M Sellars - Miranda

He came forward and set about disconnecting the handcuffs from the table. I remained seated, watching the process unfold.

“You are not finished,” Miranda said. Her tone was flat.

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

“You still want to speak with Annalise,” she countered. There was no desperation or even urgency in her calm voice. It was simply a statement of fact.

“Yes. You’re right, I do. But you won’t let me, and I’m tired of playing your game.”

“You need me. You will be back.”

“No, Miranda, I don’t. And, I won’t.” I shook my head to punctuate the words. “Not this time.”

“Stand up,” the guard told her.

She complied but never took her eyes off of me. As the officer proceeded to connect the handcuffs to the belly chain around her waist, Miranda twisted her mouth into a wicked smile.

“Are you certain you want to do it this way?” she asked.

“You aren’t leaving me any choice, are you?”

“I suppose that is your perception,” she replied. “We will be seeing each other again soon, little man.” The comment was brimming over with innuendo, which she underscored with, “You know I will be coming for her.”

I nodded. “What I know is that you’ll try.”

“And I will succeed.”

“And why are you so sure of that?”

“Because, you no longer amuse me, and like you, I have tired of this game.”

“Meaning?”

“I will be coming to kill you first. Then, you cannot stop me.”

“I see. Well, that’s definitely what it’s going to take to get to her.” I shrugged. “Just out of curiosity, I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who you’re going to be when you come to do this?”

“That would spoil the surprise, now would it not?”

“I suppose that is your perception,” I repeated her words back. “But, I thought you were tired of this game?”

“This is a new game.”

“So…how will I be able to play if I don’t know it’s you?”

“You will know,” she said. “But if it will help, I will wear something… or someone… special.”

Sunday, April 23

11:58 P.M.

Lambert Saint Louis International Airport

Baggage Carousel 3

Saint Louis, Missouri

I could feel nothing.

Well, nothing in a preternatural sense, anyway. On a physical level it was a different story, even though travel weariness had managed to numb me a bit in that arena too. While I certainly realized that exhaustion took a major toll, in the past it had never seemed to make any difference where the ethereal was concerned. If anything, it served to heighten my sensitivity to it by lowering my defenses. So, no matter what, I always felt something.

Always.

It was just an accepted part of my existence. Evil would seek me out, and I would always know it was there. Why? Because without fail, I would be able to feel it… But, right now, even while holding it in the palm of my hand, I could feel nothing.

I twisted the small bottle in my fingers, spinning it slowly while I watched the white crystals cascade across one another like sand trickling into the bottom of an hourglass. With each turn, as the necklace inside tumbled, a shiny flash of its metal surface would peek through and then almost instantly disappear once again beneath the grains of salt.

Ben had been waiting for us on the opposite side of the security gate at Concourse C, and the very first thing he had done was shove the bottle containing the cursed jewelry into my hand-before he even uttered a single word of greeting in fact. I could tell by the look on his face that he was three steps beyond mere relief just to be rid of it. Apparently, my reassurances that he was safe from its effects hadn’t been enough to allay his fears.

My concentration was broken by an alarm sounding nearby, so I looked up from the distraction in my hands. The attention light over the baggage chute winked several times, and the delivery belt began to move. Seconds later an unseen motor began humming, and the metal slats of the time worn carousel itself jerked hesitantly. Once they shuddered and began sliding around the elongated oval, their unsynchronized rattling was punctuated by tinny scrapes as they proceeded to accordion in and out of one another around the semicircular ends. A full sixty seconds passed before the first suitcase finally appeared at the top of the conveyor; then, with a clunk, followed by a swoosh of nylon against metal, it toppled from the edge and slid onto the rotating carousel, ending with a dull thud against the lip at the bottom. A moment later it was followed by another and then another.

However, thus far none of the luggage riding the horseless merry-go-round belonged to me.

I glanced over to the status board and saw that our flight number was still listed, which ostensibly meant our carousel hadn’t been switched while we weren’t paying attention. Then I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost midnight. Whether by mere suggestion, from the exhaustion, or a combination of both, I yawned.

We’d been on the ground now for better than thirty minutes, and the information on the lighted board had already been announcing the arrival of our luggage on this particular carousel for the last fifteen of them. The delay was par for the course in my experience, even at this late hour with the airport approaching deserted, save for overnight staff and the small clutch of passengers milling around this particular baggage claim. Still, typical or not, I couldn’t say I was overly excited about the wait-not that I could do anything to change it, of course.

I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck with my free hand. Wherever I wasn’t numb, I ached from the tension of the day. Still, I was feeling much better than I had been earlier. At least now I was back in Saint Louis and no longer sitting 700 plus miles away at DFW with a standby ticket in my hand, a crowd of confirmed passengers ahead of me, and an attack of anxiety so intense that it had me either calling or text messaging Felicity every half hour. Now, even as tired as I was, the drudgery of waiting for my luggage seemed almost normal in a sense, which was something I knew I should find comforting. But, right now normal was anything but. In fact, it was more along the lines of disconcerting.

“That one yours, Row?” Ben asked, thumping my arm hard with the back of his hand in order to get my attention.

I shot a glance toward where he was pointing and saw a dark green suitcase rumbling my direction on the slanted metal plates.

I shook my head. “It’s close, but mine’s just a little smaller than that and should have a laminated tag on the top handle.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Ben grunted. “Just wanted ta’ be sure.”

“All good. Thanks.”

“Well, there’s mine,” Constance said as a roll-around skidded down and then toppled onto its side and began moving our way. Her voice was a quiet drone as she slowly started forward to retrieve it.

“Relax, hon. I got it,” Ben said as he stepped past her and quickly reached in with a long arm to scoop it up. Setting the luggage to the side and extending the pull handle up, he slipped his free arm gently around the petite federal agent’s shoulders while we continued to wait. She leaned into him and let out a long, weary sigh.

My friend looked like he was probably just as tired as Constance and I both were. His angular Native American features were expressionless and sagging beneath his salt and pepper hair, a fact that served to accentuate some of the age lines that had started forming on his face over the last decade. Always one for a good cliche, he liked to say it wasn’t the years, it was the mileage. He’d go on to add that those lines were just his personal road map to prove he’d been there and that any scars were simply souvenirs from his stops along the way.