Sees All, Knows All, Does What He Can

Five minutes had gone by since Rhiannon, Kris, Connor, and Faith slid the sewer grate back and descended into the hole in the concrete. Hayden had stood nearby and watched; once their heads cleared street level, he squatted down and replaced the metal frame. Then there was nothing for him to do but wait. And with a Marlboro Red smoldering in his left hand, and a comfortable seat on the back of his truck, Hayden Maragos was the picture of patient waiting, unless you knew him.

He scratched his shoulder blade and looked around. The parking lot of the closed KFC was quiet. Once in a while, the wind picked up a piece of litter and scuttled it along the gutters, or he would hear traffic from a few blocks north. The round lump of a necklace in his jeans pocket was the only thing to look at. He pressed his thumb against the shape. If he took it out, it would still be warm from her neck.

Instead he flicked the cigarette on the ground and watched that tendril of smoke drift up and get lost in the wind. It was definitely going to rain. The edge of the street map flapped under his backpack.

Whistler probably should've eaten before pulling into the parking lot at the burnt-out building off of Halsted. Despite its decrepit nature, the taunt of eleven herbs and spices (ten of which were salt) made the Agent's stomach grumble. But his connection with Rhiannon overpowered common sense (when didn't it, Whistler wondered) and so he made haste to her general vicinity upon arriving in the windy city.

He'd missed her by several minutes. The hatted man had a knack of being in the right place, but not necessarily at the right time. He'd been sidetracked to settle a dispute in Blaine, Kentucky (pop. 267 (human) and 14 (Negasi demon)) over property rights. Seems the city council wasn't up for, as they called it, 'foreigners' setting up in the quaint hamlet. It was the first time Whistler quoted the Constitution to them and he was sure he'd gotten at least thirty percent of it wrong but it shamed the Mayor enough to allow a 'trial period'. Something told the Agent it wouldn't be the only border dispute he'd be called to handle anytime soon.

Shutting off the Impala's engine, he caught the shadow of a man sitting on the back of a pick-up, parked next to Rhiannon's car. The short-haired fellow was smoking like a chimney, waiting. A wave of deja vu washed over the Agent. Just who was waiting for whom, anyway?

Shaking out a stick from his own soft-pack, Whistler ambled over. "Missing out, aren't you?" he asked.

( The Lumberjack and the Dwarf )