Eight

Hands in pockets, whiskey abandoned on polished rosewood, Alison left the city of lights. The stark contrast of the darkened front facade looked ominous under the pale moon. A black, wrought iron gate with pike-topped tines barred entrance to the eastern face of the house, where she hoped to find quiet passage. She tried to take in as much of the scene as possible without breaking stride. A passerby wouldn’t take kindly to some rando hulking up a tree and plopping over the gate, even when accounting for typical fraternity shenanigans. It also occurred to Alison that this was her second count of breaking and entering this term, and that her explanation to Johnny Law, should he come a’ knocking, would be that it was for a fun game. Officer, I was just going in there to assault a sick Freshman. I mean, he’s a pledge, so, he knew the risks. You wanna let me off with a warning?

“Wildcard, this is Maverick, do you copy?”

“Paige, are you having separation anxiety? It’s been, like, thirty seconds.”

Paige paused for a beat. “Okay, not fair. Of course I miss you, boo! Anyway, I was just thinking, maybe we need to establish a panic button. Like, a code word we can say if things go sideways and you need an extraction.”

Alison smiled, her face still twisted in thought as she tried to envision a path over the gate. “Uh huh. How about ‘I need an extraction?’”

“You wanna say that right in front of an enemy asset? You want to tell a combatant that backup is on the way?”

“Okay, okay. You have a point. If I’m ever in trouble, I will say–” She considered this for a moment before the answer settled on her mind like a memory, rather than an invention. “Jellybean.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Alison made a quick perimeter check before dashing into a full sprint towards a sycamore whose branches draped over the nearby gate. Two steps up the trunk and she launched herself toward a midsection branch. She grappled the branch with both hands and used the momentum to hoist her body over the gate, arching her back as she crossed the threshold in Fosbury Flop position. She stumbled hard on the landing, but she was on the other side. A sharp twinge of pain revealed that she had earned a sizable gash on her left ankle from one of the defending pikes. She smiled a little at her red badge of courage as she made her way stealthily through the brambles by Sigma’s eastern face.

Three sets of white garden doors offset the red brick exterior of the wing. She tried each set. Locked. There were two balconies, but no obvious handholds to gain passage towards them, save for a precarious drainage gutter. A quick scan revealed an open window on the south balcony. The gutter, however, had other plans, tapering down at an angle that limited accessibility to the north balcony alone. She’d have to cross that bridge when she came to it. One foot on a nearby water spout, she thrust her body upward toward the gutter. It dug uncomfortably into her hands, but failed to break the skin. From her dead hang, she noticed her breathing quickening. Nerves, she thought, but reevaluated as it got even heavier, incorporating a low rumble into each exhale. Am I wheezing?

She wasn’t. Another perimeter check conceded the presence of an enormous English Bulldog. Sporting coarse grey hide and a spiked collar, he had a mean grimace and a heavy stride. Make no mistake: this was an absolute unit. The chunk-de-resistance. Marky Mark and the Chunky Bunch. He trotted towards her as she dangled like a rotisserie chicken. Apparently, there were four types of meat available tonight. Alison remained motionless as the guard dog approached, a silver tag dangling from his collar. She strained to see the name on the tag as a low growl emerged from his heinous muzzle. It read “Spork.”

The rumbling ceased momentarily, ostensibly to precipitate the sounding of alarm. But what followed was not a thunderous bark, but another sound entirely. To Alison, it resembled the sound of a child eating a banana: a hearty, moist smack. And then, another. Further reconnaissance revealed that young Spork was catching droplets of blood emanating from her ankle. The wound was worse than she initially gauged. Blood had soaked clean through her high tops and was apparently delivering a jackpot of forbidden delicacy to the interested party below. She took the win, sidling up toward the north balcony as her fuzzy Roomba followed eagerly underfoot. Finally, she was up and over the railing.

The clearance to the opposing balcony looked to be about five feet. Alison scoured her mind for the last time she had done a long jump, and whether this was even a remotely possible endeavor. The gap seemed to widen as she evaluated, her head filling with static as images of her imminent peril flickered past. Her breathing quickened and her heart pounded, the world around her blurring and darkening as a lightheaded film enveloped her senses.

Focus.

And reality snapped back into place. Two quick steps and a hearty leap saw her over the gap, albeit with a hard landing and a pulse of pain as her hip crashed hard into the opposing railing. She had started on the window, slowly and quietly lifting its lower frame when the low rumble returned– this time with an expectant whimper. She took a moment to appraise Spork’s demeanor. Though she had never had a dog herself, she knew the precursors of excitable barking. If she slipped through the window now, that was that. But she couldn’t bring herself to bail either. Frozen in indecision, caught between a Spork and a hard place, Alison let out a long, thoughtful breath, and let the words float into her consciousness.

Clear the cobwebs. 

It came to her with a burst of overwhelming, lucid clarity. The gods required an offering. Lowering herself into a crouching position, she undid the knot and pulled loose the laces from her bloody All Stars. The charcoal Chuck had accepted the crimson pigment, giving off a new purplish hue of plum sauce or a cheap Pinot. The sopping sneaker made an obscene squish as it popped off her heel, a violent mist of blood splattering on her face and clothes in the jolt. An eager tail wagged impatiently below. The shoe tumbled bleakly downward, a macabre harbinger of cruel fate, until it was enthusiastically caught in the beast’s fervent maw. Alison ditched the other shoe as well, hoping to avoid an awkward gait in the mission ahead. She slipped through the open window, glancing back momentarily to see dear Spork disappear into the bushes with his prize. It occurred to her that she may have just negotiated the most amicable consensus in diplomatic history.

The interior was more posh than Alison expected, though she had little time to admire the mid-century modern design of the Sigma House bedrooms while trying to bleed her way quietly through its floorplan. She slinked toward the door facing the upper level hallway and performed a head check, smirking acerbically at how quiet her movement had become in her socks. She nearly jumped out of them when Paige came in through the coms.

“Hey, honeydew. Looks like you’ve got company.”

“Rugby shirt?”

“Yeah. He looked a little bored and turned in toward the main house. Probably a routine sweep. I wouldn’t worry. He’s on the second floor.”

“I’m on the second floor!” Alison gritted through her teeth as a wave of nervous energy tightened her muscles and shortened her breath. “What do I do?”

“Don’t get caught.”

Alison’s first inclination was to try a rushing play. Charge down the hall, wind up, haymaker. Maybe she could catch him sleeping. However, having seen the asset in question, she wasn’t sure she could even make a dent. Danny Ross was built like a rhinoceros that played for the Oakland A’s. In the eighties. She could hear his footsteps starting down the other end of the long hallway, stopping to check rooms as he passed them. Whatever she was going to do, she had to do it sooner than later.

Find the words.

In all the commotion, it hadn’t occurred to Alison until this moment that her playlist was still on. The song that had just begun, however, couldn’t be ignored. It was William Shatner and Ben Folds, covering Pulp’s Common People. Folds had arranged the music: it was a catchy, upbeat, guitar-laden affair. Power chords surged over heavy, grungy drums; the whole mix was loud and full of wild energy. Shatner delivered the lyrics in spoken word over the music. It was preposterously bizarre, and Alison loved every second of it. When she had put it on her Heist Playlist, she couldn’t offer a good defense for its presence. Now, not only did it jostle her out of her paralysis, it gave her an idea.

She reached into her bag for one of the Lord Chamberlain’s cell phones she had picked up in the exchange earlier, immediately recognizing it as Teddy Dalton’s. With her own phone, she dialed Teddy’s number. She answered quickly with the extraneous phone, put it on speaker, and cranked the volume. A quick peek into the antechamber revealed that Rugby Ross still had distance to cover before arriving at her juncture. Alison slid the phone as hard as she could under the opposite-facing bedroom door and, hiding behind a trophy case in the hallway, blasted her favorite William Shatner recording through its surprisingly resonant speaker.

But still you’ll never get it right
‘Cause when you’re laid in bed at night
Watching roaches climb the wall
If you called your Dad he could stop it all, yeah

You’ll never live like common people
You’ll never do whatever common people do
Never fail like common people
You’ll never watch your life slide out of view
And then dance and drink and screw
Because there’s nothing else to do

Danny Ross was on it like a bulldog on a bloody loafer. He barreled down the hallway, swinging his arms in power-walking formation. Alison took the opportunity to tiptoe past, under the audible smokescreen of Danny’s violent door-opening methods. While protocol demands restraint from looking back in these tense maneuvers, Alison couldn’t help but steal a peek at his very confused face as he confronted an invisible but spirited Captain Kirk in the midst of a rebellious punk phase. This would have been a fine time for Danny to drop to his knees for an overhead shot while shouting the names of his enemies, but Alison would have to clear the hallway before she could start writing that scene into the screenplay.

She continued to sneak down the hallway with only the subtlest hint of squish beneath her sodded sock, when a spiral staircase appeared to the east and she took it downward. A large, railed mezzanine stood over the great room below, blocking Alison’s view. She took a moment to survey the scene. It took her no time to find the aberrant element across the open floor plan. Jesse Flores was standing before an open refrigerator, nursing a bottle of purple Pedialyte. He wore a powder blue tracksuit, university pin fixed to the lapel, and stood motionless, cradling the precious bottle in his arms. Alison wasted no time crossing the room with dire expediency. Five hard steps and four soft squishes and she was in the strike zone. She hammered a right hook into his stomach and he exploded, purple elixir spraying thoroughly onto the entirety of her personage. She caught a glimpse of shock and terror as he doubled over. She reached for the pin. He gave no fight, but the pin did. It wouldn’t budge. She tightened her grip and pulled hard, tearing it from the tracksuit.

Something wasn’t right. She glanced down at the pin, complete with torn fabric. It was a regular university pin. It was a set-up. She started toward the front door, reaching for her coms as she moved, but ran into a brick wall. It was Tyrannosaurus Ross. Sporting his best “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed” face, he grappled her forearm effortlessly in his colossal hand. And that was the end.

Relinquish control.

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, a falling star came crashing down from the heavens that night to free Alison from her harrowing plight. But it wasn’t a star. It was an All Star. A great, bloody, tumbling Converse All Star from the sky. It made a mountainous crack as it pummeled Danny Ross square in the back, blood softly misting the chic Danish furnishings that surrounded. Standing at the top of the mezzanine was Paige Hall, arms folded, a devilish grin on her playful features. Danny let go of Alison’s arm out of shock and horror and disgust at the rude spectacle.

“Well, that’s my cue,” said Alison as she grabbed the crimson shoe and bolted for the entrance, leaving behind a mess fit for a Tarantino set. As she burst out the front door, she was greeted by Paige’s deftly falling frame from a second story window. She was carrying Alison’s other shoe. They gave each other a quick look and exited stage left.

“How did you find me?” Alison asked, out of breath and running the campus gauntlet in her bloody socks.

“Easy,” said Paige. “I followed the blood.”

Even in their dilapidated state, that earned a belly laugh.

The tone was somber as they entered the great hall of Leeds Theatre. McElroy, Butler, Dalton, and Pierce were standing, motionless and silent, their eyes fixed on the great Hamlet statue above. Both Rajas were gone. No alarms, no phone alerts, nothing. Alison looked to Ed Butler, their fearless leader, for guidance. But his lips were sealed. She looked to his Footman’s pin. All that remained was the empty magnet at its base. He gave a little sigh and put his hands in his pockets. Looking around, the other assets seemed intact. Alison was about to ask what happened, when a voice came into the coms: both the public and private channels.

“What a night, guys!” It was Reed Baker. “It has been a long while since we Elephants were able to gain so much position in so little time. Alison, you didn’t kill little Danny, did you?”

“I did not,” she replied, mystified.

“That’s too bad. I was kind of rooting for you in a wicked sort of way. Everybody likes to root for the underdog. But the underdogs don’t really win, I don’t think.” The disheartened crew looked eager to retort, but no one said a word. Reed continued. “I suppose we’ll see. Here are my notes, Alison. Do with them what you will. First, nobody’s ever going to tell you his faction. Second, don’t trust intelligence from opposing factions. Side note, when someone highlights a trap with a big, red marker, don’t walk into it. Finally, and this one’s important, never take a Raja without checking it for bugs.” The line went dead there.

Silence permeated for a few moments before all eyes fell on Alison. They didn’t seem judgmental or disappointed as she feared. Just, directionless. Finally, Paige broke the bubble.

“So, what do we do now?”

Alison shifted, a bloody sock squishing with a melancholy bleat as she did. “Find absolution, I guess.” The Lord Chamberlain’s Men nodded respectfully.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Paige offered, her sprightly tone lightening the mood considerably. “The game’s definitely afoot, now.” She was about to close the file on that thought when her face lit up with a new energy. “Oh! That reminds me,” she said, a wild grin emerging. “Here’s your shoe, dear.”