Outside, snow fell and the spirit of the season was strong. Lazarus was locked up tight in his building, once a swanky hotel. He was alone with only a few lights in the lobby downstairs and a single lamp in his office illuminating the refurbished building.
The depression that he was mired in had begun to take hold about a week ago. Always a stoic person, he had become even more distant than usual, causing his aides to watch him with concern. The stack of papers had grown on his desk and he’d shown no interest in touching them. Dragging himself to the meeting room to be briefed on new cases had become an unendurable chore. Confident that they could handle anything that arose; he had delegated almost all his tasks to the rest of Assistance Unlimited.
It had been Samantha Grace, the pretty, fragile-looking blond member of the team, who had been the first to try and broach their concern about Gray’s odd behavior. She had tiptoed around the subject at first until at last, in exasperation, she had asked him flat-out what was wrong. He had mumbled something about the holidays always reminding him of the things he had lost but they both knew that wasn’t quite the truth.
His routine now revolved around the arrival of the daily mail. It was only each day when Morgan Watts brought up the stack of envelopes and handed them to him that Lazarus showed any glimmer of his old vitality. He would carry the bundle into his office; shut the door behind him, and rifle through the letters, scanning the return addresses on each. When he had confirmed that none of them were postmarked Paris, he would toss them onto the desk, where they merged with the previous days’ relatively untouched deliveries.
The bottle of wine was a new addition to the scene, having been added a few hours ago. Lazarus normally didn’t smoke or drink but he felt the need beginning to rise within him. Morgan always kept a supply of spirits in his quarters and he’d asked no questions when Lazarus had inquired about getting a bottle.
He poured the drink and swished it around in the glass, savoring the aroma. Morgan preferred to drink harder spirits in general but he was a collector of fine wines. From that collection he’d given Lazarus a very good sample.
“To those we’ve loved and lost,” he said sadly toasting alone. “It never gets any easier, does it, Sarah?”
Sarah Dumas had been exchange student when he’d met her during his University days. He had been Richard Winthrop then, a promising young genius who was already attracting the attention of the cryptic organization known as The Illuminati. Before they’d reached out to him and led him down the shadowy paths that would eventually lead to his ‘death’ and ‘resurrection’ as Lazarus Gray, he and Sarah had been lovers. Unlike a lot of other women she’d excited him not just physically but intellectually as well. He could still remember her long dark hair, brown eyes and naughty wit. She’d challenged every principle that he’d held and he’d loved her for it. But when the time had come for her to return to France, she’d refused to even consider staying with him. Despite knowing that he’d likely never see her again, they’d parted on good terms.
In mid-November, he’d happened to be studying the headlines from Europe when a brief news article caught his eye: a young woman named Sarah Dumas had gone missing and her family was worried. It was newsworthy because of her beauty and because, after writing a bestselling novel, she’d become a minor celebrity in Paris.
A week later, a badly decomposed body had been fished from a river and though positive identification had proven nearly impossible, the authorities were convinced that it was Sarah they had found. Lazarus had hurriedly written to all of her haunts that he could remember — and he hadn’t been sure that he’d recalled them all. When he’d first been reborn as Lazarus Gray, his memory of his past had been spotty at best, frustratingly unreliable at worst. It hadn’t improved very much in the months since his past had been revealed to him. He’d hoped against hope that she or one of her sisters would write back, telling him that all was well. He was still waiting.
Now, it seemed like she was another piece of the puzzle that was his past… another piece that would never be slotted back where it belonged.
As Lazarus raised the glass to his lips and prepared to take a sip, there came a soft chiming that indicated that someone was at the front door, requesting entry. He paused and when the chiming came again, he set down the glass without having tasted the wine. He craved the assured numbing effects that the glass would’ve provided. He spun in his chair until he faced a small monitor unit that displayed an image of the person below. He saw a pert young woman, dressed in a knee-length black skirt, matching blouse, a fur coat and heels. A white hat accentuated by a peacock’s feather sat atop her raven curls and she was tightly clutching a medium-sized handbag in her gloved fingers.
Gray depressed a button on bottom of the unit and spoke aloud. The sound of his voice made the woman on the screen jump in surprise. “May I help you?” he asked. He was not in the mood for visitors and was sure his tone expressed it.
The woman looked around in hopes of figuring out where the voice was coming from. Giving up, she merely looked at the door and answered, “My name is Agnes Drake. I desperately need your help. It concerns my sister and is a matter of life and death.”
Gray could tell from the woman’s diction that she was a Northerner and probably came from an upper-class background. He thought about asking her to come back when the others had returned but one look at the worried features on her face made him toss away that notion and briefly emerge from his mood. Feeling sorry for himself and his former lover was doing no one any good. He had dedicated his life to helping those in need and, when push came to shove, he couldn’t ignore that directive. “I’ll open the door for you,” he said lightening his tone. “Please head to the elevators and come to the third floor. You’ll see my office door when you step out.”
Gray turned off the screen before he heard her reply. He flipped the switch that would unlock the front entrance and snatched up the bottle of wine. He shoved the cork back in and hastily stuck it under his desk, his eyes falling upon the glass. He thought about pouring its contents into the potted plant that Samantha had given him for his birthday but decided against it. Morgan would certainly not approve of his wasting his gift. Instead, he yanked open the window, letting in the biting wind and a flurry of snowflakes. He tossed the wine out and set the empty glass back down upon his desk. He’d thank Morgan tomorrow.
He opened the door just as Agnes was approaching. “Good evening,” he said, his eyes fixed on her face. She was remarkably attractive up close, though her beauty was marred by the distress she obviously felt. “Please take a seat,” he advised, gesturing towards one of the chairs that sat facing his crowded desk.
Agnes smiled softly as she sat down. “I’m sorry for bothering you so late — and during the holidays, too.”
“It’s quite all right.” Lazarus resumed his spot behind his desk, his foot bumping against the bottle of wine. It took a tumble and rolled towards the young woman.
“Well, I apologize regardless,” she said, reaching down to pick it up. She studied the label. “I never had a taste for this sort of thing. My father could polish off a bottle in no time flat, though. That’s probably one reason why he died too young.”
Lazarus saw her eyes move to the empty glass on his desk but he said nothing. He didn’t feel any need to apologize for the way things might appear. Besides, there was nothing wrong with a man enjoying a drink in the privacy of his home, was there?