main | index CHAPTER 7 (section 3) copyright © 2001, S. Y. Affolee It was not paranoia, Simone told herself as she checked the locks to the windows and door for the third time. Sometimes, especially now when she was thinking a little bit too hard, things seemed to take on a sinister tone in the night, as if the shadows were living and had will. So she left several lights on as she relaxed in the living room in her practical white pajamas and blue bathrobe. Tucking her feet beneath her on the couch, she wondered if it was better if she had someone with her, anyone, anything. Perhaps Adrian would be amendable for letting her borrow his cat for a couple of day, maybe weeks. The laptop made a small hum and began vibrating as she turned it on, waiting for the computer go through its routines until it came up on the desktop, a picture of a quiet forest landscape in the sunset which was underscored by a majestic temple that loomed in the background. A few scattered icons were littered across the picture and almost lazily, she clicked on some things to check her mail. There was nothing of interest. But as she remembered her earlier conversation with Danny, she went to search for a chat group called Dominos. About four matches came up and perplexed, she wondered which one was the right one. It was relatively easy though, to check who had logged on. She recognized one screen name immediately, RenaQ which was Danny’s handle that was taken from her middle name. Smiling to herself, she logged on as Anonymous23 and began to lurk in the conversation. Whiney: I’ve never had rose wine before. Cat54: Consider yourself lucky. Whiney: Why? Cat54: In some circles, it’s considered terribly gauche to even look at it. Whiney: Gauche?! What on earth does that mean? I mean, it’s not beer. Cat54: Not beer, but it is cheap. It’s supposed to be glugged like beer. Whiney: Then it should be called beer. Cat54: But it isn’t you see. I think back in the time when tacky things were in vogue. Whiney: The 70s you mean? Cat54: Yeah, about that time. God, I still shiver about the 70s. Whiney: The polyester suits and John Travolta? Cat54: Gah! Those two make me break out in hives. Whiney: So rose wine is the equivalent of polyester. Cat54: No. People served it during “classy” dinners and such. Whiney: The ones with the drunks? Cat54: Yeah, the drunks. And then it just all died away. Whiney: When Grossman and Oliver popped onto the scene. Cat54: Exactly! But now that I think of it, why did they not like it? Whiney: Principle of the thing I suppose. Cat54: Such as rose wine being associated with polyester. RenaQ: I’ve tried rose wine before. And I didn’t think it was gauche. Whiney: Really? Now where is this? RenaQ: So I went on a date with this guy. Cat54: Did he wear a polyester suit? (smirk) RenaQ: No he didn’t. I thought he was classy anyway. Whiney: So is the wine any good? RenaQ: A light taste, a little sweet. And it looked good in a glass. Whiney: I want to get some. Cat54: And drink yourself into a stupor. Whiney: Ha ha. Very funny. Cat54: Hey, if you want the grocery people to look at you funny, be my guest. Therion: Rose wine is not all that gauche. Cat54: Didn’t know you were a wine connoisseur, Ther. Therion: I’m a connoisseur in many things. Whiney: Liar. RenaQ: You shouldn’t dignify that with a response, Ther. Therion: Thank you. Whiney: Hey, I was just kidding. Cat54: So why do you think rose wine isn’t gauche? Therion: It’s a perfect complement for summer foods. RenaQ: We were eating outside under the sunset. Therion: That’s exactly what I mean. Cat54: How romantic. Exactly who is this guy you’re dating, Rena? RenaQ: I’d rather not say. (blush) Cat54: That good huh? Therion: Not as good as me, I bet once I get The Rose. Whiney: Oh, no. Here we go again. Cat54: It was your fault, Whiney. You mentioned the rose wine first. Therion: The Rose is a perfectly good topic. Whiney: When you’re going on and on about it. Therion: It’s rumored to bring power, to help you get what you want. Cat54: All superstition. Whiney: You should get your head checked. Therion: It really can. Whiney: Now you’re sounding like some petulant kid. A sound from the back of the apartment suddenly startled Simone from the conversation on her laptop. She quickly put it down and trotted to the nearby closet to take out her revolver. The cold black metal slightly warmed in her hands and she felt a little comfort. Slowly, she crept toward the back, to the kitchen where the lights were off. Ever so slowly, she edged toward the window and suddenly flung the drapes away and pointed her gun to the pane. But the window was closed and outside, the fire escape was empty. Outside, the moon wa a waning crescent faded by a few oily gray clouds that drifted over it like a veil. There were other buildings across the way, but the windows were all dark, the occupants already snug in their beds. Simone looked down toward the ground and also saw nothing, only the blackness of the pavement as it stared upward. The window latch was still on lock position. She sighed a bit to herself, perhaps it was all in her imagination, that she was far too jumpy. And all the talk of wine in the chat room made her long for a cold draught of something alcoholic. Her hand reached for the refrigerator door when her front door was buzzed, quickly followed by knocking. She shuffled toward the door, looking in the peep hole, hoping it wasn’t some dark phantom. It was Adrian, with a thin leather coat over a white short sleeved shirt and jeans. His long dark hair was not in its customary hold. Instead it cascaded past his shoulders like a midnight waterfall, glistening a bit since he just got out of the shower. In one hand he was holding a square bag and he was looking rather impatient, frowning, his gray eyes darker than usual. Simone tightened her robe and opened the door. “What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?” “And why are you holding that, half-cocked?” he replied, an eyebrow raised. He pushed the door inward and strolled in. “I found something.” “Well, great.” She closed the door again and dropped the revolver onto the table. “So what is it?” “I was just looking at some recent news that was posted online. I’ve got a few printouts.” Simone sat back on the couch and took up her laptop and scanned the conversation. The topic had inexplicably turned to coffee beverages. She logged out and looked up to find that he had unceremoniousy taken a seat next to her and was rummaging in his bag. “You could have e-mailed attachments to me.” “Well, I’m old-fashioned and I like wasting paper.” He finally pulled out a couple sheets with news articles printed. “They’re from the Ridgefield Herald.” “Winchell Randall the third,” she read from the first highlighted section, “member of the Coleman Association and Green Committee donated an unprecedented amount to the Ridgefield University’s humanities department.” She shook her head. “What does this have to do with anything?” “I think Winchell Randall the third may be who we’re looking for.” “You think he’s related to the Randall that Johnson was talking about? Really. Randall is a common last name.” Adrian’s face fell. “I thought...” “Don’t worry about it, you didn’t come here for nothing.” “Oh?” “I’ve been looking into some chat rooms.” “Don’t tell me you’re one of those online geeks.” “Well, what if I am?” she smirked. “Anyway, Danny mentioned some online persona that evidently knows something about The Rose.” “Seems too easy.” “Could be,” she agreed, “but we should follow up any leads we can get, at least until Martinez gets back to us on those name searches. It’s some guy who calls himself Therion.” “Therion, eh? Isn’t that what Alister Crowley called himself?” “Crowley, that early twentieth century wacko, self styled occult master, you mean?” “Yeah, the same one.” “Geez. Okay, so I was about to look up the guy’s profile when you came and barged in.” “What’s stopping you now?” he grinned. “An unholy need to get drunk,” she retorted. “Okay, I guess it’s pretty simple.” A dialogue box popped up on her computer when she clicked on Therion. “Therion. Real name, Randy Sykes. Age, twenty-five. Occupation, student at Ridgefield University. Hmm. He’s making it really easy for us to find him.” “I’d say. But we’re going somewhere, aren’t we?” She nodded. “Although I’m not quite sure how much a mere twenty-five year old would know about an underground organization that’s hundreds of years old.”