Mismatched Mailing

Eyrie, Harbinger and Watchman, let out a string of vile curses. Quietly, so as not to let the Disciples hear. It would not do to let them witness her distress.

Eyrie was one of the Master’s most trusted and capable laborers. Her section of Vineyard had always been fruitful, and she had been blessed abundantly.

Until she was assigned to the northeastern coast of the United States of America. For the past two months, her group of laborers had stirred up the soil of the land, planted and nourished the seeds of doubt and rebellion, and carefully kept out the pests that sought to eat away at their vines.

And somehow, she still had no fruit to show for her efforts. She had put up electric fences and security cameras to protect her vineyard, and still, a thief in the night managed to slip in undetected every time she blinked.

It was baffling. And the Master of the Vineyard was beginning to ask, what could I have done more for my vineyard? He was starting to question if, perhaps, this specific section of vineyard was too corrupted to be saved. She had very little time left before she was deemed an unwise and unprofitable servant.

The eyes of the Refiner had turned upon her vineyard. His calling was to consume the chaff, to melt away the impurities from the ore.

If she could not get her vineyard to bear fruit, she would burn with it under the Refiner’s Fire.

*

George Bailey pulled over to the side of the road and carefully checked through the stack of letters, bills, and ads before placing them in the mailbox and snapping the door closed. He wasn’t taking any chances with this job. He had made it two weeks so far by triple checking every address and making sure he didn’t miss a single piece of outgoing mail. He kept his eye on the speedometer as he drove, never letting the needle stray a millimeter above the speed limit. He slowed down for yellow lights, stopped for three seconds at every stop sign, and always turned his blinker on before turning. This time, he wasn’t going to bungle everything up. Because this time, he had focus.

This was a very nice neighborhood. Each house had a nicely manicured yard, matched with quaint but well-maintained homes painted cheery hues of sky blue or white, some with daisy yellow trims. His favorite house was a little single-family home with light pink walls and baby blue trim. It was bordered with immaculate flower beds full of tulips, poppies, and lilies. An elderly woman was almost always out front, tending to her little blossoms. She smiled and waved whenever he pulled over to deliver her mail.

He pulled up to the house now. The woman wasn’t outside today. He checked carefully through her mail, pausing on the last letter. He frowned, studying the address carefully. One of the numbers was indecipherable. Did it say 12 SW St, or 125 W St? The characters were smashed together, and he couldn’t tell if that was an ‘S’ or a ‘5’…

There was also no return address. He chewed his lip. He couldn’t very well open the letter to try to see who sent it-that would not only get him fired, but also would likely wind him up in jail. That seemed like a rather unpleasant option. So he couldn’t return the letter.

That left one option: guess. He stared at the letter for a few seconds longer, heart fluttering in his chest.

Well, he was already here. With a resigned shrug, he placed the letter into the mailbox with the rest of the mail.

*

Agent Hart was growing very restless. ROZ had been active across the northeast, wreaking havoc for months. During those months, AGENT had managed to gain custody of a good number of ROZ members and foil three major ROZ plots. Granted, they had received some…mysterious help, but it was still a massive victory for AGENT. Information they had gleaned from the captives, along with some communication devices found in their possession, had given AGENT the means to track ROZ’s movements more accurately.

Then, one week ago, ROZ had gone completely silent. No more communications, no more traceable movements. It seemed impossible.

“Maybe they just switched out all of the communication devices after realizing we were hacking so many of their conversations,” Harley offered.

It was a frustrating prospect. “That would be darned inconvenient,” Hart muttered.

Harley snorted. “I’ll be sure to let them know you wish they would be more cooperative. Shall I invite them over for tea to discuss your concerns?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Tea?”

“Sure,” he replied, shrugging. “I know you don’t like coffee.”

“I don’t like tea either,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s just hot water with a weird aftertaste.”

“That’s what honey is for, my dear,” he said.

“Whatever. We’re getting off topic.” She tapped a finger against the large cork board in front of her, stuck with various pictures, diagrams, and theories. “We still haven’t come up with a good answer. How are we going to get back on their trail?”

“We could always just wait,” Harley said innocently. “I mean, I’m sure someone will take care of the problem.”

She shot a look at him, and he gazed innocuously back. He could see how it grated at her that some random person had been solving their cases for them and slipping away without a trace. He never let an opportunity pass to tease her about it.

“Are you going to help me, or just make snarky comments?” she snapped.

“Snarky?” he asked. “Me?”

She decided to ignore him, turning back to the cork board. It was time to work.

*

Mrs. Grace hobbled back into the house, mail in one hand, water pitcher in the other. Oh, her aching back! She set the empty water pitcher aside and settled into her rocking chair with a groan. She certainly wasn’t as young as she used to be.

She used a letter opener to slice the envelopes. The first was a bill, the second an offer for life insurance. The third one gave her pause. No return address. That was very unusual.

Inside, the note was typed in a typewriter font, the letters tiny. She grumbled, getting out her magnifying glass. How did anyone read words that small?

Comrade in all things,

If this letter is reaching you, then I have been successful. You are safe and well. It is time for our reunion at long last, at the place we met long ago.

Time is of the essence. The clock ticks on, its hands pointing ever forward. So seek me then and there, and we will have more to speak of.

Your Fellow in Service

What in tarnation? She shook her head. Must be some prankster kids playing tricks on their elders. Such disrespect.

*

Eyrie watched the Disciple make his way past the clock tower. It was precisely noon. The Disciple carried the package inside his jacket pocket.

Eyrie’s team had been barraged by hacks and interruptions from AGENT. They had tried using different frequencies, switching between phones and numbers, using scramblers, and so much more. Eventually, AGENT broke through anyway.

The answer seemed simple, though not easy. Avoid the technology completely.

The first letter had been delivered directly to her contact. It was the only way to get ahold of the man, but nothing in the letter would reveal ROZ’s plans in case the letter was intercepted. That’s what the second letter was for. The first was just a code to lead the contact here, to find the second message. After that, she could begin to put her full plan into effect.

So far, there was no sign of AGENT. Maybe she could save her vineyard-and her own skin-after all.

*

“Mr. Mailman!” George paused, hand in the mailbox. The elderly gardener was bumbling towards him, back slightly arched. “Mr. Mailman!”

He slowly closed the door to the mailbox and leaned his head out the window. “Yes, ma’am?”

She waved a sheet of paper at him. “I don’t want any more letters with no return addresses. They are all just naughty children with nothing better to do than torment an old woman!”

George was baffled, unsure what to say. “Um, okay, yes, ma’am.”

She wasn’t done with him, though. In the sharp but faintly trembling voice common to those in their later years, she proceeded to read the letter. They words were, indeed, quite strange.

He drove away after she finally let him go, mind still turning over the words. They seemed far too…calculated. The meaning was unlikely to be literal-that wouldn’t make any sense with all word play and vagueness. He continued to ponder as he made his way through the rest of his rounds. By the time he was finished, he had a guess.

The clock tower at noon. That’s where the ‘reunion’ would be.

He was fairly certain he had given the letter to the wrong person. Well, perhaps he could go meet with the sender and explain the situation. He could have them write another letter, which he could deliver.

He quickly made his way to the clock tower, following the hidden instructions in the letter. He found himself excited to meet whoever had sent it. They certainly were clever to have written such a message! Perhaps he had intercepted a message between two old schoolmates who had come up with a way to pass notes in class that were inscrutable to the teacher.

When he arrived at the meeting place, he found no one. Well, there were plenty of people out and about, but they were all going about various tasks like busy little bees. He glanced around, frowning. As he did, he saw the corner of something white sticking out from between two branches of a shade tree. He moved to inspect it, and realized it was an envelope. It had no address or postage, just the words: Fellow Servant.

His curiosity was piqued. Technically, this letter was not addressed to anyone, so it couldn’t belong to anyone, right? Curiosity piqued, he glanced around. No one was watching.

So, he opened it up.

*

This was not how it was supposed to happen. That man was not Eyrie’s contact. He had the letter in hand, and was opening it. She almost pulled out her gun and shot him right then and there, but there were a lot of witnesses around. Even if no one saw her, AGENT would find out about this man’s death and that could lead to problems.

Cursing, she went to plan B. She pulled out her disposable cell and called her Disciple.

“A stranger has the letter,” she hissed. “Go back and retrieve it. Do it quietly.”

“Threats?” he asked softly.

“No. Use the needle.” Each ROZ Disciple that proved a trusted laborer carried several small poisoned needles that could be stabbed into the skin discreetly. It was a good way to quietly tie up loose ends, or even provide a method of suicide in extreme cases. “This needs to end without witnesses.”

*

Harley and his team still monitored all the previous ROZ lines carefully, even though they seemed to have gone dead. So when the call finally did come through, Hart found out immediately. The call was barely long enough for them to get a location, but that was all she needed.

Her and three other Agents made their way to the clock tower. Under her suggestion, they’d brought one of the captive ROZ members. He was a young man named Jason, maybe nineteen, and had been all too willing to give up everything he knew, which was unfortunately very little. He wasn’t particularly committed to ROZ: just a kid that had gotten in way over his head. She’d brought him in case he could identify anyone he recognized.

“That man,” Jason whispered, pointing from his caged seat. He may be cooperative, but that didn’t mean Hart trusted him. “I recognize him from a couple meetings. He works directly for the boss woman, Harbinger we call her. If he’s here, then she is close too.”

*

George Bailey sighed, shaking his head, hands on hips.

He’d been so distracted that he’d left the car in a fire lane, clearly marked, ‘NO PARKING’. Now, he watched it being slowly towed away. He’d been just a few minutes too late.

Now, this wouldn’t have been such a problem, except that it wasn’t his car. It was the postal service's car.

He didn’t think Mr. Chip would be pleased.

*

Hart crept up behind the woman, who crouched while peeking over the side of the tall building. Once she had a good shot, she hit her in the neck with a tranquilizer dart.

That had gone quite smoothly, all things considered.

Except for one thing.

Who was the ‘stranger’ that had made them break radio silence? He had left behind the letter that ROZ had been so concerned about. AGENT had searched it for fingerprints, but to no avail.

But Hart had a good guess who this mystery stranger was. The Vigilante. She shook her head, annoyed. When had she started mentally capitalizing the title?

It didn’t matter. She had ROZ members to interrogate. And, if Jason was to be trusted, one of them was quite important.