And I Hear Her Voice

 298.

Confident that the team has the surveillance operation under complete control, I decide to take a walk to accomplish a trio of objectives. One is to get some fresh air. Two is to stretch out my aching right leg. And three is to stay at least half a step ahead of whatever mischievousness is coming our way.

The bay is beautifully lit by a half-moon, che bella luna, sending fluttering shimmers of pale luminance across the nervous water. There is a history here I can almost taste. There has been struggle, strife, revolution and bloodshed. There has also been the undeniable reality that it is hard to remain evil for long with such a heavenly backdrop. The natives celebrate this delicious dichotomy by way of dance, feasting and drink. Together they combine for an intoxicating experience much too hard for most to resist. As I walk the shoreline I can hear festivities from the downtown celebration. It strikes me as ironic that my mind-clearing stroll is designed to allow this innocent debauchery to continue without interruption by corporate scoundrels and corrupt political hacks. But there will always be pirates I sadly admit.The warm night sends a message to my cerebral processing center that flesh alone is a sufficient insulation layer for these times in paradise and the hairs on my bare arms relax in response. It is a wonderful moment, one I wish could be extended for the duration of my choosing. I consider the length of eternity and wonder at what point along its linear trajectory one might become complacent with its secular omnipotence. Or the paradox implied by it.

I am interrupted in my walking state of consciousness flow by an overly joyful, and possibly intoxicated, young woman in an an ankle-length white satin gown. She is wearing a long sting of pearls and carrying her shoes in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. She is dancing and singing. I recognize the song as Kokomo by the (later day) Beach Boys. Two costumed gentlemen in all white walk behind her singing woefully out of tune harmony. As they pass the girl does a small circle dance around me and sings "Everybody knows a little place called Kokomo." She notices my walking cane and frowns. "Ooh, so sorry. But you can still be happy here."

I watch with envy as they sing and dance their way down the beach, away from me and finally around the jetty and out of sight.

Why would Hartaugh want Bartowsky back on the street? Is he coming for me? Is this retaliation? Is my cover blown? What filial obligation do Mr and Ms Hartaugh have with him? Has he recovered sufficiently to do immediate damage? Is there someone else involved?

I ponder, consider, sort and abstractly theorize. And I hear her voice.

"You can still be happy here."