS (under its scrambled designation) only paid
them
, not the
other way around.

Not bank
transfers or checks but money orders.  Sometimes several at once.

No address
listed anywhere for this account – but on every solitary money order and on the
last money order in every given set was written a pair of numbers that ended in
long decimal strings.

Coordinates?

Moira plugged
one pair into an online mapping program just for giggles and stared at the
result for a long moment – it was still in the United States, but it was
basically the middle of nowhere!  It was barely a wide shoulder next to a
backwoods two-lane highway.  The others she tried were much the same, making
her own road look like a busy thoroughfare.

Exactly, said
her little voice.  Nowhere.

“Dump sites,”
Moira breathed as the epiphany hit. 
Oh, damn.  Oh Mary, Joseph, and Baby
Jee...

Easy enough,
sure.  Pay in advance, pay in practically untraceable certificates (based on
where they were bought and how).  Give the coordinates and a vocal time
agreement.  The goods were left at the specified time and place.  A while
later, they would vanish.  All very clean and agreeable.

“So what are
you collecting?  What is it you don't want anyone to know you've got – or where
you've got it?”

Wait, said the
little voice.  There's more.

Moira tried to
clear her mind, the better to hear her subconscious speak.

A thought rose
toward the surface at last.  Clever.  Clever of them to hide the name of the
account that way, to obfuscate the recipient of those shipments.

Too clever,
actually – because among names like “B & E Salvage” and “Davis and Sons
Reclamation”, a client name like “PBYYRPGBEF” stuck out like a sore thumb.  If
they had called it something like “Asset Collectors, Ltd.” or something else
innocuous it would have taken her much longer to see the pattern in the money
order payments.  There'd be no fin splitting the surface of the water to
indicate the presence of a shark.

A less careful
and cautious associate might not have noticed them at all.

Too clever, by
far.  The last thing a criminal should do is stand out of the crowd.  The best
pickpocket looks just like everyone else.

Who else has
been too clever, Moira?

Where else
have we seen this fin?

She browsed
through her old records and summaries, letting her mind wander.  Here was an
animal control service that had been accused of fronting a drug ring;
correctly, as it turned out.

And wasn't
there that one account number that wasn't formatted correctly... didn't have
routing information... just generally seemed wrong?

There'd been
enough others to nail this group to the wall anyway, but it had always tugged
at the back of her brain.

Here it was,
then: 12242121141232412

Seventeen
digits.

Cautiously
Moira moved down to a clean spot on her own legal pad (just below her grocery
list for tonight) and wrote the entire alphabet on one line.

Below it on
the next line under the “C”, she wrote a 1, hesitated, then added a 2.  “D” was
labeled as 13, “E” 14, and so forth until she got to 26.  “R” started over at
the number 1; “Z” got 9.  “A” and “B” got 10 and 11.

Twelve
days till Christmas, twelve months in a year, twelve disciples, midnight and
noon are both twelve o' clock... here goes nothing.

Using her
crude newly created decoder, she translated numbers back into letters.

COLLECTORS

Call that dog
again, Moira – B-I-N-G-O.  She felt her mouth stretch into a huge grin.

There are
more, the little voice promised.  Time to revisit nearly a decade of history –
every single subject that you and I thought were still hiding something.  Every
note and code that we couldn't understand...

Now, with
several of her previous tasks ending around the same time as other projects
were ramping down or even on full hiatus due to the upcoming holidays – now she
had the time to research, the time to teach herself Cryptography 101.

And maybe have
a little surprise to put on her performance review and presentation.

Moira's smile
got wickedly smug.

What are
you paying me for, huh?  Doesn't look like much, huh?  Not seeing anything
impressive, huh?  I wasn't a superstar, huh?

Well, step
the hell back, Erica – the DIVA has arrived.

And with that
joyfully contemptuous thought, she dove into her research for the rest of the
afternoon.

Moira had to
force herself to put down her work at 4:45PM to pack up her things.  Normally
she spent the last few minutes riding the elevator down before it got crowded,
then visiting the restroom a final time before leaving for the lengthy
commute.  She did so now, numbers still whirling in her head.

She was
working through her old cases, locating and documenting any suspicious account
names or numbers in full meticulous detail as if preparing a disposition. 
Translating them would have to come later.

She put it
firmly out of her mind when she got into the car, however – no matter how fun
it might be at the moment it was still work.  But now she was going home, to
Leo...

No, first to
the store. 
Then
home to Leo!

At the store
Moira discovered only men's dress shirts were sized by neck diameter, making
the measurement useless for her purpose.   A formal shirt would
not
go
well with his sweat pants; even if he could magic them so no one else noticed,
she would still die laughing.  Everything casual was small/medium/large and so
forth.  She wavered back and forth between black polo shirts in 3XL and 4XL
before deciding it was easier to alter garments down instead of up.  She only
bought one for the moment; more could follow later if need be.

She rounded up
the foodstuffs he asked for, and when she spotted an 8 gig USB drive in the
impulse items at the checkout counter the ‘little voice’ had her hand moving to
pick it up before Moira could ask why.

Backups, it
said.

Aren't the
USB ports on the computers at work disabled?
Moira queried it.

Who else has
been too clever? it answered.

Fair
enough.  We'll talk about that tomorrow.

With items
bagged and paid for she hurried back to the car to swallow down another pain
pill, then inched out onto the freeway headed home... with everyone else in the
city.

Stranded on
the interstate during rush hour with a belly full of heavy-duty pain meds. 
Must be a Wednesday.  She remembered she still had her extra chocolate chip
cookie and ate it thoughtfully.

At least the
weather was nice.  The sky was as blue as Leo's eyes.

It was with
great relief that she pulled into her driveway an hour and a half later.  She
drove around to the back of the house as usual, thrilled to see the angel
leaning casually on the banister of the patio in the growing darkness, his
wings tucked away as a tattoo again.

He stepped
down to help her out of the car and collect the bags from the chilly locker of
the trunk, pausing long enough for a quick kiss before escorting her into the
house.

Leo swiftly
sorted out the food and put it away appropriately – Moira was surprised at how
much lighter and cleaner the kitchen looked and felt... and smelled.  Good God,
had there really been a dank odor in the house due to all the crap sitting in
her fridge?

She spent a
moment in personal mortification.  Leo didn't seem to judge her for falling
behind on the maintenance, thank heaven.

The last thing
Leo pulled out of the plastic bags was the new shirt.  The angel looked at her
mournfully.

“Go ahead,
let's try it on.”

It was only
after a moment watching him struggle with it that she realized he had literally
never put a shirt on over his shoulders before.  She made him sit down on the
floor and gathered it up in her hands, helping him dress like a boy in kindergarten.

When he stood
up and pulled the shirt down uncertainly, she was torn between trying to
maintain a straight face and dissolving into the giggles that threatened. 
Around his neck it was fine; across his shoulders, chest, and upper arms the
fabric was pulled tight but not yet constrictive.  From his pectorals down the
material belled out like a dress.

Put the
picture altogether with Leo's expressively long-suffering look and she had to
bite her lip.

“Oh dear,” she
managed at last.  “Don't worry, I'm pretty sure I can fix that.”  Moira stumped
back to the bedroom to get her sewing box from the dresser and set it on the
kitchen table to hunt through it for some safety pins.

“We'll just
bring in the sides at your waist a little and take out some of the excess.  You
still have to be able to get your shoulders through so it won't be too much but
it should improve the look.”

She pressed on
his forearms, trying to get the angel to stand naturally – but it was obvious
the feel of the shirt over his back and chest was completely foreign to him. 
His discomfort gave her pause.

“Is it really
that bad, dearheart?”

Leo gazed at
her for a long moment, then reached out to touch her face and smile wistfully.

No, he
mouthed.

“Because if it
is... I can take it back.  You don't have to go out with me.  Maybe it's wrong
for me to try to make you.”

He can't be my
reason for bravery forever...

Leo brushed
her temple with his fingertips, impressing on her the sensation... it was much
like phantom limb syndrome.  His wings were  a set of appendages he was born
owning; folding them away as he had was onerous but bearable.  Feeling the
fabric constrict over his shoulders was unexpectedly disturbing though, he was
discovering.

“I'm sorry,”
she whispered.

He shrugged
gamely, then gestured to the hem of his shirt.  Fix it.

“If you're
sure.”

A firm nod. 
Yes.  Of course.

Leo relaxed as
best he could, allowing Moira to trace the seams up his sides and find the area
where they began to fall away from his flesh, marking them with safety pins.

She gathered
the extra fabric on either side and tightened it around his hips, then released
a bit for easement and marked those spots as well.  Pinned thus he was still
able to move in the shirt without it gaping out like a main-sail.

He tapers
so much,
Moira thought... and allowed herself a silent sigh of desire.

She
concentrated on the fabric to cover her blush.  “Lean down and we'll see if
it's good enough room for your shoulders.”  He obeyed; she peeled the hem up
and over his head, trying not to imagine undressing the rest of him so easily.

None of the
pins popped or pulled, so the fit was good.  Moira smoothed the inside-out
shirt flat in her hands.  “I can probably do these alterations tonight.”

Dinner? he
asked silently, unconsciously rubbing his bare chest.  At least, Moira was
fairly sure it was unconscious.

“Yeah,
dearheart.  I'll eat what I can, but you can go ahead and cook whatever you
want.”

He nodded in
understanding, letting his wings unfurl slowly from his shoulders until they
were full-sized again – faster than the shrinking processes by far, but much
slower than yesterday's explosion of feathers.  Good to know he had some
control over it. 

Leo went ahead
and got her a glass of water and her pill bottle, to keep at hand.  She was gratified
to realize that she didn't need them yet; having had a fairly easy day (once
she was able to swallow the prickly pear of that weekly one-on-one beating)
kept her stress and inflammation low, so the pill she’d had as she left the
store was still doing its job.

She laid the
shirt flat on the table and measured where she had put her pins, going the same
distance up from the hem on both sides, then the same distance towards the
center from the bottom.  She made a quick trip to the bedroom for her yardstick
in the closet to use as a straight edge along with her seamstress's chalk. 
Once the lines were lightly marked on the wrong side of the fabric she secured
them with straight pins and removed the safety pins.  She threaded a needle
with strong black thread and began a simple running stitch up one chalk mark.

Leo meanwhile
had cubed a chicken breast quickly and competently, melting a good-sized knob
of butter in the bottom of her most wok-like pan; he fried the chicken pieces
until they were nearly done, then put them aside on a plate, leaving the butter
behind.  With the pan still hot he added a cup or so of broccoli and stirred it
until it was cooked through but still firm.  He added the chicken back in and
anointed the whole thing with a few splashes of soy sauce.  The smell was
delicious.

He brought out
a second plate and transferred the stir-fry to it, licking his fingers clean
and turning off the stove eye.  She put aside her work when he brought her the
meal and a fork, settling down on the floor at her feet once more.

Moira's
stomach actually growled... suddenly she realized she was truly hungry.

“Won't you
ever sit at the table?”  Leo smiled and shook his head.

“I don't think
you'll break the chair; really, they're stronger than they look.”  He shrugged.

Moira ate
slowly, watching him watching her.  Sitting like this kept his head lower than
hers; what did that mean to him?  Around the world every culture was different,
with their own rituals meant to keep the peace and display respect while allowing
each member to save “face” – how much more distinct and separate could the
rituals of someone from another plane of existence be?

He still
helped himself to her own water glass, though, rotating it to fit his lips over
the place on the rim where hers had been.  Kisses and kisses again.  Did he
even need to drink the water or did he just enjoy the symbolism of sharing her
meal in however small a way?

“How was your
afternoon?” she asked instead.  Leo smiled and flip-flopped his palm – a little
of this, a little of that, a little of the other.  He made sweeping motions,
clipping motions, sweeping motions again with a nuance that must be raking...

“Why don't you
show me the pictures like you did at lunch?  That was comforting, knowing for
sure that I understood you.”

He averted his
eyes and rubbed the back of his head; when he looked up again the tops of his
cheeks were flushed.

She pointed
her empty fork at him.  “Cultural taboo?”

Leo nodded
solemnly.

“And yet
you're willing to do it when we talk long-distance?”

He spread his
hands – obviously no other choice then.

“But you know
that I don't mind...”

It was just as
evident that he did for reasons he could not express, or chose not to express. 
What was it in him that invited some strange levels of intimacy and rejected
others?

He waved the
topic aside regally, then tapped the floor with two knuckles, requesting her
attention for a new 'conversation'.  When she nodded at him to continue he
gestured towards the refrigerator, the cabinets, his pants, and the shirt that
lay beside her nearly empty plate.  His brow creased in contemplation for a
moment, then he rubbed his thumb pad and the side of his forefinger together in
a motion that was quite possibly recognized the world over.

“Yeah,” she
murmured.  “Things cost money.”

He pointed at
her.

“Yeah, it was
my money.  But it's fine; I don't mind buying these things.  Most of them were
for me anyway.  Even your clothes.”

The shirt
so that I can take you places – the pants so that I'll be willing to leave the
house...

Leo drew the wrists
of his wings forward and brought them around his chest in a pose he'd not
assumed in her presence before, hiding the front of his torso.  There was a
snapping noise, about as loud as when Moira was able to pop her neck or upper
back; then he moved his wings back to unveil his hands, holding a stack of
paper that looked small in his massive palms.

He took her
hand in gentle fingers and turned it up, then gave her the loose stack. 
Amazed, she spread apart what must be dozens of twenty dollar bills.

“Leo... how
did you get this?”

He pointed at
his wings; it didn't really explain much about the how, but she was too stunned
to delve deeper.  A quick count revealed she had a thousand dollars in cash in
her possession.  They looked real, too.  Non-sequential numbers, different
dates, different stages of ratty and foxed.  Someone had written a short
grocery list on one.

“Where did you
get these?”

He smiled and
held a finger to his lips.  His secret.

“Is someone
going to get in trouble because you took these?”  The bills were 'faced'
properly, as a bank teller or bookkeeping associate might have done.  In reply,
he gestured for her to sniff the bills.  Faint but unmistakable, for a former
poor liberal arts major: an odor of skunk-weed.

“You took some
dealer's money?” Moira asked incredulously, trying not to laugh.

He shrugged
again, contriving a completely spurious expression of innocence.

“Leo,
dearheart... I shouldn’t take these.  I'd feel bad about it, even if they are,
ahh – ill-gotten funds?”

Leo crossed
his arms and shook his head firmly.  Take them or burn them, because he wasn't
going to put them back.

“Okay, fine. 
If you're sure.”  He was, and she wasn't going to arm-wrestle him to change his
mind; she wasn't so rich she'd turn down free money put in her hand, especially
a grand of it.

She'd already
said she wasn't nice.

Moira finished
her work on the shirt as he washed the dishes, cutting the extra fabric away
with pinking shears so the material wouldn't unravel.

Well. 
It's not haute couture by any stretch but it'll do for now.
  Her wrists
were starting to ache, and her backside was sore – she couldn't remember the
last time she'd sat on this wooden kitchen chair for so long.

Leo dried off
his hands and glanced back over his shoulder at her, then took a longer look. 
He picked up the pill bottle and water glass in the huge fingers of one hand
and helped her back to her feet with the other, leaving the shirt on the table
where it lay.