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It was a very nice apartment. There were white walls with many pictures and real paintings on the walls. The living room didn’t have anything to separate itself from the kitchen except for where the hardwood floor met the tile for the kitchen, but otherwise it was a very nice apartment. A wall of windows looked out onto an early morning city that appeared to be New York City in the United States of America planet Earth. I could see, from the corner where I was, the calendar reading March 7^th, 2004, so I wasn’t too far away from when I started this journey, not my journey will ever end.

There came a knock on the front door and a man walked to it. He looked to be about in his late twenties or early thirties with a tall broad body. His hair was dark brown and curly in handfuls of knots. His jaw was square and his body moved in a way that he had to exercise often. His cloths matched the apartment, not inexpensive blue polo shirt and wrinkle free kaki pants. He looked unhappy as he walked to the door to answer it.

“Yes?” He said as he opened the door.

The man on the other side looked very odd. He had a huge head with very large ears and a nose that looked like some child molded it out of clay and stuck it on over a real nose. He was by comparison very short and had a hunched body in a thick trench coat that looked old and worn. When he looked up there were deep wrinkles in his face that either appeared or disappeared. His eyes were a crystal blue that seemed almost unnatural with the rest of his aged face.

“Mr. Moffat?” The man with the huge head asked. “Mr. James Moffat?”

“Yes, and you are?” James asked suspicious.

“My card,” The man with the huge head said handing over a small white rectangle of compressed wood fibers.

James squinted at the cardboard and read out loud, “Shalmir Hoke.” James stopped looking at the card and looked at the man with a big head. “How did you get past the doorman Mr. Hoke?”

Shalmir looked confused for a moment. “There was no doorman Mr. Moffat,” Shalmir said in an accent that was a mixture of different European countries. “May I please come in?”

“That depends on why you’re here to see me Mr. Hoke,” James said suspicious of the little man with the big head.

“I was a friend of your father’s and grandfather’s, and they were able to obtain an antique that at the time I was after,” Shalmir said in a slow voice that sounded like English was not his first language.

“If it is about antiques then you should talk to my brother. He got the money and antiques and I got the business,” James said letting it show as clear as a hand written sign he didn’t like Mr. Shalmir Hoke.

“I did speak with your brother, and regretfully he did not have the pochette, but I was hoping that you had kept some antiques from your father and grandfather.” Shalmir gave a grin that showed stained yellow crooked teeth. The grin gave the old man a look of some kind of monster from a movie come to life and was out looking for souls to suck up.

“Well I’m sorry Mr. Hoke but I do not have anything older than fifty years, and I didn’t get any antiques from my father or my grandfather. Now if you don’t mind this is my only day off, and I have every intention of enjoying it. Good-day,” James said closing the door on the old man.

Was that what I was suppose to see? Neither name Hoke or Moffat meant anything in the past or the future, so why was I watching the two men have a conversation in a doorway? Was this some kind of prelude to a greater story? I didn’t know at the time, but this was a story that the shadows found significant enough for me to conical, and with time I would agree.

I watched James Moffat grab a light coat and then leave his apartment. I knew what was coming. The darkness covered my eyes, and the shadows took me to another place and time. Where they took me was darker than James’s apartment, but much nicer. The entire house spoke of money from the rug on the floor that ranked several thousands of dollars to the crystal chandelier high over the entranceway to the front door.

The bell rang long and low from the front door, but sounded far away and deep into the house. A uniformed butler came to the large red wooden door to open it. James Moffat stood there in the thin coat he had grabbed before, and by his pants I do believe that it was the same day. “Hi Doug,” James said walking into the home and out of the cold. “Is John around?”

“He is in the gaming room, sir,” the butler named Doug said with a thick New Jersey accent. “Would you like me to take your coat?”

“Oh right, sorry,” James said shrugging off his coat and handing it to the eager butler. James headed straight for me. It was just one more example that no one ever sees me. He walked past me so close that I could see the stitches on his shirtsleeve.

“James!” An excited voice said and I turned my head to see who it was. He looked much like James that I had to realize this was some very close relative, probably James’s brother. John was shorter and younger than his brother, but also broader. His haircut cost more than most new cars for the time period, and John’s cloths were so expensive they might have been put up as collateral for a loan. John had an English accent that made him sound like he might have spent his childhood in England.

“Hi John how you been?” James asked as he hugged his brother.

“Oh life rarely changes for me, but it’s been good,” John said. He pulled a pool cue off a wall rack. “Game?” John asked and James nodded. John handed his brother a stick and pulled the rack triangle off the wall.

“Where’s Cassandra?” James asked looking around while his brother racked the balls on the green felt table.

“Oh she and Helen are in Ireland. They’re coming back this afternoon, so I have the whole house to myself this morning,” John said with the balls all lined up in a triangle. “You break,” John said and James took up position. “So how’s the business?”

James didn’t miss a beat as he sent the white ball shooting down to scatter the perfect triangle. “Well it’s not official until the end of the month, but we made thirty-two million dollars,” James said watching the balls shoot out and off bouncing off the sides of the table and some even going into the pockets in the corners and the two along the long sides.

“Is that net or gross?” John asked realizing that it wasn’t his turn yet.

James looked up from the shot he was lining up. His look was one of disappointment. “Do you really think that I would report to the shareholders that we made thirty-two million dollars if it wasn’t net? Do you even read the stock forms we send to you?”

“No,” John said watching the white ball hit a yellow ball, and the yellow ball narrowly missing the side pocket. John looked at his shot and positioned himself. “So you get a very good bonus this quarter do you,” John said mocking his brother.

“Not exactly,” James said watching a green striped ball going into the side pocket. “We’re reinvesting it into the company. The shipping company down the way went out of business so we’re buying two of their ships. Granted we need to retrofit them with better engines and better equipment. Can you believe that they were using radar that was thirty years old?”

“They were union,” John said lining up another shot. “Considering we’re not union, we use the most up to date equipment, and we have mandatory drug testing, I can understand how we made thirty-two million dollars. So how did that other shipping company go out of business?”

James smiled at that. “Their union leaders wanted management pay an extra quarter of percent on the worker’s dental plan. When management didn’t agree to it, the workers walked out on strike. The company couldn’t afford the loss of money, even for the five days of the strike, and went under. Three hundred employees lost their jobs because the union leaders wanted an extra quarter of a percentage paid for dental care deductible. We got their ships real cheep.”

The number of balls on the table quickly dropped in number as John asked, “How many of the laid off employees did you hire?”

“About twenty,” James said, “and you know what I heard, we pay better, and give better benefits than they had before. The only complaint was we don’t give triple overtime on Sundays.”

“Father had a good head on his shoulders when he deiced not to hire union workers,” John said examining another shot. “Of course back then that was risky not to hire union.”

“Speaking of Dad,” James began, “and Grandpa for that matter, have you ever heard of something called a pochette?”

John looked up at his brother with a small shocked look on his face that I had a feeling was exaggerated. “Why brother are you telling me you don’t know what a pochette is?”

James didn’t look amused. “Look, I know Grandpa gave you all his antiques, but we both took the same classes in school, so drop the ‘I am so smart’ act and tell me what you know about a pochette.”

John seemed to have forgotten his pool game and stood up to look at his brother. “Why the sudden interests in something you don’t even know what it is?” John asked.

“Because a man calling himself Shalmir Hoke came by my apartment today and asked about a pochette,” James said. “The doorman didn’t see him enter, and I find that suspicious to begin with. Second this Hoke person said he was friends with Dad and Grandpa, but then said that Grandpa outbid him on a pochette. If that is true, why wait ten years to come by and asked about an antique? The man felt wrong, and I want to know who he is and why he’s after a pochette? So what do you know about a pochette.”

John seemed thinking for a moment. “Did this Hoke person have a large head and an oversized nose?”

“Yeah, and he had ears like dinner plates,” James said leaning against the wall.

John tapped his chin with his pool cue. “That man stopped by here two days ago,” John said serious. “I too got a feeling off the man that something was wrong.”

James wasn’t having any of it. “Drop the dramatic shit and tell me what you know about a pochette.”

“Sorry,” John said his English accent dropping a little, “I didn’t know what a pochette was either until that Hoke person came by. He peeked my interest and I looked into it. Apparently before there were such things as recordings people had to not only take music with them, but also the instrument with which to play it on. Thus the French invented the pochette, and the English stole it and called it the kit. I basically it is a thin short violin that is from thirty centimeters long to fifty centimeters long. It was made so it could be put into someone’s coat pocket, hence the name pochette. From my readings the English found the instrument to be shrill and toneless, but that it was something good to teach how to dance to.”

“Sounds like the English,” James said sarcastically. “They steal something from the French, and when they find out how poor it is they use it for something as mundane as teaching how to dance.”

“It gets better,” John promised his English accent slipping even farther away. “They English may have said that the kit sounded like a dying cat, but the French said the pochette filled one’s mind and soul with overwhelming cords, or that’s about as close as I could get with the translation. The good part is although there are a number of ‘the kit’ instruments around, there are no more pochette instruments left.”

“Come again?” James asked confused.

John was enjoying the fact he was teaching his brother something, or at least acted like it. “From what I’ve found the one person who could make a pochette, and have it sound good, was Jacques Du Mensil. Jacques made pochettes from about 1635 to 1662, and every one of them was sold off for unimaginable prices in France. People paid a king’s ransom to obtain one of these pochettes, but throughout the years every single pochette made by Jacques has either been destroyed or sold.”

“Who bought them?” James asked spinning his cue board.

“The Vatican,” John said nonchalantly.

James echoed my thoughts exactly. “What does the Vatican have to do with a French violin that sounds like fingers on a chalkboard?”

“Not sure exactly,” John said himself concerned about that fact. “Regardless the last recorded pochette in existence was in Poland in 1939. A Jewish family gave their pochette to the Vatican for safe passage to America. From what I’ve read the priests who took the pochette destroyed it right in front of the family by stomping on it, and setting the remains on fire. Thus ends the last known pochette made by Jacques Du Mensil.”

“Except for the one that Shalmir Hoke believes Grandpa had,” James said lost in concentration.

“I can safely say that Grandfather did not have a pochette in his collection,” John said lining up his shot on the pool table again.

“How’s that?”

“I just did an inventory of all the musical instruments that Grandfather left me. I’m renting them out to a museum in Saint Paul, Minnesota. They ship out on Wednesday.”

“You’re charging them to look at old musical instruments that no one has played for fifty years or more?”

“Yes, Grandfather preserved the instruments remarkably well,” John said sinking the last ball.

James on the other hand was lost in thought. “You don’t find it odd that what five days before you move your collection someone comes asking about something that might be in the collection?”

“No,” John said putting his British accent back on.

“Well I do, and I’m going to find out if this Shalmir Hoke really is who he says he is,” James said putting his cue stick back on the wall.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” John asked putting his own stick up.

“He gave me his card,” James said pulling out of his pocket a plastic bag with the card Shalmir Hoke had given him safely inside. “I’m going to ask Sara if she can run the prints on it after we have lunch.”

“Still dating that forensic scientist,” John said sadly with a shake of his head. “You know she came a hair’s breath away from having you arrested for illegal importing.”
“Yeah, but she also proved that my company had nothing to do with it,” James said with a smile as he slipped the card back in his pocket.

“She also has red hair,” John said as if that explained it all.

“Oh yeah, I love red hair,” James said making me realize that John had explained it all.

“Well feel free to come by next weekend,” John said.

“Why are you having another party?” James asked sarcastically.

“No Cassandra and Helen would love to see you,” John said with a grin, “besides Cassandra loves it when you give her piggyback rides. Trust me if you and Sara ever have kids I know you’ll be a great father.”

James shook his head. “Me, a father, is about as likely as you finding a job,” James said joking with his younger bother.

“Hey with Father’s and Grandfather’s money earning the amount of interest they are, I make money just by being alive,” John said seeing his brother to the door. Doug gave James his coat back and then the shadows took me.

The apartment was defiantly a woman’s. There were dried flowers in cheep vases on low white tables. There was so much air in the nearly entirely white room that I almost expected to see a white cloud roll by. What I did see walk by was a stunning woman with flaming red hair. It was cut so that it just barely fit into a ponytail she wore it in. Her skin was tan like she had been sunning herself on a beach for the past week. She had on thick looking wire rim glasses, and her cloths were a bit too baggy. She may have a great body, but she didn’t show it, not even a hint.

“Ready to go?” James asked coming into the living room.

“Hold on, I have to find my spare glasses,” the woman I presumed to be Sara said.

“You look fine without glasses,” James called out.

“Thanks but I may look good without them, but I wouldn’t be able to see that,” Sara said finally walking back into the living room. “So where are we going for lunch?”

“You can pick,” James said letting the word trail off, “and then after lunch I kind of have a favor to ask of you.”

“Okay, but I won’t swallow,” Sara said smiling.

It took James a moment to figure out what she was talking about. “Oh, OH! No, I mean, well can I get a rain check on that?”

“Sure,” Sara said walking up to James and he wrapped his arms around her. They oddly enough were about the same height and they kissed like they were made for each other. “So what was the favor you wanted?”

“What?” James said as if he had completely forgotten what he wanted, he might have. “Oh right, I was wondering if you could get a fingerprint off a person’s card?”

“Well that depends,” Sara said getting out from under James’s arms. “It depends on the texture of the card, how much oil he or she had on the ridges of the print, and yes I can. I had you going for a moment didn’t I?”

“Okay I’ll admit it, you did,” James said pulling out the card in the bag.

“Oh this’ll be easy,” Sara said looking at the card. “You know what I love about you? You’re not too big to admit you don’t know everything. You have to come too little old me for help.” She sounded like a little girl at the end and James came up to her and again took her into his arms and kissed her.

“You’re not little, you’re not old, and I’ll always need your help,” James said.

“Good,” Sara said kissing him back. “We can hit the lab, go to lunch, and when we’re done we might get a name.”

“Sounds like a good idea, and then I’ll take you up on that offer even if you won’t swallow,” James said following the red head out the door even if she did give him an elbow to the ribs. Then the shadows took me.

The room was dark and smelled of chemicals that would be banned in another fifty years. The door opened and in walked Sara and James as Sara turned on the lights. From the shadows I looked around the room. There were photographic equipment stands all over, and tables with elaborate lightings all in one corner. There was a human size tube that would lead to a dark room. In one corner was a large computer with many wires snaking up the wall from behind the CPU, monitor, keyboard, and scanner. Sara walked straight to a large wooden cabinet with one wall completely of Plexiglas.

“Card,” Sara said not looking behind her and having her open palm over her shoulder. I think she was trying to act like a doctor.

James put the bag with the card into her hand. Sara picked up tweezers from the table and carefully extracted the slim cardboard. “I think he touched the back of the card with his thumb,” James offered.

“Good to know,” Sara said opening the Plexiglas door and carefully putting the card into a small paperclip. She then opened a small box next to the cabinet. “You might want to step back. This is iodine and I’m going to vaporize it. You may not think that something you put on a cut would harm you, but you really shouldn’t breathe this stuff.”

“It smells that bad?” James asked.

“No it’s toxic,” Sara said and I laughed, not that anyone heard me.

“So how long does this take?” James asked.

“How long does what take?” Sara asked.

“Finding a print,” James said like he didn’t enjoy the game that Sara was playing.

“What on the card?”

“Of course on the card what else are you looking for a print on?”

“Well I just wanted to be clear on what we were looking for and on what.”

“You seriously confuse me sometimes, you know.”

“Well actually I’m stalling for time,” Sara said, “because the print just came up. Oh and it’s a beauty of a loop.” She clicked on a small fan and the toxic vapors were pulled someplace else.

“Is a loop rare?” James asked as Sara opened the cabinet and pulled the card out with the tweezers.

“No,” Sara said in a way only a scientist could when talking about a discovery that he or she didn’t understand yet. She walked over to a digital camera hooked up to a computer, and she pressed one button and the beast came to life. “Now all we need to do is take a shot of this, feed it into AFIS and we’ll eat.”

“Where?” James asked.

“There’s that great little chicken place around the block if you don’t mind the owner’s dog crawling around underfoot begging for scraps,” Sara said looking through the camera and taking a shot.

“Whatever happened to that soup place we went to that one time?” James asked.

“Closed down due to health violations,” Sara said feeding the image into the computer. “I didn’t ask too many questions but apparently someone didn’t check too closely what kind of meat was being put into the chili or the minestrone soup.”

“I really didn’t need to hear that,” James said looking over Sara’s shoulder. “I really did like the broccoli and cheese soup I had.”

“Oh sure don’t get me wrong they had good food, but when you ask about spices, rat droppings shouldn’t be on the list of ingredients,” Sara said starting the AFIS program and turning off the monitor. “So chicken it is?”

“Chicken it is,” James conceded and the two walked out the door leaving the computer running.

The shadows took me, but not far, either in time or space, for I was back in the lab. The lights were only half on and the computer was still humming away. I could clearly hear the voices of Sara and James coming closer, and they were in for a surprise. Not only did they not know they were being watched by me, but they also didn’t know there was someone waiting for them in the lab. He was sitting down in the shadows so even I couldn’t see him, but the sat looking at the door waiting.

“Burned on the outside and raw in the middle is not what I consider cooked,” James said as Sara opened the door and turned on the lights.

“Miss Carmon?” The man who had been sitting in the dark asked. He stood up and I could clearly see the bulge under his arm. The gray half wool suit was cheap and looked a little too big for him. His tie looked like a child had picked it out for him. His shoes were polished to a high shine. His hair was filled with shirt gray curls. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles and potholes with a broken nose thrown in for character.

Sara was taken a little aback by this but said timidly, “Yes?”

“My name is special agent Johns of the CIA. You ran a fingerprint earlier through AFIS?” He asked with a gruff voice that made him sound older than he looked.

Sara looked at James and him at her. They were both confused and worried. It showed on their faces. “Yes I did,” Sara said to Johns.

“I would like to know where you got that print from,” Johns demanded softly.

“From him,” Sara said jerking her thumb at James. I had a feeling James suddenly felt betrayed at that point. I would have.

“Any you are?” Johns asked James.

“A private citizen,” James responded less than forthcoming.

“I would like to know how you got the print and why you had it run through AFIS,” Johns said trying to keep his cool, and doing a good job of it.

“And I would like to know why you would like to know,” James responded. “First off just so we all know where we stand how about some ID?”

Johns took a deep breathe through his nose and let it out through his mouth. I had a feeling that he really wanted to go for his gun, but when he put his hand in his coat pocket he came out with a billfold. Sara took it, opened it and looked at it. She even pulled the card out and looked closely at it.

“Thorough isn’t she,” Johns said to James almost like a joke.

“It’s real,” Sara said to James, “I think.”

“That’s good enough for me,” James said to his girlfriend. He turned to face special agent Johns. “The print came from a card that was given to me by a man calling himself Shalmir Hoke.”

“When was this?” Johns asked.

“This morning,” James said and there was the slightest tensing of muscles in Johns’ face.

“Did you got to him or did he come to you?”

“He came to me.”

“About what?”

“An antique.”

“What kind of antique?”

“The kind I’m not going to tell you until you tell me what this is all about,” James said crossing his arms across his chest in defiance. Sara looked at him sharply like it wasn’t proper to tell the CIA to piss off.

Johns narrowed his eyes at James. “I don’t believe I caught your name, Mr.?”

James looked at the man for a long moment then said flatly, “James Shakespeare Moffat.”

The two men looked at each other you could almost see the waves of testosterone coming off the two. Their eyes were like burning coals as they looked at each other trying to stare the other down. It was the CIA man who broke first, because he blinked, and then realized that the game was up. He looked away and took his ID back from Sara, who was still holding it.

“The man’s name is not Shalmir Hoke,” Johns said. “His Christian name is Luke K. Smith, and he funds international terrorism. He’s given money to every country the US doesn’t want money given to.”

“So what’s his story?” James asked taking a seat on one of the high stool. Sara and Johns also sat down, but in computer chairs.

Johns sighed and let out a breath relaxing in the chair. “Almost forty years ago Smith was a priest working in Switzerland. From what we know he used private confessions to him to gain access to money that is kept there in Switzerland. Well when the Vatican learned of this they called him back to Rome. It was then, just before they kicked him out, he stole some of the Vatican’s forbidden knowledge. As you can imagine they haven’t exactly been very forthcoming about what was stolen, but they mention some of the works dealt with cursed antiques.”

“That’s explains a great deal,” James said thinking out loud.

“At this point all the CIA wants to do is catch the guy,” Johns said, but he cut his words off short. It was like he wanted to finish out the why part but didn’t.

“And you want my help,” James said, “You’ve got it.”

“Good,” Johns said standing with a grunt, “Let’s go up and talk with the local PD.” Then the shadows took me.

It was getting late and there were darker than normal shadows in the room with one wall completely made of glass, with bars on the inside and out. The floor was hard and cold linoleum and the walls were some kind of white foam tiles. A large heavy metal table sat in the middle of the room while six metal chairs with a minimal amount of padding on them were scattered about. On the table was a large tape recorder and around that three men running it, one sitting down. Two men in thick heavy suits almost hiding the guts they had on them looked bored, but they had to be the detectives on the case. Special Agent Johns stood there, looking tired, as well as James and Sara.

“Now do you have any ideas how to get this guy out into the open?” Johns asked James.

“I think I can sell that,” James said taking the phone from the technician running the tape recorder. The tech punched in the phone number from the card and there was a moment’s pause.

“Mr. Hoke? This is James Moffat, we met earlier today,” James said into the phone. “I talked with my brother about the pochette you were asking about, and well yes we found it, but I’m not sure you’d want it. It’s in very poor condition. Apparently my grandfather didn’t enjoy the sound it made enough to preserve it well. If you’re willing to negotiate a price I’d like to meet you somewhere. I’ll bring pictures of the pochette to show you the condition it is in, and then we’ll talk money.”

Johns held up a card and James looked at it. “How does Old Billy’s pub in two hours sound? Right I’ll meet you there, be seeing you,” James carefully set down the phone, and everyone let out a breath they had been holding. Sara rubbed James’s arm tenderly.

Johns shook hands with the detectives, “The CIA appreciates the cooperation you’re giving. If you’ll excuse me I have to go report to my superiors about the situation.” Johns left and I think everyone was glad he did.

“Oh sure we do all the work and the CIA gets the credit,” One of the detectives said, “That’s fair.”

“What the hell’s a pochette?” The other detective asked James. Then the shadows took me.

I was brought back just in time to see the techs taping a microphone to James’s chest. Just then the door opened and in walked a small mousy looking man. “Um sorry,” he said, “but is there someone here named Mo.... Mof…”

“Moffat?” James asked, and got a nod from the mousy man, “That’s me.”

“Do you have relatives at 7320 Rook Road?”

“Yes my brother and his family live there,” James replied worried.

“You might want to sit down,” the mousy man said softly, “I’m afraid there was a break in about an hour ago. Six people were shot and killed, and two were the home owners one was their daughter. I’m so sorry.”

James sank down into the chair he was not sitting in and had a shocked expression on his face. He looked from the mousy man to Sara and there was a look in his eyes like he wanted to ask why. The color was gone from his face and I think there were tears filling his eyes making them shiny and bright.

“I just heard,” Special Agent Johns said coming into the room. He looked at the mousy man, “Let me guess they were shot and then shot again in the left temple.”

“Yes,” The mousy man said looking at James as if such a thing should be spoken elsewhere.

“That’s Smith’s signature, to make sure the person is dead,” Johns said without regard to who was around.

“I said it,” James croaked out. Sara hugged him. “I said that my brother and I found it, and he thought that I meant it was at John’s house. Oh my God I killed them!” I was thankful to the powers that be when at that moment the shadows took me.

On countless times at countless places I have been forced to watch people die in the worst possible ways. I’ve seen people tortured to death, and their screams fill my mind. I’ve watched people die in fires as their skin blisters, cracks, and burns, and eventually they fall and no longer move except for the bubbling of their flesh, but I am untouched, physically. Why the shadows didn’t take me to witness the shootings, like in my past was most unusual.

When again I could see I was in an office, a very nice office. The off white carpet was very plush. The furniture was wood and leather, and very expensive. The two book shelves on the far wall were made of real wood, as well as the grandfather clock between them. The desk James Moffat was working at looked like real oak, and if the desk calendar was accurate it was now May 14, 2004, a Friday. James looked like a man who was getting over an illness that almost killed him. His face was pale, his hair was not as neat as it could have been, and he appeared to be limp as if his muscles weren’t as strong as they once were.

The phone on his desk rang, and without looking up from his papers, James picked up the phone, “Moffat.” There was a pause before James spoke again, “No I haven’t. Yes I still have your number. To be honest with you Special Agent Johns you would be my second call. My first call would be to an ambulance after beating Luke Smith into a bloody pulp! If you catch him I just want five minutes alone with the guy, then you can send in the EMT. If there’s nothing else I have work to do, good-by.” James almost slammed the phone down, but stopped himself and rested it gently into its cradle.

“Who was that?” A woman asked walking into the office. She was about of average height, with an average face, and wavy brownish hair with blond highlights. She had on a blue suit dress, but it did show off her curved body that looked younger than she did. She had to be in her mid to late forties, but she tried to look younger.

“Sorry Barbara, did I leave the intercom on?” James asked pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning back in his chair.

“No I could hear you through the door, and the wall, and the ventilation,” She said with a smile. “I have the mail for today.”

“Thanks,” James said taking the envelopes from the woman. Then his expression changed, “Barbara you’ve worked here for a number of years, right?”

She blushed. “I’d rather not say my age, but let’s say it’s more than twenty-five, and I did start when I was eighteen, so you can do the math,” She said not fooling anyone.

James sighed as if doing the math in his head was tiring. “So you would have been around when my father or grandfather ran things, right?”

“Oh sure those two were always trying to be fresh with me,” Barbara said with a distant smile. “I was quite a looker back then.”

“You still are,” James said with a smile and she smiled back. “What I wanted to ask was, were there any antiques that my grandfather might have left here? I mean at the business that you know of?”

Barbara thought for a moment. “I can’t say there were any,” She said and then acted like she gave up. “I mean your granddad was always shipping antiques out and in, but I don’t think he ever kept any here, unless you count that grandfather clock?” Barbara said jerking her thumb at the clock between the bookshelves.

James just looked at the clock like it was the first time he had seen it. The face was a shiny brass, with a glass front for the hands and another for the hanging implements, and the long pendulum swung back and forth behind the glass keeping almost perfect time. It stood just over six feet tall, and the wood was stained a very dark brown like it still had its bark on it. The time was just before ten o’clock and the hands were closing in by the second, minute, and hour.

“Thank you Barbara,” James said not taking his eyes off the clock. “Do I have anything else scheduled for the rest of the day?”

“Only you wanted to finish the inventory list, but you did say you were taking Sara out to some movie tonight,” Barbara said.

“Right, right, thanks, I’ll call if I need you,” James said standing and looking at the clock. Barbara stopped at the doorway and looked at her employer. I wonder what was going through her mind, but she was out the door before I could read any expression on her face.

James opened the glass door and stopped the pendulum from swinging. He felt around on the inside of the cabinet for a while. I could just imagine his fingers feeling every imperfection and small lump on the inside. He put his arms in and around the internal workings of the clock and I heard the brass weights clang against the pendulum. Finally he brought out his arms and looked disappointed. He opened the glass door over the face of the clock and carefully polled the metal face off. Behind, if there was anything other than springs, cogs, and sprockets, there appeared to be nothing of interest.

James took a step back to look at the clock that was taller than he was. There was a small metal decorative iron ring on the top of the peak of the top of the clock. He pulled on it, and found it solid. Then he fingered the ring some more and it started to unscrew. He turned the ring, and turned it, and turned it, and a very long threaded bar finally came loose and James had to strain to pull the long rod out from the top of the clock. James grabbed a chair and stood on it as he carefully pulled the top of the clock off.

A look of confusion crossed his face a he looked down. As if he knew what he was doing he pulled at something. I couldn’t see what at first but then he pulled up a long thin board of highly stained wood. He pulled up on the board until it almost reached the ceiling and as close to the height of the clock itself. We both heard it, something fell, but not metal or wood. It sounded like solid paper of some kind falling to the carpet. James looked around for the sound and then looked behind the clock. He slowly set the board back into place and put the top on. On the floor, on his side, with his arm disappearing behind the clock he strained to get at what made the paper sound. When he came free he was holding what looked like an old manila envelope the size that an entire page of paper could be put into without folding the paper.

James took the packet back to his desk and carefully pulled the flap open. He looked inside and a curious look came over his face. Obviously what was in the envelope was not a pochette, but whatever it was, it was important enough to hide it. James let what was inside slide onto his desk, and it was obviously not a pochette, but pictures. The top picture would have given anyone pause to make sure they were seeing what they were seeing. There was a side view of a woman holding a very large 0.45 revolver in her outstretched hands, and even thou the gun was pointed slightly down it didn’t look any more menacing. She had on a pair of what looked like denim jeans, one of the early kinds. She also had on a huge gun belt that is where the 0.45 must have been held. Above the waist she had on a cowboy hat, and nothing else. Her round breasts were bare and exposed for the world to see. The black and white photograph was yellow with age, and it was slightly out of focus. The thousand words this photo was saying were all questions.

The next two photographs were one taken one after the other. On the slim pieces of paper were depicted three women, two blonds and one relatively tall brunet. Their hair styles, makeup, and braziers would put the picture somewhere in the prohibition years. It looked like they might have been in someone’s home with the fireplace in the background, or it could have been a very nice speak-easy. The second of the two photographs were of the same women,

minus their bras and the skirts they had been wearing. With legs crossed and smiles on their faces the only other things they had on were their garter belts and stockings. By the looks of things they were sitting in front of the fireplace they had just before been standing before.

The next photograph made James shout out his opinion, “MOM!” The slim brunet with big breasts had on panties, high heeled shoes, and a shocked expression on her face. Her mouth and eyes were open wide with shock, and her arm was up as if to defend herself. She was on the top part of a king size bed that was still made so by the looks she was backing up and had landed on the pillow of the bed. From what she was trying to fight off was not depicted in the photo, but by my guess she didn’t like whoever was taking the picture. James sat back looking at the four photographs on his desk. His finger to his lip he was obviously thinking. Was it about the fact there was a picture of his mother next to naked obviously less than enjoying herself. The photograph of the cowgirl was also interesting for the fact it was old, and at the time those kinds of photographs took time to make, develop, and then process. The three women looked like they were happy to be where they were, even if James’ mother wasn’t in her picture. Clearly these photographs were timelines indicating something, and the question was, did it have anything to do with the pochette. He slid the photographs back into the envelope, either because he didn’t want to look at them anymore, or he couldn’t.

He opened his desk drawer and I saw a bottle of something that would have been illegal fifty years before. James bypassed the bottle of liquor and went for something next to it. It was a large piece of brown leather about the size of a folder, and I had no idea what it could have been used for. Yet what James Moffat used it for was to get the clock out from between the shelves.

He crouched down with the leather sheet and carefully tipped the grandfather clock back. He slid the leather under the feet of the clock, and then carefully tipped the clock forward again and fed some of the leather under the back feet. He breathed getting ready and then slowly and carefully he slid the entire clock forward using the leather as a slide. Centimeter by centimeter the large tower of wood, glass, and brass moved forward out of the channel that was its home. Finally it was moved out to the point James could stand behind the clock.

The shadows moved me behind the clock so I could see James again remove the top of the clock and the board he had moved. The board spanned the entire length and width of the back of the clock, and was stained to match the rest of the clock’s wood. James slid the false back up and up and up showing another piece of wood that must have been the real back of the clock. The board fit smoothly into grooves and amazingly the whole thing moved like it was oiled. James had some problems when he got to the very top of the clock with the board, but there was an incentive. Something was wrapped in an oiled cloth, and unless the board was completely removed there was no way to get at the item wrapped in cloth.

James carefully tipped the clock forward, and we both heard brass hit glass, but nothing sounded like it had shattered or cracked, so he continued. The last bit of the board came out and what was hidden in the clock for decades was there for the taking. It was about the length from the crook of one’s elbow to where the fingers of the hand would separate, the proper length for a pochette. It was also no wider than a person’s palm, the proper width for a pochette. James swallowed and his hand was shaking when he reached out for the oiled cloth. The item was at a slight angle and wedged the length and height of the gear works of the clock. There was odd looking packing, I think it might have been asbestos, holding the cloth in place. James touched the cloth and then like a child with a butterfly carefully lifted it out.

With hurried steps he walked to his desk and set the item down. He looked around, as if someone was spying on him, and then quickly shut the blinds to the windows. Faster than he took it out, he put the board back in the clock. He put the top back on, and screwed the loop back, and slid the clock back where it was. James tipped the clock and removed the leather item. Now things looked like nothing had happened, unless you looked at James’s stressed out face.

“James,” Barbara said from the doorway to the office. It was such a simple word, but it was poor timing and James jumped up from his chair. “I’m sorry,” Barbara said giggling a little, not knowing the stressful situation at the moment, “I just wanted to let you know I’m taking an early lunch. I have to go home.”

James had composed himself and he looked at his secretary. “Is something wrong,” James asked almost concerned.

“You can’t tell?” Barbara inquired.

“Tell what?”

“I got ink on my suit.”

“Where?”

“On the leg here.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Well I do, and I’m going home to change, and wanted to let you know the calls will come directly to you,” Barbara said looking at the nearly invisible ink spot on her dark blue suit.

“Thanks for the warning,” James called after his secretary as she walked out the door. She didn’t even notice the cloth wrapped item on the desk, or the old envelop either.

With a capped pen in hand James carefully removed the cloth from the long thin item. The cloth was old and brittle and it tore when the clip on the pen even barely caught it. Then the first hint of something was evident when wood peaked out from behind the folds. It wad dark and stained and the grains and rings were clearly seen. James oh so carefully opened the rest of the cloth and there was the pochette.

The volute, the part above the tuning pegs, was a small head of a woman with wide eyes and an open mouth like the images of a fetish doll. There was no bout, or waist, to speak of but one long smooth bulge for the hollow cavity of the thin violin. There were two thin small F-holes made in the distinct French curve that let the sound out. The wood looked to be Maple wood stained dark and in very good condition. The fingerboard looked to be tortoiseshell well used, but still in remarkable condition. Everything else appeared to be Ivory, even if the tuning pegs were a tad yellowed by age. Not surprising there were no strings on the pochette, but under it there was a bow tucked underneath but it didn’t have its hair.

James carefully picked it up and turned it over. There was one small inscription on the very bottom near the tail gut that looked like the initials JDM. I had no doubt they stood for Jacques Du Mensil the legendary maker of pochettes. He did give it a little shake, but there was nothing rattling around on the inside, a good sign. James gave the instrument a very close look, and seemed satisfied. He then picked up the bow and looked it over carefully. I guess dating a forensic scientist gave him a new respect for examination of items.

James less carefully, but still careful, wrapped the pochette and the bow back up in the oiled cloth and carefully laid it down into a drawer in his desk. What was so special about that wooden box I wondered? Why was it worth the lives of six people? What reason did his grandfather or father have for hiding it in a grandfather clock? What was the connection between the pochette and the pictures, one of which was James’s mother? I had a feeling that James was thinking the same questions.

From his desk he pulled out a thick phonebook and started flipping through the pages. He found what he was looking for and started making calls, “Hi, I was wondering do you have strings for a violin called ‘the kit’ by any chance.” The shadows took me.

James was back at his desk but this time he was working, but on something no one had worked on for decades, the pochette. There were four plastic bags with the name Pyramid Strings printed on them, and I had to guess that in each bag was a different pochette string. One bag was larger and had the words ‘Bow Ribbon’ on it, and sure enough the bow was now tight with hair spanning its length.

James carefully tightened the peg and the string was tight against the bridge. He did this with each of the four strings until they were tight. James plucked at each string with the pochette close to his ear listening to the sound. I had a feeling that the dear man had tuned a violin before. Then when he had adjusted the pegs to the tension he wanted he put the pochette down. Now I had a feeling was the moment of truth.

James stood up and went out the door, and the shadows made me follow. I was in the secretary’s dimension now. There were large stuffed chairs along one wall next to the door, and the other wall was taken up by a large leather couch. Barbara’s desk was an ‘L’ shape desk in the corner with a monitor on top of a small stand and the keyboard on its own sliding table under the wood desk. There were your typical knickknacks of a secretary’s job, of a scanner, printer, copier, fax machine, label maker, phone with three dozen buttons, and various little personal items like a plant on the window sill, and a picture of children on the wall.

Barbara slid the keyboard under the desk when James walked in. She was now wearing a gray suit jacket that was so large on her it covered the short skirt she had on. Even for her age she still had a great body and the stockings and black high heeled shoes she had on accented it. She crossed her legs while she swiveled in her chair to look at her boss. “Hi James how was lunch?” She asked sounding not really concerned.

“I picked this up,” James said showing her the pochette.

“What is it?” Barbara asked curious.

“It’s a pochette,” James said proud of himself like a child looking for a mother’s approval.

Barbara smiled at James, but there was something in her eyes, was it fear? “Well that’s nice, I’m glad to see you’re spending your money other than hording it for no good reason,” Barbara smiled.

“Tell me how it sounds,” James asked his secretary. He seemed hesitant but then he put the pochette into the crook of his elbow and then with his other hand brought the bow to it. The sound it made might have been described as a mixture of metal scraping on metal, fingernails on a chalkboard, and a newborn crying with a sore throat. It was awful beyond all imagining and to call what came out as music would have been impossible.

Barbara on the other hand seemed to relax and enjoy the worst than death sound. Her body relaxed as her arms fell to the arms of the chair she was sitting in. Her crossed legs even seemed to loose tension as her eyes were transfixed on James and the pochette. James thou, thankfully, stopped his playing, but still his secretary was relaxed and in awe.

“Maybe I didn’t tune it correctly,” James said looking down at the instrument. He then looked up at his secretary and saw her expression. “Barbara? Barbara are you okay, say something?”

“Something,” the woman responded as if drugged. James took the one step over and gave her shoulder a little shake and she seemed to snap out of it. She blinked her eyes and looked around as if she didn’t know where she was. Then a smile crossed her face, “That was beautiful.”

I do believe that James and I were thinking the same thing. What was she talking about? Maybe she was humoring him, but she didn’t act like it. Was this like the siren’s song?

“Let me try again,” James said brining the bow up.

“Oh please do, that pochette is great,” Barbara said excited.

James again strung the bow across the strings and this time he even touched the strings with his finger making the nails on a chalkboard sound diminish slightly. Barbara on the other hand relaxed even more, but her mouth stayed closed as she gazed up at James. “I don’t like this thing very much,” James said over the music, “but if you think it’s the bomb I won’t question it.” He thankfully stopped playing and Barbara stayed motionless. “So what do you think of my little instrument?” James asked.

In a flat toneless voice Barbara answered, “It’s the bomb.”

I have to give James credit he is quick on his feet. After all he had done this before. “Barbara, tell me what you had for lunch?” James asked.

“I had a chicken salad with a diet coke,” She said in a low monotone voice.

“Was it good?” He asked.

“Not really, I wished I had dressing on it,” She said.

James paused for a moment then said, “You did have dressing on the salad, Thousand Island dressing, and the salad tasted wonderful.” James leaned over and gave Barbara a little shake. She again snapped out of it and smiled up at him. “Say Barbara what did you have for lunch?” James asked.

“Why did I get some on me?” Barbara asked searching her clothing.

“None that I can see, but I’m just curious,” James answered.

“I had a chicken salad with Thousand Island dressing,” Barbara said sounding almost happy.

“Was it good?”

“It tasted wonderful,” Barbara responded grinning widely.

James played more on the pochette and Barbara’s face slackened, but her mouth remained closed unlike the figurehead on the pochette. “Barbara when I snap my fingers you will stand up take off all your cloths, except for your shoes and stockings, and then sit back down in your chair. You will not see or hear me or anything I do while you are doing this. As soon as you sit back down in your chair you will fall asleep, and will not awaken until I buzz you with the intercom. You will forget all about what happened here.” James stopped playing and with the bow under his arm he snapped his fingers.

Barbara went from gazing up at him to finally in motion. She stood and unbuttoned her jacket taking it off with a shrug she tossed it on the couch. She unbuttoned her blue silk blouse and tossed it on top of the jacket. The white bra went next with the flick of two small hooks. Her very short skirt was unbuttoned and slid down. It was a little shock to me to find she wasn’t wearing any panties, but her hoes were thick enough to hide anything. She did have a good body with full breasts and small nipples. There was a small amount of fat around her middle, but not much, and there were stretch marks on her sides most likely from her kids. Wish grace she sat back down in her chair, crossed her legs opposite from before, and dropped off to sleep.

James looked at her, and got a close up look at her chest. I would have done the same thing, if I could move from the shadows. James grinned so wide I think his face would split apart, and then walked into his office. I watched the sleeping woman, until the intercom buzzed, and she woke up. She jumped out of her chair and looked down at herself. She looked like she wanted to touch her body, but her hands were arched back way from her skin.

“Barbara could you bring in that micro cassette recorder, and put a blank tape in it,” James’s voice from the desk top communicator asked.

“Um, it might take me a few minutes,” Barbara said grabbing up her cloths and quickly getting them on, and the shadows took me.

James was in his office and he was again plucking at the strings of his pochette to tune it. Barbara walked in with a micro cassette recorder in hand. She walked in put the recorder on his desk and just looked at him, and the pochette. “What’s that?” Barbara asked indicating the pochette.

James looked up at her almost surprised. “It’s a pochette,” he said sounding almost proud.

“Oh, it looks exotic,” She said turning to leave.

James picked up the bow and dragged it across the strings. The ear piercing sound filled the office, and Barbara stopped cold in mid step. Her arms were in mid swing, and stayed there. It was as if the sound of the pochette froze her in place and opened her mind to any command. What magnificent power such a small musical instrument the pochette was.

“Barbara,” James said to his secretary, “when I snap my fingers you will go back to your desk, and sit down. You will forget waking up naked. You will forget I told you to bring me the recorder. You will also forget that you ever saw this pochette. You’ll forget you even came into my office. You forget the last few minutes ever happened.” James paused looking at the still woman for a long moment. Then he raised his fingers, and snapped them making the woman move again.

James opened the micro cassette recorder, I guessed to check that there was a tape inside, and set it down again on his desk. He pressed the red button on the recorder and then quickly picked up the bow and played as close to a tune as possible. It sounded familiar but I couldn’t place the song he was trying to replicate. Obviously the pochette would never be in any kind of orchestra, if not for the horrible sound, but the lack of the ability to make a tune.

James stopped the tape and rewound it. He pressed his intercom, “Barbara, I’m going to take a little nap, would you buzz me and tell me to wake up in ten minutes.”

“Sure thing,” Barbara said sounding happy and having no knowledge of what was going on.

James picked up the recorder, and he pressed the play button. The sound of the pochette came over the small speaker, and sounded just as bad. James looked down at it, and cocked an eyebrow. He obviously was not entranced like Barbara was, so I guessed that it didn’t work. I was wrong because James stopped the tape, rewound it, and went out to see Barbara.

I could see through the open door Barbara looked up at her boss. “Couldn’t sleep?” She asked, and James pressed the button. Barbara went silent and frozen in her chair.

“Wake up.” James said to his secretary, “I gave up on the nap. Would you tell Debora I want to go over the blueprints for the new engines in the dark room in thirty minutes?”

“Sure thing,” Barbara said. The shadows took me.

I think I know why James called it the dark room. Three of the walls of the room had windows in them, but they were dark from being painted black. The floor was wood and the table in the middle of the room was a wood table polished to a mirror shine. On the table was a stack of blueprints. The chairs were wood as well, and I was curious if I was still in the same building that held James’s office. The woman in the room looked distinctly French. Her face was round and flat with a nose that seemed to stretch her entire face. She was about forty years old with brown hair, and brown eyes. She had on a black jacket over a white triangle lapel blouse that showed some cleavage, and a black skirt, and shiny pantyhose.

“Hi Debora,” James said coming into the room.

“Hello sir,” Debora said in a thick French accent, “I brought the designs as requested. What did you want to go over?”

James smiled and pulled out the cassette recorder and pressed the play button. The sound of the pochette came out, and Debora froze in place of about to turn the page. James looked at her as the tape played. He smiled and said in a clear voice over the music, “Debora take off your jacket and blouse, but until I say otherwise act as if you are fully clothed.” Debora stood up from the chair she was sitting in and slowly unbuttoned her jacket. She pulled her arms out of the sleeves and tossed the black fabric onto a far chair. She then quickly unbuttoned her white blouse and pulled it too free from her arms. Her bra was white, and more covered her breasts than cupped them. She just stood there as the last of the pochette sounded from the recorder.

“Wake up,” James said snapping off the recorder. “I understand that there may be a question about the power produced by the engines?”

“Yes sir,” Debora said leaning over the prints, “there may not be enough electrical power produced by the engines to run everything needed on the ship.” Thankfully the shadows took me. I don’t even pretend to understand all that technical talk.

“So how was your day?” James asked Sara in her apartment. She was dressed like she was either going out or just coming back. Sara was leaned over in the refrigerator rooting around.

“It was pure hell,” She said coming out with two bottled waters in hand. “To be honest if I scan in one more finger prints I swear I’ll kill someone. How was your day?”

“Not bad,” James said accepting the offered water, “I found the pochette.”

Sara stopped in mid sip of her water and looked at him. “You’re joking,” She declared.

“Nope,” James said with a smile, “and I found out why people want it so badly.”

Sara seemed to contemplate this and put her hand to her chin looking at James. “Okay I’ll play your game, why do people want it so badly?” Sara asked.

“I could make you guess,” James said smiling at her, “but you’d never get it, and I could make you do anything with it.”

“It produces endorphins in the brain?” Sara guessed.

“If I had any idea what endorphins were I would probably say no,” James said smiling. He silently walked around to the back of the couch and pulled up his brief case. It was a nice brown leather case that looked just like the one I use to have when I was human. He undid the combinations locks and snapped them open. Like cradling a newborn baby he brought out the old cloth with what I had no doubt what was inside. He carefully put the pochette down on a table and unwrapped it.

“That’s it?” Sara said very confused. “I guess I expected it to be bigger.”

“Well the word pochette does mean pocket,” James said to his girl.

“Okay,” Sara said sounding just as confused, “then wow it’s big. Thank the man who invented MP3 players.”

“Here’s to that,” James said and then grinned at Sara, “Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure, but we’re going to the movies later right?” Sara asked not knowing what she was saying.

“We’ll see,” James said picking up the pochette. “Ready?”

“Sure play something fun,” Sara requested. James put the bow against the strings and strung them. Sara’s face went slack and her body froze looking at pochette. Her elegant dress hung off her slack frozen body.

James cleared

his throat and put the pochette. “Sara,” James started, “you will go into a state of mind where you will think, say, do, feel, believe, remember, or forget whatever I tell you when you hear me say Southernbread.” Okay the word wasn’t ‘Southernbread’ but it was some word in some language I didn’t know, and couldn’t translate. “You will come out of that state of mind with whatever I implanted when I say Flourfish.” Right so the word wasn’t ‘Flourfish’ either, but I was born and raised in the Bronx so what can I tell you.

“Wake up Sara,” James said giving the woman a little shake.

“Wow,” Sara said coming to, “that was extraordinary, do it again.”

“Southernbread,” James said, “why don’t you instead take off that dress of yours, and the bra too?”

Sara reached behind her back and pulled down the zipper and the dress slid off her body and onto the floor. Her bra was a black number I could just barely see through, but what little imagination I needed was soon gone when Sara took it off. Now she stood only in her black panties with little red flowers on the top.

James looked at her approvingly. Her breasts were more just protrusions from her chest, not round but the shape of half an egg. Her body was tanned, but it wasn’t a natural tan. She also had a thin frame that lead me to believe she exercised more than she let on. “Very nice, you will not find anything odd about being without cloths, and you don’t want to go out to the movies any more, but you want to stay in, with me,” James said with a smile, “Flourfish.”

“So what do you want a DVD or just kill some time watching TV?” Sara asked walking around to the front of the couch. She dropped down into it, and James walked around and sat down next to her.

“You don’t want to go out anymore?” James asked putting his arm around her.

“Are you kidding?” Sara asked almost like she wanted to elbow him, “They wouldn’t let me in the door dressed like this.”

James’s jaw dropped open. “You weren’t supposed to notice,” James said quietly.

“Oh come on, you told me not to find it odd that I’m nearly naked. That does not mean that I am not aware of it, or the fact you told me to strip down to my panties for you,” Sara said getting in that elbow to James’s ribs.

“I should have known better to try and fool with a scientist,” James said more to himself than to Sara.

“Seriously if you wanted to see me naked all you had to do was ask,” Sara said teasing, “but while you have control over my mind I’m curious as to what you’re waiting for?”

“You don’t mind?” James asked curious.

Sara leaned over and kissed him on the lips. It was a kiss that lingered and was the physical expression of her love for him. “You silly boy, when are you going to learn that I love you, and would do anything for you?”

“Well, right after I say Southernbread,” James said as if he was thinking.

Sara’s jaw dropped open this time. “You jerk, why did you have to do that?”

James shrugged his shoulders, “I just want you to have incredible lust for me. You are so aroused and horny that your pussy is burning hot for me. You’re pussy is getting wet, very wet, far wetter than ever before with arousal for me. It’s so wet it is dripping. Oh and you’ll not realize that I have told you this or that I have complete control over you.” Sara’s breath became hot and heavy. Her nipples stood out instantly hard. She was rubbing her body up against James’s as if she wanted to cover him with her own flesh. “You know,” Sara said in a sexy husky voice, “one of us is either under dressed or the other is completely over dressed. I think you might be a tad over dressed.” “Do you think so?” James asked and Sara nodded her head making red hair go flying. “Well I think you need to stand up and pull down your panties.” Sara smiled and stood directly before the man and thrust her pussy forward. Through the black mesh I think there might not have been proof the woman was a natural red head, and I was right. Sara hooked her thumbs on the black material and drawing her pelvis back slid the last article of clothing she had on down to her ankles.

“Sit back down, and my touch is electrifying you. Every time I touch you your arousal will increase. Whenever I kiss you you’re arousal will double. You will forget I told you these things,” James said.

Sara may artificially tan, but she wears a thong when she does, for that part of her body was still a pinkish color. She shaved that unwanted hair above her womanhood, so the skin was smooth and bare. When she moved it was with grace, and her muscles were defined enough that if there was fat on her body, it didn’t show.

James reached out to her and touched one of her breasts. “Hands,” Sara said realizing where he was touching, but as soon as she said it and was about to slap it away she felt it. Her already hot breath was sucked back in as a gasp escaped her. She didn’t slap the hand away, instead she guided it between her breasts and then to her other mound. James came up with his other hand to touch her side and she gave a little jump when skin connected.

“You’re doing this to me,” Sara said trying to catch her breath.

“I sure hope so,” James replied coming close to her face.

“That’s not what I meant,” Sara said as James’s hand when between her legs again making her jump.

With his face just inches away from hers Sara pushed her head forward to kiss him. She had no idea what was going to happen, but she did find out. Her eyes went wide and the suck of the kiss went to a gasp with tongue. She kissed him even harder and her hands went around him and the two were together kissing and touching.

“I need to get these cloths off you,” Sara said pulling at the material on James’s body.

“You need to suck my cock,” James replied, and still in his thrall Sara obeyed.

He spread his legs wide as Sara knelt down between them. She loosened his belt, and pulled apart the buttons, and pulled down the fly. From green boxers already poking was a blood red member. Sara pulled down the boxers and up sprang a thick, yet amazingly short, rod that Sara instantly took into her mouth. Her head was like a woodpecker going up and down. The sucking and slurping was loud, but it gave the impression that Sara was trying her best to make her man cum.

“Oh God, here it comes,” James said in a throaty voice. “And Sara,” She looked up at him, “Swallow it all.”

I guess that he did shoot into her mouth, but I have no idea how much, or if she even got it all. I did see Sara sit up and her throat swallow to a dry mouth that she showed James. James smiled at her and reached forward. He touched her between her legs and she again jumped. “Just checking,” he said, “come on let’s check out the bedroom.”

To my everlasting disgust the shadows decided that I had seen enough of the good stuff for when the shadows put me back the sheets were messed up, and James and Sara were lying side by side, naked. Neither was asleep and they were gazing at each other’s bodies. The white sheet just barely covered up to their waists, and Sara’s breasts were airing out. James may have been looking at Sara’s body, and most likely thinking about it, but Sara was thinking about something else.

“I wonder how it works.” Sara inquired.

“What didn’t your mom tell you about the birds and the bees?” James asked.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” Sara said in a tone that she was serious, “I meant that pocket thing, the violin.”

“The pochette,” James said pronouncing it for her.

“Right that,” Sara said, “the pochette, I wonder how it works.”

“I don’t really know,” James said looking up at the ceiling.

“I know this is going to sound really bad, but I know this guy,” Sara said waiting for James to react. When he didn’t she continued, “He’s helped out the forensics lab all the time on sound stuff. I was wondering if we might go see him.”

James bit his cheek. He was thinking now. “How much do you trust the guy?” James asked.

Sara was a little concerned, but not wanting to miss her chance she said, “We gave this guy the original evidence in a murder case. Trust me that is a big deal. Why the interest? I wouldn’t think you’d want to part with the pochette.”

“There were pictures with the pochette,” James said still looking up, “and one of those pictures was of my mother, naked, or mostly naked. I want to know everything there is to know about this pochette before I hand it over to the CIA.”

“You are going to hand it over to the CIA?”

“Yeah, if it helps in the capture of this Luke Smith guy who killed my brother and his family, then I’ll let them have it,” James said with a touch of anger.

“Well let me call Ed,” Sara said rolling over to the phone next to her bed, “he always works late. He might still be up.” Then the shadows took me.

The studio apartment was vast but clearly divided up into sections, even if there were no walls. The kitchen and living room were easy to identify. The small area with temporary walls was probably the bathroom, and the larger area with the same walls was most likely the bedroom. The corner was where the action was. Electronic equipment was stacked up on wire shelves and there were two large wooden boxes the size of garages tucked in on either side. The man sitting at the computer was short, thin, with a shaved head, and thick black rimmed glasses on. In his hands was the pochette and he was turning it over and over.

“To be honest I get asked a great deal to authenticate musical instruments,” The man was saying. “Usually after an insurance company pays to have an instrument repaired they send it to me so that I can check that the sound is perfect. Wow so this is a real pochette? I’ve only read about these in books. I see a dance master’s kit once in a while, but never a French made pochette. So it really controls people’s minds?”

“I have a feeling I’m living proof of it,” James said to the man. “So Ed, do you have any idea how the pochette controls minds?”

“Not yet,” Ed said looking up with a grin. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t find out.” He looked closely at it and even grabbed a magnify glass from his desk. “There’s nothing on the outside that seems odd or out of place. The pegs look to be ivory. The wood is clearly maple. This finger board I think is tortoiseshell. These are all things that are found on any old violin, and I’ve seen them on kits too. The next place to check is inside.”

From a box on the floor he pulled out a small monitor attached to a long flexible rod. He powered it up and stuck one end of the rod into the f-hole. “Well the bass bar looks normal. Wait a second. I think I’ve found something. The sound post is not maple like the rest of the pochette.”

“Come on Ed,” Sara said sounding impatient, “you know what it is.”

“I have an idea that it is spruce,” Ed said looking up at her through is thick glasses. “I won’t be sure until I remove the sound post. That is with your permission.”

“Go ahead,” James said. I don’t know what happened because the shadows took me, but when I came back the pochette was open, and both James and Sara were sitting down.

“Now we just send this thing through a harmonic resonator and see if there is anything special about this spruce sound post,” Ed said and watched an oscilloscope on his computer monitor. “Oh my, this is not right.”

“What is it?” James said instantly out of his chair and over Ed’s shoulder.

“Every sound post in a violin is uniform, and thus produces a uniform vibration,” Ed said sounding curious. “This is not a uniform vibration, there are some steady vibrations, but there are all these offshoots that, even as old as this thing is, shouldn’t be there.”

“You wouldn’t happen to sell violins do you?” James asked Ed.

Ed looked up at him curious and then he got it. “Yes I do sell violins, at two hundred dollars, and I don’t take credit cards. Would you like me to swap out sound posts for you?”

“For two hundred dollars I would hope you would,” James said with a grin. Then the shadows took me.

It was the next morning and James was back in his office. He had on a dark suit and looked ready to work. “Barbara,” James said into the intercom.

“Yes,” Barbara answered back.

“What do I have scheduled for today?”

“The only thing listed down is a one o’clock yell session with some union reps that want to unionize the labor,” Barbara answered back.

“Call them and cancel. I have other things I need to do. Barbara, I’m going to be on the phone a great deal today, personal stuff. I would appreciate it if you would not listen in,” James said.

There was a pause and I had a feeling Barbara was mad she was found out. “Of course sir,” Barbara said adding the ‘sir’ I had a feeling because she was put in her place.

“Also I don’t want any calls or visitors, call security if you have to, but I don’t want to be bothered,” James said sternly.

“I’m on it,” Barbara said politely.

James clicked off the intercom and sat there. His elbows were on the desk and his fingers peeked, and holding his chin up. He was thinking. After a long five minutes he finally moved. He pulled open his desk drawer and brought out the phone book. He leafed through until he found something, and he dialed. I was close enough that I could hear what was being said even through the extension.

“Central Intelligence Agency,” A female voice about twenty something years old said, “how may I direct your call?”

“Um this may seem a little odd. My name is James Moffat,” James said, “and I’m trying to get in touch with the supervisor of one of your agents.”

“Okay what is the name of the agent?” The female voice asked.

“Well I only got his last name, oh and his number,” James said and then told the operator that the last name was Johns and the phone number that the agent had given him. As predicted the operator told him that it would take a while. I may not have been getting any older, but James was. The minutes stretched on and on. First five minutes, then ten, fifteen minutes went by and finally the operator came back on.

“Are you still there sir?” The same female voice asked.

“Yes I’m still here,” James said sounding board.

“We’re having a little trouble finding the agent in question,” She said.

“Okay about two months ago he worked on a case involving a man by the name of Luke K. Smith who killed six people and all for a musical instrument called a pochette,” James said sounding a little angry.

“One moment,” She said sounding a little more worried.

The term moment means many different things to many different people. Apparently at the CIA one moment is half an hour. Then another voice came over the line. It too was female, but different, huskier sounding and a little more mature. “Mr. Moffat? Mr. James Shakespeare Moffat?”

“I am,” James said thinking he was finally getting somewhere.

“I understand you’re trying to get in touch with a special agent Victor Johns?” The female voice asked sounding very serious.

“I never learned his first name, but I am actually trying to get in touch with his supervisor. I lost faith in special agent Johns when my brother and his family ended up dead,” James growled into the phone.

There was a brief pause on the line and then the woman asked, “Well sir you should be comforted to know that Mr. Johns no longer works for the CIA.”

James’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Really I just talked to him yesterday. He was the one who gave me the number to call.”

“Mr. Johns hasn’t worked for the CIA since right after the case involving you. What was it you wanted to tell Mr. Johns’ supervisor?”

James sighed a little. I guessed whatever plans he had were out the window now. “I found the pochette.”

There was a short pause on the line and then, “Could you please repeat that?”

“I found the pochette. The musical instrument that everyone has been after, well I found it. I was hoping to contact the CIA and use it to get Luke Smith, somehow,” James almost yelled into the phone.

“Where are you?” The woman asked.

“In my office in New York,” James answered.

“Okay, do you have the pochette with you?” The woman sounded almost frantic.

“Yes I do,” James said looking down at his briefcase.

“Okay, don’t move, I’ll be there in one hour,” The woman said quickly.

“Wait what’s your name?” James asked.

“Special Agent Tamara Georgic,” The woman said quickly, “I’ll be in your office in one hour. Don’t touch the pochette, don’t let anyone see it, or know you have it.”

“Okay I won’t,” James said, but the line went dead before he could answer. He smiled wide for reasons that even at that time I knew he had a plan. Then the shadows took me.

The room was quant with the white walls and gray trim. There were no windows, but stand up lamps in the corners giving the room an indescribable time frame. It could have been night, or the middle of the afternoon, and you couldn’t tell in the room. The blank walls were offset by large paintings in the middle and taking up most of the negative space. There was a large wooden desk in the middle with wooden chairs one either side. In the middle of the table was a green desk lamp that I guessed could be used by everyone. At one end of the table, completely out of place, was an old ornate phone made to look like it was made up of ivory and gold even if it was brass and plastic.

The woman seated at the table was Asian with a bit of Caucasian mixed in. She was short, but height didn’t matter with her figure. Her breasts were evenly shaped and sized to fit her body. Her black dress suit with short sleeves hugged her body giving her an hourglass figure. Her black hair was cut short, but long enough to be pushed behind her ears. When I was brought in James was just walking in, brief case in hand, and she was pouring over a large hundreds of pages book.

“Mr. Moffat,” She said standing and extending her hand in greeting. It was the same voice as over the phone. “I’m Special Agent Tamara Georgic, how do you do?”

“I’d be better if I knew here this Luke Smith character was,” James said truthfully.

“We may have good news on that front,” She said with a smile. “Do you have the pochette?”

James hesitated, “What assurances do I get that you’ll catch this Smith guy if I give you the pochette?”

“None,” She said flatly, “If you want assurances go see a bank about interest rates. I can tell you that with the pochette we have a bargaining chip, and thus may catch the man. Now do you have the pochette?”

James put his brief case onto the table. With two quick snaps the locks were open, and he brought up the pochette. Tamara looked at it with awe like she was seeing the Hope Diamond up close and personal. Yet as awe stuck as she was, she did notice what I noticed.

“There are no strings,” She commented.

“Well I was afraid of breaking it. I mean this thing is over three hundred fifty years old,” James said putting the pochette into her hands. “I would like to know how you’re going to go about finding Luke Smith.”

Tamara wasn’t listening she was comparing the pochette to one in the large book she had open. “Oh my God this is real. This is a Jacques Du Mensil pochette, for real. This is so exciting!” She almost squealed. “Thank you Mr. Moffat, you’ve made my year.”

She seemed so excited that she didn’t notice James bring up a true violin from his brief case. He put it to his chin and played a few cords. Special Agent Tamara Georgic stopped her bouncing around and was transfixed by the music. Her eyes went glassy and her body slackened. She was enslaved by the sound post from the pochette, and now to James’s will.

“Special Agent Tamara Georgic, you will do, think, say, feel, believe, remember or forget, whatever I tell you to,” James said to the frozen woman. He gazed at her body for a long moment and then pulled at her top a little peeking down. “Wake up,” He said in a stern voice.

Tamara’s eyes fluttered and she looked around and then down at the pochette. It dawned on her what happened. “Oh my God,” She said a little afraid of what was about to happen.

“Calm down Tamara,” James said and instantly the fear was gone from her eyes. “I want you to tell me the truth about what you know of this Luke Smith person,” James said.

“What would you like to know?” She asked.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, but we know how to find him.”

“How will you find him?”

“We’ll use his partner.”

“And who is his partner?”

“Victor Johns.”

James paused for a moment, “Wait a second formerly special agent Victor Johns?”

“Yes we found out they are in contact with each other looking for the pochette. It is believed that they joined forces after the murder of your brother and his family,” Tamara said evenly.

“And you weren’t going to let me in on this?” James asked angry.

“You are not a CIA operative, or working for the office of homeland security, so you’re part in all this is done. We have the pochette, even if it doesn’t work,” She said.

James thought for a moment thinking hard. “You knew that it could control minds?”

“Yes, we’ve known about the pochette for years, and thanks to you we not only now have one to use as a bargaining tool, but we also know that it can be transferred to other musical instruments,” She said with a grin.

“Well that’s not exactly true,” James said raising a hand. “The pochette doesn’t control minds anymore. I transferred that ability to this violin, a much more reasonable musical instrument to see than a pochette. Granted you won’t remember that when we’re done here,” James said with a grin. “You won’t remember much of anything except that I am included in your plans to catch both Luke Smith, and Victor Johns.”

James licked his lips and looked the woman over. “Please don’t hurt me,” She asked almost in a whine.

“Hurt you? Why would I want to hurt you?” James asked almost offended.

“Because you have complete control over my mind,” She said sounding a little scared.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” James said with an evil grin, “in fact I’m going to rock your world. I don’t think Sara will mind, and if she does, well I’ll just change her mind too. Massage your nipples.”

Unable to resist Tamara obeyed and her right hand shot into her jacket to touch herself inside. If she found the feeling interesting, or for that matter erotic, she wasn’t showing it. James seemed equally displeased. “Oh come on, you know what, you lust for me, you want me to drive my hot rod into your dripping wet pussy. Now get that dress and coat off, and get on to this table, and keep feeling yourself.” Still flicking a nipple back and fort Tamara unbuttoned her jacket one by one opening the black cloth to pink skin underneath. With no bra on she shrugged off the jacket, and with her left hand pinching her left nipple her right hand was sliding down her black skirt. She had on see through black hose held up with a black garter belt, and of the same design she had on nearly transparent panties. She crawled onto the table and struck a pose jutting out her breasts for James to see, while she felt up her snatch.

“Please do me,” She moaned to James. James dropped his pants and blue boxers this time. His short hard rod stuck out like a rhinoceros’s horn, and Tamara moaned with pleasure seeing it. James climbed onto the table and pushed aside the black cloth she was wearing. Her pink pussy seemed to ooze desire and warmth, as James’s rocket found its target. Just when we were getting to the good part, and Tamara let out her first real moan of pleasure, the shadows took me. Honestly I should have desired to become the world’s greatest journalists ever, not reporter, and then I might have been allowed to stick around and see some of the good stuff.

It was the dead of night with a fogy mist coming down and the shadows were very where when I came back. I can move some of the way when in multiple shadows, but mostly I’m isolated to one spot. Still the best spot to see what was going on was only a few meters away from James. He looked tense and nervous, and I would too on the edge of the docks in the middle of the night with only one lone street light over head for illumination. In his hand was his brief case, and he was constantly touching it as if to make sure it had not left his hand magically.

“Mr. Moffat,” A voice said from the darkness. It was Victor Johns and he was armed with a nasty looking nine millimeter automatic.

“Special Agent Johns,” James said in a mocking tone, “or is it just Mr. Johns considering you’re no longer on the CIA’s payroll?”

“So you know about that do you,” He asked in a lower than usually and gruffer than usual voice.

“I also know that you have a partner, so why not bring out Mr. Luke Smith while you’re at it?” James suggested.

From the deep dark shadows that even I had problems seeing into the short man with the big head with the big nose and ears and glasses came into view. “I am so honored that you would think of me Mr. Moffat,” Smith said sounding truly proud.

“Drop the bullshit act,” James said having none of it. “I don’t know why you two want the pochette so much, and I don’t care, what I do want to know is which one of you killed my brother and his family?”

“He doesn’t know why we want to pochette,” Smith said to Johns.

“I’m having doubts that he even has it,” Johns said.

“How much do you want to bet that it is in that brief case of his?” Smith said more than asked.

“Which one of you killed my brother and his family?” James repeated himself.

“Well to be truthful we both did,” Smith confessed, was it his old priest training coming back to haunt him, “but if you want to really know who did the shooting it was Victor here.”

“Traitor,” Johns said but in a lighthearted way, “I find you sneaking into the house, and you rat me out. Sure I killed them; I was the one smart enough to bring a gun. You went into the house with a crowbar and a bag.”

“What the hell is so important about this thing?” James asked snapping open his brief case and pulling out the pochette. He waved it around like it was a simple stick from the ground.

“Careful,” Smith called out with his arms extended and hands open as if to catch it from twenty feet away.

“Now I did some checking,” James said and I could tell it was a lie coming up, “and apparently this is the last pochette in the world. The question I have is how did you two find out my father had it?”

Smith cleared his throat, “Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Paul Klee?”

“Sure he made some really bizarre works,” James said sounding truly confused.

Smith spoke up. “Well one of those works of art was made in 1924 in Switzerland. I heard second hand of course, from a confession, that Mr. Klee learned that a violin called the pochette was once used to control an entire orchestra under the director. He even made a painting to that effect called ‘Music at a Fair’ I think. Regardless I did some deep checking and found some forbidden text that spoke of the power of the pochette. There was one pochette made that I could find no record of except that it was owned by the Chotlos family in 1801. I did find record of a Chotlos family sailing to the new word in 1805. In the year 1842 there was only one daughter, and she married into the Moffat family. That led me to you Mr. Moffat, and obviously to the pochette.”

“Okay I can see how Smith found me,” James said to Victor, “but how did you find me?”

“I was tracking Smith,” Victor said calmly never letting the gun waver, “and when I met up with smith, before we iced your brother, Smith here told me all about what the pochette can do. You know what I believe him, now hand it over!”

“Certainly, I’ll give you the pochette,” James said enunciating each word. The dark dock was blindingly bright with large flood lights filling the area. Cars screeched to stop just inches from the trio. James looked around unconcerned, but Smith and Johns looked nervous, and about to make a run for it.

“Good work Moffat,” Special Agent Tamara Georgic said getting out of a black SUV, “we got all the evidence we need on tape. Thank you.”

“No thank you,” James said breathing a sigh of relief. He found out who killed his brother. With grace and ease he put the pochette carefully into Tamara’s hands. Then the shadows took me.

I wish I could say that was the end of the story. I would like to say that I found myself in the box like room with the yellow legal pad and the ever lasting pen. Normally I would sit down, and start to write, and if I missed anything the shadows found important enough I would be shown that segment again. I would write and write, and as soon as one page was filled, I turned the page, that first page would be blank. Such is the fate of the world’s greatest reporter of all time.

The shadows took me to a street setting. It was a warm day, but the trees growing out of the sidewalk were bare of leaves, and weren’t budding, so I guessed it was a warm winter day. James was dressed in knit sweeter and dress pants, and he was buying a hotdog from a vender. Just then a man approached him. The man walked like a military man, out of uniform but still wanting to slip back on the green garb. He had short cropped blond hair, and a heavily wrinkled face.

“Mr. Moffat?” The blond man asked James.

“I am,” James said wiping the side of his mouth, “and you are?”

“General Sanders,” the blond man said extending his hand for a shake.

“You weren’t by any chance a coronal at any point in time, were you?” James asked as a joke.

“Don’t even go there,” Sanders said narrowing his eyes. “Let’s talk on the bench over there.” He pointed and the two of them went over to an isolated wood bench with metal arms.

“So what’s this about?” James asked taking another bite of his dog.

“It’s about the pochette you gave my agent Georgic,” Sanders said. “You know it doesn’t control people’s minds.”

“I had no idea,” James said sounding honest even if it wasn’t believed.

“Yes you did,” Sanders said, “you switched out sound posts with another violin, we know, we found Edward.” James swallowed, but I couldn’t tell if it was because of the hotdog, or nerves. “Still,” Sanders went on, “we’re willing to over look your lies to us. After all you gave us a rouge agent, a top ten international most wanted fugitive. You also gave us the power of the pochette, even if you didn’t realize it.”

“Come again?” James asked curious.

“Edward’s computer recorded the wave pattern from the pochette sound post. Thus with that information, we can make our own vibrations to effect people,” Sanders said.

“Who are you?” James was curious and maybe a little angry at himself as well as Sanders.

“I am in charge of a division of the office of homeland security which deals with things that need to be kept quiet,” Sanders said.

“So you’re a secret government agency?” James asked.

“Oh lord no. Anyone in the government who wants something solved quietly knows that you go to OHS division 919. That means me,” Sanders said sounding a little prideful.

“So you have the power to control people’s minds,” James asked a little frightened.

“Sure, but not to worry, we’re not about to use it on the American people,” Sanders said, “but you will find that many foreign leaders are far more agreeable with the US on some policy.” Sanders stood up, “I just wanted you to know that we know all about you and what you did. Georgic’s report had a few holes in it, that we did a little digging. I assume that the safety deposit box you opened is where the modified violin is?” James just nodded his head. “Well you can keep it, but remember we’ll know if you try and open that deposit box, and we’ll find out why too. Otherwise, sit back, and enjoy the future prosperity.”

That’s when it clicked for me. The OHS may be a government agency, but it is still under the president’s command. If that president say is power hungry, and finds out that there is a tool to control people’s mind, he will use that tool to become president of many countries, and then the world. He’ll use the mind control tool to no longer be president, but dictator of the entire world. Anyone who apposed him, would have their minds changed, or be killed. It was the war that would come in fifty years; this was the cause of it. No one knew about James’s small recording of the sound of the pochette, which would become crucial in the fight for freedom. This is the start of the reason why half the population of the world would be destroyed, and I as the shadow watcher could do nothing to stop it.

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