The Lost Reflection Page 2

  Pulling the trigger on those guards was simple. It was live or die, and at age twenty-four I was not ready to check out just yet. Remorseless—that pretty much summed up my complete lack of emotion. A weaker man would have felt the pain, been concerned by the disconnect, but not me. Neptune became my code name. I was cold, hard, and distant as the sea. There was no funeral for Brian Denman, computer geek.

  Never being privy to purpose, the less asked, the easier my job. Europe, Asia, South America, the Middle East, and all the shitholes in between became my playground. Years faded to decades. At the end, two years in Colombia convinced me enough was enough. Those fuckers were the craziest bastards I had ever run into. Sure, suicidal radical Muslims were crazy fucks, but they were no match for coked-up, drug-running cowboys. Not humanely killing people, but butchering and mutilating, they were the icing on the cake of lunacy. Not for any particular cause or shock value to a global audience, it was just good, old-fashioned fun, Colombian style.

  After twenty years of service to my country, I quit for opportunities in the private sector. Politicians and the wealthy were always in need of my special talents. People with connections, power, and big checkbooks became my new employers. Some jobs were legitimate, others well, they legitimately paid well. The beauty was I now had the ability to pick and choose my assignments. Once again, my lack of conscience served as my capitalistic guide.

  It was through this new career path that I met Phillip Wilder. Phillip was the owner and publisher of Urban Legends Weekly tabloid. Urban Legends was geared for a younger, hipper audience. On occasions, Phillip paid me dearly to unravel rumored stories involving drug companies and their dangerous products. When subpoenas and grand jury inquisitions failed to get results, I was called in to apply more persuasive methods. It got ugly from time to time, but I always got results and was rewarded appropriately. In finality, a greater good was served. Phillip got one hell of a scoop, and I stayed gainfully employed and more important, compensated.

  Occasionally, work proved to be entertaining—secrets of Hollywood stars, politicians and hookers, hell any public figure, and a rumor of misfortune that sold papers. True, I loved the added income, but more so it had become a favorite pastime, knocking down the high and mighty a notch or two. Especially the hypocrites.

  A sudden violent drop in altitude jolted me from my reverie. Glancing out the window, I refocused my attention on the horizon. Once towering cotton cumulus clouds had darkened as the afternoon sun brewed up a powerful storm over the Gulf of Mexico. With each passing minute, the clouds swelled with moisture, and flashes of light announced the ensuing rodeo ride. As playful as a jeep traveling down mortar-shelled roads, our plane bounded through layers of unseen turbulence to the delight of nobody but me. Imaginary symphonies trumpeted Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, announcing my imminent approach. Sensing fear in the air, I suppressed an amused grin.

  Brilliant streaks of lightning were followed by another substantial drop in altitude, the sort that catapult the stomach up your throat. We were descending into the storm on our final approach. A white-knuckled, double-fisted grip was attached to a rather attractive blonde who had been seated next to me since our departure from LA. Lost in my own world of self-absorption, I had completely tuned out the existence of anyone seated next to me. Now as the flight neared conclusion, I honed in on the most delectable pair of drumsticks I had seen in a long time. A slit in her short knit skirt revealed enough of her perfectly toned and tanned thighs to cause turbulence of a different nature. And yes, you might know it, those legs traversed past succulent sculpted calves all the way down to a pair of black leather pumps. White knuckles packed my one true weakness: drop-dead legs.

  Had we been in a restaurant, a department store, a park, or anywhere other than a plane, I would have succumbed to my weakness and made an attempt to connect with this leggy babe. But we were on a plane. I made that mistake once, years ago. It nearly cost me my life. Hence, golden rule number one.

  Appearing reasonably distraught from the turbulence, I concluded she was near barf mode. Or was it mere theatrics to draw me into conversation to be followed by dinner and attempted murder for dessert? Paranoid? It mattered not. Rules are rules. Regardless of her wavy, sandy-blond hair appearing to have the texture of silk, draping neatly to her shoulders, and those full, moist, inviting lips framed by flawless skin, rule number one is never broken. Certainly those sparkling chestnut-hazel eyes would not sway my resolve, but damn those legs! I wondered if the shrinks back at the CIA had a name for my paranoia. Ever since the incident, chance encounters on airplanes were taboo. No more airplane buddies. Period.

  Deciding to be the “good guy,” I attempted to help her. “Try to relax. It is far safer up here than it is down there.” She acknowledged me with a nervous smile. “You must not fly often.”

  “It’s the first time in over five years,” she replied tensely.

  “Up until the storm I would have taken you for a frequent flyer.” Any statement affording distraction would hopefully help her refrain from singing into the airsick bag.

  “Why is that?”

  Stupid, offbeat, or humorous statements usually work the best. Her death grip on the armrest eased, relaxing the swollen veins in her hands ever so slightly. Enemy operatives are skilled in faking these reactions to initiate conversations. I was not buying into this damsel in distress, not yet.

  “Well, I do not wish to offend or embarrass you, but I find you very attractive. It has been my experience that women like you, that look like you, traveling from LA for whatever purpose, usually have a lifestyle that affords frequent travel.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. I also noticed you don’t have a wedding ring. But I am willing to bet you are married or were married. Judging from your tan, you spend time outdoors, and legs that exceptional,” I said as my eyes wandered south, “do not happen by accident.”

  She absorbed my observations in brief silence as a smirk curled up from the corner of her mouth. “Wow, and to think I thought your head was crazy glued to the window the entire flight. I’ve often wondered what goes through people’s minds when they sit in isolation for hours. In your case, now I know. How long did it take you to assimilate your observations, detective? Did you do it on the fly?”

  “I am not a detective, but I must confess, I saw the reflection of your legs in the window the moment you sat down. The rest of it was right off the cuff. My line of work requires me to analyze people and situations and preemptively remove threats which might prove harmful.”

  She appeared perplexed.

  “I hope I did not embarrass you, but I do not waste time with bullshit. I tell people what I am thinking whether they like it or not. Honesty is rarely pleasant. And my name is Brian, unless you prefer to call me detective. I have answered to worse.”

  She held out a well-manicured hand. “Okay, Brian, Mister Straight Shooter, I am Samantha.”

  I had never been one to shake the hand of women. I took her hand and kissed it softly. Her skin was lightly fragranced and smooth as chiffon. Her reaction was not uninviting. “It is my pleasure to meet you. So how did I do?”

  The sensation of my lips on her hand appeared to rattle her calculating demeanor as she appeared to count off an imaginary checklist before answering.

  “I have always hated flying and prefer to drive just about anywhere. I have been separated from my husband for more than a year, live in Beverly Hills, and love tennis and running. So all in all you are pretty much on the mark.”

  I grinned at my accuracy.

  “So what is your story, Brian? Are you always this brutally charming?”

  “Handshakes are for guys. This is how I greet every woman I meet.”

  “Darn, for a minute I thought I was getting some special treatment. That was the first kiss of any type since my husband left. And I’m not sure why, but the kiss reminded me it might be nice to enjoy the company of a man for a change.”

  “The company of a man? That sounds like an open-ended proposition.”

  A sudden drop in altitude instantly diverted her attention as Samantha redoubled her grip on the armrest. I lightly touched her hand reassuringly. She looked at my hand on hers and then back to me nervously. “I have flown most of my life. This little turbulence is nothing. Try to relax.”

  She loosened her grip ever so slightly and forced a smile. “Easy for you to say.” Gazing intently into each other’s eyes, that rare, silent, concise moment transpired when energy between two people connect, where all that exists are two naked spirits fully exploring each other’s being. It happens in a flash, then bam, the moment is gone.

  Simultaneously we snapped our attentions forward. She felt it too.

  Frightened by a sensation she could not perceive, “I can’t believe myself,” she said, blushing, continuing to stare at the seat in front of her. “I have known you all of five minutes and I’m ready to . . .”

  “Ready to what?”

  “Nothing. It’s just ever since my husband decided he needed to be married to a twenty-one year-old Laker cheerleader with fake boobs, I’ve lived like a nun.”

  “Relax, Sister Samantha. Your virtue is safe with me.”

  Samantha felt compelled to explain, to justify her newly discovered desire to be free. Unwilling to leave the safe harbor the headrest granted, she talked to the seat in front of her. “I was so angry with all men. I just wanted all of you to go away. It is going on two years, and he is out having all the fun while I continue to live in our home, thinking he will come back. Kind of pathetic, don’t you think?”

  “You do realize you are thinking out loud.”

  “Too much information?”

  “No, but I usually do not meet many women that open up quite as qui
ckly as you. To answer your question, no, it is not pathetic. Not if you truly loved him. But it can be difficult to diagnose the difference between true love and love of a lifestyle. I know too many women that could not tell you the difference if you held a gun to their head. But take away their lifestyle and they know the difference instantly. Sadly, going from riches to rags, most will not even make the effort to stomach it. The lifestyle goes away and so do they. That is what I consider truly pathetic.”

  Samantha turned to me, waiting for more of my self-guided wisdom. This situation was getting out of hand. Her mesmerizing eyes glistened with sadness, reflecting pain. She glanced down at the floor momentarily, then back to me uneasily. Embarrassment and confusion resided within her eyes and were on the verge of spilling out all over me. I had never experienced such emotion merely looking into a woman’s eyes. Emotional thoughts, me? There was no way. Time to suppress that shit. She was not allowed anywhere near my inner thoughts, although she was clearly inching along that barbed-wire fence. Keep talking. Make something up! I broke eye contact and filled my head with another look at her legs.

  “I’m up here,” she said timidly, managing a quirky smile.

  “Busted!” I said. “It is easy to confuse love for a person with everything that person brings to your life—cars, homes, money, fame, or even simple companionship. I am willing to bet you had it all.” She nodded affirmatively. “That is nothing but easy love, if you ask me. Could you have stayed in love if he lost it all?”

  Samantha looked as if she was waiting for me to continue, but then responded, “I could have.”

  “Sorry if I seem a little cynical, but what little true love I’ve witnessed is where the greatest asset is each other. The people who have it all rely on all the wrong things. I believe wealth corrupts our ability and clouds our judgment when it comes to understanding the most basic human need—love.”

  “What do you do that affords you all this insight? What makes you such an expert on the subject?”

  “I am an outsider looking in, an armchair quarterback. It is easy to analyze the game when you are on the sidelines. And that is all you get to know about me.”

  “You sound like a man who is hiding or ashamed of something.” Samantha’s demeanor flipped like a bad comb-over on a windy day. Unintentionally, I had insulted her way of life. On an offensive, she released the armrest, no longer paying attention to the turbulence which had intensified.

  Not wanting to answer, I remained silent, sensing a growing connection on an undefinable level. Regretfully, approaching New Orleans I found myself wishing this conversation started long before it did.

  “Are you married, Brian, or have you been?” she asked insistently, arms crossed, trespassing on my thoughts and ignoring my insistence on personal privacy.

  I sighed. Not an irritated sigh, but one of an unrelenting conviction succumbing to a weakness unfamiliar to me. “My job does not permit it.” There was an unintended sadness in my tone.

  “Oh my gosh. Are you a priest?”

  “As many confessions as I have heard, one might think so. But no. Love in my line of work is just not an option.” I paused to reflect on the very career that led to a life of shallow relationships. It was not that I enjoyed or disliked what some might call shallow, it was just the life that went with the territory.

  My melancholy tone sparked sympathy. Again, my silence was invaded by her inquisitiveness. “So, if you are going to shut me out before we have a chance to get started, I feel you owe me an explanation.” Her infectious smile weakened my ironclad defenses.

  “Well, honey, if it will make our divorce less painful then I shall illuminate. I was in love once years ago. Ever seen a skyscraper collapse? That is the scale of how it ended. My job requires me to pick up and leave at the ring of a phone. It is dangerous, to the degree that one day I probably will not return home. It is much easier to have short, insignificant relationships rather than meaningful ones that crush two people in the end.”

  Her eyes would not release me. Unforeseen guilt forced me to turn away once more. I could not remember the last time I lost a staring contest. She shifted in her seat, revealing more of those tantalizing legs. Way too much, I thought, as a new discomfort stirred. She followed my gaze down to the object of my attention. “Stay with me up here, Brian.” Damn, she was good. My concrete wall of resolve just suffered a major assault vis-à-vis my pathetic psychosexual fetish. Apparently my opponent was readily equipped with a lethal arsenal, hellbent on ruining what was once a damned good disciplined soldier.

  “So why don’t you just quit?” she asked point-blank. “If you met the right person, I would think love would be so much more fulfilling than any career.”

  I dared not tell her I did exactly that, the quitting part, almost twenty years ago. Talk about lame excuses, but that was all I had. I had never really thought about the concept of relationships after I retired. I kept on just getting on. “How would I know it was love? And love takes time and commitment. Look where it got you. You thought your husband loved you and it would last forever. Did you give up a career for him? Friends? Don’t you have regrets?”

  “Touché,” she sighed. “But for fourteen years, I thought it was the right thing. Up until he left, I had no regrets about my marriage. Then one day he decided he wanted more than I could provide. I have spent many a sleepless night wondering what went wrong. The man I once loved, I now despise. The pain at times has been unbearable.

  “As much as I loathe Mike now, as much as it still hurts like hell, I would never wish those years away. There is no promise love will last forever. Everything has an end. He was part of the life that made me who I am today. Thanks to him, we are having this conversation.”

  Okay, she had a small point. But I was compelled to justify myself. “I did not want my relationship to end either, but it did. So I entrenched myself in my work, never making time to get involved again. Maybe I miss it, from time to time, but love is one thing that cannot be controlled, and I am an in-control type of guy.”

  “Your attitude makes it hard for a girl to think she might have a chance.”

  “We were doomed from hello.”

  Samantha leaned toward me, akin to an attorney leaning over the jury box, prepared for the case-winning rebuttal. “Brian, you have made me feel . . . so unexpectedly . . . emotions I thought were lost. The least you can do is tell me why.”

  “Fair enough.” I conceded to the desire in her eyes. “About twenty-five years ago, I met a woman like you on a flight—intelligent, witty, and good looking. We hit it off and one thing led to another, dinner, drinks, her place . . . then boom! She put a bullet in my head. Since then, no more friendly skies. It turned out she was not just your garden-variety psycho bitch. She was a hitter. She sat right beside me, just like you, played mindfuck, then put a bullet right here.” I pointed to the faint scar. “Thus the golden rule. End of story.”

  “Oh my gosh. Twenty-five years ago? I would think you should have gotten over it by now.” A covert yet obvious smirk telegraphed her belief that I survived, thus I should put on my big-boy underwear and get on with life.

  “I have, thank you very much.” I protested, retreating against the window. What the hell did she know. I bet she had never been shot. “It just so happens I choose not to include anyone I have met on a plane in my post-flight itinerary.” My thoughts became random and disorganized. “That woman was not the only person who would like to clock me out permanently. I know too many dirty little secrets about influential people. If I were to ever write a book, a tell-all, people would go to jail, get divorced, or have their lives totally screwed up.”

  “If that were the case, why aren’t you living on a secluded island? Why only single out women on a plane?” Our conversation was interrupted by the standard tray table and seat upright announcement.

  After a moment, Samantha broke the silence. “Brian, I want more.”