Ambrose Bierce defined a Saint as a dead sinner, revised, and edited. On that fall day when I stared into the face of the Sacred Heart, I found that I still didn't care how the world would remember me after my death. The pristine, pale features of the Virgin Mary looked back at my alabaster skin stoically. We were alone at the end of St. Francis Hospital's Intensive Care Unit, both feeling stiff. Me from a night trying to track down some crack heads, her from standing on a serpent's head for years. Both of us could use a dusting off.

Abandoning my own thoughts of mortality, I turned away. In the glass of a picture frame to the left of the Mother of Christ, I saw the distorted reflection of a nun. Quickly facing the elderly nun, I thought of how I liked these sisters better in a full habit, as she dressed. So many didn't wear them any more and I hate to have to pick Holy folk out of a common line up. With respect, I tugged on the brim of my black fedora.

She asked shortly, "Do you always wear black, Mr. Shannon?"

I shrugged and ruffled my long trench coat, probably sticking out like Michael Jackson at a family Reunion as I stood in dark clothing in the white hall. "They wouldn't let me be a priest, Sister Eva."

The old nun raised an eyebrow and gestured to the room to our left. "You remember me?"

I smiled and said, "Sister Eva, correct? You remember me?"

Her nostrils flared before she stated, "Can one readily forget an albino such as yourself in our midst? You can see her now."

Thinking my secret agent cover was as flimsy as ass wipe, I hit the door. Finding myself calmer than I thought possible under the circumstances, I entered the sterile room. Already inside the hospital room was Detective Paul Frehley, my forty-something, curly haired familiar spirit from the Peoria P.D. The detective looked haggard, dressed in fading blue jeans and a rumpled white shirt that wasn't tucked in his pants properly. I can't blame him. They called Paul down here fast and dressing in a hurry doesn't bode well for the appearance. He frowned at me and wondered, "Do you ever sleep?"

My eyes were on the image on the bed as I replied, "That's what day time is for."

On the bed lay a small human body no stranger would guess as to the sex of. Aside from the call from Paul confirming her identity, I knew who it was by the petite body and fount of red hair restricted to one side of the pillow.

"She's awful bad, man," Paul informed me of the obvious as I stared down at her. His voice was punctuated by beeps and mechanical shifts in the apparatus hooked up to my fallen acolyte Brittany Brennan. "Lucky for you this is being treated as a simple battery case."

"Lucky for me?" I quipped, my eyes tracing the small body, not five feet tall, and tried to count how many machines monitored her functions. I lost count.

Detective Frehley cleared his throat and said, "Yeah. Usually I have to concoct a lie about how you covert agents operate. Her cover is better than yours. This time, hell, no need. The crime is obvious, no?"

The heart monitor steadily reminded me that Brittany's heart functioned. In my ears, these beeps repeated like blows from ice picks. My anger boiled in my mind and I felt my fists clinch up. My left hand was still a fist when I reached out to her forehead. Slowly, my bare fingertips touched an area unmarred by bruises or bandages. Her pale skin, usually so perfect and delicate, was bruised, battered and gashed. "Lord, Brittany, what happened to you?"

Paul spoke in low tones as the nun and a man in a white smock I assumed was a doctor guarded the door. "Dack, I know she is your acolyte and assistant, but hell, she's a bad ass fighter. Yeah, her cover job as a stripper at ALICE'S WONDERLAND is fine, but I've seen her fight. Whoever did this…"

I nodded, swallowed hard, never looked up, only focusing on her eyes. They were both closed. The right one, blackened, the left, swollen shut, refused to look at me. I said to the doctor, "What happened?"

"Who is this man?" The youthful doctor with a skinny frame, a receding hairline, and a mouth like a trout asked Paul.

My head jerked and I faced the doctor. With blazing eyes, I stared him down. The smaller man blinked and stopped in his tracks. Our relationship cemented in a single sentence for he not only broke the golden rule, he pissed all over it.

Paul jumped in fast and stated, "This is Dack Shannon. He's a United States Marshal in these parts. Miss Brennan here was his assistant."

That Paul, lying his ass off. If he were any better, the politicians would draft him.

The doctor's initial fear of my sharp moves subsided and his oily demeanor of exclusionary tact returned. "The feds often have hookers as their partners?"

Wishing the doctor's heart was on his sleeve, oozing, I said coldly, "She isn't a hooker and she still is my assistant."

He glanced at his chart, rolled his eyes up toward the fluorescent lights, and said, "Pardon me. Professional stripper. My bad!"

One of my pet peeves is when snotty white guys use street lingo. It says a lot about a man and his lack of personal identity. I said, "Doctor, tell me how she is. It would be a small thing for you to be in worse shape than her in moments."

The Doctor's ire rose, but somewhere in his mind, there drafted a realization. He knew I meant what I said. Not wanting to set his own legs in a cast, he muttered, "Someone beat her half to death, tough guy. What do you want from me? The guy broke several of her ribs, fractured a collarbone, but mostly, he concentrated on her face. As you can see, she's beat to a pulp. Had Miss Brennan any plastic surgery?"

I nodded, seeing a soft cast on her left shin and replied, "Yes. Years ago as part of an undercover operation. What of it?"

The doctor sighed, wishing he worked any shift but midnights. "She will require quite a refurbishment to ever look sexy on stage again. I can see that something like a chin implant came loose as well as work to her cheeks. The implant in a container in the other room, if you want a remembrance of times past, Mr. Shannon."

Razors blades swimming in my mind, I responded, "She isn't a car. Will she recover?"

The doctor approached the bed, glanced at the vital signs on the monitors, and said, "Oh, she'll live. I cannot make you a binding promise as to the condition of her brain. It appears she suffered a concussion. She hasn't woke up yet, so we cannot know the extent of the injury."

I turned back to Brittany, my little Majestic acolyte who always packed a sly remark for me. Her full lips were split from an impact on her front teeth. Those tender lips that touched my body on occasion were swelled, dark and around a tube that went into her mouth. Distantly, her perfume taunted me but it was submerged in a blend of blood and sterile wraps. On my soul, I cannot recall the name of it. "Paul, any word on who did this?"

The detective grimaced and looked at the doctor. "Thanks, doc," Paul said to him, but the doctor never left. The detective was correct in assessing the doctor's absence would be a boon to my mood. Paul proceeded to say, "See, that's the odd thing. It happened in an alleyway right by the Police Station."

I leered at Paul; almost hard enough to rip his skull open and get the information out manually. "Excuse me?"

"See, there was an accident near the main bridge onramp by I74 earlier today. Peoria is getting as busy as Chicago, man. Some kid spun out and crashed into a guy. Killed the kid, but the other person lived. Ya see Dack, the other driver had been drinking and…"

I cut him off by saying, "Who gives a good Goddamn about that?"

Frustrated, Paul gripped the handrail near the foot of the bed and told me, "You oughtta, Dack. The guy was one of you."

Thinking I mis-heard him, I questioned Paul, "One of me? Explain."

Paul stepped away from the bed and couldn't seem to place his feet with any comfort. His nervousness didn't bode well, I thought as he said, "The man was legally drunk, but when the police downtown saw him and that he sported a badge for the Central Intelligence Agency, they eased up on him."

I shook my head from side to side, trying to clear it on Paul's web-slinging abilities and stared at Brittany again. "What does that have to do with her?"

Paul informed me, "Brittany came downtown to pick him up."

I leaned over, riveted to her swollen eyes. Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, I wish I could've seen those green eyes then. "And this agent, this CIA man, he beat Brittany half to death? Why?"

The silent doctor spoke up in a matter-of-fact voice, "She should be careful the company she keeps, whore or not."

It took Detective Frehley a few minutes to convince me that I shouldn't strangle the scrawny doctor. It took a few stern threats by Sister Eva to make me release the doctor's throat. When he coughed, promised to have me arrested and exited, I turned to Paul. "Where is he now, this agent?"

Paul scowled and his eyes showed that he'd rather not tell me the rest as he confessed, "I don't know, Dack. As Jesus is my witness, God I feel terrible about this."

I waved my pale hand across Brittany. "Not as bad as she does."

Running a hand through his curly hair, Paul, a man who hated being powerless, asked me, "Damn, how the hell did this spook bastard get the drop on her? She's a tough little gal!"

Having entertained these thoughts myself, I assured the detective, "No one is perfect, Paul. What brought her to this agent? How did she know he was there?"

Paul put both hands on his head as if to crush his skull and said, "I called her. Forgive me, Dack!"

Intensely, I stared at my friend of six years and requested, "Why in the Hell would you do that, detective? You know the CIA and MAJESTIC SERVICES aren't on the same page! We're as autonomous as Sonny & Cher."

Fighting back tears and rampant guilt, Paul reached into his jacket and pulled out a small envelope. A gruff man for sure, his usually steady hands trembled. "I was out most of the day, ya know? I heard ‘bout this case, the wreck by the bridge and blew it off. When I heard of this agent, I was across town. The people processing this dude, this agent, were newer. They know of you, Dack, but not all the protocols. None of them have ever seen your face, but know Dack Shannon by reputation."

Seeing as fame in a sector is not a desirable quality amongst shadow agents of a cabal intelligence organization, I asked, "What are you saying?"

Paul swallowed hard again and said, "Everyone thought it was you and called on me. They know I handle things for you. Not able to leave where I was, I called on Brittany. You know I'm the only one who knows her private line in her apartment."

I walked around to the foot of the bed as Brittany turned her head but never awoke. I told Paul, "I understand. Go on."

"She came down to get him as night fell. Brittany laughed when I talked to her, figuring it was you using a false name or some such nonsense. I think she planned on ribbing the heck out of you."

I grumbled, "She should've called me."

Looking deflated, Paul threw up his hands. "Yeah, I guess she should've."

Not wanting to believe his words, I raged, "Why in the Hell would anyone make that assumption, rookie or no?"

Paul handed me the envelope as my cell-phone rang. He said, "Those pictures are from his interview and a few from the security camera. You see now why the rookies wagered it was you?"

Fishing out my phone, I looked at the pictures. "Speak," I said into the line and focused on the images.

On the other end of the line came a voice, very familiar and very deep. "This is Dack Shannon, albino agent of Majestic Services. Speak."

I looked at the line. The voice was my own.

Unable to reply, I looked at the pictures more keenly. The man who assaulted Brittany was tall, sporting somewhat shaggy hair, ivory in color, just like mine. Though his eyes appeared rather normal, even in these poor quality shots I could see that the agent, who assaulted my acolyte to the brink of death, was an albino.

On the other end of my phone, all I could hear was laughter.

To be continued...

Home