The thunderous roar of a black 1969 Ford Mustang Boss made its way through the autumn streets of Seattle: the city with no name. The agent behind the wheel stopped at the lights, turned to his right, and peered down at the mobile phone which laid on the black leather passenger seat, along with his dark shimmering gun. A prototype Wilson Combat EDC X9 sidearm. He played the recorded mission briefing again on his phone, checking if he missed anything.
“Good evening Agent S6. Your mission is to investigate the disappearances that have been occurring and increasing in the city of Seattle. We cannot confirm if these are paranormal in nature, but we will adhere to our second mandate, which is to investigate leads when traditional law enforcement have exhausted theirs. We have been called because whoever investigates these disappearances, either go missing, end up dead, or drop the case refusing to go further with it. These orders to drop the case usually come from a person with a higher ranking than captain. Which means, their clearance level is close to our network at the agency. They may know we exist, and they always seem to be one step ahead of us. None of this information would have been known to us if it weren’t for a private investigator leaking his discoveries to a member of the press, who in turn, uploaded their discussion to their own computer. He must have known his life was in danger. The reporter is missing, and the P.I was found dead in his office. Autopsy states: Heart failure, even though he had no underline health concerns. Our system picked up and downloaded the data instantly when keywords were mentioned; that being - cult, ritual, coverup. A red flag was raised in Eric’s software due to the city’s history with Externals, and the incident you were involved in fifteen years ago. All files will be sent to the Seattle branch, so pick them up and go over them; you never know, you may find something new in the investigation.”
The young agent reached his destination, turning into the street and parking directly in-front of a run-down white picket fenced house - with chipped wood, overgrown shrubs, and a weeded driveway. The house was not an odd sight amongst the other properties on the broken avenue, nor did the agent expect anything different. He knew the neighbourhood was a stone throw away from being bulldozed to make another apartment duplex, because that would bring the profits in; more than the widows, widowers, retired war vets, and penniless families that consumed the area. The agent stepped out of his vehicle, shooting a natural glance to his sleek sword in its flat scabbard, camouflaged by the black leather of the back seat. When closing the door, he could sense the street’s eyes on him, even hear the swiping of curtains and flicker of blinds of the surrounding houses. As he ventured up the driveway, a neighbour to his right sat on his front lawn in a dark green plastic deck chair, with a can of Budweiser in hand, slurping away happily. ‘Howdy,’ said the half-drunken fellow cheerfully. His quick greeting suggested that the agent was visiting him. ‘Morning, sir. Is Martha in?’ When the agent asked, he could see the patriotic American flag waving behind the old man, attached to the top part of the wood pillared decking. It was clear he took considerable pride in his property though, it stood out like a white pearled mansion. Not a chip of wood in sight, not an inch of bush out of place. ‘Depends who’s asking,’ replied the Navy vet, adjusting himself on his plastic chair, honking a fat lugy from the back of his throat.
‘Someone that is searching for her missing daughter,’ said the agent directly. The bluntness of the agent’s response took the man aback. He placed his pale elbow on the arm of his chair, his dark alert eyes fixed on the agent. ‘Terrible business,’ he said shaking his head ‘anything I can do to help just let me know, Sonny.’
‘Thanks. Just knowing if she’s in would do for now, sir.’ The man frowned his hairy layered brows, taking another swig of his beer. He gave a flick of his head, ‘she’s inside, boy. But like I said, anything I can do. I may be retired, but I can still shoot a fucker dead!’ The man slapped his denim lap with a high-pitched chortle.
‘I’ll hold you to that, sir,’ said the young agent with a curved grin.
‘I like you kid, ha-ha-ha.’ The man’s prominent laughter continued until the agent knocked on the front door of Martha’s house. She opened the worn entrance after only one knock, clearly hearing the commotion of chatter on her cracked driveway. She did not open the mesh door, and only peered her head around the nicked wooden frame. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ asked the woman with a subtle sharpness.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I’m a federal agent investigating the disappearance of your daughter…Latoya.’
‘My daughter?’ A look of disorientation sat across her lined face. ‘But I was told the case had been dropped. Because of her profession it wasn’t worth investigating, “these things happen to girls like that” an officer said to me. Can you believe that!?’ The woman sniffed and looked away, trying to conceal her tears.
‘Well ma’am, I ain’t no officer, and I have a personal interest in your daughter’s case.’ The woman’s head lifted, as though a hope she had all but forgotten was entering her again. She stepped from behind the door looking at the agent intensely, assessing if this was some kind of hoax. She looked into his ice blue eyes and saw a pain, a trauma, she remembered being reflected in her daughter. His polite, yet cocky, New York accent did not match his convicting stare. His attire spoke nothing of being a government agent, and if she were being completely honest, neither did his skin. Too perfect, too smooth, too young to have any experience in being an agent. Then there was the dragon tattoo on the left side of his face, just finishing on the side profile of his cheek bone. It slithered down his neck and possibly beyond that. Martha noticed how the dragon’s face was facing upward, as though it had a destination in mind. But the most disturbing aspect of the tattoo, was its slitted pupils. Depending on the angle of the agent’s face, it appeared as though its eyes moved, following whoever was in-front of the young man. The tattoo seemed to hold two colours: red - and a dark glistening green. Martha had been dead to the world since her daughter’s disappearance. Times were always changing, things that were taboo in her day were embraced and glorified today. So why would a tattooed government agent be any different? she thought.
‘Do you have any I.D?’ The blond agent reached into the side pocket of his trench coat, grabbing his leather wallet. He flipped it open and brought it closer to the mesh door as he could see Martha squinting. ‘Federal agent, UN, C.R. James, Spectra division. Never heard of them. But your I.D looks kosher enough. Come in young man. I’ve lost hope in my daughter being alive, but I wouldn’t want any other mother going through what I’m going through right now. My baby deserves justice.’ The bereaved woman opened out the mesh door, and walked ahead into the house, with the agent not far behind. The house was open plan but felt confined and fairly oppressive due to the clutter. That clutter being children’s toys, colouring books, and almost any item that involved Hello Kitty. A little girl made her way down the brown carpeted stairs on the right, just before the living room area was in view. The agent guessed that she was no more than four years old, as she leapt from the third step with share confidence and balance. ‘Tada!’ said the little girl of dark brown skin and plaited pigtails, pulling down her Hello Kitty dress. ‘What did you think of my landing, mister?’ The agent analysed the little lady, squinting his eyes with his hand on his chin. He knelt to her level.
‘I give the landing a solid ten out of ten, but your style is a definite twelve,’ said the agent with a heart-warming grin, which was matched by her gleaming smile. The child shared similarities to the elderly woman; and yet, she was identical to a younger woman seen in multiple pictures leading up and down the staircase, hooked onto a burgundy wallpaper. Latoya.
‘Nana, you hear that!’
‘It’s Nana DID you hear that. We speak properly in this house young lady. And what did I tell you about jumping off the stairs?’ The elderly woman now beside the agent looked down at the little girl.
‘You said if I jumped off the stairs and bumped my head then that would make me stupid, and we cannot afford to be stupid in a man’s world.’
‘Exactly! So, don’t do it again.’
‘Okay Nana bear.’
‘And you, don’t encourage her,’ voiced the woman turning to the agent, nudging him slightly, but humour showed in her face.
‘Never again, ma’am,’ expressed the agent with raised hands that were gloved, who then turned to the little girl, shooting a covert wink. She tried hard to conceal her tittering, but Grandma noticed and narrowed her eyes at them both.
‘Now go and play, Anna. Me and this young man must talk in private.’
‘Okay Nana. Nice to meet you, mister.’
‘Ditto, little Anna.’
‘You talk funny, mister. Hehe.’ The child then skipped into the kitchen and sat at a large rectangular table with her colouring books, humming away.
‘Come into the living room. What does the C in your name stand for?’ The man halted his stride, which made Martha pause.
‘It stands for Charlie.’ The woman was holding a toy she picked up from the floor; she was looking to place it somewhere - but dropped it again as soon as the named parted from the agent’s full lips. The name itself held no real significance, she had heard the name spoken many times in her years of life, but it was the man who was attached to the name, the man that would undoubtably look like the man that stood before her now. The hair, the eyes! He looked just like the boy on the missing persons poster
along with her daughter
fifteen years ago. He has not changed, apart from the obvious of growing fuller, taller, and more manly. But his face still held an innocence, a baby-like quality. It was only his eyes that held something different, something that didn’t remotely match their lightness. Like the sky colour of his irises were a complete lie, a façade, a trick. ‘Are you okay, ma’am?’ asked Charlie, concerned the woman was about to pass out.
