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Siren Sweet & Harpy Shrill copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter Disclaimer:
These characters were created by Thomas
Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of
admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no
profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to this
site.
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6 of 12 PART 4 Days melt into days…Three? Four? I loose track without my calendar to keep me company. The boredom is oppressive, weighing on my chest like a succubus, stealing my breath, stealing my will, stealing my desire to do anything but wait for the inevitable. The surveillance men are bored too…This afternoon, walking along the perimeter of my rented home, I saw the flash of a rifle scope’s mirrored lens and pinpointed his location to within a two meters. I don’t know whether to be relived or disgusted. I decide to be both. Mornings, I wake at my leisure, and enjoy a cup of coffee on the terrace. Sometimes Jack joins me, others I take my coffee black. The air here is incredible, and though I cannot see the sea from my terrace, I can pinpoint it’s location by scent alone. After coffee, I change into exercise clothes and go for a run along the beach. Once, I thought I had been followed. I felt eyes moving over my flesh, but when I turned I found myself alone with the sea spray. I stretch my run out as long as possible. It’s all down hill from here. I may go into town and rack up charges that will later be added to expense account. I may stop at a corner café, don a baseball cap, and munch on local delicacies as inconspicuously as possible. I may just go back to the cottage and slip into restless sleep. I wonder how closely my surveillance is watching me. I wonder how closely he is surveiling me. If he is survieling me. Perhaps he has grown bored and is seeking new hunting grounds. Perhaps I guarded the flock too well. A week passes. Nothing. The banality of the days is matched only by the banality of the nights. Any new recruit, fresh out of grad school would stumble over themselves in anticipation of such an exciting, intoxicatingly dangerous assignment. And for the hundredth time this week I contemplate whether or not a person can actually die of ennui. I come to the conclusion that it doesn’t kill…it only makes you wish you were dead. At times, I think of the bureau, and their plan for my redemption. With the genius of a Salem witch hunt, they construct such petty, inconclusive torments. Toss her in a river…if she drowns, we have sent a good Christian woman to the welcoming arms of god. If she floats, we’ll dry her off with a nice stake and pyre. Throw her to the mercy of a serial killer and see who ends up with blood on their hands. Either way, at least one of their problems is solved. At night, my dreams are oddly empty. Even my lambs have left me. The silence I once craved so keenly now echoes back like a thunderclap in a vacuum. I would trade it for screams in a heartbeat, even if they have to be my own. I toss. I turn. I vacillate between believing he is waiting just outside my door, and fearing he is stalking through the streets of some European metropolis. It is no longer a surprise to find which scenario I favor. Finally, exhausted from all the nothingness, I sleep. I Am Awake. I Am Not Alone. I hear a drop of blood hit the floor with a deafening roar. The wait is over. He has arrived. FIN Part 4 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |