TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 02

Ignoring the glances cast his way, Dylan set his rolled-up jacket – in which he had placed the pistols – on one bar stool and took another for himself. He had dusted off his slacks, but they still had faint streaks of dirt and dust on them. Not that Dylan cared.

"Scotch," Dylan said in lieu of introduction to the bartender. The middle-aged man said nothing, just nodded professionally and took up the bottle and a glass.

"Whisky for me," sounded a self-confident voice as a man took the stool beside Dylan. Dylan gave the newcomer an annoyed look; he had hoped to wallow alone.

"Of course, sir," the bartender replied. He poured both drinks together, bottles in each hand, then pushed the glasses toward the men. Dylan only gave a short nod; his bar mate thanked the tuxedoed drink-slinger effusively.

"These golden-age bartenders, huh, Dylan? You gotta admire them for their efficiency."

Dylan frowned, feeling a spike of anxiety in his chest. He turned his head slowly to his left, to the blonde-haired man, while reaching his hand to the bundled-up jacket on his right. "Who are you?"

The man stared back, his brow furrowed for a moment. Then he laughed, a deep, foreboding chuckle. "Sothisis our first meeting," he said. "I was starting to wonder."

Dylan leaned back a bit in his stool, contemplating the man before him. High cheekbones, square jaw, narrow but obviously fit build. The man was taller than Dylan, by a good inch or two, and had short, thick blonde hair that was appropriately slicked back. Dylan could feel the casual arrogance of the man, rolling off him like cheap aftershave, and decided he was not going to like this man much.

"You're a Rectifier," Dylan said at last, eyes narrowed as his hand reached behind, to the bundle in the seat beside his. The tips of his fingers found the butt of one of the .45s, but he did not draw it.

"Foster Reece," the man said, bowing slightly with a hand to his chest. He grinned as he straightened. "And you are Dylan Moon, the ageless wonder. Happy belated birthday, by the way."

"My birthday's not for months," Dylan said in annoyed confusion.

Reece chuckled. "In case you haven't noticed, this is September. You're birthday was just about a month and a half ago."

Dylan sighed in exasperation. "What do you want?"

Reece leaned closer, a conspiratorial look on his face. "Well, it's a secret, so don't tell anyone, but . . . I'm here to kill someone."

Dylan gritted his teeth and slid the pistol from beneath the jacket, settling it on his lap under the polished brass rail of the bar. He met Reece's pale blue eyes with his own. "That will be hard to do if you're dead," he said evenly.

Reece smiled smugly. "Tsk, tsk, Dylan," he said. "You know how time travel works. You can't kill me any more than I could kill you. That would destroy the timestream."

Now it was Dylan's turn to smile. "How do we know that this isn't the last time we meet, as well as the first?"

Reece's arrogance faltered visibly as he considered the agent's words. "Because I know you, Dylan," he said. "I know you pretty well. You wouldn't be able to resist pointing out that you've already killed me."

"Unless, by remembering this conversation, I decided to savor the knowledge every time we meet." Dylan winked malevolently. "I know myself pretty well, too."

Reece inhaled slowly, his jaw working as he ground his teeth. He glanced to the weapon upon which Dylan drummed his fingers. Finally, he spoke: "I doubt you're willing to take the chance."

"It's been a rough night," Dylan said malevolently. "Maybe I'm not in my right mind."

Reece sat back, taking up his whisky, making an effort to appear casual. "This is pointless," he declared, and sipped his drink.

"You're right," Dylan agreed, and jabbed the barrel of the pistol into Reece's abdomen, just above his left thigh. "I think I'll just kill you."

Reece stiffened, and swallowed with some effort. "Do it, and you'll watch the world around you crumble away." He glared at Dylan. "Do you really want to be responsible for the end of time?"

Dylan considered his options amid a whirlwind of images and thoughts, then breathed out tiredly, returning the pistol to his lap. "Just so you know, the only thing keeping you alive right now is my not knowing if this is our last encounter or not." He bore his eyes into Reece's. "But don't doubt for a moment that I am going to kill you . . . one day."

"Maybe," Reece said, then downed the rest of his whisky and knocked the glass on the bar. He slid from the stool and stood beside the bar, buttoning his jacket. He cocked his head slightly, effecting his previous arrogance. "We'll meet again, Agent Moon. Soon."

Dylan said nothing as Reece backed away, then turned and headed from the ball room. He waited until the man was out of sight before turning back to the bar, finding the bartender waiting with expected aplomb. "One more," Dylan said, then tossed his Scotch back. He winced as it burned down his throat.

***

Opening the door to the room was painful in and of itself, for the faint scent of Corinna's perfume still lingered in the air. Dylan was not a particularly emotional man; he had been in his younger years, but after seven decades, had become philosophical about the apparent inevitability that he would lose lovers now and then.

In Corinna's case, he was not quite sure how to react. Her proclamation of love had bothered him at the time, evoking instant anxiety over the knowledge that he would, most likely, at one point or another, lose her. And that was assuming he loved her in turn.

Which, as much as thought that might insult her memory, Dylan did not think he did.

He tossed the rolled-up jacket on the bed, then headed to the bathroom. He turned on only the small lamp beside the bed, wanting nothing more than basic light to see by. At the sink, he splashed some water on his face, looked at his reflection.

The slight distortion of age – due to the synthflesh mask – suddenly bothered him, and in an impulsive movement, he ripped the microthin covering from his face. He sighed at the feel of the cool air on his real skin. The mask 'breathed,' enough to keep his face from sweating unnecessarily, but it was nevertheless somewhat numbing.

Dylan tossed the mask away, watching it land on the edge of the large tub. He could put it back on the following morning, when he needed to, but for the night, it was staying off. He ran the faucet, splashed his face again and again, scrubbed his hands with the hard soap provided by the hotel, then washed his neck. The shirt and undershirt came off, and his own ripe scent drifted up to his senses. A little soap and water took care of that, for the most part.

"M-Mr. Lord?"

The sound of the voice startled Dylan instantly, triggering reflexes he had long before developed. In a quick move, he spun around, his left hand shooting out. He grabbed the figure by the neck and hurled back onto the bed, rushing forward as she fell, bounced, and cried out in astonished fear. The girl's skirt flew up almost to her face as she rolled back onto her shoulders, revealing her slender legs and the panties that covered her sex.

"Mr. Lord! P-Please! It's me! Betty!"

Dylan stopped, immediately chastising himself.I'm on edge, he thought. I should have recognized her.He made an effort to calm himself, then reached for one of Betty's upraised ankles. He pulled her legs down, trying not to notice just how snug her undergarments were. Betty smoothed her dress back down, staring up at Dylan with a mixture of embarrassment and worry.

"Geez, Mr. Lord, I know it's been a crazy night, but you don't have'ta be that jumpy!" she declared, sitting up on the bed.

Dylan shook his head. "I'm sorry. I just wasn't expecting anyone to come into the room."

"Um . . . what about your wife?" she asked tentatively.

Dylan gritted his teeth, looking away from the young woman and thrusting his hands in his pockets. "She's, uh . . . not coming back."

Betty breathed in sharply, covering her mouth with her hands. "There was some people talking about a car being stolen, and a gun fight in the garage . . . ."

Dylan only nodded, mutely, unsure of what to say or reveal. "Yeah . . . I think I heard about that, too."

Betty was silent a long moment, looking down at her hands in her lap. The soft, hazy light made her look even younger than her years. "Mr. Lord," she said in a small voice. "I didn't tell anyone about what happened today. Just like you said, I went back to work and acted like nothing happened."

"Thank you, Betty." Dylan reached to his jacket on the bed beside her, picking it up. He didn't care that the pistols fell out, bouncing for a moment on the bed, nor that Betty gasped upon seeing them. He took out his cigarette case, quickly activated the scanner as he tucked a smoke between his lips. His eyes narrowed, and the edginess returned as he saw a couple of red blips in rather close proximity.

Foster Reece's walkers, no doubt . . . .

He snapped the case closed, lit his cigarette with a flip of the Zippo. He let the smoke trail lazily from his lips as he spoke to Betty, his eyes casually observing the door. "I'm not exactly who you think I am, Betty."

She frowned, studying his face. "Then . . . um . . . ." she stopped, pushing up on her knees, peering closely at Dylan's face. "You, um, look different, Mr. Lord."

Dylan cursed himself silently, having forgotten that he had taken off the synthflesh mask. "It's the light," he said dismissively. He captured her eyes with his, commanding her attention. "I need to know that I can trust you, Betty."

She sat back, looking nervous but also excited. "I didn't tell no one 'bout tonight, Mr. Lord. I swear on Jesus Christ's name." Emphasizing her point, Betty crossed herself.

Dylan allowed himself a small smile. He decided to take a chance. He needed help, after all, and as per Corinna's reasoning that'girls like Betty are excellent sources of information,'figured he could do a lot worse than illicit the housekeeper's assistance.

"I'm an agent with the Bureau of Investigation," Dylan said. "Corinna wasn't my wife; she was my partner. We were up here to protect someone who, we believe, is going to be killed in two days."

Betty's lashes batted in surprise. "The . . . Bureau?" she asked. "Um . . . okay."

The corner of Dylan's mouth twitched. "I could use a little help keeping an eye on the man I have to protect."

The young woman balked, swallowing nervously. "Y-you . . . meanme?"

Dylan raised his hands cautiously. "You work here. You know your way around. I don't. Plus, you can find things out about him that I can't."

Betty took a breath. "Well . . . who is he?"

Dylan smiled with some relief. "Michael Craig," he said, then took a drag off the cigarette as he watched the girl's reaction.

Betty gaped. "That fopper?" she cried. "Why would anybody want to bury that dandy?"

He chuckled at her indignant words. "Well, I can't exactly tell you why, of course."

"Oh, of course," Betty said in quick agreement. She shuddered slightly, a nervous look crossing her pretty face. "Um . . . I'm not gonna get hurt, am I?"

Dylan shook his head slowly, giving the girl an intent look. "I'll make sure nothing happens to you. I promise."

Betty relaxed somewhat, and managed to let out a small smile. Her eyes wandered over Dylan's muscular chest, as if noticing for the first time that he was shirtless. Her cheeks and the tops of her breasts colored again, and her lips parted slightly. "Um . . . what do you want me to do, Mr. Lord?"

Dylan pulled on his cigarette, let out a stream of smoke. "Listen to me carefully, Betty . . . ."

***

Betty wasn't all that comfortable with 'Mr. Lord's' plan, but she agreed to go through with it. She wondered why she had been so quick to join in with the man; was it because of that strong, intense sense of arousal she had first felt when their eyes met? Or was it because she was being given the chance to do more than simply survive? In her short life, Betty had known little more than struggle and hardship. 'Altruism' was a concept alien to her, yet an attractive one. Perhaps, through aiding the Bureau of Investigation agent, she might see some positive changes in her own life. Perhaps, at last, God might smile upon her.

A tentative knock upon Mr. Michael Craig's door was met, a few moments later, by a hulking, dark-faced man in a suit. Betty shifted nervously on her feet, leaning on the wooden handle of the cloth-covered cart before her. "Room service," she said.

The man grunted, then stepped aside, allowing Betty into the room. The wheels of the cart squeaked, making her fidget. She heard a man speaking animatedly from somewhere within the spacious suite, and finally spied the foppish man, clad in a silken robe, as he held a phone receiver to his ear.

"No, not roses," he was saying in irritation. "Idetestroses. Carnations. Mums. I wantlivelyflowers . . . yes. Soon as possible, would you? Tut-tut!" He dropped the phone in its cradle, then turned to look upon Betty and the cart she bore forward. "Well. I certainly hope you have brought the correct order. Your tip depends upon it."

Betty straightened, hands clasped before her demurely. "I trust that everything is in order, Mr. Craig."

The self-impressed man rolled his eyes, then took up the lid of one of the plates. He looked upon the food beneath with superior eyes. "Not bad, I suppose," I commented, then checked another, and another. Finally, he looked to Betty with a perturbed expression. "My receipt?"

Hastily, Betty offered up the slip of paper. Craig scribbled on it, saying, "I suppose your service is worth a few dollars," he said. He shoved the receipt back.

Betty backed away. "Thank, you, Mr. Craig," she said, then left the room.

***

She watched him as he stared into the inner cover of his cigarette case. Mr. Lord sat on the edge of the bed, looking as engrossed as if he was reading the works of Hemmingway, Betty figured. She stood off to the side, unsure of what to say, or do. Finally, however, her curiosity could not be denied. "Um, what'cha doing?"

He didn't look up from the holographic screen on the inside of the case. "I'm tracking him," he said. "The chemical you put in his food will—" he stopped, lifting his head. He smiled sheepishly.She wouldn't know what the hell I'm talking about."Don't worry about it."

Betty stepped closer, gingerly sitting down upon the far corner of the bed. "What's it like, Mr. Lord, being an agent for the Bureau?" she asked.

The case snapped closed with a sharp, metallic sound. His lips curled slightly. "Dylan," he said.

Betty frowned. "Huh?"

He looked to her, his smile remaining. "My name's Dylan. 'Maxwell Lord' is just a cover."

Betty blinked, then smiled softly. "Oh," she said. "Dylan. I like that."

He nodded noncommittally. "It isn't easy," he said, answering her initial question. "Sometimes, it's a pretty lonely life. But I . . . I know that what I'm doing is right."

Betty's smile lingered, albeit a bit strained. "You, um, you married?" she asked.

Dylan chuckled darkly. "I was," he said. He thought about his wife, divorced from him more than twenty years before. "It didn't work out."

Betty shifted slightly, scooting a little closer on the bed. "Oh." She picked at her rough-edged nails. "And, um . . . your . . . I mean, your partner. Was she, um—"

Dylan stopped her questions with a direct look. "We were very close."

The young woman shuddered slightly, not only because of the hard look in Dylan's eyes, but also because of her burgeoning desire. She felt only strength radiating from him. It was seductive to her, calling forth flames from her libido in a way in which no man ever had. Add to that Dylan's proclamation that he and his 'wife' had merely been "close" . . . .

Tentatively, she reached for Dylan's arm, enjoying the feel of the soft dark hairs against her fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He smiled amiably, perhaps even affectionately, wondering again why he felt so comfortable with this woman, this girl who was nearly a fourth his age. And not just comfortable, but . . . aroused. It bothered him; Corinna was dead, and even if he had not felt the same way for her as she had for him, Dylan did not want to think he was so callous as to so readily accept her passing and move on.

Yet there was no denying a basic – and growing – desire for the young woman beside him. But it was not right. Dylan had a job to do; aside from that, there was Corinna's memory to consider. Reluctantly, he stood, leaving Betty on the bed, and snapped the cigarette case closed after taking two of them out. He handed one to the girl, lit it for her, then lit his own as he fell into 'business mode.'

"I hope you didn't have any trouble with Mr. Craig," he said.

Betty scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Not a bit. He's so wrapped up in his mamby-pamby world that he hardly noticed me."

The corner of Dylan's mouth twitched with a smile. "That's probably a good thing," he said. "The less he notices, the better. If he thinks he's being watched, he might alter his normal routine . . . and that could make for problems."

Betty cocked her head, narrowing her eyes. "You know, you don't talk like anyone I've ever met," she said. "I've met fellas from Manhattan to Miami, Connecticut to California. Ain't nobody talks like you that I ever met."

Dylan pursed his lips. "I'm from Texas," he said.

Her eyes narrowed even more, and she wagged a finger at Dylan. "No, you're not," she said. "I met some of them oil barons and cowboys. They have that twang when they speak. You don't."

Dylan breathed in, regarding Betty. "It doesn't really matter where I'm from," he said. "Right now, my job is important."

Betty nodded and sat up straight. "Right," she agreed, then smiled as if they shared a private joke. The smile faded. "So, um, what do you want me to do now, Mr. L—" she caught herself with a faint blush, then continued: "I mean . . . Dylan."

"Nothing," he said, evoking a mildly surprised expression from Betty. "Just go about your normal duties. If I need you, I'll let you know."

Betty's eyes fell. She looked despondent, though she tried to hide it. "Oh."

Dylan felt for the girl. He stepped closer, cupping her chin in his hand. Betty's eyes were wide and docile, yet there was something much stronger behind them. "You've already helped me more than you know," he said. "Not too many people would have."

Betty beamed. "I like the idea of doing something for someone else," she said. "I ain't never had the opportunity before. Or the reason."

Dylan sat back upon the bed, smoking his cigarette. "You haven't had the easiest life, have you?"

Betty blushed, casting her gaze down. "It ain't been as bad as some I've seen. My old man wasn't the nicest, but he provided for us. Taught us how to rely on ourselves more than the world outside."

Dylan nodded with a smile. "You have brothers, sisters?"

Betty pulled on her cigarette. "One older brother," she said, looking sad for a moment. "He got in with some rough types. Been spending the last three years in Sing-Sing. Got three more to go."

Impulsively, Dylan slipped his arm around the young woman, pulling her against his shoulder. She offered no resistance. "Everyone makes mistakes," he said, then chuckled. "God knows I'm no angel."

Slowly, Betty lifted her head, her eyes wide, round, innocent . . . yet with a sexy mischievousness to them. "Funny," she said. "You look like a guardian angel to me."

***

"Agent Moon, please hold for the Director."

Dylan cursed under his breath. He knew he should have called HQ the night before, but grief, anger and Scotch had all combined to drain his ability to coalesce the day's activities into a concise mission report. Now, the curtness of De La O's statement made Dylan think he was about to get the business end of Colonel Naveen's whip-like tongue.