“We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be.”
-Patrick Rothfuss
He had started the drive early. Eight hours of his trip down and had another two to go. It would be full dark out by the time he arrived in Portland, Maine. He was starting to feel the wear and tear of the trip. The heat pumping through the vents in his old Ford Explorer was making it hard for him to keep his eyes open and he was also on his seventh sugar crash as his diet on the trip consisted of energy drinks and convenience store junk food.
There was a song by the Foo Fighters on the radio and he turned it up, hoping that would clear the haze in front of his eyes. This trip was probably the most impulsive thing he had ever done, but sometimes you just need to break out of your shell to make change happen.
Where had he heard that before? Some relic from his past he supposed.
He had been in such a rush to leave that he hadn’t even factored in that he would need money for the tolls. He had a hundred dollar bill in his pocket when he hit the first toll booth and for the rest of his trip so far he had to put up with dirty looks from the toll operators as they had to keep breaking large currency.
When he got off the highway in Portland, he pulled to the side of the road. If it hadn’t been for the resources at his fingertips that his employers provided, he would never have been able to track her down.
He checked over his directions and had to re-familiarize himself with the area, he hadn’t been in Maine for the better part of two years.
He checked his watch, he was making good time, but he knew they were probably making even better time. He joined the flow of traffic again and tried to formulate some kind of plan in his head that wouldn’t come off as nuts.
The directions he had copied from his computer didn’t indicate that the sign for the apartment complex he was looking for was going to be covered by tree branches. He had passed the place several times before finally assuming that he had been right the first time.
Given the time of the night, the lot was fairly empty and he didn’t have any trouble finding a spot. Before killing the engine, he sat with his sweaty palms on the steering wheel, contemplating if this was the right thing to do. A phone call would have been just as effective, but also just as risky.
He finally turned off the engine and waited. After about fifteen minutes he saw his opening, a gray Honda pulled in, car filled with about four people. He slowly got out of his car and pretended he was just coming home for the evening, even going so far as to pretend to make a phone call.
He waited until the group of four, two sets of couples he quickly realized, passed him and then he tried as nonchalantly as he could to slowly fell in step behind them. With his phone to his ear, he asked the dial tone to remember to bring home some toilet paper because they were out. He pulled his car keys out and jingled them in his hand, he stole a glance to the group ahead of him and they were paying him no mind.
He saw one of the men unlock the main door to the apartment building that a guest would need to be buzzed in to. The man then held it open for his friends and in turn they held it for the next person. He made a show of doing a theatrical jog as a way to plead to keep the door open for him, the last in line was one of the girls who turned and politely smiled at him as she kept the door open.
He nodded thanks, while still keeping his call going. They started up the stairs while he went straight so as not to alert suspicion.
He waited and listened until the group was out of earshot and then he walked back over to the main door. The apartment directory was on the wall next to the door and he quickly scanned it looking for the last name he recognized. He found it and was pleased that he just needed to go up two floors to her apartment.
There was an almost unearthly quiet to the hallway. Every apartment hallway he had ever been in you could usually hear someone’s TV going or someone getting in an argument, not here though. Just silence engulfed him, that and the smell of new carpet having been laid down.
He stopped in front of the door to her apartment and took a deep breath. He ran his hands over his suit to smooth out the wrinkles the seatbelt in his car had caused. Before he knew it, his hand was knocking on the door.
After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the latch being unlocked and the door was swinging open. When he saw her, his heart leapt into his throat and caught him by surprise. It had been two years since he’d seen her and she was just as beautiful. The light from the hallway reflected wonderfully off the shine from her red hair.
The look in her eyes went from shock, to anger, then over to confusion.
“Chris? What the hell are you doing here?” She asked.
He licked his lips and felt his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
“I… uh… I just need to talk to you. It’s very important.”
“You want to talk to me?” She said. “I haven’t gotten so much as an email from you in over two years.”
“What’s going on?” He heard a voice ask from inside the apartment.
From where he was standing he saw a heavyset girl with chestnut colored hair approaching the doorway. He guessed it was Alison’s roommate.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just an old friend stopping by.”
“Oh,” said the heavyset girl, who took the hint and walked back towards where she had come from in the apartment.
“What do you want?” She asked him.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Look, I don’t want to do this out here.”
“Why should I let you in?” She said. “Maybe you’re here to kill me.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Give me a break Alison. I’m not here to play games, I need to talk to you.”
She stared at him for a long moment and finally she stepped aside and waved him in. He walked in and his nostrils were assaulted with the smell of a Yankee Candle, something with spice or cinnamon. The place was well organized and seemed to be furnished with little trinket and other odd assortments from the Christmas Tree Shop.
He saw her roommate sitting in a chair in the living room, pretending to be interested in a rerun of CSI. Alison gestured toward the hallway off the galley kitchen.
“We can talk in my room.” She said.
He followed her to her room, which to his surprise was almost exactly the same as it had been two years ago. Even the bedspread was the same.
“By the way,” she said. “Nice yellow tie.”
“Thanks.”
He watched her take a seat on the bed, curling one leg behind her to sit on.
“So what’s up, what’s this big news?”
He took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face.
“Okay, I know you have no reason to trust me, and rightfully so, but I need you to trust me on this when I say that we have maybe under two hours to get you packed up, and on the road.”
He was surprised when she busted out in a laughing fit.
“Chris, I think it’s adorable that you came all this way to ask me to get back together with you, in a very strange way mind you, but it’s not going to happen. I’ve moved on, I’m seeing a nice guy at work…”
“Alison, I’m not kidding. We need to get you out of here, now!”
That finally wiped the smile off her face and for a moment he saw true fear in her eyes.
“What’s going on?” She asked.
“There is a very dangerous man on his way here right now to take you and if we don’t get out of here soon, I won’t be able to help you.”
“What?” She said. “Who? Who’s coming?”
“It’s a long story, I’ll explain on the way…”
“You’re crazy, I’m not going anywhere with you. You think that after two years you can just walk back in here and expect me to believe a word you say?”
He let out an aggravated grunt and turned toward her closet, he ripped the doors open and grabbed a duffle bag off the top shelf and tossed it on the bed next to her.
“I’m not asking you to go anywhere with me, I just need to take you out of here.”
“Just tell me what’s going on. Who is coming?”
“Alison, we don’t have time and you couldn’t even begin to fathom what it is he wants.”
“How do you know so much about him?”
He had been throwing her clothes on the bed and he stopped when she had said that.
“Because… I work for him... or up until ten hours ago I did.”
He could see the panic registering on her face and he wished very much that he could go over and console her.
“What have you done?” She said.
“Nothing, I…”
“Did you tell him about me?”
“No, of course not…”
“Then why does he want me Chris? He'd have no reason to unless you told him about me.”
He was at a loss for words now and stared over at her, with his hands on his hips. When he spoke his voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm just trying to help you."
"Is it Cobb?'
His eyes fell to the floor and he slowly nodded.
"Oh Jesus, what have you done?"
"I know someone who can help us."
"Who?"
"His name," Chris said, "is Angelus."
Hey there again, partner. How you doing? I hope well. I want to tell you a quick tale about a strange man. A man who used to wear a mask over his face because it was so horribly scarred. But let me tell you, partner, this strange man was scarred on the inside as well. He used to say that in the game of life the deck is stacked against you. That may be true, but this man, you see, was a coward. Shot twelve of his own men in the back just to escape town on the horse he rode in on.
And here we have my good friend Angelus, set to wage war with another coward behind a mask. You sensing a theme here, partner? A man behind a mask cannot be trusted.
Which I reckon ol' Angelus is about to find out…
"You listening, champ?"
Angelus stirred in his locker and looked over at Steve Sayors.
"What? Yes. Repeat the question?"
"I said Mr. Satellite refused your offer to remove the sack from his head."
"I'm not surprised, Steve. The man has already proved that he doesn't have the balls to man up and show us his true face. He's been ducking around staircases and basements since he came out of hiding."
"What do you think about his recent remarks?"
"It sounds like the poor guy is already admitting defeat and I got news for him, yes the future may be unwritten, but his fate is already signed sealed and delivered."
"You expect to walk out still the champ?"
"Of course, Steve. Guys like Mr. Satellite are bit players. They're the stepping stone to the next level. You really think a guy wearing a burlap sack over his head is what these fans want to see? What the brass wants to see? He's a relic from when Carver was letting anyone from the nuthouse sign a contract. He's not an athlete or a fighter. He's just confused. And in T-minus two hours I'm going to open his eyes to why they call me the Whole… Damn… Show."
